Can’ting the Bones

A poem.

I wrote this in 2010, when I had some of my soul left. I haven’t written a poem that I was proud of since 2011, which is ironically when I started working 3 jobs to get graphic design experience and pay my rent. Guess what? Working your asshole into oblivion in the real world doesn’t reward the same kind of effort the way college does. Total burn. Guess what else? I wrote a freaking book that I haven’t been able to spend time working on because I don’t feel it’s as important of worthy expenditure of my time as say, writing fucking cover letters. 

Cant’ing the Bones

80
outside, temps
my
skin
tingles with
chilled, an icy 22
sent from some deeper place in me when
some
itch I played with street-side
drove me to
drag, me
to the new diminution, mention
daylight…
whisper into some darker place-be
light,
and a more
hopeful let go…for
pieces and intentions, (as they lie here now)
shadowed over and gifted into regret
Cry out,
“Watch the sky!”
…but I can hear the rockets,
off
in the distance.
Maybe
I want to just be-
in the fire, while it all
burns
watching-
because their fire can’t touch these bones.

(thanks to http://www.flickr.com/photos/rictor-and-david/ for the photo. It’s beautiful!)

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