Я Bолк

Goodbye.

I’m running away again. It’s what I do. Those who wanted to keep contact, you have my information. Otherwise I wish you all well.

I’m not sharing my poetry on here any longer. I’m not even sure if I’m going to keep this little blog longer than the next week.

I wonder if my laptop feels like I’m cheating on it when I use it to look up new laptops.

I don’t think they realize that poets are people.
It would be hard to see the truth though when so many poets act like actors.
We’re breathing, you know.
Those others, they’re this one trick pony, and if you look you may find the pony’s broken leg.
I’m amazed it’s gone in circles this long.
Didn’t most of us graduate highschool?

I’ve spent the entire morning taking pictures of my butt and sending it to all my female friends of snapchat.

I successfully cleaned off my desk by moving everything on top of it to the floor.

I have a hole in the crotch of my jeans and I just don’t care. So much that I wear them to work.

Plaster Ceiling, 6 A.M.

There’s a story up there
the carpenter smeared in
with a rusted pallet knife
between drags on a cigarette
and scratching his balls.

I stayed awake all night
memorizing the characters
and the plotline, composing
the music score and cover art
and hoping I could be
the protagonist with a happily
ever after…

then I questioned what if
I am just a plaster story,
and I realized I’d not slept all night,
only to close my eyes and awake

to realize my life stuck in whitescape,
the ceiling above me moving faster
than the ceiling’s frozen alabaster grooves.