Follow my words.
http://alekssajak.tumblr.com/
20091215
Fuck
Most likely, the only thing I will remember in the morning
is the way your breath smelled
when you kissed poems into my ear
and the way you lifted my shirt
over my head
when I was ready to fall asleep.
Most likely, the only thing you will remember in the morning
is nothing
except the thrashing of body heat against body heat,
skin cells against skin cells
and the way the sun shone through
as if the day was in on a secret
that was only meant for the room.
It is likely that we will do this again some time.
That the nights and days will combine, again,
unaware that my legs are spread.
I keep myself awake because I miss you,
sitting like an owl on a dusty park bench
instead of a tree branch.
We met in the winter,
when the birds were already dead.
I watched you share your wallet with a homeless man;
he turned into a businessman
as you turned into a saint.
I let you fuck me because I fell in love
with your halo.
I let you stay in my bed because I hoped
to see it in the morning;
have its light wake me,
a sun reborn
in the motherland of my eyes.
is the way your breath smelled
when you kissed poems into my ear
and the way you lifted my shirt
over my head
when I was ready to fall asleep.
Most likely, the only thing you will remember in the morning
is nothing
except the thrashing of body heat against body heat,
skin cells against skin cells
and the way the sun shone through
as if the day was in on a secret
that was only meant for the room.
It is likely that we will do this again some time.
That the nights and days will combine, again,
unaware that my legs are spread.
I keep myself awake because I miss you,
sitting like an owl on a dusty park bench
instead of a tree branch.
We met in the winter,
when the birds were already dead.
I watched you share your wallet with a homeless man;
he turned into a businessman
as you turned into a saint.
I let you fuck me because I fell in love
with your halo.
I let you stay in my bed because I hoped
to see it in the morning;
have its light wake me,
a sun reborn
in the motherland of my eyes.
20091126
I am Thankful For:
my grandmother & the rest of my family,
my friends,
my guitar,
my hearing,
my fingers,
black & milds,
coffee,
cigarettes,
and indie rock.
my friends,
my guitar,
my hearing,
my fingers,
black & milds,
coffee,
cigarettes,
and indie rock.
20091121
Dublin, 1999: Fist Fights First, then I Fly
What we had was a chipped tooth
and the blood stains visible on the ground.
No one moved into the kitchen
in order to get away;
Mama let dinner burn, boil, bury
itself into the pans, inedible;
Father pulled in his pipe, slowly, shaking fist pains out;
and I,
I tasted the pooling blood pillowing my head,
a rock at the edge of a rose-pedaled bed;
no one cleared their throats, coughed, sighed
away the awkward silence.
The wooden wind stood still;
the air was the density of water;
I am floating above this Grand Scene;
have forgotten what the pain in my gums feels like,
what the mixture of spit and blood tastes like;
I can’t see the roof from here
which means I can no longer see you;
we are not in the same room, anymore,
my sister Amy is crying
because she knows that I will not wake from
the bloody bed my father has made me;
No one else is as far away from below as I am,
I am flying towards the bigger picture-
the end that I have tied to my beginning-
most of the time too afraid to look down
at the villages, the cities, the tractors and the trucks
that all line up like ants
with no where to go.
and the blood stains visible on the ground.
No one moved into the kitchen
in order to get away;
Mama let dinner burn, boil, bury
itself into the pans, inedible;
Father pulled in his pipe, slowly, shaking fist pains out;
and I,
I tasted the pooling blood pillowing my head,
a rock at the edge of a rose-pedaled bed;
no one cleared their throats, coughed, sighed
away the awkward silence.
The wooden wind stood still;
the air was the density of water;
I am floating above this Grand Scene;
have forgotten what the pain in my gums feels like,
what the mixture of spit and blood tastes like;
I can’t see the roof from here
which means I can no longer see you;
we are not in the same room, anymore,
my sister Amy is crying
because she knows that I will not wake from
the bloody bed my father has made me;
No one else is as far away from below as I am,
I am flying towards the bigger picture-
the end that I have tied to my beginning-
most of the time too afraid to look down
at the villages, the cities, the tractors and the trucks
that all line up like ants
with no where to go.
20090922
Bullshit in LA
The forgotten sensation of serenity frees my self from the box I have put it in. It has been never since I have felt as one with Nature. She has revealed herself to me in the silence of a 2 am smoke cloud. I feel her rattle my bones with a newly composed modern language. My soul has learned to speak. Like a freshly tuned piano, it waits to converse aloud. I am stolen by the intensity of sound in such a secluded place.
My cigar is playfully shrinking with each inhale and I watch as the smoke rises in waves and sometimes circles. My name is swirling above the World, today. She greets me through word play, inspiration lapping at my tongue. I speak from outside the box. I am not like any one else because I am aware. For the rest of this life, I want to be a reoccurring dream, a beautiful fragrance lifted from the body of a loved one.
I am a sponge, absorbing the wet grass below my thought-stains. I pick freedom from my hair and it tangles, it tangles. The shortness of breathe is forgivable because I have allowed myself to not be. Anything at all. I lie.
My cigar is playfully shrinking with each inhale and I watch as the smoke rises in waves and sometimes circles. My name is swirling above the World, today. She greets me through word play, inspiration lapping at my tongue. I speak from outside the box. I am not like any one else because I am aware. For the rest of this life, I want to be a reoccurring dream, a beautiful fragrance lifted from the body of a loved one.
I am a sponge, absorbing the wet grass below my thought-stains. I pick freedom from my hair and it tangles, it tangles. The shortness of breathe is forgivable because I have allowed myself to not be. Anything at all. I lie.
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