A Continuation of Lost Thoughts

A collection of thoughts captured from my mind and vividly displayed on screen in poem form.

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Location: Newburgh, Indiana, United States

I'm a 29 year-old wannabe writer, who enjoys a good dream. I'm also a big proponent of drinking liquid magic shell. My taste buds are partial to caramel, but any ol' flavor will do.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

What I Bought For a Quarter

Tie-dyed and spotted, polka dotted.
Scratched and dented,
Reinvented into hues of cantaloupe and picnic table paint.
Ketchup-flavored gumballs.
Trained for popping.

More gumballs.
Post-marked and bench-pressed
Into stale papier-mâché sticks.
Denim gumballs.
Reupholstered and draped with fabric wrappers.
Squeaky clean gumballs soaking in a bubble bath.
Oatmeal-flavored gumballs.

The colored balls of chew wrestle with each other
Under a sky of hungry liquid foam,
Each one debating what to eat. They look at me.
You see, I’m edible. Digestible.
Won’t stay in your system for seven years,
But rather a few days,
Or until your bowels can perform a quick shit.

Where I become flushable.
And into the abyss of sewage waste I go
To dance with Kleenex clods
And play thumb war with soiled toilet paper.
After months of this,
I reach the vast polluted sea,
And eventually meet shore under an old gumball tree.
Looking up nonchalantly
A middle-aged man grimaces
And catches a porcupine gumball straight in the eye.
On his blind-side.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Thoughts on a Monday Afternoon

I put
All my prayers
In one lump sum
And call it

I use
My tongue
Like a weapon
And yell

I lay down
A king of hearts
And pronounce
Him an

I play
With words
And form
And label it

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

The Day-Old Dream

In a world where mocha tastes like mint, I have heightened reason to believe I could sense you around a corner and run into your body, and we’d be there in a hug, an embrace. After hellos and words said to catch up, I’d reflect in this moment of seeing you and think, “Can I take this feeling with me when I go?” But instead of asking I tackle this word, this feeling, and tattoo it to my right ankle, and climb out of this day-old dream, and look up at you, now knowing I can leave all my mistaken mochas behind to some faulty taste buds and a pair of peeled eyes.