Saturday, November 28, 2009

November 28, 2009



Habit


I procrastinate—
just until something bigger
needs to be put off.

November 28, 2009
























Futuristic

I want to be like
Usher's sweaty wife beater,
thrown into the crowd.

I want to be like
spelling a five-letter word
(but not the word "their").

I want to be like
night-skiing at Park City
every single night.

Friday, November 20, 2009

November 20, 2009


Desired

Come along with me!
Let's remember we're alive
by jumping off things.

Let's outrun our legs.
Let's put ourselves in harm's way.
Let's skin our elbows.

Don't apply pressure.
Let it get on your clothes. You're
bleeding evidence.

November 20, 2009
























Imago

It was dark (and warm)
inside my cocoon, and then
I emerged: a moth.


Bernardine


So lonely (and cold)
underground. Forced imago,
and you feel the same.


Prairie Fire Collective

So scary (and hard)
changing. You can feel the same
revise the approach.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

November 15, 2009


Twitter

If I could just think
thoughts that were one sentence long,
people would read them.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

November 12, 2009


Collab


by eric c cottrell
You are what you eat.
So what if I nibble ears?
I'm only human.

by me
We are what we eat.
Does nib'ling each others' ears
make us cannibals?

by me
You are what you eat.
So on the month's first Sunday
I'm a righteous ghost.

by eric c cottrell
He, a cannibal,
they called him an animal.
Are you what you eat?

by eric c cottrell
"You are what you eat,"
said the wise man. He then said,
"Hi, I'm bologna."

by me
I am what I eat.
So after the big breakup
she's right, I'm nothing.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

November 4, 2009


Temperature Mask


Thankful for the cold.
It also makes my eyes red,
red and watery.

November 4, 2009


Honest Mistake

Platinum lining
is sometimes mistaken for
a silver lining.

Monday, November 2, 2009

November 2, 2009
























Post-Hardcore Visual Acuity


Most think otherwise,
but love is twenty-twenty,
and hindsight is blind.
 

ALL POETRY © COLIN PINEGAR