Author: damnjordan

the mornings are the hardest.
i wake with thoughts of you
weighing on my chest
more heavy than pneumonia.
your name has crawled its way
into every corner of my lungs,
and each morning i must cough it out
into muffled pillows,
with slow deep breathes,
until the chest burns
and eyes water.

My heart is the furnace,
That feeds on my blood,
My lungs are the bellows,
Stoking the flames,
The mere act of being,
Is all consuming,
With life and death hidden,
Throughout the veins.
Heart as furnace,
Lungs as bellows,
Pull the blood through,
And burn it away,
Transfusions are needed,
To prolong the process,
Yet finding the outcome,
Is always the same.
Heart of furnace,
Lungs of bellows,
The heat of living,
Is what we have gained,
We carry it with us,
In the guise of knowledge,
Yet fearfully speaking,
It’s smoldering name.

I’ve decided to stop speaking,

and I feel it’s a wise decision.

–

I still move my lips,

but no sounds come out,

and no one seems to notice.

–

I still smile at friends,

buy a round of drinks,

and I am always cordial.

–

I still go to the bars,

drink down my drinks,

and we are always happy.

–

Yes, I’ve decided to stop speaking,

and I feel it’s a wise decision.

–

Why speak at all when there’s nothing to say?

I’ll see you tomorrow.

It’s 2 for 1 Tuesdays.

the

perfect

sunrise spreads

like a warm blanket

wrapping around

a lover’s face –

with the

mist

and

mysteries

of the night,

burning off

at first

light.

Soon,

Fate will let her hair down,
falling like
a golden fleece,
to wrap us in the warmth
of unobtainable dreams.

Soon,

Fate will let her hair down,
falling like
a gentle snow,
to help shed new light
on the dead and dying.

Hopefully soon,

Fate will let her hair down,
and with a grin,
let something good shake loose
from behind her ears.

other cities in the world seem to age with a sense of grace

but American cities grow into a state of forlornness.

a film of rust and mold plague the surfaces

of neighborhoods once booming in their adolescence,

like the raspy hungover stubble on a drunkard’s face.

smokestacks erected as proud monuments

for winning the west

now stand in sunbaked isolation, a mocking vulgarity,

epitaphs to a hope quickly ignored and forgotten.

graffiti tattoos the train cars and drainages,

flashes of color sprawled across a hardened skin,

providing the only real signs of life in this desolation,

but even they are bleached and faded now,

chipped and lost to the deep wrinkles of the city.

this is the premature aging of American cities

that makes us long for a prairie fire,

a quick end to life turned decrepit.

–

to feel lonely in another country is expected.

to feel lonely in a new town is understandable.

but loneliness in the place you grow and have grown

can be unbearable, unrelenting,

only truly known in cities that should have never existed,

in cities that no longer want you.

– jordan

sundance, #1

Broken, cracked lips
Blood stained cigarettes,
Wind so strong
It moves right through me,
No longer here
No longer solid,
This is how we return
To the ether of beginning,
The clouds move with the rhythm
I hear in my sleep,
The stars reside
Behind closed eyes,
We are hardened by the land
And thus become part of it,
We are broken down together
And together become one

sundance, #2

You can smell the moisture in the air
as the thunderstorm approaches,
The practiced indifference of the desert
is momentarily cracked,
All things become suddenly silent.

The Earth craves this respite
as much as I do,
And together we look to the sky
lost in our thoughts of what gifts might follow.

– jordan