Every action produces consequences which create new worlds, they’re all different. You are the world that you have created. And when you cease to exist, this world that you have created will also cease to exist.

Cormac McCarthy, The Counselor (via there-is-nothing-in-the-desert)

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful
Shouldn’t we both be in frame?
For such a reconnecting gesture
To be voyeurs in exchange

We could say we didn’t mean it
We could dig up all the names
We could brag about our future
Talk about our leaving day

We could have a small reunion
For all the people that we knew
We’ll all get drunk and celebrate
Here’s to me and here’s to you

Do we?

Savor all the little pieces
Picture rooms and empty seats
Imagine everybody leaving
Without the starving self-esteems

We could say we didn’t mean it
We could dig up all the names
We could brag about our future
Talk about our leaving day

We could have a small reunion
We could dig up all the names
We could brag about our future
Talk about our leaving day

We could have a small reunion
For all the people that we knew
We’ll all get drunk and celebrate
Here’s to different shades of blue

Here’s to faces of our memory
To reprimanded attitudes
To forgetting all the pretense
To all the people that we knew
We’ll all get drunk and celebrate
Here’s to me and here’s to you

Do we?

Please Move To Vermont and Break My Heart – Gregory Sherl

I am writing a book on how to write a book so I can learn how to properly explain why you look better with the lights on.
I listen to a song but it doesn’t mention your name so I stop listening to the song.
Your heart is noise pop.
White noise is ghosts missing the streamers that fall from your ears while you sing in the car.
Vermont is not far if you are already in Vermont.
My cat looks at me and then walks away.
He is named either after a famous musician or a body of water.
There are so many words I refuse to learn how to spell.
Still, I spell check your thighs after I bend you over my desk.
I spell check the inside of your left ear while you bite yourself on the kitchen table.
Prostrate.
Today I am writing in grunts,
I am playing in fonts.
My chest hair is size 44 Comic Sans.
My eyebrows are whittled away before I leave the mall.
I have sat under the same sun as you for 25 years.
Sometimes I have walked under the same sun as you.
Once, I played tennis under the same sun as you.
Repetition sun. Staccato sun. Wrinkled sun.
I tell your skin that covers your clavicle, we’ve got at least 53 more years of holding hands on a bench under the same sun.
The sequel to this poem is John Cusack holding a boombox over his head under barely any sun.
Fact: I want to kiss your nose even when I’m not inside you.