jump hearted, broken started.
I can't be cleverer cuz he knows
like, every-thing ever - no duh.
Like which rangers could kick butt
best, and forget to take prisoners.
I wanna be cleverer, cuz he makes
me think he's my only friend when
he grins, I lend out my very rarest
x-men cards and get them back and
count the finger prints. He's mine
until the years shear the feeling
down to its essential parts. Miguel
is mine only in the memorabilia, so
cards become caveats and feints
with you, ever the difficult saint
of lost things, of lost hearts, of
anything that fingers take apart.
+ Question: How much should a poem exist outside of its context?
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2 comments:
damn good question. and this is a really fun/cute poem.
let me think for a couple years, and get back to you on that.
that last stanza is fantastic. really really good. seriously, hit me in the tear ducts.
so i think there is a good balance of context here. because a couple tears is a good sign of understanding.
*ssnnniiffff*
fuck. you win, as usual.. or I do, because I get to learn from you
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