The poetry presented in this collection is the intellectual property of Bailey Cohen

Transcription

1 artwork

2 an apology in 3/4

3 The poetry presented in this collection is the intellectual property of Bailey Cohen Copyright 2016 by Bailey Cohen All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. (I didn t want to actually pay for this because I m lazy, but I worked hard on this so please just don t be an asshole and steal my work)

4 Dear Green Eyed Woman Dancing in Europe, an update on my mental state: it occurs to me that not every piece of metal wants to be a rollercoaster. some metal must be afraid of heights, i think. i think i think i think, only to come up with this thought: can You believe that pianos are nothing but the most honorable death for a forest? i can t. can t believe how selfish You are. You beautiful Dancer to Songs of Dead Leaves it s not that i can hear them screaming, it s that i m aware of their echo. the leaves, or You, or Me. and there is red, everywhere. red sap; redwood; red wine. You are dancing to all this Red. i think that this waltz is nothing but an apology in 3/4 and all i can see is You dancing on crow s feet the sound of chainsaws. You are not what You wanted to be. You are Human. what a shame. i think that if i were a bird i d still be afraid of heights. i think You would be too. You haven t talked to Me since You jumped off the highest point in manhattan and vanished, instantly, only to reappear as a heap of white feathers on the unforgiving concrete. it smells like gasoline. tastes like air. the voice of someone You never loved says please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. so You just start Falling and Falling and Falling and Love, A Box Made of Heartstrings

5 something tangible Heaven is an exhausted horse laying down to die Neil Hilborn heaven sleeps on its side. it cannot walk anymore, nor does it actually want to. the grass underneath my body can no longer be accurately described as grass. this is, in part, due to the fact that no one has cut this grass in a long time. twenty inches worth of time, to be exact. my mother would call all of these blades of grass weeds. a weed is anything that is, according to merriamwebster, not valued where it is growing, and, according to wikipedia, considered undesirable, or, in the wrong place. wikipedia has many definitions for the same thing in a way, i suppose, this is the opposite of a synonym. for example, heaven is often described as the holiest place, but also as the place where deities originate. people tell me that this is the same thing, but i disagree. i am lying in the grass too tall to be considered grass, shouting to dirt and worms that god is whatever i want it to be. god is whatever i want it to be. i sit up, and this seems almost violent. suddenly, the entire world

6 rotates with me and i am laying on my side again, floating in space. all of my limbs are suspended about me. i call every single blade of grass a god.

7 i slept, last night, in my car, and listened to the sound of raindrops on windshields you imagine a meteor shower because you have never seen one before. and of course, there is a hummingbird, of course. there is every kind of bird. my biggest fear is that the sky will fall one day. unexpectedly. not that the sun will grow and swallow us whole, but that one day it will be colder than it should be. and of course, the hummingbird flew right into your mouth, of course, and of course, it swallowed you whole, of course. you are sweet like honey and a body marked, diseased with flowers. a garden to your skin. the sky to your fists. it is raining. and of course, the biggest fear, of course. this planet is plagued with falling stars and birds that cannot fly.

8 self discovery i am an ocean no a flock of birds no something worse much worse a garden of knives buried hilt deep between shoulder blades not my shoulder blades as if this matters as if this makes it better i am an accessory hilt deep hilt deep i assume the worst i wonder if she will miss me and i also wonder how

9 requited i picture you in the morning you are my favorite sunrise the light that floods my bedroom with the shades still drawn you remind me of freshly cut grass and newly lit candles and other things that i imagine a home would feel like the soft spot on the back of my head has never been so welcoming to anything but your hands and this is what makes me want to be more gentle i am nothing but a hummingbird and the way your lips part right before you say my name and when you say my name it sounds like a lullaby it feels like the cracking of your bones as you stretch and rise and picture me in the morning and we are together and you are the most beautiful thing i have seen in my whole life and i am the most beautiful thing i have seen in my whole life and we are together

10 carpe diem, or whatever & here is the sin, laid out across the grass, its blades wedged between our skin, shouting in stentorian cries, reminding me. i do not wish this dirt, under this grass, under me, under this sky, upon anyone. and i can see your skull. i can see a garden, growing. there are honeysuckles, and you. you taught me how to taste. their nectar, so sweet. & there are beehives in your chest and they fly, not like bees, which they are, no, not like bees. like crows. and you say that you are free of the burdens which you have brought upon yourself. but we are birds, but not just birds, for we are also food for worms.

11 november, part 3 today, i thought i saw your image in the pond. i could not have been sure. the air was cold. my lips were chapped. the glass liquid disoriented any image i could see. not just of me, but of what decorated my sides, my shoulders. the forest, or you. it reminds me of the cartoons i used to watch as a kid. the ones with those angels and devils on both sides of the protagonists shoulders, yelling at each other from earlobe to earlobe. i often confuse missing you with being upset with myself for not remembering every single detail about our time spent together. i cannot recall, for example, when we slept together, on which shoulder you lay your head to rest etc.

12 deathlove sonnet no. 5 her neck is bent, her head, folded to the side her eyes are open, wide, and knowing she says this is a moment and we are here she is dead and so are you but you are more dead than she is this takes into account the fact that she is now dead but you have been dead before she learned to speak in ghost tongues so the car is no longer a car, and it is no longer broken, it is a boat, and you are rowing it she is cupping her hands into the river and drinking from her palms like a birds nest her neck snaps into place, black water dripping down her chin. she says: i love you. you say: i know.

13 order & chaos & you & i and it was said that this large snake would fling itself into the sky and swallow the sun, and eutaxy would die. nowadays, i do not do much but dream of the passenger seat of your car and how everything feels right when i am in it, which is, of course, nothing than a metaphor. you see, the car is a metaphor for movement, and it is a brand new car, but it has tens of thousands of miles on it, which is to say: i want to leave, but i do not know where to go; which is to say: i am sorry mother, i am sorry father, but this is not my home. and the passenger seat is a metaphor for my belonging, or rather, my desire to belong, and i am a metaphor for everything you cannot have, which is to say: discomfort; which is to say: i am apologizing again. it seems that all i do as of late is apologize. which is to say, of course, that i am the sun, and i want nothing more than for you to swallow me whole. and for this, my dear, i am sorry.

14 just dancing there is a ballerina spinning ever so slowly atop a porcelain box, and me, listening to the classical melody that she has no choice but to dance to, trying to see all the way to paris. i think about the peaks of mountains, and the millions of small, atom-sized snowflakes garnishing them, those mountains, those appalachians that decorate my backyard. every time it snows, i can only imagine that god is taking his paintbrush, casting out the softness, saying some kid s gonna make an angel out of you, just you wait. and then, of course, i think about the wind and the storm. about how this wind is nothing but the same wind from centuries ago. it could have witnessed some Victorian engagement, or, what certainly seems to be more likely, a beheading. yes, i think to myself, this wind feels like a guillotine. this wind, i am sure, is the same wind meandering its way across atlantic waves, towards you, somewhere in europe. i hope that you are there when this wind reaches you. i hope that you are there, dancing. i hope that it is your favorite song. i hope that you do not have to choose to dance to it, that you pay no attention to the way your body so effortlessly adorns this music. i hope that you are to sound what snowflakes are to mountain peaks. i hope that i am there, with you, somewhere in the wind and snow, the same wind and snow, and we are together, just dancing.

15 About the Author Bailey Cohen is just a guy who has been trying to write a poem about mountains ever since his little brother told him that s all that poets write about. He supposes that he has now, but still remains on the mission to write the Perfect Mountain Poem. He enjoys pineapples and pancakes, and is honored that you read this much of his thoughts, yet wants you to know that he remains woefully uncomfortable when it comes to writing about himself in the first person. Ah well.