Author: Devin Sams
Blood Rush
the head spins
with a hippy speedball
keeping a rhythm
around an echo
as the snake
grips a tree-branch
i’m either
a coward
for the sun
or victorious
in solitude
as the summer
fan blows
waiting
for a coin to land
in some determination
waiting
as it all
spins
up there
Here We Go Again
it’s a never ending
kick in the ass
waking up
having to piss
having to eat
having to have
and everything else
someone has to go to work
and
someone has to go to bed
and some go to work in bed
this lonely connection
it shows up in the mirror.
shows up in the mail,
in the laughter of the rich.
the champion taking a knee.
a dog walking off to die.
itches
and
taxes
and the relentless stare
of the sun.
the earth spins
on one more try.
Where Babies Come From
i feel like
some kid
with slingshot
pointed at
the blinding sun
yelling,
“i’ll shoot
you outta the sky!”
and then
there’s a
release
who knows
Dreaming Reality
we never
notice it
because
it’s not
coming from
or going to
we overlook it
but never find it
like ourselves:
the inside
with no
outside.
separated
disempowered
degraded
and at war
with life
we struggle
to get it
we struggle
to get there
we direct
and dissect
and try
to point
at pointing,
name art,
and balance
the economy.
we overlook it
like watchtowers
but we never find it—
as if all this
movement
were equally
still.
Gutrot
the rotting
decay
of my growth
another page
done in
another line
put down
like an unwanted
guest
who’s finally gone,
it comes out good
because it went in
so bad.
the stomach
goes both ways
and
not all of me
is worth
digesting—
sometimes
things
come up.
Daydreamless
sitting here,
quiet,
as the windows
glorify the sky–
it appears
the day
is open to visitors
meanwhile,
i’m dressed
in solitude
sweating an imagination
of 26 letters
and hands that pass
for a mouth.
this tongue
licks
an empty plate.
Sometimes Always
this waking up
having never
gone to sleep
state of forgotten–
sometimes
it’s sad
the way
we dream.
the way
we postpone,
the way
we act as if
life were only
in the next room.
we are
imitable as loss
discarded like an empty shoe
removable as a t-shirt
life being
its own consumer
this waking up
having never
gone to sleep
mystery to itself–
miracles
aren’t always
happy
misery
isn’t always
ugly
the old man
has his cane
and laughter
takes
many forms.
Might Maybe
the simple act
of sitting here
entertaining possibility
and the absurdity
of eyes
ears
throats-
everybody
taken in
and out
like the tide
lonely dogs
scratching
at doors
traffic
dying off
in the night
and
lost people
finding
each other
under
the same dim light
this spiral
turns
to lose
itself
only a fool
would try
to name it.
The Sun Burns Insane And The Planets Follow Accordingly
i’m an
empty reptile
inside a candy
wrapper.
writing
is life
at it’s finest—
does it feel good?
does it feel bad?
i do it
either way:
hungry.
