My work in a nutshell

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Email me at lfletch4@wvu.edu
Knife, Mine

The only thing I want to do is make sure you can make me feel, just like you used to do.

Tell me you hate my superiority complex
and make me cry.
Tell me how you want to fuck me
and make me wail.
Detail your ex-girlfriend's bigger breasts
and make me rage.
Hate me, love me, hurt me.
Three basic instincts of us.
How come you deny them all?
Don't tell me you love me; it's a vague term that you can make yourself believe.
(You can love Christmas and hate eggs just as you love me and hate Republicans.)

Did you ever like my writing?
Explain it passionately -- I loved the one about...
All of the others lacked...
Passion.
I want to know why I do wrong.
Why do I lie to you? To my loved ones?
But I love my cats, and I tell them no lies.
Ah, the transparencies of truth art delivere'd at 12:13.

Do you ever think too much?
I wish I thought at all.

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Too Hard to Title

Overflow

Spill the wine
Lose your mind
Feel the seasons dreaming
The sky is climbing, seeming
To end beyond the trees

Infantile

Take my hand
Boy, be a man
You never cease your crying
Our minds, asleep, are trying
To reason with our hearts

Death

Crash your car
Below the stars
We thought we were escaping
Nails in our palms are scraping
To crawl out from the earth

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while the others

-1-
alone
while the others
climb
to the top 		-2-
scared
while the others
sleep
through the night
..
dry
while the others
sweat
in the crops 		down
while the others
laugh
from great heights
..
guilt
while the others
trail
at my heels 		dark
while the others
scream
for the light
..
lost
while the others
hold
to the wheel 		wrong
although I could
swear
I was right

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a rock

I picked up a rock yesterday
Just when we were clearing the road
An odd gravel, nothing more
Feeling secretive, I held it,
close in my palm
They'd make me put it down, of course...

I brought it home, left it by the sink
I'd clean it after the potatoes,

no one would notice
Dirt and leaves fall like scabs
and dyed the porcelain a sandy tan
A touch from a mummified hand

I wrapped it in a towel and carried it
to my bedroom, left beneath my bed

among slippers and heavy sweaters
It didn't shine; it wasn't smooth,
but I planned on nature taking over
At the time, I feel twelve.

I lay in bed, contemplating the ceiling
painted in broad white rolls,

yet jagged like the Moon
Everything above the roof was so far away,
most of all Heaven,
which I don't believe in anyway

I draped my arm over the edge of the bed,
reaching under for my stone of ages,

a safe for recent times
It knew my thoughts and feelings
It eroded itself with my life
A sick acid, biting inferno

I held the rock up to my ear and listened
as if it were a seashell that sang

but its secrets stayed locked up
Had it heard my outpourings?
It's a rock, stupid, a rock. Cold.
I put it under my pillow.

I close my eyes and wash again
collecting dirt along my way

for my cleansing stone
Dirt on sheets is inconsequential
Worse things stain me daily
but I manage to keep one thing clean.

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