in a poetry workshop as a freshman my professor inquired for my opinion
as to the current state of the medium
i responded that the problem with modern art is, at best,
today’s works are no more than tidbits of gold surrounded by shit
gilded in silver; and that my endeavors were no exception
they still aren’t…
i’m still just throwing rocks

i grant you god damn daughter-fucker
giving heart as your namesake
between art and the game play
start and follow the more intriguing dialogue path
seething among cervixes and worshiping diagrams of ass
try again the load screen seems to work just as consistently in real life
actually ashley you were fascinating long enough to man handle pan’s labyrinth then
fade out
through the rabbit hole jt has your painting of the rabbit hole and i sure hope he’s well
same goes for you these days as i cough and i quell
quaff and swell behind closed doors on gales
failing slightly less than spectacularly
the spectre in my mind pries with the wry slight
“son you’re dying silently
speak a little more have a fighting stance
appropriate for an encounter where the mobs hold high resistance
increase your chance of a critical misstep
fall towards self-empathy from physical intimacy"
aerie, baldur’s gate had your wings burnt off
and david i swear you taught me so much
the last thing you told me was to keep in touch
with my obsessions

and of course i haven’t spoken to you since
let alone send any emails
i don’t write poetry anymore now that christopher is gone
it’s a shame
apparently you used to live in dean’s house
who was so supportive regardless of my addictions
i should visit his office more often…