Jasmine's Poem by Jason Bartlett


Pip pip and cheerio,
It's just like we're in the 60's though.
It makes me want to cry,
because I've never been this happy inside.
We can watch the stars turn to satellites.
An each time we walk this street,
I think of how I told you life can't always be great,
because something has to keep you on your feet.
Thank you for letting me show you the weird parts of me,
and understanding what they mean.
You never get mad when I mess up numbers,
even though everyone else does.
Eating Sweethearts that have weird messages we make up and sometimes not.
But knowing your my sweetheart it's the start.
And holding your hand makes fireworks swoon,
and I hope to kiss you under the moon.
Joking abut things and plaing board games,
I know thinsg will never be the same.
I hope the best for you through and through.
I never want to lose you.


Money Drain by Jason Bartlett


I'm an artist not a perfectionist.


The hours won't seem to go by


and the days won't pass go.


Introduce a man to himself.


The paper canvas I held in both hands


were my wings it seemed.


She hid her beauty behind dread locks and


camo green getup,


but she could've been the queen of Paris.


Ekphrastic Subvert by Jason Bartlett


madder genus lightfastness.


cinnabar Cadillac designates genius


when did people start raising their hands in school


to ask a question.


cicatrix carcinogenic blue leaf esoteric.


She can't drive, sleep or eat.


Confessional of a world where people have no arms.


Enjoy small moments, Algonquian.


Fjord, this business has worked 264 without injury.


Sporadic frenetic coddles tracting.


Miracle Monday, charlie mike.


Serotonin nation,


people from my past will always have a place in my heart.


Always aphrodisiac hero.


Pseudo Fragmented by Jason Bartlett


Chiaroscuro saltimbanques.


What of you took all the blue and green haired people


in Rhode Island and from an aerial view


took a picture of their heads in the shape of a camel.


Swarthy Patina on Second Street.


Centennial frozen lake of tape.


Synesthesia Aneurysm by Jason Bartlett


Empty of ourselves.


Oh it's a humdinger hamburger codex.


We'll leave the world weighing


no more than when we came.


Let's play Scattergories with my heart.


Purity is obscurity.


Plastic bottles last longer than relationships.


The sea is turning it's dark pages, its dark pages.


In this time we hold each others hands.


As the bark on the tree


darkens with evening and the last


light empties from the sky.


Chasing away to do lists


can't even escape them on vacation.


Complex day for what in turn.


There's a stillness


this morning, that the man


made out of woods must walk through


listening.


Hooligan, this school is the size of Africa,


for people who think they are larger than life.


Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live.


Draughtsman ultraviolet peppers cangiante terse verse.


What I can do - I will -


Though it be as little as a daffodil-


That I cannot- must be


Unknown to possibility.


Synergy conglomerate juxtaposed aubergine.


Deity audacious hardiness moombow glib.


Flower veins and crimson seahorses.


Are quotes better than lyrics or poetry?


Noom gloom, convoluted ephemeral conglutinate.


Open up my autopsy eye to see my gender in colour cones.


Apes used to see better.


That's the biggest question we have,


Are things getting better?


The outline of clouds are red


to some women who see better.


Refurbished domineering intrinsically cowry.        


Things fall into place.               


Time is an illusion by Jason Bartlett


Tell me the right thing.


Forever I sigh sunrise.


I look outside


and time goes from cold afternoon


to 4 o'clock sunset


lickety split.


And I look at my artwork


and not know what day I did it,


nor do I remember the day before it.


That's where stress comes from,


remembering days before and after today.


The Day Before I Went To The Mental Hospital I Wrote:


What Makes Me Curl Up In A Ball: A List Of Sorts By Jason Bartlett


God protect the young angel.


I can tell that some people have never felt real happiness.


They have just felt money, and the joy of greed.


I'm not afraid to show you off,


I'm afraid to show myself.


I see the world through the eyes of a newborn.


As we get older we become more conscious of others being aware of us.


Eventually we just fade away.


I never touch my face


because it feels like my beard will fall off.


Things I can never be, bumblebee in my mind,


keep me awake at white collar dawn.


Someone said that I write love poems


even though the love shatters into a million pieces,


the seeds of which make flowers grow,


but yet, I write anyway.


I haven't been to any of the places the wind blew them,


And I don't think I ever will go.


Even if I was stuck in a dungeon,


I'd find a crayon box and make art.


I wish someone would ask me what each verse means,


before I forget.


I think I stay up at night so the future comes quicker.


Everytime I take off my belt,


I know it holds my jeans up.


Only, I must have a real odd idea of how the world works


because of the movies.


I feel like nothing I do has an end.


What is the end?


What is living?


If everyone has their own definition of living,


why does it feel like I could die tomorrow?


Will people at my funeral say,


"He really lived.


He knew how to live."?


I keep waiting for somebody to show me how to live,


or at least love my life.


I don't want to live for somebody else.


I miss swimming,


and how tired and hungry it made my muscles feel.


I keep dreaming of being allowed in the boys locker room


and what it would be like to wear the proper uniform.


I never go to do it,


and I dream o things I would never do and can't do.


I have qualms about them,


how it's too late to do them.


And I'll never forget what I never did.


I can only face people when I know what they think of me.


I know I'll get through college,


but I don't think it's the right way to educate someone.


I want people I admire to use pie charts to tell me to stop admiring them,


and to admire myself,


because I can read a pie chart.


I wish for streets made of ice


and for all the dapper boys to stare at me.


We eat Zesta crackers in the mental hospital.


Poetry has it's claws in me,


and I wish it was something you could quit,


because I'm addicted to it.


Is there a poetaholics anonymous?


I made a vow to myself to never see my extended family again,


until I feel like my beard won't fall off.


And so far, I'm falling forever.


I look for the perfection in everything,


but what really messes up my screwed up timeline,


is that I look for perfection in people and I haven't found any.


I'm never sure about anything,


my mind changes like traffic lights,


I never know what to do with money,


and I'm afraid it will dissapear,


nobody at all  deserves,


all humans have a war side.


How am I supposed to know if you'd help thy neighbor?


Pay it forward it a load of horse shat.


Though I like the movie not the concept.


Nobody ever does it.


I'm real harsh because I've never seen a miracle.


I realize children are the smartest among us,


and they have no way to be heard.


I'm more lonely than a desert.


Impossible dream of two men laying on a cliff, holding hands.


And happiness, flood their house until it suffocates them,


til' death do we part.


The rest of the fireplace smoke,


signals and bets to heaven


until the last wispy grey sends a message to humanity.


Somebody Someday by Jason Bartlett


I feel like I am somebody,


not that I will be somebody someday.


I used to daydream of perfect boys for me lined up,


And I could pick my soulmates out.


Time goes faster at night.


Maybe if my history books were written on your skin,


I'd remember them.


Flattered and flustered are the only two words I feel


Most of the time.


There is less oxygen to breathe and no palm trees in sight.


Ich heisse is all I learned tonight.


Though another thing that doesn't count,


is that I haven't lived life.


Blue and red lights hung like blinking 3D glasses,


and a picture of burning ocean pink waves at the edges


reminds me of being alone in a tall lifeguard chair


as music played in the distance bouncing off silent sand.


The people in your drawings look like empty white ghosts,


I think that's exactly what the city population looks like.


Hollow whited out people.


Your number on a napkin like Beatles lyrics


on a flightless cancelled day because there was


snow covered up to our hearts.


And the way your letters dip shows you are an artist.


That not even the alphabet can hold you back.


And I wish I could be like that.


The old man in the taxi didn't say a word,


after an evening full of letter boxes.


I wonder if everyone is just as intrigued by


others listening to lips speak.


I want to know the secret of fame,


keep it once and give it away.


To cold outside for a flame,


too cold to have any habits at all.


I know I am somebody now,


just not sure I'll have something to show for it someday.


1/1/14 Fluorescent Adolescent by Jason Bartlett


A friend asked me the weirdest thing I've ever done,


and I realized I couldn't think of any,


and hopefully 2014 will be the weirdest.


And I hope it's with you.


I guess I'd rather have you in my life,


than not at all.


Because, afterall you've been my inspiration,


and I haven't had that since I last heard your name.


I won't give up on dreams,


and then there was you.


When you held out your arm to show me a video,


I realized your arm and the two birthmark stars


were the most beautiful things in nature I have ever seen,


and your hands being the most gorgeous things I could never touch.


I don't write love poems cause' you asked for it,


rather I know when I can't sleep,


it's because I hope I am awake in your dreams.


Imagine if the world was black and white.


I think you'd be the only colour in sight.


It's like love is a mattress floating on water.


I looked at the Polaroid of us about fifty times.


I have to keep looking at it to remind myself to keep trying.


If I can get something unattainable,


then maybe I can feel like I'm worth something.


Winter Wind plays and Waterloo Sunset in my head collides.


I can't even describe it, but your car smells like you.


I wish I could give you all my memories.


We talked about owning penguins tonight


and what if life was just a dream,


that we are in a coma and need to wake up,


or once the ball drops tonight the purge starts


and all electricity fails on us.


I remember everything you say


even though I don't want to.


It's safe to say you'll never give me a chance.


Can I have this one dance?


I Keep Dreaming Of Models And Murderers by Jason Bartlett


My father is the only one who keeps me alive at night,


when depression takes over and hope is the light.


There's no such thing as no such thing.


I want to tell strangers I love them and see the whole world be in love.


How is it that people are single, when everybody needs two hearts.


If you think you should express it then you should.


This earth we live on needs more of


I'm here for you, and you're here for me.


I am happy I found old memories to explain the new ones.


12/28/13 Tonight by Jason Bartlett


The water dripping from me after a shower


sounded like pennies hitting the floor.


Getting ready to be myself,


but it's so hard to be when I don't even know who I am.


Pretending the disco balls are eyes,


and that nobody else is watching.


Pointless crush that I hope has a point.


Shivering and wanting to be in your arms.


But I know my illnesses will get in the way.


They do every time.


Communism by Jason Bartlett


Rows and rows of bright school buses.


Evoke nostalgia and yellow.


            Repetition and conform


like the Holocaust.


Rows and rows of shaved heads.


Evoke the brutal reiterated uniformed men.


Unattainable by Jason Bartlett


See you once then never again.


See you once then once again


out of pure hope of strangers you love.


Cold season white skies the only reason to look up,


and the only reason to look to the side is abandoned lakes


and the big jeep that views it,


with nobody inside.


12/26/13 Pen and Glass Dream by Jason Bartlett


I had a dream that I went someplace and wrote a letter to you,


inside a building made of glass,


then I came back,


and a letter from you was there,


even though you never set foot in this place,


miles apart,


and I dropped letters often.


12/20/13 A Day Of Firsts by Jason Bartlett


First coffee, that made me feel awake and tired at the same time


split everywhere onto the lopsided table.


First Casino, that I looked down on


as a desert of old people video games and money tumbleweeds


First time buying a pack of cigarettes,


that man behind the counter


in his thick accent repeated annoyingly


that I've only been 18 for three days. No duh.


I hoped that would be the last pack of menthols I'd ever buy.


First time drinking a full energy drink,


that without high school tools begging for a sip,


I felt so high, and I guess I was drinking bull sperm,


but it didn't matter,


I went from wanting to die, to sky high hyper happy with a hole burned in my bladder.


First time going to the gay bar legally,


that crisp ID actually used and old guys buying me Cokes,


and talking to walls was just like talking to people.


A day of firsts to try everything once, at least for the first time.


Half Real by Jason Bartlett


I want to find myself and forget the past me.


I want to be in a room full of taking people


saying what's on their mind until their mouth feels empty


Like a buzzing conversation concert.


When I was a child my body was limp,


and I could fall backwards onto anything,


grass, couch forts, even concrete.


But nobody taught me how to open a can on our


canned food Thanksgiving.


Early morning breakfast with parents,


and mom walks away to watch the news,


the feeling almost as bad as those people who


stand to close to your face.


My body limp no more,


all flexibility gone and sore from being


a teenager.


All I know is, I'm going to have a good life,


no matter what hurdles there are,


there's always somebody around to help.


12/20/13 Dear Ned Vizzini by Jason Bartlett


You were my favourite author


and I just talked about you


before you killed yourself


five hours ago


I only found out


because I googled suicide


you were the top hit


why'd you do it?


was life that hopeless?


now every time I hear Under Pressure by Queen I'll think of you


and I showed everyone in the mental hospital It's Kind of a Funny Story


my favourite movie.


And it helped me,


I just wish you got more letters,


love letters,


But maybe you could never have enough fans or money to be happy,


nobody to blame, just wanted to leave behind your word crumbs,


so others can follow the trail to a gingerbread house of happiness


and avoid your mistakes,


I guess you thought the only way to leave them permanently was to die


I wish you didn't jump off your roof


cuz' you couldn't find the sky in Brooklyn


I hope paradise is 'kind of a funny story' too


and angels sing under pressure


wings flapping with peace


and no more angst


I bet a lot of people commit suicide in December.


Must be the lousy weather.


12/21/13 Today I Found Out Wajoid The Mountain Man Died by Jason Bartlett


His real name was Bruce Anthony Garitta,


but we just called him the mountain man.


In New Hampshire, high upon that mountain,


he's give me seeds to eat and wrote me letters,


now fragments of my childhood are erased because I realize,


he was never a mountain man,


but just a mountain of a man.


A married man and a pretending man.


I really believed he was a man living on a mountain,


in a desolate cabin, with tourists as guests.


I guess I already knew he made it to a mountain in heaven,


but for some reason my hope that he was alive kept him alive,


until I read it in words.


I still believe in the mountain man.


A Man Of Many Coats by Jason Bartlett


Wanted to make a snowman with my father,


but the snow was powder.


A stranger wanted me to remember them as a man with lots of layers.


And I told him all I did was sell knives with you.


Our car is the loudest car on the block.


The pipe grinds and grunts.


Six red exit signs illuminate an apartment of one million windows,


of people who pay one trillion to live next to waterfire river.


But I live in a half duplex house,


The day my dad moved back in the environment changed.


The atmosphere hemisphere was just the same,


except there was father,


after four years of letters and calls


all added up to this deflated expectation


that the world would go back to beach days


and he'd push me in a shopping cart.


I cried before because I knew he didn't deserve to live


in the woods.


Now I wonder if living on such a judgmental


suburban street is any better.


My high hope standards may have deceived me.


So many times where I've been let down.


Is being eighteen supposed to make you feel shackled to the wall,


with handcuffs and keys out of reach?


And if I do get that key, I'll give it to you father,


because you know what it's like to be a man of many coats.


The Real Title Is At The End by Jason Bartlett


We slept in but all I wanted to do was see tomorrow.


My dad said Pop-Pop's inheritance would pay for my sex change one day.


I had on my ugly black rain boots,


so cheap that my mom complained and said I can't wear them everyday; boots.


In those we walked all the way to Stop and Shop for a ten ride bus pass,


In hopes of leaving,


knowing we won't leave until someone dies who put us in their will,


or the government gives us money to escape.


We are still afraid of people staring out their windows at us,


even though he's not homeless now,


he's a suburban dad, at least to me he is.


The sound was so beautiful all I could do was smile.


-The Day I Watched My Dad Inhale Helium And I Realized It Was The First Time I Laughed In A Week


Your Name Is The Sky, Luna by Jason Bartlett


Break the tiny light in your hand


Wallpaper burst open upon the Formica


red flannel mind was tattooed


purple lights flickering


confuse it with acceptance


unknown destinations of


there's always a place to go


a close range-haze that smelled like the mall


pop-star concocted perfumes


and canopy shadows


that shifted whenever a car passed by


unison pose that was decidedly aw-shucks


perfect stubble up for anything


and sideways speechless


idyllic that marinated in the residue of his aura


whirlpool of desire I wanted to know over each other


copies of the Penny Saver scattered


living things on the brink of death


cigarettes and car air freshener


windows cracked


stream of cool evening hit thousands of lightning bugs


lightly flashing out of sync


invisible line between the rest of my life


corn waved like a jagged black ocean


gay bar of my imagination


shimmering green pinprick of glass


rain filling the car outstretched roof


watching energy cancelling each other out


our own brands of lostless


avalanche of thoughts don't allow room to be sad


loneliness can turn you into someone you don't want to be


over and over emotions are plastic sleeves


only bought in comic book stores there


the only thing that the whole world can see,


and it has seen us baby boom is the moon


ice melting on a countertop


shoulder blades giving off sparks


same patch of neighborhood


where everyone's got that thing that keeps them awake


fear of kidnappers when I was a kid


of a mind that had so little to do with reality


every kiss in my life leading back to the one before it


in the way the nobody can keep me still


whether to be sad or happy


like deadly storms when cold and hot combine


sea urchins made of crystal crash


I still have the same silhouette as I did in preschool


Trying so hard to be a child,


but children don't try hard to be


the sad thing about bubbles is they burst


blue circuit of light


the scenery might change,


but you're still the same person.


I miss the cold rush of convenience store air


on a thunderstorm Summer day


Underneath It All Is Liquid Blue Sunset by Jason Bartlett


never ending punchline drums


two red markers


hour to complete


marker stink


muted sounds disgrace


yellow bow tie unravels


passenger seat night


hummed quietly alive


ghost version of earth


dead lamp grew arms and legs


lurched down the street


houses painted safe colors


smoking rare Marlboro light


moving real slow like glaciers


space and sunsets wanted


spin to make myself as lost as possible


I don't see anything gorgeous about cracker-box houses


cracker jack prizes


fight in peace


headless mannequins painted blue


on shattered mirrors


sometimes the house would sing


surrender to normalcy


voice of nature heard in black silence


of hostage situation levels


capitalist compound


zoned-out starlet unconscious in the sun


passing strip malls and


erasing the day to put something better in its place


skin the colour of a dirty penny


I told the soap dish in my bathroom


hard surfaces around the ciché


our solitude was linked


I wasn't exactly sure what more was


force something worse to take its place


toys litter unmowed lawns like bright dead animals


stare at power line smoke creep humid afternoon


a knot that could never be untied


skeletons of mansions


wasn't age in his voice


grove of trees to distract myself


wondered if this sort of thing happened all the time


if every few weeks somewhere in the world


bunch of bullshit to focus attention on the small things


I tried affirming nothing at all- no man.


evening settled


I like the scandalous.


I think we all do lip service.


When I was a kid, Crayola sent me a free colouring book,


because I told them the colour green on the back of the box


was the same shade as the black.


Not The Last by Jason Bartlett


More art please,


talk more please.


Then the sparkles fell everywhere


and my hands are dipped in glitter everywhere.


I wonder what life will be like once I can live it.


I know things have changed, for the better.


But, I want to wear a nice tuxedo covered in paint.


I'll be the most professional artist you've ever seen.


I don't mind being poor,


But I do when it's with you.


There's a difference.


And dad please come home.


Not the rock covered lawn,


but the one we make in our hearts that travels everywhere.


I hope I meet somebody, one day


and they won't mind my brain,


and they'll love my poems,


and they'll love it all.


Is that even possible?


Yellow sky and tree of hands,


crying tears upon a floating,


no a sinking metal bench ocean


with paved sidewalks and double seasons all at once.


Next Poem by Jason Bartlett


Keep hold of dreams.


Art is beauty.


People surf the sky.


Blue dots, red dots, floaters.


Blue old fashioned car parked in a Benny's parking lot.


People want to blame their problems on others.


People take things to serious,


relax take some Xanax.


Repercussions implied;


overpopulation causing gravestone sidewalks.


They turned the Radisson into Wyndham Garden.


Gray, gray, gray sky.


Foggy, foggy, foggy sky.


Without any amnesia,


you brave girl.


Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?


Ollege ownage.


Felt pepperoni on a real pizza.


That's ill.


Sand paper hat.


Better than a Burger Kind crown.


Yes, better.


Above me sliver of sunset clouds.


Disappointment lockers to the left of me.


Hallways to the right.


Here I am stuck in the middle with freedom challenge ahead.


Below those ugly tile squares only high schools have.


And behind me bullies.


Woop! Teardrop hand. What?


Light bulb inside of a light bulb lamp.


Acid tape and girls on jackets.


Pelican with butterfly wings blushing.


Hermit crabs in heaven


as our hearts fall off the window.


Leg warmers for your neck; neckings.


My father gives me a diamond barrette.


He gives me a poem he wrote titled "Thankful".


I love it.


But he can’t because poetry is infectious.


Nothing I say can make you stay longer.


Why does there have to be a place and a time to say things,


is that not freedom of speech?


Syndication beatnik berserk.


Limitless has it's limits too.


Man inside of body.


Stress from school then die.


Work hard then die she said.


Time after time.


This Generation by Jason Bartlett


I won't stop writing whatever I want.


People unfulfilled all the time.


3d Printer, and technology moving too fast.


Winter depression,


and TV's won't last.


Everything in black in white looks the same to me.


Writing letters to Linda Cardellini.


Every day doesn't have to be the best day,


but just live it.


Accolades cascades.


Every time I leave art class,


I feel like I'll be famous one day.


I thought it was over,


but I guess it had never begun.


Remember when people used to communicate in person,


making phone calls to your crush.


Not Facebook bullshit.


Get out there,


break a smile,


open a door and wave on the street.


What happened to meet and greet?


It's not too late to change,


our lazy ways and potato couch days.


Netflixing a party when you can go to one,


just open your window and have fun!


The Bling Ring Poem by Jason Bartlett


Ruefully welterweight.


Wilt-er, from pure concentrate.


Economy absconded,


every kid Christmas bond-ed.


Nolo contendere my com-padre.


My dad is interested in the neon sign tubing.


Glass makers, making sharp orange drips.


Girls using haul videos to show their worth.


Value themselves by objects collected.


And celebrity monuments erected,


posters of big red lips.


And thigh gaps, mostly tiny hips.


Subterfuge or ploy and spritz


to become something else,


but the game, you still play it.


Full of Asian glitz and fame bits.


It was a sting,


and they were the bling ring.


That's what can happen if there way a purge.


Every person acting on every single urge.


A splurge on materialism,


to feed the commercialism.


Advertisements can change the world,


but all they do is name brand a swirl.


Kids with anxiety,


try to find an outlet.


Can't find the right one,


didn't deny some.


People with mental illnesses not given a chance,


just an avoidance dance.


Idolizing periodicals,


have to have magazine for the beach,


so your full throttle.


Drinking on a Chardonnay bottle.


Immersed in everybody's life but your own.


Speaking third person like you're all alone.


You're just another society drone.


Luxuries are just imaginary.


People get away with crimes out of wit.


When will America get sick of it?


Paper Snow by Jason Bartlett


I cut large sheets of white paper,


into tiny little confetti.


I imagine you walk by,


and I am so delighted to see you,


I rejoice and throw them all in the air.


You stop and stare,


because you've never seen paper snow before.


Then I tell you,


oh yes you have,


you are as beautiful as snow,


and to see it again,


just look at your reflection.


Gender Memories by Jason Bartlett


There's a madness to the method.


Matter over mind.


Sometimes I think, I wish I was a girl,


I think of how easy it would be for you to love me.


I can't help it,


or fathom my love for you.


Oh how I wish you saw me.


As a little girl I loved to watch the billboard image change,


and got made when it fizzled out before I could see it.


I still love that stuff.


I loved rainy tollbooth days,


And night time glowing fish eyes driving on a spashy road.


I remember how at a certain time every year,


black crows showed up on the phone lines.


It doesn't matter what gender I am,


I loved these things and still do,


so why can't you love me?


I can still tell you stories,


but why does it matter what I have below?


But then Everything is Fine by Jason Bartlett


Velveeta, burns just like you.


Don't listen to Yoko Ono sing.


Think of all the pain that'd bring.


You know, she reminds me of you.


I can't stand the sound of you.


I can't stand what you've done.


I'm afraid to drink hot cocoa,


burns like you.


Put some ice in it.


Fuck you,


I hate how you didn't support me in anything I do.


I thought the sky was the ocean.


I hope it snows tomorrow you said.


Why I asked.


You said because I love snow.


And we left you,


and it started to snow.


Hang in there you said.


White easily broken foam,


pollution, litter, man made,


white packing peanuts the size of golf balls,


paper angel white dudes,


Shiny, sparkle glitter-dust.


corners, basements, haunted houses, & yard sales.


Cavities that yellow,


left unexplored and unexplained.


It's lips speaking blah blegh blah.


In Olneyville we fight in the car until it feels like lonely-ville.


But then everything is fine.


Epic Parable Poem by Jason Bartlett


Dedicated to Ronald and Cody


We went to one of those fake Italian restaurants.


Olive garden.


My father ordered tomato soup.


Nom, nom, nom.


Breadsticks.


My dad said,


"This is the best soup I've ever had."


Nom, nom, nom.


I said,


"Dad, that's the dipping sauce for the breadsticks."


I wish you were here to see me be myself.


Ask questions,


be random.


Say things like, "I like your eyebrows."


"Nice crocs."


She just got a phone call.


Imagine if she started speaking in Latin.


Like woah.


Antiseptic beautification.


Guess what?


Today I saw a homeless guy,


or maybe he wasn't.


I don't know.


He held up a cardboard sign.


That said,


"Just smile."


That's it.


And I smiled.


At least somebody's doing it right.


There should be more of that.


Newspaper on styrofoam,


call it art.


Boom.


Silencing babies with gas masks,


call it art.


Boom.


Chairs that squirt water,


did I pee myself?


Call it art.


Boom.


The minute the last Halloween candy is passed out,


Boom.


A snowman inflation, lights gyration.


I had a dream I was eating matches.


Yeah, matches!


Somebody on the tourist dream bus asked,


and I said I had Pica or something.


Matches taste like Cheese-Its in dreams.


In case you wanted to know.


Then I had a dream I was dragged by a car,


by a rope.


It was kinda fun!


But hell, I felt left out,


there was no room for me in the care.


Over fences and barking dogs.


Sick em!


Stringing me along.


Because I need a hidden thought all the time.


I think it's sad some people have never written a poem before.


Chocolate milk dancer.


Our phone's getting shut off,


mom's running out of gas.


I've been writing in a diary since January 1st.


It's seen me at my worst.


Life is so enjoyable.


I dig it.


When it comes down to it,


Heartbreak is fun.


Look what you've become:


A butterfly.


In life you can redo that cocoon over and over again.


I had a dream my Pop-Pop had an animal farm.


Petting zoo.


Things he used to do.


Tiny teacup horses.


Newscasters we interviewing me.


Pop-Pop was a womanizer in my dream,


each came out with robes on, satisfied.


And in real life, he talks to Barbies and life sized mannequins.


Your touch is like a rod struck through my chest.


Such a blow I want more.


I close my eyes,


ten score?


Beautiful Things by Jason Bartlett


What the fuck is up with that?


Do you only miss me at certain times?


Is being auspicious the goal?


Well I have a secret for you, you're not omnipotent.


I find it hard to disregard how you pull me like a puppet.


Knowing my silver marionette strings.


Well the detente didn't suffice.


When a stuffed animal gets matted a child still loves it.


Where do we go from being children to adults?


When we no longer hug it?


I know I will be happy in the future.


Just thoughts of it make me cry.


I truly collapse on my knees and I see it.


The most beautiful things you cannot touch.


That includes things in museums.


I couldn't be happy with you because,


you didn't know what happiness was.


Looking at Me by Jason Bartlett


The view was inspiring and irresistible.


You say your quiescent noises in your sleep


like cute pink flamingo susurrus talking.


I flippin' messed up.


I wasn't moving forward.


Especially she,


who was watching me.


Do you ever think all the stage is the world?


Maybe my mind is my conjoined twin.


The complete opposite of what's within.


You have no idea how easy it was to switch.


I mean it's hard to explain but I have someway to.


Everyday I want to go home and sleep


but then when it's time to I'm wide awake.


Are there more people like me out there?


I don't want to know.


There's no such thing as redamancy,


and even when there seems there is, it goes all wrong.


What it really is, my thoughts won't shut up like a 24/7 laundry mat.


If I knew how to do laundry, that is, perhaps I could turn the cycle off.


School is like leeches eating your face while you try to solve a Sudoku level 10.


Last night I thought about self care and how Cheese-its aren't nourishment.


I'm vegetarian, health ignorant.


How many people are going to keep noticing what I've already seen?


It's amazing what happens when you learn what a word means.


Who cares about spelling mistakes?


I love typos, it shows who we really are not an edited version.


In my thoughts aubades;


Is it time yet?


Is it time yet?


Is it time yet?


I used a sheet as an Ouija board without letters,


and asked a ghost scattered questions,


but mostly being scared about the future.


The whole clinquant universe just wants to be happy,


happy one day,


happy today.


I actually wish my ephemeral thoughts could be read,


I'm sick of the unobservant.


Yet, the other side of me wants them to stop, looking at me.


We've all asked at some point, why me?


There are several kinds of demons.


It's merely chimerical.


# by Jason Bartlett


The more people I talk to,


the more people know what I mean.


Your lust burns my night.


Forget and forgive.


Sight at first love.


Pensive.


I'd never be 100% you.


No matter how much hormones I take.


Packing with a snake.


My voice will never be yours perfectly.


Watch the city be busy.


I met you for a reason.


Chilly open windows in condominiums.


Midnight walkers.


Nobody's ever done that to me before.


Sparks, electricity.


I just want people to know who I am.


Dubious black tar river.


Dream I'm at a party.


Other Poem by Jason Bartlett


10, 20, 30 years from now,


from now,


this, this, this,


to look like this,


a beard, that's what I really want.


I act like it will turn me into James Franco,


I better let go but I feel it,


like the things I do,


escalate, working to be me,


one day I will be.


Lately, it's true,


I feel like a burden, a bother, that impose and interrupt,


because all I do is ask questions.


Now what I'm doing doesn't make any sense.


There is so much I don't know.


I don't know.


I never will but but by living I get to see things happen.


I'd rather be too exposed to more people I can handle,


than none at all.


Bittersweet take-down and deformation of our faces.


Oscillating, undulated whirlwind.


Bridge, I think being naked is fantastic.


When the moment goes haywire.


I'm a hypocrite because I actually broke plates.


Got mad 'cause I couldn't sing my wait.


Perfection by Jason Bartlett


Now I know what they meant


by wanting to be naturally beautiful.


When everything seems like you'll never meet person that is perfection.


I guess we're all addicted to finding out if we ever will.


Why can't I look like you,


somebody that people want to draw constantly,


especially I do.


The boy with the giant camera and checkered shirt,


a series of cannots and will nots,


not brave enough to flirt.


Talk to me,


sitting all alone.


The darkness and the light pollution


illuminating your face.


So maybe, I'll take a chance.


I think I fall in love with people at first sight,


but can't love myself with all my might.


But, I fall in love with what I write.


And the things they inspire,


so thank you for that,


whoever you are just a guiding star.



Birch Trees by Jason Bartlett


I'm allergic to the birch tree,


how can I still love thee?


Making wishes on dandelions,


even though they take over your gardens.


Staring at a ceiling,


not at all quite appealing.


Your musings are really quite confusing.


I feel like I've made another mistake.


That apple I did take.


What happens from here?


After you've killed someone with kindness.


Well, so far I've cowered in fear.


For I set out the fire from blindness.


Can't sleep correctly on one bed,


so I go to another to get you out of my head.


It would be much better if I was actually brainwashed.


So I don't have to pretend all this hogwash.


All you did was psychoanalyze,


with your pulsing, piercing eyes.


You declared this war,


and I stopped it from going too far.


It's all boulder dash,


so our hearts won't crash.


It snowed today for the first time.


I won't take that as a sign.


I realize I have nothing good to say,


that it was all your way.


I used to take everything as an omen,


though everything I said,


it put me hole-in.


Now, I'm scared whatever I do will hurt and ruin.


So, I step on melting ice,


realizing I'm a shoo-in.


Can I just say that inevitably it won't be me?


I wish you'd realize that and leave me alone.


So I can eat food and forever stay at home.


I'd much rather be a pig,


then keep faking us, our relationship wig.


At that age, all the good shit happens to you,


and you can't seem to see it.


Unless I keep being the glue.


Well I'm done,


I won't let you drop my plates and delicate glasses anymore,


then apologize to be free.


Because it doesn't work on me.


I guess it's my fault though,


because all you do is throw, throw, throw.


I let it happen,


I pick it up,


and you keep snapping.


I guess my main phobia is having only a shadow by my side always.


But, now you're back and I won't see you for days.


You don't take me seriously.


I can't take you either honestly.


You're a joke,


and I wanna throw up but the bile makes me choke.


If I puke and vomit what I hate about you,


people watch and spew.


Poem for Him by Jason Bartlett


Sunsets as we leave the beach.


taking pictures of it as we retreat.


you are the moon that moves the tides.


The clock I look at when time bides.


If there were billboards saying who we are was okay,


if society accepted us that way.


Meanwhile,


I don’t want to sit a-top a building that touches the stars.


I want to stay inside,


swimming,


and kissing your scars.


I am tattered like the pages in a book,


but what you say matters if you just look.


You are the red leaves of Autumn,


that unchanging moment when the colour sung.


You amaze me like a silent thunder.


A moment in time when you are so in love,


you fall under.


Sitting on cold,


hard tile to type my words,


in the midnight.


Saying everything I can to make it right.


Each dark day a booming hope for the next one with you.


Your opals eyes and orchid love too.


One day won’t be just reminders,


under Central Park trees,


and touching knees,


we will find us.


And when you don’t feel better,


here,


take another sweater.


Surrounded by red telephone booth dreams,


not so far away it seems.


Wouldn’t it be better if we were defined by our noses,


not by our hoses and roses?


Ferris wheel,


night lake reflection,


voice quivers,


lust inflection.


Break the glass of their diamond sheltered stereotype talk,


feel the earth on a nature walk.


What you are not,


will prevent a rot.


I remember lightning pools and Gecko catching,


of nostalgic pink crush guessing.


When you fixed our broken window,


my mother’s,


you fixed my soul’s belief in others.


Imagine if it was raining up,


shaking off the gray of who we used to be,


raining up.


Your heart-beat keeps me alive.


I remember when passing as ourselves was more important than passing grades,


we strive.


Overwhelmed, stars and buildings,


take over our bodies,


and all they could say was hello.


And goose-bump love tingled like Jello.


The World Isn't All Hate by Jason Bartlett


The world isn't all hate,


there are people you have to appreciate,


navigating all the stairs,


finding out who really cares.


It's okay to talk, talk, talk.


Once in a while you'll find that one person who will do a good deed,


right in front of you,


or for you,


and humanity doesn't seem all that bad.


A poem for Yohji by Jason Bartlett


You inspire a red breeze,


constellations,


A starting song that shakes the trees.


A perfect smile.


Oh, please stay for a while.


I like the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh,


the way my heart trinkles just enough.


Hair made of silk, and lips


I imagine kiss like flowers in the wind of hills.


I'd travel to touch the sky horizon miles to hold your hand.


A soft desire, a girl admired.


The only one I ever could.


A dove.


Pink lyrics of joy to blue.


A dream of spinning you,


twelve roses,


endlessly under coloured lights,


harmonize with me,


your voice is just too pretty.


The Future is a White Sheet Poem by Jason Bartlett


Hiatus of a lotus,


the future is a white sheet,


impulsive, compulsive.


A country pretending to be a country.


Will you be my cheap date?


We can look at supernovas, all alone,


inside a dark room.


Forget the planetarium,


our secrets are an emporium.


Talk to me, so my words can be free.


We don't know the wonders we are capable of.


Dance where nobody dances,


love where the ghost prances.


Take a bite a forbidden pineapple.


Make them think you've snapped a bit.


But, you really haven't.


Tell them the truth,


let it go,


like an open wound.


Let's see if they love that,


the real you,


that only you can love.


Don't deprive your heart of what it deserves,


because all it is, is words.


Don't look up to anyone else,


look up to yourself.


You are royal,


but live your life,


knowing people will try to take that from you.


The gold in your soul,


that a fake friend will mine.


Only let your hobby use you.


Let your hobby,


make you a paper crane.


Fly away and rip,


see temptation,


take a sip.


Until it's so loud,


you’re nothing.


Listen to what you say,


and say it,


until others wish they were deaf.


You have the right to dance and speak of love.


I once heard the future is a white sheet,


and no obstacles can compete.


Your problems eat you up inside.


We have all the time in the world.


Untitled Poem by Jason Bartlett


The first time I had depression,


I thought they would, just find the cause of it,


then kill it,


like it was an object stuck in my throat.


But it's much more than that.


It's the loneliness that makes me throw up.


A dread that things won't be okay,


and I promise you they won't.


Dreams don't come true.


I wish I could say they did.


Like they told you when you were a kid.


So,


I live each day like the next,


a robotic routine,


gears grinding,


mind dying.


A fear of being lost in my own home,


just your thoughts to roam,


it's a phobia of death nightmares,


and of your hopeless life.


Placebo Pawns by Jason Bartlett


Placebo Pawns


was screaming over our brains.


How are you doing?


Good.


That's the biggest lie I've ever said.


I know the only one can help me is myself.


So I won't bother you with my health.


If, even if, I stood outside


with a sign for help,


I'd be treated like a lawn-side shelf.


Nobody knows who I am,


I hope one day at least one will see.


It's true that unless you're dead,


or drop dead gorgeous,


what you say isn't of value.


It's less than what cows chew.


Of a world based on money.


Smothered in hands reaching for it.


Everywhere I go,


college,


stores,


and streets,


people kneel at my feet for some change,


I can't spare.


I have no pennies.


I am bare.


No pockets even there.


If only they knew where the funny money went,


that monopoly money would not have spent.


A poor person camouflaged invisible among the rest.


Money does grow on trees,


everyone oblivious to the birds and bees.


I'm a placebo pawn,


in a forest of greedy people and population unrest.


Every female walks around half undressed.


Poem #1 by Jason Bartlett


Living on repeat.


Forget about me.


I see the old people and they defeat me.


How'd they get that far without dying of heartbreak?


Did they just decide one day to join the mind ache?


To live in a bandstand in front of a hollow place,


to hold no ones hand except for your own face.


My heart isn't a jar that you can fill up.


Its that bag hung up by tubes that everyone take take takes.


If I was born another way, they wouldn't take


my money,


my happiness,


my blood.


I don't want to end up alone,


especially wrinkly and someone wiping my ass.


Poem #2 by Jason Bartlett


Proposed to you with braided leaf,


knowing if I cannot keep.


Surrounded by all the things you love,


but still inside your own head.


One day it will just be an empty park bench,


sunshine to thirst your quench.


Maybe she was right when she said,


you can't escape the clouds of dread.


The only kind weather that follows you is sadness.


Poem #3 by Jason Bartlett


Prescription for paradise.


Pill for utopia.


Tablet for perfection.


Over-the-counter happy drug soccer mom.


Narcotic smiles.


Holiday capitalism,


commercials,


& advertisements.


Fake plastic,


for lips elastic.


Society taking substance,


of white picket fence life.


Contrived wealthy status,


trophy wife stuck in an apparatus.


Secret Poem for Me by Jason Bartlett


Be honest with yourself.


There's no next best thing.


They just keep getting worse.


That is why you're so strong.


I know when I'm not okay.


It's getting easier to say.


Apple blossom petals looking like snow.


Carpeting the memories of innocence.


Mostly love is about sex.


At least, I have yet to see it isn't.


To be honest with myself,


I don't want to fly again to see,


to fly again then fall.


But if you're stuck to me,


then I'm stuck with you.


All those problems you have,


and you can't help me.


In my mind I'm done actually.


I've tried to hard.


To get pushed back this hard.


I won't let your insanity infect me.


You think it will,


but I have more will.


What life lessons have you learned?


How to tie your shoes and hurt people?


It's a never ending cycle of see you, happy.


Go home and you die inside.


You say it isn't me.


But if I'm making you so happy,


Why should you be allowed to drain me?


I won't, I won't leak,


like the water in the upstairs shower.


The mold that creeps on the ceiling.


Well, you won't eat my heart.


I am stronger,


more honest than you think.


Love isn't telling someone the opposite of what they want to hear.


It's telling yourself you know how toxic it is,


and loving yourself instead.


Nobody should have to repeat depression just because of who you surround yourself with.


I crossed you off the list of things that make me happy.


Sometimes,


I feel like you don't love me.


Did we rush into the wind,


without knowing there was a sandstorm instead?


Our love is like a static TV,


but I can't help but watch it.


I love you.


Another Poem by Jason Bartlett


Stuck in a street light haze.


Wearing the same wardrobe for days.


I know I can't stay here,


living in silent scream fear,


that nobody hears my words,


even if I screamed them twice to birds.


I'm falling but what else is there?


All I know is that I can't stay here.


Poem for Chris Barbosa by Jason Bartlett


Now I know why people have agoraphobia.


Because anybody in the outside world can die at any moment.


He was taken from the world too soon.


Looking at his pictures.


They seem so flat now.


But so alive.


Like a musical note.


But you can still hear it.


Learn something about yourself everyday.


Make someone smile everyday.


Like he did.


Houses come with white walls.


It's up to us to paint them colourful.


There is so much to see and experience in life.


The measure of a man.


Is doing what he can.


And more.


In heaven they needed someone like Chris.


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