Borrowed View

“I used to be an athlete,”

is what I think in the shower

looking down at myself.

Strange to know a past

hidden from everyone.

I was walking alone

when I started to feel better.

Perhaps I thought of you

reading my last letter:

your shock or your disgust

keeps you quiet. You don’t know?

I was your borrowed view

behind the gate, the wall of leaves.

“This is the last string

you attach to me,” I say

and let bleed what bleeds,

having been touched

on the surface.


*Soren Stockman is currently getting his groove on in Italy. He reads this, tell him how much you love and miss him.

Some Thursday Poetry

Dumb Ruminations

When the light goes on
he folds paper he loves
hearing about ulterior motives
after the moment has passed

the metal skull clicks
the light goes off

From outside the door
he sounds like Velcro scraped
across brick the scratch
of fire across his face

you have waited for him
it has been your secret
deep in the air he travels
you fall like ashes into his ocean



Solitaire

you wave your hand
like crab apple trees
taking the wind
little weights swinging
sometimes in circles
but back and forth

a ring of light gold
around your finger
holds it there
until the solitaire
twinkles even at you

looking back at you
sometimes in circles


-Soren Stockman

3 Tiny Fucks in the Veins of Paul

isn't it strange
the way it
always bends
like that

must be
unhappy
or at the very least
incorrect

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Weird Brick Walls
Bad Damn Summer
Cream Green Specters
Damn Shitty Kids

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Small bad cracks between runes
Could have been birds


-Nicholas Katzban