hazysky

Poems by PJ Carmichael ( Instagram )

PJ Carmichael is a poet, writer, artist, adventurer, and spiritualist from Wakefield, Massachusetts. His work focuses on his interaction with and the contrast between the natural world and the urban environment. He currently runs Mass Love Distro, a multimedia production and distribution endeavor.

 

 

Sick

She mumbles
loudly in the next room;

she’s sick and doesn’t feel well
sleeping at six pm
half-measurable articulation

to my father:

“I have to sleep”

she doesn’t even care
if she falls down the stairs

“like being hit in the head
with a sledgehammer.”

I’m waking up for work
tomorrow at the same time
I always do

(we lost the dog
a week ago
to old age and decay
of the body)

my bedroom’s littered
with records and poetry
collections by those I’ve

met in passing.

I can’t find my way
when the floor’s covered in trash.

 

For K.D.D.

I wonder if her parents can hear
us as we make love
upstairs,

so young, passionate
and loud
(despite our best efforts).

I wonder if the echoes of flesh
make their way
downstairs

in the morning
to cook breakfast
and drink coffee.

Do the birds hear the rhythm
of our fervor
and sing along?

Perhaps the trees listen in
on the energetic hum,
our symphony of sensual
satisfaction.

The melody of sweat and secrecy
resounds in the pulsing
bedroom,

the walls shake with anticipation
of such a cosmic
climax.

She touches me,
a last caress before
transcending
the
body.

(Do you think they can hear us?)

 

Wet Dream

Pulverizing poetry:
the kind you could get off to
if it weren’t so goddamn
depressing.

Another school bomb threat
on television
downstairs

(never take the high road),

sixty degrees outside,
warmth amongst winter,
separation of myself

and the melting snow
running past pedestrians
in the gutter of modern history.

The roads are paved with
church money and the faces
of strangers;

Christmas is over
and all we have left
is another year to dwell
(in and on).

Still, the mild air
sweats the streets,
rivers of slush and urban
debris

barreling downhill
(to hell with paradise!)
as the sun laps up
each droplet of
a lover’s
fluid.

My throat is sore.
My dreams are soaked.