January 2012
32 posts
I know I’m drunk because when I rub my bare feet together, it’s heaven. The action rings the nerves along the smooth topside of my foot and the pressed sliding tickles my brain. I fucking purr. I’m not at home in case you’re wondering. You should be wondering. It’s funny. I spend so much time trying not to be myself but I spend so much more time trying to convince...
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These familiar strangers with names like Joy, Stillness, Loneliness, Love, they’ve all gathered here at this table to discuss the matter at hand.
This work could not be delegated to the body, no, this is the work of strangers. They must decide.
What to do with you? They wonder. What to do, what to do, how can we fill the room?
We can’t fill the room, says Happiness, It’s just to big.
But we...
We’ve all been consumed, subverted, co-opted to some greater narrative that links every single one of us. And we don’t know a single word beyond this story. This is funny because there is no reality to find anymore. There is no meaning of life waiting for us to discover it. It, standing in the rain with open arms ready to embrace us. It, isn’t there. We make our own reality but...
I’m walking the path between lecture halls and a thought wanders in and makes itself known. It is wearing a significant red and on the realization that the thought is no longer a thought but a perspective, it, the red, bursts out and tints all my sight a subdued rose. I’m moved a few inches from my core and I see the world from an angle I have never experienced before. This thought has...
Crisis comes and drinks my wine and settles on my bed, How quiet the thoughts that alert me to her presence. She says, It’s been too long my dear. Way too long I fear. She locks her toes with mine. I am unafraid. She lies on top of me and wraps her arms and locks her hands along my spine. She nuzzles her nose to my exposed neck. She breathes out her air and it creates a rash on my skin....
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who else got drunk last night and kissed a pretty...
You really have to be naked when you write poems. And poems are best written in public. Scratch yourself down there and try saying the first line of your poem. Does it sound right? No but more important: Does it feel right? People will judge you for writing poems. It’s part of the deal. Make sure to spit a lot. Hiss. Moan. It’ll help you rattle up some ideas. Oil and grease your...
The absolute silence of happiness. The mute world of joy and all the rainbow glint bubbles popping along the grass. And the dog. Always a dog licking at my face. The streaks of sunlight and her silhouette. Arabesque. One stretched arm and her lips moving but no words and no sound. She blows a kiss and the trees sway from a sudden burst of wind. Silence. Your ice cream scoop falls and the dog jumps...
“As I shaved, I thought of my father and his possessive quiet. There is a curtain and it is never spoke of and it is unseen but soon it will be shed and parted. It happens for everyone. It has happened for my father. What did my father expect? How did he learn to be so quiet sitting beyond the veil? Will I be as slowed by the revelation? A tiny red triangle formed above my jaw. It ached...
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You start running and you follow as the pace of the group picks up. There’s Dan to the left in his yellow shirt and black tank huffing and puffing and spitting because 15k is nothing, he said to you. But now he looks like a bumble bee drowning in the toilet. Come on old man. It’s only been ten minutes. Dan starts to trail at the end of the group. You wonder if you should stay with him....
Anonymous asked: I fall in love with boys that write like you do.
Anonymous asked: Do you or will you have a book of all your work available for purchase?
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I live in you, and on my walk beyond the invalid house where the leaves crack and they mourn in sharp whispers, down from the hill to the city where the skyscrapers are draped with sheets of bluest white, to the bridge where I stand and glare at the refractions of the light born on the waves, I dig in my pocket for, I don’t know, for anything to hold, maybe to study, maybe to throw in the...
We are little gods and the sun of high paper is rolled and enjoyed in the haze of its own glow and all summers combine to an eternity range of high bliss low worry love love loss sand bitten kiss. (we learned from the lack of death and the void is incomprehensible with so much music) We perpetuate our joy by dividing ourselves to the immortal “smallest thing”, that one second...
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Michael was a visionary. No, not in the way you’re thinking. He literally had visions and he attempted to use this to his advantage by placing a purple neon sign at his window which read PSYCHIC. He was an honest man and it wasn’t a very profitable business. Most of his visions of the future were mundane events. He would gaze into the depths of his mind and see his client sleeping,...
INTERVIEWER: What is your most favorite thing in the world? GUY: It’s got to be a pretty girl with long curly black hair. A pretty girl with an accent so beautifully affecting and curving her words, I just end up staring at her lips. I like her for her strong heartbeats that thumped on my eardrums. Yeah. INTERVIEWER: Do you miss her? GUY: No — yes. All the time — never. Right now...
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December 2011
35 posts
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Jenny, The Universe Does Not Care
We should know by a simple glance into the sky that Jenny had no reason to expect requited affection because stars are blowing up every damn second taking whole planets of Jennys with them and as much as she wants to clutch at the air and call it her soul it is obvious that the sun pays no special attention to her but instead burns the back of her neck as she is...
Anonymous asked: You write poems too?!?!
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You sat next to me at the wrong moment, mouth agape, I swallowed a bumblebee, the bumble bee was dreaming of a baroque church stripped with painted columns of gold and black, it heard an enveloping gulp as it went down down to death, with the logic of infinite terror it buzzed and shook its stinger and said what a beautiful way to die, you gave me a piece of bread, here swallow this, a lump went...
Anonymous asked: Are you single or taken?
Anonymous asked: I cant figure out if you a man or woman or your age.
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Sad or Sick
On a particularly affected and painful day, she wrote to a boy at her high school. The letter included: a brief humorous comment about the weather, a mention of the time she secretly attached a homemade lanyard on the slider of the zipper on his backpack, another more nervous mention of the weather, a metaphorical discussion of the seasons to express an attraction, a confession of her...
He realizes it was a mistake. Why? He’s not really sure but there’s a general sense of unease and he swears to god and all morning he will never drink again if he can just go back to sleep and she just leaves that side of the bed and exits his apartment during the moments he forces his eyes shut and tries not to think about how thirsty he is, how sore his legs are, how his big toe...
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My eyes are brown and open and it is Christmas but there is no snow but there is a pool and as I walk about the lonely house with the fleeting recognition that a new year is coming, I feel disloyal to this year and in order to prevent nostalgia from setting in so early in the day, I jump into the water and I watch the palm trees sway in duty of L.A. and I feel sincere to be so far away from red...
at my desk and between the roots alone & I am sad as I understand one part of the machine the white noise I am sad because we are such an accident alone & the highway is built out from me paved over me I line one segment of the median & I am sad but it is fine because it is proof I can melt and seep between the roots understand another part of the pristine machine the green the yellow...
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After his daughter had lost her sight, all he could do was read. He read silently and secretively as he spent days in the closet crouched underneath coats with a stack of batteries and books lit up by a flashlight he held in his mouth. At times his saliva would glide down the metal underside of the flashlight and drip on to the page he was reading. The daughter became scared of the silence more...
Jane with One Hand told us about how she lost the other and how she would often touch the heads of strangers with her invisible fingers. She told us about how no one noticed when her fingers walked around the shoulders of strangers sitting on a bench or when she stroked her grandfather’s hair as he dozed to sleep. She smiled and laughed as she told us but all I could think was how sad it all...
I should tell you about the murder first but did you know the walls of this place go back hundreds of years? And this morning I found a loose rock and when I lifted the rock from its place I found a small compartment as high and wide as my hand and there was water gathered there. That water could’ve been trapped since the building of the room or it could’ve bled through the rocks. But...
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