more sure every day as the sun comes up and the shower water runs hot and down the mildewing drain. is the heat on? the heat is on, but i don't need it. towels are just fine. i was asking for help in the little ways, but i think love and futures were the questions someone else was asking. we speak in different tongues, and i'd like to know how to carve mine out to make something that will find me something pretty to my heart.
i could sell pages. i could sell color on paper, and mood on paper, and ideas that jar and make you laugh because of your willingness to laugh, like a toll fare paid at a gate that you need to drive through to get to the places you have to be.
i have red in a bottle. i have white too; these color demarcations that do not capture the color, rosy like a post sunset of a storm night put on rare hold, and dew on aging straw. i think of dying. i think of death. i think of how little unrequited love moments break me, but you held me so sweetly, and i don't know if it's enough or not, to apply emotional credit for things i don't know if i have. i can't afford it, and i don't want you paying for things you don't want to pay for.
red in a glass. red in my mouth. i kissed you as real as i could with all the things i had in me, and i wanted you to know that i did, that i loved you, but i didn't know what else there was for me to try to say with my imperfect mouth. my secrets are worthless. i have nothing. the only thing i'm holding onto, is that glance, which is as sweet as all the glances i've ever wanted, and it's all that i've got to go on.
6.23.2015
4.30.2015
Thursdays, I am most alone.
Somewhere between Sundays and now, the disconnect happens. The separation jars in the little ways. A pound of swiss cheese, yes please. Thank you; and I am alone with myself in the deli as strangers and sellers make their transactions and conversations.
A hesitant stranger behind me on the line tells me that I am pretty, and I smile a thank you, and nod a slight curtsy. I wait for my cheese, which is being wrapped in its fine wax paper, and think about going home to my sheets, which are dark blue & some storm grey. The stranger begins conversation. I carry it to the declination of his line & number. I walk home. The day is beautiful, but it only feels like clouds. This is Sunday. I eat. I don't remember what.
Monday begins promising. There is humor. There is catch up conversation. There is some anger and fights about things I do not want to deal with. My brother sings in a dark-suited choir, and I watch Stabat Mater from the balcony seats of a dark hall. We discuss family & money on the way home. I feed him a sandwich and make myself a quesadilla with last night's leftovers. After he leaves, I go sit in front of a radiator. I have a glass of wine. My roommates do a lot of talking. We all talk, too much; fruitless and impotently, but it's in poor taste to point it out.
The day after is a blur of recap and typing. I have fragments of dreams, and tea & coffee. I put things that smell good, in jars, & drown them in vodka, and then it is already night. My roommate comes home doused in all the highest of liquid spirits. We talk about trips to Asia. He wants to send me on a solo vacation next January, and eats his burgers with hot sauce while excitedly bravado-ing about family and jobs and dinner plans.
Wednesday, the air is lovely. Brooklyn is lovely. I spend the evening in an art studio, but I make nothing except for uninspired pencil marks and and imperfect cuts on paper. My friend that I accompanied, asks personal questions about my exes and my former relationships. I think about the types of olive oil, between floral and near almond, and cardamoms, green in a jar. I think about very dry sake in my cup. I think about the lovely cut of fish, and the sweet & soy tofu skin, and the warm rice. I think about the springtime color of pickled ginger, in the perfectly shallow dish of seasoned sauce. I think about washing my hands, and I do. I think about the bars we pass, the lights, and the beers of twentysomething youth, and some conversation a little more electric and heartfelt. The train takes too long to come. My friend and her co-worker talk. I watch the lights at the ends of the tunnel, for flicker & change, & maybe some new beauty, the way I always have, my entire life, whenever I am on a platform caught in waiting. The city is cold again. I walk home. Strangers and their glances & gazes; I keep moving. I strip down when I am home. I empty the infusions; put them away.
Grey. I woke. The sound of wind without leaves, & thoughts; the chambers in me are empty. Today I am only with myself; something about solitude & the quiet. I think about emptying chambers in hollow spaces. I think about showers in the dark. I think about how coffee makes me too jittery, so I don't want it; the bitterness makes me sick, and the caffeine in tea makes me different, so I don't want it, and I don't want much, and I don't know what I want, except other spaces. Empty is a feeling. The world is lit. I think of how when the night comes, I will feel better. I think about the city at night, and the streets, and the concrete beneath me, and orange streetlamps, and the safety in my soul on these little streets, and all these dark buildings that hold them.
Somewhere between Sundays and now, the disconnect happens. The separation jars in the little ways. A pound of swiss cheese, yes please. Thank you; and I am alone with myself in the deli as strangers and sellers make their transactions and conversations.
A hesitant stranger behind me on the line tells me that I am pretty, and I smile a thank you, and nod a slight curtsy. I wait for my cheese, which is being wrapped in its fine wax paper, and think about going home to my sheets, which are dark blue & some storm grey. The stranger begins conversation. I carry it to the declination of his line & number. I walk home. The day is beautiful, but it only feels like clouds. This is Sunday. I eat. I don't remember what.
Monday begins promising. There is humor. There is catch up conversation. There is some anger and fights about things I do not want to deal with. My brother sings in a dark-suited choir, and I watch Stabat Mater from the balcony seats of a dark hall. We discuss family & money on the way home. I feed him a sandwich and make myself a quesadilla with last night's leftovers. After he leaves, I go sit in front of a radiator. I have a glass of wine. My roommates do a lot of talking. We all talk, too much; fruitless and impotently, but it's in poor taste to point it out.
The day after is a blur of recap and typing. I have fragments of dreams, and tea & coffee. I put things that smell good, in jars, & drown them in vodka, and then it is already night. My roommate comes home doused in all the highest of liquid spirits. We talk about trips to Asia. He wants to send me on a solo vacation next January, and eats his burgers with hot sauce while excitedly bravado-ing about family and jobs and dinner plans.
Wednesday, the air is lovely. Brooklyn is lovely. I spend the evening in an art studio, but I make nothing except for uninspired pencil marks and and imperfect cuts on paper. My friend that I accompanied, asks personal questions about my exes and my former relationships. I think about the types of olive oil, between floral and near almond, and cardamoms, green in a jar. I think about very dry sake in my cup. I think about the lovely cut of fish, and the sweet & soy tofu skin, and the warm rice. I think about the springtime color of pickled ginger, in the perfectly shallow dish of seasoned sauce. I think about washing my hands, and I do. I think about the bars we pass, the lights, and the beers of twentysomething youth, and some conversation a little more electric and heartfelt. The train takes too long to come. My friend and her co-worker talk. I watch the lights at the ends of the tunnel, for flicker & change, & maybe some new beauty, the way I always have, my entire life, whenever I am on a platform caught in waiting. The city is cold again. I walk home. Strangers and their glances & gazes; I keep moving. I strip down when I am home. I empty the infusions; put them away.
Grey. I woke. The sound of wind without leaves, & thoughts; the chambers in me are empty. Today I am only with myself; something about solitude & the quiet. I think about emptying chambers in hollow spaces. I think about showers in the dark. I think about how coffee makes me too jittery, so I don't want it; the bitterness makes me sick, and the caffeine in tea makes me different, so I don't want it, and I don't want much, and I don't know what I want, except other spaces. Empty is a feeling. The world is lit. I think of how when the night comes, I will feel better. I think about the city at night, and the streets, and the concrete beneath me, and orange streetlamps, and the safety in my soul on these little streets, and all these dark buildings that hold them.
4.28.2015
Sheets, a disarray of white paper; smudged acrylic; the sun pours down from the boxy window in my ceiling, and I think of Dakota who comes in late on Sunday evenings. Her laugh came easy. Her hair were waves of somewhere between red and brunette, a little more than shoulder length; her curves were amazing, neither too extreme in a porn way, or too small and lean against her bones, and her tits were perfect. Her laughter was easy as the way she missed an old friend. She was always last to leave because she liked to say warm goodbyes, and then she would say goodbye to the space herself, like a slow regathering of her bits of soul left in a booth, or by her early-on abandoned seat, or in the lights on the bar counter. She'd enjoy her last smile in the afterglow, and in the cooling of the night. And then she would take herself home.
-
A moth kissed my arm; I was startled.
On Fridays, I used to dance all night. Crowds of skinny bodies and fog machines, and caffeine and shots of hard, showy liquor in my blood. The strobe lights flickering and fading in the hands of some automated algorithm or technician. Stranger after stranger, these bodies. Substances in almost everyone, some to dull, and some to heighten. How do you even remember the people you touch lips with, when nobody intends to go home? Did you even kiss, when there was no intimacy or connection, or even memory?
A boy I met around this time, told me that he slept with 55 people, and now I am his age.
I have not done this, but I don't think it matters. I don't think it is as hard to touch bodies with a stranger. Sex is easy; we have drives. Intimacy is the elusive pursuit.
There was another boy who went sometimes with me when we chased strangers and bodies and maybe something new to pass the time. Sometimes something promising would happen, like the passing interest of an attractive stranger. Most nights, there was nobody quite right. There was never enough drink to quite balance out that thing that weighed a person down, and then there was all at once too much, so he'd get us home, and let me sleep on his shoulder during the long rides.
-
A moth kissed my arm; I was startled.
On Fridays, I used to dance all night. Crowds of skinny bodies and fog machines, and caffeine and shots of hard, showy liquor in my blood. The strobe lights flickering and fading in the hands of some automated algorithm or technician. Stranger after stranger, these bodies. Substances in almost everyone, some to dull, and some to heighten. How do you even remember the people you touch lips with, when nobody intends to go home? Did you even kiss, when there was no intimacy or connection, or even memory?
A boy I met around this time, told me that he slept with 55 people, and now I am his age.
I have not done this, but I don't think it matters. I don't think it is as hard to touch bodies with a stranger. Sex is easy; we have drives. Intimacy is the elusive pursuit.
There was another boy who went sometimes with me when we chased strangers and bodies and maybe something new to pass the time. Sometimes something promising would happen, like the passing interest of an attractive stranger. Most nights, there was nobody quite right. There was never enough drink to quite balance out that thing that weighed a person down, and then there was all at once too much, so he'd get us home, and let me sleep on his shoulder during the long rides.
4.01.2015
i want to kiss the way the sun is always kissing the moon in its slow gravitational dance, but if i am the sun, you are the fusion in the core.
bits of charged stardust; regenerating and dying cells.
signals, electrical, all in the mind.
the speed of thought in a singular space,
but if i touch you
i think we are less machinaries, and more breath,
and the wetness of rain on tree leaves pressed against each other,
damp bark & branches, sturdy & steady
-
1.14.2015
Something old, something new. Something blue. Blue eyes; green; hazel; brown.
I started writing a love letter, and I grew bored writing midway. Anxiety is a pool in the pit of the stomach. Feelings come and go. Sometimes you put the color in the world, and sometimes I'm wearing soft greys and florals.
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