,"am i allowed to The best thing about you is thatyou don't know how I got here andI've never been more happy to treat words politely.O, writing, you are a stranger-but when he kissed me it was like inhalingafter having your head held underwaterand the electric insideof me made a newanimal.
,"she said in a hospital bed "when you lose your life, you lose everything,"she said. I suddenly knew nothing but this,and no I couldn't be me. Every beautifulbuilding in the world has a moldy basement that makes it ugly, abasement that only the employeesknow about, a basement that someoneprobably died in. The scenery moves asI attempt to refine my ability to walk.And I don't know why I keep doing this tomyself, but you sat down beside me so naturallythat my body couldn't handle the thought ofnot trusting you, not becoming an idiotwith a ridiculous, large heart, onethat I don't even have. What arewords but dragonflies thatwill end up dead
,"and all we know is that The sky's lips are forced to the rims of smokestacks-deep drags like letting yourself become a lung.I stare out of the window believing in the instinct to love, while also believing in the gravity thatforces us to live. And we hope to things that don't exist for things to get better.All I want is for you to look at me ina way that makes me feel like I exist.She takes drags from cigarettes tomake her feel like she exists.Make me feel like I exist.Feel like me, I exist.I exist like me.Like me, exist.Exist, me.Exist-as the sky takes drags from the smokestacks like cigarettes.
i said, "it's alright, i still To know completely in yourselfthat you have love inside of you like a clamorous reservoir-and to know the pressure ofinner space reluctant to explode like light from1941-to know the only neckyour fingers will everarticulate with isthat of abottle;I will reside inside of yourboyishness like an everdarkening sea ready tocoagulate like theblood that stirswithin my guilt.
Breathing in buildings: The thought of writing, to me, has recently forced me to have the same reaction as the thought of her face when I walked into her room yesterday. I don't want to bore you with the details, or make you uncomfortable, or make you sad, or make you feel anything. I won't create some beautiful image, only to bog you down with the presence of an assisted living home, and I won't bog you down with her sadness just to convey the hope that scuttles secretly on the streets of my bastardized soul. -Walls do much more than make a room – they sneer while holding hands, some sick game of red rover and you're too big you're too big, you can't duck
Light on windowsills: It's late, not too late, but I've been up for a whileand the time might make me collapse, but there is something inside of me etching tallies onto eachof my ribs, I can feel the white dusting offinto my other spaces, and if I don't write this down, well, nothing will happen but that nervous feeling that youget in your fingers, and it willhappen all through my body.You should feel lucky that I'm telling you this,because, honestly, I felt like a little bit of anasshole today. And I didn't even do anything or say anything and when I tell you you'll probably shrug or you'll make your eyebrows look like they
Smells in stairwells: Today, the elevator didn't work. It wasn't brokenor anything, there were some men downstairs that had big carpet cleaners, and they were holding upthe elevator. So I stood and I pressed the buttona couple of times and maybe I said a curse wordand then I turned for the big red door thatgave birth to stairs.The building only has six floors, and I was on the sixth, not that this matters, it's only six floors.I just thought it would be interesting to tell youthat I was at that top. Which then again, isn't sointeresting because it's just six floors, but it'ssomething to be on top, isn't it?I'm not sure what I look like wa
for yesterday one day: will she awake with strangers pacing inside of her?and he, with his hands much like the roots of some beautifullyblooming plant, will he know the dry cracks of dead presidents inhis hands as a reminder to take his boots off at the door?-i have the feeling inside of me that i have always known you.whether it is looking in the mirror at my hair or the shape of myface or the expression that trickles over my great-grandmother'sface as i smile and she breathes my you look like her and it escapesto the floor and i know you yes i know you in my bones like raw sunlightwelcome homes and relentless laughter good vodka and b
be still exodus She only needed a few words. She imagined her fingers as dental tools-cold and masculine and metallic and persuasive-and she plunged into his mouth hands first, feet failing,to find nothing;unsurprised and collapsing in front of bees and old women and office buildings,she went to a local structure that sells things, and approached the counter in this way:"i need a few words, anything.""I'm sorry?""don't be sorry. i need a few words."and she reached across the counter and slid through the aisles and found a razor andremoved each hair from her head, told them to turn around, shot them down - onebyone - in the back of the h
vibrations my spine) swallowed like tall buildings,as the streetlamps on frederick street mimickedcaterpillars devouring stars.(residual streets like the feeling in
an octopus, i could Somehow the very idea of you permeates every halt of speech I've ever known. Every but, every if. Every stumbling comma stumbles no more in your cloudlike haven above my head. I wish to pluck a loose dreamlike feather from your cloud, smell it, watch it dance into the shape of intestines, let it be bloody, let it be beautiful and revolting, let it suck on reality for a bit, she's just a whore.I don't even own a stepladder.The last thing I saw was your hand as you clumsily took on two steps at a time. It spread evenly like a starchy leaf, mid flight, mid autumn, mid life and cutting through the air like it knew. It finally knew everything.
You stand You stand (o, willowy soul) watching me with your comically acute eyes that have somehow sublimed my stomach into microscopic gypsy moths.They devour your body like fleeting memories as I breathe the month of March into nonexistence.
6 I am unattached and drifting, tripping, unaffected and laughing to spite my-self.I am reteachingmyself how to write. I see things that aren't there and something's burningbut this is too important. You must collapse outside of me, and then I will care.Ready, go.And as I windthrough the cold air insideof this car,and as everyone is breathing beautifully with charming hot lungs,you are plasteredall over my face,and I have to learnhow to breathe again.
5 (you think about itbut you never do it)Violets enter your body through yourmouthas your hands ballup into digestivefists.(they are small gods-don't believe in them)
ab libitum, 4 The clandestine small of your back throbbed with the rhythm of feet that are unsure of theirdestination- reality hot on your tongue, the kind of hot that makes it flail, forgettingthat it's a tongue, forgetting how to taste. When your face feels as though it could slip right off of the ivory mystery that is your skull, don't hesitateto breathe. Don't forget to breathe, don't forget that you'renothing. Writhe while your heart expands, engorged withyour own imagination - his chest, nothing forever,an eternity that ends with its beginning. Sunken into your lungs is the floor,you can live now, they alwayswere outside of you- a
3 your words build up,nesting in my tonsilswith the charming intensity of labor contractions-let them curdle like milk in the craters ofmy most secret teeth.i only know you by thetide of your breathing, like tortured mahogany against my collar bone.and the thought of you two yearsago excites me, so don't letthe holes in your eyes like oedipus ruinthat for me.
reach 1.My biggest secret is thatI am selfish enough to keep you here forever-Let me wrap you in floralprints and be the first oneto tell you that you are beautiful,even when you scoff at that picturetaken in the 1940's.2.I often wonder what reeksinside of your skull,what possessed your head soslightly-you are not her.3.You are fantastically my shining relief.When you are older I hopeyou know the exact temperatureof my heart;I will smile.4.It's as if inertia knewthe implications of laughlessdesks and esophageal hallways.We will live in Montana someday - dreams erupt in a similarway.5. Desp
ign. eight reading this will improbably kill you
ign.seven She put her life on pauseonly to realize that the remotebroke a long time ago;
Ignotus It is quite possible that sleep is my only positive enigma.It is also quite possible that my stomach aches at the thought of vertigo.I want to believe in the walls that surround me;stuffed with burning electricity and cotton candy insulation.I gripped that edge once.The edge of wanting feathers and aerodynamic appendages.Ripping eye blue seas together with every hollow persuasion that allows me to-I don't know.bend spoons with pure need and cry like they do in the moving pictures.I want atoms to halt.All at once.In a fascist sort of way.And I'll giggle to myself incoherently and whistle to myself half-heartedly and I'll
ign. six these crescent moons have been courting my pupils for weeksmaybe monthsand that's a good idea they said yeah and figured that somebody somewhere was interestedand boy oh golly oh gee the bears the tigers and the lionsthey were rightand they figured yeah they says yeah since he's interested then yeah she's interested too and gosh!let's make everyonedo what?yeah that's what i saidi satastonishedand we'll bless it with a name that will stain your carpetsand not a stain that is overlookeda stain that reminds you of it when you happen to look downa stain that embarrasses you when company arrivesa stain that compels you
impression four: two faces pressed one figure into the ground.it feels,but it's pleasure is that ofridged grudgeshold holdhold and then(seepingdrinking ofthe silkyplacebo)breathand i promise i promise everythingit cries deeply in the end dripping forsympathy and pulling for pity-i feel none of theseyou had your chance/and it completely blows me away(today i sat bymyself)where is the respect?where is love?(above i found myself in tears)silky tears dripping(slipping on what i thought was hope)and you did this to her.think twice.think thrice.but why should you think at all?your placement contradicts your spea
impression three: nine violets and a new day sang in unisen;with the dancing rays of the sun.(i was oblivious of slight expectaionsfor there were none at all)i drank softly of excitement:the kind that brims like tears and sways with forever,there was no choke of doubt at alland i know now(god the things i know now) that there was false joy in your eyesyou can't be satisfied,can you?but all of this will be solved;with Time.i didn't know then,so it seemed as if everyone was feeding off of my happiness/oh how happy i was then.and when it was my time,my mirror was fulfilledashining piece
impression two: you left me then(and you're leaving me now)in every waking second that parallels my body;and i thought(as i am thinking now): if change is so wonderful then why does it still hurt and presently-the stupid features that graced me with exact arrogance.it was the solace inside of the voice that enflamed the ego who was he trying to kid?the phosphorescent madness that lightened my mind:it was you.before all of this, when eleven violets were not standing yet, i could find you anywhere;the peace and noiseless boundaries thenwe talked so much and
impression one: in the naked eyes of Spring;i found quite alike a new startcondescending up to meand it was much like aHowdoyoudo crying in the rain.;(the vastness in a pleasurable evening)you walked awa y in many different feet:crushing the violets between your toes.it was May to be exact/not may i take this dance but May i walk away&noise rotted the very life which was rooted in the groundthe roots were weak like cracking ankles in the morning-but i was happy to find my foot down and my eye open.i know now the dismal truth that surrounds(everything wavered with the wind that very day.could i smell it then? hell, i could taste it t
Green.1 "...because life was a nuisance. The kind of immature brat that pulls on your sweater and asks you five times why and you say no. No five times.""Why so down? Perhaps it was meant to be this way...and, you know, people mature...""I don't think so. People think growing up is like losing a smaller shoe size. What they don't realise is that the only thing most people lose when they grow older is color.""Color?""Yes. Think Christmas. What color comes to mind?""Red.""Why?""Because of Santa...I see what you're getting at with this, Helen.""Good, I'm glad you understand.""Helen...I don't think that he...ever caught on...comprehende
Green.2 As I was sitting, I thought about the same dream that I have been dreaming every night. I say "same", not because of the events in my surreal lattice of thought, but because it involves the same person. It doesn't matter what I am doing in the dream, he will be right behind me-following, laughing, and giving witty commentary when needed. I felt the blood rush to my face when he talked, and the awkward falter in my voice when he said goodbye."Goodbye."(goodbye is the color grey goodbye smells like seven wilted roses goodbye is the sort of pain that involves breaking happiness goodbye swells and dances like the notes in beau soir goodbye ta
Green.interlude Hill or mountainside-I'm not sure which one it was. I don't remember what day it was either, or where we were. But I do remember him-I remember us sitting atop this rise of land. This land... Green grass that breathes like a painting, green like the eyes that peered out from underneath those threadlike lashes-those gentle eyelids. I remember the sun, and how the rays giggled and played tag with every hint of color; every shade of green. I remember most of all, the words he whispered, and how my ears felt before the syllables escaped his mouth-warm and anxious, anticipating classically romantic poetry of the mind. And I remember how my ears be
Green.3 There was no way around it. I couldn't comprehend anything anymore. I found myself to be the bottom of an empty jar. Rummaging around, friends and family looked on often, not knowing what to do with the dust. Not knowing where to set me, what to fill me with. A lid was unpractical. Nothing in, nothing out, so why add the bothersome barrier?I withdrew. Things were noThings now. The color...the color lost value, hue, and luster. I told myself...I reassured myself...constantly.-I walked into the crowded apartment, the lights low, the music whistling underneath the mingling feet. I fiddled with the bow on top of the package that I was hol
In this room,one dial tonedial tonedial toneclick-In this room, are two beds. In this room, is a telephone. In this room, lies everything one counted on their last fingers-their pinkies with dirt lurking underneath of the fingernails. In this room, are bright flourescent lights-exentuating every flawless imperfection of one's complexion. In this room, lies Loneliness-Loneliness with it's head tilted to the side, asking you Is this all there is?. -"Sleep," he mumbled.I glanced over; his face a piece of charcoal laying in his hands, his white shirt screaming against his dark skin."Hmm?""Sleep, get ustah livin widoutit.""I...I don't underst
In this room,two "And this?""Three balloons.""This one?""...hm...A man holding an umbrella.""Ok, last one.""A smile.""Good."Doctor shifted through his papers and set the ink blots aside. Curious, Doctor was. He had thick black rimmed glasses caging his oak eyes in rectangles. His black hair was thick and stressed out, flying every which way. The permanent bags under his eyes suggested that he studied too much and lived a little less. Doctor was an amiable, spacey man."So, the next test involves some personal responses, are you ok with that?""Sure.""Ok, answer as best as you can-dial tonedial tonedial tonedial toneHello, you've
In this room,three That phone.That black, sarcastic phone.At nights, when Sleep is being irritable, and darkness muffles my vision, the phone glares at me. It studies the outline of my jaw and the lemon shape that my eyes make when they are wide in the dim of the room. It goes and giggles to it's friends about how I talk in my sleep; how I talk about stained carpets, love, and wax paper. The phone, it doesn't think I know-but I see him looking back at me with cautious eyes-withered, blessed eyes.I understand the words John told me. This room just isn't quiet.Yes, the room is completely silent other than the steady rhythm of John's breathing, but the pic
In this room,four _________,How long? How long has it really been?I'm writing to you from this room...I'm writing in hopes that you will receive this letter...and if you don't, well, that's ok, too...How are you?How's the weather? What were David's first words?Is my Gram still alive? Do you even speak to my family?You don't have to answer any of those questions.I'm frightened to write these next three words, even if you don't read this letter, but-Marie's hands hung on my face like Christmas lights out in the middle of June. Her hands were cold and stiff, slightly dead, slightly loud with hushed reverence.But-I touched her face and
Bargaining with Bargaining with the dumpster outside of my windowthe rats' sidewalkis flush with casual feet(fault lines erupt from me to youLike you always told me they wouldand they do yes they do i can feel it in my eyesand i follow the cracks that devour the space between usand my leaping causes shrill casualties beneath meand there is no one but god between usand our world is fleeting deep beneath meand as you pull away at the cottonthat pulls away at your pupils-and as you put your handon top of mineLike you always told me you wouldi can feel each year in your handand each mountain that evades your palm and the fluid
Sta.sh
