January 2012
10 posts
what is it about mist that makes me think of you
is it reminiscent of the o your mouth makes as it exhales clouds (like in the car the night we found each other again)?
or does it remind me of wilting green hills sodden with age that the fog winds its way through on damp mornings and how your eyes look like that when they look at me
either way
i think of you when it rains
i can’t write about god or art but i can piece together divine fragments of the words of others and hope that they spell out our new religion
images accumulate and abstracts swarm and puddle around my ankles… why my thoughts decided to rest there i don’t know; they are weak, but they help me stand and so i suppose they laid the foundation for my entire being
there are certain...
the smell of breakfast and the hum buzz of my sister’s television shows used to wake me and my eyes opened to the pink fabric of the creaking recliner and the faded print of poppies in a rusted frame
the duct tape on the back of the remote and the soft brown surface of the card table brought up to the sofa-sleeper were the most visceral of memories but the more subtle sensations like the...
i love the threads of skin that make up your handprint and i love when they weave in careful pressing patterns of (snow? milk?) white on white
l
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v
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unfolding
i don’t know how to write a love poem unless the feelings come from someone else
for them i am able to sing the ballads of flat recorded recollections: blue lights and the rainy afternoons or even the smell of the car that i only rode in once (invitation only; so exclusive)
saying it can’t be defined is a cop-out because surely there are pretty enough words to sweep in a haphazard pile to...
i wake up in the morning with remnants of dreams and the foreign feelings they deposit like a river leaving rock fragments worn away in my banks
the freshness of awakening recalls the warm and hopeful breath of spring, but i want to suffer through the cold, without which i cannot offer you a reprieve
the steady, calculated soul of indifference frightens me, and it frightens me more to know that...
when you’ve developed a habit of walking away at night you can’t help but notice yellow streets and yellow teeth and your own wheezing like a broken down car, thinking you see cats twitching their tails in the glowing smog but knowing your alley rat soul is safe in the sewer sighs that curl around your legs
you are filled with thoughts of masks and gas stations and other lonely things...
your murmured fangs against my neck rip open a void in which your words flow down my throat and with this proximity i untangle myself from myself
my love is a wolf howling splitting open and melting like the flame your hand shields to protect from the wind, a sanctuary for my bursting and echoing cry with my face thrown upwards
i think of you with the second coming of bruised toes and hope that...
smoke fills the empty spaces and leaves semblances of panic and rusting resistance like a vacant medicine chest, little bottles tumbling into
the sink
caged ghosts behind a mirror and a swinging door and a little wooden knob you want to gnaw at until your teeth fall
down the drain
where you can hear the mermaids singing
absence; restlessness; a weekend to flicker in the depths of blackness where the heat of the sun is lost in the winds and the canyons of insignificant fingertips will
never touch the delusions of salvation you transfer between fragile, senseless hands.
xerosis lingers, for there is no pool of life that glistens or w(h)ets the attention of a stone-faced lover, the word skimming along your dry...