I went to find your place in the woods today
but as I rounded the bench near the
fray of trees I couldn’t find the fallen log
where we sat for so long that i became the cold lichen too,
colored like an overexposed photo
pale and unmoving, drawn to and
at the mercy of the elements. I was overexposed as well,
not just because i chose to wear only a sweater in the
waning days of autumn but
because I drew out these spider silk memories for you
to see, me, as only my sheets and bathroom floor see.
Part of me expected to find you among the trees,
looking for a new mossy place to
watch the walkers and the swans from,
thinking as you smoke away thoughts of
a current past given up fast to the ether.
before the sun sets, you’ll be with those memories,
lost to the ever presence of an unrelenting time.
I suppose the cold will keep you inside for a while
until the womb of your flat can keep you no longer,
and drives you out, back into your space in nature.
and when you find it,
you’ll see your fallen perch has finally hit the ground.
I found my own perch, looking for yours
and watched the smallest of birds hop
between the edges where the water meets the damp land and
I suppose one day you’ll again sit among the faded leaves
watching as your smoke, breath and body heat make
fleeting picture clouds for you to read.
so I rest here with a sachet of tobacco, some rolling papers and
tumbling thoughts to ease the strain.
and while i sit supposing, you suffer in barbarous silence.
But the one thing I’ve learned from being force fed
everyone else''s woes and crumbling glories:
its hard to sew a wound
under seven layers of skin.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
i came around this neck of town
with a few suppositions about scotland.
Its a little admittedly a little odd willingly picking and packing up
to sail across the sky
despite the little itch
painted on the inside of my eyelids,
brain, reminding me of people to whom I wont speak again
until they’re once again immediately in front of me.
(which means I’m kind of **** at staying in contact, even with the internet at my disposal.)
but even as technology laces the textures of communication
I constantly find myself in silence,
misplaced somewhere between the pages and the covers,
happily nestled in a place just as cozy as the beds i find myself in these days.
and when you move, there’s obviously going to be a mildly upsetting adjustment period when people ask you out for coffee and small talk.
Which is always weird, being forced through that routine when both parties know it
inevitably takes a little more than a strong cup of coffee and an exchange of pleasantries to get to know somebody.
personally, i prefer the pleasant haze of sunlit leaves
a meander through a forest, the back alleys of trees.
If you want to get to know me, take me out of society.
those coffee spoons and sugar cubes don’t mean anything to me.
when you grow to know me, you’ll see that this beauty’s only used to
sacrifice the loneliness of these panic attack blues.
black jeans, black docs, redbull and a bag of green
help me fly above this city, over the changing loyalties
the mettle of this skeleton’s made of the brittle bones of birds,
my wings are composed of their bitter words, (and that’s just fine)
(because) i’ve a tar pit where my heart is/
and it drips to fill the space that makes an artist’s hearts harden
but behind that internal la brea, I’ve been aptly middle named
because ive got a kinder ray behind
that shines for those who choose to stay.
not only for those who choose to stay, but for those who allow me in as well;
its hard to let a stranger in, should they let your secrets out,
but i’ve got a lockbox for a memory because i don’t remember a lot of things
so rest easy knowing that your words are and will be safe with me.
I know
when I go
to that the place I called
home will still show
on the mail I get
but my heart
was left behind in a haze of partial memory
and leaves I won’t again see green until a tender summer’s eve.
but until then, i have 53c murray place, the locals to my scottish life,
to keep me sane, or at least humane before the leaves have fully changed and
fallen from the trees completely.
when thats happened, i’ll have to leave.
I’ll have to leave the grey skies and lichen foundation
and a forest full of sympathizers and former strangers.
i remember standing on the rooftop as the breeze blew below
yelling to the people who will never think to look above the street they know.
Roger, if heaven has a cell for me too, i’ll rent that **** as a timeshare,
so i can make a pretty profit off the constant loss of my memories and endowed indemnity.
and chrissie, you’ve been a sister to me, a parallel sort of emily
thats going to make leaving this new family
all the more difficult.
and robbie, i’m an old soul, as only you’d know.
classical music in the afternoon to soundtrack an empty flat,
at least i know you’ll follow me soon after i go back.
i remember leaving the flat for the second time, when i was sure i knew my way around,
i saw clouds fit for an easel
and a sun fit for a screen
harboring glory in every pixel.
and during that walk home,
english, french and spanish disappeared,
and i took no notice,
while i go on revising the quiet days i never intend to publish.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
I discovered
as of late, that I
have been arguing
for a reality
that has never really existed.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
I
slow and
rosy fingertips
apologized
to a final strip of pavement
as they brushed the
remaining crumbs of
sunlight into a different sky &
I sat on the porch
for 17 minutes,
recording the halos of thinly suspended
rain, bright and ringed,
dissolving behind each car
until you came outside
to drive me back home
II
"I'm a nomad"8
he exhaled, smoke rising
from the hand not occupied
by the steering wheel.
she looked at him,
and then away.
she did not
watch his eyes.
"I'll come to you."
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&"...The rotational period and seasonal cycle [of the planet NowWhat] are likewise similar to those of earth, as is the tilt that produces the seasons..."
8"Peripatetic nomads, who offer the skills of a craft or trade to those with whom they travel, are most common in industrialized nations."
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
And in the instant
she breathed
out judas
the world fell
from beneath her,
barely audible and
in the instant
she breathed out judas,
the world fell,
watch the world fall
from beneath you too.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
on a city swing set
a boy flies
perched for a brief second
on a sunbeam
before gravity rips him
back down from the clouds
and away from the
green chain link fence he faces.
as i drove by,
i wondered
if the thought had
crossed his mind
that a few inches from today
he would be
too tall to ride
the already aged sunbeams;
too tall to ride
one final time
knees scraping the
pockmarked metal and
he, i imagine, will
sigh quietly,
exhaling a body temperature breath
that will dissipate
before it has
the chance to cool.
already past, i
will be even farther gone
before the air
absorbs a piece of him,
memories of a green chain link fence
facing a rusting swing set.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
"spend time in my shoes"
but pride will have me barefoot
unrepentant child
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
a dusty family
hangs on the wall.
never touched,
they never fall.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
Nonchalant on
the way to the bathroom
he said
"we're all girls here"
He takes his testosterone on
tuesdays; the alliteration
seems to fit the occasion.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
The sun sets gentle as it is painted
and painted over,
a portrait of sliding sky.
in gradients too slow for
notice the painter erase the day's melodies
brooding all the
while the sky finishes its fall
onto the rising night.
He is a quiet man, all
calloused hands, stained forearms,
more accustomed to solitude than
the daylight of scrutiny.
With the precision of an almanac,
the painter finishes, canvas cleaned
of its light and
sliding quiet beneath his blanket of tattered stars,
the man waits
in hope, that tender lunacy,
to find the lady who resides in the corners of his dreams.
He longs to touch her outside his mind's eye,
but all too soon he is asleep
and she is nowhere to be found.
His breathing evens out and
rising unconscious from the bed,
he shuffles towards the canvas.
Sitting picturesque before the easel,
he eases the woman into existence,
champagne beneath his brush.
She never stays longs, though,
leaving with the drop
of her mimosa glass,
bleeding orange onto background and body;
he rushes to catch her oils as she
drips between his fingers.
The painter sighs deep
and begins to cover his work.
Every night his heart breaks
as he paints and paints her over.
When he finally wakes,
dropping the shredded sky from his frame,
he finds the canvas inexplicably different
than how it was left.
It will be forever, it seems,
until their two shadows will be allowed to meet,
concrete as a realist's ache
for resolution.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC