now that things have begun,
and i'm thousands of miles from everything i once knew,

i realize a simple fact that wasn't so transparent before.

dreams are one part exhilarating
and two parts absolutely terrifying.

he lifts a foot
picks at a callus on the pad of his big toe
the consequence of running 10 miles a day.
workboots in the morning
sneakers later
thumping over single-track trails in the park
teaberries and hemlock needles and cliffs
cold beer,
tired eyes
repeat.
Endless cycles
restless psyche.
24 years
and an empty bank account
it's the off season in a tourist town
and all the windows are boarded.

let's take a walk to the dock and dip our toes in the sea
enjoy those steely gray eyes.

silence and sunflower seeds
a salt-encrusted SUV
mid-afternoon-winter-sun.
she ties her fists in slender knots,
and i fiddle with the **** on the radio.

we talk about burns and
the sick scent of nostalgia mixed
with wine in a cardboard box mixed
with empty pockets,
the way crumbs and lint on fingertips can induce such ache.

as she speaks a part of me wonders at the complexity of human relationships, at how meaning between people muddles and
how moments like these right here right now separate whole centuries of time.
i think about walking through forests made of paper trees and having a knack for noticing what could have been.
i imagine her lying in bed late at night,
her mind a metronome measuring out notes of deprecation,
sandpapering all her holed up bits of pride.
i bet sometimes during those barely-awake moments
she feels like an orphan.

but now, right now
right now.
beneath a ***** windshield and
surrounded by bundled up, brick facades
she hides behind glossy brown hair
and faded skinny jeans.
she has pink keys in her lap
but nowhere to go,
and she tells me about emptiness in words she knows i barely understand.

her tired eyes throw salty fists into space.

sleepy
it's one am. and the colors are flowing
remember those lights changing in the attic,
sloped ceilings and a hookah
we sat on the floor and he stared at the doorknob,
and we discussed the width of the closet
pillows on the ground,
people on the pillows,
faces in shadows, smiles and heavy-lidded eyes
love for those friends who aren't friends but are.
love for those friends who are more.

we drink we smoke we laugh we listen to grime and dance around the tin foil and smoke and the blinds are closed and the door is locked and we have to be quiet because shh, the neighbors. and I didn't know you before but now i do because you're drunk and i don't know what i am but i said hi and you adjusted your yellow beanie and smiled at me. you make music, i learn,
and we talk and we talk and we talk

then driving, the streetlights flood,
he said it was like surfing and that he was chill and he couldn't remember and he stepped in the snow with socked feet, he lost his birkenstocks
he found his birkenstocks
he flipped his hair and his red eyes were content
and then Let it Be came on the radio and I sang the tune while my legs twitched and my foot twitched on the gas pedal and she laughed from the backseat and I wondered how wide the road was and how much air there is to breathe in the world, and then the cold felt so great
red lights flashing, stop. go. home.

i'm smiling at the orange of the fire
there's a hamster running besides me and i wonder if he is happy
they were happy,
and i forget where the money is but she slipped it in my pocket
snacks in the kitchen
its one am
drink some water,
there's always Marcie's Diner in the morning.

one--

this paper is cold underneath my fingertips
grating
and i'm shifting thoughts like puzzle pieces.

so many writers have commented on sunlight slanting
curling around motes of dust.
thousands of similar phrases:
sadness,
the flat gray of mid-january mornings,
love, hips, the night sky,
clocks.

two--
                                    
who knows how to articulate
the feeling of being a high school senior
feet anchored in waterproof boots
surrounded by a clogging,
dragging
stagnancy

three--

breathe and you fog up the glass
four flat tires--
a lit up exclamation point on the dash.
let's pull off the road
route 9, 10, 11,
numbers, letters
signs bent by the plow,
and the pavement's salted
and the trees chilled quiet
wow, look here--
a seedy gas station
and an out of order pump.

just paint me a picture of a graham ******* trail.


"you know
sometimes when i'm walking back from lunch
and its windy
i like closing my eyes
and stretching my arms out
and pretending i'm somewhere else
preferably a place with less buildings
and more trees"*

                                                        ­                       *"well said.
                                                           ­                     if that isn't a story
                                                           ­                     then i don't know what is."

honestly, sometimes i put on the lite-pop station on songza and i sit back and hit the skip button until i find the right track, and it just ******* gets to me.

it's hard to spend all your time hating things. i'm certainly sick of it.

just give me twelve minutes and i'll forget this **** as easily as i forget first-encounter names. i'll give you a smile and an empty coffee cup--recycle it, toss it in that blue bin, and let's head on home.

i like the stripes on your mittens.

i've got one now, and only one.
it's quite simple, really--i'm failing everything.