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#kaufman
Start with a fresh idea. It appears crystal clear and lucid, the fringes stretching and fabricating on their own. It looks good, so far. I put my pen down to write. A diabolic blot of ink drops. A white haze infuses itself and now it has all become murky, no longer as apparent. Almost as if a frosted glass screen has descended, blocking my horizon. I HAVE to shatter the glass. I stand beside the pile of hammers. I HAVE to pick one. A battle to fight, every day. Every day… every day… every day, a fink.
0
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 4:05 AM UTC
dee_oddity
Nothing to do with nothing
Start with a fresh idea. It appears crystal clear and lucid, the fringes stretching and fabricating on their own. It looks good, so far. I put my pen down to write. A diabolic blot of ink drops. A white haze infuses itself and now it has all become murky, no longer as apparent. Almost as if a frosted glass screen has descended, blocking my horizon. I HAVE to shatter the glass. I stand beside the pile of hammers. I HAVE to pick one. A battle to fight, every day. Every day… every day… every day, a fink.
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13
Every morning I went to the coffee shop across the street from my house, because I didn’t work. For every resume I typed out, I wrote a poem, in order to keep me from sending you a text marked with a white flag. A skull was concealed in the flag, as a watermark. The sun made love to a cluster of clouds, while I rolled a cigarette using strands of your brown hair. I opened my wallet and took out a photograph of me and you from the booth that one night when you made a fire out of caskets. Your face had been glowing with warmth, as if you had drained all the light out of the sun, and had taken a shower in its yellow glow. Your eyes were bright with a hopeful future. Then you grew your hair longer, and pulled it over your eyes, like twin pirate eye-patches. But you’d said you weren’t blind, just indifferent. Today I wrote another poem on a countertop, in the coffee shop, and bandaged the wounds you gave me when you told me you never cared about me. One of the baristas wearing a brown apron and a blue baseball cap, gave me poems from James Tate. And as I read “The Lost Pilot” it started to drizzle from the ceiling. I wasn’t sure if it was rain pouring on my head, and on my poems, or if it were melted ice-cream, rich and thick in its texture, Our first date we stole vanilla ice-cream from a Giant. You stuffed it in your golden purse, and ran through the doors, as a fat security guard chased after you. Then, you hopped into my blue Volkswagen and we sped off. I was perfectly fine with being the getaway driver, you dipped a bent spoon into the plastic container and scooped out the ice-cream. You ate it hungrily. And after I took a bite, we went to the park and swung on the swings, coasting up and down in the air, vanilla stained on the front of our black shirts. Back at the coffee shop, I played the keyboard in the bathroom because I was shy, shy of you finding out, because you love piano melodies. And I guessed I wanted to play for myself for a change. I played “My Cherri Amour,” and drank gin from a flask, until every key looked like a playing card. After I played the song, I left the coffee shop ,went home, and painted our last conversation, using words from a newspaper. “It’s over.” “You were never right for me.” “You’re not mature enough for a relationship.” “I never want to see your face at Peets.” Peets was the coffee shop we would always go to, every morning, rain or shine, rested or exhausted, and I remember you would read my poems. You read my poems as if they were Daphne Loves Derby song-lyrics. Last night you texted me that my poems sounded like rushed and convoluted emails. After that I blocked you on everything, from social media to your number. I hoped we would grow weak with joy, and grey with age. Words, whether from your lips, or a text shattered the trust I gave you, as if it were my social security code. In front of the bathroom mirror, I took a pink eraser and rubbed it against my foreheard, to remove the wrinkles. Each wrinkle represented a time when you had failed me, or when I had failed you. Our failures were weights that I had balanced in my memory. Kaufman would be pleased of my progress. I wrote a sculpture with glass and tears at my desk, alone in my clean, well-lighted room. And then I took the sculpture, and buried it in my backyard, right next to the grave of my old and weak self. I smoked a cigarette using sad memories as rolling papers. As the paper burned slowly, I let the smoke fill my heart. Because my lungs were tired, tired from breathing, tired from living for you. Because you are not the only thing that matters anymore.
0
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
dannyartreads
Routines
Every morning I went to the coffee shop across the street from my house, because I didn’t work. For every resume I typed out, I wrote a poem, in order to keep me from sending you a text marked with a white flag. A skull was concealed in the flag, as a watermark. The sun made love to a cluster of clouds, while I rolled a cigarette using strands of your brown hair. I opened my wallet and took out a photograph of me and you from the booth that one night when you made a fire out of caskets. Your face had been glowing with warmth, as if you had drained all the light out of the sun, and had taken a shower in its yellow glow. Your eyes were bright with a hopeful future. Then you grew your hair longer, and pulled it over your eyes, like twin pirate eye-patches. But you’d said you weren’t blind, just indifferent. Today I wrote another poem on a countertop, in the coffee shop, and bandaged the wounds you gave me when you told me you never cared about me. One of the baristas wearing a brown apron and a blue baseball cap, gave me poems from James Tate. And as I read “The Lost Pilot” it started to drizzle from the ceiling. I wasn’t sure if it was rain pouring on my head, and on my poems, or if it were melted ice-cream, rich and thick in its texture, Our first date we stole vanilla ice-cream from a Giant. You stuffed it in your golden purse, and ran through the doors, as a fat security guard chased after you. Then, you hopped into my blue Volkswagen and we sped off. I was perfectly fine with being the getaway driver, you dipped a bent spoon into the plastic container and scooped out the ice-cream. You ate it hungrily. And after I took a bite, we went to the park and swung on the swings, coasting up and down in the air, vanilla stained on the front of our black shirts. Back at the coffee shop, I played the keyboard in the bathroom because I was shy, shy of you finding out, because you love piano melodies. And I guessed I wanted to play for myself for a change. I played “My Cherri Amour,” and drank gin from a flask, until every key looked like a playing card. After I played the song, I left the coffee shop ,went home, and painted our last conversation, using words from a newspaper. “It’s over.” “You were never right for me.” “You’re not mature enough for a relationship.” “I never want to see your face at Peets.” Peets was the coffee shop we would always go to, every morning, rain or shine, rested or exhausted, and I remember you would read my poems. You read my poems as if they were Daphne Loves Derby song-lyrics. Last night you texted me that my poems sounded like rushed and convoluted emails. After that I blocked you on everything, from social media to your number. I hoped we would grow weak with joy, and grey with age. Words, whether from your lips, or a text shattered the trust I gave you, as if it were my social security code. In front of the bathroom mirror, I took a pink eraser and rubbed it against my foreheard, to remove the wrinkles. Each wrinkle represented a time when you had failed me, or when I had failed you. Our failures were weights that I had balanced in my memory. Kaufman would be pleased of my progress. I wrote a sculpture with glass and tears at my desk, alone in my clean, well-lighted room. And then I took the sculpture, and buried it in my backyard, right next to the grave of my old and weak self. I smoked a cigarette using sad memories as rolling papers. As the paper burned slowly, I let the smoke fill my heart. Because my lungs were tired, tired from breathing, tired from living for you. Because you are not the only thing that matters anymore.
Continue reading...
104