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Fionn Feb 20
The 50% floating out in the G column somewhere
it’s waiting for me to put it down and place it
I’m not 50% but I’m gagging at the numbers, so many
This clanging piano is making me feel like I’m in the midwest, definitely
indefinitely, do you think I could spend the rest of my life away from the sea, next to Canada
in the cold-slowly-warming?  
I could move to Duluth.
in 2010,
I was five
I didn’t know about Alex G,
I didn’t know about anything but the way the swing in the cherry tree made me feel,
trapped and small
(I’m hopping around lines
but not reading them once I write them)
yeah I could go across the country
yeah I could walk for awhile
yeah I probably couldn’t tell if I liked a boy
or tell him I like him
yeah I think acoustic guitarists and emo vocalists and edgy, chainsmoking guys
get It.
whatever It is (and doesn’t everyone! feel that way too)
and my teapot smells like plastic when it boils
and it doesn’t whistle
and I chewed all the gum I bought yesterday and
my mom’s name is Alex, too and
my face is puffy, round, just soft skin folding in on itself for eternity,
soft hanging skin stuck to me, and recently, I've been thinking 'everything’s fused it couldn’t rip apart
without dragging the rest of it with itself--
My family’s in new hampshire and they miss me. 
my family drove to new hampshire with my sister and they are a family
four years apart (without me).
I don’t know if I miss them right now and
this coding project makes me feel like
V-sauce or a conspiracy theorist
or something awfully STEM-y and it scares me
and it makes me awfully happy too.
i hope everyone majors in what they want to and that they love it
and they feel glad when they have that degree
and we’re gonna be twenty-two in May
some people will be twenty-three
and last night, Vik said she’s glad I’m awesome and I told her
awesome is a strong word, I don't know about that,
awesome is a big word
and we laughed about it.
Fionn Oct 2023
Sweet, cold, pinprick, windy sky
streaked with color
Rolled up my sleeves

And I stepped out in it all
I walked rainy  
streets and smiled
Fionn Oct 2022
I go to the woods,
The woods go and I see them going, I’ve gone
to the forests of my home since autumnal glow is high in season,
these are holy, golden days and the leaves are blushing in the brook,
but the pond’s gone dry from no rain, it’s all muck. There are no fish and there never were any, but
snapping turtles, bullfrogs with eyes that peek above the surface, water boatmen that skit the glassy surface of the pond avert my eyes. When I was younger, I caught tadpoles in a mesh net and I let them go. Now we have forgotten each other.

Tough green shoots erupt from the soft earth, choking the softer crab grasses, there is blood and lambs in the high days of their short lives, rambling in the pastures of youth.

The pond is blanketed in duckweed, in the sunlit clearing of eleven cottonwoods.
Fionn Oct 2022
Like red hot coals, the jewels glow in the night,
they’re tucked into the tarmac in the rugged mountains spotted with evergreens.

the City in the valley has materialized, turnt to silver under the stars. Riverbeds dry up, caustic machinery acidifies the soil.

There is a dizzying flash of lucrative indigo, beneath the flashing crimson that signals take-off. 
An orange streak hangs in the distant horizon, above it an oppressive navy sky turning to night.  
The window across from me reflects something I’d imagine in a spaghetti Western,
in the final moment of triumph when the hero declares himself victorious and all forces bow to him. He is the indomitable, conquerer of man and nature.
Day is done, it retreats into faded pink and night falls, the mountains gray. It’s almost beautiful, but it’s burning. It's smoldering. A quiet fire, is it even burning if none care to witness it?
Fionn Sep 2022
I write more about what I see when I close my eyes than what’s right ahead of them; I try not to, but it's inevitable; imagination is how I feel something raw and true, pull myself back to a computer or a notebook and empty it all out, or rather empty most of it out and leave the rest, leave the bits I forget and forge new ones as I write.
Everything though, behind the delicate eyelids I call my own, that black sockets which contains the trailing optic nerve that carries precious messages to my brain nestled in darkness (my whole body is illuminated on the outside) is produced from what I see, every-day, monotony and then some strange sweet beauty that sticks out of all the d’habitude, sticks in my brain like chewing gum, ready to be ****** and pressed against the walls of my brain, pulling and tugging at itself like taffy trying to figure itself out. I translate this to written thought, awkward and jumbled words, sometimes something that fits together. It wants to be something, each thought wants to be released into the world.

In a way, each word I write reflects life, but it breathes life into something ordinary, changes the filter setting on the photo perhaps portraying something more alluring, or I’d hope it does, hope that I could make someone feel the way I do when the night is blue, the trees are darker and the hazy glow of streetlights lap my window, dancing in the cool glass pane that separates the world inside from the world outside, the day is not ready for morning, everything's at once still so one could see how heavenly it all was. Maybe I am a newscaster, maybe I am a conspiracy theorist, I say “In case you haven’t seen for yourself, here it is, 5am in the Northern Hemisphere, in a bedroom with pink walls and creeping ivy vines hung across its ceilings, with a warm lamplight that leaves gentle gray shadows on the bed stand that has been painted white, so lovingly, by my mother’s cousin….. this is what it’s like (to me, to a fool, to a nobody) but this, this is from your friend, and I want you to imagine it in your own head and I hope it’s beautiful in your head, as beautiful as it is to me.” I don’t wish sleepless nights on you, but I hope that life blesses you with something of the sort, maybe it’ll change your mind.
not always though
not always do I write about beauty, and sometimes I learn what I think when I write it out
it all feels random but it can’t be, it might not be, there must be some self within me that writes these words with true intention, first thought, best thought.

I cannot write myself into self-hood, existence through some physical tangible proof that is these words on this paper
because my brain knows better
I must be something more than words on paper, I’m a physical body and I am a soul and I am I am. I inhale cold air in the dead of winter and feel it sit like a weight in my lungs, like a punch in my stomach, I taste blood in my throat when I run too far and too fast for my own good and my heart tries to catch up with me, and my sturdy legs buckle at my knees when I’ve walked too far. In some way, these sensations, these memories affirm my livelihood, my existence, my place in the world. I do not have to be great, I do not even have to be good, I am, I am, I am, I create for myself and if I find something valuable in the stale-clumsiness-that-is-sometimes-kind that is my perspective on affairs, my World, then I will give it to you dear reader, not so you will love me or so you will care, but because I like to share wonderful magical little things with the world. Through specificity, of location or experience or taste or shape or color, we find our human universality within one another. We understand that they understand.

I’m making a folder of tiny intimate photos I’ve collected from my camera roll, some are collage bits, one in fact, is a note from a book I found in Rennes with my roommate at the time.

We stopped at a bookstore in town where everything was under 10 Euros, and there were vintage films and books of collage and small chapter books, pocket sized ones (they were 2 Euros), and three men ran the store in rotating shifts, they sat on chairs and played chess and smiled at the onlookers as they passed by, never once advertising their goods. They knew whoever stopped at the stands would care and there were a lot of people who cared in Rennes, about literature and art and love and things that are so often overlooked in the States. I don’t mean to make an indictment of Americans and their culture and their loud cars and silver cities, neither do I condone the French…

I’m getting ahead of myself. The note in any case; it’s written in old French cursive, I couldn’t read it if I tried, but I haven’t tried yet. Maybe I will someday. one day.
Fionn Aug 2022
I went whittling
and smoking in the woods
When I finished cutting my three pieces, all unique, all distinctive, all pale and soft with  
white wood underbellies that exposed their grains and knots,
I paused and smelled my hands
They smelled of smoke and wood and sweat, and dusky summer air
I rather liked it that way,
my scent.
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