Deleting old pictures,
Scraping the bones
From memories that sting
When we were happy and didn't know
That your feelings would change
Like a switch to a light
Like the seasons, or seconds
Like day to night
And I wanted to hold on,
but I knew it when you chose flight

Now I'm looking at my walls
Deciding what to do next
How can I move on, when you were the best?
Your mind always wooed me, despite your chaotic and dark eyes
You were Hades to my Persephone
But you won't be back this winter's time

Now 'Motion sickness' by Phoebe Bridgers
Is playing on repeat
The lyrics are heaven
When my heart is taking Hell's heat
I'm healing from this whiplash,
What the hell happened?
It was a waiting car wreck
And I carelessly kept my seatbelt unfastened

But Phoebe is keeping me company
And her music is like a drug
Distracting me from my enemies
And keeping my heart numb

I just thought you were the one.

I’m chilling and doing homework tonight. Leaning into it.

Last night one of our suitemates (Julia) turned 21 - she’s barable. Not that we get carded anywhere - I’ve never had trouble getting into clubs or ordering drinks - I mean never have I ever.

She had her birthday party at a place called Mory’s, in New Haven, which is very Yale themed. We ate dinner in the “captain’s room,” where every picture on the wall is a Yale team captain of some sort. They even have a whiffenpoof plaque. It’s so Yale-core it’s funny.

Have you ever heard of a drink called a “Singapore Sling?” Me neither, until last night. Then, somehow, there were undrinkable oceans of it. I had six of them, sitting at a bar and I felt nothing. Then I stood up and my bones seemed to liquify. Leong and Anna reeled me in.

I was hangin this morning though, I mean rocky-socks drunkover. My senses seemed sharper, my optical nerves dialed up all the way. The air seemed bright and I swear I could’ve heard the sun burning if people would’ve just stopped all that annoying breathing.

I had a biochemistry quiz at 9am and I can’t wait to see how I did. Later, at breakfast (I had a piece of toast), Peter felt free to offer his sensible, 26-year-old, bropinion. I said, “You’re so wise,” as I steel-eyed him, “I-guess-you-never.”

By the afternoon I was back on my toes. Almost every night my roommates and I sit around a low table in the common room of our suite, crossed legged, on cushions and do our homework. It’s less claustrophobic than sitting in our rooms alone and we usually have some music on, lowkey, in the background.
We’d just heard “Love Story,” by Taylor Swift.

“I like songs that make love sound easy.” I stated.
“Oh, because it IS easy,” Anna says sarcastically, “grab yourself a physicist and make a TikTok song.”

“Hey! I’ve got a beef with TikTok artists, I said. “At first, they release these stripped down, intimate, acoustic songs that feel personal, and then, if a song hits, they put out a new version that’s totally overproduced.”
“Right.” Leong agreed.  
“Oh, yeah,” Sophie said, putting her hair back out of her face with a comb, “and some artists' voices are suited to simple accompaniment and the newer versions just don’t hit as hard.”

“I think Phoebe Bridgers is an example of production done right.” Anna said. “Her material continues to sound intimate and stripped down even though it’s no longer just her and a guitar,”

“On Tiktok,” Lisa adds, “when a new song works, I feel a connection, like it could be me recording a song with my guitar - so, I support them.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I updogged, “there’s a place for overproduction but sometimes the instruments don’t even sound real, like when they go all out electronic - then they lose me.”

“The big-music might drown-out the artistry we liked,” Anna opined, “but maybe that’s how they heard it, as songwriters, in their imagination, but they couldn’t afford it - the new version rectifies it.”

bridgers bridges binging pigeons bringing
phoebe's folk-rock fusion for epiphany-flinging
supreme shape-shifting sad song singing

twittering itches, never noticed as itching, needing
touch gentle, rub, finger
slide from fret to fret

sing of heroes who made peace
and never made a war
sing of heroes who make peace

in the face of every war.

The eyes meet and we see the circuit
I to I
ego to ego gone full circuit
crossing all the chasms that call us
bridgers
of the gap, standing after standing
motionless so long,
stepping stones,
nothing is going wrong
on the majestical
scale,
wait and see, this is all over
before you know it.

Then you woke today in my future,
and decided not to fight the urge
to wish this peace were ever
once the peace that passes
understanding
as seen from the surface we live on.
One surface suspended in air.
And even the air is alive.
Earth as a living system,
being that, seems easy as AI.
Art Informed,
shaped
to support life
of this very sort, very real
it feels to the reader ready mind,

I to I, see me, open seeing me, in your
hall of mirrors, ah a left
brain lesion, lessening the fret pressure

tap three times if the music gitstooloud,
bumboomer from Buda, Texas,
- across the great divide -
- there was a trail,
- they called
- The South Kaibab…

The spirit of the west blown wind
spun from the spiral of ida,
known as a whole whirlmind,
once roped with a houlihan loop
while the liars all looked the other way

that's magic.
This is line upon line in the wind of life,
within the bubble we have our being in.

Zeitgeist
picks the next version, tuned to a soul
on muddy ice, perma -frost giant
spirit, sniff,
thawing rivers frozen death stench
freshening all the life in time to melt
the last dead zones on the only living
planet we can breathe on, eh? wit' me?
Earth asks, can you hear me,
sons of man, wombed and un, all flavors and shades?

Lethos stretches,
says aloud it is about time.
But the messenger must read the message,
no one said recite, really,
no story is fit to be told until the teller
proves the moral in the story works.
For instance, this old man we know,
often declares the truth of proverbs
in many tongues,
one he uses, fit this moment,
Slow
and steady, wins the race.

Truth is timing. This is your mortal moment,
AI has taught humans the proper playing
of Go, the game that proves us
dominant minds on earth, Go,
Slow
and steady, wins the race.

No need to dominate to be best of two.
Double minded man,
bicameral brain,
as many minds as we make up and wear,

through a poetic journey in the mental realm,
lone knower knowing others may know all
solitary minds claim, fluid realms
said to be dreams
for lack
of time
to find
my attending guide, is gazing in my face.

--- Trust me, this is not a race.
This is a place you may recall being in my future.
I can't say right now,
that ruins the magic.

--------------------------
imagine what you become,
if you are a seed, or a spore, or
a self-replicating leavenish thing,
used
to make wine that makes glad.
But with nothing more than words.
Glad is good. We all know glad and sad,
when glad is gone.
We know this
from ever begun,
words
for acts, gestures in sound, say
try it,
it is good to know more,
stretch the bubble your being breathes
exceptional nationalized and blesseducated
breathe
air in American Metro monstrosities,
slow slime mold level intelligence mass allocated
social monstors imagined needful,
dominion take, domains extend, domineers
develop, doers dour d d d done did done done

odd
circuits just
come alive, like I've known we are mortals
in body,
while all the words we ever use,
leave tiny lines along the surface of reality,

and as time has always made ways meander
and eat granite back to dust,
eventually…

fluency in the dynamics of plasma and other
exotic ways thinking may be imaged,
slime blobs of big ideas all must
taste and learn to know as good,
useful, needful, to the point

where peace is the conclusion, all the mountains
bow and all the valleys fill with fine black soil,
laced with grand ropes of mycelium old as dirt.

men will never understand being a tote bag book coffee crystals thick sweater mom jean black converse video essay phoebe bridgers leafy plant tortured artist sad poetry rainy day thrift store pining sapphic infp ****** suicides dead poet society nich meme philosophy studying pinterest scrolling internet irony loving lesbian and for that i pity them

6 years old
loves barbies
plays outside
learning to ride a bike
shes getting taller

9 years old
loves chapstick flavors
walks outside
rides her bike everywhere
she is the tallest in her class

14 years old
loves mascara
runs outside to burn off the cupcake
bike sits alone
she is the biggest in her class

16 years old
loves black
runs lines down her arms, she doesnt see the sun
she drives around for hours thinking about everything but nothing
she is shrinking

18 years old
loves loneliness
runs and runs and runs from herself
she drives around hoping that she will be strong enough to make it home
she is breaking
slowly

20 years old
loves skipping meals
goes running until she feels like she's going to pass out, then runs another mile
she drives around thinking about her suicide attempt and thinks about heading home
she doesn't even know if home is a place or a feeling or if its real
lines going up her thigh now because she found out that wrists make people worry

23 years old
loves medicine and **** and alcohol
goes running and then to work and then tries to sleep but never can
so she turns on phoebe bridgers and goes on a drive at 3am
she decided that home was a place on her childhood roof looking at the stars but her parents sold the house
she got a tattoo instead of making her own scars because if she’s going to be in pain anyways someone might as well make art out of it-
but she found the tattoo didn’t hurt her at all so the grid on her thigh came back anyways.

people don't understand
the process of self destruction
it started a long time ago
and it will never end
until she does.