Thursday, May 31, 2012

He lays the flock of stapled papers down on the table and drinks long from his cup of coffee. articulate, choosing words slowly.
"Well, it's magnificent, of course. I wouldn't expect less from you."
"You think so? I was just worried it was recycled, a boring story eating up too many words."
"No, not at all." He stares at a crack in the plastic, silent. It's not what I was expecting.
"What is it? I want your honest opinion."
"It's breathtaking. I just, it hurts to read. And I want to know so many more things.. what caused them to hate each other so much. What caused all that resentment? What happened?"
"Everything and nothing, that was the problem. There wasn't an exact break but thousands of little cracks. His distance ruined her and her desperate clinging disgusted him. Nothing happened and everything did, they just lost each other."
"But is that possible, for two people to fall out of such deep love? And if he did, why did he follow her that night?"
"He loved her"
"I don't think so, I think she was all he knew."
"Of course he loved her. But sometimes loving someone isn't enough."
"Would things have changed even if he had caught her?"
"Maybe, maybe not."
"It seems they were doomed."
"Everyone in love is."

Wednesday, May 30, 2012


pitched a party tent and held it up with
crosses, in a row across your chest 
outside your window and under your nails
a goldfish life, scooped up and bagged

we are bound men, propped against the cave
seeing God in shadows on the wall,
you don't think it's real, do you? that it's anything more than
a delirious fever dream
colors and lights and faces rushing at you constantly just
a slow bleed in your brain. you are your own
religion, your own concept of the world

i think i'm just sitting at home turning my life 
into a movie and
i can't decide which is true; the night time
anxiety of what am i doing or the 
afternoon confidence of
this is the right thing and i'm spinning.
the devil and god are raging inside of me
and i don't know whats real anymore.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

warm wood; the little cabin you built around us, hung pictures of
trees and that's before i went under 
the sea and you fell in love with footsteps 
filled with empty feet.

gravity let us down 
easily but you accept these kinds of things 
when you're desperate and you've got this Polaroid
and you're begging everyone to look at it
prove that 
it happened and the stories faded and became
just stories
forgetting is the worst kind of retreat

you had pale skin and the freckles stood out like
stars or sprinkled salt or 
traffic lights and maybe that's why i fell so hard for you because
i had never seen that shade of blue in your veins and in all the
girls faces i had never seen those 
eyes and believe me i had seen my share of eyes but yours were
different and good and they captivated me before i had even
opened mine.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

lj continued

"Everyone looks like ants from up here" I call and steady myself on the branch, she glances up, squinting in the sun and turning the up corners of her mouth. Her mouth. A slight shake of the head before silence falls over her, one of my favorite qualities to envy. How the quiet can live peacefully within her, how she doesn't fear the stillness in her body like I do. Full of words and noise and light bursting from me, anything to distract from the voices that drone in the empty part of night; when no one is listening and the world is sinking from my mind. She hums, positively, perfectly center with the earth and speaks in a murmur.
"You're six feet off the ground, dear." I stumble, lean against the trunk and hold onto bark as if it was sandpaper catching the grooves of my skin. Holding me still, holding me in this moment. 
"I can't get down." She rises, her form raising and blocking the blinding sunshine from me, leaving the warmth. Apprehensively clutching at the nearest branch and trying to lift herself. A savior, my savior.
"We should call the fire department, you're like a little cat." And I pout and she steps back and tries a running approach only to cling to the tree a few inches off the ground.
"Stop making fun of me, okay?" 
"Okay, okay. You've got to let go and I'll catch you." And she spreads her arms wide, the fear of jumping into her chest. The universe in her chest, the whole damn word radiating from her and I'm scared. Scared of hitting the ground and scared of hurting her. The double fears, both equally as strong and I perch myself on the edge. To trust, to jump and I realize that this is important. Jumping into her arms, surrendering myself to love. 
"I can't." And the doubt in me palpable and she forgives it instantly, calls up
"Zacharias, Zacharias, come down from your tree" and she laughs like music.
"Stop making fun!"
"Then jump."
and I do.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

persephone cont.

"Does he ever mention me?" you ask because you secretly wish that he has and you secretly wish that he hasn't. 
"Sometimes. He gets mad whenever someone mentions your name, Mother says that he misses you more than he lets on." She looks down at the apple in her hand, slowly raises it and pauses before taking a bite as if she's choosing her words, deciding if she's said too much. And you realize how young she is at that moment, that you could count her years in one breath and it's bitter. You feel guilty for being so old, for letting her carry your eons.
"Good things?" and you smirk because you already know the answer. She smiles, 
"Do you like apples? I do." 
"Thought so." And she pauses again, the cogs of her conscious whirling away like a washing machine.
"What did you do? He loved you so much... more than anyone else Mother says. What could you have possibly done to make him so angry."
"I let him down." And you don't want to have this conversation and you do want to have this conversation. The words have been loaded on your tongue for so long that they creak with rust, unwilling to move. You want her to know and you don't. You want her to see the worst in you and you don't.
"Let him down? But, I've let Mother down a thousand times. She'd be furious if she even knew I was here with you." A nervous smile. "...what could you have done to make him banish you?"
"I did the only thing he could never forgive." And she leans forward, excited and concerned and she wants to crawl through your veins and know all your stories and you want to save her from that. You don't want her to know anything and you want her to know everything. 
"I killed myself." 
"But, but. You're still here, how could you have-" Shes so young.
"You'll learn one day that suicide has very little to do with dying."

when nostalgia sits on your bones like a cover of dust;
the aching for some place you can't recall, it's
a flash burn- unburdened by flames or the sound of her voice.
when you can't remember what you've forgotten, 
when you can't remember what you miss.
I am afraid of cracks and of wisps, of peeling corners and of the ancient anger in me that no one is allowed to see. I analyze it, rationalize it away into textbook synonyms and theories written by men with beards but it must be simpler. I am not angry at the wind, I am angry at the gravity it hides and how it pushes on me. How I have to try twice as hard to get half as far, how I push a boulder up a mountain for the stability most achieve by morning. It's unfair, it's so unfair that everything has to be so fucking hard all the time. They tell me to do soul searching but I know where my soul lives, it's in a book on the shelf. It's in a pointless power struggle against neurons and chemicals. They say I am my own worst enemy but I don't know if that's true; rather, I am my own observer. My own critic. I am my own therapist and honestly, something is rotten in me. Something has been damaged, eaten away by termites. I guess I am my own worst enemy after all, no. I am my only enemy.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

i am full of  medication and coffee and i keep 
picking these vices up like street scuffed face pennies and
i don't really know what i'm doing
at all.
trying to fill a voided mind, a great cavern on my shoulders and i'm
breathing words and writing footsteps and i'm turning myself into a 
i once wrote before i even knew 
that i could
write stories.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

loud and anxious; an incoming train
burned like
empty cars
dug out seats.

my bones miss you.

"that's the problem with falling" she said
"not that you'll get all
fucked up
when you hit the ground but rather that you might be completely blissful
at the bottom."
life like
falling in the shower sort of 
yellow glazed massive head trauma.
oh, i do wish
you were here.