Thursday, August 30, 2012

The earth would change without your permission,
just as the sand stole the mountains from your feet 
and you will wonder of your purpose, you will wonder
of things big and things passed and you will
leave with a taste in your mouth that reminds you
of all things that leave
and of the things that stay
just long enough
to make you miss them. 

the scientist


"I wonder why he does it" June would say on a Saturday as they walked down the street, moving with the traffic like blood in a vein. An older man with a face like leather gloves teetered on the top of a ladder, screwing lightbulbs onto an awning. Most would have walked by, never questioning the things that motivate others, most would have looked past but she did not and perhaps that is why he loved her.   One of the millions of reasons he needed her, he needed to be reminded of the industrial beauty of the city and someone to make him look at it, to look at the eyes of everyone who passed. 

"Maybe he does it for fun." A sarcastic joke, a desperate sort of humor aimed at capturing her attention, her affection. He supposes that he was always searching for her approval in one way or another until that day that he suddenly wasn't searching for anything anymore.

"Maybe" and his joke falls flat because she's making her serious eyebrows. "No one sees them, they're far too high up, so why does he do it? Change lightbulbs that no one else sees." And he stops, her hand jerks back, still held in his.  

"Maybe its because he can see them, and thats enough for him." 

"Whats the point of a light that doesn't shine?" And he keeps moving at that, mulling it over in his head and he supposes that she might have taught him a lesson at that point. June thought from a difference side of her brain and perhaps, thats what made her so beautiful.

XXXXXXX

"You know you aren't her, right?" His jaw shut tight, muscles spasming in his lower cheek. He's taken to grinding his teeth, he's taken to biting back his words but the sight of her ghost, sitting with a bowl of cereal that isn't fruit loops infuriates him. Her doe eyes, he hates her. He hates what they have become

"Of course I am, Jake, what are you talking about?"

"I think I understand what you meant that day, in the city, about a light being pointless if no one can see it."

"I knew you would, eventually."





Monday, August 27, 2012

everything gone;
the imprint of the world stained in your closed eyes knowing
that they look their last

lungs,
breathe deep, keep it in you and cradle it close, 
pray for lingering.
you are never as thirsty as the moment after water.


leaving is always permanent. 

personal post blah blah blah


this question has been sitting in my tumblr inbox since spring 2011. 
when i first read it, i was astounded, astounded that someone had noticed. i wanted to answer it
immediately, of course, but when i tried to type everything out, when i tried to put everything into words i found out that i honestly couldn't answer. i was angry, i was downright pissed, every image
every skyline picture-
any city wide camera pan
killed me. it haunted me
this daunting place with too many big buildings that tasted like a time i desperately wanted to forget. 
i wanted to answer this question, i really did, but i couldn't
not then.


i stepped off the bus and it rushed me, the air, the sounds, the street and rushing cars. sensations, stimuluses everywhere. for the first time in my life, no one knew where i was. no one checked up on me, and no one had made the decision except myself. i was completely free. 
i was free.
and i fell for the city at that point, although i didn't know it yet. i fell for the feelings, for the excitement, for the promise of 'more'. i was terrified, terrified of everything it represented and terrified of the memories i had left there. i was terrified that a place could make me feel so many things and most of all, i was terrified at how wonderful it felt. accepting that meant change, meant conquering fear, meant actually trying for something in my life. 

those angry new york city pictures weren't really angry at all, they were scared
and excited
and nervous
and they made me feel something.

now, looking back, i clearly remember the night i broke down and crawled into my father's bed and told him that i didn't want to go to the local college, i remember filling out applications for schools and that wrenching anxiety that came with waiting for the acceptable decisions. i remember when leaving was 160 days away. i remember all of it, the grades, the scholarships, the exams, the waiting.
the waiting.

i look around, the room feels bareboned. stripped walls, empty drawers. everything of importance is boxed up or sitting in the suitcases by my feet. the fear, the dream has become reality. i conceived this from start to finish. i put the effort in, i did the work, i remember when i didn't even think of new york city and now it is all i think.

i leave tomorrow.
i leave my hometown for the city
to move, to stay

i'm sorry i never answered your question, dear Anonymous, but at that point, i didn't know what i felt. but i can assure you of one thing

i'm not angry anymore.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

pykrete: (n.) a substance consisting of 14% sawdust and 86% ice, able to withstand four times the stress of concrete when pulled apart.




darling, the buildings will all eventually crumble, all the miles splinter, 
i think i know what my heart is made of.
cross my heart and hope to
meet your skin
like a new lover;
desperate and wanting 
picking the wildflowers
in your eyes

she loves me,
she loves me n-
no, she loves me.

Thursday, August 16, 2012


"I can't, I can't believe it. I could slap you right now." She's pacing the room in dizzy circles and pressing both her hands to her forehead, trying to push it out. Trying to sedate herself. She darts back and forth and she's breathing strange, choking  on the words. He's killing her.
"She's from work, WORK. She's a COLLEAGUE, I was being FRIENDLY."
"Oh thats right, how could I forget that colleges text each 'goodnight', how forgetful of me. Right Jake, right? Fuck!" And she throws his phone, once clutched in her hand at the floor. He winces as it smashes on the ground. "You.. you know. Don't you even dare pretend." She's still breathing heavy, looking at him with wild eyes. All anger and hurt. She's going on, all the dramatics. It never stops, it never stops and it infuriates him. Her delusions feeding, growing, taking over. 
"Oh I know? You're right, I do know. I know why you would assume I was fucking her because I'm not getting it here, am I? Its been months since you've even looked at me. " He stares as the words hit her and he watches it hurt. He watches his words sting her and he doesn't stop. She lets loose and slaps him, hard. He does't even blink. It feels good to hurt, it feels like touching coals, her anger red hot embers and he touches it. He lets it sting, throbbing with her heart.

Later, he hears her crying in the bedroom. For hours it goes on, a slow whimpering breaking out into occasional dry sobs. Over and over again, she cries and he listens. It clogs his throat, a solid mass of how terrible it is. How terrible he is. She's crying in the bedroom and he's laying on the couch pretending to be asleep and he wonders if this is what the trees feel when their leaves turn brown on the forest floor. And he realizes right then that they will always be the same, both standing in the garden with hedge clippers killing all the flowers.
but oh, i'll have love

good love, wake up in a cold sweat
love. the kind that goes down too sweet
aches while it's in your throat, good misery.
the kind that hurts to remember
and refuses to forget. 

oh, i've had love-
enough to last a lifetime.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

the way your mother's hands always smelled like clorox and your father's, like alcohol. dirty, pungent, flat beer and stale cigarettes. your father smelled like a dive-bar, a whore house, he smelled like debauchery while your mother smelled like fresh water, like dust sponges and a harsh forced pine. he was a drunk and he loved it, reveled in his misery and lived cruely. you hated him, naturally, hated how the house used to sag whenever he dropped by for a week or two (for money, for sex, for that one dose
of stability that everyone eventually needs). he left the minutes grimy and a layer of smudge grew over everything. he killed the flowers and your mom used to leave the bathroom with dark-ringed eyes and didn't laugh for the next few days. you hated him and you hated the smell of alcohol 

until she came along.

she wallowed, you'd first seen her on the street petting a dog, looking absolutely miserable while doing it. you realised then that it must have been who she was, sadness. she was autumn and she was sopping wet leaves and flaked dirt on the floor and you were bare winter, so cold that nothing could possibly live through it. she came through your life like muddy shoe prints and seeped into every corner and stained it for you. you cleaned your house the way one would clean their bed after a gilted lover, furiously and thorough.

love comes in like a hurricane and strips the wood, strips the white from your bones and leaves you yellow, marrowed. mug rings on the coffee table, half full ashtrays- your sheets invaded by her. the early morning sweat on her back from summer, the remnants of the love from last night and

everything was filthy when she left.

not an atom, not a particle left untouched, her fingerprints smudged on every surface and all the air left in the house had been through her lungs already. she left herself all over and you tried to bleach it out. you washed your clothes until they faded and it did not work so you burned the place down and set out for somewhere cleaner than here 

and you're still looking.