Friday, October 26, 2012

What if everything you wanted
resided somewhere, miles and miles away, 
that you couldn't quite reach

Saturday, October 20, 2012

we love each other as migratory birds
flying blindly at the heels of the sun.

if you lose sight of me-
i'm rustled down in the next field over
i'll catch up.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

we wait for the bombs, all of us, as a city. we wait for the retaliation, we wait for the revenge that we know (deep down) we deserve. because we're selfish. we're a selfish, debauched, infinitely beautiful and damaged society. we wait for the bombs because what else can we do? how else could this all end except in fire? we started this so we wait for the bombs that will come any day. this is not a love story, this is a love story. this is not a love story, 

this is a love story about two of us, 
waiting for the bombs.

i've got my 
girl; my sunday afternoon-

you're a stitch
in my side after running, i find it all 
sort of funny. 

Monday, October 15, 2012

you're covered in doubt like skin-
but we only have one of those.

i love you with every bone in my being-
and we have two hundred and six of those.

Friday, October 12, 2012

You loved once, reluctantly. You tell yourself that she had a pretty voice and that must have been it, that her smile was nice and her arms felt like christmas and she had hands that were summer and you miss it, thats all. And you think you know everything, naturally. You know every mood, every move someone will make because you're good with brains. You're good with chemicals and you're good with eyes and reading people like yesterday's newspaper. And you think you know the future, you think you know what will happen and its so terrible, so so terrible. Sometimes you wish you weren't as good with eyes and with minds and with heads. Your stomach has twisted, your chest feels like it's full of
yesterday's newspaper and the back of your throat hurts all the time. And theres no fault but your own, which you accept

but if wishing it differently were a crime
you'd hang.
You stand on 97th flirting with the boarder of Harlem and Manhattan, between white business men drifting back from bars with a woman (always the same, it seems, with their brown hair and stumbling heels. With their possessive clutch on his elbow and their too loud laughs) and cars missing their rims, black circles of screw barely holding the tire in place and neighborhoods where men sit on the stoop all night and call to you. They call you 'baby', they call you 'sweetie', they call you 'whore' and you only listen to the first two and you only believe the last. You live on 97th, it seems, although that isn't entirely true now is it? No, you live in Chinatown behind a partition in someone's living room for five hundred a month and it always smells like strange food and your roommates don't look at you and you're pretty sure they Lysol the coach when you leave. 97th, 97th, 97th and Lex. It's okay though, because they call you 'baby' and they call you 'sweetie' and they don't call you a 'whore' until they pay you. Eye contact and a stumbling heel, like shooting fish in a barrel. Idiots, fools, fish. You were a fisherman and the whole fucking city was your net. 

i mixed the ink of your eyes and you can't imagine how hard it was to find the right shade of
and i decided that you must be made up of layers. i decided that each lover lost had piled onto your brow and that you were a painting. you were a book and i was a page. all i wanted was your
entire story,
which is selfish, true. you cannot own words and there is nothing that hasn't been dirtied by another mouth and we deserved more than that, didn't we? i would reread you forever
if that would make you happy
because all the other stories out there don't kiss quite right and their backs feel 
strange- like ribcages and immaturity or like nervousness and beautiful voices. i don't need to know how they
it's okay if you need new bindings. i think i realized what changed me so quickly-
i remembered that 
love like this only comes along two or three times an anthology. i realized it was worth it because

you were my favorite book.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

often forget the end parenthesis, it's a quirk. 
i start the sentence, the after thought, the small clarification and then just
go on writing. 
see, the problem is 
that soon the 
whole rest of the paragraph gets grouped in, committed. tied down. held tightly. and then
pretty soon your 
whole goddamn paper is just part of this 
parentheses and it just gets longer and more complicated the longer i 
write. and it grows and grows more twisted with the roots, deeper; 

i think i forgot our end parenthesis
and i could type it now, sure. i could close it all off and move onto
a new thought, collect our losses and part but 
theres so much in this story so far.
theres so much of our story so far.
and want you in the morning,
but let you sleep in for a bit.

Monday, October 8, 2012

the days have become

Friday, October 5, 2012

yesterday night with all my 
favorite people, in my room, playing guitar and drinking seven dollar wine and 
a silence goes over us all, our fingertips on four a.m.
and he jokes about a scratch on his arm and
claims that they do it all wrong, down rather than up;
laughs, more laughs. he mimics it with his swiss army knife and 
makes an overdramatic choked sob in mocking, makes a joke about
eighth grade idiots and attention seeking, makes a joke about
how they should just do it right;

i want to join them, to laugh too and say
"down isn't as easy as you think"
but i don't think they'd laugh 
i'd bend out my elbow
but i don't think they'd laugh.
i can't even remember the last time i 
bent out my elbow; 
okay. she turns to me, touches my face
soft, catches my eyes and whispers
"don't listen to him. don't listen to him."
she doesn't stop until i 

i didn't even think she knew.
i didn't even think she noticed;
life is sour
sweet, like the sweat on your back when you wake to a 
love you never planned on falling into.
i've always wanted the city to swallow me up
and choke on my hollow bird bones, pull a piece from it's
throat, and set me on the rim of it's
for the dogs.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

we took our shoes off for the creek and as your big toe touched the
water you laughed out loud and i thought that it was what a laugh
should sound like. we took our shoes off and giggled at algae slippery
on the stones. 
i think i have been writing memories that never 
occurred but so much time passed sitting in my chair that
i'm all mixed up with whats real and
what was wishful thinking.

we took our shoes off for the creek
but that never happened
did it?
today it is raining
and i did not go to class. 
today it is raining
and it seems rather
that it should be.