19. summersaulting

*as you crunch down the last cinnamon apple chip you realized you love him. the sun on the floorboards warms the thought. your toes curl the wood as you rise on relave. the numb dust on the window pane sweeps the idea of a boy with a bear hug of hair at the end of these words. feelings are all hot air anyway. breathes better (released).

the last person to hold scissors to my hair was my south korean friend on my dining room floor. newspapered ink on my knees informed me of the politics of homecoming royalty. i rubbed the mistaken popularity from the ridges of my skin. and then i trimmed my hair in the fourth floor sink darkness with art scissors. rubbed my eyes raw and bloodshot in the mirror. a man died on the train less than twelve hours ago.

so i wound up amongst sleeping commuters and reconsidered thoughts. the fondness whittled at daybreak. a finalized disappearing act. lungs of lies. breathing breath. the perfect combination of solar and sea. struggling against an intimate stranger. desist debauchery. a whirlwind now within me. summersaulting rocks and other dangers of youthful heartbeats.

maybe it is because i didn’t cut the shoulder pads from this button down; with the pinstripes arranged as the memory of my family in our dining room with stenciled menus slurping  ice cream. maybe it is because the lighting is vampire dim in this restaurant; the fixtures swirled like a tim burton illustration. maybe it is becuase i am having trouble spelling because. the reason. the one that has a name. needs to be effaced.


mute style


14. read care(full)y

i suck the thin paper cut on (my) index finger from truth. recently reading the (body) of the bookshelf.  licking the salty poems of bianca stone. cuddling the correspondence of friendship and encouragement within “letters to a young poet.” buying excess band aids as i flip the pages of leora tanenbaum’s “i am not a slut.” the word spat on street corners near grocery stores and in school hallways. the queasiness of this word like chewing on a nerf bullet. during my afternoon of rooftop picnicking, i stare at the (composed) sky and think of childhood museum visitations. women who fell from the sky. the unembarrassed lines of figures in folds of fabric dripping from limbs. the surprise of wall to wall stone or pigment. and the DO NOT TOUCH signs. educating the value (of) supervised artwork. if only the average person walking down the street also realized themselves as precious (art).  as profuse societies. just some thoughts.


mute style


DSC_1623.JPGAnd just like that, three generations of pink cardigans walked North on Normandie Ave. This strange sense of timing and placement washed my mind as I continued along the sidewalk. The randomness of people shuffling by felt oddly calculated. I have no idea who they were or where they were headed but visually I was completing some strange image. Somedays remind you more than others of your very presence in this world. Impact. Moments happen for a reason. And I suppose today I needed an extra reminder. I wandered back to my apartment with my head dizzy from thinking. I seemed to be repeating “this guy.” This guy. This guy. And I don’t know if it’s my Midwestern accent or a momentary sore throat, but it started to sound like “the sky.” The sky. The sky. This color calming intuition. The blue above reminds me of you. The result: this poem.


Mute Style

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