22. just a dream

the ambition of my mind scintillates with him chasing me along sandy shores. beach weeds. salty tongues. a few borrowed sunbeams. knowing very well it is just a dream.

xoxo,

mute style

Advertisements

21. siding with the river

held in the arms of spring. a coil. curled loosely around my ankles and sweeping my saturated and dry hair. sweat swims in the canyon alongside the rabbits. the loaves of bread baked and climbed as the sun grins wider. clicking through the machine at union station for the early ticket. riding in the dark until the first signs of day appear through the window. the shadows of palms, the morning traffic, the peach sky rising in the east. dribbles of juice in my eyelids. more steps. more strangers. lemon donut filling and strong coffee. mothers and children dressed in head to toe green. celebrate irish heritage. contortions. finding myself bent from daydreaming of somebody. limbs slouched and extended. wondering if he is ever thinking the same things. pressing wild flowers to my face. loving the decision to disappear for the day. until next time, riverside.

DSC_0356

xoxo,

mute style

thrifted vocabulary

little big mistakes.00_00_26_09.Still036little big mistakes.00_00_35_08.Still034little big mistakes.00_00_30_00.Still035little big mistakes.00_00_43_28.Still033 copy.jpg

thirty minutes too long in the dressing room. regarding the crack running from the ceiling. sidestepping the sun spit. lizards losing skin. the lipstick vandalism. kissing the napkin from the piece-of-cake shaped dressing room. an image pointed through the sky. glimpsing beauty. the definition of shell buttons on a cotton dress and the resemblance of the confident girl wearing them. try on the puff of frosting and lick the floor clean. pull the fork from my iris. and continue eating. an excerpt from the dressing room diaries.

xoxo,

mute style

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.

xoxo,

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.

xoxo,

mute style