my book of dead and dying things. maybe i should write your name amongst the petals and leaves. the pressure of ink and synonyms for brooding. thinking. remembering. the placid whisper of northbound breeze. the sleeping fauna. the grasses teasing my knees. my shoulders master the weight of a week. weak. the kind of stem that bends with the strain of romanticizing. harder to overcome than the pressure against my hipbone. sit an interval. delay. blink the mounds of rock dust. swallow the scene. Continue reading
the sluggishness of the past week was colored by coffee shops, Bob Dylan, and writing one-sided love on the moon. comfort in lies she knew. her snug spilled milk sheets at noon. a song remaining in her mind. she was not a singer. but when she decided to sing, she bled Pocahontas colors of the wind. she escaped the sorrow that others rested upon her, a lacking of mutual awareness. she held the truth between her ticketed lips; love is not the jealously or entitlement that comes from a desperation for love in return. for her, one-sided love is fair. Continue reading
i dance as if printing words on air. the kind wobble of my gaucho hemlines. the release. bizarre bony elbows and a numb mind. Continue reading
learning the mid-tones: the high-spirit, low-spirit spectrum. swept in the whoosh of color and painting myself to match. creating a language for expressing feelings. over the years i developed this distrust for the color yellow, because of the false promise of feeling momentarily better and bright. i would always find depression grinning again. Continue reading
And 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.
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