I didn’t become this sentimental
I was this sentimental
as a suitcase hauled along
I’m watching the old shows from the balcony
I’m hoping the home teams win
I’m ripping with all my anthems
and I’m screaming out loud
I’m crying the tears
of adverse weather
Over open seas at whim
Bright eyes hold close calamity
and the old songs
hanging in the air
I’ve created a strange space. or maybe I’ve collected it. or collected myself into it. it’s made of inside things that I think I’d like to put outside for inheritance. I don’t know what it means, or how to get here, so I don’t know how to get out. it’s a labyrinth of memories I collected and stories I’ve been told about myself. how can I remember something before I knew how to remember anything? my story started changing and I’ve been stuck on certain parts that made me sad and now I’m sad because I talk about being sad too much, and I kept looking into the hole as I was digging 100 feet into the earth and eating the dirt to keep my mouth moving. I’m softer now on the edges and everything gets in so I can feel it for a few seconds or two years.
I’ve been drawing a circle around all the little stars I see,
my favorite shines
Some nights I forget to leave a
space between
and float forever til the morning
collects me again.
I want to invent a word to describe the feeling of wanting to go home but nowhere feels like home anymore. Not even driving down the street to pass the house I grew up in. I want to feel it in the way that I mean it, in the way that I fit into a place between my bones and the front door. Between the memories I saved and the ones I haven’t made yet.
I’m anxious again. I know it because my breath keeps rattling in the bottom of my chest refusing to diffuse itself in a series of single letter soliloquies exhaled in the minutes before bed.
A lot of things are funny. Funny in the way that they look. Different. But just enough that you still know what they are and you have to break your neck checking backwards to make sure
the simulation didn’t glitch.
A lot of things are funny. Funny in the way they feel but you can’t tell if you remember the way they used to feel or the way you want them to but they’re both the same anyway.
A lot of things are funny. Funny in the way I feel. I feel everything. I used to feel some things, but something found me and showed me everything else.
*buzzBUZZ, bouncing around the interior of my mid-morning brain in a carbonated fit. Thoughts of material acquisition, extra shit. Chill in the air, empty space in the house. I occupy a window like a museum exhibit for drive-by visits. *restless tooth chatter. Scanning the room back and forth waiting for an agenda to manifest. There’s always the coffee shop. Or the gym. There’s always the snow and I could sit by the fire watching it melt on impact on every surface too warm to support the mini-tundra or I can get in the car and circle the block staring into the storm of flakes on a crash course with the windshield or I can stand in the middle of the yard looking up lost in the stellar white spin, endless. Each meets the same end anyway. **big breath. Somehow I’ve just done all three and now I’m dripping with universes pooled on the skin of my face, soaking it in. all this exploration makes my stomach growl but I’m stuck in the space between 17 thoughts holding out for gentle punctuation. Little islands I just can’t seem to shore, a siren song would close this loop. It’s too gray out there to be a day. *bummer.
A brief encounter. A few minutes to investigate my edges. I’m still here, but blurry.
I’m full of holes
I wish this sword would stop falling into me
but I keep calling back
I’d miss its punctuation
And having a reason to spill
myself into the ether
It was my first tarot, in a brick upstairs apartment searching for meaning on a late Thursday. A little clarity in all my tenses, a little moonlight plays the floor. The more I think, the less I know. From all three cards I overflow.
Sometimes I remove myself from my body so everything is an observation on my own life. And I see everything that I candidmightcouldshoulddidnt do briefly beyond the sight of my day eyes. Third party perspective. But it’s scary sometimes to realize you’re not the center of a story, you’re just a story loaned out from the universe. A refrain. You are the memory of anyone else and the dust between us.
I picture myself doing a hundred things
Whittling away time instead like it never ends
wait for the lightning
from the lowest point in valley
surrounded by giants
Every idea comes to life
and towers above me
Scanning the sky between cracks in the canopy
Down here it never gets wet
Because down here it never rains
Live on in utter comfort
Expect the trees should ask me to climb
I like to read the internet’s unsent letters
And imagine they’re to me
Hopeless offerings torn
From the spines of old notebooks
Just faded ink looking for life
Nostalgic enough to steal a breath
But cold to the touch
Unrequited at last
My head is a great hall. Empty just long enough to reconsider the purpose of a room this size, until it’s full, like the first 15 minutes of a house party catching up with people you probably knew before. Second or third first impressions, how quickly it crowds. How alive the room with electric breath.
Once I was an assassin on mission in the street-heat, jungle-city. We walked around with katanas and fell for grey hotel sleep on the floor with the snakes. I sliced one in half, I swung at the other, I got bit on the knee. When it was over they took me outside in a bin with the trash, and my leg went numb. It was a free ride, beautiful city.