open open namaste business

confidently i stand here

smiling in my rain stained scarf.

i'm the real thing.

for mike cauvel

we've let our future projections muddle the clear puddle we're drowning in.

the weight of water in lung somehow numbs the nonchalance of ambivalence.

i'm ashamed to thrive in the in-between

but astounded to be marked as wanting red or orange, either or.

sure you got a heart, but man it doesn't mean anything to me.

i feel like i've spent a lot of time staring at myself in mirrors, trying to see what the people

who once read me like folded fortune

or pretended not to understand at all

glaze over- they've found a definition.

shake the shoulders,

"look. it's me."

staring, napping, anything but conversing with myself.

if i was willing to feel, i'd tell my perception to pull up a chair.

maybe it's time to live in the black and white that faceless friends confidently concede

i live within.

let's not hide ourselves from self-analysis

approve our desired directions.

william kennedy-december 2, 2011-friday

"I was obsessed with the idea that the world could be taken away from me."

-On replacing papers with technology

"People who are writers can't help themselves, they can't do anything else. They're like alcoholics, or sex-addicts, or Giants fans."

-On being a writer

"I didn't want to empty my head, I wanted to keep it full of everything."

-On researching

Is there a hypocrisy in that? writing about the flaws and faults, the messes and broken semblance of the world we live in through the mechanical heart of media that keeps it going?

Shakes everything that you think you know, including yourself. When your very existence is questioned you will try anything to make sure you know who you are before you die.

I can be more of who I am than you can be you.

futon bender

i've spent days and nights

pondering if the supple feel of my cheek

is due to the healing effects of tears.

it's time

to break from bad habits

and hurtful responsibilities

for the feelings of hearts

that we cannot possibly control.

alright, heart.

you'll come to find

that i'm always over-thinking,

over-analyzing,

over-hoping,

yet

still brilliantly unattached

to anything and everything at the same time.

i can't quite place my finger on

why i can't look into your eyes

and know

who you are.

surprise

captures a tired mind

that had grown listless

sulking in a bath of salty embraces

and draining thousand-mile run arounds.

it

plants a vanilla kiss

in the patted conviction

of a self-affirmed bitch.

the catch-22 of meta-emotion.

embarrassment is an understatement,

mortification too strong.

i'm dead and waiting

for a saving grace

that only cranberry sauce and birthday drinks can

(supposedly) bring.

so i sit on velvet couches

in the homes of people who

never doubt my sincerity

and wait like the pathetic heroines

of my seventh-grade paperbacks

for you to make decisions for me.

the four season seasonal depression and my obsession with zoloft commercials

these people are just as lost as i am.

crack the egg of cliche,

do your own thing

some days

i sit and wonder

when i can go back to my creaking splintered floor

and alien bed

twist my earrings

catch up on weeds

and run another mile or so.

sad to find that only solitude

in princeton brought me peace

and even then

i was unhappy.

my life is beautiful.

this picture doesn't describe us well

i've never written about you so directly before.

maybe that's because i couldn't.

today i was walking to the more house

and i realized that maybe we're too similar.

we allow one another to get caught up

in the intricacies of our mind,

the tangles of synapses.

it's fine to dance around thought

and harmonize pragmatism with neurosis

but we don't know how to cut the other one loose.

we just stand there, arms slack at our sides, staring at the other ensnared in a bear trap

mumbling, "i just don't know how this happened."

with incredible lightness of decision

comes a weighty coat

that makes the arms too heavy to lift.

winter's coming

but i rather be true to our desires

and freeze,

coatless.

philosophy of art- what i do instead of taking notes

i often find myself lost in the backgrounds of books. today i gaze at a bleak slate sea on the coast of maine, standing out in a deep navy and maroon sweater.

i feel a nostalgia

for a place i've only tasted through words.

bing crosby inspired

and in my daydreams,

grandma's hair is dark and lush, cut to a quick bob.

she wears a fine red wine dress over the sheen of tan stockings.

flitting around on hummingbird heels,

she ushers me close to the fireplace, letting me sit on the sturdy golden wood of a chair.

sitting close to me, we stare out at the softly falling snow,

much like the powdered sugar she will sprinkle on cookies thirty years from now.

i look at her flawless skin, her astoria-peaked nose, and grab her hand.

we are set in a time that was never our own,

happy to breathe in the expanding lung

between reality and wish.

dad, i can't think of anything but you.

close eyes: burn of cold air on lungs

within me a lunatic sings

purdytown, pa

it was three hours into the drive

before we realized that our

nutrageous pit stop

had driven us into the tangle

of pennsylvania highways.

two more hours passed

before we found ourselves

directionless in front of

a cinder-bricked church.

we were late,

we were lost,

we were laughing.

a creamy june moon slept high above

a stone wall,

and third grade dares

to toe along the divide between road and graveyard

were issued.

grappling arms and quivering summer legs

strung us together,

suspended momentarily in the

commonality of fear.

logic over enamorment

below the gray of early winter

i pick up my dangling roots,

disappointed that i waited

until after the first frost

to loosen myself

from conditional love's icy touch.

thanks for liking me when i wore matching beads & headbands

it's been four months too long.

and yet you still have a knack

for making

everything logical.

tired of being intoxicated under the influence of conversation.

something tells me that there's more to

car rides

when you thumb the tongue of my boot

over stocking.

more to the advances your mouth makes

as we shuffle a deck of cards

in a small apartment

on an immeasurable campus

in a cluttered state

in a world of billions.

i'd like to think

that there's something more

to three years of

desperate phone calls

detailing the imminent deaths of grandparents,

the october moon,

the dream still warm on our foreheads;

but unaccountable moments

could be meaningless

or the purpose.

at the end of the world

in a small house

just off of an immeasurable campus

in a cluttered state

in a mass of billions

you confessed, "i know it's not right,

but i need you."

i stayed

numb like a wind-bit lip

and put you to bed on a staircase

as i watched the casablanca lily

of tomorrow

unfold.

october

fall sets the earth on fire

and offers my cloaked loneliness

chilled acknowledgment.

falling up

slats like spaces

between the stairs

that acted as dams of tomorrow

in my fluid intoxication.

i rub and i press

i brush and i knead

but the bruise of

yesterday's careless strides

sticks like a corkscrew

in my embarrassed shin.

being on that pedestal must be a bitch.

you're

the viscious memory

of not-quite soaking clouds

and cold hands

feverishly pressed together

on a bus to brooklyn.

the

warmest thought

against my forehead

before i fall into dreams,

reminsicent of vodka blankets

and the uncontrollable vocabulary

of a hurricane philosopher.

we can talk as much as we want

or silence our ticker tape thoughts

but we end up in bed regardless.

i have a knack for one-liners

and a pocket full

of projections

that i toss like bread crumbs

to starving artists.

i know you're hungry

but you shouldn't have taken the bait.

drafts #2

sin destinario

first aid kit, beirut, cherry ghost, emmy the great, sia

sin destinario

bon chat, bon rat

sin destinario

you always feel like you are the only one in the world, everyone is crazy for each other. generally, people don't like each other very much. and that goes for friends too.

sin destinario

9654*#

sin destinario

we don't know anything. we don't know how to cure a cold or what dogs are thinking. we do terrible things, we make wars, we kill people out of greed. so who are we to say how to love pg. 4

sin destinario

bottles of wine per chapter, one special bo

sin destinario

cat power boxing glove

sin destinario

the entire emphasis would be put on listening. a cult following would sit around and close their eyes while they draw what comes to mind. box of crayons included with the dvd

sin destinario

wicked tiger; he looks proud

for my eyes (but you can look too.)

lua's on repeat and i'm laughing at how predictable i am.

i feel like pulling on a sweater

and sitting with my crane train journal

on my bare bed at home.

i'd probably burn the only candle i use

plug in the seashell string of lights

and sigh

feeling heavy

staring at the ceiling

trying not to think

and feel

simultaneously.

i'm a caricature of myself.

finding the soft dip between

the flashing mirth of others

and everlasting forgiveness

with myself

is my salted cavity

of a flaw.

my epitaph will read: blank.

empty of all common sense

laden with emotional logic.

rough, raw, add some more alliterative twists

i've been reading a shit ton of plath

(not by choice but by serendipitous sweetness.)

every page makes me think more and more of you.

you're probably sitting on your damp deck

a yoga-pant decorated leg dangling over the side of a patio chair

smoking cigarettes that taste like answers

and thinking that you should add "paint nails" to your to-do.

i spent a whole summer

trying to replace memory with apathy

only to find you on page 147 of the bell jar.

mreh

i never want to spend a birthday

wondering where we would be.

i can tell you that there would

not be conventional gifts;

wrapping paper isn't even an option.

specially prepared cakes lack enthusiasm;

i like my sugar to sting with spontaneity.

we'd probably go about our normal day

and,

in-between walking to the fridge for a coke

and heading to bed,

you'd call over your translucent shoulder

a basic november 27th greeting from aunt marie.

recognize

that each day apart

is a day i yearn to get back.

dalittlela duh duh duh duh

make it better

some french film

call to arms

sharp like the irritants of astroturf,

they burn

like miniature lances

thrown by your

one

green

eye.

i slide down my sleeve to hide ripped knuckles.

there are a thousand poems about paper cuts

but your fax-machine mind

forces me to welcome tired metaphors.

reminder of why you should work hard

feeling like a cigarette

damp from the lips

of a mumbling lush.

weighed down with sugar

soaked in the stench

of a half-wasted day.

classy

there is no room for regret

when time consistently begs us

to move along.

to something better

i drink

i should be napping

happy

and we merge into the flow

of the life we always leave

[never lead]

the one we look towards

[never seem to meet.]

but ah, here it is

flash of the lids

recognizing the heavy flatness

of plateauing.

breathe deeply

decide the next step

of foot into concrete.

ambiguous intentions

be honest. you can't know how they feel.

piff piff flew

cross-legged on the kitchen tile.

dust and dirt left under the cabinets.

i wonder when she last cleaned. maybe i should do that later.

look at my legs.

bug bites, chipped polish, i should put on lotion.

sigh- feel the width of your body

rest head on neck bent

over legs

over the tiles

what are you doing?

i don't know

i don't know.

no pressure and no noise

no chaos to push me forward

it's got to come from in here

stomach

please don't hand me a quarter and a coke.

if i had a tent or a typewriter to throw in the river, i would.

i really promise that i would.

choose to say goodbye

and don't acknowledge my poor choices;

they're shameful.

augusts in maine

given direct

and secretive

attention

feeds into the same old drag.

i see something brighter.

presque isle day 2

journal #(somewhere around 70)-august 9, 2011

today i learned that every day is a chance to make something better. i think in terms of personal connection. we should see one another as a safe haven, as a root, as a kite string. being out here among the resilient grass blades, and strong mountains are hands that are calloused with the hardship of deep snow, shriveled crops, and the stigma of illiteracy. feeling tall and fat with the richness of education, we come. pointing fingers and snickering remarks, we are ushered into the community to use the power of shared experience to feel that universal "we." just now, walking amongst flags of wheat, we tried to capture this freedom that's here. "there's nothing to see," a friend says. "there's nothing here." heart shrinks but maintains hope. "you'll see, you'll see." this is bigger than ourselves, bigger than our capable hands.

freshness, purity, something inherent.

almost too strong to look head on

the sun blankets us

in the clarity that our

comfort

could never provide.

maybe you cannot see

because you are unwilling to look.

i want to stay here forever. bare-legged and supple, take it all and make me tough.

break our shells so that something stronger

can armor us.

not about potter

acentos.

if if if

sylvia plath and i stammer over the masculine accents that pull our lives.

stop making ultimatums and let life roll out; we’ll always have ifs to ponder in the lingering purple of dying days.

pop pop

i had a stomachache.

even at twenty, it still felt like the end of the world.

daddy came outside to where i was laying

on a flat sheet

and asked if i could drive him to work; he had a flat tire.

i haven't thought of signs in a while

now i see that this was one.

i drove him and started thinking of you.

on the way back home, i passed your block

and turned down maple;

heart deciding before my mind.

i went to the park that you used to take us to as kids.

i sat on a swing

and pumped my legs.

i looked at the stone turtle that was always cool to the touch.

i ambled down the angled hill

and looked at the brooke.

everything was melodiously moving forward.

i stooped to the water

and cupped my hand.

i whispered, "i miss you."

i don't think you responded

but i could feel that you heard.

i walked across the open field, past the picnic benches that always seem empty.

i stepped across the tiny pebble island

that i once found a beach chair on

and talked to god.

i opened my hand and said, "let me know that he is happy."

i don't think he responded

but i could feel that he heard.

i never missed you

because i didn't think i could.

wisdom from resident at: 207 evergreen

1. we're all works in progress. have patience with your slowly baking body; you need time to become you.
2. it's okay to not know every detail about every band that you like. leading to...
3. like what you like and own the shit out of it. the only thing that i can't respect is seeing someone deny what they're passionate about.
4. make sure you have at least one person who'll push you. having someone to keep our dreams in check is important when we doubt our desires.
5. forgiveness is crucial to personal development. never question forgiveness.
6. when something strikes you as beautiful, brilliant or shakes everything up, let it be known how meaningful that person/experience/object/art form is to you.
7. if you do what you feel compelled to do (within reasonable parameters) you'll never doubt fate.
8. you discover new wisdom when you re-read a book. do it often.
9. take pleasure in small things that are usually overlooked. ie. warm socks, sunglight at a certain time (9am, my bedroom at home), open washing machines, music matching up with your surroundings.
10. look for character- this goes beyond people. buy an old couch instead of a new one, accept scarves from your grandma. you'll save money and feel more connected with what you're using.
11. intimacy with another person (not necessarily romantic) is what compels us to search time and space for that "something." all we want to know is that someone feels the same way we do.
12. if a song inspires you to run, run.
13. question why you're acting the way you're acting. it makes it easier for all parties involved and you'll know yourself better.
14. keep your hands open. symbolically and metaphorically shows your willingness towards whatever happens.
15. don't write sappy, 16-year-old esque blog posts about your self-proclaimed wisdom at 1:30 in the morning because it is, in fact, self-proclaimed. you'll most likely be over-tired and regret it in a few hours. eventually you'll remember that no one reads your blog anyway and that it was written as a self-checklist of sorts.
16. forget the second to last item on this list.

nice 69 bag.

it's the build-up to something new

blooming, bellowing, bursting

hit the surface

and open your wide lime eyes.

so long, princeton

regrettably, time's come to send you on your way

in retrospect

it worked out.

a posting from my stickies pt. 2

ampersand

every writer knows that you have to feel

what you're saying

for it to have meaning to anyone else.

they can sense the insincerity

the mcsquared experiments

i want to write about something other than you

----------------------

hodgepodge

el malecon-174 & bway

Chapstick 8

Aquariums

Sugar Scrubs

Apples

Socks

Frozen Yogurt

Jewelry that means something

----------------------

Everyone has imperfections but yours seem to be the common bare-minimum.

You cannot say the words that need to be heard

Words like

Sorry

I love you

I miss you

Are lost like coins in an old winter coat.

Sometimes lips can form these words

paper doilies and thick construction paper

pressed together with the hope that something will come of this.

the pads of thumbs squeeze and dab

a little glue,

sticky with confusion

sweet with intoxication,

a sprinkle of glitter that you won't appreciate.

we're standing on a path that i've only ever been on twice,

never with you.

but here in my mind, we're together.

i like when you speak truthfully

and speak the thoughts of my own heart

that i've been too meek to share.

if only you'd be interested in hearing how

out of all of the burning links

out of every sharp stud of gravel on my driveway

you're the only one that i gravitate towards.

fabric scraps

a record store in ithaca

frozen yogurt

socks

chapstick

aquariums

apples

piano keys

finger painting

it's only good when it hurts.

sorry to steal your thunder, john mellencamp.

good eats.

when a heat wave causes a blackout on your block,

this is how you restock the fridge.

summer 2010 nostalgia

looking out from behind cheap frames,

i'm burning under the heat that

we look for eight months of the year.

an album is on repeat in the background.

this girl's got a whiny voice

but she's speaking the words i'm too ashamed to admit.

feeling feminine

i turn to smile at the sky,

knowing that somewhere

sometime

you'll embrace the magic

of shared experiences.

the mc-squared think tank: three & four

fumble & patience

vibrating beneath my fingertips

the world seems to buzz with possibility.

lacing up courage

i acknowledge that i'll fumble

for words

whose definitions

escape my tongue

in moments of pressing urgency.

pulse pulse.

prepare for condescending stares

and lack of passion.

patience, lackluster magazine

paper mache the pages you've torn out

and construct a stronger will;

you always looked good in a suit.

mine.

unearthing a coach bag at a garage sale for $12 is a find in itself. finding a grainy photo with this message on the back in the bag is the kind of thing that makes your day.

back text: When you leave for 1 1/2 minutes like I do your food will disappear (most of it.)

sometimes it's better to give in.

drafts

sin destinario

I'm thinking about how the movies we like the most say something that we silently recognize everyday

sin destinario

Free donovan frankenreiter

sin destinario

I'd lie taylor swift

sin destinario

Chris playing angry birds - "Roll bitch roll." Mike-"That's what I say when i'm having sex."

sin destinario

If i have a paper stop sign, does that mean i can change the course of life? Ripple effects

sin destinario

No one belongs here more than you

sin destinario

S

sin destinario

"So do men and boys announce their intentions. They cover you like a sarcophagus lid. And call it love."-middlesex

sin destinario

July 9th john and kenny's bday ithaca?

sin destinario

"sorry for coming onto you, you're just really hot." Delete. Never thinking about this again.

sin destinario

Foursquareeditions

sin destinario

No intentions dirty projectors

sin destinario

Cricket press

sin destinaro

Periphescence

natural

moss green and tree trunk brown

i'm running along a stream

that we once dreamed to sail

years ago.

soft guitar and subdued tones

of belonging and nostalgia

fill the space between us two.

take my hand, friend

we've got time.

the mc-squared think tank: two

clever.

press gently but with conviction.

mechanics trigger signals

convey messages

and place the lines and dashes

of a self-created vocabulary

on a "screen;"

lights and buzzes of something we want to see

but isn't there.

i probably

subconsciously

think i'm clever

because i'm writing about the typing process,

thus urging the reader to question how he or she views technology

while still illuminating the symbolic facade of a real-life friendship.

sounds impressive,

seems to hold importance.

provides future readers with an answer to the,

"what event in the author's background caused her to write this piece?"

question,

makes one lick pages and pause

actually stop to ponder, "am i thinking?"

satisfaction.

i've done what i needed.

i heard

or read

from a professor,

or a band,

or an author

that once a writer releases the thought

on paper

or a blog

or scribbled on the back of a nj transit receipt (see figure 1: Hillsdale to NY Penn Wed. 07/07)

it is no longer his or hers;

it belongs to the collective whole.

so do with this as you will.

call me clever

and smile

at how everything you already knew

was put into words.

but give yourself some credit-

you wrote this, too.

here's your postcard

standing on the harbor's edge

ankles sense that the grass carpet is a bit too sharp,

too plastic.

"whaler tested, corpse approved" reads the price tag attached.

overpowering sight and sound,

the salt breeze makes the air thick

and the tongue swell.

"this is bigger than myself," you think.

through shaded eyes,

you swear that you see jay and daisy pulling up the anchor of their boat.

white teeth dazzle menacingly as they smile at one another,

enthralled by their upcoming escape

and the rebirth of

a dead relationship

that never existed.

the heat seems to shake this scene

and your certainty in reality wavers.

you blink, and yet, they remain.

seemingly euphoric

the facts of their story come back to you.

"this is not right," you conclude.

"he is in love and she is empty."

she was normotic,

but all he wanted

was to believe in the delusion

that was her perfection.

the mc-squared think tank

murmurous.

in my dream i'm riding that bike i always wanted

("always" equating to last month.)

it's dusk

and an electric blue horizon lies low over the deep green grass.

"he and i have hope," i conclude. "just different types."

murmurous like overconfident psychologists

my friends are projections of american psychos.

i look at our shadows

and see only a silhouette of tippi hedren.

these friends

follow me down the immutable lane

while i wait for night,

for morning,

for a different time.

comprehension.

you're dependent on continuity

while i seek change.

firecracker

"the solution to understanding today's woman is to realize that today's woman is an impossible situation. and wants what any human being faced with two conflicting sets of responsibility is going to want: a way out, an escape hatch; a passionate male."

ready for bed at 10:15pm.

breathing makes you feel lighter.

i really want passion tea lemonade

and a nice long nap, not sleep.

i want crisp sheets and white curtains

soft and mellow, like lemon sorbet.

open my eyes.

the mat beneath my feet, my arms reaching towards the sky

i feel myself getting stronger.

breathe in the day

exhale the burn.

i thought i'd come to like being alone,

but here,

with others,

i realize that it's the silence i like,

regardless of the number of bodies involved.

i am not afraid

to appreciate the world

through the eyes of one.

if you're smart enough you'll find this.

last night

when i was trying to sleep

on the too long college-issued couch

in an nyu dorm

a flip book of the past six years,

the past two years,

flashed and shimmered.

the dazzling gold of summer skins

and thin sweaters of winter

burned my eyes.

"too bright, too much," i said.

i thought about the guy who hit on me at the bar.

a searching arm encircling my shoulders

making small talk about my "look"

and asking me about my "writing."

i thought about my complete cynicism

the complete certainty that this is not what i want.

i turned on my side.

now

i was trying to think about how much i hate both of you.

i tried to think about the time that i dragged you through brooklyn

in the ice and cold and stayed with you in the bathroom while you were sick,

being completely okay with being there for you.

i thought about every time you berated me for believing him,

about the time you were ready to toss aside our friendship (mid-cigarette, begging not to hear what you said in late night texts)

because he made you believe that we were against you.

i tried to think about how you were rude and cold when i told you about my break-up,

i thought about how you said you always hated him

and suddenly didn't.

in fact,

you thought you felt exactly as i did.

i thought about you have a pity party every time that something hurtful

happens to another.

"but that's nothing like me and roger" or "i'm having a shitty week" to excuse your outbursts.

i thought about how i was okay with this when i shouldn't be.

i thought about how out of everyone

you two are the only ones that i excuse.

i tried to think about how i don't hate either of you

at all.

and in the midst of this storm

i always came back to one though,

about leaving it be

and letting the two of you be together;

knowing that the happiness of two

is more important than of one.

i could only keep thinking about what you never allowed me to have.

so i'm packing up specialty beer bottles

and a year's worth of hope

and shipping them off to you.

they're yours now.

make sure to tell yourself that it'll be okay at night

and wake up prepared to face uncertainty at every look

every touch

every word.

(folk song in c)

i've counted everything

and you should know it.

one day i'll find something

that'll keep me satisfied.

they call me merriam

i wish i was lissome.

daintily sitting on a chair, taking up less space

a hollow parakeet of your creation.

bright, painted eyes

straight-lined smile

we'd sit and talk,

my thin wrist balancing a china cup

as dainty as the imbroglio we had rolled ourselves into.

"i dreamt about petrichor," i thoughtfully added, breaking from my script.

"i guess i miss the unity."

tall and serious, your eyes darken.

with a lick of your forefinger

the page of our script is sharply reversed.

this palimpsest is beginning to wear thin.

just because she likes the same bizzaro crap you do

doesn't mean she's your soulmate.

box of stones

91 items

summers never seem to leave

the gates that you lock them behind.

warmth and belonging

i feel what i wanted to be there

not was.

but the ivy left the yard and escaped into the fall

and the winter.

re-start.

this is only temporary.

give time for yourself.

in sickness

there's nothing to say.

and that's not good enough for you.

bean bag chairs

and nauseating strawberry air freshener,

don't be surprised by how cold i am.

copy & paste-yellow stickie note.

i was caught up in the false illusion that we were all that was, that it was the only thing i would ever find.

every day i find something or someone,

a over-heard conversation, a list left on a desk, the low murmur of headphones

that proves otherwise.

i'm starting to wonder if i want to be

i sometimes forget that our past was in color, too.

the mirror cliche.

being at the crossgates of one's morality and actions,

touching the glass to find something concrete.

worn out.

but this is a part of me

that i don't know.

yellow

forget it

a guilty post.

pop

it open

and fizzle.

i'm not talking about your soda.

clean lines

and simplicity

let's keep this neat and flat

the concept of control

naive.

wish i did this...

but the ev1 called to me.

sleeping lessons

we push through

webs of red mesh

to invert reality

into something

our rods and cones

can fathom;

only the obscene prevails.

the last round

i never felt alone or smoothed down glitter-spheres onto paisley boards;

i guess that's the biggest change.

cool air reminiscent of september reminds me

that this is both an end

and a beginning.

roll of the eyes, cliche smile

chocolate-dipped like my spoon

honey-buttered like chicken.

ebb and flow

ebb and flow

you leave

and he or she will arrive;

bright, fresh, smooth clay

waiting to be pressed

like cotton marshmallow bags.

you mean so much to me, i convey

with meaningful stares

and purposeful exit music [for a film.]

indeed, i have grown

but i feel like the same person.

aging begins

i close my eyes and slip into the abyss

of you and me and everyone we know.

so tumblr.

miss you, old friends.

pooling

with cupped hands i carefully balance oceans and skyscrapers, grass blades and bayonets.

microcosms of the sub-conscious

we pretend that that we drowned these dreams long ago.

i'm soberly realizing that the only curb appeal of our house are the dixie cups stored

in the dusty bathroom dispenser.

wet feet grip the grime covered rocks on a beach you stood on two years ago.

heavily clouded and thick, we could feel that something had changed.

now we stand in front of versailles gardens and kitchen cabinets,

limes in our mouths

and fists in our chests.

falling in love,

we've learned,

is pluralized

and constant.

there is no beginning and no end

just a constant loop of meaningful embraces

and cotton covered laps.

with one last look at what i hold,

a breeze ruffles and the image shimmers

break apart and let the world drop.

synesthesia: navy

on a cold night in april

you eat free ice cream

and listen to an inebriated twenty-something

tell you that you're part of his brotherhood.

standing next to an assumed member of this underground vein,

you knowingly smirk at how he doesn't fit.

and neither do you.

nodding and interjecting at all the right places

the drunk wanders off, content to find some meaning.

walking back with your brother,

cold hand in warm hand,

you blankly realize that you envy him

for finding the purpose you've lost.

run and burn,

quench the thirst

every favorite picture involves blurred dancing

normal-sized numbers that should have been sub-scripted

a cup you secretly wished for being won

the phone left on a bed

an invitation to interview

gnawing reminder that you left the lights on in your room

the soft cotton of your boyfriend's jeans below your cheek on a lawn-nap.

the little things, he shared, are what make your day.

with a simple smile, 

and a thoughtful nod

you concur

with truth 

you had already known about yourself.

delta?

it's been too long.

i can see the blush washing off my skin,

leaving blue-gray stone

cool to the touch.

it's all normal.

effervescence

a fiery laugh

warm throats

and hot liquid.

all melting away like watercolors.

even a sunburn would be welcome.

decay and its effects upon global warming

i'm better by myself, and i know it.

half caught between indecision and hope

you can find me nursing a stale glass of water

on a friend's couch.

gray, march, mid-morning

the day too has found 

a safe space.

you'd think my niche was behind a podium

spreading some sort of fire

but i'm more akin with low-ceilinged rooms

and browned-out lights,

sharing wisdom between sips of something strangely

reminiscent of a rug burn.

i am perishable.

this is just the build up to my half-life.

forward

i realize now 

that you only wanted to be observed,

not loved. 

experiment five.

intrigue.

it's the initial attraction,

the first sign

that you're onto something big.

amazement.

mind so hidden and veiled

can create shakes

that make the richter

quiver.

scratched and unbalanced

it seems too still

for the great movement of

the tide pulling you closer.

amazement.

i never thought it'd be you

and i'm intrigued.

you are cordially invited to the hennepin suites

sitting on dorm beds 

we crisscross our legs like kids on the reading rug.

let's reminisce about drunk brides and place our faith in the future

we've never doubted will be there.

we're glowing in the warmth that shared dreams bring

and feel like something magical is growing here

in the space between our single presents and married futures.

i'm in no rush

and i know that when i'm that drunk bride

you'll be there to make sure pictures are taken.

dear valentine

it's contagious.

summer oh-nine

brushing against crisp grass

and feeling the oppressive heat of a closed car

i'm grimacing in a picture that was never taken two years ago.

a bored expression and feigned apathy 

kills the forced enthusiasm of those preparing to kick me out

but still keep me close.

i hope when i look back on today

i find even more worth in it than i do now.

interview

i love you, jonathan 

even though my father warned to never trust a man 

with two first names.

i wonder if you add an "h" to your nickname when you introduce yourself,

shaking hands comfortably.

your neckline is more u than v-shaped and i see its curve gently draping your shoulders

thin and solid, reminding me of a friend's fingers;

nimble and capable.

you'll probably leave here today and head back to illinois

greeting your history department wife

or your graphic designer boyfriend

for a thick paper cup of caramel coffee,

smiling like a wildfire.

in new york though

i'm stirring a pot of sauce.

you'll roll up your sleeves to wash the strainer while we discuss the plight of tom and betty 

and how we'll never have to suffer like them.

at least we hope for that much.

later, we'll wrap scarves around our u-shaped necks and walk down our cramped block

marveling at the mulberry colored steps

and how we never have a planned destination.

i'm awake and for now that's enough.

i've never dreamed this big.

this sounds like bursts of light

flashing

running out my kitchen door

and slicing my soles on chipped patio.

folding up hopes and tucking them behind medicine chests

detracts from the present;

remember that at some point

you wished for now.

what came first

the fountain or the penny wish?

what does it sound like when you find complete perfection

in the tangles that made western expansion possible?

imperialism is within our nature.

i'll leave this page blank for your records.