i came home and ate a whole bunch of crisps*
*and felt sorry for myself
i wanted to write something about the lost black glove sitting twisted and strange in the middle of the downstairs hallway. something about a dead bird. flightless and trapped. the dullness of the summer night air. but i didn't.
one time when we were driving together in your car i said to you
this untitled paper out the midst of others unrelated
i am not myself
this fever like the whole world has been covered over in vaseline. blurred. too slick to grip. these days i feel like i'm forever falling. like i'd rather have back those days where i'd lay for long hours curled up on the bathroom floor weak and spilling out the remains of the days upon days before that when i'd been too sick to eat anything anyway. my bathroom. windowless. a space where the passing of time doesn't exist. with or without the lights on. right now i'm facing the world doped up on pain killers and instinct.
This morning I'm struggling with the best possible way to tie back my hair. The perfect outfit. Anything to reduce this driving residual pain shooting out from my left ear and down my neck and throat. I'd write a poem about the way the pain represents all the delicate and sad ways I'm losing you. If I didn't think that sounded so god damned idiotic and tired. I think pain makes me angry. Right now I'm listening to Damien. The disc I bought when I went to see him in some small bar in Chicago and no one knew his name. Or mine for that matter. Drinking hot tea and milk. Honey. If I wrote poetry. I'd write the right words like a secret all over my body and make you read it with the tips of your fingers.
I've been writing you a letter. About skin and bones. The Ethernet. Sometimes it begins I've been to London three times since you held my hand--buried your face in my hair--and said you loved me in line before the international terminal . Sometimes it doesn't. Usually, probably, I'm writing to the wrong person. Today. Here. The sky is waiting storms. I breathe it in. Full of August flowers and destruction. The monochrome of the day makes life seem more navigable. It's been ages since I've fallen in the shower. And I no longer require you for picking up my pieces. Sometimes I wonder if all my transgressions have coalesced. Crawled into my left ear and taken residence. This dull residual ache. Like the slow crushing sound of my bed frame under the weight and pressure of bodies. Moving.
She stands in the shower, lately. Thinks too hard about those times in the rain smoking spotted cigarettes in the late cold grey afternoons with him. Talking against the air like the overflowing ashtray of a used car. She misses the way his right eye used to close involuntarily when the sun sparked them both momentarily through the clouds. The secret ways we move impressions on one another without words. Her nose drips red against the tub floor. Involuntary bleeding. Slides away in splatters. She regrets that they never kissed. Presses her forehead into the cold wall. The back of her hand like a bandage against the openings of the nose and mouth. Wonders if the memories will stop with the blood. The shower is the only safe place to stand. These blood years. He waved from across the street. And she felt the weight of his love in her mouth. Like a rock on the tongue.
j and i discover
tonight it feels like someone--at the end of the pages in pictures that would have made up my life--has started plucking out the still silent screaming images of memories. one by one.
a scene in the first 5 minutes of
in the middle of the paragraph describing Lily's gambling problem that ruins her financially (House of Mirth, Wharton) there is an ad for a special high limit master card for students~
when i was a little girl my grandmother,
ate 4 25 cent tacos at a dive-bar with 3 of my most favorite handsome and charming men
17 hours ago I walked into my boss's office and asked for my job back. I started immediately. I'm doing that thing again where I can't stop the desire to run, everywhere. And sleep is something I think I might have had last week when the world felt like brand new snowflakes and the safe angle between the arm and the body. Maybe I'm like that character in the short story I can't finish who increases her speed in order to avoid imagination. Ruckfall, registriert sie bei sich. But to what end? There's always an irrational purpose, only don't ask how, don't ask what pretexts one gives oneself. The plan is likely dubious. If you can find one at all.
Fear strikes me down. Sometimes. Makes my insides turn and fade like the edges of paper in fire. To sit in corners. Back firmly against the seam. For as long until it's gone. I forget what it feels like to kiss. My tongue caught between my teeth behind closed dry lips. Eyes wide. Open. Ready to run. Sometimes, I'm confused by the simplest of tasks. Whether or not to open a bottle of wine. For one glass. For myself. Even though it was purchased for this purpose. To be enjoyed. Drunk. It wasn't expensive. Special. I'll save it for another time. When anyone else but me wants a glass. This is the way I wait. Worry over things that don't deserve the time out of bed after a nightmare in the early morning when night is still outside the window. It's the one about the tornado. In this same darkness he said as if he were stating the obvious, you're just as important as everyone else.
is the name Gair cool, or does it just sound like what you might call a really close friend named Gary?
when every last hair on my head stands up like a fire and fights and tells me that everything i've ever done in my life has gone wrong and the world feels like walking on rocks and my teeth ache and i think that standing in the shower naked under the cold streaming water might be the only reality that feels palitable and less lonely, i hold you tightly in my head. wrap your small burning figure running away from the horror and danger of the world and the power you found in your fingers through words to get you through. and i think, this life for me should be easy. not filled with fire bombs and flight. there is love around me. and there is light and wonder and words, always, waiting, to fill up the dust remains.