the modern day runawayher distant memoriesgave way to dreams ofblurred birds andthin-bodied bladesof grass touchingbare skin of hesitantmoving legssoft-step foot paths throughstill wildernessin REMinsecurity creeps as hiddensnakes, only the rustling hearddevouring hermouse spiritonly a forgotten gasp heard by her sleeping partnerand in the morningshe retreats to the chill ofinsulated rooms and the ac drip;she falls asleep,this time, to the cubicle shrill phone ringand she dreamsof dreamingin forests
words for the anxiousinescapable fingers curled cage upon her facelips, red and parted, shine through phalangeal barsgentle nostril flair as she expels airand inhalesfluttering hair draped, touching tangled thoughts draining darkness creeps up her throat , encompassingher whole being to shake muscles aching and tensed bymuffled murmurs (indecipherable, unimportant)her trembling chingiving in to terror of some unknown threat still present and reflected in wet eyestears trapped in surface tension shimmergasp over the lump in her throat obstacles for oxygenmind is losinglost
rhythmic rain and words for dead treesthis funeral-black night begins withpiano notes soft as the rain soakingleisurely into wood thirsty for the warm essence of heavy drifting clouds clack dripclickevoke dead writers withvintage typewriters, fadedink stamping out new storiesfrom old wounds the waythe poets do, old poets withnew admirerstonight, findimmortality resides in watersliding down a fogged windowleaving behind a clear trail--the way to see out into the natural world waiting. alive.listen.to the trees breathingsweet wooden beings-- they rattle rain-streaked glass with their oxygen-laced wind.you.
list(en)out-of-tune guitar stringsthe pad of barefoot feeta tickle of calloused fingerslaughter lostin a maze of sheetsthe smell of morningand silence in ceilingsinterrupted thoughtsby softsleep breathingand the yawn of a curtainless windowthe sky in the eyes of a comforter-warm room, fresh blueholding all precious thingsyoudon't you dare leave mealone
apatothe ocean air is sellingmoist and salty caressesthere is a metaphor to takein each skimming wavebut I am tired so Iso I willwill let it restmy turning mindwith the tidesand breathewith the gilled creaturesbelow the rhythmic surfacegulping gaping gas-gasping fish mouthsmine will open too andopen till wide enoughfor the cry clenched in mythroat to caw-clawits way out till I amchorusing with the seagulland if I fallinto the water nowit will envelop mewrap its foam arms aroundmy corporeality touch its crest to my headkiss me deadI will be complacentin its sea indoctrination this is how I will stayabove the darknessinfinite below me
firefighteryou aremetaphorically beautiful--what do I mean by that?you are the bonfire in the summer sandin the setting sun. you are the setting sunwhen the flames align with the horizon;your eyelash touches are a thousandwishes coming true in a single breath.you are yesterday today and tomorrowall in a kiss, a constant reminder that life isn’t so bad so unfair so impossible to live.butI forget reality in your eyes--I mean literally, you are not a bonfire. you set the bonfire.and you’re not a flame, only attached to the fingerpassing across it in a dangerous tease. you areeyelashes and breaths and lips but you are alsosynapses misfiring and calling me the love of yourlife who you do not mean. you have life in youbut you are not life and there is something beyond you.someone else beyond youthat I must reach for and I must,in the name of her,imagine new metaphors.
a letterdear you,when you feel smallknow that there has to besomeone in your worldor only outside it wishingyou would notice them.that's justhow life works,whether you like it or not.while you are looking far off,skimming the ocean in your headto the horizon holding secret wantsyou believe you'll never touch burned and buriedin that sunken, dying star--someone out there has fallendeeply, unwaveringlyin love with you.for instance, it could be me.I could be--amin love with you.hypothetically speakingof course.will you--I mean,would you take a ride with meif you knew? would you walk awayfrom futile watching atop your rocky sea precipice to eat greasy fries at a cheap diner, laugh into milkshakeswith me, hypothetically.can I--would you, let me write you a poemon a used napkin branded with your lip glossstains about lovers that aren't us?I swear. could you nottalk about that one guy you likea lot("he has his issues but he
misunderstandings left. youwhen we finally felt right, turns out, we were wrong. I fell.
meditationthe blueblack sky yawns;a many star-eyed angellit from the insidebright white and waningshe closes her wide open mouthswallowing the howl she closesher moon mouth, her inner sunsare cold, stillthe universe, full of emptiness,lays her heaviness upon the worldin the darkness our heads turn upwardand there from the pearl roundness a whisper"not tonight"and someone enters Nirvanaalong her quiet, hidden tongue.
repelwe are nevertouching--none of us.every embraceis a microscopicromeo and julietperformance.and I wonder, if we are living on earth, an electron,and the sun an atom of an armis offering comfort,then maybe, the solar system adjacentis the atom of another's shouldertrying desperatelyto feel the other'sskin, warmth, love.and there is something scary about thatthere is something scary about thatthere is something awfulaw-fulabout howwhen you are crying and I am cutting thestream off at impasseit is impossible for my atomsto push against your atomsit is impossible for my beingto more than mingle with your beingand in the crisis of your heartbreakin the crux, I am holding you in some unrealized empty way.I am hugging you, solar system to solar system,with all these light years between us.
cheerswritten some secondhand after five am,after staying up too late tillit seemed too earlyto be waking uptired.into the twilight ofgoodbyes and silences,I yawn and stretchand ask the moon,disappearing in the light,for one more dreamto drink and forgetbefore night'sclosing time.
dusk resolvehe stands stiff as a treeamong trees -- blue jeanbark and brown leather branches;cold finger leaves.twilight lays down in the clearing;smoke settles in a young man'srespiring cavities, his loyal alveolisuffocating from the inside out--he is afraid to let the stimulant lightgo out, die before his time.as he breathes heat into a cuppedpalm, hushing a forest fireclose to his slow-heaving trunk,some ways away burns another,embered as a sunset,huddled blurred in the brushlike a covert witness.he has writtena contemplative contract in flame shadows upon his face. and the stern gaze in the still evening says,he will timber on his own terms.
overwhelmedtodayi am small. worlds collapsewithin me.
BetweenSomewhere betweenasleep andawakebetweenyears ago andforeverbetweenmymemories and mydreamsI miss you
waking upand imagine my surprisewhen my insides bloomedinto so many dandelions,and in a single breathi becamehollow.
cool breeze across sultry skinorange morningriversidein the wind reeds bend like backsyours arches like a bridgein my breathand my two lips cross your soft skin connection to reach the endthe heartlandopen and waiting for me
justit started out as a message of honest to god tearshonest to god honestyand she was saying she was saying she wasa mistake and we were we were mistakingmeaningless signs for road signs to somewhere wherethe great elsewhereand a qu-quiet whisper-per transformedtwisted twisted and bent and bled andher voice her voice became this monster this monster offeedback and static and feedback and feedback and heartache(the sound of heartache rips the space between your ears till you are nothing left but lightness and heaviness all in one space all in one spaceand you can't breathe you can't breathe you can't fucking breathe or hear or see or taste a goddamn thing)it was all noise noise noise noise no-oise-sebouncing in the fissures of a love-torn mindand it was it was the sensation of falling awaythen the greatness of the jumbled sounddissipated like a f o gandyou saw along the path w
Don't Think.it's meant to be listened to:http://sta.sh/022gwea0ee6ohttps://soundcloud.com/gravitycorner/dont-thinkI remember in Psych 101,when the professor proposed a gamecalled Don’t Think.He said, “For the next minute,don’t think about red elephants.”So the trick was to think about anything elsebut the red elephant.That was the longest minute of my life.I thought surely I will dieunder the weight of this--No don’t think about it!The sweat dripped down my templesand my lips got dryand I couldn’t stopblinking or thinkingabout purple giraffesand orange hippos and polka dotostriches and redredbut then the minute was up and I let out a sighand I could feel my arteries dilateand I could feel my cells breathing again andI could see the red elephantand he could see me.That elephant in my mind’s roomwas easy to accommodate after all theother animals had leftwhen it was just me and him.I forgot wha
things i have come to know about the sky1.you are endless, a backlit canopyor stage of infinites; some sayyou speak to them in low murmurs,that you rain judgement down upon us,i fear you not, you've caught my eye a few timesbut i only looked up to see whatthe hype was all about2.when i was born, doctors said i was blue—cerulean as the sky,entering the world with clenched fistsand held breath—battle though this life may be, always itwill be by my rules3.scientists say the sky is like an onion;layers of celestial sphere you can slice offwith a thumbnail, 217.5 miles of teary eyes& thick skinwe know not of what it is that compelsgravity to roll this sorrow down our faces4.in some cultures they say the sky is athronedom, an altar for the gods; weather,an instrument of rageful indifference,a beautiful devotion worthy of arthritisand a place in our school books5.you torture us as the romans did,we the bread for your melancholy circuses;apathy never looked so poeticas you do when you pain
DisintegratingI was never one of the birds,Just silly enough to look into the skyAnd pretend.There's a man I know; he's forgotten a piece of himself, I think.He says he can't fold the butterflies anymore.He's lying, I promiseAnd I love him anyway.I never understood him when he said I was made of soot.The hurricane boy's at my window again. HeComes to me late at night and taps on the glass."The weather is so lovely this evening," he tells me.I go outside and he trades me his rainwater tearsFor all the beats my heart has skipped.He keeps them in manilla envelopes and hides themUnder his bed.I've become addicted to the dreaming, to make-believing I'm blind and deaf for a little while.It's starting to be too difficult for me to tell which is wakingAnd which is sleeping any longer.My chronic day-dreamingIs getting worse. I can't even remember them, and I'm losing trackOf the days.Maybe if I close me eyesFor just a few minutes more.
now here's to you, tomorrowDear you,this is just to say that you are beautiful;that the earth you stand upon is as old as timeand you are not, for you are simply a momenta star shining sand speckled pillar of brilliancefor which we make up stories to tell our children.I, too, began the journey of scholarhood ripe withopportunity, perhaps too manygood intentions, a loaded spark rather than abreathing ember, looking up & out for the scorchingradiance that lay just below the skin;This is not to say that yours will bear any likeness tomine or that you are governed by any relevant principles,only that we share more than you might think—the present is a gift to us from the invariable past,from us to the inevitable future,to be held without expectation except to live vicariouslythrough the blissful momentum of experienc
In my bathroom againGod's in my bathroom again,he's shaving the patches of hisbeard and pulling clown-facesat the soap. Last nighthe held me as I lay in a fever,made little screams, keptthe hot tongues from my face,the mushrooms from myspine.He says his old girlfriendtried to drink his blood, thatit messed him upfor a while. He saysit's been a long time.God looks sad, jingling histeeth at me like loosechange. The clicks of myheart make me sick;folding his pyjamaswould bethe kind thingto do.
because i have toimpaled& wreaking havoc on theseyoung bonesmore than endorphins &planes out of controlpretending that ifnot-so-masochisticallyi--p a r a l y z e d:a manifestationinstilled in bedsheets& ghosts
not grief, but something like itmy grandmother's tartan bag sits on an upside-down bucket in the basement,full to the brim with little liquor bottles and cardboard boxesI go to do the laundry,pass it twice an hourand every time, just for a moment, I think she's visiting
To ConsecrateWhen you first met me,All you could see was a snow white glovejutting up from the filth I let them bury me in,digits half curledwrist arced and carpels tangledas if I had once strainedto reach up for something more,but had long since given up...Your fingertips were my Autumnas I walked backwards through Winter-A sleepwalking shadowspurred on only by sound of a melodic voiceand the faint whispersof a promisethat I was worth more than ash and dust;It's been two years since you first coaxed me up from the mire.I opened my eyes into a hurricane,reached out to grasp at the hem of your dressonly to come up shortwhen I foundI was still chest-deep in the mud;You slipped away between the raindrops,Leaving me with one last promise:"Follow me.You can do this."I put my hands to the ground,pushed with everything I was-Pushed till my ribs cracked,my tendons tore,till my arms snapped like rotten limbsand I bled out from my eyes.But I pushed.The next time you saw
comatosethe body toys withthe idea ofs l e e p.
buried lifei could make my life like buckets,fill them all half full with sink waterwash my hands and make lists from the splash:live on a sailboat, travel the world under stargazing watersgrow something from the ground upfuck like a promise in the spires of the taj mahaleat southeast asia like a cherry blossom sunsetswim to new zealand, romp with the black sheepsnuggle with africa in savannah bedsheetsspend a week in the silence of my steampunk mindhave tea with the dalai lama, tickle the wisdom from his golden bonesburn a man in the desert, from crop circle cities west of nowhere, center of out thereget punched in the face for something you believe incommit a felony with a loved one, get away with itinspire a revolution, dream like a loudspeakerexplore metaphysically that which you cannot touch, grab it by the earlobebe shaken, not stirred, thrown on the rocks and left for the dry lipped vulturescry in front of your brothershare secrets with a stranger, take them to lunch and
and we wondered how she spends her daysmost days, she is afraid to be.some days, she looks into the sky and sees herself fallingand then ceasing to be."one day" she says, "one day I will beafraid to bedead."