shake my sense of safety like an infant
it is soft, it swells and leaks.
friends will agree to know what I tell them
you will read what you see, but never between the lines
who says no? no body. who has listened
I say help me you make me a drink
I stew and rot
between the sewer and the sky
and the pages, which say
nothing is so hard or important, at least
misery loves company
accompanied I am at my most miserable
you say the right thing after doing it wrong
do the wrong thing but can’t try to say why
you’re still here but I’m left
so leave when I’m right
I can say no with my fist
if the implication doesn’t strike you first
the loneliness obscures
the one who is the worst
If I tell you all this, what will I have left? Maybe nothing will ever happen again.
then again, memories wither and rewrite themselves. Every time I think about something that has happened it changes in unknowable ways and becomes always more sure of itself.
I am having an identity crisis. if I have challenged your concept of identity I have envied it. something vigorous, physical does not slip away leaving you with a void. it is ideas and words that have this tendency. It is still a sentence I identify with, a field where nobody is but me and my longing for it, paired with the knowledge of this common and unprofound longing. It is a fear of women who see all except when they choose not to. my identity is married to the stories I don’t tell.
never have I ever wanted to be somewhere less sometimes. never have I wanted less to be asked a question that wants an answer. When the question is me, the answer is stop. When the question is you, I love you. Take me to you. Let me know that place.
I love it when you look bored
never forget we have bones which grow out of our skulls which we wrap moist flesh around to show each other we are happy. You ought to laugh too
It is hard to ask for what I don’t want and harder to convince myself that I want it.
What I want can’t pay for the pleasures I have grown accustomed to. A question was posed to me: Is pleasure truly pleasure, or a sedative?
The sunscreen has run out. I am sorry I do not love the ocean. I prefer to enclosed by mountains or trees, or a prison of my own making.
The open shapelessness frightens me.
goals are like lovers:
you shouldn’t have too many,
and shouldn’t pick the ones that are sure.
Remember when my goal was to make myself feel everything?
how horrible that was
and then, my goal to make myself stop feeling?
how I beamed with achievement
before throwing myself down the stairs.
now I lay supine, Saturday or not
well-meaning shrieks in both ears
WHY DON’T I LIKE THIS, THAT, NOUN, VERB
at times I think I must feel more like you than you ever did.
Today I read the missed connections.
A man was writing to a woman. She asked him what the difference was between the N and R train routes. She wore a blue coat, a blue dress, and blue boots.
The man writes about how he wants to spend his life with her. He has lost all taste for other women.
Subjectively, she was tall and classy. Objectively, she wore all blue.
This seemed important to me, as the beloved mystery woman was dressed as all people were dressed in a dream I had. Only blue.
I wonder if is lovely to be her. I wonder if you can be strengthened by love you are not aware of. He is actively pining. Expending energy typing, wishing, dreaming.
What real reaction can a dream expect?
She stopped to ask him for directions once. It was 2014.
It’s only in New York that people say “on line” rather than “in line”, when waiting in order for something. I still say I am in line. I’m in it, although being on it sounds a little more aggressive; somehow implies having a little more control of the situation.
This observation has largely coincided with a completely unrelated personal shift.I used to think the most important thing in life was to be in love. Lately it has occurred to me that it’s terrible, if not altogether impossible to really be “in” it. To be in it is to be too close, too involved, too concerned. To be on love is maybe to accept the highs, but to remain above it, on top of it, distanced from it in a way.
A garbage person without a suitcase to leave with
wet-brained loneliness in piles on the floor
freedom seemed like being gone while here.
Happy to carry sadness in a backpack with short straps
happier to imagine myself as a wart on a finger
carried along. only a slight annoyance.