As if this will inspire any more posting...I read one of the no-adjective-or-adverb pieces, and I wanted to try it.
I tasted petals, like eyelids opening beautiful softness and sweet centersOh! my wondrous gagYou, my wounding love, so cold and strong You could not hear me over the roar of your own hearbeat
Take as needed:For when you are a mermaid, feet giggling curves over a pool surface, or ratcheting lane lines like protection coils to snake around you or cloudy behind rough towels and raisined fingers all locked up with no place to go, laughter you kept sharing escaping from the squares of your teeth and cascading over the porcelain cup of your chin 2For changing in bathroom stalls that smell like the slippery sweat of tile, grouted to my memory when mingled with the sweet pink soap of your skin3For when I catch you caught on zippers and dripping from the nose, your gawky smile. 4For next time, when I don't want to wake up, cradling my arms and remembering the tangible taste of your lips occurring in my night that will not let me forget- the one where I feel your face and kiss your eyes before I fall into the world, 6 a.m. buzzing in my ears where we will maybe occur, fingers threaded through mine (in and out) seams showing me the way to the trees in your eyes5For when I leaned on your back and we fell asleep, bits of scratched out varnish in our fingernails where we wrote our names in the library tables and were made to be quiet so I told you how it feels through songs so we let the melodies fill our mouths like fillings and even through block chords you didn't quite understand were you ever, ever meant to, a fact is a factIf Symptoms Persist:Remove-White sheets and you falling like rain from the tips of trees and blinking like stars and circles cut from construction paper (did we mean to put ourselves together? Abandoned kisses on your ribs. Holding your stomach and hearing the rumble of your hunger. Forget.
A brand new community looking for more active membersApply today if you think you've got it all glamourweb Usually I don't post these.
Confessions that my mother might tell me if I slept while she spoke, which I never do. It is when you are like this that I am the most upset at things that happen in this life that isn't a life. When I see that fixed frown on your face and I remember who you are becoming and hate that resurrection because it is just too much. The thing is, I read those books. I kept them in this brain of mine which doesn't get too much attention from you and wondered if you would have asked. But you never did, and this is more than less than I expected. This is average. I marvel sometimes that you came from me; how you can be so different and make me so proud in little, insignificant ways which bury themselves in me. Which are simply seeds. Other times, I question. I cannot explain how much wanting can fill these days. How I work so hard and try so much and never seem to see the way your face used to light up, the way you used to cry until you couldn't breathe when I left because you could not remember what it was to return, you were too young and too much of my darling. Cannot explain how much I love you because I mean it more than I could ever say it, mean it more than these words which don't mean what they should. Which don't build you fortresses to keep everything from wounding you, and how you care so much, need so much love from this world that I hurt you to save you from what it is out there, what is waiting for people like you who tend to the world and expect nothing and get nothing and become too small to remember themselves. Become too inward, and rely on saving others to be enough. Cannot tell you how it was then when I had dreams and he was something to me. Was more than a bulk in a bed that doesn't answer me and shuts his eyes which are so dull now, so passive from years of this lacking. When I wanted to love something because there was nothing in this life I hadn't done, and there was something in me that wanted so much more giving, that missed the burnt meals and the lectures about girls and the covering up for those four rowdy boys who became so many men. Missed the pretending that life was some sort of surprising fairy tale in which I would be saved by seven swans that were brothers. How much I wanted to have a body in this body. When I go to bed, I remember love through all the lines you are creating in my face. Through all the sentences that remain entirely unspoken. (Tell you secrets that you could never here, want you to revive me when I don't want to wake up. Want you to walk with me.) How I push my hands together in prayer and push them apart to prevent the atrophy they warn astronauts about. But they, Muppet, have the blessed lightness of forgetting and travelling, of dark that stretches farther than sight. They do not have this weight that comes with dirt and trees and sky. They do not have you. Breathing the words you speak when you keep your head down and wanting to hold you so close so you never forget the arms I have, and telling you how much all right there is in the world. Reminding you how to stay in this place, in this beginning and always return to the derivative. Of crying until no breathing when you go away. "She just flew. Collected every bit of life she had made, all the parts of her that were precious and fine and carried, pushed, dragged them through the veil, out, away, over there where no one could hurt them...Outside this place where the would be safe." -Beloved
This is old. And massive. I can't help it. I write massive pieces. I'm sorry. Exams are killing me and I just wanted to remember beautiful places. MarchI wait for the time when I can subtly surprise you with the expressions I correctly manage to communicate. I imagine dutifully that I can tell you precisely how I feel by simply cornering a page in a book, saving up quotations for the time when you ask me what it is that I feel like saying, to which I will reply Kundera Chabon Faulkner Foer Because you seem to understand this necessity of mine; this funny quality that requires plagiarism in order to hide behind; this blatant robbery of words and phrases in order to show you that I am utterly incapable of telling you what it is that I want to say If it was left to me, some things would never get done. I wonder how many different ways I can tell you all of these things that I pack into my brain, that survive only as synapses and second-hand expositions; how my crowded letters mean to spell “thank you” and “please”, how I attempt to be consciously considerate in my words because I am very fearful of losing everything I look like to you. How my vowels sometimes spin out of control, lengthen and spiral and stretch, to make up for all that distance I seem to be subconsciously creating; my eyes which attempt to liven in order to repair the deadening of all my other features, the sullen eyes and smarmy mouth which do not mean to be so rude. This foolish face that gets constant questions when connected to these extremities, questions like why it is that I look so sad, when it’s just the way I walk. How did I get this impossibly far? I have been passively collecting things, quiet things, private moments that don’t always belong to me; the opening of a door onto a disagreement, someone smiling at an externally private joke, lips mouthing unintelligible words in a wild desperate gasp, a piano in a basement, eyes leaking. I save these bits of people, these collective fingerprints and attempt to make sense of their importance, attempt to detract from my natural purism and apply some pragmatism; make all these little lonelinesses linear… There is no filing system for all of this; no formula or variables; tell me, teach me, talk to me, how do you allow for the ruination of these things? How do you put them in a cabinet somewhere, in little jars and let the world pass them by? How is that we manage to have so much room, so much capacity to forget others, to forget each others and wonder solely, about ourselves? I try to tell you correctly, succinctly what it is that I am always trying to say. What it is that I type onto millions of papers and write in millions of books and hear in millions of songs…that I… I am looking for forgiveness. For millions of different moments in which I can run to someone and cry, cry out all those sterling phrases that glitter and flicker and never hope to dull or not-fade away. How I am possessively insecure about characters and fictional places and themes and metaphors and words. Names. How I wish that spring could never go away because seasons to me have become not-spring until everything is in relation to it and even you are comparatively expressed in ideas like flowers and with adjectives like burgeoning and I hope to God that you never makes these connections. That later on I wonder if someone will adjust my passion and tell me that I am moved by spring because it is rebirth, but I am not like a snake, perpetually shedding skin enough for this to be true. If I love spring because I can be born again; if I love spring because I can be new and different and altered and baptized; if I love spring for these things I will be better, but I never never am. I am constantly the same and spring is not changing me. I am not-not me which is what it would make me. I still dog-ear all my pages and want to get rid of all these phrases that are living in me; that are creating all this lacking void that wants something else to try to fill it. That books are like bullets and sometimes I feel a little empty because I seem to be riddled with holes and goddamn it I will never feel alive if this is how I have to live. To me, missing means more than love because it is all about implications. I am trite with jealousy at the thought of dying without a sentence to my name, a quotable quotient which will be divided from my work and from me; will be adapted and taken out of its meaningless context, to be written with a felt tip marker on a wall or quoted by a precocious teenager, a hull of loneliness in a poetry café. I don’t want either of those things really; I want to just miss all the people I love, and tell them in silent ways that there is never enough of me with which I could accomplish all those wonderful things; to tell them all that I am not one still being, but many moving ones who are ceaselessly thinking and dreaming and never coming true. To tell them why I miss you means more to me than any other expression in the world; how missing someone can be so absently kind if you miss them just for missing’s sake, just for the capability of that ever being an emotion. Why I say I miss you to you when I mean to imply other things; why I say it when I stare at that singular spot on your neck the place where I wish to always hang my head and exhale all the most beautiful words that I suppose I have saved for someone and why to God that person can’t ever be you. I am concepts pressed into books, nouns that never become beautifully flattened flowers that make their antecedent pages fragrant and jammed with longing; instead I leave stains of confusion, oddly underscored endeavors which aim so high and fall too short of falling short. How I rely with passionate necessity on my thesaurus which is old and smells of typewriter ink and sometimes I so ludicrously romantic that I make my self sick. “That was when I learned that words are no good; that words dont ever fit even what they are trying to say at.”-Addie Bundren
I wish I knew what to call this. Or if it's any good.. . .GODDAMNITJUSTLOOKATME she screams. It hurts her to yell like that. She takes pride in her control. But too many days tense and vibrating like plucked rubber bands and metal fatigue erodes that control. Sometimes, she thinks it's like a wall of ice and earth, holding back flames and torrential winds and the need to run and destroy and be heard.Her vision narrows to a pinpoint, focused only on his face. The fact he's so calm. So goddamn calm. The fire roars behind her ears and wind beats at her temples, spreads her fingers into half clenched claws. Out of the edge of the pinpoint, she think she can see black shadows climbing over her hand. Spreading up her arm like inky dark quicksand and clinging like sludge. She shakes her head. The image fades and leaps across, slime-covered lightning, to her other hand. Strangles her wrist like a bracelet and oozes around, trying to find a way in.It reminds her of death. Of burnt and bloodstained ground that refuses to grow flowers, grow life, but metastasizes in thorns and broken rock. Maybe if she touches him, he'll listen, he'll obey this burning, cold ink dripping down her wrist, pooling under her fingernails.She meant to tap him. But the inky darkness sneaks out a tendril and picks up a thick, heavy chopping block. Throws it at his retreating back and oh so confident smirk. The smirk that reminded her she could complain and retreat, but never leave. Never touch him.She watches, apathetic, as the leeching darkness crawls out of his shoulder, disguised in red dye, pretending to be innocuous.And wonders if anybody is really clean anymore.If the darkness on her will stick to the pool of darkness accumulating on the floor. Like when she was young and pushed raindrops together to form clear, cool puddles.
I just posted some thoughts on writer's block over at my blog Mere Words. Your comments and thoughts on the subject are encouraged. Enjoy.
walks. thousands of them. Footsteps mostly though, because I look for the metonymy of things now; search for the separation of parts and the things they are capable of expressing.But I felt trees; walked in windy wanting and could hold nothing, could only feel the remembering of how to walk, of heel to toe and over again, quickening and slowing and heel to toe. I felt memories though; of missing this Brooklyn more than I ever hope to...of learning, teaching myself that I will never come back here twice. That I can never be inside of this place again. There is no hope for any exceptional kindness. But when I balance on both feet and rely on no senses, rely on what would have been whiskers, I feel sky and taste bark between my teeth...imagine how I want nothing more than to feel what I feel like. To dismember this body and put it together in a way that is new, that need no maps, no analysis, because I will have chosen, I will have fixed it as I wanted. New legs first. Tough, skinny limbs that hurt constantly but never complain. I would keep these weak eyes. They are good for blinking. Concise things. Smaller feet. I reunite my eyelashes and move upwards and onwards and look at the dizzying path of sand colored bricks that are set in the ground to make you stop and stare. And here I look to God to beg for some small sign. I say let me grow roots, at last here, become a flowering dogwood and I will reach towards the ground from here until kingdom come. I will exhale, I promise. I will let go. In the hint of heart there is need. I touch my stomach, hold my hip, wait for children to love me. To be my importance. Because I long for the loyalty I put in the earth. The faith I plant and tend to. The unwavering. I hold my stomach. I mistake. Strains of strings and cold night and sweet confessions. Pretends. The words that children learn first. I put together the need for counting, the inventory of my inventions; the wanting to spend that day, that stationary image of sultry sheets and curtains which languidly wait. Which grow silkier with brightness. Window boxes. A world hanging, waiting by our dial tone. How you eat sugar and nothing else, collecting those confections because you were saving up for that time when you ran out of air, when your body refused to make any sugar, when you could use all that pre-emptive reserve, your intentionally intuitive awareness of asphyxiation. You survive. I hold the makebelieve in the palm of my hands, clecnh my hands and make two identical external hearts. I notice now the ink under my fingernails from when I printed the industry in my soul. When you go away, I am big-boned and fey/...In the dirt of the day/And in the dust of the day.