Moving

everythingisruinedforever.tumblr.com

see you there.

After All

I felt a fool waiting down here all alone. Before I left to meet you, I’d stalked the aisles of the liquor store. The fat man who opened the door to me grinned so widely, so shy-making, looking up at me from under long lashes. His eyes took in the hair-band, the pumps, the cream stockings, the edge of the garter belt peeking out from below the pencil skirt. “Well, aren’t you just a doll,” he’d cooed into my curls as I sidled by.

I’d splurged on cigarettes, and then, after smacking the pack thoughtlessly against my open palm, I’d given it to the next few fingers that reached forward with a paper cup. I regretted it once I reached the sand, of course- sat sucking in and blowing out the wind between pursed lips, and thinking, goddamn, what was that?

In the dawn of summer, everyone had taken turns sitting me down and trying to talk the Marine out of me. But all it really took was a few months of stress, built up through long workweeks where I spaced out in front of the foreclosure database, in my dark cubicle surrounded by manila folders, and whenever I came in and up for air, I thought desperately, is this all there is?

My mother says now, You didn’t really mean it. You weren’t ever going to join. You said, You don’t have it in you.

But you never knew me well enough.

When you left that morning, you said, I’ll be back next week. You’ll see me coming in over the ocean. I’d walked that beach where lizards ducked their divided tongues between stones. My lips were swollen with the wine which had turned sour with waiting. I hid bottles among the dunes and opened myself behind the tall grasses. You know how I’ve always hated the beach but there I was. In another world, it’d be a testament to you. But I sat there all day, hair in my eyes, sand in my teeth, until the sun sunk way down below the dark water.

You know I’m scared of the dark- and it wasn’t enough, knowing the moon would follow me home.

The week before, I’d layered up a mango and prosciutto salad, and picked up the phone to hear, “Where are you? I am in Milan and we are going to Venice in an hour.” It sounded like The Stranger, sounded like fried meat and potatoes on the beach.

Yes, I was that girl looking at guns in the library, committing them to tracing paper with pen and ink. And yes, I’m the one who cleaned my windowsills with turpentine because I liked the smell. And yes, I’ve been writing a letter a day since May, and yes, I’ll write you (anyone!) one if you’d like, and I’ll maybe fill the envelope with pressed flowers or sequins or hand-copied recipes, to show how much I could love you if you’d let me.

Nothing that is real is not eternal. I had that dream again, one of those dreams where you seam-ripped a precise cut down my back and pulled out a string of interwoven veins, all spider-like and glistening. When you put your hand in again, you felt up my spine carefully with a thumb and forefinger, and then plunged your fingers deep into the seductive mess of muscle. It is not courage if you are not terrified.

It wasn’t enough, knowing the moon would follow me home. The road was dark, the cab was darker. I’m afraid you were Icarus after all.

Response I.

Your room is not too big, but mine was small. My little shadow cave. Yellow light and peach and marmalade. Fat kettle ready to boil, collection of mismatched china cups. could give me a minute and if the sun had down for hours but you couldn’t sleep for wanting, i’d cook you up a warm bowl of rice and lentils, pasta and pesto. I’d yearn for avocados in my hands.

“I’m suddenly so tired.”
“Always.”
“It’s your fault.”
“No. This room.”

The last day, when my room was in shambles around us, all I had left was a can of baked beans and some bread. I stole a thin half-stick of butter and fried up the bread in a forgotten pan, nuked the beans in my only clean bowl. We slurped it up sitting cross-legged on the floor across from each other, with the food in between.
Full of surprise, Sunboy dug in and said,“You can make ANYTHING taste good.”

I’m tired and I miss this and that and sleepiness is no fun when I cannot loll around indefinitely in bed, curling absentmindedly around someone else. But I’m moving and I’m seeing and I’m getting things down.

Last night, I slipped into my pink gauze tutu, covered my chest in yellow tigers, and rocked the dance floor hard. Shaun matched in neon animal prints, his gold pants and my gold shoes. The other girl in the car says, I’m a junkie. A junkie. But it’s over. No more. My bra was full of money and his smile was full of teeth. Gorgeous gay boys with slick hair and jazzed fingers trailed their hands along my skirt and grabbed my arms with their eyes full of happiness. All those buzzed, pierced dykes holding onto their girlfriends and their eyes asking if we could touch. The bouncer slips his hand the back of my arm when I pass, and I turn- “What?” “Nothing,” he says, and grabs a fist of my tulle for a few seconds before letting go. He looks at me hard, and when I don’t give in, then the ground. I laugh and hurry down the steps.

Summer To-Do (Too Due?)
- La Comedie Humaine
- Sausages from scratch (chicken & lavender)
- Embellishing furniture
- Fitness training
- Banjo?

I’ve been having this fantasy of when I see you in the train station and we’re arrested because I hold your body to me so fast and so hard and we cover each other with our hands that travel up and all over and mouths are everywhere and obscene in their gaping and pressing teeth and tongue whereever skin is bare, in the small shifts as you raise your arms above your head and I can touch my lips to a stretch of stomach, a shy collarbone. Just thinking of the power in the momentum of our bodies and the widening eyes, the inevitable nervous tap on a shoulder or a small but definite touch of a back, the “ExCUSE me, Miss, Sir,”squeezes my chest. I feel tears rising, and I’m not too sad or too happy but just too much. Choke it up, and go downstairs.

You Say Goodbye, I Say Cello

The 40th anniversary of the summer of love. Mannequins are dripping with headbands and embroidery and we drink tea in the food court before wandering racks of pearls and grays and muted greens. When Violet leaves in a flurry of lost car keys and wide-open smiles, I gather up neons and animal prints and pink hair dye. Find pink suspenders and two poufy net skirts. I plan fishnet thigh highs and raving with my heart open- I can already see Sunboy on the stage, rolling out the beats. I thumb over the fabric in the changing room and make fists of the netting. I can see where I will flatten out, where, come fall, I’ll be all dangling legs and teal sunglasses, perched on the brick wall that runs along the dining hall, laughing and holding up a strawberry red sucker where the cigarette should be.

I was late to Violet’s, as usual. Malcolm stalled me in the kitchen, pushing me into his latest dance steps. “This is the Pick-Pocket,” and looping me back around so the room spins. “No…you know the Pretzel? It starts like that, but then your hand- take mine here, but no, not over your head--- yes, well! It’s like the Texas Twist, but…”
Violet and I. Tequila out of a slim bottle and cokes that grew warm in the lightning as I wove winding through one-way streets and pulled over and over to call home. “This”, Violet says, “is my sorority nightmare. Listen.” I knew us both in high school and can’t believe where we are now. Violet says,” I love our talk.” Labels are not our souls. Does it matter?

“I really want to believe,” she says, “I want to go to heaven.”

“What’s heaven, Violet?”

“I need to believe,” she says.

I called ahead and she said the pantry was only full of celery and peanut butter. I made us sandwiches from a fresh baguette. Thinly spread mayonnaise and pesto, with red onions, melted cheese, grilled chicken, crisp lettuce and plump tomatoes. I packaged them up and brought them in a little brown paper bag with a small tupperware of pineapple and strawberries. We eat on stools, drinking water, laughing too loudly. Violet called a few times before, but Malcolm found me and brought me to her clifftop- the one where we dangled our legs off in the early AM and smoked stolen cigarettes.

After shops, I’m sitting on the side of the road with my head in my hands in the heat. Two buddies and a slut to my left, on a bench, bitching out. the guy nearest has a spiderweb tattoo and a teardrop. Those waists inside were far too small; I could cup them with a single palm. The shops were stained with second-hand wigs and sweaty-haired boys hawking electronic cigarettes, but I was home eventually.

I snap out of impatience and sweat, change into the blue 40s-esque with pale pumps, do up my eyebrows and mouth like a rosebud. The dinner party is underway- full of fireflies and mosquitoes, couscous and fresh fruit and sorbet. I have a tall glass of white wine and my mother watches me carefully under heavy lidded eyes. Peter plucks out blues on the double bass, the boys on piano and saxophone, and Malcolm with my high-hat and snare. He says they aren’t mine, they belong to everyone, but I washed a car to buy those jazz sticks. I record them for 26 seconds and send it to Sunboy. I clean every dish.

Kirsten came back this week, 10 years out of this country. I am disconcerted by age. Mum says, You can’t blame people for their lives. It’s true. Tried to make it work, find some of my old idol in the woman before me, but I was yet a babbie when she left. And in spite of the rich leather and silver and gold-rimmed china and the staff who are condescending to my Irish mother, we are unimpressed. The tables around were full of Ladies Who Lunch and their red-faced husbands, who ordered more unsugared ice teas with a self-assured flick of their wrist. I arrived with a look of leprosy but by the time we returned for more buffet shrimp, barely grilled and marinated weakly in butter and soy, I caught those familiar eyeings of middle-aged businessmen and their anorexic wives trying anxiously to turn back their heads. All the same, consumed too much peanut noodles- blame G for eating peanut butter crackers and then forcing my lips to meet hers.

Two days ago, I twisted spaghetti around a fork and shared bottled rose with Nicole and Coletta. Baby cups, and I chose the yellow one. Snuggled up on couches, small naps until daybreak. Hungrily devoured hours and hours of vampires fucking and biting and killing and copious amount of blood. Slept a few meager hours, and then back to lunch with my mother’s best friends from years ago. So trim and eager still. I had ten minutes, but pulled my hair back tightly, polished those sandals, breathed out the shallow creases in the dress that is the same color as my sheets, the ones we’ve fucked on, the ones on which I have loved you for the world’s worth! I made tea with milk and sugar and we all sat on the porch. I thought about making a summer pudding, with fresh berries. I guesstimated sugar and the double-boiling of blueberries, but there wasn’t time.

Hours into the languishing sun, I sat in the garden and called you. Sunboy. I am listening to the CD you made me in the car. Sometimes I go into the garage and sit in the car and listen to some of the songs. Maman says, That is dangerous. So I drive around and run the gas down and two days ago, I felt my heart wrench when I took a left hand turn, and my eyes considered crying. You very truly have ruined me. We’re all pictures for sad children. All of us.

When I was still hammering out the pornography, Owen brought me hot McDonald’s fries that reminded me of the night before- the night Malcolm drove me home, documentary-style, cursing out cops and talking out shovels and smuggling. Owen reminded me of being in the car moving quickly through the dark, then left the room and fell down the stairs.

The first friend I saw was Tricia. There were three dinners First Year-style, cheese and spring onion quesadillas fried quickly in butter, with apple schnapps that Mother had bought as a soft drink and had been feeding to the children. Malcolm lurching and laughing and making sloppy salad dressing sandwiches. We boiled a pound of edamame with butter and salt, and watched High Fidelity until the next day. In the morning we fried eggs and drank cups of tea. Tricia says, This reminds me.

Today, wiping up blood from my ankles and porcelain cream pumps. What is that? says mother suspiciously. I dance too hard. I have mosquito bites and blisters on the soles of my feet. I like plans about the future, I like laying down tiles with my bare hands, grout under my fingernails. Or I don’t have fingernails, because I’ve watched lots of films by then, recently, and I never notice the slimness of fingers in my mouth in those rooms of space and absence of lights.

I can’t sleep because I’ve read a book about amnesia and I’m worried. The gym in less than four hours. The sun will barely be up when I slip on my shoes and pound out rhythms.

A little girl, all baby face and toddler-thumbed fell face down on the escalator. Her feet struggled above her head and her hair snaked into the moving steps. Violet and I stared, and Mall Rats became heroes.







something which is worth the whole,
an inch of nothing for your soul.

5 AM

When I cry, I can feel it in my calves, my veins shudder.

We’re too quick to love, to quick to live.
But I have a red cherry juicebox, and I have a red duvet to drown in, and
things
get
better.

You Know What's Cool? GOING CRAZY.

What My Paper Looks Like, Seven and a Half Hours Before It is Due, After Putting In Thirteen Hours of Work:

THESIS

I agree with --Mark Danner makes some excellent points about ---- COMMUNICATION is extremely important.

POLITICAL JARGON/DEFINITIONS/The problem with words

- Defining terms/words differently/ in vague, open-ended ways
- Refusing to acknowledge TORTURE means TORTURE

DID THE TORTURE WORK & DOES IT MAKE A DIFFERENCE IF IT DID

-we don’t know
- WE DEMAND ANSWERS!!!

** I would like to note that although this post claims to have been posted around 1am, it is actually 4:30.

edit:
5:35 am. The birds chirping outside my window have never seemed so disheartening.

Asked for Answers and Got a Head Full of Heroin

Urgent heavy knocking on the door at 1am. The toilet is flooding- fully, spectacularly. The drain on the floor can’t swallow fast enough, and water rushes out into the hallway in rolls and waves. I dig my wellies out from under the laundry and books of poems, and dial for help. The dorm is suddenly full of big guys in security jackets, loud voices, keys jangling on belts, bottom lips pushed out with chewing tobacco. I missed the dinner at Manor, and Moo Cow for sleep. Woke and pit-pattered around the landfill. Ate some mozzarella with tomato relish, falafel, raisnets. Still hungry hours later, I boiled water, and ate ramen out of a cup with chopsticks. I’m shivering with fever, sitting on my bed with my heart pounding in my ears, drowning in piles of unfinished work. Watching Fawlty Towers instead of sleeping.

- Want to hear a secret? I’m stronger than you.
- That’s no secret.

The Book of Salt:

“Thin Bin, how would you define ‘love’?”
Ah, I think, a classic move from the material to the spiritual. GertrudeStein, like the collectors who have preceded her, wants to see the stretch marks on my tongue. I point to a table on which several quinces sit yellowing in a blue and white china bowl. I shake my head in their direction, and I leave the room, speechless.
…

Your hair looks clean and freshly washed, I thought. An important indicator of anyone’s overall cleanliness. You wear it parted on the left-hand side. A personal preference of mine as well. Your tie is tucked into the V of your sweater. I too prefer a sweater’s soft drape into the buttons and bulk of a vest. Your coat looks warm. I would look good in it. Your hands…your hands? But where are your gloves? Ah, hands like yours will not stay cold for very long. Your eyes, coffee and cinnamon. An infusion to wake me from sleep.

“Well, are you coming in with me, or shall we conduct our interview here in the doorway?”
Your French was flawless but with a slowness to its delivery, unctuous and ripe. I wanted to open my mouth and taste each word. “Interview,” though, slapped me in the face. The word was a sharp reminder that I was a servant who thought himself a man, that I was a fool who thought himself a king of hearts. I got up and walked with you into a stairwell paneled with sheets of sunlight, slipped one by one through the dusty window panes. I followed you up four flights of stairs, and with each step, I was a man descending into a place where I could taste my solitude, familiar and tannic.

Quinces are ripe, GertrudeStein, when they are the yellow of canary wings in midflight. They are ripe when their scent teases you with the snap of green apples and the perfumed embrace of coral roses. But even then quinces remain a fruit, hard and obstinate- useless, GertrudeStein, until they are simmered, coddled from hours above a low, steady flame. Add honey and water and watch their dry, bone-colored flesh soak up the heat, coating itself in an opulent orange, not of the sunrises that you never see but of the insides of tree-ripened papayas, a color you can taste. To answer your question, GertrudeStein, love is not a bowl of quinces yellowing in a blue and white china bowl, seen but untouched.

Postcards to Amsterdam

“I’d rather die terrified than live forever.” Is that true? Are you real?
Waif, according to the English dictionary, still means…well, I’ll let you look it up. But it doesn’t make me like it any less that she calls me green-eyed and deserted.


Rose! Where ever have you gone. I can put signs up, I’ll staple them to trees with my teeth, but I know I won’t find your wishes hanging from these branches. You're the new Paperbag Princess.

And that shy boy, who carefully filled his pockets with strawberry condoms and blushed terribly when he caught my eye; I thought he said his name was Orchid. What shapes make you cry? Oranges. Wristwatches. Nothing else. I want the word YES and I want a beating heart tattooed in between my collarbones. Accidental ecstasy.

Megan unwrapped and opened the box of art and sweets on the fourth day.
Megan says, Now your glitter’s all wet.
She says, Sometimes I don’t think we are so doomed and tragic.
She says, Sometimes I think we might be lucky, with all the lust and love. Heartbreakers yield great power!

We wait long hours at the shuttle stop (after it roars obnoxiously past without pause) until a purple-sweatered girl says, Oh! Let’s have the party here! We have full bottles and full hearts! And boys in high suede boots tried to flag down cars. Gayby says, flash a titty, flash ‘em. He stands out in the road himself, and pulls his shirt down by the neck. A car flashes past, and Gayby returns to a disappointed curb.

For the holidaze, Sunboy and I lit up in the rain, sitting close in the meditation garden. A beautiful rainbow cigarette case full of hand-rolled, carefully. I’d packed my bag full of mint milanos and chocolate milk. We die as ourselves.

He’s mine. Do you wish I were yours? Don’t worry don’t worry don’t worry. When I kiss you, I shall never think of beige.

Sunboy fell asleep in my arms. Tumbled down beside me and when I saw his lips go soft, I knew- as do we all with all our lovers.
- I’m sorry to interrupt your work.
- Work?
- The book you were reading…
- Oh, it’s not work. I was reading e e cummings.
Yes yes yes. Sunboy, sit as you are, always, on my bed with your books of poetry and with the sunlight coming in underneath the blind that is a chorus of yeses in itself and bathes the nape of your neck in sunset.

Sara's smile matches heartbeats and wings.

Sara says, I saw a cloud yesterday that reminded me of you.
Sara says, It was tall and the very tip-top was stained purple and orange.
She says, I just thought you should know I saw you in the sky.

I worry my words become trite and dull when I fall in love. It’s all euphemisms and sunflowers. Maybe I’m better bitter and falling. Current love affair with ampersands & I would have hated this version of myself in highschool. But I don’t mind. Love? Naked picnic, lounging and chocolate kisses, drinking the rest of the red wine from the bottle.

Veins under skin. I stumbled upon yet another indie disco. My fridge is overflowing with chocolate and packets of mayonnaise stolen from the cafe. I can’t watch violence, but give me two hits and you’ll hit the floor before your eyes divide. I like raw meat and I like thunderstorms.

For my 21st birthday, I want money and a meat grinder.

Only Speak Exclamation Marks

To Bruiser: Goodnight, berry. The bicycles glow in the dark.
Bruiser: Are you going to sleep? At least the bicycles diminish the shadows.
To Bruiser: Yes, they are friends I thought.

Bruiser unbuttoned her shorts in the campus center and pulled them down in front of the wide open window. She showed me the newest explosion of colour and pain on her flesh- a pockmarked purple, red gashes and light lemonlime. Gayby took a picture of it, she said. His assignment was something vulnerable. I also found the purple imprint of a tight fist around my ankle, she said. Your ankle? Mine. I am in this room and I am seeing lots of things. Gayby, you can touch me with your picture-making, if you need me, if you need another model of vulnerable and bruised. I am here and I am purple with wanting.

I will use my drink like mace, you will be held down by the wind and the world which moves up sometimes and its acid will pour into your eyes and I can’t find my arms.

Sunboy puts up with too much crazy. I can feel the colour of his robe in my mouth but it is nowhere near my lips. The bicycles are glowing in the dark, I said, I did not know they could do that. Some do, Sunboy said, these ones don’t. My room is full of orange lights, I am in love with neon lights and I am in love with dusk and I love the love-children of these things and I love touching things with this synesthesia. I have listened to this song sixty-nine times tonight, as of now, as of hours ago, when I first started listening to this song. You said, shall I sleep in your bed to take care of you? I said, no, I know I will forget you, and I will think my bed is filled with strangers and their discontents and my heart will burst out of my chest, and maybe the blood vessels in my eyes will escape in their own yearning, and I will cry with blood on my cheeks because I can’t escape it all, I can’t escape it even though I am never like this. Do not leave me because of this, you can, it is allowed, somewhere it is written down that mania is okay but only if you are more beautiful because of it. Mania that makes my eyes almond-shaped and my skin smooth like water, and see through, and if you are able to dip your hands into me like a full bath or a rushing spring, that means something that I cannot take hold of in my fingers, although even when they are not dancing over a keyboard, each and every one of them knows that they are still in love- with each other- and with the brightness of everything around me.

Bruiser says, When I look at the white walls, I am seeing things.

I only speak exclamation marks. Do not look at the white walls, Bruiser. I know you see those faces take shape under the paint. They take shape and then they move forward and come out and they will be hanging in the air next to your face, and you will feel their rubbery lips move down your skin, and when we walk through the dark later, there is no way you will not be able to connect this shivery feeling to the spiders you can feel underneath your shirt, the ones you know are there, Bruiser, but you say they aren’t, but when I mimic them with my fingers, you shiver the way that I am shivering and say, stay on the phone, stay on the phone with me, I will be here in the light, you can make it home. I hid behind a wall from the scarecrows that stumbled drunkenly down the path. They moved their heads towards the noise as I ducked down, twisting all my limbs and my ankle with the handprint aching, and I did not see any faces.

Where are you, butterfly ears, butterfly flowers, feathers, earlobes, imagining wrapping your silk around my skin, I will look up into your eyes and see they are speaking but the sunshine makes distracting shadows and I’m lost on the trail to Narnia like late tonight, when Bruiser and I clung to each other when we saw the post come alive and flap its arms full of papers in the still night. The lampposts are alive, they are coming together and fucking in the forest. Their light pulses with each thrust and we have to watch out walking around, that we do not become blind and pregnant with the scrap of black metal on flesh, the children of lightbulbs, snuffboxes, ivory cigarette holders, and the sun, which sheds tears underneath the mountains when the moonchild rises up and raises its shaggy arms into the sky to choke down stars. You you you, girl, the one that dresses up all ethereal, you know who you are, and you know I have been waiting to see your poetry written down, as calm and as passionate and as everything as I know humans can be. What am I saying? I cannot force anything out of your mouth except flowers. I am not professing anything, except that I want Sunboy to come back into my arms and my lips will find him even if we are deep in a forest and I have been blinded by some apocalyptic explosion of colour- where all colour divorces from things and just sits around in air- and I cannot put my hands on anything because I have no hands- and I cannot walk because the nerves that cross in the back of my head have disconnected and are sparking like loose ends of wires pulled and run over and over and over. Even then, my lips would find him. Anything that stands in my way, I will kill. Sunboy believes me.

When Bruiser was in Wonderland, and I was sitting still at the computer, slumped over in the caves full of broken hearts, with her words in my fingers and my fingers on the keys and the keys opening into the caverns of other people’s chests, I wrote down everything that streamed out of her eyes. This should be your last fiction piece, everyone told me when they found the words lying around on the carpet, but each vowel dug through the floor and seeped into the earth underneath. But we laughed because they were never mine to begin with.

The Hole I Hacked in the Bottom of the Boat

Sleep. Cigarettes. Plunging into murky depths.
Fuck yes! I’ll be ship-wretched with you.

Purple Elephants

I am covered in bandages; my fingers are skinned to their veins. I’ve been torn down. I’m clumsy and I bruise like soft fruit. Sunboy, you have ruined me, being wrapped up in you makes me sick. It’s not bad sick, it’s good sick. I’m all jumbled inside, my heart is beating but it’s somewhere outside my skin; I put both hands into my chest and it’s empty and it’s full and you and I and oh- it’s too, too much. Your mouth is open, eyes are rolling back in my head and our lungs are beating furiously into each other. Spontaneous combustion. Gasps, drowning, the salt of sweat on skin. I will strip down and dive, splinters in my sides, deep down into that abandoned pool. Snap a picture. I’ll hide behind this shattered chandelier and I want to hold your hand- yes, this way, not that way- through the gaps in the glass.

My head is full of poetry, I want you hungry. I’m hungry. You make me feel seventeen, I’m clumsy and shy and sixteen, even! Your jokes shiver down my spine and I swear I’ll never stop laughing. Let’s make up languages and speak in accents, brew tea in your storybook house; I want to sit you down and cook a million gorgeous dishes on that big, black stove. Let’s run. That stage and those shelves will feel our bones yet, Sunboy.

Everything is ruined forever! Where are those purple elephants, I want them here, I want them sinking softly down on their knees and pushing their magnificence into my little striped carpet. I’m going to get down off my bed and wrap my arms around their heads, push my forehead against the heavy folds of eyelids. I’ll cry for both of us, it’s terrible and it’s true.

- What do you love?
- Orthography.

I’m seeing bicycles, lots of yellow bicycles, the room is flooded full of synesthesia. I am lost in redness that halos out around my hands. There are long, slick creatures sliding over my lampshades, but they are transparent and I can see their insides glow. Misplaced beating hearts.

- What do you see?
- Neon lights. Lips that give electric shocks.

Everything is ruined forever! I don’t mind.

Symptoms of the Sun God

Dark rising sun. No need to knock before coming. Pulling your shirt up, your chest opens; I see ripples- muscles and ribs under your smooth skin. Could I reach in? You are David, can you see it ? I said your body was a painting but I meant a sculpture- I meant it as the sighs of Michelangelo, as they must have been, as he stepped forward and ran his hands down your back, his tongue against a stone thigh, one limp hand holding the chisel, the other cupping a cheek. You have both made your home in me.



Pagan, I lie. In the shadows, Ra rises up.

Bare skin. Trees split with single cracks- an ax against stripped oak. Pools of water. With an earlobe, and four hands pulling, we can mold sinews. You dig rivers with your fingernails, come up gasping for breath from beneath waves. We wake early in the morning to escape the afternoon crowds and skinny-dip in oceans. Minutes to dip our toes in. Do you find my ankles daring?

The riverbed is scattered with golden and purple stones. I’d like to bite into your palm like a peach.

When the Stars Threw Down Their Spears

The productivity of this week has taken a severe downturn, while the stress level has swelled up above my head. This is due to a resurfacing addiction to voyeurism (stumbling mindlessly through other people’s lives) and to a boy who makes my heart stutter.

High Light, Dark Night

Found the palm-sized music box she sent me, toyed with the lever, twisting it round clock-wise, just like she said. It was bells and the Beatles. The door was ajar, and my fingers were embarrassed, but in the way you accidentally do something cute on the subway and secretly hope all those people you will never meet are watching.



Looked for the beautiful flower he grew me, that I’d pressed- in spite of all the heartaches are regrets- between books. My hands came back up through the rubble empty.

I kissed her in March. What did that mean? Freckles. Scared of breaking everything apart.
-What are you most afraid of?
-Fear.



Is someone without thoughts alive? Were these characters ever really birthed? What irresponsible authors!
A day ago, I was so drawn to my desk to write these things down. I could not wait to hand in a sheaf of papers, to see her unsmiling eyes draw in these words as if breathing. But:
Death, is nothingness and to humans, can never be known. But, in that the heimlich of death is birth- the process of coming from nothingness, experiencing birth (both technical and figurative) is the closest that any human can get to becoming dead without becoming dead.

I suspect I am talking nonsense. The only thing we know is that we know nothing. Thanks, Socrates. If you were here, I’d share the juice. That statue would have been prettier with the both of us.

“For the purposes of this paper, I am breaking down the fourth wall.” I’m writing a paper that is a meta-discourse on itself. I’m lost in this hypocrisy of loathing and wielding hammers and sticks and- god, I am aching for you so much I can’t think. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I try not to get lost in those who will lose me. No wristwatches, no mountains- it’s straight back to high-school these days. Trading secret smiles across the science classroom and everything too shy-making. I won’t tell, I can’t tell. I can see freckles in your eyes up close.



One of the boys who told me he loved me- years ago, now- says, today, I went to the zoo.
-How was it?
-Everything was asleep.



As in my heart.

Don't Ever Feel Lonely

What I like best is sitting out in the sun, writing postcards, flipping through polaroids, falling asleep with my arms around you. Waiting for that tremor in my stomach that says, no, that says, yes, that says, it’s too late no no no no what are you doing. Felt an inner tug when he curled up my bed, shook his hair out of his eyes, and said he moved around her in the music. Could have been anybody else and I wouldn’t even have heard. Right? Every time I hear footsteps, my heart skips a beat. I don’t know why but I know why. This won’t happen, I won’t let it.

Button says, don’t hurt him, he seems nice.
She says, do not break his heart.
I say, I won’t.
She says, we all know you will. People tend to fall for illusions. They think themselves in love with you.

She would know. Button bought a unicycle and went to town. I wish my name were Circus, she says. She’d be glittered up to her eyelids, in slick blue shorts and a helmet made from horse hair. She says, the apples are so shiny and full that it makes my insides break. She says, Will you come into the woods, strip down, and paint your cheeks with dirt?

She says, When you’re going mad, is it better to be quiet, or to be loud?


Lighting my cigarette from an ashy stub feels like I’m giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Today, another notorious three hour breakfast. Let’s divide lips and spoon up buttered egg yolk and toasted pita. Brie and bacon. Crackers and chai. Juice.

Bitter Boy broke his eight year fast, sprinkling pieces of maple bacon. His tongue darted, popping out his teeth for Victoria, in vain hopes of a scare and a smile. Victoria said she once kissed a hillbilly in New Orleans. He hugged her right round the middle and whispered promises through his gap teeth. Bitter Boy had been high and smiling in the early hours, bobbing along aimlessly in halls of water, his eyes now wide and painted like a harlequin dancer. “Bacon grease is the best conditioner,” says Bitter Boy, running his fingers through Bruiser’s hair as she tugged away.

Bruiser and I began the morning as twins, but when the sun climbed higher, she emerged in plaid, and Bitter Boy stripped down in the kitchen, plucking at his skin and pulling with insistent fingers. His eyes to treat the day, kohled up to Cleopatra glam. I snapped polaroids of your fingers spreading open the skin of a kiwi and plunging inside, and kissed you in your blue and black shirt and squeezed your fingers and watched you run away. Bitter Boy says, these photographs are of the most awkward party I’ve never been to.

Rosemary’s words flip and twist. She says, “I miss not knowing certain things. When did friends just become people to rant to about whether or not we feel loved or unloved by our lover at that moment?” I unbutton my shirt down to my bellybutton and push my ear up against the door. I hear her echoes. “Do you know who Gia Carangi was?” I still don’t know.

With a Ghost

Just keep fluting forever, my darling- my darlings! Don’t forget! I treasure you more than gold. Your soft voice is feathers. I’m choking on silver, lay me down in blond overtones.

A singer in a pink cowboy hat trailed fingernails down my face. “We’re on ecstasy,” he said. “All of us.” The whole band raged down with open mouths. I could feel the pulse through my fingertips and the speakers moving in tune to my bloodbeat. I thought I loved you when you reached forward and grasped the microphone. Your girl’s mouth dropped open every centimeter that you seemed closer to the crowd. So close, I brushed against the stage, dreaming of those words that came ever closer from your lips. Thrown forward, those speakers always tumbling over, the boy with the cigarette tongue, and those girls always bumming from me and laughing with their hair falling down.

Fall down fall down fall down. I’m holding on to you, deep underneath, soft and dark. I will keep moving until you move in me. I kiss that girl and that boy and I am holding words from you in my hands and they illuminate my eyes. My wrist is white-hot from the burn of your cigarette and my neck is white from the halo of your gaze. I’m looking for something I’m not finding. But I saw that girl catch eyes with me from across the garage, and what? What. I don’t know what you want, but I’ll empty my pockets until I give it to you.

She Used to be a Wallflower and Now She Is a Raver

-What will I do?
-Well, what are you interested in doing? Other than author and rockstar. Let’s pretend those aren’t options.
-Princess?

It is summer in our school, summer in the city. Tired hippies pull guitars along the ground to a decent patch of sunlight. Hipsters swap spit under trees. There are doves in our arms.

He tasted like dirt and water. Mud in my mouth. I leave you, am sucked back in. I have been swallowed. Everything in the morning is wet. Everything in our mourning.

Fell into a ditch, slammed my knees into gravel. Bleeding and bruised, holding hands with Bitter Boy, feeding him hummus and pita. All the bodies pounding into each other were beautiful.

French boy says, “Are you waiting for your girlfriend?” I see the side of his profile bathed in a hazy glow, light diffused from the lamp by the door, and the discoball of the rave behind us. Someone has projected “Johann Sebastian Bach” over the wall graffiti. Things quiver and pulse. We have bubbles in our mouths.

I say, “Yes,” and he looks sad.
“Do you ever,” he says.
“Boys?” I say. He looks down.
“I’m not looking at your ---,” he says.
“It’s okay,” I say.

I glow in the dark. Eager fingers reach forward to touch my circuiting.

In Halves

Today, spent just as much time in class as I did in delicious sleep.

Bruiser said, Thought that I was going to die from rapidly consuming pears. Megan replied, That actually seems a rather pleasant way to go out.

Inside Out

Tearing back flesh and laying bare your veins and muscles. Lusting after street anatomy tattoos. A heart and a brain in the shallow, soft indentations of iliac crests and the insides of thighs. Swallow your disgust and feel your pulse.

Mother asks him, “Why don’t you ask him why he says things like that to you?” He’s not a girl, that’s why. Punch him, I suggest. Punch his lights out. He’s supposed to be my friend, he says. Looks from side-to-side shyly. He is not his disease, and I want to beat this “friend” into the ground. We can’t fight each other’s battles. Punch him, I say again softly, when he brushes past me to leave the room. It’ll be okay. Everything is going to be alright. He says, That’s just your mantra. It doesn’t mean anything.

Sunflower Lovers

I would like to hold your hand but the man behind you is staring me down. The sunshine is in your hair, and we have covered the table in crumbs. I like flowers that look intelligent, sunflowers that look like they’re eavesdropping. She says, “The best girls are always sunflower lovers.”

This is you,
And this is me.

Today in a coffeeshop, a girlcutie behind the counter told me my school was beautiful. I said I know, where do you go? She said, No...I had a lover there. The way she said lover made my tongue curl. I wanted to slide up on the counter and wrap myself around everything. I like things that break out loose:

Bruiser wrapped in furs, eating squares of foie gras and pamplemousse on spears. A heavy man keeps turning on the street and walking into her, “Oh excuse me. Oh. Excuse me.” When we all know he’s thinking, “Oh hello, you Beautiful Little Thing. Did I tell you I like Lolitas?” Take off your red print dress, and tell the maids your daddy ain’t inside. She used to be a wallflower and now she is a raver.

Unbraid your hair, we’re going to town. I’ll wrap you in saran wrap and stand you in the street with our thumbs both out and backward like we’re halfway to nowhere. The cars that stop will be beautiful and clean and full of raging young people. They will shake fists and hands and duck down, out of habit not necessity, into the backseat when the cops drive by.

They find her back in the apartment, and when they pry her fists open, they find them full of dimes.