pen pal

memories of you
are clammy and fat
in need of a wash
and some cardio

time to slim down
to forget the regret
to give up the guilt
and grow the fuck up

those lives won't be lived and
those ghosts had their fill
pale and purposeless things
bygones bygone

a planet out of whack

i dream about
wearing my father's face
while i watch
and wish
the mother's mother
a fond farewell.

her tired breath brings things
i'd never thought possible
for possible thought,
terrible words to
wreck and wound.

awake now,
and there are
thirty minus nine
left to go.

god damn it

the heart is not

enough and

i’ve never been

mine,

not even in sleep

ten and two or three

and i hate that i don’t

hate you

the heart is not

enough and

now you have him

i have unsettled skin

stalling the dreams

that are always about you

i’ll never not

wade in our weight

we were all i ever wanted

all of me will

always be yours

even if you don’t try anymore

Forever

i am full

and bloated

heavy with

what i watch

what i want

a sweaty web

dark and drooping

hung and stuffed

with all the sad shit

wet and unforgettable

i am higher than my dosage

yet lower than then

walking toward the heap

dug up there

detached and deep

still slouched and slow

stopped and seated,

my fingertips drawing hearts

on the backs of my hands

one again, one and open

the happysad

i'll go to a beach
with wet sand
white and grey

the sea will be cold
and the sky will be dark
it's warm here

with cold winds
i'll dress for summer
and stand in the water

i am at the happysad
on the ridge just beyond
and just before.

little film
lay grey
on already grey things
catching sighs,
gone listless

from a breath
gone float to
tumble,
got a tear or a fold

maybe kept still
on some piece,
or corner

then gone up again
for another while

Until The Man Went Quiet

The man’s throat was sore, aching from the pull of sobs which threatened to take over at any moment.

Renegade tears ran down his cheeks, slicing into the nets of the sea-kissed moisture dotting his flesh. His vision was blurred, though it was already difficult enough to peer through the evening’s autumnal gloom.

Cold, gray waves carefully broke around and against him, the sea and sand sucked him deeper into the shore.  Soft surfs continued to caress the man’s chest, his arms, sometimes catching the back of his neck with its foamy crash.  Such compassion gave fuel to the man’s grief, his body shook with cries.

Somewhere, far and deep, a pull and push eddied.  A sigh spilled, a heart broke.  A monster moaned, unable to comfort her lover any longer.  She’d loved him from the first moment he’d waded into her swell, all those years ago.

He loved her too.

He’d swim and sink his toes into her soft sands, she was warm and he was safe.  The days when the man and the sea were separate were very few and far between.  Even when the days began to darken earlier, and the ground and grasses froze, the man would search the coast for a ripple to visit, to remember.

The waves she sent from her immeasurable depths were veined and heavy with longing and sorrow, but she knew.  And he knew.

And his village knew.

The sea gushed and grasped the man against her bank.  From her core emanated a vibration, a howl.  The man and the sea wept and wept until the man went under.  Until the man went quiet.

this is an honest question: why am i bothering?  writing, that is.

i nearly always write for it to be read.  i finish it quickly--my thought right now is "hurry the fuck up so you can think about showing it to someone--maybe Mike?"

so there's a basic editing-as-i-write technique, but nothing robust.

now i am wishing my audience were my previous therapist, Olivia.  i read her one of my short stories once--it was about the man who was reminiscing about his baths with his late wife.  i flubbed up a bunch of words when i read it aloud.  i read it aloud because i wouldn't have been able to take attempting to study her face for any kind of reaction.  she was exceedingly good at deadpanning, too.  any such attempt by me would have been moot.

i just flipped tabs to see if i used 'moot' correctly, and i was too lazy to read the definition in its entirety, so i declare--for all intents and purposes--that i have used it correctly in this really, really worthless post.

this "train of thought" thing might have something to it -- but it might not.  i remember having a similar exercise in a creative writing course in high school; i knew i wanted to read my finished product aloud, so i edited-it-as-i-went.  i can still remember some semblance of the opening line i wrote, it went something like "my train of thought has once again derailed".  that's gross.  i was performing.

am performing.  always performing.  but turning 30 made me realize something--or maybe it's from all of the 'somethings' i read on different internet platforms about people turning 30, or maybe it's from everyone saying that my '30s will be so much more fun than [my] 20s'--i realized that i so desperately want to not give a shit about what anyone else, anyone else thinks about me, and sometimes i want it so hard i aaaalmost convince myself that i'm doing it.  those days are generally decent days.

mom, i don't want to be mad at you.  but i've grown away from you.

jess, i don't think i could have asked for a better sister.  mom--thanks for Jess.  you should thank yourself for your own daughter, too.  sure, she and i didn't get on so well when we were little shits; but now that we're older, grown up, adult shits--well, just know that Jess saved my life.

oh god, but was it worth saving?

mike's home.  he'll stop in here, probably.  going to sign off for now.  merry christmas!

 “I’ll go first.”  He took a deep breath and adjusted his collar.  His jaw flexed while he exhaled.

“Okay,” she said, not looking up.

He didn't think she believed him.  He balled little hands into tiny, shaking fists.  Untrimmed nails dug into his palms.

               

A static tickle wove its way between the fibers of the too-big socks on his feet as he crossed the room.

Inside a drawer.

Beneath silk and lace.

A small, handled storm.  Six capsules of lightning.

“Okay.”  It was heavy in his hands.  Tiny fingers against the handle and trigger.  Lips closed around a cold, silver barrel.

“Yeah,” she still sat there, across the room.  Didn't look up or over.

His tiny fingers pressed against the pull and flew away.  No more mouth.  No more mind.

She stood up.  “Okay.  My turn.”

drink so we can be dumb

and our hot faces

wadded and wet,

smiling,

unaware of the spit

following each
misspoken word

love, the city of

the land wore winter

bore its complicated art

wrapped its thawing melody

around the sound

we sat and listened while

spring dewed and buzzed

a glass of wine for the two of us

rippling as the bells toll

i won't

why the fuck

can't i be great?

had i roots and leaves

i'd sure as shit

save you

or a few

in my shade

played in a prayer

we laughed and

floated forward and

we were ten again,

squinting at angels

in the dusty distance

some seven or

eight hillside stars

kicking up sand

and spirits to the South

we flickered and flared,

glowing with hunger and

hope

playing in a prayer til

we faded out, too.

The Calmness

Were there tears in my eyes, I'd be none the wiser. I looked forward: everything was dimmed and dewed–a beautiful glossed quality after the downward gush, the delicate burn. The thickness in my neck and chest stopped bothering me after a few seconds. I floated for some time.

Had I been sweating, I'd be none the wiser. I looked left and then to the right: the fabric covering my arms shifted with a darling pliancy. For what seemed like hours I noticed each thing: each blink, nostril flare, finger twitch, abdominal spasm. Now: the blue-dark from behind my eyelids versus the wax lens nature of my sight were nearly indiscernible, nothing was different. Everything was the same, only greying.

My saliva and urine mixed wonderfully within this makeshift womb, a temporary temperature difference was a fleeting distinction. I waded and sank in my medium, this reclusive palette of warmth and waste. How merciful He must be–I'm breathing my own spit and piss and all I can do is smile!

a hollow hurt

did she hear a choir just after she leapt?

a hymn, a pretty progression

was she able to hear it over the air she

shot through?

what song, what sound brought her

to the bottom?

i wonder if she held her breath or

shut her eyes.

did she wish she were winged?

what wish, what woe bought her

to the bottom?

did she laugh or cry or try to whistle?

a hollow hurt after she plunged for

a lifetime.

did she cover her face before she stopped?

pulp of noon

i hear a

choir 

as more of your

body

unfolds.

my limbs dream

and lift

and stretch,

strung and hang

how easily you

breathe,

nude in the pulp of

noon.

how cruel i am,

hovering in a

hushed hallelujah.

neon warble

wanted to

warm your bones

the way you

cooked mine with your

neon warble

you are the

constant climber, the

long down yodel.

the notes as stems,

sip the self-conscious

sweetness poured slow

quiet now, a

chirp: the softest

coo, the amber

hush of evening rests

in a burgundy meniscus

sunken swollen

still and smoked, some

wrinkled ignorance

rippled round my

eyes

a sour stink keeps

you

afloat and shrinks

my tired bones:
you're winning.

i am tight beneath this

budding need to

breathe, hammered

home: your

hatred.

once upon a while, the

West was kind.

bye.

all i got is what
isn't good

to the artist with the
bad breath and the
painted mouth,
to her shall i
pay my thanks.

my life is
brain matter
spatter'd wrong
along
the wall

tight hands, dents in
dead palms

i don't mind dreaming now.