Friday, April 25, 2014

Moving Day, Clean Your Crevices

So I reap the habits/habituations/habitiations/bibiations of the lives I built hazy in my recollect. Fear me. These dusty whiskey bottles my hollow marrow, these crumplescrawl pages my stained skin, these fossilized cigarette butt my teeth.
Nostalgia drunk pulls my puppet skeins and I lurch but a jerk underneath.
The sun is blooming in all the wrong ways, the roses setting all the right, contained nature hosting a cabaret in noon drag.
I exculpate fractures in architecture I did not birth. I regurgitate affection on the linoleum I ate away. Here to consume the domesticate I did not use the satisfaction of teeth. Of truth. The slow slobber of bittersweet puddled my shape into the beige. Perfect geometry of my armspan pours the dances I sieved around these corners in the dark. How do I explain to the confines of the bedroom what it will no longer embrace in negligence?
Too much has folded. The biology of nostalgia is such that renders inert when the flaps are folded, discounted breathing, comatose hysterical.
This is too many tenses for what I am to be.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

The thing about this feeling. This way this feeling, or of feeling. The thing about this is that everything becomes poetry. Or was always already poetry. Blows up.

You are oscillating so hard, so desperate, that you force everything to resonate with you. Like there is the truth. And there. And also there. Suddenly everything means. Or something.

You read Ariana Reines and weep openly. Bukowski takes a crack at you and you are still going. Untitled sonnets. Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot. An enraged Facebook post. The Sunday weather report.

Is this artifice or is this everything. And/or all of the above. You don't even want to hear the word anymore, but you can't escape everywhere. Mayhaps.

Open another book. Start again.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Hello, space.

Space that is mine, at least in the digitally profiled sense. Space that may or may not actually be me, in the same sense.

It is strange to be here, not just because I have not been here for many months (though I haven't not even a backward glance), but because I've just taken this strange trip down other spaces I had like this one, except before. I would say it was a trip down memory lane, but I neither remember writing most of the things nor have I actually ever stopped living them.

Eventually I stopped laughing and realized that I have a lot to say to my 2005 self. Or very little. Mostly I think just a slow, sad nod. An acknowledgment that ten years are not going to change the type of feelings she/you/I had/have/are having.

Only now she/you/I have to be careful about so many things. And people fake laughter more, but whether or not you want to learn to tell the difference, that's up to her. And you won't eat quite as much Pocky when I am a "grown up".

Don't ever forget what she/you got from the people you love most, but not all of them will stay by your side. There will be many new awesome people. Just figure out how to deal with letting them in.

On the plus side, wine.