this week i play housewife. lay your clothes out, set the table, greet you at the stairs with a smile, pray, hope, twist my hair into curls and stare, vapidly at myself in the mirror for hours. i play games in my head, scattered pentagrams and rainbow boxes thrown about classrooms at 1 in the afternoon, early sunshine and the days end earlier lately, cold has set in and i find myself making nests for myself, none of which i fit in or keep me nearly warm enough. im not ready for harsh winter and sleepy weekends with nowhere to go and no reason to get out of bed. i pad around the apartment, doing dishes, making elaborate dinners and cakes, anything to distract myself from this, this this mess im in, i will be in until im not, and i just dont have the will power right now to get up and shake it off. im trying, im trying, im trying. and it just isnt good enough. planes fly over head and crash in the night fifteen states away and no one hears a sound. i dont know why i ever thought i could have a family, make a home, why i thought id be good at something like that, when i get restless and unsure after ten minutes alone. riding the bus is like torture and im continuously only alone with myself.
i dont remember the last time my fingers were so cold, and my bones and getting chills and i layer sweatshirts and rub my nose with the sleeves, hands tucked inside and dream about shrinking into coats and scarves and december and hibernating away like a bear. except maybe i was cold like this in oregon, but i was with you and so i felt nothing bad at all.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
lunatic city
night time is the worst. did you feel the earthquake? it made me nervous and start thinking how awful it would be if you werent able to say goodbye. it all feels very morbid. i have to stop watching dexter before bed. it gives me creepy dreams. vicodin helps.
lately
i feel like faulkner
no subject or verb
quit putting me in paragraphs
ill never fit
the way you
want
me to
we go to the MOMA and do that silent walk, that museum goers do when everyone is pretending to look at the art but really are seriously bored out of their minds and horny from the silence. all we want to be doing is tearing each others clothes off and fucking and then laying in bed and smoking cigarettes in his loft bed above his rehearsal studio but we have to get credit for class, so we skip the lines and rub up against each other in corners when no ones looking. there are two paintings, encased in glass in the middle of the room, some silver plated tree branches and sky. i keep an eye close on him, while
pretending i care about the artwork, total period bullshit that neither of us are into anyway, put my hands up on the glass, my face, close my eyes for a minute, wishing we could get the hell out of there. i only had a string cheese today and a gatorade from his fridge that was warm and im feeling faint. im starting to get sick listening to hushed voices talking, babbling like art critics, pretentious fucks, he always says. opening my eyes, he is opposite me, breathing on the glass and writing my name with his finger, like a fogged up window. i laugh tremendously and drop my bag on the floor which causes the loudest hush ive ever heard. he looks at everyone and bows. deeply and graciously which makes me laugh even harder and when we get kicked out its understandable. he lights a cigarette in the lobby just to prove a point, the lighter his grandfather gave him encased in leather, flicks quickly from his hand, to his face, to his jeans, snug in back pocket. im thinking how a museum is really perfect for us, all that talking we dont know how to do. outside its hot and his dog is laying on the cement, drooling and waiting for us with her big cow eyes. we walk, silently, down market, sweating and smoking. i use a book of matches because i love the way his lighter feels so much i cant bare it, like if i use it too much it will be just another thing to miss when hes gone. its too much him, musty smell and worn. just another thing i know he cares about more than me. at uptown market we stop for whiskey and ginger ale, more cigs for him, water for the dog. inside his place its stale, and there is the casual undressing i have come to love. its too hot as usual and we work better unclothed. he says to me after, distracted, not looking, hands in my hair, you look better through glass, you look nice magnafied but far away. im picking a scab on his arm and roll over to the side of the bed where theres water in a jar, drink in long painful swallows, listen to the city through the flung open windows and let my eyes tear up. theres matches on the window sil and i light another cig, smoke, think, smoke think. keep cover closed, be safe. this feels appropriate, naked, on his bed, silent, no words to say, just trying to keep cool, to pretend were both not just a little afraid.
and a poem, for all you lovers out there, cuidado con tus corizones
love crosses its islands, from grief to grief,
it sets its roots, watered with tears,
and no one-no one-can escape the hearts progress
as it runs, silent and carnivorous
you and i searched for a wide valley, for another planet
where the salt wouldnt touch your hair,
where sorrows couldnt grow because of anything i did,
where bread could live and not grow old
a planet entwined with vistas and foliage,
a plain, a rock, hard and unoccupied:
we wanted to build a strong nest
with our own hands, without hurt or harm or speech,
but love was not like that: love was a lunatic city
with crowds of people blanching on their porches
lately
i feel like faulkner
no subject or verb
quit putting me in paragraphs
ill never fit
the way you
want
me to
we go to the MOMA and do that silent walk, that museum goers do when everyone is pretending to look at the art but really are seriously bored out of their minds and horny from the silence. all we want to be doing is tearing each others clothes off and fucking and then laying in bed and smoking cigarettes in his loft bed above his rehearsal studio but we have to get credit for class, so we skip the lines and rub up against each other in corners when no ones looking. there are two paintings, encased in glass in the middle of the room, some silver plated tree branches and sky. i keep an eye close on him, while
pretending i care about the artwork, total period bullshit that neither of us are into anyway, put my hands up on the glass, my face, close my eyes for a minute, wishing we could get the hell out of there. i only had a string cheese today and a gatorade from his fridge that was warm and im feeling faint. im starting to get sick listening to hushed voices talking, babbling like art critics, pretentious fucks, he always says. opening my eyes, he is opposite me, breathing on the glass and writing my name with his finger, like a fogged up window. i laugh tremendously and drop my bag on the floor which causes the loudest hush ive ever heard. he looks at everyone and bows. deeply and graciously which makes me laugh even harder and when we get kicked out its understandable. he lights a cigarette in the lobby just to prove a point, the lighter his grandfather gave him encased in leather, flicks quickly from his hand, to his face, to his jeans, snug in back pocket. im thinking how a museum is really perfect for us, all that talking we dont know how to do. outside its hot and his dog is laying on the cement, drooling and waiting for us with her big cow eyes. we walk, silently, down market, sweating and smoking. i use a book of matches because i love the way his lighter feels so much i cant bare it, like if i use it too much it will be just another thing to miss when hes gone. its too much him, musty smell and worn. just another thing i know he cares about more than me. at uptown market we stop for whiskey and ginger ale, more cigs for him, water for the dog. inside his place its stale, and there is the casual undressing i have come to love. its too hot as usual and we work better unclothed. he says to me after, distracted, not looking, hands in my hair, you look better through glass, you look nice magnafied but far away. im picking a scab on his arm and roll over to the side of the bed where theres water in a jar, drink in long painful swallows, listen to the city through the flung open windows and let my eyes tear up. theres matches on the window sil and i light another cig, smoke, think, smoke think. keep cover closed, be safe. this feels appropriate, naked, on his bed, silent, no words to say, just trying to keep cool, to pretend were both not just a little afraid.
and a poem, for all you lovers out there, cuidado con tus corizones
love crosses its islands, from grief to grief,
it sets its roots, watered with tears,
and no one-no one-can escape the hearts progress
as it runs, silent and carnivorous
you and i searched for a wide valley, for another planet
where the salt wouldnt touch your hair,
where sorrows couldnt grow because of anything i did,
where bread could live and not grow old
a planet entwined with vistas and foliage,
a plain, a rock, hard and unoccupied:
we wanted to build a strong nest
with our own hands, without hurt or harm or speech,
but love was not like that: love was a lunatic city
with crowds of people blanching on their porches
Friday, October 24, 2008
number 25
a year ago
i hugged her through grass stains
and placed palms against
faces and she was wide eyed
blue
today
eyes closed
heartache
breath take
the mechanics of breathing
broken down
and she dies
not slowly
but just one flat line
centerfield
grass stains
my old living room
dusted cd covers
and that laugh
making valley
small
RIP LIZ i love you
i hugged her through grass stains
and placed palms against
faces and she was wide eyed
blue
today
eyes closed
heartache
breath take
the mechanics of breathing
broken down
and she dies
not slowly
but just one flat line
centerfield
grass stains
my old living room
dusted cd covers
and that laugh
making valley
small
RIP LIZ i love you
organ donor
if you dont care about anything then nothing will disappoint you.
its a thursday and i cant seem to make it to work. i cant seem to pull myself from bed, from the bus, off the ledge of the bar, from the crook of amy's shoulder. i cant seem to make my body work, and all the sudden im robot emotion, everything we had laughed about 9 months ago isnt funny anymore. its our life. what was funny that rainy afternoon we pushed the couches together and smoked pot and laughed isnt funny its sad. its sad because it feels fake, it was robot emotion, it was everything we hate. and so amy and i sit slack jawed and steely eyed, damp necks and sweaty eyes, looking at each other for something, im sorry we keep saying, im sorry i dont know what to say to you, and we just sit in our sadness. just stir it around the rim of our drinks and fend off boys who try to bum cigarettes with glances, like, i will fucking kill you if you talk to me right now, and its funny how easy people read our feelings, know what we mean, with one glance, and the people we have loved forever, it seems, cant even figure out how to not make us cry.
i find myself on your street. on our streets. this city will ruin me and i wake up exhausted. i cant keep avoiding mirrors and storefronts, closing my ears to peoples conversations on the bus and hats at the bars i drink at. i hated this city, until i met you, and now its nothing but a museum i hate to visit. a place where everything makes me sad. my friends sit around a table, silent and i say nothing, i stare them all down through the red and green and yellow christmas lights and let their faces go blurry. there is nothing to say when they ask for answers, prod my shoulders for reasons and details. and were just in limbo. and all i can say, all i know, among the fake fur and faux greenery is i care about you, i care about you, i care about you. and then i lose myself on polk street and wish away street corners that held us, that held me, that changed us, that changed me.
its a thursday and i cant seem to make it to work. i cant seem to pull myself from bed, from the bus, off the ledge of the bar, from the crook of amy's shoulder. i cant seem to make my body work, and all the sudden im robot emotion, everything we had laughed about 9 months ago isnt funny anymore. its our life. what was funny that rainy afternoon we pushed the couches together and smoked pot and laughed isnt funny its sad. its sad because it feels fake, it was robot emotion, it was everything we hate. and so amy and i sit slack jawed and steely eyed, damp necks and sweaty eyes, looking at each other for something, im sorry we keep saying, im sorry i dont know what to say to you, and we just sit in our sadness. just stir it around the rim of our drinks and fend off boys who try to bum cigarettes with glances, like, i will fucking kill you if you talk to me right now, and its funny how easy people read our feelings, know what we mean, with one glance, and the people we have loved forever, it seems, cant even figure out how to not make us cry.
i find myself on your street. on our streets. this city will ruin me and i wake up exhausted. i cant keep avoiding mirrors and storefronts, closing my ears to peoples conversations on the bus and hats at the bars i drink at. i hated this city, until i met you, and now its nothing but a museum i hate to visit. a place where everything makes me sad. my friends sit around a table, silent and i say nothing, i stare them all down through the red and green and yellow christmas lights and let their faces go blurry. there is nothing to say when they ask for answers, prod my shoulders for reasons and details. and were just in limbo. and all i can say, all i know, among the fake fur and faux greenery is i care about you, i care about you, i care about you. and then i lose myself on polk street and wish away street corners that held us, that held me, that changed us, that changed me.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
bale lane and old faithful
im watching the temperature rise from mid 70s to high 80s and in some other city, sarah is watching the weather channel and telling us, tomorrow will be a good day. my car is full of wood for you, pieces of the house i grew up in, old window sills and door frames, the door we bought to replace the plastic sheet of door covered in wallpaper and calendars covering holes, but it didnt fit and sat in the garage, five, ten, fifteen years. ive got it piled up on a sheet i slept in when i was seven, small flowers, pinks and yellows, sheets that held me and kept me warm when i still made my mama tell me stories, just to get my small heart asleep at night, its back there, my rearview, the length of the 101, and like everything else, its shambles, and splinters and not safe to put your hands on, fragments and paint chips and i want to open the hatch and let it fly across the freeway, i want to watch it hit tires of cars and windshields, fall into fields and hit limbs, bust open foreheads and feel like i feel, like broken pieces of wood, you thought you could make into something much more beautiful and now, now you never will. because you see i did this before i knew, i spent a day in the sun with my dad and walked barefoot and tried to breathe deeper than i ever had, because that smell, that idea that getting out of the city, that the country would "do me good" was fleeting, and i found myself with aching feet and hands raw from digging at the ground, slivers inside and i know, i know, i know my screaming and shouting wont keep you...and the reality is you cant build from what is broken, you must use tools, shiny and new. and thats just not me.
i feel bad for you calistoga, i do. i never give you a chance and every time i just use you for your dusty air and warm nights and curse the streets you made me on. there is a ghost in my bones.once again im pulled over, a car on the highway, crickets and frogs and purple mountains, i wish you could see it, because this place is so deceiving in its beauty and purity and at the end of the night theres never anywhere to go and the streets wont house me like they used to, ive used them all up.
the sun isnt all the way down and its eerily hot, the hood of carissas sweatshirt is too tight, too warm and i cant breathe when you tell me these words, its all just talk, and ive heard it before, you are old faithful and i know just exactly how this will feel, the brimming, the waiting, the boiling under ground, and the release is steady, consistent, and tired. after youve seen it once, theres no need to watch again, the tourists hit the gift shop, collect their kids, buy a t-shirt and drive into town for dinner at the Inn. its predictable, its a science, a timetable, an art, if you will, to the actions, the reactions. and my recovery is predictable, i know how i will drink this one down, away, out and push it all back underground to wait. wait and see how it all turns out, because even though i know what will happen, the exact time, the minute, the moment, i cant. look. away.
grammere tells me, be happy, why do you have such dark circles? are you not drinking enough water? and i smile for her, take her crazy dog on a walk, tell her how great im doing, because i am, i was, i will, i dont know how i got so lost in all this, and when i get ready to leave, i kiss her on the cheek and am brave for her, because the women in my family dont do it any other way, and i just hate to disappoint. the drive is easy, theres never a perfect enough song and my legs stick to the leather seats just like any other summer, only its not summer, and im not brave, im sad and scared and without any streets to drive on anymore. bale lane was untouched by me, and now its all dried up like the fields and leaves, vineyards turned bright gold and burgundy, and going home to clear my head was a wash, i dont know what i was thinking.
i feel bad for you calistoga, i do. i never give you a chance and every time i just use you for your dusty air and warm nights and curse the streets you made me on. there is a ghost in my bones.once again im pulled over, a car on the highway, crickets and frogs and purple mountains, i wish you could see it, because this place is so deceiving in its beauty and purity and at the end of the night theres never anywhere to go and the streets wont house me like they used to, ive used them all up.
the sun isnt all the way down and its eerily hot, the hood of carissas sweatshirt is too tight, too warm and i cant breathe when you tell me these words, its all just talk, and ive heard it before, you are old faithful and i know just exactly how this will feel, the brimming, the waiting, the boiling under ground, and the release is steady, consistent, and tired. after youve seen it once, theres no need to watch again, the tourists hit the gift shop, collect their kids, buy a t-shirt and drive into town for dinner at the Inn. its predictable, its a science, a timetable, an art, if you will, to the actions, the reactions. and my recovery is predictable, i know how i will drink this one down, away, out and push it all back underground to wait. wait and see how it all turns out, because even though i know what will happen, the exact time, the minute, the moment, i cant. look. away.
grammere tells me, be happy, why do you have such dark circles? are you not drinking enough water? and i smile for her, take her crazy dog on a walk, tell her how great im doing, because i am, i was, i will, i dont know how i got so lost in all this, and when i get ready to leave, i kiss her on the cheek and am brave for her, because the women in my family dont do it any other way, and i just hate to disappoint. the drive is easy, theres never a perfect enough song and my legs stick to the leather seats just like any other summer, only its not summer, and im not brave, im sad and scared and without any streets to drive on anymore. bale lane was untouched by me, and now its all dried up like the fields and leaves, vineyards turned bright gold and burgundy, and going home to clear my head was a wash, i dont know what i was thinking.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
sometimes all you need is a good nights sleep. and you wake up giggling in bed and the morning is grey and cool but the sun lines the leaves outside your window and everything that felt so dark and twisty last night has cleared away and you are smiling, youve soaked in it long enough and can get out and dry off on your own.
this morning its these poems that make sense, that make everything better and the same.
A Rational Sky
How Life Longs
to deposit
self-centricity
Be cautious!
Do you want to give in,
do you want to give up?
I dont!
How nights linger-
the tragic delusion
that loneliness
is martyrdom
be cautious!
are you better
for not getting better?
are the days better
when you are numb?
is a rationalized sky
anymore blue?
He Dreamt She Was An Atom
She Dreamt He Was Enola Gay
the lorenz attractor
the space between
my fingers and your skin
infinitely divisible,
infinitely separate
never connecting
never touching
Fingernails in my back
10, 000 miles away,
penetration goes nowhere;
The mouth on your mouth
is as distant as Baghdad
the whispers in your ear
radio broadcasts from
Czechoslovakia
Maybe I never saw you
as closely as i should;
nor did your hands
ever hold mine; and so
this parting should be
no more than reality
amplified by tens
and tens and tens
until it becomes only
slightly more heavy
than i can bear,
until i see so much
of this sad sphere
that hope approaches
asymptote
and finally.......
Finally Written
Dont be afraid of writing a pure sentence;
even if at night you feel you cant sleep;
and the weight of the words on your chest
gives way to heavy sighs:
Youre lucky,
if she can calm you;
youre lucky
if you can write it down
youre luckiest
if you can tell her.
And when I learned to drive I said;
"this is the death of my youth,"
and when i first made love I said;
"this is the death of my youth,"
and when i first fell in love i said;
:here is my youth again!"
and when she left (because she will always leave) I said;
"here is the death of my youth"
and my youth has died
1000 deaths at the hands
of corruption and decay
disintegration of the imaginary worlds
i flew in as a child; replaced
by the sea of experiences
and the sense of irony
that tells me never to write
"a sea of experiences"
But when i make excuses:
"here at school, how can i be pure"
"here at work, how can i be pure"
I'm turning my back on the noblest search:
to burn these books and shatter this steel
into the purest form it can handle
without breaking my body in half
everything else is compromise
everything else is the death of our youth.
thats enough for today. i need coffee, and a walk, and time. to fucking. clear. my head.
this morning its these poems that make sense, that make everything better and the same.
A Rational Sky
How Life Longs
to deposit
self-centricity
Be cautious!
Do you want to give in,
do you want to give up?
I dont!
How nights linger-
the tragic delusion
that loneliness
is martyrdom
be cautious!
are you better
for not getting better?
are the days better
when you are numb?
is a rationalized sky
anymore blue?
He Dreamt She Was An Atom
She Dreamt He Was Enola Gay
the lorenz attractor
the space between
my fingers and your skin
infinitely divisible,
infinitely separate
never connecting
never touching
Fingernails in my back
10, 000 miles away,
penetration goes nowhere;
The mouth on your mouth
is as distant as Baghdad
the whispers in your ear
radio broadcasts from
Czechoslovakia
Maybe I never saw you
as closely as i should;
nor did your hands
ever hold mine; and so
this parting should be
no more than reality
amplified by tens
and tens and tens
until it becomes only
slightly more heavy
than i can bear,
until i see so much
of this sad sphere
that hope approaches
asymptote
and finally.......
Finally Written
Dont be afraid of writing a pure sentence;
even if at night you feel you cant sleep;
and the weight of the words on your chest
gives way to heavy sighs:
Youre lucky,
if she can calm you;
youre lucky
if you can write it down
youre luckiest
if you can tell her.
And when I learned to drive I said;
"this is the death of my youth,"
and when i first made love I said;
"this is the death of my youth,"
and when i first fell in love i said;
:here is my youth again!"
and when she left (because she will always leave) I said;
"here is the death of my youth"
and my youth has died
1000 deaths at the hands
of corruption and decay
disintegration of the imaginary worlds
i flew in as a child; replaced
by the sea of experiences
and the sense of irony
that tells me never to write
"a sea of experiences"
But when i make excuses:
"here at school, how can i be pure"
"here at work, how can i be pure"
I'm turning my back on the noblest search:
to burn these books and shatter this steel
into the purest form it can handle
without breaking my body in half
everything else is compromise
everything else is the death of our youth.
thats enough for today. i need coffee, and a walk, and time. to fucking. clear. my head.
Friday, October 17, 2008
friday flux
ive had one of the most confusing days in awhile, my kids were happy, we laughed all afternoon, i had two parents tell me how much their kids talk about me and i finished grading papers before i left work, left a mountain of red and purple check marks, pages of notes on 12 year old stories on my desk, to sit, for the weekend, while i go live my life. and it was a great day, despite the thought, like a tumor, ever present, silent and destructive, that it is all just a big show. a big joke. i keep scratching at the surface, clawing at my cheeks and rubbing my eyes red and puffy and i cry on the N train and dont even care that my hair is sticking to the back of my neck and ive sweat through my shirt. i want the outside to look like the inside and inside i feel like a mess. ive got a new soundtrack and run around the city with it playing on repeat, repeat repeat over until im able to pretend i know all the words and pound along angrily, fingertips to wrist, push it out, get it out, and its never rough enough, the bruises never dark enough. im never enough. something about today has me a wreck, sick to my stomach, i cant make this up, im just floating and waiting and waiting for something to break, to crack, to fall around me. we wait for things instead of taking action and i just dont know how to do this. i want to throw my hands up at you, i want to shrug my shoulders and say maybe im not cut out for this. maybe i feel too hard, to much, and all i want is a space to feel it, to carve out a hole, a room, a trailer, some space in your heart for me to be. to just be. and if i cant make a home in you, then im lost, i dont know what the fuck im doing at all.
i need to move here, fall away, explore the forest and write for hours at a time....you can come visit if youd like, and id make you tea. and wed talk about life....in a very removed sort of way...
http://sfbay.craigslist.org/nby/apa/878977211.html
today im scaring myself and i hate it and cant help it when i get like this. all lock jawed and frozen, tiny hands trembling and shifty feet, left and right, i make others uncomfortable and no one can stand to be around me. i cant even stand myself but i wont make myself get up off my bed, i wont move around or go outside or change the song blaring through the walls. i wont because i cant, because im not ready and thats my shit. im trying to figure it out and learn and grow up and im in between all these things i want and throwing it all over the bridge and swimming for safety, swimming past the breakers into nothing and in the end what looks like drowning might just be surviving. what looks like swimming might be sinking and i sense us running out of breath.
you could never write me like i wrote you. no one could. ive made this impossible for everyone, for anyone to get close to me and for me to feel safe with anyone at all.
so we take shots, we dance wildly in our rooms, we cry for no reason or for everything, we pour ourselves into each other and laugh and shrug shoulders and use genuine glances to try and convey what we ultimately ultimately in our deepest realist hearts desire. and we just keep moving, shuffling along, breaking the wishbone, tying the cherry, crossing our fingers and following the yellow brick road. dayna yells from the other room "can it just work out for me, one, just one time!?" and its real, everything that were feeling and saying and wanting is real, its real, its real.
i need to move here, fall away, explore the forest and write for hours at a time....you can come visit if youd like, and id make you tea. and wed talk about life....in a very removed sort of way...
http://sfbay.craigslist.org/nby/apa/878977211.html
today im scaring myself and i hate it and cant help it when i get like this. all lock jawed and frozen, tiny hands trembling and shifty feet, left and right, i make others uncomfortable and no one can stand to be around me. i cant even stand myself but i wont make myself get up off my bed, i wont move around or go outside or change the song blaring through the walls. i wont because i cant, because im not ready and thats my shit. im trying to figure it out and learn and grow up and im in between all these things i want and throwing it all over the bridge and swimming for safety, swimming past the breakers into nothing and in the end what looks like drowning might just be surviving. what looks like swimming might be sinking and i sense us running out of breath.
you could never write me like i wrote you. no one could. ive made this impossible for everyone, for anyone to get close to me and for me to feel safe with anyone at all.
so we take shots, we dance wildly in our rooms, we cry for no reason or for everything, we pour ourselves into each other and laugh and shrug shoulders and use genuine glances to try and convey what we ultimately ultimately in our deepest realist hearts desire. and we just keep moving, shuffling along, breaking the wishbone, tying the cherry, crossing our fingers and following the yellow brick road. dayna yells from the other room "can it just work out for me, one, just one time!?" and its real, everything that were feeling and saying and wanting is real, its real, its real.
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