that night at dinner:
your face was like germany,
sweating the holocaust from every pore.
i pretended not to notice.
i covered my ears, watched my finger nails melt.
naive roots split the table in half.
your grin, the knife.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
autumn tangerine
jackie knocked on my door
told me to wash my clothes
or drive them to the dumpster.
so we took a ride
and tore every dress to shreds.
she tells me that my wrists are too small
and starts poking at my veins
mumbling something about astrology-
stars, meteorites.
she says holding your breath is good practice
"if you're going to sell yourself to the paper,
if you're going to be the artist.
my fashion week bullshit cigarettes were made of styrofoam".
she pulls out her check book
and now we're buying thread.
autumn tangerine.
because "there's nothing like making it yourself.
and that man, he's selfish".
told me to wash my clothes
or drive them to the dumpster.
so we took a ride
and tore every dress to shreds.
she tells me that my wrists are too small
and starts poking at my veins
mumbling something about astrology-
stars, meteorites.
she says holding your breath is good practice
"if you're going to sell yourself to the paper,
if you're going to be the artist.
my fashion week bullshit cigarettes were made of styrofoam".
she pulls out her check book
and now we're buying thread.
autumn tangerine.
because "there's nothing like making it yourself.
and that man, he's selfish".
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
night owl
past 1 a.m.
i've become nocturnal. i keep my nose pinned to the crack in the library book. the smell reminds me of third grade and broken teeth. my eyes trace every fragment over and over again, like a finger sobriety test. and since when have i become so brave? blowing smoke off my lips, watching it dance in thin air. deliberately planting sour seeds in my mouth. going anyway because that car will stop for me. plots and plans, experimental everything. i'll keep this up until it wilts, until i get bored again.
my hair looks like a cobweb mess. there is no wind tonight. just cold and spring. downstairs is quiet. i'm alone, tiptoeing across the honey wood floors to the kitchen. i pour a cup of rice "milk", place it on the counter, and stand there for good five minutes. my bones are begging for something. almost 2 a.m. and nothing is getting done. between tiny movements and semi-smiles, i remember that day in my car. we were drenched in sticky southern sweat and you told us you had dreams. forget it. i down the liquid in sixty seconds. i counted because i wanted nothing better to think about. dickinson can't be put off much longer. i'm testing out how close i can get to almost disappointing someone.
i've become nocturnal. i keep my nose pinned to the crack in the library book. the smell reminds me of third grade and broken teeth. my eyes trace every fragment over and over again, like a finger sobriety test. and since when have i become so brave? blowing smoke off my lips, watching it dance in thin air. deliberately planting sour seeds in my mouth. going anyway because that car will stop for me. plots and plans, experimental everything. i'll keep this up until it wilts, until i get bored again.
my hair looks like a cobweb mess. there is no wind tonight. just cold and spring. downstairs is quiet. i'm alone, tiptoeing across the honey wood floors to the kitchen. i pour a cup of rice "milk", place it on the counter, and stand there for good five minutes. my bones are begging for something. almost 2 a.m. and nothing is getting done. between tiny movements and semi-smiles, i remember that day in my car. we were drenched in sticky southern sweat and you told us you had dreams. forget it. i down the liquid in sixty seconds. i counted because i wanted nothing better to think about. dickinson can't be put off much longer. i'm testing out how close i can get to almost disappointing someone.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
since i'm alive.
i'm visiting mexico tonight. i'm taking the old desert roads.
as dusk sneaks up on me, the tires dig deep into the sand. with a cold-sweat fever, i howl back at the frustrated engine. we both need a strong drink.
i stop right past the border, my eyes settle on a bar made of red clay. the door swings open as my feet crunch the ground; a couple arguing in an unfamiliar language. i pass a look at the girl. she's wearing loose curls, a loose dress, and heels made for leaving. her dark features blend into a breath- a second. none of us exist in the next car to pull up.
"i'll take whatever you have". the incoherent bartender purses his lips. i point to the tequila, my bruised hand heavy. the whole word sits still in breakable glass, the tired face i didn't want to see stares back at me. without ever moving my mouth, i take it down, smoothly. the back of my throat welcomes the warmth. i'm a mold of every other getaway artist, sitting in this country like an asshole.
and i sat there, like an asshole, until dawn. walking out, the sun painfully greeted me. i seriously considered lighting the car on fire and never going back home. instead, i pulled the keys out of my pocket and carefully placed them in the trash. without any second guessing, without any careful means, i started up the dusty foreign road. my pale skin absorbs the heat, and i burn. eventually, i stumble across a motel and sleep for twenty four hours. i dreamt of your stupid straight teeth and your cocky stiff hair. i hardly think of you these days.
when i awoke, everything was stuck to my body. the thin sheets, my clothes- all soaked. i had forgotten to turn the fan on. i started a shower but found myself lying in a bath full of grimy water and bits of dirt. like lies and cocaine, i dared myself to drink it.
i make a collect call to my mother, tell her i love her and that i'm fine; i'll return as soon as i've cleared my head. california is next, and then who knows. i'll call you back as soon as i do.
as dusk sneaks up on me, the tires dig deep into the sand. with a cold-sweat fever, i howl back at the frustrated engine. we both need a strong drink.
i stop right past the border, my eyes settle on a bar made of red clay. the door swings open as my feet crunch the ground; a couple arguing in an unfamiliar language. i pass a look at the girl. she's wearing loose curls, a loose dress, and heels made for leaving. her dark features blend into a breath- a second. none of us exist in the next car to pull up.
"i'll take whatever you have". the incoherent bartender purses his lips. i point to the tequila, my bruised hand heavy. the whole word sits still in breakable glass, the tired face i didn't want to see stares back at me. without ever moving my mouth, i take it down, smoothly. the back of my throat welcomes the warmth. i'm a mold of every other getaway artist, sitting in this country like an asshole.
and i sat there, like an asshole, until dawn. walking out, the sun painfully greeted me. i seriously considered lighting the car on fire and never going back home. instead, i pulled the keys out of my pocket and carefully placed them in the trash. without any second guessing, without any careful means, i started up the dusty foreign road. my pale skin absorbs the heat, and i burn. eventually, i stumble across a motel and sleep for twenty four hours. i dreamt of your stupid straight teeth and your cocky stiff hair. i hardly think of you these days.
when i awoke, everything was stuck to my body. the thin sheets, my clothes- all soaked. i had forgotten to turn the fan on. i started a shower but found myself lying in a bath full of grimy water and bits of dirt. like lies and cocaine, i dared myself to drink it.
i make a collect call to my mother, tell her i love her and that i'm fine; i'll return as soon as i've cleared my head. california is next, and then who knows. i'll call you back as soon as i do.
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