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(no subject) [Nov. 16th, 2011|06:02 pm]

the breeze blows you forward and you have to duck to avoid the cautionary umbrellas. it's not raining but the air is v. wet, as though it's bleeding. you can't hear it in the trees because they are pared down to the skin, naked and motionless. the twigs just more caverns for the wind to squeeze through. close the door behind you.

drip off, a single hand through your hair, wiped then on your jeans. coffee cups smile red at you, undulating throats taking down gulps with silent packages of air. here we are all conspiring, here we all noticed you walk in, and you don't have an umbrella. well you can't borrow ours, and don't think about stealing it. cut your hair, shave your face, step, step, step.

you're lazy and you hate people who are lazy and you love yourself so dearly, so innately. you won't notice when you misstep, you'll chalk it up to the man you are. each time you breathe, you are more of a man, that's the way it works, yes? take time aside to try not to think about what that means. you'll get the hang of it.

revoke her right to make you feel. make yourself feel, force yourself to do it if you have to. catch a bus and ride it until it starts raining and get off. straighten your back, stop looking tired, and make the umbrellas walk around you. don't float but step. step on what happened and make it a step in the right direction.
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(no subject) [Oct. 12th, 2011|07:41 pm]
as sadness gives way to hope

you start in the morning by hoping not to be sad; this is the best way you can see things progressing. being happy outright just isn't practical, not for someone who has so many things in his pockets: two or three forms of identification, credit cards, a smart phone, an old picture that is frayed around the edges, a damp pack of smokes. they aren't heavy but you always feel their weight and like i said before, you can only hope that they don't make you sad.

you pick up the train at the end of your street and are disheartened to find that the air is on, despite the rain outside. the driver is telling everyone to push back or else this train won't move, and she sounds genuinely angry. not because she can't actually move the train, but because she says that same sentence every day, and people still do the same things they do. it's not hard, is it? to squeeze between those two backpacked lovers who are in a low-toned fight, or even to take the partially obstructed seat next to the young man with his legs spread wide, slouching and uncomfortable but a landowner on this car. you know he'll move if you ask whether you can sit there, but you also know the look he'll give you, which is the look he's already giving you for walking in his direction, so you keep pushing through. the driver is still stopped at the red light, but will not open the doors for any latecomers. let them race to the next stop, see if they can beat me, she thinks.

no one looks happy to see anyone else. not even the people speaking to one another, the ones who know each other the most, are smiling. the man you end up standing next to has metal music blaring through his wraparound headphones and he's tapping his foot out of rhythm which must be pretty embarrassing because you can all hear his music, and the woman directly behind him cringes every time he lifts his arm to pull against the bar, and she steps backwards eventually, her heel digging into the toe of a child playing with her younger brother in a stroller, and the girl cries so the baby cries and the mother tries to calm them down while saying it's fine to the woman, who's looking forlorn and shooting glares back towards the headphones, which continue their drone. someone pushes past you at the behest of the driver, and you mumble something like excuse you.

you spend a good amount of your time on the train, or anywhere really, wondering what you would say to someone if they were to insult you. this, of course, is to counteract the phenomenon of always knowing what to say five minutes after the insult leaves you speechless. you want to be prepared for what you can, because most of the things that happen blindside you, at least most of the big things. you take breaths slowly because you want to feel them, but also because you are scared because someone told you once that everyone has like a million or a billion breaths and once they're all gone you die, and you don't think that you want to die yet, even if you aren't sure whether or not you want to live today.

the mother is gathering her things and shouting side door! and pushing her daughter and her stroller through onto the platform. the stroller has a hood on it, and the little girl has a hannah montana umbrella, but the mother is somehow unprepared for the weather. isn't that perfect? isn't that what we do? spend our whole lives giving advice, spend all of our time telling people things? she doesn't even notice when a crumpled five dollar bill edges its way out of her pocket as she shimmies past the rubber on the door, but the woman in the heels does. she bends down to pick it up, and rushes through the door to return it to its most recent owner. the doors close behind her, the driver certainly laughing to herself, most of the remaining passengers cringing and murmuring to each other.

but the woman in the heels hadn't even turned around to reboard the train. as you start to pull out, fateful passengers on a lurching squeal of metal, you can see all of their faces through the droppy window. the mother's gratitude, bordering on wonder. the young girl's reluctant truculence. the baby boy's amazement with the rain that has started dripping from the hood of his stroller, his outstretched hands and fingers. you start in the morning by hoping not to be sad; you do this every day. but there are moments when the world meets you halfway, tucks itself under the chasm you've fallen into, and floats you up toward happiness.
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(no subject) [May. 18th, 2011|12:11 pm]
we were together. i forget the rest.

you have to choose when to dance and when to be sorry for dancing. like birds you let free from a rooftop, assuming they'll know the way home. what happens to the lost ones? it's a big sky, mostly blue. i'm sorry i scared you.

i scare myself; my mouth is younger than my heart. it's the tastes, you know? they haunt me. my tongue tastes old fear and lashes out with hot spit. for all my optimism, i wouldn't be surprised if my first word as a child was "no." no, please, let me be, let me be scared, and please, let me find truth.

there's an old paradox, older than any of the things we truly know. if you are travelling from one place to another, you must first travel half the distance there. then, you must travel half of the remaining distance, and so on. with all of these halves to traverse, how can you arrive?
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(no subject) [May. 18th, 2011|12:53 am]
like children running round the bend

what a world my hands beget,
coursing in marrow
to yearn for the deepest life.

you named the trees
and hurled forth my name
before i could remember it.

please remember it,
he said as he fumbled with his belt.

one can always see his own blindness,
if torqued and dismantled
into aspiration.

i'll throw down my remedies
if you'll remember me.
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(no subject) [Apr. 24th, 2011|10:31 pm]
a wayward gust

only hope
brings forth such overwhelmings,
our lips and hands pressed
like mountains against the vast sheets.

the enormity of two spirals
plunging through time,
throwing shards aside of
the day's remains.

we won't wear shoes soon.
crack open your knees
to applaud the sun.

on a painted rock face
my cries will reach you,
cries of rapture
echoing in slow waves.

press your hands and lips
against the wind,

we are here,
we have made it,
we may breathe.
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(no subject) [Apr. 20th, 2011|12:14 am]
forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past

first, in the labyrinthine depot, a man talks to me in an accent he sincerely wants me to comprehend. his factory lips press out cynicism and a carved smile, and he peppers his undertoned conversation with shouts to passing tourists, "which bus? gate 164. no, thank you, ma'am." i am half a second from spilling everything at him, asking him for the advice he wouldn't know how to give. he is cocky and is listing off the bus companies that deliver thousands into his domain every day; he has lived too long of a life to remember what it's like to feel ashamed.

i leave him standing at the top of the escalator. it's as far as they'll let us go; the underbelly of the station is reserved for those who pay. it's in these moments that i feel the closest to homeless. there are no benches, and no one around me is sitting on the floor. i lean against a wall and slowly slouch myself down until i'm discreetly seated on the floor. i do and do not want to cry, i do and do not want to call attention to myself. here i can do both. so i stand up again and walk back, determined to make my mind up one way or the other. the man no longer speaks to me.

the top of her head crests the top step of the escalator, and she is beautiful and bent, even the very top hairs on her head. her eyes don't change when she sees me, and i try to make mine stay too.


on the roof of a boat, two days later, the last place i thought i'd be now. the brightness shining down as hard as it can, seeping through our pores and lighting up our flaws from the inside. they radiate, declare themselves as facts, are unapologetic. we wade past overturned plastic tables and chairs, the trappings of a life well worth leaving behind. i turn around to toss a memory into her eyes, a glance declaring that 'content' doesn't have to mean self-satisfied coping anymore, that 'content' can make a dictionary stand up on its own, that it includes every parsed form of every word inside, a spike of new light in a heart choked with the dark of doubt. she'll remember this, because she's known this to be a truth since before she knew how to love. what's more important is that she'll live it, maybe not now and maybe not next year. one day she will throw her hands out and let her body follow, and she will know how her future will catch her.
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(no subject) [Apr. 1st, 2011|12:14 am]
the day they cut your teeth out,
your fears became real.
a needle, four wounds and
a mouth that couldn't hold back a thought.
they never cut mine out;
my body didn't need it,
and my fears are never real, just old.
you've lived a life,
you've lived three of them, and
you've lived through it.
you lived, and i lied.

my body is sighing back into
the early onset of middle age;
i don't want to relive it.
i want to be carried,
i want a schedule that tells me when i
wake, sleep,
fight, lose,
i'm someone, and i don't want to be.

there's a letter i've been saving for you,
it's been written between the folds of my brain,
tattooed and hardened there.
there is dust on it now,
and you might not read it.
i'm ready for that,
eyes closed tight and all of my fingers crossed.
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(no subject) [Jan. 29th, 2011|09:36 pm]
sleet slouches down the side of the trolley, over an ad for a support hotline. the woman pictured, already painted morose, cries saltless tears that well up where the poster is torn. there is a parade today that wasn't canceled--the weather couldn't scare anyone off--and a blanket of umbrellas deflects one man's wetness onto another man's shoulder onto his neighbor's sleeve. all three men grind their teeth and dart out across the tracks once it's safe, once the bleary-eyed woman has shuffled past. a girl in a paperboy cap calls a string of numbers and prepositions out to the receding crowd, cupping her dirt palms around her mouth and idly kicking a puddle. a man wearing stilts and an uncle sam costume saunters the sidewalk, thankful that his feet are ten feet from the ground. the downtown bus shreds through a puddle, sending heavy spray through the hair and makeup of the no longer lively crowd, and uncle sam glances at his watch.

he'll be on time to whatever appointment, perhaps due to his long legs. the throng's frowns will fade to grimaces when they get home and smell that dinner won't be good tonight, and they'll all put on faces that reveal to their families what horrors are to be witnessed outside. wet boots go on radiators, other clothing flung meanly over a shower bar. the hiss of modern music seeping through the windows, or is that the hiss of the sleet? both equally meaningless. sounds that flex no muscle. the fundamental frequency of the city droning overhead, overheard by birds and satellites.
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(no subject) [Nov. 3rd, 2010|06:51 pm]
silasCollapse )
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(no subject) [Nov. 3rd, 2010|06:39 pm]
obadiahCollapse )
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