dude, it’s been an emotional week:
i feel like a pawn|that’s be chewed on|by a dog|disregarded and kicked| behind the stove|collecting dirt|and food crumbs|i wish it was last summer|when i was practically homeless|and spent half my time|laying in the grass of parks|napping on porches and rooftops|in June, fire escapes feel like a stone massage|real sleep only existed in the mornings|after pushing the limits of my liver|like i, spitefully, was proving a point|sometimes, i think about all the people|i’ve been and i get exhausted|i get sad about chameleon|spirit|mad about realizing how fake a smile is
room full of noise and rocking limbs. play it right
#napowrimo and #30daysofcycling: 4/11 - 4/13
yo, i have a life altering deadline. this has been temporarily backburnered. i’ll holler when life calms down a bit.
[untitled | random couplets]
i fell asleep with the windows open,
hoping the wind would push you in.
i awoke in the sun’s shine, your shirt
was missing from it’s hook.
later, i found it outside, caught on
the banister of my neighbor’s porch.
rode from parking spot to work. rode from work to car.
life is giving me fits right now.
deciding whether or not to play hide and seek with a person in front of other people.
me + you = ?
[prompt: include five music titles from a playlist]
It’s 1 a.m. and I’m riding a bicycle,
because you asked to see me.
We’ve got two hearts down for trying,
so while the city is wushing by me
with each clockwise kick of my feet,
my name is panting in your voice.
I can feel it warm against the skin
beside my ears, where my neck curves
into shoulders and I pedal faster.
I’ve followed yellow brick roads
to too many lies and I’ve given up on odds—
on numbers on a board, but I still believe
in midnight phone calls, cycling in the street,
and sex on wrinkled blue sheets,
slightly stained from last time.
———————————song titles used————————-
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John
Two Hearts Down - The Black Lillies
Too Many Lies - The Futures League
Chain My Name - Polica
Numbers on the Board - Pusha T
it hit 73 degrees today and i didn’t ride a bike :/. skipped polo, too.
what is life?
drove near work. parked. rode over to work. worked. rode to fusian to pick up sushi for lunch. rode back. ate. danced in a music video in city hall; council members and the chief of police danced. worked. rode to car. drove to cappel’s for Styrofoam eggs, which i’ll turn into boobs for nip nip. i also bought chattering teeth. drove to holtman’s. ate three donuts. drove to gas station. bought gas and cleaned out trash in car. filled a two foot tall paper bag with trash contents from my car. took a picture that didn’t do the situation justice. below. drove to grocery store. shopped with roommate. drove home. showered. drove to highland’s for nip nip meeting. long, productive meeting. drove to covington, ky. rode from parking spot to drew’s. bike behind couch. chillin’
Erasure Leftovers [Night Sky | Not the End by Carl Dennis]
the night sky
any spot in the universe,
With the same stars
With a sun
the naked inspire
dust of dreams
The silences of holding back.
wide view that left
What could have
It’s good news for the stay-at-homes like us,
The new consensus among astronomers
That the night sky appears roughly the same
From any spot in the universe,
With roughly the same number of visible stars
At similar distances, in similar congregations.
Those who’ve labeled the view from Earth provincial
Turn out to be mired in provincial thinking.
Look at the star map, we’ll tell them. Note
How the stars have to make do without a capital,
Without a center where all roads lead, a sun
Whose pull proves irresistible to the ambitious.
And if the stars we discern above our roof
Don’t seem as numerous as we’ve supposed them,
We’ll remind ourselves of the many more
That will show themselves when the gauzy curtain
Is drawn back, the veil of dust and ash that now
Obscures their shining. Let the day draw near
When the Milky Way, visible once again
To the naked eye, inspires a silence
Appropriate to a revelation.
Nightfall then will be all that’s longed for.
The morning and afternoon of a cloudless day
Will seem to pass so slowly we’ll wonder
If the stars we think we remember
Are only fancies, the dust of dreams.
But no, look up. Here they are again.
Not the End
Don’t let the quarreling near the end
Convince you the breakup would have been predictable
From the beginning to somebody more insightful.
Remember that any suggestion back then
Of the actual outcome would have been swept aside
By the evidence that the joys you shared
With your beloved would prove enduring:
The joy on workdays of cooking supper together,
The joy on weekends of rambling the woods
With no agenda.
The silences weren’t a sign of holding back.
They were calm and easy, your thoughts
Drifting away on a stream of association
And then returning with a sprig of woodland flowers.
Here, this is for you, each said, and meant it.
And remember the climb you loved, to the ridge,
The wide view of the valley that left you both
Feeling open to whatever the day might offer.
Don’t diminish those moments now by wondering
What you could have done to make them last
Had you been attentive enough to cherish them.
You were happy back then, remember,
And knew you were happy.
What you need now isn’t the work
Of regret but the work of gratitude.
And all it takes to be grateful is to feel grateful.
Go back to the beginning and embrace its bounty.
Beneath the story of cause and consequence
Another story is pointing another way.
beachcruiser in the attic. loop-dee-loops in between bedroom clean up.
haikus and stuff regarding hands | for an upcoming collab show
inlets of honey
gooing against the webbing
between my fingers
lifelines like barren
river beds Ohio knows
as six-landed roadway.
her pale hands printed
with veins: the backside of leaves
stretching to an end (ends)
dollar bills and flicked
pocket change filling the sagged
hangouts for her hands
middle manning most
situations with a limp
wrist, lame duck persona
tag team touch
of index and thumb, pulling
up enough skin to …
the feel of coarse palms
outlining skin silhouettes
through moonlight licked blinds
sectioning my shape
into pluckable portions—
finger-food for you
index fingers slide
into the the creases of my
hips looking from home
nausea knuckles, bent
and quivering quick through the
thick of an orgasm
instructed by hand,
signaling left and right
turns ooo, into ahh
subpar motor skills
spilling drinks on our city:
concrete sidewalks scratched
with tick-tack-toe boards
and aeresoled mickey mice,
flat circles or pendulums right and left:
a compass rose come hithering
to the cardinals in the shape of an asterisk
shouting through circled
palms, lips exposing a tongue
flicking its letters
into words and sounds
shushed from nail bit index
pressed against glossed lips
i didn’t even attempt you.
a few seemingly failed attempts at bunny hopping.
some thing is bothering her or she’s completely mellowed out.