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WRITING:
smashing and bashing.all she would do.
was sit.
and watch that goddamned tv.
all day.
and all night.
and when i got home today.
she was sitting in her special tv chair.
watching.
so i unplugged it from the wall.
and carried out to the back yard.
then went back inside.
to grab the baseball bat from the closet.
when i got back to the yard.
i beat the shit out of that tv.
like it was the thing
that had caused all this misfortune.
and it kindof had.
i hit that thing
until you couldn't even tell what it had been.
which is how i wanted it.
i wanted it gone.
erased from our lives.
i went back inside.
to find my mother
on her special sitting chair.
crying.
so i went over to her.
and hugged her.
told her everything was going to be okay.
and helped her up to her room.
where she could finally sleep.
on a freshly made.
bed.
Chai Tea AndAnd Loveher music plays chills from the wind out of her sweatered arms.
the kooks seem to fit her mood perfectly for days on end.
and days on end she seems to walk, to feel. like a writer,
like a writer she chalks her thoughts on the sidewalk.
draws circles with her feet and eyes with her heart. forming
a face, his face, his thoughts. the leaves haven't totally changed,
yet the temperature has beaten her down already and she
waits endlessly for the day she can wear a satiny dress and
heels, and run in his jacket over to the metro. incense sticks
and gingerbread candles. chai tea. forearm cold from the
freezing book of sketches and hands hot hot, chai latte, extra
foam.
if you're an ocean, then i'm drowning.You are a calculated mistake –
something that I've known is wrong from the very start. And I wake up next to you every morning lately, praying that your split lips don't sink me – even though I know it's too late.
You're already taking me under, because, baby –
you're heavy like hurricane. Like a thousand drops of rain pounding down on my shoulder blades. You're seeping into my skin and into my bloodstream. It's only a matter of time until you spread to my heart.
It's too late. I'm already drowning in you.
It's too late, but god, I cannot love you.
You're like the last boy I kissed –
which means I should already be working on forgetting the exact way your fingertips press into my hipbones or how my name sounds curled up in your mouth and the way you like to speak it so careful like a secret – like if you said it too loud, I could get away from you. Like you want to keep me. But mostly I should forget you.
And sometimes, I try, but right now, I'm calculating the Bird Songs WIPI sang like a bird; nothing natural, my voice was sand-papered to round off the pointed edges of once unreachable keys and stretched until it swung around the room with the strength and certainty of a robin in flight. My teacher said I always had the capability but was lacking the desire.
Oh, yes. My teacher.
He was very old and very Italian, to say the least, a shadow of a tenor that had long since dimuendoed from its vocal peak. His hands had learned to outplay his voice and he played the piano with more skill and primordial intensity then anyone I will ever hope to meet. Kindness was sparse; old men aren't always "cute". He certainly didn't want to be.
"Straighten up, stolto, I am not teaching little girls to stretch out their necks like geese!"
"What was that? You express as much emotion as a board of wood!"
Things of that nature.
You see, angry men have angry pasts, and he wasn't any different, though he pretended to be. He hated the sight of red roses—I learned this o :thumb282715816: Under the TigerWe meet in a half dream
under the coal and flame,
snug behind the rule of an ivory fang.
Heavy with drowse in the close heat,
sometimes we sleep,
nursing comfort from the rumbling lullaby.
Sometimes I enter the mangrove
between your striped arms,
lay my head against your bristling fur,
close my eyes, and follow you to India. bornetomorrow we'll set
paper airplanes adrift
over the muddy pacific,
the place where it starts
behind stanley park.
i know the ocean wasn't
really born there, i know it
comes from a bigger womb,
but it feels that way to me,
sometimes.  
that edge there
where water and foam
smash hopelessly against sand,
that feels like creation. TouchThe wounded creature on the floor:
Poor little bird.
No love, no sympathy, no place to call a home.
Bones all broken,
feathers torn.
Poor, blood-stained bird.
Left to die,
pushed from the nest.
No, it can't fly.
No, not yet.
Someone show it love
(before it falls apart again)
Poor little bird,
Left out on it's own.
Poor blood-stained bird.
Just spread your wings and soar. :thumb281911286: Capslock Phraseshe riddled his brain with numbers and patterns:
desperate to escape the (caps)lock
and rhythm of the phrases he grew up on.
long fingers stretch across a piano
but it never whispers a sound. ars poeticaOn in to
the unruly
whatever:
my instructions
are simple:
where space invokes form:
stifle the world
into a single thing. wokei woke
and ate fruit.
went down to the river,
watched things brighten.
spent the day.
woke
and woke and
woke.   :thumb260317100: comprehension.the things
i do not
understand -
my palm print
on the mirror,
foggy,
melting
away -
a lion sleeps
too
softly -
waiting, waiting,
waiting -
always waiting, we are
two seagulls
lost at sea,
a sailor, no ship -
a mirror, no reflection - flossing with razorblades.she'll wake up in the morning and stretch, but every bone
in her body is screaming, 'no, no - you'll fall apart that way!'
and when she gets up to take her shower, she's so very
afraid that the water is going to run straight through her.
when she gets out, each time she dresses a little more slutty,
hoping that maybe one of these days someone will notice her.
as she prepares for each deadly day,
she brushes her teeth with cyanide and flosses with razorblades.
she's decided that it's the perfect way to chip away all the parts
about herself that she doesn't like.
[[which sadly, i must tell you, is all of her]]
each day she plays hopscotch across the main street.
every time she hears the angrily honked horns she
sighs relief at the fact she's still seen.
she leaves post-its all over her school,
each and every one whispers 'you are beautiful.'
she hopes that someone will get the message,
because lord knows she hasn't. exhalei loved you in stolen glances
in individual moments i wrapped up in eager dreams
waiting for a hushed smile that never came
but reflected itself in the midnight rain of my bedroom window
i loved you as a secret
that lay between the shadows of my heart
and the tip of my tongue
i could not whisper your name aloud
but god, did i want to
i loved you boundlessly
like the wind, with no beginning and no end
forever traveling across your landscape
chasing the sunset resting on your horizon Shipwrecked.I stayed up all night painting your face so
  I could beat the birds to crying your name
  and the world would shudder and shake in two syllables
  once the first glitters of dawn skittered across the horizon
  and skipped across the tips of your blindfold eyelids;
I stayed up all night losing my sanity so
  I could on auto-pilot put my body to work
  and my hands would find a natural rhythm
  in the swoop and crash of heat transfer
  bobbing up and down in the waves of your skin;
I stayed up all night dancing so
  I could prance through the doors of your dreams
  and I would step and spin without your guidance
  until your eyelashes fluttered awake with pride singing
  and our distance would hum along with the song and close in;
I stayed up all night lighting fireworks so
  I could pretend I was a sailor lost at sea
  and you would find me shipwre willowsquatting nude by the
river bank; you become a
friction of forethought Love slipped through my handsWhen the stars collapsed--
                  You
                      followed  
                 them
              to  
                 my   
                    doorstep.
           Chilled, your smile
            w  a  r  m  e d       :thumb263446666: snapshot of victoriaa few seagulls followed me through bastion square and i fed them from a bag of crackers in my pocket.  i sat with them a little while, and a man played 'mr. bojangles' on a ukulele because i asked him to, and i gave him some money.  i sat near the mouth of helmcken alley where the chain gang ghosts rattle through sometimes.  the bricks were wet and mossy and smelled of history.

ART:

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