i walked a mountain side alone for three weeks straight. it was all i could take. my year of the self fell short to selfish insecurity.
the comfort of warm bath water and black reflective surfaces were enough to turn my back to the mountain. i crawled bac(more)k into my cubicle life. i put my hand into my pocket to connect to the instant gratification but instead i found a mountain fern. i never put that mountain fern in my pocket. i tried not to think of how it got there. instead i plucked at its leaves awhile. a pang of guilt and existential crisis stirred in me with each pluck.
“this isn’t how you should live.”
“this isn’t where you should be.”
what a waste of a life.
i buried the mountain fern back at the mountain side. but most nights when I’m asleep i feel it against my palm.
one whole year of you
off on and on off
on paper, my terms
off script, your terms
(more) always your terms
you were too imagistic
i, too literal
she hadn't been engulfed in your spiral yet
(I'm often jealous of what sticks out of your head)
she didn't know the ruined holidays
the bruised friendships like fruit
(I'm often worried it died at the graveyard)
she hadn't been denied her poetry yet
or was she prose?
(I'm often jealous of what hangs out of your head)
handled in your palms
a muse that will fuse out
(they always do)
every month is a romance
a dance with bared teeth eventually
the charm beads off you like sweat
it wears off you like elasticity of the skin
you'd fall into the pattern again
I'd await the 4 AM beck of a notification
There is a bubbling in the glass
And it’ll ooze through you
coursing like a term spread
over the horizon of the night
twisting the blood
turning the DNA
(more) into the all-feeling.
It curves like a streetcar turn
Screech to ear, impatient to eye
I wish to jump at it but
It takes a fermented feeling
To make a reaction
for a long while, i thought the prince edward viaduct had streams of water pouring out of the top and through the bottom on the north and south sidewalks. i tried to tell you about the streams but you were smoking out the window and spitting out the window(more) and yelling out the window.
"have you ever seen the waterfalls on the viaduct?"
"have you ever walked across the viaduct?"
i drove across it in traffic this week and came to a full stop. the streams froze into metal rods to encage. (less)
It's about time to drive yourself crazy. Book a flight to Spain to have human trafficking haunt you. Take a job at a bookstore to put more knots in your back. Pick up English courses to put more notches in your(more) bank account and knowledge on a dusty shelf. A better credit score, at least. But still, hiding from your insides, piling on new titles and identities until the old is lost. And always wondering who you are now and who you were then. (less)
"How innocent do I look?" I reach over the counter and grab a shooter glass. I fill it 'ith pilsner and toss it at my face. One chug.
(more) "...t'ought so," he mumbles, neck bent over the bar.
"What d'ya mean?" I drum my fingertips on the cracked wood top.
He turns opposite me and grabs 'is deep tea cup of rum 'ith pink flowers painted on. He heaves himself off the rickety bar stool and ducks down int'a tattered leather booth.
Some night. Barmin Jim is out rushin' the under-agers around, telling 'em t' get the hell out of 'is bar again. They only got so many costumes. How don't he notice?
Jim lets m'in every night. He don't care t' notice that I'm a tad young t' be kickin' round this here bar. Old fuck doesn't know what's good for 'im. I usually bring in some more drinkers 'nd he likes that. (less)
Tell me, are you the only one here? I follow you around with my pearly white eyes and they shine at you and you know. You know everything in the room. Eyes in your hands and on your head and in your ass, watching it all.
(more) I can't watch you. You titter, tatter around and crawl all over everything with crumbs spilling out your mouth.
I tilt my head one way, scrunch up my plain face, look back and you're gone.
But you still see me.
I lift my legs 'nd hug them to my knees. I grab at some tissue paper boxed up on the left of my desk, flecks of dust flying through the air.
"Hello!" I say aloud, to no one at all.
Tell me, are you the only one here aside from me? (less)
The loyal woman will not let you walk on her floor mats, scraping the dignity off your boots. The disloyal woman is hiding behind charity and pattern. Yet, she is unaware of her disloyalty. The intentions are sewn into cotton ball clouds, waiting for the flood.