Posts for June 8, 2024 (page 4)

Been thinking a lot on how the world might end
without me in it. Wouldn’t that be a shame?
Not that the world is better off with me around,
but that to not be present for such an event,
the event—is that not the misfortune of a lifetime?
To not stand before the sky and its waves of blue,
the forests and each song of crickets, wings,
leaves brushing veins of sunlight through trees,
a fog lifting the mountains, carrying them away
in a cloud of mystery, and the sea—
hypnotic heart, rhythm of beginnings—
washing all footprints from time…that final day,
would it not be a miracle to hold, to believe in
as one does a memory, before forever
settles in, becomes home?

Movies to watch
Spirit, stallion of the cimarron 
The idea of you with Anne Hathway and
the guy from Red, white & royal blue
The post

Artist of the week
Woodkid

Quotes of the week
Part of my magic in the world is my mistakes
A diamonds gotta *shine*

I thought the sun would
come out today, but instead

it just looked like rain.
Clouds held haze against the earth

making me lethargic.
A just plain lazy day

spent loafing around the house,
ambling between tasks,

but focusing on none like a haint
tugged between worlds,

seized in the smog. 

The townspeople built around the river,
They called it “the river of life”,
They drank from it,
They bathed in it,
They depended on the river,
As the years went on, it flowed,
The currents became stronger,
The river grew wider,
The town was flooding,
The children were drowning,
And as the townspeople screamed “dam the river”,
Their shouts were muddled by the rush of muddy water,
And as the river expanded into an ocean,
The town was lost underwater.

No.

No.

I know

we agreed

we would meet half-way.

This shouldn’t be so difficult.

But again you’ve chosen to take the high ground over

the mutual love we declared.

A hierarchy

instead of

just Us.

Damn

you.

(after the undated and untitled photograph of a woman looking up in a stairwell, by Francesco Verolino)

Sometimes I’m surprised how hurt I still am, so
outsized—even to me.
                                                                 Reprieve becomes the burst of a blueberry between. 

—the sadness is in my chest again &
                                                                 all it takes is the song in my head remixed on the
            neighbor’s radio
\\ across the street \\ the garden of my lungs
becomes overgrown with grief,

                                                         swollen. Tight & tall.

Maybe this will resurrect the self:                                                   I study a mourning dove
in her porch corner roost,

            blue-lidded & trusting.
My sadness has started to feel
                                                      like a separate person. I startle

at the thought, now we’re two yellow finches
tangled briefly in bachelor’s buttons.
                                                                    Somehow, we both still know to say yes,

            unlaced           & loudly.

Bringing nothing to the table but my teeth
               Some dried nails, dull and storied
I release myself from the burden of want.

The course bark of calling,
The apotheosized commitment of feeble
Drunk love; the lie of life and
                       the emaciated chortle of purpose.

I no longer hunger in a mirror of porcelain.
The plated dinner party for which
        I was never invited, elbows against grain
        knowing everything I have ever loved

Has eaten me up. I swallow it all
         and call fullness to the table beside me like
my new hungry bride.

wishing on eyelashes again
i hope we can be more than friends
can you see the ink that fell out of my tattoo that’s how close i wanna be to you

your eyes are darker than i’ve ever seen them
and mine are just as glassy
whenever you decide you want me you can have me
if you wanna know you can always check
for your birth stone around my neck

i could fall asleep right now
but then i’d miss you standing between my legs
when you take my chair i tell myself
you just wanna look up at me instead

i think maybe you lost your charm
but then you come sit next to me on the couch’s arm
and i lay on your knee and dream of what we could be
i try to listen when you try to tell me

i have everything you could ever want or need
and i’d give it to you so you know it’s real
i’m a commie babe i want you to feel as good as i feel
you said “well i’m leaving” standing big and tall
to see if i’ll follow and i come at your call

and do you ever worry my bruises are from someone that’s not you

Some days are speechless, out of breath
some hide under blankets against snow

A box of ashes in the closet,
pile of feathers under the feeder

Somewhere outside of Nashville
over the hill musicians sing sad songs

There’s a playlist deep within my phone about you.
It isn’t actually that far away. A simple click and it
will pop up with a heart next to it and a picture of
you. Don’t worry, you agreed when I took that one 
when the wind was playing with your hair. I wish
I was the wind. Of course, I doubt you would ever
find it, but I used to put it on when I missed you.
When I remembered I didn’t see you every Monday
through Sunday. That playlist reminded me that you
were perfect; you still are. The beauty of your face
on my playlist allowed me to pretend you’re with me.
I could pretend the person who always listened and
gave the best advice was by my side. The one who
“loved” me. Within my playlist, when I got down on
one knee, you always said yes. But when I got down
on one knee two months ago, you insisted no and I
listened. I listened to the music and clicked away.