Thursday, April 17, 2014

lately i’ve been unexpectedly making friends with all these awesome writers on campus and they’re all so interesting and edgy and mysterious and cool but i feel like such a little dork in comparison idk why they let me talk to them but i’m just gonna roll w it for now i’m sure soon they’ll realize i’m a dweeb and that’ll be the end of it

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

I’m Just Waiting For ‘Me Too’

michael spent 3 months staying up all night chain-smoking against a tree
behind the freshman dorms
he says there’s a creek there, a good place to smoke weed
i don’t tell him i don’t smoke weed because he assumes i do and i let him

he says he wants to be a writer, plans on getting his mfa
asks if i’ve read salinger’s 9 short stories because they’re perfect
i say doesn’t it stress you out
he says he just wants to be famous
he writes poems about his dad’s beard, his own beard,
his dad’s dreads, his own afro,
i write a poem about a boy who spends his whole life trying to fall out of love
with the first girl who cried in front of him
he says ‘shit, man’
i say ‘doesn’t it stress you out’

bruce tells michael the first poem i ever wrote was about a loon
i wrote it on a boat on a paper plate when i was 9
my mom has it hung on the door of her office
she hasn’t liked a single thing i’ve written since
michael laughs 
says ‘they say you only write one good poem your whole life’
i say ‘doesn’t that stress you out’
instead of ’please know what i mean’

michael won an award for creative nonfiction february
skipped class to get drunk and tackle all the snowmen on campus
i wonder if he smokes weed because it stresses him out
or does he really just like weed
do other people really just like drugs 
it must stress them out
i’m afraid to ask directly,
what if i am always

Do Anything Forever, I Dare You

i have dreams my hands are tree roots and i’m finally fastened somewhere
well i don’t but wouldn’t that be romantic, wouldn’t that be perfect

i want to only exist in extremes as soon as i graduate from here
i promised like 8 people i’d live with them in boston
i promised michael i’d meet him in iowa, write eulogies forever

you know how in pokemon silver (or gold or crystal, whichever one you had)
to get to the seventh gym leader you had to maneuver the ice path
like the floor of the gym was ice and you had to pick a specific path
to slide on happy accident to where you needed to be
that’s my whole life
and i know i’ll end up against some rock and not in front of someone
challenging & exciting & delightfully capable of crushing me

it took me like 80 tries to navigate that maze
i know i know
that’s not gonna be good enough 

Some Of This Happened And Some Of This Could Happen

i see emily anorexic-no-more in a burgundy sweater 
sitting on the curb in a horse mask peddling a free-press magazine;
i reach for it and she dodges my hand and i reach for it again and she 
gives it to me but jealously

like ‘here is something you did not create and you love it and that makes you
powerless’
and i know
and i’m scared or wait there is another word for this but i will never know it

i don’t like asking for things, i write a short story
about a girl named steph and her boyfriend sam and steph
spends hours on the phone with telemarketers trying to convince them to
quit their jobs
and sam spends hours on his computer watching porn wondering
how much longer until he doesn’t want steph at all anymore
how much longer until everything bores him, including real people
including real life

then no one will own him and steph won’t be able to take sex away
when he has fucked up
and he won’t have to apologize to anyone for anything again

i build a boat in my room, squeeze it out the door as if from a bottleneck
out to the ice-lake, put the boat on the lake, sit in the boat,
wait for the ice to melt

realize my boat was never buoyant to begin with, wonder where i went wrong
wonder what the bottom of the lake looks like
wonder if i’m the first one ever to see it
feel honored
the bottom of the lake is mine now
it’s beautiful and i own it and no one
can hold it over my head before or again

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this will be called ‘Spent The Night Eating A Dumb Salad And Writing Poems With People You Hate Instead Of Kissing You, Big Mistake’

this will be called ‘Spent The Night Eating A Dumb Salad And Writing Poems With People You Hate Instead Of Kissing You, Big Mistake’

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Ars Poetica

There’s this straw field, probably what Holden Caulfield was talking about, where the kids don’t ever die, and they don’t ever worry, and they don’t ever fuck. I’m lying in the reeds and there’s wind, so delicate I feel it before I hear it, just on my face, like love, how you feel it first as heat, and the rest comes after. The clouds are wisps of God’s breath and Noah’s flood never happened, and the plagues never happened—all this time he just wanted to watch, he never laid a hand in anything, not a single world series game or genocide, just watched and sometimes couldn’t watch, lurched onto his side and pretended to be sleeping. And there is someone I love lying in the straw next to me. I can’t see their face but I trust them. I can’t see their face but I know I’ll worry about them my whole life in a good way, like I’ll miss them when I’m sleeping.

Or maybe a blue barn built of dead wood, the paint peeled off in the blind-white sun. The termites won but it was an amicable victory, and the structure still stands, and thin shelves of light cut through the slats in the walls. And you’re sitting in the rafters, whoever you are, and you’re beautiful, and the dust is beautiful, gold flecks rising slowly towards the roof as if resurrecting home, and I can’t open my eyes all the way but I don’t mind. I am lying in hay not watching you but aware always that you are there, and you are aware I am there, and neither of us feel like we have to talk, so for once in my life I don’t feel anxiety like a knife in my side twisting so constantly and so dependably I sometimes mistake it for what makes me human; we are quiet and I feel too calm, like unfairly, like probably I am not human at all anymore, maybe just a pillar of rain, and the sun is heavy, fuses my body to the hay; I finally have disappeared. I can come back whenever I want. 

meduses:

kate monica thinks that green tic tacs are the best petition to throw her off a boat

r u done

yellow umbrellas are important like laugh tracks recorded of people who are dead now are important like how the sense of calm & relief that follows waking up from a nightmare is worth the horror of the nightmare 

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