spinning clockwise
daydream haze
things are what they are not
functioning for utility
and living on
days only pills can cure
lovers laid out on racks
fresh fish baking in the sun
someone else's latest catch
irregular movements in the dark
long distance cheek kisses
declarations of infatuation
affording indifference
to situationally exist
to miss the present
is life.
breath heats bare skin
lips agape
bodies distantly akimbo
yet entwined.
distance knows no barrier.
on the wings of the spring gale,
the love radiated
journeys far
its destination a muscle
(reciprocating true)
braving the monotony as a vector
to be consumed
by you
causes these hours to last seconds.
this is the crest,
there is no greater joy,
but the apex is yet to come.
Strictly unmentionable content
wrapped in a careful blanket of contagious lies,
we only kiss in a thick, contaminating haze.
And you only reciprocate on Thursday between 6 and 10;
the vector is quickly forgotten.
We slip through closed doors and colorless daydreams,
communicating in 160 words or less like Mr. Mayor--
so publicized are our most intimate declarations.
Having grown old and apathetic, our tryst has come to my enlightenment
and I forgive you:
Your colors are black and white;
I dare you to claim more.
We will never speak in full sentences
as we did in innocent and ancient days past
Living on physical exchange and recognizing the entropy of the cause--
our love, briefly stated, is porn.
It becomes increasingly hard to breathe
after each daily purge.
What was once associated with relief during illness
no longer carries those characteristics,
but has become absolutely interwoven into everyday existence.
If illness has to be part of existence,
then compounded symptoms unrelated to the ailment
are so much more than irritants.
Half of a work week does not pay bills.
Side effects state that you will be dull, confused,
tired, and increase the likelihood of mild nausea/vomiting
(failing to mention that mild was a euphemism for overwhelming).
The probability of obtaining disability is so incredibly low for
assistance of those suffering from this ailment.
Its hard to prove or disprove with medical testing as we are yet
unable to measure the chemical reactions (or lack of reactions) in our brains.
I savor the thought of a day when I can bask in the glory of good health.
6 days together
lying in a cheap hotel room while lying to each other.
Its something about a desperation to connect
that drives two zombies together
Or maybe its the sex.
I send you messages in French;
I write them on paper towels and mail them to you to express my condition.
You can't relate.
You know I do not speak French
and my continued existence irritates you so
I slink off into a quiet corner where I only have to be concerned with myself.
I'm confused and elated.
I walk in ovals and make sudden sharp turns.
Nothing I do makes sense anymore.
You say its the medication;
I say its perpetual calm.
I haven't felt a thing in a year.
I keep thinking maybe I have lost something that belongs only to me.
Sometimes I see glimpses of it and ignore it.
I am alone.
I miss the way you looked at me in the dark
even though you meant nothing at all.
French is the only way I loved you
and I lied.
It had something to do with laughing; its ben so long that I forget and the myelin sheaths have deteriorated to the point that the journey is farther than I care to venture. Straight lines had never been a habit of mine. So used to skipping rocks through the challenges I face that now, in the lee of the stone, bred of confusion and midlife crisis creeping up on my fragile youth, I feel safe and rest -- maybe indefinitely. I have not put a pen to paper in months.
Its been so long since my erector pili has responded on its own. I drench myself in the mundane and surround myself in a blanket of fog. I've been trying to climb out of this grave I have been lying in. Six feet is a long way to scramble and my brain is so scrambled I have trouble carrying out simple tasks. My sentences run on for days.
I find that communication and correspondence are lost arts. I write love letters to all of my friends and befriend people whose beds I can share. I'm a self-loathing, slow moving sloth of a woman.
My shell breaks and I peek out. This world so new, I am scared and lost. No one provided me with the map that seems quintessential to existence right now. If peeking out is as far as I can go right now, then I may have to force myself to explode. I can't think of a more efficient way to find myself in everything everywhere. One day I will remember that what I am doing now is not disconnected from the journey, but part of it. I am cheek-to-cheek and I can barely feel it. My plan of action is just to breathe.
I find I am most surprised by how simple it is to open closed doors.
current thoughts abbreviated:
- It's a wonder that I don't have AIDS.
- In a perfect situation, you could fall in love with anyone.
He's right, I do make lists. I'm so terribly irritated with the premise of anyone being right about me that I typed "I don't" and had to correct it.
I'm not as self-loathing as I insist.
The entirety of my life, I have always fantasized about being a writer. I imagined it to be some sort of magical life akin to what most probably compared to dreaming of becoming movie stars. I glamorized it. The first time I can remember wanting to be a writer, I was nine years old and receiving my first journal; this was my astronaut. Of all the things I dreamed myself becoming, writing always seemed the most attainable, the most realistic.
As of today, I can barely imagine myself becoming anything and I begin to wonder if anyone my age might experience the same tragedy. To be 23 and nearly jobless was not where I saw myself being 6 years ago.
Maybe my aspirations were unlikely. Maybe the sociological demand is that one be perfect and brilliant. Somehow I feel nearly obligated to be breathing.
[...]
Perhaps I used to write of maybes in far away places of distant thought patterns. But that was before I found myself embittered of the tiny nuances that spring out at you on a casual Sunday as the light is passing in through the dark curtains of a morning slept in too late. Perhaps I used to have a grasp on the things that oozed life, but I have lost the ability to make a distinction. Everything I experience tastes like cardboard.
