“I am the luckiest person who ever lived,” she whispered, head tilted towards the starry sky.
“Sweetheart,” replied the ever-wistful man in the moon, “Luck ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”
forever is lacking lately
when the egyptians built the pyramids
do you think they ever imagined their constructs would crumble?
do you think they took a step back during their progress
turned to one another, and said
(what if this dream decays,
what if the architecture is to fall into atrophy,
what if these plans are no more permanent than people?)
)i am folding in on myself
looking for the you residing in me
and this scares me, to know
that i sank my teeth
into your soul, and that i
shook it to within
an inch of its life
and yet you still
have the strength to
speak to me.
)to look at me, to hold me, to kiss me with abandon,
you told me to keep in mind that you are doing your best
and i am telling you now to keep in mind that i am terrified
but i won’t scream because you leave me breathless
)i have taken the leap of faith
and i did not look before doing so).
wetaphors and swimiles
let my lips crash into yours, without restraint
as waves crash on the shores
i swore the ink would not flow if i smiled—
—yet here i am
and i suppose you cannot build a dam wide enough
to block this river
you cannot dig a hole deep enough
to drain this ocean
if they tied an anchor to my legs
i would let myself sink
to the lightless depths
because if this is restraint
and if this is the inability to breathe
then i have never been more free
and never been happier to be without air.
"
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
"— since feeling is first
e.e. cummings
epiphany
oh, jacks kerouac and london
edgar allen poe
e. e. cummings
ernest hemingway
charles bukowski
f. scott fitzgerald
i do believe i understand now
though i have not yet ascended to your ranks
the world is too much with us
and i suppose we would all be better off without
our lives, too easy to be so damn complicated
the cruel truth behind the world is this:
there is certainly not a reason for everything.
there are no divine instructions inscribed
in god’s plan, no blueprints in the construction
of time that might save us all from ourselves, or from
the immeasurable pain which accompanies the
austere unknowingness of the near and distant future.
life is the albatross around our necks. it breaks
our backs and forces us to our knees. yet we cannot
stop dragging our feet down the paths we have chosen,
because the earth will not stop spinning no matter
how loud our screams or how passionate our prayers.
our hearts will shatter and bleed and heal and shatter again
but the sun will never stop rising just because we refuse to open our eyes.
i wake up in the mornings hating myself and everything
around me, wanting nothing more than to slip back
into that perfect absence of rational thought. and though
that longing encompasses every inch of my being,
i still untangle my limbs from the bedsheets, force
the sleep out of my mind, and paint on a smile, so that
i might linger on in the world: a ragged, lonely ghost with a flickering candle.
I’m afraid of
a lot of things,
but mostly,
most sincerely,
I am afraid of
being completely
unraveled by you,
and you finding nothing
you want in here.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
the ocean drowns a lot of things, including all these memories
i. i suppose that someday i will stop remembering
the way each ray of three o’clock sunshine filtered into
bedroom on the afternoon i kissed you. i crashed
my bicycle and skinned my knees an hour later,
convinced i was going to hell in a handbasket.
ii. i wrapped myself in the shroud of shared misery
and wore it proudly the next couple months, letting my
eyes tell the lies my lips could not. i learned to hold
my tongue. i never held my breath, though, because
waiting for you was like begging hot water to boil.
iii. you drove with the steering wheel pressed against
your knees, all long legs and sugar-laced smiles. i must
confess this scared the living daylights out of me. but
if we had to burn out that way, flicking at the lighter
again and again, we’d make damn sure we were dazzling.
