Let me whisper. Let me bring these words to you, let them turn yellow then purple like light diffusing through polluted air. In a sound of voice I long to hear and embrace floats near me. Connect these words in us through this space, not by chains of past offenses identity crises and grievances. Let them feel comforting and welcomed, not as wounds, feel like birds at dawn singing through cold air or a bell tower carillon drop notes over chaotic streets on the way home from work in the evening. Let these words mean nothing, let them be nothing, let them exist for no indisputable purpose or explicit reason, yet not be treated as meaningless. Let them not be crowded out with opinions, nor create such crowds. What makes such opinions more meaningful?
What if I have no history anymore. What if I claim nothing. These words have tongue in them, lips, lungs, I want for them to not be pushed to sting. Let me kiss with them. Let me exist with you as if there were nobody else before us, and nobody to jump down our throats after. I have slept with these words when hungry, when lonely, now let these words take company. Let these words be a place to land, not just a springboard to and from troubles, not as an opiate either but a place to be fearlessly awake together. Let these words be a world that’s not too smart for romance. Enough views crowd us one after another, it’s blinding. If we come from nowhere beyond this moment, if only by sound we could touch these screens delicate as paper, what if.
Your voice alone is wonderful to me. Carillon notes blending and separating over rivers inside sending little messages barely heard, grow more resonant. I long to hear beauty instead of these arguments. Then these words will not chase you down, will not hunt you. For truly I long for you and for no opinion. I long to hear words exist less for the purpose of proofs, divisions, violence, information. Thus let their intelligence here stake no claim. Let these words be unimportant yet significant. Be available and abundant. Let them be valuable.
Yes I admit searching for your face in crowds afraid of what I’d see. You came in closed the door leaned your bike against the armoire put your keys and wallet down on the dresser and stay
ed. We listened to the same musical refrain over and over after the film credits stop
ed since you made it last
er than needed that evening, years
your presence melts resentments and smile fades priorities then there’s only innocence in us. I’ve felt long
ing and awe and dread since childhood toward everything in life and everyone I’ve loved. This is why poetry picked me without asking. I’d eventually tell the truth, sometimes incredibly pained and sometimes without flinching in a way that served an art. I was less than eight when I knew I was alone. I see her walking slow
in memory, eyes locked down at the ground watching feet move mechanically, but once she stop
es to stare at a glow. Strange. A mesmerizing purple hue around a shadow, circling the contour of the dark form in the sidewalk – was this some prophecy for today? Six brothers and sisters new lives pop in and out of dreams like a vague connective tissue. Purple orchids sit in the windowsill wait
ing for water don’t need too much attention, bookshelves crammed with ideas and lyrics and pictures don’t make missing someone better or easier the exceptional courageousness it takes to care. Beyond the selfish, superficial, convenient or practical no bar, text box, or website brought us together. You said you noticed I always look at the poem during critique instead of up at the group, you stay
ed long enough to get to know me a little but not very deep. My most entitled and arrogant phase featured this loss although I couldn’t explain how much loneliness this arose from and alienation. I still can’t keep up with demands in all directions by myself but who really can or how long
can we pretend. Later on we leave after a short time. Except in rare circumstance we see differently those places in them we fear and elements in us embracing those who don’t want to know and those who do and we take all of that, all of it. What kind of knowing is this fantasy saying this does not have to be so exciting. Saying stop
by hang out in the studio as you draw for a time or whatever because it is not about your body or not your body only, not about exotic trips or going out impressed or impressive and we are not rushing out of here either, not on our way home because there’s nowhere really to be, nowhere like here at least because why not with you, why not here mixing paint testing glue for collage building something any kind of creativity beyond our outfit and face and the lighting or even the freedom in doing nothing also, stretch out in the grass for hours or lounge on the patio quietly, why not cooking pasta and talking late into the night, where are these people? Those who don’t care about time? This does not have to be so exciting it just has to be true. I want to go find them and set down my keys on the table, turn off the internet and TV, to tell me their stories or notice the majestic shape of a tree reach in every direction for the sun to form such pleasing angles, am I crazy? I am angry because there’s no antidote to the recklessness of others. To the tyranny of business, being busy and making things happen. There’s no pathology in craving more significance to our company — is it so dangerous to desire this today, feigning instead to resist real feeling as a means of self-improvement? I have feel
ings. That need not be cute or palatable. Take no hallucination of ideals, that aesthetic is so tired. The end is coming soon, dears. Come by my love because fifty thousand options, fifty million options are not you, because fifty billion other options are still not who you are and because it does not matter about tomorrow, even now doesn’t matter because there’s nothing to do. In truth, there is really nothing.
Drink tea with me, no pool, no bar, no fancy food, no nice clothes, no entertainment. I’m up the mountain pass now sipping the tea, bundled in wool, iron and wood and smoke billowing from fires in the freezing cold, there is no service here, and everything is free. I long for you here but will find somebody to come with me, somebody along the way who wonders what it would be like to set their keys down anywhere, anywhere, and love those you find. I create no words, no art to sell truly, I make piece after piece for those I hold and a place for us to exist in is all the same affair I work for, beyond the obvious yet not beyond those held in the middle of the darkness because the only thing we have that’s free in this world is each other and we know it. This is why poetry is not endangered. Is this not the belief anymore, here – what happened? Nothing is just only ours. Everything is for each other. This is one truth of mine among many. I wish it weren’t so sometimes. I’d like to need no one, but this contemporary promise is a false idol of sorts. I unpeel bananas
in the kitchen for breakfast, oranges
in the afternoon and adore them in solitude. I don’t really adore french fries, though they taste good — body is treated like this too. It matters how you see
things, when we unpeel and also when we don’t. I’m still being with them, still in love irresponsibly on paper and on screens and whatever and it’s great. For us cyc
ling colors through bay windows, stay
ing up all night. I come here to write for tears of long
ing to watch icy blue rivers in us melt
from ancient glaciers — they need a job. In this moment as with most that matter nobody knows this about me and it’s okay. I am the same as everyone. You who recognize this thing.
You, taking heart
Scene from bedroom window at 2 am from the point of view of a sad vagina
About as elemental a design plan as it gets…
but enough to turn into these
and this more simplified idea to play with some more,
yet like many sketches, that first cluster of lines still intrigues me on its own…
7″ x 8.5″, black paper on bristol
Stop being insane. Claiming to be an artist doesn’t make you an artist. Wanna come over and sit on my couch? Bring me some booze. Don’t be stupid, bring booze here and let’s figure out what’s up with you
You’re a joke
Bring bass and bulleit and you can suck my cock on it!!! my cock? There might be a hole in the back of your head when I’m done
Look bring good booze. My demon is angry and I want to play the guitar
So suck it the fuck up and obey
Listen lady bring bulleit and a gun
Booze or whatever
I got a song for you
Look I need booze and shit now
Booze and apathy. I know you got one you ugly bitch respond. Unless you like it real lolololol
I got you a new bulb that I think will fit the lamp
I think I’m just gonna delete your shit
I wake up to recognize my room, my bed, myself. The ceiling, the highboy with drawers still open, piles of stuff everywhere for lack of time and energy per high season at work. Nobody to judge me for this mess, I’ll let it wait for a day off. My body feels good moving and stretching from biking and lifting two days ago.
Something inside me wants to cry, terribly, but I don’t even feel like going there. I’d better get to the cafe early, not worry about how I look, what I’m wearing. Just get a cup of coffee. When I get there I’ll feel. I know I need to write. To put the feeling into action.
I lie in bed a bit longer not wanting to get up and face the day. I miss you, I miss you. Do I? I don’t know. I want you. Do I? I’m so lonely. I think about my brothers who seem to have each other. My other siblings too, who also share both their same parents.
I probably think of you almost every day, but don’t call because why would I do that to myself. When was the last time I saw my friends?
I think about my job and everything I’ve been putting into it, get a text message and lately it’s like I can’t do anything right there.
I want to get on the bike later but accept that my body’s maxed out today.
I get up and walk to the bathroom. In the mirror my eyes look tired from the six nights a week racing around work. Yet still bright from all the exercise and the sun during the days. I’m hungry, starving yet can’t imagine what I’d be willing to stomach this morning.
I could handle holding you in bed, I could even imagine sitting in your lap and kissing you, but then I might have to be somebody for you, somebody you want.
I think about my writing and how much I want it. I think about how afraid I am to do it. I think about the pictures I want to make this winter. The photographs and the mosaics and the painted collages. The clothes I want to learn to sew for myself sometime, done with feeling frustrated at my own shape instead of at average sizing.
I think about the seagulls I want to watch at the beach.
The languages I want to study.
Of all the things I’ve hoped for myself, I rarely think anymore about actually putting in effort to seek a partner. What I’ve got left in me to give, I don’t want anything to ruin it. Not another judgment, not another comparison, no disappointments.
I will no longer need to be anybody else’s dream. Nobody will need me to be larger than they feel in order for them to love me. Nobody will expect me to walk on their stage either. Nobody will fit me in or drop me at their convenience.
Today I will just be a random woman at the cafe drinking coffee. I am small and I like it. I want to want myself more than I want anybody else to, anyway. I lie to myself but this lie is like medicine.
It’s okay for me to have some tears under my sunglasses feeling lonely, missing you, and others who came and went. I choose it. I choose this.
It’s really been this way since childhood; I just never believed it was all that significant. I didn’t want to include it, didn’t even want to know. I didn’t have to. I was in my twenties and I got all the love I wanted. Love was desire.
All the love I believed I wanted. My mind wanders into its broken second language which sometimes feels like a safer, more comforting place to be. Chaque nuit je rêve seule, chaque matin je me lève seule. Sans personne, je me sens presque comme une étrangère tous les jours.
Le désir, il vaux mieux l’éviter. Il m’a faite sentir si invisible.
I lie to myself but this lie is like medicine.