Meet me at the ocean. Don’t bother with footwear, there are no rocks. The water is freezing. Drowning is supposed to be agony. There are boulders there that have been there for thousands of years. They are black like my eyes from a distance. The waves will roll in. There might be rocks, but it’s fun to walk across them along the cliffs. We can sit there in the middle of the night and pretend we’re teenagers again. I’ll forget my jacket, I hope you don’t mind. You can have my t-shirt. I’m plenty warm, is what I will say. My stomach will stick out over my jeans. You’ll call it a furry footrest. The moon there is always out because we don’t get clouds any more. We’re going to fall and fuck up our knees, stupid teenagers. When you want to talk about mermaids I’ll be silent. You’ll suck in your breath. Sssssss. Your bared teeth will shine. Meet me at the ocean. When the lightning starts and the clouds appear we’ll go back. I won’t tell you about mermaids because it hurts to do so. I’ll be hungry, you won’t mind if we stop at the Taco Bell. I’ll buy two gross burritos. We’ll sit in your car and eat them. I’ll love you for doing that, eating a burrito with me. We’ll sit in silence for a while and then I’ll kiss the side of your face. I won’t show you Orion. We’ll stop being teenagers in the dark.
Anonymous asked: What your thoughts on love at first sight; soul mates; the one?
Love at first sight happens, but most folks don’t trust it.
Soul mates are people who understand each other.
The one is always waiting.
Anonymous asked: What your thoughts on love at first sight; soul mates; the one?
Love at first sight happens, but most folks don’t trust it.
Soul mates are people who understand each other.
The one is always waiting.
loud waves aren’t conducive to writing
I dreamt of waves crashing
far above my head
so I figured
tough shit go
alone
loud waves aren’t conducive to writing
I dreamt of waves crashing
far above my head
so I figured
tough shit go
alone
inhibitions & philosophies
How absurd our inhibitions, how quaint our philosophies.
inhibitions & philosophies
How absurd our inhibitions, how quaint our philosophies.
Untitled
Calvino wrote of swirls of fluid amid the darkness, crossing a distance unseen and uniting two lovers whose eyes are given instead to others, unappreciative of the gift of sight. The lovers are instead blessed with spirals. They are the beauty of the universe, of God, of creation. Devotion to another no matter the space in between. Extending appendages out into the universe. Reaching.
Footsteps on the carpet outside are insistent, bound for the dining car or the bathroom, perhaps even retreating to their cabins for the night. There are no faces. Legs are propped up against seats. They are sounds, they are a pressure in the air. The clacking rumble is ever-present and eventually another marvel that is long forgotten. Swirls in the air. Low hums and voices, darkness all around. The lights diminish and a book becomes ineffective. Stories in the air tell of silence. Untold expressions, unseen voices. Curtains are drawn shut and the pressure is low. Stories rise and fall. The window offers another world. Trees are frozen, awaiting the thaw. They sit in silence along the tracks. They do not see, they are.
I am a dying fire, encased in stone. The pressure is low and I dream of reaching out into the universe.
Submit to TrainWrite.
Untitled
Calvino wrote of swirls of fluid amid the darkness, crossing a distance unseen and uniting two lovers whose eyes are given instead to others, unappreciative of the gift of sight. The lovers are instead blessed with spirals. They are the beauty of the universe, of God, of creation. Devotion to another no matter the space in between. Extending appendages out into the universe. Reaching.
Footsteps on the carpet outside are insistent, bound for the dining car or the bathroom, perhaps even retreating to their cabins for the night. There are no faces. Legs are propped up against seats. They are sounds, they are a pressure in the air. The clacking rumble is ever-present and eventually another marvel that is long forgotten. Swirls in the air. Low hums and voices, darkness all around. The lights diminish and a book becomes ineffective. Stories in the air tell of silence. Untold expressions, unseen voices. Curtains are drawn shut and the pressure is low. Stories rise and fall. The window offers another world. Trees are frozen, awaiting the thaw. They sit in silence along the tracks. They do not see, they are.
I am a dying fire, encased in stone. The pressure is low and I dream of reaching out into the universe.
Submit to TrainWrite.
Attn: Rental Agents in Portland, OR, USA
I need a world of no walls, literally, so that I can think and listen to the thoughts bounce off the corners and the aged rafters and travel back to me in a complete loop of physical being. As a fellow human being I understand that we are bound to economics, to practicality, and in fact I probably live in this mode more than many of you do, because security is the prime objective. This space need not be perfect (no such thing, no such place, no such being) but if it’s good enough, close enough, I will own it. I will fix what needs fixing, take hammer to nail, brush broadly with a color not too bright but good enough to appeal to me. If the ceiling is high I will sing to it, and if the light is enough I will read and write by it, and if the view is tender and beautiful enough I will paint it. If there is a balcony I will take my blanket and sleep beneath the cloudy morning, and if there is rain I will sit against a wall by an open window and listen to its melody trickle in my mind. Every moment will spark a story. Every hidden voice, a character. Every made-up life, the sense that the world is good enough, close enough, to fulfill desires far simpler than I care to accept. That is all.