15.7.08

choo chooo title title


Somedays are good.
Somedays I can judge the distance and the length of the bike ride home by the time it takes to listen to one of my favorite songs.
So Come Back I am Waiting, and then there are only three more minutes to go.

Somedays there are cool winds, long grass, and the rhythm of hooves reaching out for the earth like it couldn't come up to us too soon. Like it can't catch us, but we're not afraid to hit against it in splintered moments, in hoofbeats.

Somedays I'd love to forget about the fact your actions have affected me.
Somedays I love only to see my mother smile, or greet me when I come home, free of any conversation, of any reality.
But rash decisions are met with rash responses. And although omniscient letters make me believe that someday maybe it will be good, I can't match the words to the writer.

The day that I finally do write back, when I'm prepared to hit the ground without hoof, and on hand, I need a promise that someone familiar might actually be there.
That it won't always feel forced, and that somedays , although it won't always be good,
nothing has to be pretend.

10.7.08

8.7.08

like a goodbye party


it seems as if we could exist on land forever
like we've forgotten that only mere minutes spent under something more dense,
something like water,
could pop these lungs that we expect to inflate like helium balloons,
into the remnants of a successful childhood birthday party,
the cheap sound of deflated rubber shreds, used party hats, and old plastic cups

yet we still swim
we go down there to remember that they could deflate into something worse
a faded red once scarlet, forgotten and left hovering only slightly above the surface til it's too sad to even look at,
let alone pop
like a going away party when I jump into something heavier than air,
and I feel my lungs compress and raise inside of me letting me know there's no natural response to the pressure,
no feedback that demands a reaction,
the exhale or the inhale, the goodbye or the 'see ya later'
and the uncomfortability that comes with both.
I don't know what to say.

I want there to be noise in the water, I want us all to be there,
and I want those that aren't to tell me to relax, to trust them and not the surroundings,
to tell me that inspiration does not only have to come from what has expired
to promise me that I can learn to dive deep and make it back alive,
so I'll know that it's something more than just luck that allows us to breathe so easily on the same surface, the land, that has tricked us into thinking
that the act of respiration is something we can trust no matter where we go.

2.7.08

A quick, stupid note, between shifts.

you don't even know me
your choice of dedications lets me know that
if you knew me you'd know better than to say
anything that has to do with
something i've been trying to tell
the difference between for
years and years and
years and years

it kills
because
something
else dies.