I think we’ve said the most hurtful things we could muster tonight, and yet, I still love the fuck out of her. I do all I can to make us okay; obviously, our relationship is terribly important to me. I know it is to her. How easily we belittle one another. Consider this: we would not be in this fight right now if one had been injured in Boston, if the other’s legs were gone, if she could no longer walk, talk, think…petty fight. It’s time to take up the other’s shoes, walk in them and create a better existence from the experience. Not to perpetually wait for that other shoe to drop. At some point, one must accept that the lines in the pavement are straight. And necessary.
My head’s been reeling lately, but I don’t know how to put it down. Seems like this life I’m living is just writing material. That small flicker-the only way I know to describe it-of creativity wants to spark into flame. I seek oxygen, head clearing particles, enablers. This dull shadow winds from the back of my brain into my consciousness until it can no longer be ignored. Perhaps this spark contains the only part of my life I cannot ignore. This part pulls me toward it; I become a mere flutter toward the flame of my creativity, my obnoxious self-absorbed, self-aggrandizement. And, how I hate adjectives usurped by nouns with the use of “ment”. I meant to sound educated, and I only end up tooting my own horn, sounding as pompous as an airbag filled with flour. Lord help me burn out as bright as I’d hoped.
bluest in our garden
She says I created a new painting today, and he ignores her; he types feverishly at the Mac. She resorts to her outdated Samsung, her best friend.
She looks at the computer below her lashes. She does this when she’s serious, when she knows she has nothing much to lose and not a lot to gain.
Later, when she’s just blurry enough, she piddles along in Word, phrasing, paraphrasing, diluting, revamping, exploring, typing these words now in recognition of typing. She listens to her favorite band in the moment-Bon Iver-and its particular sway, the lilt of a voice perhaps, a misplaced dabbling of banjo.
She thinks of the man she let go tonight. The man she barely knew but to whom she felt a connection as strong as an electric magnet utilized for a 5th grade experiment. His name contained one syllable, conveniently deceiving as his personality. His abs stood firm as his simple words in meaty, heart-dripping texts blazoned on phone bills that he paid for to be courteous.
To love best is to let go, right? Right? The color of their eyes match in the light of his bedroom just after the sun rises. Blue slides more into gray as they wrench from sleep with a dread of leaving. This dread remains pervasive. Why should they be so selfish?
How will they learn to let go benignly?
Last night I stayed up, waiting on him to come home. I sat out on the porch swing beneath a damp, measurable blackness and listened to the swamp sounds until I could make out voices. After a while, the shrill calls of tree frogs and cicadas made better sense to me.
I recognize this language; it’s primeval, one we all used to speak.
I watched the moon flowers expose their fragrant faces to a fingernail clipping of moon. The white throats of the flowers summon luna moths from the muggy darkness, promising a taste of bliss. If you could see how the luna moths cling drunkenly to the vines, satiated and bloated with the night’s nectar, you might understand how I need him.
I wanted him to walk up those steps and sit beside me. I wanted him to run his rough hand along my cheek, finding it slick to the touch.
Later, when our bodies are done slithering on one another, I would bring him back out to the porch for a late cigarette. I want to show him how a luna moth can dance when I pin the tip of its wing to a board.
The moth becomes a lime gyroscope. It spins violently. No, exquisitely. I want him to watch the moth grow weary. It circles the pin slowly, dragging limp, heavy wings behind it. And, as soon as we grew tired, we would move back to our bed and curl into a dreamless sleep, abandoning our neon beauty to the screaming night.
the street, you find me
paused on the sidewalk,
zipping my coat
against the backside
of October. You say you
and your fiancé are raft guides
and live in Soddy Daisy—
a part of Tennessee I have
never noticed. You wear
my only attempt at knitting,
the woolen sweater
of royal blue with accidental
I spent a week choosing
the right color.
I cannot hear you rave
because the moth-riddled
holes over your chest
and the unraveling
at your elbows remind me
of what we once were—
Between school, work and an upcoming art show, I don’t have half the time I need to write. I’ll try a bit harder but I’m not promising much. The art show will be November 5 in Greenville, SC. The show will be the conjoined works of me (mostly paintings) and my mother’s husband, Mark (mostly sculpture). Our art consists of oddities held to the light, so we complement one another nicely. Deja Fuze will regale show-goers with their funky sound, and the alcohol/food will be profuse and free to all. I want to extend a huge “thank you” to my family for making this possible and exceptional. An experience to remember. I’m working on a poem about Sappho. After much tweaking/soul searching, I may post it here, but don’t hold your breath. Oh, and I’ve finally perfected Tom Yum soup with a colon-cleansing Thai spiciness that will make you swear heaven and hell do exist enmeshed at the bottom of the pot. Thank
the god Thailand.