-
And that was it. All it took. That simple independent and protective gesture. The ability to look away and keep me close, at the same time.
-
Duras.
She gave me her copy just before moving in, telling me how it haunted her. She was studying abroad for the year, more exotic and energetic than anyone I knew. During the day she studied drama and in the evenings we’d read aloud, quietly. She let me see things through her eyes and we thought we were in love. I was too young to understand nuance, too dim to see how little she got back from me. I was away traveling when she started an affair, bringing someone else back into my bed. In my rage I burned this book at my kitchen sink, leaving a scar in the countertop. Years later and she lives in my country, while I live in hers.
-
I am writing you from an eight foot snow drift
somewhere south of somewhere.
I would call, but I lost my phone two days ago
at the ice rink pity party that was really just me,
a frozen lake, some cheap Russian vodka and
a depressed polar bear. (Those guys are dark.)
I still have six waterproof matches
and what Vogue Magazine assures me
is twenty extra pounds of body fat.
No, I am not proud of myself.
No, I am not “done with my obsession with Survivalism.”
But I am sorry, I am sorry we fought.
You were right when you said writing poetry is not a real skill
applicable post-apocalypse, and I said but who will tell the good stories,
and you said guys who can fish with their bare hands.
It turns out that’s really hard.
Trout are ticklish,
and my hands do not have to do what I tell them to,
some sort of freezing cold water clause.
I have nothing but the time and space I’ve been pining for now,
and I am using this opportunity to try and remember
why I thought this was a good idea.
I think it had something to do with Escape,
which has permanent offices in the romance division of my brain
and ground troops in my solar plexus.
The flight instinct comes on quicksand,
muscles out all rational thought,
starts Morse coding my limbic system with
complex dots and dashes for strange verbs that mean,
roughly translated: “joyous chewing your leash off,”
and “fire without readiness or aim.”
It always feels so right to go,
like it’s the only story my body knows by heart:
the creation myth of Alaskan shorebirds,
the bedtime story highways whisper to dirt roads,
the real reason horses sometimes obey.
You really wanted to marry me didn’t you?
My eyelashes are soaked now.
I’m beginning to think I will never see you again,
that I will never see anything again
but the twenty yards or so of visibility
in stark panorama around my broken sled.
I feel like an idiot, but I’m not scared.
You’d think I would be scared.
These are the soft frozen fields tundra vacations too,
the great white quiet.
No one to distrust.
I deserve this.
You would be amazed how much light there is.
The stars stay out all night.
Each snow flake is a mirror."Mindy Nettifee, To The Best Thing that Ever Happened to Me (via grammatolatry)(via scout)
-
nancymartira:otherpress:A telegram from Dorothy Parker to her editor Pascal Covici (via)
This is exactly how I feel today.
I can’t look you in the voice
-
burn all the letters, marty mcconnell
don’t ask me about his mouth.
most days this job has me at the wrong ocean
missing Brooklyn, our slanted kitchen, your ankles.
at the register: green apples, zucchini, lime popsicles.
most days this job has me at the wrong ocean
— a pattern’s a pattern, not everything fits.
at the register: green apples, zucchini, lime popsicles
(there’s a subway card in the other pocket.)
a pattern’s a pattern, not everything fits,
I can write this. our names on the checks, the mailbox,
there’s a subway card in the other pocket.
his mouth, the ocean. your voice on the machine.
I can write this: our names on the checks, the mailbox,
both our names, leave a message.
his mouth, the ocean, your voice on the machine.
so much blood. today is green. ginger ale. leaving.
both our names, leave a message:
I have a lover and something like a husband.
so much blood. today is green. ginger ale. leaving.
J says your confessions are overwhelming.
I have a lover and something like a husband.
we’ve never been a good idea.
J says your confessions are overwhelming.
if it weren’t for metaphor, we’d never write anything.
we’ve never been a good idea.
to write this down – he says you write it all?
if it weren’t for metaphor, we’d never write anything.
never trust a poet. so much blood.
to write this down – he says you write it all?
I wanted this we so long I got over the wanting
(never trust a poet. so much blood.)
and there you were. no roses. a cactus.
I wanted this we so long I got over the wanting.
write it: maybe I invented you
and there you were: no roses, a cactus.
if so, I want the keys back.
write it: maybe I invented you.
(take the trash out. change the sheets.)
if so, I want the keys back.
your hair, it’s on everything.
take the trash out. change the sheets.
(missing Brooklyn, our slanted kitchen, your ankles.)
your hair, it’s on everything.
don’t ask me about his mouth.World, this is a pantoum. This is also how to properly write a pantoum. Give up.
#J says your confessions are overwhelming #never trust a poet #so much blood
-
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again."Charles Bukowski (via thechocolatebrigade)(via litttlebeats)
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