Word Vomit

Earth Day

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 20:10:11 -0700

All of a sudden, it’s 7:45 and the sun’s going down, and last night I told you we needed to drive back to my place early because I had homework to do.

Somehow that thought hasn’t seemed important to me at all today.

We walked groggily through your back gate last night after we took my car because you didn’t want to go pick up your’s from my apartment, after we smoked at your best friend’s house, after we came back from the Knitting Factory after you made me swoon as you sang your little heart out on stage again.

I don’t remember getting undressed last night too well and I don’t remember how fast I fell asleep while you went and took your shower, but I do remember saying goodnight to you when you slithered under the covers and I was still dreaming.

We woke up relatively early, but wore ourselves out fast enough that we fell back asleep an hour later, and the sun was rising faster and faster but I was so tired. When you got up, I stayed in bed, and I had dreams of your house that wasn’t your house and your family that wasn’t your family and I was creeped out by your all-of-a-sudden three-story humble abode and the way you seemed like you were asleep the entire dream and I don’t think I could touch you. So when I woke up and I saw you smiling at me from your computer desk, I felt so safe and relieved.

It’s Earth Day today, so I’m trying to justify how much I slept and smoked with some environmental reasoning.

We made Eggs Benedict when I finally decided to roll out of bed and we came right back to your room afterwards because your dad had woken up. Going to Hulu’s website made us realize that there wasn’t a new Saturday Night Live last night and we had watched all of our favorite Food Network shows that were available already.

So we slept some more instead. And I couldn’t stop myself from kissing you when I was actually conscious.

So then you made more food and then we smoked and then we ate and then we found something to watch and then we ate a little bit more and I still wanted a milkshake after all of that.

We were going to get it, had we stayed awake.

Collectively, an hour or two probably went by containing the simple act of gazing into each other’s eyes and other sappy, gooey things you imagine in romance novels or chick flicks (but we do it better). I like the way your face scrunches together when I tickle your face with kisses and I like how I found out that your face is one of your tickle spots.

It was 5:15 and the hours were going by too fast and I was still so tired, but it was time to get a milkshake.

We listened to Pink Floyd on the way to Sonic and I held your hand and steered for you when you tried to adjust the music and hold onto my hand at the same time. I’ve stopped feeling scared when you take your eyes off the road for a good 1.7 seconds just to smile at me. I figure if anything dangerous were to come out of that, the love would outweigh the blood (or at least I like to think so).

My milkshake was topped with a “pitless cherry” that had a pit in it, or a seed. But it tasted like sugar with a hint of strawberry and it was delicious.

When we got to my apartment, everything was warm, and the warm breeze coming through the windows didn’t drop the temperature in the slightest. My roommate was playing guitar shirtless in his dark room on his bed when we came home, and there were at least thirty people playing volleyball and tanning outside of my window and I realized then that the rest of my warm days in this apartment complex are never going to be quiet again.

I like the way you let me lay on my arm and the way you’re really concerned if you tap my head when you think you’ve punched it. And I like the way you accidentally hit me in the face in your sleep. I like the way you bite your lip and your toes curl when we’re making love, and I’m jealous of the shape of your butt. I like how your chest hair peaks under your v-necks, and I like when you say my name. I like your giggle and the way I can see when you’re about to smile, and I like how you say “nothing” whenever I ask what you’re thinking of when you’re gazing up at my ceiling fan (even though I know it’s something). I like the way your hair curls under your ears, and I like scratching at your beard, and I like the shape of your eyebrows and how one eyebrow hair is a good half-inch longer than the rest. I like your little eight-pack and the way you show off when you’re lifting weights or doing pull-ups in your door way, and I love how you think my less-than-fit body is beautiful. I like catching you stare at me in my mirror and I like catching you smile when I’m changing shirts.

I like today. And it’s 8:05 PM and I haven’t wasted paper on homework yet.

10 April 2012

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 21:25:59 -0700

I wish I had the words to tell a story of making love with you that describes it to the exquisiteness and specialty and utter beauty that it is. But it’s a conflict, because I can either underdescribe it to which point it’s just another story with heaving breaths, or I can overdescribe it, in which case offense would be brought about, or the beauty that it is supposed to hold would be lacking.

If I could describe in prose or poetry the feelings I feel and the sounds I hear and the touch of skin against skin and your lips on my neck and having my eyes grasp desperately into the windows of your soul and feeling your hands hold onto me like you are meant to and the way my stubby fingernails rip at your back and my teeth graze your lips and clench into your shoulder as you say you love me and I whisper your name until your limbs are draped over me and I’m left shaking, reaching, clutching, grasping and holding you, I would.

But no words can ever describe that.

high

Mon, 09 Apr 2012 20:31:49 -0700

“I love you so much.
There’s no need to worry.” Your words
Are my medicine.

Turn Tables

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 16:31:56 -0800

You all speak of such pain.

Is my poetry not good enough if it’s derived out of happiness? Is it unrelatable? Am I not worthy of your approval if I’m not shouting into the microphone about fuck this and I hate that and you’re a piece of shit and I’m broken?

Why can’t positivity be ingested? What happened to love poems and sonnets and “shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” What happened to writing on park benches in sunlight surrounded by songbirds that don’t give a fuck?

I’m sorry. Is that too cheesy for you? Too petty? Too naive and silly and bland and boring? Are the tables turning and now suddenly sunshine and smiles suck, but blackness and barbaric yelps of blatant brokenness are beautiful? I’m sorry.

I’m not trying to be a flowery, skipping, pig-tailed persona of gumballs and cotton candy. I feel pain too. I’m just telling you that you don’t always have to derive your joy out of jotting down hate notes. Sure, yes, it’s psychologically easier to find relatability and empathy from heartbreak, tears and screams, but only because you’re making it that way. And sure, yes, it’s easier to get through hardships with a pen, but it’s also easy to document laughter with that same instrument.

Maybe I’m too happy now to be a poet. And if that’s the case, then call me a sculptor. And watch me build my optimism into shapes I want you to study. Study so you can be inspired by such optimism.

Because I want you all to speak of such happiness.

Poem

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 20:52:17 -0800

It’s funny when your life momentarily revolves around poetry, poetry analysis, poetry annotations, form, meter, rhyme, stanzas, theme, persona, apostrophe, ballads, sonnets, feet, stressed and unstressed, alliteration and consonance, Ginsberg, Whitman, Dickinson, Glück, Poe, Shakespeare, Keats, Yeats, Williams, Marlowe, Plath that all of a sudden you’re writing more poetry than you ever have and it’s hard to resort back to the original stream-of-consciousness form you’re used to.

It’s funny when you’re trying to put your life into stanzas.

And all of a sudden you realize, what thoughts were once only expressed through long, rambling, multi-paragraph emotion-driven essays, can now be expressed in a few simple lines.

It’s funny when you realize some of the best explanations don’t need to get explained at all.

And only a few simple words—
Delicately arranged in lines with
enjambent
free verse
some sort of stanzas—
That hold special little
quirks and
qualities,

You have expressed more
than paragraphs ever could.

So what’s so funny?

Morning Coffee

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 18:58:00 -0800

Imitation of Mock Orange by Louise Glück

It is not the caffeine, I tell you.
It is your touch
energizing my body.

I fear you.
I fear you as I fear love,

the woman’s embrace
paralyzing my body, the woman’s
lingering sentiments

and the tears that always escape,
the silent, emotional
symbols of desperation —

In my arms this morning
I feel your steady and reliable heartbeat
multiplied in a thousand directions
that pounds and pounds and then
is steadied into the fresh ecstasy,
the languid covenants. Do you see?
We were made idols of.
And the scent of morning coffee
drifts through your doorframe.

How can we sleep?
How can we be energized
when there is still
that full pot in the next room?

Here

Thu, 02 Feb 2012 18:33:52 -0800

I floated through space,
                when space was cotton and wool and sheets whose ends tangled
                inside each other and knotted around my intertwined
                fingers.

I swam through streams,
                when streams were limbs cascading against pebbles
                which were the asymmetry of anatomy that flowed towards a larger
                body.

We exploded in the mushroom cloud,
                when the mushroom cloud was the white of our knuckles
                and the red of your back and the disturbance of smooth
                porcelain.

We eloped to a distant land,
                when the distant land was brain activity and neuro-firings
                transformed by the intoxication of White Zinfandel and
                inhaled smoke.

And I,

we,

you

were right

here.

Love Poem #000000005

Sun, 29 Jan 2012 16:14:34 -0800

We lay side by side, with sides against sides,
With backs against the mattress.
We read silently out of the same book.
One of your hands held one side of the book and your other hand
was my pillow.
One of my hands held the other side of the book and my other hand
held my cup of coffee.
The decreasing warmth told me how much time was passing.

We were our own poetry club;
Shortly discussing the piece that we held above our eyes
After we patiently waited for the other to finish
Before we flipped to another piece.

Book down, your eyes scanned the ceiling.
I asked you what you were thinking.
You didn’t know, so you asked me the same.
I thought about my thoughts.
And then I told you I would probably write about this later.
I never lie to you.

My palm adjusted to the warmth of my cup
And I no longer felt the contrasting temperatures.
As the early-afternoon light cut through my blinds,
I couldn’t tell whether two or twenty minutes had passed.

When you kissed my head
And I looked up to catch your eyes,
My fingers of my once-book-holding hand intertwined with your pillow,
I didn’t care whether two or twenty minutes had passed.

The Form is Fucked

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 19:48:46 -0800

I didn’t have time to test the waters before I jumped in way too deep.
I’ve gotten a taste, but now my tongue is used to the sweet.
I’ve gotten used to being held, and now I can’t sleep.
I’ve gotten so cold because I need the heat.

So let me ramble as the knot in my chest ties itself around and around into a Hangman’s noose and let me vent my feelings through words to make this knot a little loose and let me be inspired once again by negativity and overthinking and the potential to lose and please just let me get this out before I (continue to) drive myself crazy.

It’s conflicting getting inspiration out of opposites.
It isn’t easy to move on once you’ve got a hypothesis.
I’m realizing my brain is making “too good to be true” into this.
It doesn’t make sense that I’m putting myself in some stupid abyss.

So let me ramble because my emotions are out of control and my brain is playing tricks on me and my thoughts are taking their toll and let me hold on tight to my faithful words and this faithful pen to fill this hole and please excuse me while my ideas teeter-totter and flip around because I’m going crazy.

Because I don’t know who or what to blame when I fall into this slump.
Because I thought I fought it away and got over that hump.
Because all that smoothed is again starting to clump.
Because that smooth road is getting a bump.

So let me ramble because stanzas aren’t helping and my brain is melting and rhyming seems like a hell thing because I can’t tell what the hell kind of fucked up things my brain rings and let me cry because I haven’t in so long and let me break because I’ve found a wrong and let me listen to only sad songs because I guess sometimes that makes me less crazy.

I can’t write well because my brain is shit.
I can’t write my feelings because I’m censoring it.
I can’t vent what I want because I feel so desperate.
I can’t, fuck it.

I LOVE your autobiographical haiku.

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 16:52:58 -0800

Aww YAY! Thank you! :D

Autobiographical Haiku

Thu, 26 Jan 2012 21:04:40 -0800

Hopeless romantic;
If knowledge doesn’t kill me,
Love will be the gun.

blackberries

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 20:14:36 -0800

Reaching past the haggard tangled thorns of unmanageable weeds, leaves, stickers
To reach what is sweet; these blackberries, succulent tastes of tiny victories.
The scratches on my hands lessen with what I have achieved.
Blackberries, victories, metaphorical sweets.

The Ocean

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 21:33:04 -0800

You can’t see the bottom of an ocean,
Only the surface that twinkles in the sun.
You can’t anticipate the commotion,
The sighs, the tides, the waves have only begun.

You make me feel like I can’t drown,
Like the depths are but adventures we’ll travel.
You are the anchor that will hold me down,
I am the tangles I want you to unravel.

The rivers run high, the rivers run low,
But the tide in my heart stays strong.
You are the flow that to which I owe,
Whose side by which I belong.

So please don’t let go of my hand tonight
As I dive headfirst into sea.
When this dark abyss is only lit by moonlight,
I’ll guide you if you guide me.

Wind

Fri, 18 Nov 2011 10:21:54 -0800

You try to produce something beautiful, but all that comes out is sadness.
You try to regain your sanity, but you’re being choked by your madness.

Wind tangles your hair in a nest of unmanageable fury.
The leaves that are swirling intermingle with your worry.
So shut your pretty little eyes to the world you’re hiding from.
Pretty little darling, your thoughts are a smoking gun.

Your thoughts are a smoking gun and it’s aiming at your head.
If emotions are your trigger, then you’re already dead.
Your worst enemy is always only going to be yourself.
You wander through your thoughts realizing you’re already in hell.
The person that’ll kill you is only going to be you.
Other people can’t touch you the way that you do.
Other people can’t bruise you the way that you do.
They can’t make you bleed like your precious scars prove.

You can’t run away from someone if they share your own soul.
You can only smile about one part until your remember the whole
Part of you is crumbling slowly while simultaneously getting mended.
When the depths inside of you are losing, some parts are getting defended.

This rumination is going to be the end of you if you make it,
But your genetic makeup with your biological depression isn’t a curse, so fake it.

And you know firsthand that it’s so easy to blame everyone else.
But your worst enemy is still only going to be yourself.
It’s so easy, sunshine, to claim others as the Satan of your Hell.
And you know, you know, you fucking know that you’re not well.

You can blame the man you love who treats you like shit,
You can blame your mother’s depression saying you inherited it,
You can blame the acts of roommates, or professors, or acquaintances,
You can blame the guys you sleep with or the girls you make out with.
You can blame all these external forces, but your suicide is internal.
Your mind’s fucked up, sunshine, but remember your soul is eternal.

So while the wind tangles your thoughts in an unmanageable fury,
And the leaves that are swirling intermingle with your worry,
Just open your pretty little eyes to the world you’re hiding from.
Pretty little darling, the wind brings the storm, but can also reveal the sun.

is Me

Sun, 13 Nov 2011 18:08:06 -0800

You could say he was the one to push you to the utmost max.
He started things, yes, he laid down the tracks.
You both were the actors, but he read you the acts,
You rehearsed, you cursed, verse by verse, can’t turn back.

Intoxicated to mental death,
The hands of passion around your neck,
Trying what’s worse, but doing what’s best.
The second chapter to prelude the rest.

And tonight you’re whimpering, but tomorrow you’ll be cryin’.
You won’t get your fairytale so you might as well stop tryin’.
This is where your head lifted to the clouds and you started flyin’.
This is where they started using you but you kept on smilin’.

And you’re reaching out to get your fill.
You said you won’t, but you know you will.
Most times you’re well, but you’re dirty, you’re ill,
So lay back, push it back, you got that fill.

And next is when that guilt started to pursue,
And now is when you forgot what you said you wouldn’t do,
And how the hell did you end up crying at that reflection of you?
And why don’t these fresh tears even feel so new?

So you started over, Queen, you rebuilt your own kingdom.
You gave up on minimalism, you added more and then some.
Nothing holding you back anymore, “I’m just having fun.”
But instead of frolicking through the flowers, you started to run.

You told yourself you found your haven.
Comfortably vibrant, comfortably numb, visions started trailin’.
You represented yourself in different ways than
The one representation you wanted to parade in.

So what happened next is what happens when you never let yourself let go.
So what you heard next is what you never let yourself face, no.
“I think you’re doing this because you’re looking for something more,” he let you know.
So close your eyes and realize your lies are what mask your ego.

But it was impossible to suppress the id you tried to store away.
Closing in, this is what you realized today:
You can’t collect yourself if all your morals go astray,
You can’t speak the truth if false actions get in the way.

You can’t show them the angels if the devil is all they see,
You can’t stay on the ground when you want to break free,
You give yourself to others before you make your own self happy.
Start letting the angels fly, silly devil, because “you” is me.

Are you dating Ricky Labuda?

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 22:04:32 -0800

LOL no, he’s my best bro for life.

Like Thunder

Mon, 31 Oct 2011 12:22:07 -0700

Your face is a silhouette I captured in the dark. In the haste, in the glow, in the power of the art that we threw away in messes of wonder, our thoughts were asunder, hearts beat like thunder.

Booming with storms spilling the rain that won’t stay, it just drips away, it’ll dry by next day. I couldn’t open my eyes past the squint they were in, clenched fists, move hips, vulnerability stretched thin.

And there comes a time when words are more than vowels, phonological sounds, linguistic backgrounds. And there comes a time when your mind is released, I took the back streets, avoided main streets.

That’s where you met me.
That’s where you met me.
That’s when you told me.

And your words were a silhouette I captured in the dark. Sweet Waste, let go of that power of my art that I threw away in my messes of wonder, my thoughts were asunder, but your truth was like thunder.

Photo

Wed, 19 Oct 2011 20:09:01 -0700

Photo

Wed, 19 Oct 2011 20:09:00 -0700

Photo

Wed, 19 Oct 2011 20:09:00 -0700