write like this, drean like this, at a pace, slowly, like kneading bread, all muscle snd torque and anguish. impossible.
Category Archives: words
age and wine
drink this. wine. i hate wine. it reminds me of churches and old people. people waiting to die. people wistful of times long gone. people that stare at you in villages in faraway homelands when you visit. people who once knew better, think they know better, but know nothing at all because the world they once lived in, grew in, loved in, is long gone. people who marvel over toasters and think the bread tastes funny. people who believe in bakeries and gossip. people who shook their heads slowly form side to side and reminisce of better behaving children, better dressed men, better behaved women. people who no longer drink wine, who never even had a taste for it.
live work breathe despair
live work breathe despair
rough night, torn towels, a razor blade caught in the grout
eyes worked over twice and thin, hollow, teeth set at odd angles from grinding
slow grind, from the stretch, just before it all begins again and leaves you weeping
there is no hope, only this, over and over, slow molasses roiling, thickening out
and if the bones weren’t so strong, the meat so thick
a noose would be so much handier
or a very very long journey into the void
ted at 40
To say I have never met anyone like you is an understatement. You are driven and resourceful, curious sand intuitive.
Your doggedness at times can be unnerving.
But you are also loyal and unwavering, committed and thoughtful.
Twenty years ago you noticed my name on a sheet of paper and sat beside me. Introduced yourself and made me your friend. We had some unforgettable times, dark times, and long nights that shine so brightly that strip away everything else.
We’ve built families out of nothing, we’ve found happiness and yet we still long for more. I should say, you do. You’ve never stopped wanting more: for yourself, for your friends, for your family.
This is perhaps the most important lesson you’ve taught me: never be complacent, never stop.
So keep going Ted, keep striving. Look at what you’ve accomplished at 40.
Imagine how much more you can still do.
Happy birthday my dear friend.
squandered
i am useless and without hope. i spearhead but do not lead. i can figure it out, but have nothing to show for it. i do not know how i came to this, i do not know how i’ve so little time left. a lifetime and this was it, squandered and so very alone. so untouched, unmarked, unremarkable, unscathed, but scathing, vicious, cruel and ultimately, ultimately worthless.
in my mind, ioanna
in my mind ioanna, i have this vision of you. we’re driving somewhere and i glance over my shoulder. i see you, your head leaning against the window watching the world go by. shadows made by a sun cutting through leaves dances across your face. you are silent. and this is how i picture you, an immense internal world locked within you: unknowable, impenetrable, and all yours. i wish i had the keys to unlock it, to climb in and sit with you as we watch the world go by. when i say i wish i was a child again so that we could be friends, i am not kidding. i’ve squandered much of my life and i wish i could make a list of the things you need to be careful of, what possibly your genetic structure will be prone to. but that’s impossible. i cannot live for you, let alone live through you. i can only watch and hope to understand the solace you find yourself in. i can desperately hope it is nothing like my own.
i believe escapism to be a complete chore.
i believe escapism to be a complete chore.
out into the bleed, universes come.
out into the bleed, universes come.
to them
i’d like to dream again, breathe again. can you do that for me?
and while i let go of all i could’ve been and left instead mundane and tired she says to me:
while you are nothing and are now all that you can ever be,
you are everything to them. never forget that:
you are everything.
redux
she pulls lilacs from sewer drains and he walks over to her, resplendent, dashing, missing tufts of hair, cut eyebrows.
she smiles and offers him a molar. he kneels down, takes it and fits it into his coat pocket. it drops through the tear in it and rolls aropund his ankles.
we’ve seen this all before, he says and points out the green sky, the orange haze of autumn, the crows in the distance.
she nods, stares at nail bitten fingers, and whispers, but we were younger then. so much younger.