Sunday Square

It was autumn, the sun
tiptoeing
behind
the
horizon
when you kissed me in Sunday Square.

The spectral glow of twilight
collided against my legs.
You pulled me into your arms and your
pea coat smelled the way your lips taste;
tobacco and peppermint.
Your breath was warm as it escaped your mouth,
glancing my cheek.

A child looked on from a cafe table with unacquainted eyes that did not yet know of such pink and perpetual longing. The man that hawks fresh fruit was packing up his booth, and the cerise stain of the raspberries that your bought from him still lingered on our shivering lips.

Lovers stepped lightly
into amber-lit bars.
Lovers just like us,
holding on so tenaciously to each other,
afraid that these moments might
rush away
with every
peal
of the
cathedral
bells.

Phantasmagoria

I dreamed that I left you waiting by my
whiskey-kissed glass,
its bitter tears condensing onto the cracking windowsill.

You heard my feet alight against the ground
while I ran through
thistle grass and verbena.
They kept the time of your slow and patient heartbeat.
Along the way

I discovered a continent
I discovered an ocean
I discovered you organically twisted into all of these things.

And against a stone wall
that marches through a hayfield,
I read your secret letters
stuck between the rocks. Before I could breathe they
took flight like a cloud of birds

And you took my heart with them.

hurricane

You're the finest thing that I've done,
the hurricane I'll never outrun
I could wait around for the dust to still,
but I don't believe that it ever will.

wear it like an old overcoat

Lonely roads and lonelier street lamps are chasing me down, rolling me out across vast expansions of arbitrary highways. Someone's discarded cigarette butt goes bouncing behind their car, and its embers dance frenetically before being sucked up by my bumper. I drive. Drive to forget that this old feeling is snaking between the gaps in my teeth. Maybe it's the onslaught of autumn, the exhaustion from work, or knowing that the only thing waiting for me back home is my limitless (or listless?) bed.

That bed is a canyon, and the echoes of my voice get swallowed in it's cream linen walls. My heartbeat is a whisper, soft thuds beneath my rib cage that sink into the mattress. I used your warm body to ease the stark realization of solitude that my bed brings, and I'm sorry. I thought maybe the slow pattern of your rising and falling chest might bring me solace. I thought your arm around my waist might let me sleep less fitfully. I thought if I pretended to kiss you good night, I could fool myself into thinking I cared. But I don't.

It only exemplifies my loneliness. And isn't it ironic how us lonely types seem constantly surrounded by people?

I know that when this road sends me down its snaking branches to my home, the only thing I'll be curling my arms around is my own body. I might use these words as warmth, weave them together and pull them up to my chin. I'll find comfort in their complexities and seek sleep like some undiscovered, uncharted land.

Granbury, TX at Dawn

Seven A.M. is bared before us and
we tangle ourselves in each other,
in plains of ivory sheets.

Light breaks through the birch and I’m
under the branches of your arms,
the frenzy of your kisses.

They fire and misfire upon my
eyes hands
lips stomach
brow


knees

and in the creases of my elbows
while the birds rollick from branch to branch with
melodies in their bellies.
I’m breathing in the honeyed glow of morning in sharp, quick fits
while you test the edge of sunrise,
my broad-shouldered Icarus.
Your waxy wings of white,
your wanderlust,
Betray you as
you
fall
into me,

the first flush of daybreak.

and just like that,
everything turned upside down again.

shiny new

there's something really powerful to be said about being able to feel your nervous hands, fumbling words, muted laughter, tangled sheets, and good morning kisses.

and i'm so lucky to be able to feel those things again. :)
i'm playing it as safe as i can and trying not to rush into things (which is probably the worst habit i have)
but there's just something endearing about him that makes me smile.

emptying out my pockets

its weird how this has all come full circle. i used to despise you for being such a pretentious asshole and now here we are again.

i can pretend like you never existed in my life. i never wrote about you, never waited for the fall into your arms.

you are the pages in my story that get cut out.

and if i pretend like i never loved you,
it'll mean you never hurt me.

i won't apologize. i won't apologize. i won't apologize.
i want apologies.

i hope she can taste it when you kiss her with a tongue full of lies.

actually,
i hope you spit them out first.
i'm fine with being the girl you screwed up with. but let's not carry over this behavior, eh? she'll never know what's coming.

progress

god. i'm losing track of time. even worse, losing sleep.

how long has it been since i felt like a complete human being?
this is way more torturous than it should be.

my heart is still sewn to the inside of your shirt. you can go ahead and mail that back now, please.

maybe i don't need it after all. feel free to let the ashes of your cigarettes cover it, the rings of your empty beer bottles stain it. it'd feel too hollow in my ribcage anyway.

i think i'm becoming an automaton.

mementos

i suppose i shouldn't expect you to read this. and since you won't, i suppose i shouldn't ask you for an explanation either. what would i do with one, anyway? it'd just be one more thing to hold against you, and i've got my pockets stuffed with things already. it wouldn't be so bad if i had just learned to burn the bridge the first time. but you know, hindsight is 20/20 and all of that. i'm sure these feelings are going to fade just like all the ones before you have. i learn to swallow them down and ignore the echoes they make when they bang against my espohagus. i'll get to the place that when i close my eyes while he kisses me, i won't try to conjure up your face any longer. pretty soon, when he wraps his arms around me in bed, i won't pretend their yours. i'll get over all of that.

but for now,
i'm back to being that girl you found on the bathroom floor. that day was really it for me, you know? when i knew that i felt safe in your arms and that your words were all it took to keep my head above the water. your words, the words and the arms that ultimately would break this thing wide open. and still i'd crave them, as i do now.

if only i just knew why.

but mostly i hate how much i miss you.

not to sound trite,
but i fucking hate you.

the splinter

i can hurt like a splinter
in the palm of your hand.
a foreign invader who just loves to be
under
your
skin.
your hands
your palms
not holy palmer's kiss any longer,
they feel rough with secrets
and upon closer inspection
i see millions of the little things.
slivers of wood encased in the spiral of your fingerprints.
all tiny reminders,
pinpricks of warning
These hands are not clean! These hands, they betray!
you touch everything
with the tenderness of guilt
afraid it might dissolve under the weight of your
gently mocking fingers.
and i can be the dull ache of one of those
splinters.
i can be the silent pulse of pain when you
dig it out of the wreckage of your hand.

and i'll take a part of you with me when you flick me onto the ground
and return to your wooden ship.

A Wish

I wish to feel smaller
under your sheets.
I wish for the whole truth
every time you speak.
I'm thinkin' about how you care half as much for me
While I watch you arrive, smoke cigarettes, sleep...

And I guess it doesn't matter what I say or what I seem
You stuck what I felt for you in the pocket of your jeans
Ignoring me the morning after
isn't enough
and I swear I'm gonna cry.
I'm sick of tryin' to be tough.

And my blood won't stick
To the confines of my veins.
And your heart
Is gonna tear mine away.

And I wish to feel smaller under your hands,
though you seem satisfied as you slip mine
down your pants.
And I'm thinkin' about how you care half as much for me
While you lift up my shirt after asking politely.

And I guess it doesn't matter what I am or pretend to be
Cuz it's her you'll always love and it's her I'll always envy.
I want to end this now so dreams of you won't keep me up.
But I swear I'm gonna cry.
I'm sick of tryin' to be tough.

And my blood won't stick
To the confines of my veins.
And your heart
Is gonna tear mine away.

And it's hard to find
What I want
When it's buried beneath the biggest rock.
I could pay lots of money
To help lift it with machines
But I'm not sure you'd cooperate.
Not sure you'd come clean.

And I wish to feel smaller
under your sheets.
I wish for the whole truth
every time you speak.
And I'm thinkin' about how you care half as much for me
As I watch you arrive, smoke cigarettes, sleep.

And I guess it doesn't matter what I say or what I seem
You stuck what I felt for you in the pocket of your jeans.
Ignoring me the morning after isn't enough
and I swear I'm going to cry.
I'm sick of tryin' to be tough.

Yeah, I swear I'm gonna cry.
I'm sick of tryin' to be tough.

And my blood won't stick
To the confines of my veins.
And your heart
Is gonna tear mine away.

--Gregory and the Hawk

Untitled

I realize that I am not
blondehairblueeyessoutherncomfortwithmycrazytitsallovertheplace

and that i very much am circlepeginsquarehole.
I can't control that societal glitch of loving someone that is
just
all
wrong for me(and let's face it, neither can you).

But love you I do, and it's like pulling teeth.

I'm waiting for the consequences of your
toxic decisions
to fizzle out. I'm waiting for the tide to ebb,
so that we may kiss and touch and smile and laugh
with our lungs not burning from drowning in all this hushed privacy.

What are you waiting for?
I will not kiss you with my eyes closed so tight any longer,
because yours betray every velvety intention.
I will not stitch my mouth shut against the hard candy of your words,
and every lie will shine like
the coins you shove into your pocket; a currency of reminders,
my face engraved in them.

Heads I lose, tails I'm lost.
I'm lost I'm losing you
Losing you in black eyelashes
Lost in pink tongues

I'm lost in how to lose you,


so instead just say you'll stay.
I'll be the only version of myself I can be,
can you find beauty in that?

let's see houdini get out of this one

if i felt at all like i had lost you, it would have been a month ago.
when everything i built my LIFE around dissolved away in the tears i had shed over what happened.

but it's like the reconstruction part is so much messier than the forgiveness part. and i feel like every day that passes where i make up my mind that rebuilding this takes time, means another day that you become just a touch more hazy. the lines are blurring for you, i think. the lines between what your head wants to do and where your heart is tied.

i know that it doesn't make it any easier that i still feel so comfortable between your sheets, between your legs, between your arms. maybe i just like knowing that if you need to fulfill some instinctive instant gratification, i'm the one that gets to provide that. of course, that in and of itself is a touch ironic, because that instant grat is what got us in this shit hole of a situation in the first place.

so am i supposed to have no security then? does the only reassurance i get have to come from me devoting myself to you again??
i know the answer to this question is, naturally, yes. because it's not my place to say anything about the decisions you make when you're not mine. i've been dissected by two conundrums who want to bury themselves under my skin.
go back to you in my mosaic state and risk falling to pieces again, or sit and wait for the healing process and possibly lose you to some other place and time.

and the earth keeps turning...

The Meeting

As the cool rain ceased to fall against the black and shiny streets, the balmy night caused the moisture to roll along in an eerie fog. It looked like the souls of the living dead who slaved away in corporate dungeons or decomposed in seedy bars were all marching along the main streets and shadowy alleys.
Ramona Potts stood outside Cal's Diner and smoked a Lucky Strike. As the smoke filled her lungs with its acrid poison, she told herself once again that the past two years of her life rode on the off-chance that her boyfriend Julius would remember why they were meeting and actually show up. To keep from having a meltdown, she smoked another cigarette.
The smoke unfurled out and into the atmosphere, joining the ethereal fog on its transparent voyage down 5th street. Ramona pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. 11:18. She remembered the first time they had made love was on his kitchen floor, and the clock on the microwave read 11:18 in the same greenish glow that her phone emitted now.
"An hour late. As usual," she muttered to herself.
And although the chorus of her friends and family reverberated in her head (Why him Ramona? He's trash. He isn't worth the pain. That guy is worthless, Ramona.), she knew she'd wait for him all night if she had to.
Because that's how love works. Even if someone continually lets you down, you'll just keep waiting for him on 5th and Parker Street, even though you know they probably won't show up, just to hear them say they didn't sleep with that girl so things will feel like they did when you were blissfully unaware.
And so Ramona played by the rules and waited. And at 12:37, on her fourth Lucky Strike, Julius broke through the fog listening to music on his over-sized headphones and wearing his gray sweater that was missing a button.
That fucking sweater. He'd wear it in the desert if he ever knew how to get to one, she thought to herself.
Julius pushed his thick, black frames up on his nose. Ramona counted twelve freckles and a zit on his face. "Hey," he said.
And even before he began on his long winded explanation of why and where and who, Ramona already knew that those two years she'd loved Julius were now as unimportant and insignificant as the grape gum that stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Because no amount of time withstands some girl at a party who tastes like Southern Comfort and has eyes like an absinthe-drenched wet dream.
She suddenly lost her appetite and thought that a diner was a stupid place to meet. Maybe a hacksaw factory or met packing plant would have been more appropriate.
"I'm so sorry. I'm such an asshole," Julius said, in almost a whisper. Ramona could see a tear roll down his face.
"Yeah, okay," she replied. Her response was nonchalant enough, but she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting out in tears.
Ramona grabbed her bag and headed up Parker Street, lighting another cigarette. As she walked, she figured that she'd probably end up calling him, because two years is an awfully long time to be with someone, and cutting off all communication completely is near to impossible. And after talking to him, she'd probably decide that even after all the times he'd let her down, it was still worth it to take him back and fight through one more. Because two years is an awfully long time to love someone, and going on not loving them after all that practice is near to learning how to walk all over again.
And because that's what love does to you. It shows you how invaluable being in love is to your life. It shows that, even if the person you loved ripped your heart out, you know that you can never be happy without them. Because love is the slowest form of suicide.
Ramona turned onto Bingham Street and wondered what she'd do if she discovered she couldn't ever love Julius the same way again. And the balmy night stole another soul to join the cavalcade of steam, smoke, and loneliness in the black and shiny streets.

The Story of My Life

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. This mantra is coming back to haunt me.
Anyone you invest your time in and actually take the courage to love will inevitably fuck you over. Royally.

And my story is the same this time as it ever was before. I fell for everything; hook, line, and sinker. But even though this is probably the worst I've been screwed over, I feel much more optimistic about it than all the other times, and I have no idea why.

Maybe I'm still in denial, the natural novacaine. Because every once in awhile it's like I get lifted from some sort of hazy fantasy and everything comes screaming at me again. There is nothing that can ever make me forget about what happened. The weird part, though, is that I don't think that's what is keeping me from saying "Fuck it. Let's just do this." I mean, I guess that has a lot to do with it, naturally. But sometimes I think that it was just a catalyst of realization for me. It sort of snapped up the shade to make me see that my feelings weren't what they used to be. I don't know. At the same time, I guess it's kind of hard to respect and care about someone that basically spit on the face of what you made together.

I'm still so confused by everything that's happened. I hate that this even is what's going to define my summer. "Summer '08? Oh yeah. That was the year my heart got crushed under the big bus that's my room mate."

Jeez. I need a cocktail.

A Perfect Date

I felt a little like Bridget Jones.
I had gotten all dolled up and was ready to suck it up and face an early work day for a night of typical college recreation.
And then, like something you almost expect because it's so ironic and terrible, my plans fell through. On account of the lack of vaginas at the party, it had been dubbed "Guy's Night". Upon inspecting the lack of phallic genitalia in my jeans, I decided I'd be better off sucking down my Moscato wine and writing in my underwear for the rest of the night.

So here I am. In all my mascara and bikini-cut glory. And maybe I should have something profound to say here, or find something philosophical in this situation, but all I can really think about is how pitiful I must look to the people outside my window. A girl with her hair all done up drinking alone in her room at her computer. I bet Carrie Bradshaw did this once or twice. That gives me SOME credibility, doesn't it? And I'm pretty sure they can see me in my knickers, but after a few more drops of the good ol' Sutter Home, I doubt I'll care much anyway.

What I'd really rather prefer is to have someone lying in my bed behind me, reading Dostoevsky or Proust, hell even a reliable Tom Robbins novel would do the trick. Yes, and then Mr. Literate would invite me to bed or to watch an old movie on TV or make love or something. Make love! Not have sex or fuck or ravish each other, which, don't get me wrong, is absolutely warranted when the situation arises. But it's been so long since I've actually experienced something emotional and passionate at the same time; where you take the time to explore every inch of the other person, the way their skin feels, they way the taste, the heat of their body against yours... looking into their eyes as the momentum rises and falls.

I don't know. Maybe I just want for someone to appreciate it when I make the extra effort. When I take the time to look more than myself or do something small to be kind.

Or maybe I just need to get some sleep.
I'll retire my bottle of wine (nearly empty now) and brush off this state of mind, like there isn't someone getting drunk somewhere else not even giving this a second thought.

Instead of June Cash, I'll be June Cleaver

It always seems like the biggest realizations blindside me on idle weekdays. I can think and think for hours on something I find intriguing, but I won't really feel the effects until I'm sitting on my couch watching What Not To Wear or something.

Today it hit me while I was checking my e-mail between classes on campus.

I have always told myself that I was just too antsy to keep still in one place for too long. My ambitions and my goals were too rapidly expanding for any fishbowl town. I wanted to travel and create and envision. But today, this ordinary, overcast day, I came to realize that all of this was just a big painting to hang on my wall.

I'll never be that mysterious indie hipster who makes note-worthy music. I'll never be a columnist for any entertainment magazines. I won't move to New York and do fashion shoots for Vogue. I probably won't even sell millions of copies of any book.

No, what I really and truly want for myself is so abhorrently plain and "settled" that I can't believe it even entered my mind.

I want to get hitched, move to some quiet, remote, location (and Granbury, Texas looked pretty damn good to me last weekend), pop out a kid, and teach English.

I can see me now in 20 years:
I'll be in a shapeless, floral frock with Dr. Scholl's shoes and a red ink pen in my hand grading some kid's essay on a Flannery O'Connor work.

Sure, I have dreams of maybe staying in this armpit of Liberalism and opening my own bakery/ cafe or something. But reality is a heavy skin I wear and I guess every year older I get, the more bland my life is going to be.

In a way, it's sort of depressing. I've always been so envious of the kids who are making 3.8s, making admirable creations, and making opinions about things that I'm interested in. I've always wanted to be in that place, but sometimes I feel as if my mind just doesn't stretch that far.

I feel an impulsive urge coming on to prevent this self-fulfilling prophecy. For now, however, maybe I'll just get cozy with the idea that my life will be summed up by the phrase "Pot roast Fridays."

Happy Valentine's Day

The fact of the matter was that he was marrying her. No matter how many spins I tried to put on it (aka the fact that she was supposed to be the rebound girl, the fact that he never seemed to have any qualms about telling me that he was going to marry me, the fact that we were in love for two years, hell,even the fact that he said he hated blondes ) the statement was there, stalwart in defiance of my emotions. I couldn't believe how ironic it was that I'd just watched When Harry Met Sally.
And then the worst part happened. He started popping up everywhere. I'd hear about how my friends saw him, I'd pass him on campus, I'd even see him at the local Wal-Mart as I ducked into the gardening aisle to try and avoid him noticing me. This was getting ridiculous.
Sure, I had a man. But he'd had to work on the night that I heard the news, and so I was forced to sob alone in my room while my cat curled up next to me, hoping that a good scratch under her chin would make me feel better.
And now it was Valentine's Day. Holidays like these always made me think about where I was on that day the year before. Last year, I'd been chasing around this intellectual who'd gotten me some Joan Baez records for the candy-coated holiday. We'd really only been sleeping together. I don't think there was any real emotion there. After we had gone to see The Shins some few weeks later, we sort of stopped talking. I'd heard from a mutual friend that he was in to other people, so I decided to end the charade. I had to face it, the sex wasn't really all that worth it.
So now here I was, one year later, sitting alone at my computer with a pipe in my teeth and loneliness promenading in my mind.
Yes, a pipe. I had recently taken up pipe smoking, and for those of you tsk-tsking and thinking what a nasty habit it is, you've never smelled the sweet aroma as it curls around your nose and your body like a hand-me-down scarf. Something about the polished brier wood and the smooth, aromatic smoke it emitted calmed and inspired me.
Then there was the loneliness. Nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day" like a phone call from your lover: "Sorry babe, I have to work." I shaved my legs and everything. Oh well, I sighed to myself. If I wasn't getting any tonight then at least I could go about more productive things.
Though I doubt that sitting by yourself in a small-town coffeehouse, which is where I found myself that night, is any more productive than sitting at home moping.
I think there is something particularly meditative about smells. They just do something for me, they stimulate my brain. The aforementioned pipe smoke which soothes and inspires me, and now the million different smells intermingling together in the atmosphere of that cafe. You could smell the Brazilian, house blend, and Costa Rican roasts of the Serve-Yourself coffee pots, freshly baked biscotti cooling in an oven that was ajar, and the various and sundry grilled sandwiches every few patron snacked on.
Anyway, there I was meditating on the sights and sounds (and not to mention the $3.75 bottomless coffee deal) hacking away at the keys of my laptop, trying to purge some sort of story out of them when all of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, there they were. The last two people I wanted to see on this planet were now deciding to invade my place of comfort. My coffeehouse that I'd been hanging around since... well since forever! It was the dreaded ex-boyfriend and his blonde-headed fiancee, ordering coffee at the bar.
Trying not to make any sudden movements, I quietly unplugged my computer from the outlet behind me, gathered up my belongings in my arms, and made an exit through the back door and into the courtyard. I exhaled in relief. I think I had been holding my breath since I got there, and now the vapors came out and crystallized in the chilly night air. I set my computer and messenger bag on a nearby table and donned my black pea coat, then fished my pipe out of my pocket and lit up another bowl of the tobacco. After nestling my laptop safely in my bag, I slung it over my shoulder and made my way home.
The coffeehouse was only a few blocks from my apartment, so I decided to walk out my thoughts instead of catching a bus. Couples walked by holding each other for warmth, leaves fell frozen to the ground, unable to hold on to their limbs any longer. How long was I going to let his presence affect me? It had been a little over a year, and I couldn't stand to even hear of him without being terribly uncomfortable. I blew smoke rings up to the moon and strolled on. I felt defeated and weak. It wasn't that I still loved him or cared for him. I had learned long ago from mutual friends how sophomoric he was. It was just that feeling of betrayal that wouldn't leave me alone.
By now, my apartment complex loomed in the distance on a hill, and I made my way towards it. Maybe next year I would remember this Valentine's Day as the one where I sat on my couch and watched Good Eats with Alton Brown while my roommate and her boyfriend made love in her bedroom.

An Essay on Romance

Let me be the first to say my piece of advice:
Hopeless romantics, stop while you're ahead!
Because it's only getting worse when you think it's getting better. ANd then you become paranoid. Yes, after the endless cycle of liars and pseudo-lovers, you assume everyone of trying to cheat you out of what little emotion you have left. You just might end up accusing the wrong person, and how are you supposed to justify it?
"Well I was too scared to let myself fall for you, so instead I assumed you were lying to me."
It is a tough break, and we hopeless lovers got dealt a shitty hand.

After being wounded, broken, jaded, and cynical, I think society expects us to suck it up and put ourselves out there again because dammit, there is a shortage of perfect mates in the world and we are only exacerbating the problem.

Alright, so I've listed the grievances and now you are shouting at me to throw you a solution. How can we, the poor, sappy suckers, dig ourselves out of this tormenting labyrinth?
Well, I mean think about it. What can you do? Stop loving?
Nonsense.
Believe me, robotics is not the way to go. So do we just love then, keeping one carefull measured step away?
Sadly, I would not advise this either. First, I believe that one would wake up on some arbitrary Thursday morning and find that they had unintentionally and inadvertently devoted much more than they had intended. So I rather find this plan of action close to impossible.
Yet ifthis were to work out for you some way or another, I would not advise it still, for love cannot be enjoyed unless you thrust your whole self into it without abandon.

Which, sadly, brings us back to the conundrum where we first began.

So maybe there is no solution to this bittersweet curse of wanting nothing but idealistic romance.
I certainly haven't an answer for you, only lessons learned from many heartbreaks I've had to endure.

Well what about my postion on the idea that there's someone for everyone?
While in my jaded state, I would take one look at this statement and scoff. But perhaps, with brain and heart working together, I might have a different opinion. If there truly is someone out there for everyone, I believe you may only come by it with lots of hard work. Let's face it, people are just too different for fate to do everything alone. You can meet someone with who you're compatible with, but it's going to take a hell of a lot more than serendipity to oversome that argument about who should start compromising what.
And if one isn't so lucky to be matched right away, then they must go through a host of unexplainable heartbreakers before the "right one" is reached. At least that seemed to be the scenario in my case.

And sadly, all the liquor and cigarettes and pain killers and cynicism in the world don't ever ease the gnawing infestation of lonliness that all atarted with the godforesaken phrase "I don't love you anymore."

Am I the right person to be giving anyone advice? Probably not. But I learned more from Bukowski, Plath, and Sexton than I did from Romeo and Juliet.