I just purchased:
“Awake” by Nicole Dyer
“Not Every Word A Fist” by Amelia M. Garcia
“1955” by Vance Osterhout
Support your fellow writers/bloggers/and me!
If you do buy someone’s book, share it with the world. or Tumblr at least.
Every penny spent on my book goes straight to the local liquor store.
What is it, that you are trying to say, in your writing?
I’ve heard it said that the average person falls in love four times during their life. Now that he is gone I fall in love four times a month. I fall in love four times a week. Sometimes, under a clear summer sky when I am particularly drunk, I fall in love four times a night.
Love is a fun distraction, like cocaine or gambling. It all comes down to dopamine rushes in reward circuits.
It all comes down to the glorious, fleeting highs and desperate, drawn-out lows.
The average person laughs fifteen times a day.
I laugh fifteen-thousand times a day or I do not laugh at all.
He took his belongings with him in a box, like he was clearing himself out of my apartment. Like he was finally leaving a job he never really enjoyed. The box contained some records, a book he hadn’t read, the charger for his phone, and my funny bone, which he surgically removed when he stood in the rapidly constricting hallway and said I can’t do this anymore.
Nothing was funny for weeks, and then everything was hilarious, and now it is an entirely unstable combination of the two.
When I laugh my eyes tear up, like the wires inside me are crossed and I’ve forgotten what emotion I am supposed to be feeling. I wobble on the surface, perpetually brimming, waiting to tip, to spill like milk and curdle in the sun.
Sometimes when I cry my body shakes so hard that if someone saw me from behind, they’d think I was laughing.
They say the average person falls asleep in 7 minutes. This cannot be true. I lie awake for days staring at darkness. I only fall asleep after I have lived through the saddest part of the night.
I only find oblivion after I have cried or masturbated or both. Like my own fingers can fill the hollow inside.
I sleep lying on my stomach. I used to lie on my back but that is how he decided to leave. Lying on my back left me too exposed, allowed him to perform open heart surgery on me in the middle of the night.
Now I fall asleep feverishly in the microscopic hours with one hand beneath me, clutched to my chest, a clenched fist in the groove between my breasts.
Like my own fingers can fill the hollow inside.
The average person has over 1460 dreams a year.
1459 of mine were about the boy who left. The 1460th was about an acrobatic attempt. I tried to do a flip but I broke my neck instead. My head snapped back so that my oesophagus poked out of my throat and I lay mangled beneath a bright sun. I wrote poetry in the blood that spurted from my gullet.
I woke relieved that it wasn’t about him.
The average person sheds 0.7kg of skin a year.
I was born in the Year of the Snake. I should be allowed to slither out of myself and start again.
I am tired of the human way of moulting, slowly flaking hairs and skin cells. It is inefficient. Healthy snakes shed their skin in one single piece. How nice it would be to step out of my old self, leave everything that has come before shrivelled in his bed sheets. My new skin would be clean and fresh and free from his fingerprints.
Reptiles shed their skin to remove parasites and allow for growth.
If I removed him from my life, I think I could learn to grow again.
And if I were to perish before him, I would perch mine soul upon his rib and rub my limbs and visage with blood, so that through life, he would never notice me; he would go on and live his last days upon riverbeds and mountain peaks in smile of our memory, of my resplendence and vivid joy, of our companionship, rather than have him know not of what it met to be without me again, so that when he too meets death, his eyes would swell and create Eden therein, and he would become God: immortality reign infinitum. And thus, we shall live a glory of myth and legend, forever free.
My grandmothers crucifix is hung from a fixture over the place I sleep at night, but I do not sleep at night. Lying quietly in the lingering light, I push the rather ornately beaded chain and observe as its thrusts transform through diminished movements. In the evenings following time spent in the garden, I would scrape away the filth from beneath my fingernails using its sharp corners. Purging what I would imagine to be the equivalent of the entire garden. Never a speak of dirt could be found upon the corner of the silvery cross. The debris, no doubt made its way immediately into the abyss between my bed and the wall. Never caring to investigate the matter further leaving discoveries instead to distant mystery as to how the earth rose through the floorboards.
Night after night I would swing that cross and listen to life behind the walls. I only trusted the images. I only wanted to believe in the suffering, or was the pain of struggle the only life I had known. Staring through the darkness I would walk the hillside outside the city walls. By way of the moonlight I would feel the mud of tears and blood and sweat and piss beneath bare feet, squeezing between toes. Howling winds to the mutters of silent deals, through tearing cloth and unsettled bones. Weaving myself freely among the monuments to long shadows, I would search for the him, the one. Struggling in that dim light to find the face. The same image I had seen in portraits adorning the seminary walls in my childhood. While enduring extreme boredom, I would stare into those piercing blue eyes for so long I began to see my own face trapped within the internal struggle. Peering up onto the damned, none would seem familiar. In none I would find the starry blues, like mine. One after the other just the ordinary, everyday crucified sinners, awaiting their slow death.
In the darkness I continue to push the crucifix, the only proof of motion is the erie scraping against the wall. Screams of jet planes and the cold of night pours in through the open window. Those planes just as my silent wails too, are filled with stories. Just as in the stories of objects spoken. Swinging and spoken, swinging and spoken, eternal.
(Defenseless, shimmering, but lost. Holding on to fragments of possibility. Swirling, imagining, taking small notes.)
I’ve been defenseless and shimmering, enraptured in the idea of being lost. I’ve been holding on to fragments of possibility, slow at the pile of summers before Time. I’ve been swirling and imagining, taking small notes.
(A man with a heart leaves his body for the sea. A man with a mind leaves the sea for his body.)
I once loved a girl. Her name was Ellie. I wrote her the story of our love and how she was my first. I told her to “hold, but never hold back” and I told her this to make sure she would find happiness.
I loved the dreams of things. I spent a night in the desert once, smiling at distant green stars, ruby as a life in darkness. I thought I heard Emily’s lightning voice years away.
I met Emily days later. I wrote her a poem and a poem and a poem. I wrote her poetry. She wrote my poetry. I took horns and let their roars travel to Antarctica. Fingering platelets of earth, I laughed like a damn sunfeeder, licked the trees and birds with my energy.
(A firefighter counts the seconds before he leaps into the flaming building. One, two, three. At three, I will go. One, two, three. I find this to be beautiful.)
I flicked my mandible at the concept of rain. Hurling the universe inside of me to give to the universe outside of me, I laughed and spit it up. Alex told me I am the very essence of what it means to love. Alex also told me that love is everything. I knew this long ago in a sonnet of my childhood.
I broke my fingers in a dream to paint the world. I don’t need to paint anything. I’m taking small notes. I’m in love with the idea of being lost. The snow is falling outside. I am falling inside.
(Beauty is anything you believe it is.)
“I wish I could say something that could make you stay.”
“I do, too. I just…it’s not that easy for me. I’m broken. I can’t be fixed like that.”
”I know that broken people can’t be fixed, but their pieces can be glued a little closer together.”
Have you ever grabbed a cactus? Of course not, most people aren’t that stupid.
I did. I can’t say why. Maybe it’s the same reason I waited by the side of the road once and just drilled a rock through the windshield of the first car to come by. Honestly, I can see this being something to put in writing, purely because it makes so little sense.
When you get a thousand cactus spines in your hands, you glue them on. That’s how you take them all out at once, all in one cathartic layer of glue that peels away everything.
Back when I wanted to be an engineer or something, I took classes beyond school for college credit. Something as simple as building a bridge was one of the exercises. I made a bridge that weighed something like eight grams and held more than eighty pounds. The wood inevitably failed before the glue. It broke, but the glue held.
I know glue is one way to fix things, but it won’t work here.
Glue holds, but not the way hands do.”
That last line.