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@dennts-blog
Habits
you bite your nails when you’re anxious. you skip breakfast. you check your hands twice to make sure the keys are there before locking the door (easier to hold them, but) you keep putting them in your pocket. you mishandle time, don’t give yourself enough, get claustro- phobic. worry this poem will take up 2 much space. forget to empty ket- tle. forget to look in mirrors. remember useless things:…
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Protocol for a Begging Stomach
Protocol for a Begging Stomach
you turn up the music or you roll up the window or you walk a little bit faster.
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"What happens when you become scared of the things that comfort you? When self-criticism takes away what could heal you?"
“What happens when you become scared of the things that comfort you? When self-criticism takes away what could heal you?”
Blog: Learning to Play Fetch, via The Fiddler
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"A matter of survival—some poems won’t come out if I’m staring. It is an exhausting, frustrating process. And sometimes, because of that, I never return to the poem."
“A matter of survival—some poems won’t come out if I’m staring. It is an exhausting, frustrating process. And sometimes, because of that, I never return to the poem.”
Blog: The Science of Poetry, via The Fiddler
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hello, hello, hello
I never know how to start these things. Dennison. Or Ty, whichever is easiest. I write, I read, I study at the University of Arkansas. I have a pretentious obsession with coffee. I don’t drink enough water. My living room aesthetic is inspired by the Industrial Revolution. I think the short, clipped syntax of this post is only congruous with part of my personality, but I’m going to keep it, and…
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A matter of survival—some poems won’t come out if I’m staring. It is an exhausting, frustrating process. And sometimes, because of that, I never return to the poem.
Blog: “The Science of Poetry,” via The Fiddler
a friend invited me to a party next saturday “the most gluttonous night of our lives" & my first thought was that ugh i can’t eat for a week just so i can gorge like nothing is wrong eating too quickly drinking too much we all have our problems with mirrors i can’t remember the color of my eyes but i could tell you the hex code of my stretch marks i can't let go of my dreams— my closets are crawling with all the skinny bodies i could never be. hoarder. there are roaches squirming in this wreck & i’ll never get them out
Comprehending Titanic
All that luxury. All that beautiful, thoughtless luxury. All that mathematics, that iron. Down. Going down. People falling, jumping off the top. People falling like people falling. Flesh, dropping like flesh. Iron breaking like iron, wood splintering like wood, flesh from iron and wood. Down. All that. Suits amongst the water gurgling with suits, an ocean choking on dresses. All that luxury, down, in the water, sand spraying from the water bottom, ice floating on top, like ice, bobbing like flesh.
Hey friends!
It has been two years since my last post.
When I left, I was days away from starting my sophomore year of college. I jumped into a barista job on campus a month later. A blog I was keeping up with just for fun failed to top my list of priorities, and I slipped out of the routine of writing-posting.
I changed majors four separate times—at least—in the past two years, and in more broad terms, those two years have been highly transformative for me, from my education to my career aims, from my personal to my political. I am emerging dedicated to my writing as a foundation for my life rather than a side project. And part of that is slipping back into blogging, posting, self-publishing. I’m really happy to be back and able to share more of my writing with you all.
Plus, here’s some fun news: last April, I was published in a little literary magazine I work with called The Fiddler. If you want to check out our first issue, it’s online.
Other than that, expect to see a bit more of me on here.
An Appetite
I should be eating peaches. Peach, cherry, papaya. Freshly plucked from their trees. They said Eve already fucked us all with the apple so there was no point in avoiding any chance to indulge in something newly ripened, plump with juices. Adam didn’t. Grape, melon, berry. They said to take whatever I wish. Work in the orchard, work in the field, work in the garden. Take a basket home each night. Take a break every hour. Take peach, honeydew, blackberry. Wrap myself in fig leaves, take a bite, savor what overflows. Eve, Eve, Eve. They said I couldn’t work here and not recall dreamily the sweet aftertaste that swirled and tickled the underside of my tongue, whose tip searched to find stray seeds hiding behind teeth. They said call them Eden. They said grip the best they had to offer, mouth at only the ripest skins, something solid to bite into. They said we won’t be punished again, we can save the most succulent fruit for ourselves and eat our hearts out until the end of time among the trees and fig leaves. Eve, Eve, Eve. And I think only of what they tell me: I should be eating peaches. Biting through peach skins, flicking the tip of my tongue to lap up peach juices, licking peach residue from peach lips. Popping pits from cherries and juggling berries in my mouth. Opening wide the papaya, melon, fig and wiping the extra on leaves. They said take, savor, indulge. They said fruit, juice, seed. They said ripe, sweet, succulent. First Eve, then Adam, now us. And I said no thanks. I said I don’t really enjoy fruit that much, maybe someone else would like to try? I said I prefer just to look, if that’s okay.
Stone
1 August 2014
4:11 am
Sisyphean Education
3 July 2014
10:47 pm
Quarrtsiluni
1 July 2014
11:25 pm
Dor (Letters to No One)
17 June 2014
9:38 pm
Yuputka
11 June 2014
12:51 pm
Torschlusspanik
7 June 2014
11:55 pm
What It Feels Like To Be Touched
In my mind I narrow my skin down to certain points. I am radar. I am search and locate. I am on guard. On the green-black flattened map of my own terrain I highlight the alerts with flashing lights, marking the movements of potential threats, and each threat pulsates with its own warnings one, two three; each threat is its own little monster breathing heavy mid-chase, lungs expanding one, two, three. Thermal sensing: each monster is being consumed by its own flame, illuminated orange, red, carmine, in the brutal heat of pursuit, body still throbbing. I am on defense. I am pinpoint and eliminate. I am cautious.
I am vulnerable. I am the home base of my own operation. I am smart target, easy victory. Mentally, I feel only in terms of threats, like a map laid flat sweeps its boundaries for foreign objects. This is my last line of protection: narrow myself down to the burning heat of pulsating monsters and find a way to get them off my skin.