Rip Out The Last Page

Thanks for stopping by! The Meditation series is me doing a free write at the end of the night. I find my themes naturally gravitate towards melancholy and love, so be prepared for a bit of melodrama.

[dkwriting]

Take a Walk In the Woods

When I'm fucking a dude on the hood of my car in a Texas state park, one in the morning in the pouring rain, I think just as long as we don't die in the torrential downpour. Goddamn, I should have brought towels. And don't everything look like cocks like the yellow parking posts or the tree collecting water.

I would have felt guilty except for five other condoms littered all along the tree line. He said "Wouldn't it be great? if we could fuck at gas pumps, restaurants, libraries, Congress. Everyone would be happy."

The drive home felt like another sex act: Being fucked, no answers, like prayers to an absent god.

[dkwriting]

Meditation 12

You had asked me once what distance meant: flight or train or car or foot or simple breath are all the ways I would cross the chasm. And what is time, foolish measurement of distances between nows and thens and ifs? Nothing stands in the way of steady hands ready to fold onto another's like paper origami wings folded in,

And inside those folds, a love note meant for remembering but not reading, the sort held open years later, when time and space have become small and now only one more Friend asks to call on you before the end, to guide to the author around the bend.

[dkwriting]

Meditation 11

You are all but drive, dear; The cranking of the shaft as it shifts into gear recalls that back room where little dandelions cracked the baseboards, my fingers gliding on your lips like secrets best left alone. The day I drove away, not out of spite but need, gasoline engine need, carborator flow need. Once, you were the one man. I could fold myself in your undercarriage space, feel the combustion heat. Pavement didn’t replace you, just made you distant. The wind’s always ahead, I think. Always untouched. If one could reap the wind.

[dkwriting]

Meditation 10

When did your blooming in my rib cage start? Remembrance is tricky, like fall breaking Off limbs, the slow drift of orange, but also How coy blooms [reminder of your lips], there, where there was always pressure, will push past dirt piled within me to sing praise: shortened light, softening breeze, deft touch of purple in sunset.  No one reminded me growth from compost can flower this late.  You said "You're my only rose bouquet, babe." And yet,

I knew.  I cup the bulb of what's left, us, In my palm, hold its ghostly gaze as it Withers into winter.  The wind's petals Caress the lines in my hand, now empty.

[dkwriting]

Why I Wear Flowers

I'll bloom, you see, in vases of whisky, bourbon and vodka, where my petals, soft and sensual will unfold to the nightlight. Everyone loves a flower in season. I am not a rose, but you can call me any other name you'd like tonight. There is a mixture of hope for the future in the innocent grasping of each other. Bodies, a thorny proposition, tanglewire mess. Sweat drops from us like morning dew while the sun rises. Our bodies fold back in on themselves. We hope to be perennial.

[dkwriting]

Meditation 9

Would I smoke a joint for a boy?  Questionable, But also rather to say that I have before. And I'm staring him down, half dressed and overwhelmed Which is also the state of my reckless insides. There is so much also being added to me. I am a well during a rainstorm pouring out With no one to drink, but the sense of warm drowning As if I had never seen my own Texas flood.

Undressed, which is also the state of my concern. I am so many am’s, like everyone's prayers Smothering my one little wisp of hope, snuffed out Like a roach (either one you imagine is fine). Can I hold you close?  Can I hold you closer?  Please? Please don't shove me out the door, keys in hand, unlocked.

[dkwriting]

Meditation 8

He said "Will I see you again?" and I reply "Maybe." This is not just the oscillation between yes and no, but rather in the way the last boy drew the fickle word across his lips like makeup meant to hide intention in playfulness. It's the way parents with too little money still dream, still tell me nothing is wrong. It's the heart felt concession to a friend who will accept my indecision. It is the way I wake, deciding if I can handle another day of an overwhelming existence. An existence full of people like him, sweaty, glistening, unattached, content, while I am only confused by a sense of longing, a desperate clawing, to hold his flushed hand.

[dkwriting]

Meditation 7

If only my feelings weren’t fickle, slipping out of my fingers like water, refusing to take shape and guard like they should. Always an unrequited exchange, I am the waterfall pouring out into the insatiable ocean.

Better my feelings were dirt, a chalky clay that could fortify the walls of my inner sanctum to keep out the chilling winds of curiosity. Let them not gaze upon the surface of rushing water and see all, but see solid earth, inviting but inscrutable.

[dkwriting]

Meditation 6

Inside the safe is a small clay bird. She never takes it out, holds it, admires its beauty. Instead, she claims it is outrageously gorgeous, infinitely precious, irreplaceable. She says it's mine when she passes as long as I do nothing rash. My mother touched her own neck gently, as if a ghost, feeling for its own pulse. "When will you marry?" The affectation of affability. My fingers twitch, interlaced in my lap. Through the window frame, I see manicured garden hedges, a single man in white, raking, a few stray leaves caught, stuck in the spindly metal's grasp. "You can't wait forever, you know." I had never thought of shutters quite in the same way I did that day.

[dkwriting]

Meditation 5

A guitar, plucked in the suffering of a young man's deft fingers, vibrates with metallic toughness and sound wave softness that bounces off the walls of a too small room in Brooklyn. There are lyrics scrawled in an uncertain penmanship, too much rushed therapy and pills and not enough of learning how to be okay with feeling. It's a G D C ditty, a down and dirty jam, but it's close to being good. It's the distance of his fingers from the strings close. But close don't pay winter's heating bills, spring's tuition, the insurance. His balled fist creates a space. What frequency is the universe at, he wonders. What note should he play, what vibration in the air will let him fly from these rolling wastes of self loathing?

[dkwriting]

Meditation 4

He said, "Do you want to hear a joke," which she replied, flipping her hand back and forth to fan herself, "Sure." He replied, "Our world will die in five billion years, and we, haphazardly slogging through seconds, will not be alive to see it." She takes a sip of chamomile, and says "That's not very funny. How about another one?" He replies "Knock knock." "What are you knocking on?" "Does it matter?" She breathes over her tea cup. "Everything matters eventually, meaning bleeds from bodies of water, of air, of us like too full black holes or dying suns." "I guess it's a redwood door." "I've heard this one before."

There is a small silence between them then an awkward laugh. "One more," she says, tight lipped smile, wrinkles around her eyes like the curvature of the expanding universe. "Okay," and he cracks his knuckles, wiggles his fingers like a magician. "Yesterday, there was a five car pile-up and there was a mother on the side of the road, perhaps she was a mother, staring catatonic out into the distance, a cell phone limp from her hand, and I marveled at her, fascinated by the mystery of not being her, but also grateful for it, the mystery, I mean. I never felt myself breathe exactly in tune with someone else before." She put her cup down, "I've never heard something that funny before."

[dkwriting]

Haikus On An Endless Body

Lips, quivering hot.

Where we meet is also part

shame and part sexy.

I remember your

finger stirring coffee, now

within my mouth: steam.

Brittle, the moans of

silence. One name on repeat,

but it wasn't mine.

Desire, intentioned

beast that wrecks my tell-tale heart,

what mess has it wrought?

Sheets, stained, soaking, fresh

from battle, the curve of our

bodies recalled still.

[dkwriting]

Meditation 3

I open my hand, but there is only

heat dissipation, moisture, salt,

dead skin cells, quarks and neutrinos,

my hopes of what we were somewhere

even deeper than that. The universe,

or mine at least, is an instrument you play.

The strumming of your fingers against mine

vibrates the strings in the atmosphere, sends me back in time

all the way to the hesitating moment of repeating

and this time I wonder if the music will be sweeter.

[first-pick-trumpet-blast]

Meditation 2

You were the tulip shaped space in every moment of my day, blooming into the seconds of my mind like the scent of cedar burning. Still lingers, your lip’s taste of spearmint and rose hips and all my fantasies of our future, this kind infactuation I’ve turned to a pyre. The tangles of your memories remain, soot my shirt, my hair, my compassion, and I fixate on the smudges of black stains, fixate on why you couldn’t have been the exception.

The blackened remains blow away, embers Of us, of me, of whoever else remembers.

[first-pick-trumpet-blast]

Meditation 1

Some words come to you more frequent, (whisper) as if they call to you, or you to them or as if at the edge of a pool, (precipice) breaking your reflection with your hand to sip from the cool waters of thought. These tiny droplets, mist in the air, (snow) prick at the back of your neck, speak inside some unknown language beneath a comforting sound. (music) What do the words we fall in love with say to us? When at the horizon of dawn, the deep night confiding, what do we say to ourselves in our space stolen hearts? What new fallen snow, like music, whispers at the precipice of ourselves?

[dkwriting]

Seventy On A Country Road (Draft)

"They're gonna take the baby" illumates

the interior, ignites his foot on the gas,

racks his insides.  A shifting slip breaks the tree line,

dashes into his headlights. Beams burn the retinas

of a doe, flaxen blur in this midnight hour.

Somewhere, a toddler moves his hand back and forth,

and the grandmother scoops this bundle of nerves learning to suffer

up, up into the air, waving. Hi, baby!  Hey, baby - 

Was that waving or wanting? When did you learn

to grasp at the air and desire? The doe flexes her

hind leg, a scrawl in the air, still conscious, 

perhaps waving hello.

[first-pick-trumpet-blast]

Filtered light sources - dust dances, accompanied by only your breath.

[dkwriting]

(I couldn't figure

out how to blog from my phone;

bad haiku explains)