#kgsummerslam

[keyboardghost]

roadtrips are supposed to enlighten you, so here is your enlightenment

i watched you skip rocks on the shore of your disappointment during that never-ending summer. you told me that you used to have hope hidden within your cavernous heart. that you didn’t always feel so sullen, constantly wondering about questions that would never be answered. but i think you realized, after traveling along endless roads under the light of the waning sun, that life was much like a maze with torn down exit signs. humming in the breeze was a reminder that everything is static and you were pointless in the grand scheme of things. nihilism claimed your body, much like any other religion. you were rapturous in your downfall, racing along winding highways like maybe they would lead you to paradise. you hoped it was as run down as earth. and though after that summer you thought that it wasn’t worth the fight, choosing skyscrapers over the pulsing veins of roadmaps we wrote ourselves, i hope you saw angels in the canyons of your self-demise. l.c.

[keyboardghost]

i keep dreaming of angels, of their massive, winged hulls lined with the scars that they earned, like medals for tattered soldiers, when they crash-landed on earth. (they were sent down to keep us safe; to kiss the heroin-addicts in their sleep-- but their skin cracks in their ache to escape, back to the heavenly and the divine) i keep dreaming of angels, of their natural tendency to destroy. and in the darkness of the nightmare when i wake, i keep seeing their shadows burned like tattoos in my retinas, blindingly bright. i keep my hands held in front of me, praying for salvation or an apocalyptic decimation.

they arrived by the flock, l.c.

[keyboardghost]

if you want me to love you back: leave. if you think i can accept the lilacs you left on the hood of my car like a reminder of the adventures we’ve had: you are wrong. i am not made of stones or bricks, solid things that can hold me together. you should know that. you should know that i am always running. that my feet are bloodied with the hearts of those that thought they could make me love them. i cannot love. call me a sociopath-- it’s all the same. i refuse to love. do not make me a member of your society, the one that initiates its new members with spilled blood on crisp white bedsheets and brands the best ones with bruises and scratches on once virgin necks. do not try to slather my heart with petty words like “you mean so much to me” “you’re perfect” and god, never “i want to spend the rest of my life with you” lest i throw the flowers you gave me at your face. darling, please understand this. i am a machine. i am not made to love you. my parts are broken, don’t you see? i am afraid to love. i am frightened when i see you because my heart tries to collapse the walls of my chest. i am afraid that i will shut down completely, that the pain will be too much. i can’t love anyone. i am a coward, afraid of the collateral damage. but if i loved someone, i’ll have you know that it would be you. (the lilacs sit in a vase on my nightstand)

[keyboardghost]

men who love with their fists

when the world stops at my front door, asking for some leftover change i will hand over that ring you gave me when you still thought love could cure you. because honey, there is not enough tenderness in the universe to incubate your heart. there is no saving grace and we’re all losing. my arms are not your temple and you were never meant to worship me like a long-lost goddess, leaving impressions of your palms on my skin like they could heal you and make you immortal. well, you had another thing coming, didn’t you? because men who love with their fists and mutter apologies through vodka and flowers do not have the privilege of confessing their sins and hoping for redemption. men who love with their fists think they are invincible, think they can outrun gods with the words on their tongue. but what men who love with their fists do not realize is that women who love with their heart and fight with their fists dismember gods in their sleep. l.c.

[keyboardghost]

everyone writes about love like they actually know what they’re talking about. they think secret kisses underneath the stars make their story immortal. young lovers hold hands in the dark and think they are the light of the world. well. they should see the way we dance. they should see the way our eyes burn the skin of each other’s lips. we do not love quietly, we do not neck after school and call that romance. our love is wild. our love is a desperate attempt to tame deep sea creatures that were never meant to be discovered. we do not hold hands--we never let go. we do not leave hickeys--we leave maps. we do not sip coffee under the stars, we hunt for the bastards that thought we didn’t deserve to be part of their constellations. our love is not like yours, tame and soft. our love breaks yours like cigarettes crushed beneath our boots.

keyboardghost

[keyboardghost]

Religion and Happiness: A Word

it’s silly i know but there’s this one thing that makes my blood boil like stew. the other day, when i was coming back from your house there was a man on the street he said, “lady, you look like a woman of God” i said, “yes, i try to be”. born and raised catholic, but i sometimes felt at odds with what i was and what i was supposed to be according to some long-dead prophets. he said, “that’s just as well. without God, you would be lost. with no where to turn. unhappy.” and i thought my heart in my own palm placed there by my Lord would not be enough to make me believe such lies. lucy, my next door neighbor: a long proclaimed atheist. the happiest woman alive. sometimes she cried out of sheer happiness for her life and world. rob, my nephew. a sure as nothing agnostic. the most kind, caring little nugget I have had the luck of knowing. he’s got a heavy coursework but damn if he doesn’t volunteer for the poor whenever he has a second to spare. and this man, shouting what he thinks are compliments to my ear--he has the gall to tell me that happiness is founded on a belief in a God that has nothing to give but outstretched hands. i loved my God. i turn to God when I have no one and nothing else. but does He make me happy? every second of every day? does He guide my path, make my choices, tell me what is right and what is wrong? i think there is a difference between happiness and religion and you do not need one to have the other. i have known pious christians who bleed desperation, Fathers who sink under the weight of others’ sins. I remember being taught that no, being gay is not wrong god loves everyone! but if you know someone who is gay then you must not let them believe it is something--God forbid, that they can actually express! i have known more joy in the arms of strangers than before the altar. is it wrong of me to say? am i a sacrilege? i am a realist. i know that there is no rapture like the joy of finding my way out of a maze, knowing full well that God in no way helped me. yes, i believe He was there, watching over me and wishing me well. but when i found my way out, He was not there to congratulate me. He did not put light in the veins of my eyes to guide me to safety. that was me. that was me. that was me. that was all me. i owe my happiness to the world that has shaped me, to my family and my friends, to my never-ending lust for adventure and good cuisine. i pray for hope, yes, i pray for help, yes. i even pray for happiness. but do you know what i pray for the most? for the strength to make my owns prayers become reality. because God gave me hands for a reason. God gave me hands so i can use them. so i tell this man, telling me I cannot be happy unless I believe in what he believes-- “if that’s the case, then it must be a miracle i am alive, because in the darkest times of my life when i could not see even the halos of angels, and God could not reach me even if He screamed, i survived. my own free will, weak though I felt, guided me to salvation instead of the grave” l.c.

[keyboardghost]

day 10

i hate that you taste the best not in my arms but caught between my bite l.c.

[keyboardghost]

tiny planet explorer

i want to explore tiny planets and soar in their atmospheres, not worrying whether there are enough suns to keep me warm or enough moons to keep me sane. i want to wade in foreign rivers, the ones with tiny golden clams nipping at my toes. i want to write about a poet i once knew. he always told me that the the earth was at my feet, quite literally i feared, and would never fail me. but there are not enough worlds in this tiny dimension to satiate whatever is inside this thick brain-box of mine. because, oh dear, nothing seems to be enough! the mountains are so tall, and the trees so grandfather-like. but i am so small, and sometimes i fold into myself. like a little origami bird, snapping shut like a brick when the beautiful swan brings a blush to its neck. and this poet, the one i once knew, he said this shyness would be the death of me. said if i could not let my heart open to the tiny planets, i would be a prisoner floating in their thin atmospheres. but i am so small and the universe so big: these tiny planets are so large in their beauty! will i ever be able to stand? i can’t find it in myself to stop bowing down, my brows dripping with the sweat of a few too many suns grinning down at me. l.c. inspired by the bustling brain of pj ligouri