I left the window open in
anticipation
of the rain
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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@thetremblingsword
I left the window open in
anticipation
of the rain
Mailbox Insomnia
Waiting for tattered envelopes, battered packages
Liberally sprinkled with tears and eyelashes like
The dust in my junk drawers, bits of you
Small momentos, a maple leaf, a shard of lapis,
Spilling out like the seeds of a pomegrantie on my kitchen counter
Deep into the night I wait for the post man
Page 131
enduring frenzy coast Bristol
abandon gleaming
sun locked and parked
bird books binoculars spotting scope tent
New Haven
sleepless delirium
interminable
city
cobbled dissolved pocked pavement
rural onslaught urban feral
grinding gritty grating endless
blinking
slicing throbbing August
heat and hell
innocence cities
hitchhike
gulp scrawling seabirds
dipping swooping circling calling
mournful
coming going giving giving up longing leaving
relentless aching
aching
Bay
The chill envelopes
surrounds
brushing each
hair to attention
caressing
as forbidden
as mistaken
as forgotten
as the twilight
come rushing
in
around
down and over
under swept me
up
off my feet like
the salt-speckled blackness
deep studded
as starlight
crusting the horizon
caking the coast
in uneven lumps of gray
frosting
the windows the grass
ice on my lashes
stuck together
in the stiff sand
our knees bleeding
kneading the shell shards
needing the shell shards
to awaken
attention attention
to the knives that feel like
pin pricks
calling attention
each hair on my body
standing
alone on the shore.
Inextricable
Bonds
bind like ivy
bending broken boughs burdened
with potential
seeping into rivers of taciturn asphalt
pushing up daisies of forgiveness in
the canyon walls of side walk cracks
stomped on by petulant six year olds
and skipped over by fretful adults
who haven’t called their mothers in a week
pick up the phone
Bonds
deeper than the tap roots of
ponderosa pines
burrowing thirty feet into the crumbling
dust
wrapping
tendrils around my young heart too resilient for its own good
sucking seven years of sweat from my skin
until my veins twist and coil
like roots settling in the soil
where is home
Bonds
stronger than the ache of the
little white flowers presented to me
with pride by my grandfather
mirroring my unpracticed pirouettes along the dark arms of
bending
broken
boughs
too late to thank him
Stuck Between Two Sunrises
Where is the sun between sunrises?
Does it linger longer on shore
Worn away by crashing
Waves kneading the shore
Between thumb and forefinger?
Or does it snag on the tops
Of the mountains, and is then
Torn away spilling its yolk
On flowers’
Upturned faces?
Does the wind push and pull
The sun from coasts to coast
Batted around like a tattered
Ball of string
Never quite finding
A resting place?
Is home where the sun rises?
Or somewhere in between?
a measure beyond feet
feat beyond all measure
too high for the eye
I couldn’t reach it if I tried
isn’t this what we live for
fore each bated breath a stillness
spoken on lips too soft to hear
here in this moment, more
no less than the sum of our days
dazed and confused
not enough water in our veins we faint
feint light breaking through
an ellipse of rays
raise unfettered expectations
it isn’t enough to be one
won gold’s greedy sheen
my stomach a knot
not enough
we can only be what may be
maybe
you only have what you have
halve what you had
because what time was once ours
hours merely remain
be more than intense
intents mean nothing
Can I be vast?
This won’t be formal or well-worded or even coherent, really, I tell myself as I retype this sentence for the fourth time. I’m not in a place to rearrange words and sentences endlessly until they fit just right, I just need to write. But I feel like every word I put down is wrong and it sounds misshapen and it cuts my mouth like razor blades or glass broken on the curb. I’m not sure how to put anything together anymore, Humpty Dumpty would be proud. I wish I could have spent my time by the bay alone, to replace those memories with something just for myself. To me it seems as if this massive body of ever shifting water has been shrunk down to my petty memories and I don’t like that. It’s not just the bay. It’s coffee shops and red lights and street corners, and it feels like the only way to move forward is in the ocean. It’s times like this that I yearn to be that vast, I want people to see me but not know me because how can you know the sea? It has so many shades and colors and depths, you’re never really sure what’s waiting for you just off the shore. But that’s a little selfish, isn’t it, to want a square inch of land for a moment with yourself. There are countless memories crafted and well-worn on the same street corners, loved by strangers and friends, that do not belong to me. And these memories I want to abandon so readily do not belong solely to me either. And the sea probably isn’t the best way forward, it’s always pushing and pulling me but never moving me. It was nice to write near it, though. The wind was so different to what I’m used to, salty and wild and crisp. Well, wild and crisp in a different way. The winds in the mountains of New Mexico are homebodies roaring through the canyons and pinching your cheeks, inviting you away. They are cold and alarming but somehow they always left me rooted more firmly in the earth. The winds here pull at my clothes and unwind my hair, trying to undress me in broad daylight. They leave me unsteady. They’re more inquisitive and daring, and it’s so beautiful to see them mirrored in the waves. I was there at night, a few times actually, and the abrupt shifting of the waters when the wind moved over them captivated me. There were dark arcs, swept up in the gusts of wind, which would dance over the tops of the shifting gray waves. It was fast, almost violent cutting into the previously undisturbed waters. I think that’s my favorite part of the bay. You would think it would all be the same color but it is shades upon shades of the richest palette imaginable dabbled across the foam-capped landscape. And when I look away the world around me explodes. Who would have thought that the fog could be so colorful? All those shades of gray cradling the world and dampening the vibrations of the train tracks as it barrels into the next town. I think I moved here to explore the mountains, which undoubtedly I will do, but I’ve found that I need to sink into the ocean more too. It calls to me, even when I’m walking along the shore. I’ve often found myself, on a run or walking with a friend, being overcome with the passionate need to dive in headfirst to the waters. Sometimes I have. I really wanted to capture my awe of the ocean and the rhythm of the waves in what I wrote for today, but I’m not sure I did. I don’t really think you can.
pressing stillness
saline kisses
pebbled shadows
cradling fog
seagull whispers
sparkling waters
sea-slick boards
windrushed song
sapphire horizons
sand caked bottles
this what it feels like
to be alone
Shore
Circling the deep sapphire
Pulling pushing pulling the beating
Heart of the tidal pools into a deep embrace with pebbles sun soaked
Salted by the warm shallows babbling queries incoherently against
the sea shell strewn noonlight
Lapping at my
Feet
Ships
Delicate and fairy bright
Sails erect ears framing the curious
Portholes batted to and fro between the
Undulating masses of towering waves porcelain snowflakes dancing
Sweetly against the fathoms swallowing
Light but not even swallowing
Really captures its vast
Magnitude
Afraid
Of the true enormity
Of the endlessness and insignificance
How did all the pieces fall together just so against
All odds the ship continues to dance in the gentle arms of a goliath
But the ocean is just a drop in the palm of my hand
And I am a whirlwind of possibilities
Drifting farther from
shore
2011
I fell in love with my voice that year:
how it sounded, soaring
headfirst in to the baked white walls,
rising with the steam
swept away by the ocean pounding on the shores
of my shoulder blades,
driving out each syllable like a fist
to my diaphragm:
forcing the wishbone trapped
between my teeth
out.
Away.
Then the smoke came
hot masses of burning ash
that chapped my lips and engulfed my voice,
tunneling past the lump in my throat
past the weight in my chest
down
burrowing,
until the embers lit the knots in my stomach
like a match in the inky dark ignites a fuse
And I fell in love with the milky white bones
of calves:
charred and muddied,
picked clean by fire and rain and undiscerning front teeth.
A life
worn away,
worn down
to the pitted straights and smooth knobs
that were silver against the soot I painted
my hands
my face
my teeth
with
trying to block out the sun.
And when the year was done
my bones were
trembling as I held the ashes of the mountains
and let an unused eulogy
float out
from my cracked lips.
Be we never really connected
Did we
Like passing ships
Brushing bows
Close enough to kiss
But not to know
Leaving
You never seemed to like the bumps
on your forehead
or the pools in your cheeks
or the flip of your nose
But all I saw was a landscape
pulled flat and furrowed
by the crease of your brow
But whatever you felt never truly left
Your eyes
Your eyes pulled in at the corners
always skeptical
of the nonsense tumbling out of my mouth
and tighter still when a smile graced
the heavens of your visage
Oh, your smile
When we were younger it wasn’t nearly as straight
or as knowing
but it gleamed with the same
ease
as it does now
untouched as fresh snow blanketing the rooftops after midnight
and as brilliant as the light glinting
off a calm glacial stream
The valleys cornering your smile have
Grown
and broadened
since I have known you
Felt you
I have dug them deeper still
with deep hugs
with incessant laughter
with each moment we occupied
Together
In this moment
There are no tears in your eyes
but there is blood in your veins
and seams where your skin
Broke
and knit together again after a close
encounter
with the stars
And though you may not care
to remember too closely the sight of my hand
In yours
or the shape of my name
On your lips
It is all that I see
Someone I could have loved
Sunlight stumbles in
over my windowsill
glass consumed by the exhaust of ragged breaths
lit with dew and grief
It burrows
into my fitted cotton sheets, crumpled and astray
and out again
settling where you used to lay your head
The nights were heavy
hot against the glass
and scorching to the touch
Eyes closed
blind to the night
seeing you only through my hands
on your skin
tracing hopes onto your back
invisible to you alone
But the mornings
were steeped in bleary stares
in silence glimmering in the air
in sunlight
dripping
pooling
blinding in brilliance
And yet the morning is brighter
with you gone
No Love Lost: A Step by Step Guide to Breaking Hearts
The First Kiss
A first anything is important: words, steps, dates, drinks, impressions. But a first kiss is not only a first impression, but a vivid memory that will have every detail seared into their mind, from the smell of your deodorant, to the feel of your soft cotton shirt under their nervous hands. So don’t kiss them on their birthday, or Halloween, or New Year’s. Don’t kiss them on a day that can accumulate new memories and other kisses as time the time between you grows.
Kiss them on a day with no significance (try November 11).
Kiss them on a day that they will forever link to the sting of your love.
If they try to cover it with new memories, to lessen the dull ache in their chest, they’ll always know why they try so hard on that day. That’s the day they fell in love.
And they’ll never forget it.
Who Am I?
A room: white walls, brown rug
glistening glasses lined on the narrow shelves
just so
Papers stacked, coasters set, books piled
ninety degrees
amidst the tidy tension, broken glass
dark overcoming the light
I sin every eve
Standing
Oblique against the gray horizon
Echos of familiar laughter
Silent
bouncing off the walls
not so much rooted in the earth
as part of it
I'm still waiting