Heart as Big as Texas

for now, perhaps.

2012-02-01T22:55:00.000-06:00

kristof wickman

there are people out there,
like,
way. out. there.
passed the rug burns on my fingertips.
dangling withing caterpillar reach.
soooooooooo
i guess there is that.

there are lengths of hose,
green rubber grass,
laying like favorites at your feet.
swollen with sand
you just hope for a drought.

listen,
babyface.

there are easier truths
than hoop jumping
and suit-wearing
and bill-avoiding slumber parties.
so, just ask already.
because if there is anymore missing
i can trace on your t-square
you'll be the first to know.

but for now,
(the sweat-stained now)
i would like a simple reflected smile.
and a little winter weight.

Sent from my brain (by way of iPhone)

2012-01-11T23:40:00.001-06:00

There is an app for everything.
But I need to get back to work.

after. thought.

2012-01-03T00:54:00.000-06:00

it is important to repeat over floorboards,
"no one is responsible for my outlook on life."
that if the world around me begins to rotate
it is not in vain.

movement is the tip of my frozen nose.
dragging knuckles over rubber window panes.
and while a bath is never practical,
the warm wet brings backs to length.

perhaps there is something missing in my technique.

simply.

2011-12-21T12:11:00.001-06:00

there is a bridge that the trains don't travel on anymore.
it runs the length of my small home, through the town and out into nothing.
and they started ripping up the steel beams.
laying down black-top.
it's a bike trail.

the rehab hasn't touched my memories.
i would dangle my legs and throw gravel.
we caught a fish, with no bait.
the deer would graze in the fields before we would run after them.
they would dart, unpredictably.
i was scared of the fawns.

the length of beard
looks like bails we would balance on.
or the sand we ran through
as we raced the sun back inside.

can i borrow a cup of sugar? an egg? a hometown?

2011-12-09T12:26:00.000-06:00

without talking points
and bulleted moments
it can all get lost behind eyelids.
and trembling thumbprints.

pressed between peppermint and melatonin tablets.
like communion.
or cyanide.

i need fingers longer than these
to pull out the threads of protein
keeping water from destiny.

everyday.
is a new day.
but some are shorter than others.

(not so) hopeless.

2011-11-21T11:56:00.000-06:00

i'm not sure what it is about pop music that i love.
probably because it's pop music.
and it's easy to listen too.
and it's a math equation that producers have figured out.

but i can't listen to this song
and not sing a long
and reach to the sky
and even cry.

this is an example of why i want to make music videos.

other things.

2011-11-08T11:46:00.000-06:00

But before the boots overflow
The acid will peel away days from your souls.
Start
Stop
Start
Again
Gore-tex wings
And frizz-ease
There is something very somber
In the corners of her smile.

This was meant for stage.
I don't think I like Florence.
Or her machines.
Or her over priced blunt bangs
That mock my mirrored cowlicks.
(oh, i like that...)

Again, my sleep
Is not sleep.
It is a closet of wire hangers.
And nightmares hidden in dreams.

I know I say it all the time,
But I miss my sisters.

And I hope they wake up everyday
With that in their ears.

there is no image

2011-11-01T23:36:00.000-05:00

so, a month.
a month has passed.
and i'll try to keep it down,
because he's trying to sleep.
a part of me forgot.
as it is easy to forget,
that sometimes people listen to you.

i promise to be back more.
there's just a lot of juggling.

the corner of sunnyside and now.

2011-10-01T10:15:00.000-05:00

because as i type
i hear it.

the sound of yolks breaking
and the gold of unborn spilling.
it turns the black
yellow.
a color i always associate with tomorrows.

but i hear we should all live for right now.
and if that's true,
why aren't more of us angry?
and fighting?
and working to improve our days?
our nows.
our plus one rental spaces
that stretch farther than fingertips

i guess i should tell you,
we moved in together.

it's that in between time.
where he says we don't need a toaster
and when you're toaster shopping.
you covet the furniture you have
and damn the pieces you still have to get.
and you have to ration wheels
to finish the work load.

the bed is not made for two people
but when i wake up at 3am
i feel the hairs on his stomach
as they lick the small of my back.

Burn all the Birches

2011-08-08T13:24:00.000-05:00

So, I left the house before the sleep lines could fade and after the mini anxiety attack and during the thought “I left my good pen in the good bag in the car.” And I sat down to fill teeth with dried onions and gulp down mud and watch strangers things. Because I’m always asked to watch strangers things.

I must have a nice face.

And then I think, “why do I have a nice face?” and then I say “I hate my face” and then I think “I look like my mother.”
But I don’t know if I do.
I don’t know if I look more like her or more like my dad. And sometimes people would say my step-dad and I looked just alike, not knowing we don’t share a single chromosome.
And every blemish I have I gouge out with ivory.
And all the scars I have a self inflicted. Not like that.
Not like I hide them under dresses and long sleeves.
They are in the place of wrinkles.
I never go out in the sun any more.
And this is just rambling.
To get the rambles out.
To purge the pain before over analyzing and converting to art.

Maybe I just don’t get it yet.
Maybe I don’t understand the folds of the beast.
I’m afraid of failing.
I’m more afraid of success.
I mean happiness.
Because growing up I would fill out that part of the questionnaire with that.
As long as I’m happy, I’ll be successful.

But the happiness is lost now in anxiety and blood lines and promises that were lofty to say the least.

When people talk about baggage, I unload the moving truck into a portable pod that sits on the front lawn until I muster the strength to shut the shades. I haven’t left in over three years so excuse me for saying that this all turns my stomach into an opium den.

As I dangle from the lowest branch of the family tree, I see the ground cluttered with Prozac seedlings and dead skin and fallen birds nest.
No one in my family has killed themselves.
I think we enjoy the struggle.
And the destruction.
And the hope that evolution will give the next round thicker bark.

only sometimes.

2011-08-01T13:20:00.000-05:00

it's safe to say i'm finding my groove.
not comfortable by any means.
but finding my groove.
and fitting in.
and truly enjoying my artistic home.
but not that artistic home.
i can't help but feel smug
when a college classmate comes to see the show
and they see that i'm in the show
and knowing that they aren't doing anything
but were always doing something in school.

i know that's mean.

Poolside.

2011-07-20T18:45:00.000-05:00

You know you'd feel better if you let the heat set in.
I'm not sorry for crying because I am fucking hot.
If it's okay with you,
I'd like to sit in.
Breath in.
Put my plants on the sill
Like my memory use to do.
Sometimes green thumbs skip a generation.
Just like air conditioning.

Walking with a working brain
Can strain your neck.
I mean,
REALLY.
REALLY.
STRAIN. YOUR. NECK.

But what I've learned in my short learning life
Is that I will only be as happy as I want to be.
And if that's not wider than my mom's fat pants
Well that is just fine by me.
Because YOU are not responsible for my feelings.
And YOU are not required to call.
And YOU do not need to know that I could have used money
Instead of invisible baked goods.

I still love you.

New memories are here
Like satisfying sweat
On your upper lip.
Greasy potato chip thumbprints
And Robyn's debut.

I remember when you could buy 5 hours of chlorine
With Washington's wooden teeth.

Death Rattles and The Heat is On

2011-07-18T12:30:00.000-05:00

My bag overflows with unread books
And lined with all my good pens
And broken pencil lead
And a tampon with no wrapper.

This wasn't good enough for grad school
But in three weeks,
Nearly 1,000 people paid to hear my words.
And to see my stories.

And in a kitchen floating above plastic flowers and caskets
I dive in head first
Because they asked.
And they didn't ask because they felt they had to ask because that's what people do when they hear that people you know are dead.

When Liza comes up,
It's an outta body experience.
I hear the words dripping from my throat
And I'm pretty sure it's the first time I've said these things to people who are captivated.

I was even given an out,
The standard "Sorry for bringing it up, I didn't realize."
Was followed by the thick and uplifting honesty of
"No one ever asks anymore. And that's the worse part."

1 sees it 3 times a day.
2 has shoulders worth the weight.
3 screams with sincerity.
4 remembers you're there.
5 takes time.
6 will be in your wedding. And at the birth.

If she doesn't get famous first.

Healthy Brain, Healthy Center

2011-07-14T08:08:00.000-05:00

I woke before I had to
And showered out weeks of dead skin.

My hair is drying
And my stomach is talking.

This is the one day I do not sacrifice.
Lit by a desk lamp, armed with a pencil and a pen.

The hardest job about my volunteer job
Is figuring out how to make it a career.

Pickin' Spinach

2011-07-13T11:19:00.000-05:00

So, start pickin the spinach outta your lunch.
Feel your legs vomit.
And your stomach seize.
And promise all the promises that promising people promise.

Wait.

Saying this is new is old.
Saying I love you is true.
Saying the world means beyond this milk,
None of this even compares to the horse's head.

Oh my.

Carry my moon
Down creaky hallways
Because I don't feel at home.
And it's too hot to cry.

I hurt him.
I hurt her.
I carried a sobbing dream sister
Though dark fields.

All she could say was
"I'm angry."

The issue at hand

2011-06-29T10:57:00.000-05:00

is that i am up to my ears.
8.5x11 shaped love songs
pumping friendly blood.
first day at the office wasn't so bad.
with the exception of this:

my computer is dead.

a long battle
with battery loss.
only 3.5 hours left on the clock
i was forced into north-side gridlock.
my bargain was this:

just get me these three files.

smelling like a foot,
i was greeted by smiling hair-dos
and spicy lentils.
misplaced and cramped and with mario punctuation.
i am speaking only truth when i state this:

i'll take it over grad school.

For my birthday

2011-06-27T12:54:00.000-05:00

I will finish two plays.
Get a pedicure.
Take a shower.
Bowl with friends.
Kiss my boyfriend.
Fall asleep grateful.

Cup.

2011-06-21T23:28:00.000-05:00

With hands that smell of an old sponge,
I will fold
And write
And type
And shake the day.

Out of things to do
Or things to say.

I had a dream I was trapped in a giant fisher's net.
The fisher wasn't giant,
That adjective belongs to the net.
The net that I hung from like helpless tuna
Before sleeping in my rice.

And there are always cops in my nightmares.
With whistles and guns
But mostly blue.

What happens when your rest
Is restless?

Here come the hiccups.

2011-06-17T15:01:00.000-05:00

Here we are, once again.
Six months have passed.
Full of boiled eggs and daytime commercials and weather that never lasts all week.
So let's stick to what we know, shall we?
Because I always forget that the coffee is sweating,
Leaving lily-ponds on yellow Formica.

Ya, I spelled that right.

I wish my knives were better.
Thin and sharp like a wasp's tongue.
You know what I'm talking about,
Cut through cola cans.

Here come the hiccups.
St. Helen's stomach.
Sing-song seams
And a melting ice cream cone.

somethings last a long time

2011-01-11T12:29:00.000-06:00

and as much as i hate to say it,

this is my last post for awhile.
maybe forever (at least here).

i've got projects
and therapy
(and love)
and days off
and deadlines
and auditions
and life.

i'll check back in
when the time is right.

good mourning.

2010-11-21T10:36:00.000-06:00

it is hard to find the reason behind this most of the time.
which makes me want to destroy it all together.
and it's not that i don't wanna write.
or that i've changed my mind about writing.
or that i'm done sharing with the 28 of you that read this.
it's just got a little lost.
the point.
the purpose.
the title.

mostly, my day to day has become less of a struggle.
and while i'm sure that's not the only reason why people read,
it definitely is a draw.
the weeping puddle that i was isn't so weepy anymore.

even on the hardest of days,
when the water is just hot enough
that i can't reach to the bottom of the sink
i don't panic.
i can walk away.
wait for it to cool.
be okay with wasting a day in bed.

in grief,
the tiniest parts of living become unmanageable.
the majority of you is dedicated to the person who is gone.
you only allow yourself a sliver for everything else.
and that goes fast.
it's gone by the time you dress yourself.
or make a meal.
or eat a meal.
or make a phone call.
or ignore a phone call.

your day is a pie chart
and that pie chart has two colors
and 94% is grey
and 6% is yellow
and the yellow signifies living
and the grey signifies loss
and no matter how much you want more yellow
grey will dominate for awhile.

and you have to be okay with that.
and once you are okay with that,
the yellow swells.
and your percentages start to shift.
and your living goes to half.
and your loss drops to 25.

and you wake up.

the halsted bridges

2010-11-18T10:37:00.001-06:00

this seems to become the best time for me to do this.
when the over head light flickers upon shared letters
printed in white
and adhered to black.
i spend five minutes checking my facebook.
seven minutes eating an egg sandwich.
and 6.43 watching this:

while i'm sure it is of no consequence to you,or play into what pair of shoes you wear today,
it was still said.
not on a whisper,
and not on full voice,
but in that in-between place
that rattles your single paned windows
and drowns the sound of reruns.

within seconds
it becomes a world of tomorrows
and hand holding
and intermittent squeezing.

123.
you know what that means?
it's the silence that keeps us waking up
like this.

2010-11-16T10:35:00.001-06:00

in the last five minutes
before the work starts
or he rolls to my side
i am the urge again
as the curry cools
in white ceramic
and the fork teeters on
and on
and on
and on
and on days like these,
my lunch is at 10am
because my breakfast was at 5am
hard and boiled

dripping from stainless steel
goes my day
and my days
and my week
and my weeks
into into into
a early setting sun
that goes before
he comes
with growing arms
cradling canvas and chlorophyll

sometimes,
there isn't time to edit.

borrowed blues.

2010-11-01T13:12:00.001-05:00

Rodney Graham (*1949), Rheinmetall

all i can is think about how much writing i need to do.
as opposed to,
oh,
doing it.

so in a pair of ben's blue jeans,
i sit in a sky lit cafe.
i update my facebook status.
a cry for help, in my opinion.

i know someone is reading it.
and maybe that someone
has some experience writing.

and the two nicest canadians walk into the shop...

i spent my halloween in a break-room
trying to keep my head up.
my body is fighting infection
and the drugs make it worse.

as for october,
it's gone.
it left on the back of text messages
sent from friends
remembering a day
i wish i could forget

(but only sometimes)

the thing that keeps it up,
the heaviest of feathers i find floating in the air,
is the imaginary sun that peaks into the apartment.
the one that sits between an east coast mountain
and the garage where his motorcycle is.
when fall comes,
and the summer stipend is gone,
life will continue
with a breath of fresh air.

vintage dior will fix just about anything

2010-10-29T11:56:00.000-05:00

in the whirlwind of season change
that leads to longer socks and sinus infections,
i've seem to put aside things
that i've never been able to put aside.

i will always be anxious,
neurotic,
overly self-aware,
overly sensitive,
overly self-defeating.
always.
but that might be okay.

i may be missing for a bit.
compiling pieces worthy of a portfolio.
doing things with my hands,
to give my brain a rest.
cooking for two,
instead of buying for one.

this is just an excuse,
for my writer's block.

this organic, recycled toothbrush is for you

2010-10-25T16:57:00.000-05:00

because i know better than most
that you could be gone tomorrow.
and i know better than most
that you are more than just YOU.
the eternal

Y-O-U.

not just the breathing back
on new cotton.
there are drawn curtains
letting in the rest.
if i'm wrong about this

sue me.

you can't help who you fall in love with.
you can't lie to yourself when you love someone.
you can't always say no when you get a second chance.

contrary.

2010-10-17T20:55:00.000-05:00

this may surprise you,

but i feel really great these days.

from the pages of a journal i always forget i have:

2010-09-30T21:14:00.000-05:00

i try very hard to be a person of action. to move when the thoughts are too sedentary. i wish i was more motivated. more confident. less resistant to change. less eager to control. trusting. trusting. trusting of those that trust me.

when the train dips below the chain link of lincoln park, i always raise my chin to catch that last inch of life before it all becomes echos and blocked cellphone reception and pissed-on cement. this is the part where it all slows down. it's how i imagine it feels the second before you are launched into light speed. where you almost feel as though you are moving backwards. but we all know there is no backwards because even if you are sitting still, the earth is always spinning.

i heard that in a movie.

and when the spinning happens, the aging happens and the aging happens to all of us not matter how much plastic you recycle into your 16 year old's nose job.

*this is grand.*

my favorite stop. like that tiny bit of positivity that you search all day for but can't find until you end your day. or start your day. or in the middle, on your way to therapy. you're wearing headphones but there is no music. the urban invisibility cloak...

with the passing of time, i find comfort in the easy things. the calm yellow moments that cut through the waves of my hair. i'd rather sit with my chin in my hand and stare at the city's reflection in windows than clench my fingers around the cold moments of sadness.

there was a moment, as i pulled the mustard fabric of my bedspread taught against the mattress, where i remembered being 19. how confusing adulthood seemed. back when i would look at older women and want to be like them. and as i stacked my pillows according to which side we each sleep on, i realized i had grown into that type of woman. the younger me would watch me and imagine what it would be like to live like i do. and if 19 year old me had the guts to ask how i do it, the answer would be lengthy. i would be calm and easy and glittered with optimism.

*just start by making your bed.*

cartwheels in my best suit.

2010-09-29T15:03:00.000-05:00

when this all started,
and by this
i mean the THIS you are currently reading,
it came from a place of pain.

this was the way i coped with the loss of a love.

i felt as though, if i became public
i could separate myself from it.
i would deal with growing up easier
if others were allowed to comment on it.

three years later,
i've learned that there is truth in one thing:

love.

there is no escaping anger.
things happen,
you get mad.
and i'm not here to be your zen answer
to the shit,
but if my short life could teach my sisters one thing
i would want it to be this:

love.

without depth
and out of respect for the parties involved,
the rekindling of a past has forced me to examine many parts of me.
mostly the angry parts.
and the hurt parts.
but most important,
the part of me that is willing to

love.

black on black on blue. brown. gold.

2010-09-26T21:47:00.000-05:00

the worst thing you can say is
*it's getting cold already.*

because this is the best night
i've placed on my skin
in sometime.

i turn onto winnemac.
my eyes trace the brick of each two-flat.
retinas breathe potential futures
that turn upside down.

your hair is long enough
so gravity pulls it from your scalp.
no matter the size of the place,
you're ever standing in the living room.

all of the gates creak.
the hallway has one board that groans.
and the glue on your shoes
is fresh.

this monkey
has my back.
with an inside voice,
that even drunk ears can hear.

tattoo
A-V-O-N-D-A-L-E
onto new knuckles

and up.

up.

up.

days of lavender and a dead bird.

2010-09-22T18:04:00.000-05:00

heat wave
heat wave
SEPTEMBER
heat wave.

it all smells like work
and rebellious milk
crowding the copper.

oh!

and a dead bird
with translucent torso
clinging to separation.

click.
click.
click.

your frozen pizza is thawed.
wetting the cardboard disk,
sweating in plastic casing.

click. click. click.

where did they go?
the barricades
and lip-shaped clouds.

held by a widower,
he says

*good luck to you. i can't imagine how hard this is for you*

his wife passed away a year ago.
and he still cries.

mourning women would wear black for 12 months.
then gray for another 12.
followed one year of

lavender.

in this space,
the hum of the florescent
rattles the tears sitting in the cracks of our faces.
we all look older than we are.
and as i speak of liza,
and her accident,

the hum turns to black.

and i grasp for air.
and search for something stronger than the wood under me.

and my left palm sweats
as the fingerprints of another
fold into mine.

the memory of his jaw
is now replaced with a smile.
he holds the back of my neck.
he says

*you're doing great.*

old news. fresh meat.

2010-09-17T14:46:00.000-05:00

instead of cooking,
you watch master chef.

instead of folding clothes,
you watch runway shows.

instead of the dishes,
you watch hoarders.

media days
with blips of sunlight
that blow in and out of transparent fabric.

and you're always hungry.
but your new link card keeps meat on your ribs.

history.

2010-09-05T23:54:00.000-05:00

well, shit.

i can't even explain this one.

slack.

2010-09-03T00:05:00.001-05:00

right now,
i must take care of myself.

i need to live each day
as it comes.

i need to love myself
as much as others do.

i need to get sleep.
i need to eat food.
i need to take him off of my friends list.

it's silly to avoid it,
the obvious heaviness that comes in september.
it's the first anniversary, and i need to be okay with how crazy i'm about to get.

because, i'm gonna get crazy.

my therapist thinks i should date.
not with the intention of becoming a girlfriend
but just to date.
one here.
two here.
seven.
five.
just something to remind me that people can be trusted.
to show me that things don't have to start off so dramatic.
but a boyfriend?

not. an. option.

seeing a therapist is work.
it is exhausting.
it takes time.
you have to change the way you think
and live
and travel.

she said today,
(and it was genuine)

*you are doing really well. be proud of the work you are doing.*

the thing that keeps coming up is this,
*cut yourself some slack. you've been through a lot.*

someday it will make sense.
a personal journey will bring me to understanding
or a new found wisdom
or a book tour.

i just hope everyone sees how much i'm putting into being happy.
and how happy i really am.
and that this is just a blip of time
where i need them more than they need me.

ooooOOooooOoOoOooooooo

2010-09-02T01:17:00.001-05:00

the dresser that blocked my view is gone.
an exposed bedroom door,
now and tomorrow

                               i can see your ribcage.

like lattice,
or bands of purple rubber,
stretching. stretching. pulled and taught.

                                yup.

maybe it's more of
   the *every*

the all.
the ones.
the shadows.

i promised i'd keep them to myself.

so i'll apologize,
with fingers wrapped in tarnished thrift store stories.
smoking looks good
next to rings.

you look good,
even in gym shorts.

invisible blues.

2010-08-28T00:16:00.000-05:00

17 more
*i know*'s
within the layers of corduroy
                                 sleep.

next to an undone
boot
strap, my socks crave
                               needle. thread.

under worked,
but pushed through grey
fingers.
                                nailed to you.

this isn't what hours make.

behind,
             you were clipped by an open door.

the gingham over your ribs
stretched like a muslin sail.
with lost boys, cannons and

                                              fire.

you bled.
              invisible blues.

i was afraid if i opened it,
BP would become jealous.

                               and we would be worse than the gulf.

mastering dream

2010-08-22T12:50:00.000-05:00

in the moments of awake
and fishing between keys
that all carry that same heavy
faded gold complexion,

sunday vibrates along thin skin.

you may have to turn down
all your social networks
to hear the crying vietnamese boy
spilling tears into a soup bowl

or just open you window.

it all comes in through northern glass
stretching your weak eyelids
over weak verbs
and weeks worth of worry.

a light hand over a heavy heart.

like the likable.

2010-08-21T11:59:00.001-05:00

this is bad coffee. but being that it is the only coffee, it must be prepared like the good coffee and drank as if it was the good coffee but it is not.

this,
is bad coffee.

it has the familiar feel of good but it leaves you quick and wondering where the good went. why are you left with the bad? more importantly, why do you let the good turn to bad before you chose to use it?

ATTENTION: this is a metaphor.

do not allow me to talk.
brush my hand along your shoulders.
tell me no when i bend at the waist.
do not allow me to talk lower than an inside voice.
~~this is not what i should be doing right now.~~

somedays, it feels like borderline.
others, it feels like boredom.
most of the time, it feels like timing will never be my friend.

the record is skipping,
over and over and over
i hear patti smith wail

*live*

i don't like liking the likable.
i look forward to rotten
followed by the swarm of flies that crowd the black petroleum and sink.

it's time to take a shower.

Sorta like a dream? No. Better.

2010-08-13T12:26:00.000-05:00

she says,
"take the word 'fix' out of your vocabulary."
she says,
"the word 'fix' is saying you are broken."
she says,
"you are not broken."

and even though i've cleaned the kitchen a million times
and the bathroom a half
and my clothes are now in smaller piles
and my hair can't handle the humidity
and i'm missing a toenail
and all the ones i love are missing the ones they love

it's been easier to wake up.
i don't set an alarm
and beat the afternoon
with my rosemary toast,
steel cut oats,
and month old coffee
(that still tastes good.)

can we go on a canoe trip?
sleep on a sand hill?
drive 3.5 hours to blue ribbons and hay piles?

this summer isn't over yet.
i'm not old yet.
the depression isn't bigger than me yet.

restless church pews and a bag of bubbles.

2010-08-10T23:33:00.000-05:00

missing

as the lanes become uneven
and the sun turns us into puddles,
i decide to live in the lumina.

there cannot be any wandering back.
half of the roads are paved,
while the others throw tiny chips of home.

my future is long.
winding through buffets
and ends at an open bar.

i laid naked in the grass with you.

with every reunion
i see a green flash.
more to come. gotta be more to come.

the sleep is sleeping
is sweat sweating
and the tent glows of coal.

un-keepable you
always whispering soil
and the reminder:

*it ain't over yet, kid*

weak weeks

2010-08-03T07:01:00.000-05:00

Abandon 2010, WeakforM

i really like this person's work.
it's as if a stranger has been sitting in my head for 10 months.
and is better relaying my emotions than i am.

triggers:

2010-08-02T08:27:00.000-05:00

Burden 2010, WeakforM

black cycling caps
the word hit
3-teared tulip
miso soup
damen avenue
kisses on the cheek
the word accident
white
white
white trucks
my job
my dirty apartment
my sister's voice
boys without helmets
my ex's new moustache
the sound of dry cat food

help.

sweat. sweat. cool. sweat. chase me to the top of the hill.

2010-07-25T18:21:00.000-05:00

lay down next to you,
YOU,

the run-off from a mole hill
cut down the center.

as i retrace my steps

you wiggle your toes
and watch mine wrap around steel.

keep all the loud quiet.
and the smiles silent.
and the smell of earth under your nails.

projector.

2010-07-23T00:02:00.000-05:00

ARE YOU SERIOUS? ARE YOU SERIOUS?
RIGHT NOW? NOW. RIGHT NOW.
ARE YOU REALLY STANDING THERE
LOOKING AT ME
ME
ME
WITH YOUR SHADED EYES
AND PEPPY PINK HEAT?
ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT I,
I,
I,
HAVE AN ISSUE?
A PROBLEM.

A PROBLEM.

AN ANGER PROBLEM.

AN ANGER PROJECTION PROBLEM.

IF YOU KNEW. IF YOU FUCKING KNEW. IF YOU FUCKING KNEW
HOW TO HUG SOMEONE THAT'S BROKEN
HOW TO KISS SOMEONE MADE OF TEETH
HOW TO CARRY SOMEONE DEAD WITH WEIGHT

THEN YOU COULD TELL ME TO DEAL WITH IT.
DEAL.
DEAL?
DEAL.

YOU. YOU WITH YOUR BETTER THAN ME
YOUR LAUGHING UP STAIRS
YOUR PASSING ON THE RIGHT.
YOUR COLLAPSING SHOULDERS AND DRY TSHIRT.

you're right.

like before and before and before.

2010-07-17T23:31:00.001-05:00

everything seems a little off right now.
as if i'm carrying around a piece of rotten fruit

in my esophagus.

i'm way too restless
and reckless
and am tired of this repetition.

it's never over. never.

2010-07-14T18:46:00.000-05:00

i started jogging.
i'm doing this for me.
for my head.
for my heart.
for my new pink lungs.

and any time he calls
i'll stop everything.
i'll smile.
i'll answer and say,

"it's ok. i'll see you when you get back."

on the rare occasion of a sunday off

2010-07-11T10:44:00.000-05:00

i tuck my heels under my sheet.
i hit the snooze button once, then let the radio slowly wake me up.
the dishes in the sink don't yell,
they politely say,

*hey. good morning. make yourself some coffee first.*

the needle drops on wax
and black feathers sway with the ac.

the collection of crumbs on your feet tell you to sweep.
the collection of mail on the table begs to be tossed.
the collection of hims fall behind the couch where you just can't reach.

you clean up nice
after the night
you cleaned up nice.

and your to-do list doesn't seem so bad.

-dishes
-dusting
-eat
-find a place for all her books
-wash your hair
-fold your clothes
-call the 31 year old architect (because when will you ever meet another one of those)
-clean your sheets
-prepare for friends

prepare for friends.
prepare for friends.
prepare for friends.

-put together writing samples
-find publishers
-put the blanket on the back of the couch

the click-clack open.

2010-07-09T00:47:00.001-05:00

i believe in the rip tides
they are shades of blood
floating on cotton beds.

i wish i cleaned my nails regularly.

with weary eyelids,
i press the balls of my feet to the insides of my thighs.
they stick from humidity and strawberry run-off.

*it could just be so easy*

the click-clack open
folds into a bent spine
and i will say that dinner is better with a guest in mind.

you won't look back.

2010-07-05T22:13:00.000-05:00

in front of the falls,
i loose my breath
just like when you blow into an infants face
seconds before plunging them into the community pool.
it is sharp air
that cuts the sun into glitter
thrown into the face of sweaty gay men
during the pride parade.

i am 25.

i am walking behind sarah who buys ice cream and politely tells the littering pre-teens that they "really shouldn't do that." my hugging arms drape over the stone walls of a narrow bridge while my eyes gaze vertically over gallons of fresh mountain run off. my back pocket vibrates. the hair along my forehead shrinks with the wet air and sweat.

for the first time, i see the pacific ocean. it barrels at my canvas shoes as i run backwards on tip toes. i only have one pair of comfortable shoes. if they are soaked in salt water, i will be forced to ride a bike in baby brown heels that were backed for no real occasion. they are "just in case" shoes that never leave the bottom of my bag.

for my birthday, my new friend and i ride bikes so my sunburn can get a sunburn and my thighs can push all the denim carried. i'm called "birthday girl" and bought drinks and go to bed at a reasonable hour. there are 35 new notifications and 20 text messages and three phone calls and one hug.

i came here to be alone. and i am. and it's okay.

i think.

when the sun sets over the bluffs, the spaces between the grass glow. the tops of the tug boat is a flat grey and the still water is the mirror on my roommate's dresser. no matter what, i will never get rid of the sand i carried home from indian beach. it is trapped in between the cotton and rubber of my shoes. it lines the bottom of my carry on. there is a sea-shell in my wallet.

i'm a hopeless romantic.
romanticizing it is easy.

what if i replace men with cities?
and leave a little of me in each one i visit?
and promise to stay friends, no matter what?

I get it.

2010-06-27T12:13:00.000-05:00

I ate eggs from chickens that live in the back yard.

I've spent about 60 bucks while here.

I met a boy I went to kindergarten with. In massachusetts.

I got a terrible head cold.

I saw the sun set behind mountains.

I rode a bike for hours.

I turned 25.

I've only been here 2 days.

I will cry when I leave.

the grossest thing i've ever said.

2010-06-17T17:21:00.000-05:00

there are days,
nights,
afternoons,
when i take a step back from myself and say,

"what the fuck is my problem?"

i'm too busy.
i'm too busy.
i'm too busy to date.

i know this.
i know this.
i tell myself this everyday.

but...
my issues with men are obvious and silly and, overall,

tired.

i'm nervous all of these self-loathing thoughts are a product of my approaching birthday. that no matter how many times i tell myself it's not a big deal, it actually IS a big deal. because as i age, so does everyone else. and as everyone else gets older, they begin doing adult things.

there is the baby shower.
the wedding.
the move for grad school.

and i'm here,
buying cute little cards
at a cute little shop
in that cute part of the city.
pacing around the cramped, fragile aisles
wondering why it's so goddamn hot.
picking up every piece of letter pressed, recycled dear placenta
pausing
looking at the price tag
pausing
putting it back.

i know it's very unhip
and very unfeminist
to admit this but i'm stepping outside my comfort zone and saying:

finding someone that wants nothing more than to make me veggie tacos, split a bottle of whiskey on the balcony and make love 2 times a day until the day we die is the most important thing in my life.

shopping.

2010-06-13T22:26:00.000-05:00

will someone pay me to travel the world and make coffee?
because that's all i wanna do.

happy birthday, liza.

2010-06-12T23:16:00.000-05:00

in the deepest corners
of white styrofoam,
i remember the moment
before the meeting.
nestled between rice
and sesame,
the wind smells of moss.

i will allow myself to be weak
and say,

*i just can't bare another night alone.*

i'm not as strong as everyone thinks.
i'm not as reliable as everyone says.
i'm not as happy as everyone wants.

the restlessness will follow
the aching shoulders.
the toss follows the turn.
the stomach muscles will fold.
the eyelids will drop.

i'll wait forever
to feel better.

i know it won't be delivered
by the outline of defined forearms.
it'd be nice to have them
just for tonight.

when you're depressed,
you just want to be held
and not have to ask for it.

but you keep your room a mess,
so you will never invite someone in.
it's easier this way.

it'll get better.
but for now,

wallow.

today was a tough one.

2010-06-11T20:56:00.000-05:00

finding out who you are is hard.
setting the journey to words is even harder.
so, today,

i won't.

don't worry. it's all smoke and mirrors. most of the time.

2010-06-07T23:20:00.000-05:00

if it all just stopped,
while i waited for the spin cycle,

it would be okay with me.

minneapolis is a beautiful place
on the 4th of june,
with a friend and a bike.

i get nervous when i leave chicago
because the return gets hard.
which means one thing:

i'm falling out of love with her.

i lust over new skylines
and imagine laying in the grass of their parks.
there is nothing sexier than fog over the unfamiliar.

it stops making sense,
or it stops making you happy,
or you leave for business and find out it's been cheating.

let's change "current city"
and take a breath
and live again.

everyone can see in.

2010-05-31T17:12:00.000-05:00

when it comes down to it, it's all fake.
all of it that floats in the air, circling my forehead and squinting eyes.
when i say "all," i mean everything. and when i say "everything," i mean myself.
i'm living in a world held together with rotting rubber bands and off brand facial tissue.

can i sit alone for a minute?
i mean, can i?
i'm pretty sure i'm just going to start crying.
if left for too long,
like a 5 year old at daycare,
watching the back of love
morph into a closed door.

i just want to be mad.
and to stop coughing this up.
and tell you you're a fuckin' dick.

but i never see you.
or talk to you.
as if we never existed.
the worse part is,
i think that statement is true.

we never existed.

i was the bedroom with heat.
you were the smile in the hospital.
and everything else was,
well,

fake.

nuh uh.

2010-05-29T01:52:00.000-05:00

because no.
no.
no.

oh.

i'm devouring bleached grain
and rotten red

sound (e)scapes
and (l)over.

my biceps are done
and my thighs pretend to smile.

waste of spine.

2010-05-28T20:16:00.000-05:00

when the air smells of onions,
your phantom chin runs along my shoulder.
gravity will get the best of you
while you get the rest of me.

a tattered t-shirt
pulled behind a blue pick-up,
dances for the sun.
and your hands are gone.

just like that,
i'm back in the pages.

hills made of thread
and rubber
and paper
and whispered hellos.

i promise
promise
promise
this is more than

you.

as temporary
as the tongued cereal ink
on my arm
before your dash.

you're not the better,
one more time,
you're not the better part of me.

one more wicked tongue
slipped through a crack in door.

~~fuck~~

i can't remember your wing span,
but i know your breath by heart.

i learned to ride a bike when i was 9.

2010-05-21T17:04:00.000-05:00

there are things you'll never see again.
like the sun setting on a hundred bike helmets,
or a palm tree in a convertible.
or liza's toothbrush.

after 2.5 hours and ten miles
i forced to the front of a silent crowd.
i started to leave the bike on logan blvd before anyone else.
at diversey and damen, a stranger looks at me and whispers,

"are you tif?"

i nod yes as my face gets hot and i swallow steel wool.

"we'll get you there safe. you lead us."

all you can hear are sobs.
heaving, heavy, sobs.
it felt like october 21st all over again.
time stopped and a large plastic lid was glued over the intersection of damen and wellington.
it was all back.
every word uttered was sharp.
my ears had become so adjusted to the silence that i cringed at consonants.
each sentence weighed 50 pounds,
and they were wrapped in rope,
and hung from my heart.

i forgot what it was like to just ride for fun.
to weave from one side of the street to another,
with no fear of a vehicle.
chasing the sun on your way home from open swim.

i didn't learn to ride my bike until i was 9 years old.
i learned so i could ride to mr. lazarro's house with my classmates that did as well as i in the accelerated reader program.
my mom showed up with a brand new bike that day.

this city steals the daily enjoyment of riding a bike.
but every day, i ride in hopes to find it again.
because it shows it's face here and there.
at 5am, on your way into work.
at 5am, on your way into bed.
up the lake, when the wind dies down.

and with a group of strangers that care as much as you do.

too fast. way too fast.

2010-05-14T17:08:00.000-05:00

just as you pass the 3rd car lot
but before you're call your ex

too much happens.

your re-entry into dining for one
has a brain gin logged

and forgetting the limes.

the house won't clean itself
but your roommate did.

it made you cry.

the muscles around every bone
every organ

tightens.

and you feel more lost than ever.
and you feel lied to by everyone.
and you feel her slipping back behind your eyes.

this city bird wants a papa bird.
but a mama bird will do.

i will love this summer harder than you.

2010-05-05T15:37:00.000-05:00

things are good.
amazing.
falling into place.

late to bed.
early to rise.
taking advantage of the sun's new schedule.

my summer calender is filling.
busting along the black lines.
i'm going to portland.

alone.

maybe with people.
people were invited.
but people will not determine if i go or not.

because i bought my ticket.

one way.
for now.
until next pay day.

because if i would have waited,
i would have never bought it,
and i'd be spending my 25th birthday here.

and ya know what?
i don't wanna be here for that.

this is the first time i've gone on a vacation
not work related
and not to see family.

this is important.
this isn't just a trip.
this is me, waking up.

i watched her tattooed back dive into the lake,
and i went back to our blanket.
she ran up, soaking wet, and said

"you just gotta go for it. it's warmer in there anyway."

head first.
here i go.
into life.

astro incest

2010-04-28T13:44:00.000-05:00

she says,
"mercury is out of orbit."
staring into steamed clovers,
brown and furrowed,

you lost.

today's solar system
is built for twins
that finish thoughts
and eat in

pears.

rotating in green skin
double mocking
the blue face of you
and your loneliness.

even stars get cancer.

your love is stag in the white sand.

2010-04-25T00:05:00.000-05:00

climb a mountain. why not?

2010-04-24T03:00:00.000-05:00

just because they are caked
doesn't make them less

of hands
that carried self defeating

to salt lake city.

i've never been west of her.
i dream of your toes on mountains.

egg yolks into blankets
and i'm still thinking of you.

my zebra.

carry your life
in zipped nylon.

i still think of our shoulders.

slipping between a weak grasp
you find yourself
found by following me.

i broke my promise
and you slept on my couch.

dearest tilled land,
ill and centered

you still hang
mirrored

and taped.

grow tall girl.

2010-04-17T22:50:00.000-05:00

my vacation from hell
will carry me farther
than rubber wrapped steel.

with palms swelling from heat
and lips blue from wind
i untie my hair.

the hot whisper was half
true to then
but i'm pretty good at lying.

seven days later,
i have eight on
and they all mean more than one.

did you get that?

do you get this:
a sideways glance
but not a pause.

pass the day you said
"i'm in love."
and now aren't.

hey.
it's okay.
and i'm not saying this to you.

me.
all me.
only me from here on out.

i'm just as important
as you're diy haircut
and brand new wheel set.

deal with it.

slow blinding.

2010-04-14T02:44:00.003-05:00

James Clar & Associates - Piece [You & Me], 2006

it's when you're licking vegan butter from your palm
that the reality of yourself hits.

you're okay being without boyfriend.
you have found solace in your other single friends.
you enjoy drinking bad beer, watching bad tv and devouring toast in your bed.

and when you watch 30 rock, it's not for tracy.
it's for the raised female fist you see behind tina's eyse.
ya. that's right.
i'm gonna say it.

she's fighting the good fight.

for us that sleep in matching pjs that our parents bought us.
that will always be the funny one in the relationship.
that will try really hard not to cry in front of men (especially in power),
but when we do,
we fucking cry.

i want to only share my bed with me,
an over heating computer frozen on hulu
and bread crumbs.

i leave them in hopes that they will come back.
all of them.
follow the baby balls of gluten
and salt
to a place they once woke on.

i loved him the way i love a new friend.
but it all got heavy
and i don't blame him.
or think he's a bad person.
or even think it should be worked out.

i just hate that he's the face i have,
sitting next to me in the emergency room,
just before i find out that what i though happened

did.

half. whatever...

2010-04-12T02:32:00.000-05:00

in less than 24 hours
i've returned to that place.
smelling of sweat and beer and bummed cigarettes.

the new me
is the old me
wrapped in a uniform
slightly modified.

unbutton the white stained sleeves
you once found endearing.

now you're face down
in the top drawer
with blank cds
and other forgotten.

well,
not forgotten.

over the sounds
of someone's problems
that are heavier than mine.
but this is heavy now.

the sun burns away
the real.
the sad.
the sunken eye sockets chapped from tears.

yup.
that's right.
i'm crying
because of you.

and because of me.
and of her.
and my mother.
and the smell of cheap china plastic.

maybe it's gasoline.

back to the eyeballing
up and down
of any pulse
or scent.

fuck.
fuck.
fuck.
shit.

here comes the warm
that leaves me icy
and tired
and sleeping with matted hair.

you're water glass sits
filmed and hard
but mostly

empty.

back to the drawing board.

2010-04-11T00:40:00.000-05:00

maybe i'll just always be the one
looking in
on the windows of happy homes
asking a god
(that i know isn't listening)

"when is it my turn?"

am i allowed to be mad at my therapist?
she didn't make me open up to him,
just suggested.
doctor's orders.

when i raise my denim arms to the ceiling
and scream
I'M A FUCKING CATCH
while a table of late 20 somethings play uno behind me
the back of my eyes grow like one of those dinosaurs you get at the school store.

there is truth in that statement
but what i wanna say is this:

I'M FUCKING DROWNING

give me two seconds,
two fucking seconds.

(i love it when words line up like that)

i just started to fall in love with someone not ready
(or capable)
of loving me back.

and instead of trying to figure it out,
pushed me barefoot into a tar pit.

i had no say in this one.

is it gonna take me another 2 years?
i'll be 27 by then.
and too tired by then.
and too stuck in my own ways
to give two shits about someone else.

you feel that?
that cold chill running over your knuckles
and at your hair line?

that's me.
just passing by.

grow up.

2010-04-09T18:06:00.003-05:00

waiting

and

waiting

and

so much work
your head hits the roof.

box over box
over trains
and plans
and missing city workers.

don't get me wrong
i love a run on the treadmill
as much as the next blonde
but this stationary race

well

it's getting to me.

with every aging day
i just realize
that everyone is late.

i always forget about the weekend
until it's the weekend
and then i just think

where did the week go?

and

all i wanna do is watch food revolution.

i will take you, and leave you alone.

2010-04-06T03:50:00.003-05:00

these goddamn hiccups.
forcing heaves
and internal airways
choke away the problems you have
with his distance
with your needing

swallow it in the bathroom of a gay bar.

your celebrity hands scream
or forgotten sitcom
or a movie everyone wanted to see
and never did.

or maybe you just love the warm air.
that spring.
that fucking feeling that comes
harder than you
at 11am
on easter sunday.

i hope my folks aren't reading this.

do you think he thinks that i'm pretty.
attractive.
sexy?
do you think he thinks of me?
when he can't sleep?
because it's been over a week?
since you saw him make that sideways
gaping
half smile.

oh god. i hope my family isn't reading this....

i want the city dust to settle on me
so he can blow it away
and tell me

for once

i'm pretty.

my lobe.

2010-03-31T01:55:00.002-05:00

i've dreamt about losing my sisters.
years before this.

they were born when i was old enough to get it.
the mothering.
even when i was ten.

my heart swelled to the size of a grapefruit
the day paige was born.
a watermelon
when carmen came
and exploded
when hannah arrived.

but i miss their birthdays
and forget what grade they are in
and wonder who their friends are.

i always wanted a sister
close to my age.
someone to fall asleep with.
a person that shared my nose.
a girl that loved me more than i loved myself.

when i see lauren,
i want to cry.
i usually do.
i think of the three girls i share blood with
and see them in a hospital
wrapped in bandages
and covered in a sheet.

there is nothing i can say
or do
to make this better.
but the older sister in me wants to protect her.
wants to hold her shoulders
and let her hate me.
and love me.
and fill the canyon of her heart.

i will never be liza.
she will never be my sister.
but there is a love in her
bigger than this city.
bigger than this life.

she is the strongest 19 year old i've ever met.

i called, and you came.

2010-03-30T04:07:00.003-05:00

let us just observe
the breaking down
and rebuilding of
one.

one self.
one person.
one life.

let us see
the love
the crying
of a person

too alive to lie.

the tightness
of muscles
or the looseness
of morals.

it is more than

this.

it is the

****

she cannot share.

beyond broken
hair clips
and peach lips

she lies

in flannel
smelling of

yeses.

oh.

the yeses.

no subject.

2010-03-25T01:36:00.003-05:00

Adrian Ghenie, Blue Rain Study, 2009, oil on canvas,

so before all of this,
the heavy handed lessons
and sadness
and grief,
i was missing that thing
the thing that separates us
each of us
from each other.

my story.

while we all have lives
that we've lived
there is always that thing
the thing that separates us
each of us

from each other.

before liza died
it was a break up.
a big one.

they say break-ups can be just as bad as a death.

i'm not sure if that is true.
although,
i'm definitely suffering from the same afflictions.

sleep loss.
weight loss.
not leaving for days.

i've lost 7ish pounds.
that's a lot for me.
and it bothers me
because some of my favorite clothes don't fit.
and my ass doesn't look as good.
and i hate feeling my bones through two layers.

but my appetite has been coming back.
and my willingness to shower.
and my desire to do something that makes me happy.

there are two projects in the works.
let's make a move, harrison.

swung through here; a metaphor in many parts.

2010-03-23T18:57:00.005-05:00

i found out today why the papers said liza was 22.
they found her fake.

i rode bikes with her sister lauren today.
it was nearly tearless.

this was one of the worst,
as far as weeks go.
with the blur of competition gone
it's clear.

all of it.

all of the healing.
all of the struggling.
all of the pain.

i see myself under a giant magnifying glass.
just before the sun starts a fire under my heels,
i catch a glimpse of every crack in my person.

my bad skin.
my ripped knees.
my issues with trust.

my broken nails.
my chipped molars.
my ability to push.

my empty bank account.
my stack of unopened mail.
my unexpressed love.

the seams of all my bags are ripped.
as i run to catch my flight,
i trip over a frayed hem
and there it goes.

all of it.

the lost engagement ring.
the unfinished baby book.
the first pair of boys underwear.

if i love you,
i borrow luggage to come visit.
but then you say,

"i didn't think your bags would match."

it's time to unpack.

all of it.

can you feel it? can you? is that it?

2010-03-16T13:39:00.000-05:00

is it here?

legit.

2010-03-16T01:18:00.002-05:00

after three months,
it came and went.
hours of preparation
can't prepare
for your 15 minutes.

or in my case,
15 minutes
and 48 seconds.

i'm competitive.
i like proving my worth.
showing strangers that i'm a force
that you better recognize.

so,
recognize.

these things are silly.
a bunch of nerds stretching necks
to see how much coffee you let fall.
you only get 15 minutes
to pour your heart
into 2oz.
then 5-6.
then the size of your choice.

if you are me,
you hit a bump.
a big one.
a 40 second bump
that could derail
all the training.
all the work.

but it didn't.
and while i did not win a trophy,
i came home with the respect
of the male heavy field
in which i've chose to rest in.
the tall grasses of africa
fan away sweat
and doubt.

my highest scores were in customer service
and personality.
and you can't teach that.
so, next year,
i'll be back.
and i'll show all those boys,
the ones that file in by twos,
that i am a force.

recognize.

it seems that i impressed one person in particular.
this guy, to be exact:

Stephen Morrissey, 2008 World Barista Champion from nick cho on Vimeo.

i also was told i had the best soundtrack.
unofficially.

i can't remeber where i found this.

2010-03-03T23:47:00.002-06:00

i leave corners
lit by candles
racing to the center.

reach into this.

ashes in a peanut
jarred memories what got me
here.

close that tab.

one thousand letters
pressing themselves into
others.

hold my hand.

a life of verb
and triple word score
down the spine of a mother.

scribbled suggestion
while i smoke in bed.
i'm remembering the point
when i make you real.

when your sleeping
fresh face is more.

giving.

for
giving.

one,
your bed lines fade
as they crawl

to my side.

i turn to spring.
pray she prays to the same day
i wake up.

i take it back. all of it. i take it all back.

2010-02-26T23:36:00.002-06:00

becca fischer

the part of me that wants to believe in god
also believes this is liza's doing.
that she opened up the clouds
and another spot
and gave me a second chance at showing the great lakes what i can do.

i'm competing.

there is a bit of guilt that comes with this joy,
this over-whelming, stressful as fuck joy.
two of my friends were told they can't compete.

but i still am.

i'm going to do it well.
incredibly well.
better than i expected.
i promise.

because that part of me that prays to nothing
when i lose my keys
or can't fall asleep
really believes that there is a bigger reason.
for everything that ever happens
to everyone.

i don't know what it is
but i will carry it in my back pocket
while i milk share
and tamp.
while i talk about coffee
into a pinned on mic,
this will be with me.
the memory of her,
because she was meant to be there, too.

and she would have won it.
all of it.

fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.

2010-02-24T05:53:00.001-06:00

in short:
i will NOT be competing in the great lakes barista competition (in which i have been preparing for for over 3 months).

details to come.
when i can muster the strength.

40 degrees.

2010-02-18T13:17:00.002-06:00

Alejandro Cesarco,

when the sun comes out,
it's like a good friend dumped a bucket of lake michigan on my head.
nfl style.

every part of me wants to nap
but every other just wants to go.
go. go. GO.

ride the streets
that are lined with melting snow
to a part of town i never visit anymore.

there are dishes that need attention
and some clothes should be washed
but maybe i can forget them for a few hours.

it's going to be like this for the next 10 days.
maybe the worst is over.
maybe i can wake up early
and not curse the gray.

i just know i'll feel better

soon.

as the city warms up
i'll let my scabs dry in the sun.
take the bandage off of this.
this 4 month old stab wound
that i hide under a poly-cotton blend.

wake up
wake up.

it's time to roll over.

yesterday was valentines day

2010-02-15T20:09:00.001-06:00

and even though he worked a double,
he still called.

he doesn't seem like the type that would care about it,
but he was actually mad he had to work.

those tattoos can't fool me.

in the mean times

2010-02-11T23:50:00.003-06:00

try not to be so cruel.
there is a fine line between caring and careless.
the idea of your help can fall to the wayside.
or is it waist side?
which ever way, it can be a little rough.

when a person isn't eating,
don't tell them they look skinny.
when a person isn't sleeping,
don't say they look tired.
when a person has seen the unspeakable,
don't ask them what's wrong.

minor rules.
little things.
tiny bits to save your cheeks from that crimson that even l'oreal can't sell.

believe me,
this kind of anger hides in corners.
it's better than your 8 year old sister when it comes to the game.
you forgot both their birthdays,
even though their toes were poking out the bottom of the curtain.

they all slip away
like the whites of eggs into a silver bowl.
so, instead of being the care-giver
why not just care?
just love everyone like you know how to love.

no one can understand the life you live
because it's your life,
lived by only you.
get it?
do you?

i'm starting.
about to.
on the edge.
toes over the line
that i drew for everyone else.

it's not a me versus you,
or them,
or the world.

i want to draw a heart on the chest of every person that i have loved.
i want to draw a heart on the shoulder of every person that has seen me cry.
i want to draw a heart on the feet of every person that i have chased.
i want to draw a heart on the stomach of every person that has fed me.
i want to draw a heart on the neck of the boy that keeps me up with his breathing.

and miss liza, your last breath hung over the street
until i stole it from the wind.
now every time i speak,
i feel you settle deeper into my lungs.
making them wider.
making them stronger.
making an invisible mark on the inner lining of a brightening spirit.

dearest.

2010-02-05T00:44:00.003-06:00

over brick
i calmly say
in similar voice

i wear you to bed.

waking with sun
and body
you are there
as much as here.

stand,

you were not made
of crumbling rock
but sturdy tomorrows

and thunderous breath.

and just like that....

2010-02-04T14:03:00.002-06:00

i planned on leaving the house hours ago.
many, many hours ago.
but after the shower
and sitting
and toast
and sitting

i'm laying face down on forest green.

sometimes, i have panic attacks about leaving.
i go to get on my bike
or think about getting on my bike
and each piece of meat between my ribs pulls.
and as my chest shrinks

i think about hers.

you expect sadness.
you don't expect dizziness
and joint pain
and sound sensitivity.

i don't want to lay in bed forever.
but sometimes, my bones are made of lead
and my marrow turned to molasses
and the neuro-transmitters take a day off.

today (or i guess yesterday)

2010-02-04T00:46:00.001-06:00

i laughed more than i have in over three months.

silver linings are cheesy,
but exsist

if you let them.

we live half in the daytime.

2010-02-02T08:21:00.002-06:00

a vivid flashback to construction paper and glue-sticks.
today always reminds me of tiny chairs and in-door recess.
leave it to the 2nd grade to give meaning to groundhog day.
my memory fades a little more everyday
but nothing will shake the feeling of red wool tights on my legs
or the smell of brown crayolas.

in the middle of a melt-down, joe says into the phone
"when you get older, the good things fade. i can remember every time i've felt guilty but i can't remember any of the good times. remember when we went to florida? i don't remember none of it. except for the sunburn, i don't remember a second of it."

i swear.
it was comforting at the time.

i'm quickly discovering myself.
a real self that you long to find when you're 18.
and you think you've found when you are 22.
maybe this is what they call the "quarter-life crisis."
it is less than 6 months away.
but, i'm not sure i believe in it.

i realized last night that i missed an entire season of big love.
and because over analytical and neurotic people like myself would do such a thing,
i immediately relayed it to my own life.
that i have slept through a good portion of my life.
i didn't even realize the missing chapter.
until a new conflict arose
and i was on episode 4
and just had to say,

fuck.
how did this happen?

push play. read. repeat.

2010-01-30T20:35:00.002-06:00

it's me hunched over freshly taped bars.
bluer than my eyes.
or her sister's.
or mine.

the back wheel is up on bricks.
her shoes are laced
and hanging from my neck.

size 6.

my job is to pedal.
yours is to shoot.

fire pistols full of water
and red paint.

every time i blink,

i see her in the street

and you read her name
in black on my eyelids.

knee over ankle
ankle over foot
head over heel
wheel over heart

intro set on repeat.
hung by the door
is my swollen throat
and fresh cuts of meat.

go.

now.

faster.

fast.
fast.
fast.
fast.

before

it's

all

gone.

go.
go.
go.
go.
go.
go.
go.
go strong.

go before

it's

too late.

i
well

i
just

i
just

i
just

i just feel like i've been at the bottom of a green bottle of mineral water for three months.

the i-n-g of it.

2010-01-20T16:13:00.003-06:00

whether it's distraction or focus
it makes the day to day easier.
the dressing.
the brushing.
the talking.
the hugging.
the sleeping.

actually,
it doesn't make the sleeping easier.
nothing makes that easier.

the tops of my cheeks are forever puffy.
crowding the rims of my glasses.
turning wide eyes to slits
the size of folded pieces of napkin.

for the first time in four years,
i'm thinking about moving out of chicago.

there are two deadlines
(and one person)
that will keep me put until at least june.
but, depending how things fall
i may start looking for something else.
something warm.
something west.

i'm just gonna go where the coffee is.
and where they want me to make it.

full.

2010-01-15T06:57:00.002-06:00

i've completed three therapy sessions.
yesterday, i didn't cry.
the weather allowed for jacket-less biking
and clear thinking.
i followed cars over the crest of roosevelt
into the pumping arteries of this city.

for the first time in two months
i was confident.
i believed i had every right to be on the road.
my alertness took me up state
then up town
then home.

soon,
my life will be plastered with neon green paper
adhered to mirrors and doors.
reminders.
motivations.
praises.

take out the trash.
you can do this.
be proud.
turn off the heat.
wash the dishes.
you're a good person.
you're a great person.
live.
live.
move forward.
but not too fast.
slowly.
allow yourself to be slow.

breathe.

i'm finally doing it.
it's been edited.
i have an artist.
if i had to give myself a deadline,
i'd say february 28th.
check your local bookstore.
cuz it's a-comin'.

voice and pixel.

2010-01-07T08:43:00.003-06:00

Mary Kelly, ”WORDS ARE THINGS”, inside “Multistory House”, 2008
at center for contemporary art, Ujazdowski Castle, Warsaw

yup.
uh huh.
ya.
ya.
ya.
okay.
okay?
you?
okay?
i mean,
really.
ya.
sure.
why not?
why?
ya.
okay.
sure.

it's okay.
it's okay.
fall down in front of a bus.
powder your face with snow
and concrete
and road salt.
thrown onto the front grill,
man.
onto the fire.
freezing that turns fingers black
and blood back to blue.

alright.
sure.
ya know?
no?
know.

i can't sleep.
my meals are made
making
cavities and hardened internal organs.

your ex found my blog.

down
down
down
down
down
in front.

there is a shit ton of ice under this snow
and i made it 2 blocks before
i bailed.

the city is stuck on channel 4.
nothing digital can turn this
into fragments of voice
and pixels.

it's oh ten.

2010-01-03T16:20:00.003-06:00

when i wake up later than i want,
i make it my mission to be as productive i can in the few hours i still have.

today is one of those days.
a manic day
sent to the music of '77 punk
and fueled by coffee
roasted just for me.

i give myself breaks
to eat an orange.
to smoke a cigarette.
to write this.

as i perch my computer on the windowsill
and steal my neighbor's bandwidth,
i fill my head with lists.
what i need to finish today.
what i will do tomorrow.
what i want from this month.
this year.
this life.

it always boils down to one word:
better.
whatever it is,
it has to be better than before.
before this year.
before this city.
before being born.

i watch my mother cry
as she cuts pineapple.
her hands show a hard life
her precision shows her work.

in this moment, it becomes clear.

i will not start a family
until it is absolutely perfect.
i will not marry
until it is absolutely perfect.
which means,
these things may never happen.

i can't see myself five years from now.
i can hope.
but i can't see it.
and it's terrifying.

this year, i welcome contradictions.
refusing to push away but carefully opening up.
never settling but finding places to put up my feet.
digging in the soil but never becoming fully grounded.

i will love.
healthy.
without reserve.
and that includes myself.

especially myself.

------------

hours after that was written
i find myself at a party.
a surprise party.
but not in the sense where one person shows up
not knowing the party is for them
but a surprise party
where you think you're hanging out with 4 people
and you walk into a mini college reunion.

fuck.

now what do i do?
how do i disappear?
i shoulda bought cigarettes.
why didn't i buy cigarettes?
fuck.
i really want a cigarette.

at least she showed up.
one of the few friends from school you want to keep.
the one you call your colleague.
a person you want to share creative ideas with.

they never write buddy comedies that are female based.
there are never scenes shared by two women
shot in the front seat
of a parked car.
where they shit all over everyone else
because they blame themselves for not fitting in.
for not feeling comfortable where everyone else shines.

fuck.

at least i now know what parroting is.

too much time spent on nothing, waiting for the moment to arise.

2009-12-29T08:26:00.002-06:00

i'll go as far as to say that this christmas
was not good.

i'll save the bitching about my crazy family.
everyone's family is crazy.

i'll pretend i don't worry about my mother.
she "fuckin' gets enough of it," from my aunt.

i'll even keep to myself the storms i drove through.
ice there, snow back.

let's see if i can break it down in seven words or less:
ice.ex.jump-start.jail.sisters.ashleigh.snow.

let's just say,
i'll have a lot to share with my shrink today.

liza's sister posted pictures of the memorial ride.
this is the closest i came to being in a photo with liza.
i don't know,
i need some sort of proof she was in my life.
i need a reminder.
or, at least i thin i do.
because sometimes i get them,
reminders,
and i wish the last 5 minutes never existed.

apparently,
liza recorded some songs before she died.
and her family found them.
and sent them to her friends.
and it's fucking sad.

watch this and fall in love,
like i did.

keep that shit in a bucket of broken pieces of jesus.

2009-12-24T08:02:00.002-06:00

i arrived in ypsilanti, michigan at 11:30pm on december 23, 2009.
the drive, usually taking a respectful driver four hours (or three if you're me), took six.
after two hours stuck in chicago traffic, it cleared for the span of ten miles.
then i was driving 35 mph through indiana.
all. the. way. through. indiana.

i should have stayed in chicago.
i'd still be asleep.
curled in my flannel sheets, the sound of kirsten shuffling from her room to the bathroom and back.
waking up with drool on my face and relaxed shoulder blades.

instead, i awoke to the sound of miro lomeli yelling my name.
jumping on the pull out.
turning every light on.
brushing his teeth.

now, miro is on a bus heading to chicago while i sit in the ugly mug cafe waiting for a nice person to jump my car.
well, not MY car.
my boss' car.

i just wanna be in a bed.
with a joint.
and a movie.
and no obligatory holiday knocking on my front door.

this year has been like a cut on the roof of my mouth,
made with a rusty bread knife.
and i've been gargling salt water
for the past seven months.

i can't take it.
i can't take it.
i can't take it.

this is a breaking point.
i envision my drive to st. charles teary eyed
and angry.
and to make it worse,

i can't stop thinking about liza's mother.
and her sister.
and her brother.

do wn t he wh i te c era m ic.

2009-12-22T00:18:00.004-06:00

he gave me a chance.
after sneaking pass the plastic
and steam
and falling water that he calls,
"too hot."

after holding onto me
with soap running down my eyelids
and dripping from his tiny, up-turned nose.

we share showers
a lot.
but this one was different.
there was a heavy feeling
but one that doesn't weigh you down.
a feeling of something bigger than you,
pressing onto wet shoulders.

after the soap was gone,
there was his squinting eyes
and my audible sigh
and him saying,
"what's up?"

a sound of knowing
and reassurance.
without any attached
fear.

i knew if i would have said what was on my mind,
really on my mind,
it would have been okay.
because i felt it
in the way his hands wrapped around the small of my back.

ya.
sure.
okay.
it's true.
it's there.
i know it.
he knows it.
and so does the foggy mirrors
and drying rack.

it just feels better
lodged in the back of my throat.

thunder only happens when it's raining.

2009-12-16T23:18:00.002-06:00

my hair is growing
faster than my left ventricle
at the sight of him.

it falls pass my collarbone.
it tickles my shoulders.
i've attached my womanhood to it.

i wanna look like stevie nicks
before the perm
and the 80s.

but i'm starting to look like every high school aged girl from every late 70s sitcom.
shit.
actually,
that's awesome.

i'm seeing a therapist on the 29th.
i may not make it home for christmas.
ben means more to me every time he rides in the wrong direction.

i'll be okay.
now, if i could just make everyone believe that.

short cut.

2009-12-12T22:40:00.002-06:00

Marius Watz

eating around
all the vegetables
the life that lives
in ikea green ceramic

up up
down.
just for
now.

still having hunger
pains me to kiss
and never say.
never grab yours.

your happy heart
laid in twelve
on my right shoulder.

you've lived twenty-five
before me.
twenty-four and a half
actually.

this is the longest i've gone
without whispering

it

into the ear
or over waves.

i'm not sure
if there is

a short cut for this.

russian gloves (right here, in my heart)

2009-12-08T20:54:00.003-06:00

ok ok ok ok ok ok ok.
alright.
yes.
ok.

live it.
live it.
sleep in for once.

scramble your eggs up with his.
diced red pepper and wanting.
no wanting.
actually.
no more wanting.

simmering salted water
and not enough sauce.

new new new
new new
new new new
new. day.
new shampoo.
next to liza's that i can't stop using.

i know.
it's ok.
i can feel it under his hand print
between my left and right
breath.

no rush
but i'd work 63 hours a week
to come home to your dishpan hands.

to open the door
on your braided
back part.

to wake up
with steamed tea tree
mirrors

to watch years
cloud like cataracts
on the pillow next to me.

each day is easier than the last. well, except for this one.

2009-12-02T13:38:00.005-06:00

i didn't cry over you for a good three weeks.
it's not that i didn't feel it. i just couldn't.
i couldn't cry at all.
i would watch sad movies and write about you but

nothing.

i went to north carolina to visit family
and forget about all of it.
i even tried to forget you.
just for a moment.
as my plane left the south,
it hit me.

all of it.

now the sound of your name turns my stomach.
your room still smells like you.
i wash my hair in your shampoo.
i read your comments on facebook over and over.

i can't deny it anymore.
or something.
even when your sister talks about you in present tense.

i'm not alone. i'm not alone. i'm not alone. i'm not alone. i'm not alone. i'm not alone. i'm not alone. i'm not alone. i'm not alone. i'm not alone. i'm not alone.

but no one else saw it.
no one that loved you had to see it.
except me.

i just can't understand why.

why was i the one you got to spend your last day with.
why did you make me get out of bed.
why was it so nice out.
why did you say, "i'm going to miss this." as i passed you.
why didn't the truck see us.

why didn't i hug you more.
why am i not in any pictures with you.
why did i never come visit you at work.
why did we look alike.
why didn't i make you play your banjo.

and why is it,
when i think about you,
all i can see
is your left shoe
and glasses
laying in the middle of an intersection
slowly being painted red.

dish it, take it, but you still can't sleep

2009-11-24T23:05:00.004-06:00

Emily Noelle Lambert, Bed (Little Deaths), 2009

it was short-lived.
two days.
and as soon as i did it, i received an email.
then a text.
then another email.
and another text.

the one that stuck out was an old friend who i only knew because of an ex.
"i love your blog. love it. it's really the only one i read and it's in my bookmark bar pretty high up on the list. you are a fucking smart, creative, interesting and special person and watching you grow is pretty amazing. my life has turned upside down in the last eight months. when i first started reading it i felt like i could relate to a lot of what you said and it brought me back to memories of my late teens early twenties. now, it feels like i am learning things from you and your experiences."

this thing started years ago.
long before i knew liza.
long before i wanted a boyfriend.
long before i thought i would morph into a writer.

it's okay to be honest.
and an old professor of mine would always say,
"if you don't piss someone off, you're not doing your job."

i'm on pure impulse these days.
you say something to me,
i react,
it's done.
it's an anger i never thought i would own.
a flickering pilot light under your old roommate's teapot.
it makes me want to punch walls
but the fear of pain keeps it bottled.

the past week was a really hard one.
harder than the first week without her
i would pace my apartment in bare feet
a cigarette dangling from my puckered, dry lips.
tea steeping on the counter,
the hour had would reach 4am,
and i would stare at ben in his underwear
laying on his side of the bed.

he hums in his sleep.
happy sighs as he rolls from his back to his side.
a chest, not much wider than mine, falling so carefully
i think he's stopped breathing.
and at 5am, i i curl up against his back.
i kiss him between the shoulder blades.
the length of this shin is the same as my thigh.

just because one person hates me
behind the veil of the internet
is no reason to keep from you
the words i find in the upward motion
of his sleeping palm.
--------------

this was written before i went to north carolina.

this happened before i went to north carolina:

my friend marty said i was the star.
i'd say i'm the comic relief.

other people's money

2009-11-19T16:42:00.002-06:00

most of the time it comes in the form of a check.
personal.
hand written.
paper clipped to a note that reads,
"this is my favorite passage from the bible..."

those are the hardest to cash.
they sit on my kitchen table for days
judy or martha or scot's black ink stare up at me from the yellow table top.

or sometimes it comes in cash.
wrapped in a simple drawing of two bicycles.
sent from venice beach.

i feel guilty every i buy a new record.
or a pair of wool socks.
or when i google airfare to portland.
because the money was intended for,
well,
i actually don't know what the intent.

help with rent i suppose.
or help if i need therapy.
or just because some people didn't know me well enough to hug.

first i thought,
"i can use this to pay her rent and live alone."
but i can't fall asleep before 3:30am
and it's because i hear the sound of bare feet on the kitchen floor.
or the latch on the front door clicking.
or the water in the bathroom running.

so someone is moving in.
a good friend.
the girl i've known the longest here in the city.
she was my first choice to move in.
but had committed to another place.
but that place has a downstairs neighbor that makes her life hell.

but i still have a savings account
spilling with money.
strangers' money.
cash that wasn't earned.
a stack of green bills handed to me in a brown paper bag marked,
"$ FOR TIF."

i still have debt.
a lot of it.
i have a hospital bill from the day of the accident.
but the impulse to splurge is there.
to waste it on things.
to buy everyone i know an awesome christmas gift.
to move.

i'm meeting with a guy on saturday to discuss the custom cycling specific backpack he's making for me that i'll pay for with blood money.