Middle

The cool kids glowed. I remember pulling out of the school parking lot, turning to see the light they cast onto the muddy field. The girls, the boys, so irresistibly cool. Makeup, lemonade, drugs, minds oh-so-so precocious. You smart aleck; you soon-to-be teen mom. How could we have known? Youth gripped us hard. How could you emanate light at 13?

There was M. When I remember her, I see her doing a shoe dance where her toes turn in, then out, then back in. She slides around on the concrete floors, bangs curled with a straightener. Her wrists seem lithe in my memory, nails short, hair wavy. An easy Frenchy thing about her. Indie without even trying. We were all stumbling over ourselves, backs breaking into puberty, while she snatched up the prettiest boy in the grade, no fucking sweat.

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Muse

here is a broken fading
muse—
slow in constancy
syrupy in consistency

guilt intertwines with
spilled drinks, falling moonlight
stumbling into cracked
pavement, littered like uneven teeth

I’ll run my tongue over my lips
to the croon of uncalled songs
escape into reverie
once the party’s over

Lost in my Mind

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Scarlet scarfs frayed at the edges. Orange-yellow bulbs of life, warm against the blue black bruises of the cold outside. Home is a phone call away.

The coffeeshop is empty, save for the hawkish worker with the light eyes who started a few years ago. He wasn’t here when I was ten, when this place was new, and I only ever asked for mango smoothies.

And it’d come out artificial-creamy sweet, rich sun yellow against a dollop of white. I’d scoop out the whipped cream with the outer edge of my straw, slurp it into a pathetic heap at the corner I couldn’t reach.

______

Familiar strumming overhead. A lollying tune, an indie low-whine. Drawn out wail of a banjo and musician who sounds like he sports a beard and wears pea-green jackets with camo sleeves,

Lost in my mind, lost in my mind, I’ve been lo-o-o-o-st—

They play this song every time I come in. It’s on the coffeeshop playlist, and it always has ben, unchanging, carved in time, shaping my own musical preferences as I bury my head in words.

______

Insomnia. There’s a softened edge to memory, to memory’s memory of insomnia, to memory’s memory of the insomniac’s late-night thoughts. Other things mattered then, trivial things, mind-numbing replays of the inconsequential, and that was what kept me up.

______

The things that matter now stand in sharp relief against the mindset I’d held then.

Sun streams in through the window. On five hours of sleep, I crawl out of bed.

At this coffeeshop, littered with people working hard and hardly working, I order nothing from the bar. I bring a water in. I peruse through reddit and creepypasta and play psychic word games. When I pass the counter, the barista jokes about throwing out my water container, but I can’t tell if it’s a joke, so I laugh as though it is, and throw the water out.

Overheard, Lost in my Mind plays. And for a moment, I’m enmeshed in the warm cocoon of nostalgia, buried in tunnel vision.

Pieces

These girls, they drift in and out bleating some language I don’t understand. Eight year old me understood. Twelve year old me understood. Years later, I still don’t understand.

— — — —

Time’s weird.

It feels like the weekend although the weekend hasn’t started. It’s because I feel slow, slow and relaxed and languid, like maybe a sloth or maybe a koala. I see flashes of Tampa, Florida in my mind as I consider my slothiness. I see flashes of blue and sea as we’re on the highway. I’m trying to get the sun positioned right behind my hair. No, not like this. Like that. From that angle. I see a tiger sweatshirt and wild cats that’ll never be free. In the pictures my hair’s even more untamed than the felines prowling the space.

— — — —

being-is-strange

I have an art crush. This is my art crush, @elesq. I wormhole through art blogs on tumblr every so often and stumble upon styles/artists I really like and this is one. Simple poignant stuff. I’d emulate it, but I feel like my style is kind of heavy–I go and try to fill in every space possible. When I attempt minimalism I’m inclined to fill in the spaces. But you’re supposed to let the space speak for itself. Like silences used for effect in plays. In conversations. In speeches where you think people have dropped off from listening so when you’re quiet they’re jarred back to attention: why aren’t you droning on anymore?

Mango Poppers

img_4760Lately, I’ve been flooded with memories. Vignettes. The sight of a person early morning, blue polo, by the coffee machine. Sunday runs with friends and pastel chalk we’d line ourselves with. Fifth grade secrets about love once unrequited, reversed, now going unrequited. Hallway hugs and devious plans, being called on our shit by the guy who got expelled. These images, vivid and clear, are like bursts of yellow mango poppers. Syrupy and strange. Abrupt and angry. And then they fade, quickly, only to make way for another.

Droning

we found a quiet hobbit nook the other day
a cozy woodish book-decked space
with rich spanish lattes
and oil paintings abound

(and I think I feel strange because I ate something strange
but regardless
I think that a bit of stream of consciousness
will make things better)

the rain is pouring
pouring pouring
oh! the thunder sounds like angry popcorn
crackling in the skies
and they are splitting
in half, drowning in their grief

(did anybody really go anywhere?
i don’t know. nor do i think so.
is it mostly a matter of show
or objectivity?
and does it behoove me
to be so mentally tied to it all?
after talking to my best friend
it seemed to dissipate–finally–
mud hardened by disgust
eventually hosed down by understanding

nowadays i am
too tired
to care)

i’ve been thinking of a wordpress i started in 2015
the summer of 2015, to be exact
it was a small, honest space
and even though i would add tags, it was relatively private
it felt more candid
more open
more cringey

i think i just miss word-vomiting with that sort of
lost careless sadness
when it felt like roads would extend forever
in that lazy summertime way
when time would stretch like
putty and i’d wrap
myself in it, contemplating nabokov
or whatever-his-name–
the metamorphosis guy, that one–
and i thought life couldn’t be more
paradoxical

what a luxury it was
the droning contemplation