cotton-candy-like, the kind that swells in
your heart, airy and sweet
expands in your sternum spills
over your ribcage grows dense in
your chest, lightweight
I peruse my brain for other
forms of analogous matter
but is it matter?
and if it was, could I touch
it? or taste it? because I can feel it
spilling over puddling into
as it pools under—
bright lights, bright eyes
tears spill over, form rivulets
two twenty. AM. 2:21. AM. Two 21. AM.
why am I so restless?
coffee. wheat thins. crumbs. caffeine. caf
–feine. feign. feigning
kindness. questions I have for
are you neurological? genetic? psychological?
physical? are you the thoughts churning through my head rapid-pace
without regard for gravity, space, time?
the 100 grams of caffeine laced in my vanilla-creme 2-sugar-packed
coffee branching through my veins?
are you concern?
are you anticipation?
are you planning? are you planning something? are you so busy planning something
the irony of sleeplessness lies in the
heaviness of my lids, of my eyes–I just
thought they’d have been lighter, with everything lit up under my eyes
lit up under my eyes lit up under my
eyes crumbs all over my keyboard
cover lit up under my eyes
Snow came hailing (hailing hail, hail isn’t the one thing that hails) down all of Saturday, blanketed the city in a coat of white. On the walk back home, post snowball-fight and snowfall-shoot and snow-name-carving, we marveled at the small flakes, crystallized asymmetry, dainty and ephemeral.Pinprick patterns of cold dust, size of freckles. Imagine if we could store these in jars indefinitely, keep each one intact. Snow way this comes from the sky, Instagram caption.
A photographic love funk.
What happened to your camera?
You know how you’ll be infatuated with a person and wake up one day and realize you just don’t feel the same anymore? That’s been me and my camera. I just haven’t felt the same.
Patiently waiting to fall back in love.
A broken Mac battery, a confiscated iPhone, starved heart.
It’s seven in the morning here.
Talking to you is like nibbling on a piece of quiche. Except I am starved. And my appetite is barely whet.
Weirdness a lá relief.
I wish I could go to GameStop.
Oh, I can go to GameStop and photograph the whole store and send it to you!
Most of the time I’ll let my weirdness, like air, seep out squeaky-high through the small opening of a balloon that is me. Being back is like letting it all escape from this significantly enlarged valve. Weirdness! Is! Liberation!
“I like you; your eyes are full of language.”
[Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]”
“you know what i thought of the other day?
our childhoods are for our parents
they remember our first steps
they remember what we liked and what we didn’t like
they remember what we ate, what we didn’t eat
they’re their memories to have,
as you grow older
your life becomes yours
but when we were younger
it was once theirs.”
– april 23rd, 2015 | 4:08 pm
Something my best friend said to me a few years ago.
when the lights gazed down
for our attention and petals fell
rain-streaked you tied a ribbon around my
waist before we sank in a sea of swimming bodies
streaks of sunrise flushed
in our cheeks