writersblocks

    •    i found a newt on my floor the other day and i think it was dead and if it wasn't i killed it and i don't like the idea of that so i think it was definitely dead.  i vacuumed it up with a tube, the juice from its body still on the floor. i looked up newts on wikipedia. "newts are characterised by a frog-like body with four equal sized limbs and a distinct tail. They have the ability to regenerate limbs, eyes, spinal cords, hearts, intestines, and upper and lower jaws." limbs, eyes, spinal cords, hearts, intestines and jaws. hearts.
    •    i never write in my notebooks anymore, only on scraps of things i find when i am in desperate need of them, my notebooks are lonely and i can hear them crying.
    •    can they hear me crying?
    •    i do not know what day of the month it is
    •    this is a common pattern.
    •    if the trees decided they wanted to switch with the sky and be called blue instead of green would we listen?

but nevermind. so what? i really just want to kiss. enough with the bullet points, enough with the steam and the sweat.  i've hurt enough people, i've lit enough candles, i've swept enough floors, i've kissed enough fingers to know how old i am.  the numbers are not relevant it's that bright flame inside your eyes, it's the dew that settles on the grass of your eyelashes. the letters on the mason jar are like braille and if this was a fairy tale they might have some answers but they just say "ATLAS MASON" and you're probably asleep, dreaming and me? it doesn't matter. 2:31 am and it doesn't matter, just how i like it.

what days of?


"Avoid the flourish. Do not be afraid to be weak. Do not be ashamed to be tired. You look good when you’re tired. You look like you could go on forever. Now come into my arms. You are the image of my beauty ." Leonard Cohen

locked knees

i took french in high school so somehow i always want to say your name, i don't know, more romantically.  but you and i both know how that ends up; me, big-teary-eyed, holding a small knife - tiny drops of my own blood and you confused and biting your fingernails.  they never mentioned this in french class.


may kasahara

they were fucking when osama bin laden was murdered. their heads at the bottom of the bed, bodies like there was no such thing as bones -- just skin. he said some things she couldn't understand but she kept going, the technicalities of a heart rate and  his eyes closing and then opening like a butterflies wings.
afterword they heard the news from the other room, she lit a cigarette, her hand cupped over the tip but her eyes tipped over it, on him. she inhaled and laid back down in her underwear. the talk on the television was osama, but they had missed all that, there were other ignitions besides all that. there was nothing to say about osama bin laden.
"i told my therapist about you," she said.
he grinned big, his hands still hungry.