Abel

Often, I find myself
paralyzed mometarily
by the thought
that there is much left
in the world I have yet to do,
yet to try and make.


My heart seizes up for 
a quick beat to 
remind me, 
I am still too young.
But I am afraid I won't
get to everything.


There's too much music
to hear, too many books to read,
too many poems to write
and too much useless shit to
create.


Too many places to see,
too many people to meet,
too many nights to waste,
sleepless.


The world is too big for me
and these wild-eyed ambitions,
and my stomach tumbles into
thick knots, striking great big
melancholy chords.


Wanderlust, dammit.


I am too young to yet begin
these grand adventures in my head,
but I also am so crippled by the fear
I'll never make it to all the boxes 
to check on my to-do list for life.
And I only get one life
to cram all this stuff into,
and it's a challenge I am scared of.


I should be excited, but 
god, I am confused and terrified.


I want to see it all, listen to it all,
make it all and meet more beautiful 
talented folks on this planet.
Swim in all the seas and visit
every beautiful place.


I need to drive across the country
and see all the sights,
hug the redwood trees and 
cliff dive into the Pacific.


See India and Japan and allll the Mediterranean.


I am being swallowed by all I must do.
I feel so immobilized.
When will it start,
when will my life 
jump into the waiting abyss
to begin?


When will my paranoid fears
become reality and actuality,
and I will have stories to tell at last?


When will I meet the writers of the world 
again to spin our tales by campfires 
or in cafes?


When will a man look into my eyes
and say, "Please don't go"?


When will I get to the sea
and feel alright with 
my heart?


Too much to see,
so much to do and 
I feel much to young to begin,
yet to old not to have started yet.

Le Temps de L'amour

I feel comfortable
in my skin.
A prolonged feeling of this,
which has never happened.


I usually hate how I look,
I care too much, and 
am influenced too heavily.


I'm channeling Mica Tenenbaum's
hair vibes


and Sarah Demarest's 
body vibes.


And I do not give a fuck.


I will wear what I want,
be who I am.


So what if maybe I look funny
to people.


So what if I wear a hipster triangle skirt,
messy hair,
or too much jewelry?
Or even my shitty homemade jewelry-
who cares, because I love it.


I am comfortable enough
to lie on my bed 
before putting on my pajamas.


I am ok with shorty shorts
and a tank top-
even in front of the guy I like.


I'm sorry to rant about camp
(it was a truly life-altering experience)
but I gained a lot of confidence there,
I sort of learned not to give any fucks
to people who don't matter.


People did not judge me,
people encouraged me to
wear a two-piece bathing suit.
Sarah told me "Every body is a bikini body."


I will rock whatever style I choose,
I will not care about other people
say.


I have gained that insight.

Let's Go

I have just experienced
the second most liberating 
moment of my existence
(the top two liberating moments
have happened within a week of each
other, I must really be living!):


I swam in a fountain with
all my clothes on.
That includes jeans.
Wet denim.


We swam and it was 
free.
"YOLO"'s freely dropping
off our lips.


Because when it comes right down
to it,


how many opportunities do you
have to do something truly
outrageous? 


Not very many.


So when the dare was thrown
out, I said Yolo
and dove in. 
Because seriously, fuck it.
Have fun,
right?


And floating in the fountain
was having fun,
it was seeing the stars perfectly,
mixed with arcs of water spray.


It was liberating,
film worthy,
seemingly brag worthy.


Instead of smoking pot
to have fun, I swim
in fountains with my clothes
on. In the dark and cool
with laughter.


And that makes a better story to tell
by far.


"Oh, what did you do last Tuesday?"


"I jumped in a motherfucking fountain
with my motherfucking clothes on."

Secondhand News

I fucking love it here,
and I never want to leave,
I never want to say goodbye
to these beautiful, talented new
friends. I have found things 
I never though could exist, 
lived somewhere beautiful,
communal and open.

I never knew we could all coexist.
Get together as writers and write.
Talk and laugh and read and
become beautiful and perfect.
I feel like we're birds,
and I can't believe I have
only one full day left
here. 

I am already sad.
How can this happen?
Good god, I can't even 
fathom!

This is like a fucking
artists' colony!!!!!!!
BEAUTIFUL.

FULL OF BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE.

HOLY FUCK.

I HAVE NO WORDS.

I CANNOT LEAVE.

Looking For Astronauts

You are beautiful
one-thousand 
times over.

Heads Up

I just left an absolutely amazing
workshop.
This super rad dude, 
David Baker
(he's written nine poetry books!)
gave a lecture-thing.

All about poetry.
It was glorious to have 
a room full of people
completely engaged and
engrossed in the art form.
I was astonished.

This actually exists?
People who like poetry 
exist?

I had forgotten 
for a while.

Today was really nice.
The days here seem so long though,
it feels like this morning
was yesterday morning.
I am stuck in Monday,
the whole week will feel  
like a very long day.

Which is a strange phenomenon.

But today,
it was nice. Things went
well. I had a conference
with Allie, our
poetry teacher.
She is such a sweet person
and I like her so much.
She is giving a reading tonight.
I am thrilled.

But David Baker, 
goodness, he was fabulous!
I bought his new book
"Never-ending Birds"
 How great is that?


We deconstructed poetry to
make sense. We did not analyze it.
We made sense of it.
It's so totally different than the 
school approach.


I am enthralled! Sort of an a high.
It'll subside but right
now I am so in love
with the trees and the sky and the words
I can make here.


Quotes I wrote from his lecture,
because he was great:


"Writers are lonely, we need each other."


"Walking is to dancing,
as discourse is to poetry."


"Reading poems is an art."


"Being alive is difficult."


"There's nothing deader than dead feet."


And th ideas of image and story, 
of a poem making a clear story.


"A poem should not mean,
it should be."
A beautiful line from a poem we read.


Also, I have begun to write a prose piece
about a pregnant woman who
raises chickens i n 1940s rural Utah.
She is sad, and the chickens are wonderful.

Flesh & Bone

Not to bore you all.
But whatever.
I'm lonely and
would like to blog.
I also really feel like
going out and doing
nothing and everything
and eating chipotle.

But blogging is easier.

Today there were real workshops,
three of them, really.
Poetry.
Fiction (cross-writing)
and one of the professors here
gave a workshop,
really dealing with word choice.

All of these were lovely.
We got an hour of writing time
in the nifty and musty old library,
of which there are lots of nooks
and odd spaces to cram into
and write.

Which I did, I found a
little shelf-thing and sat
there all cozy and secluded
and proceeded to crank out
five decent pieces,
some better than others.

Five is more than I've written
in quite a while it feels like.
I am here to write and talk about
writing, so I will. I will write
(with pen and paper!!!!!).
I will speak (even very softyl!!!).

Although, despite the good,
I cannot sleep.
It'll go like this all week
and I will be exhausted every day.
I have been so sleepy all day long,
and my roommate succumbed and
is taking a nap. But I simply
cannot sleep.

Perhaps the insomnia will
birth good, hearty poems.
Perhaps it'll be freeing.

I'm trying to remain optimistic here,
I love the work, I love the campus,
I even really like some of the people!
But I am damn lonely and tired.

And I'll get fat because
there are chocolate chip cookies at
like, every meal. And who cannot resist
those ommy-nom delicious things?

There is a reading tonight,
I am excited.
But first, socializing at dinner.
Because that is certainly my forte.

Little Birds

Since I can, I'll blog while I''m away.
There is nothing better to do at this moment,
really. There are like five of us just kind
of hanging around in the dorm lounge
on the computers.

There are thirty girls here,
which is too many.
But it's alright.
I am getting over my paranoia,
but it still seems daunting that
I will not be home for a week.
It's a little awkward here,
sort of quiet.

I have a really swell roommate,
her name is Sarah and
she came in wearing a flower
crown, so I sort of knew I would like her.
And then we talked about music,
and I have determined that
she's awesome.

I'm still getting used to
this whole 'communal'
thing, though.
Communities just are not
my type.
Like communal bathroom and showers,
communal eating.

I enjoy my solitude, thank you very much.
(Which also makes things difficult).

Our t-shirts have a Vonngut quote on them!
Gah! "So it goes..."
and on the back "Everything was beautiful and
nothing hurt".

Too much Slaughterhouse!

I'm just rambling,
trying to look busy, I guess.
Like I am doing important things.
Really, I am just hungry.

I have already written my
homework assignment,
a poem on fear,
or what scares you.

I wrote about the sky
and the sea,
that it scares me to think
they may break,
the vulnerability of things.
To be cast away from the
only place I belong: the sea.

I will probably post them on my
other blog later.

So la la la,
life is boring right now
I am going to eat and read
Gertude Stein.

Your Heart is an Empty Room

Today marks the beginning
of a week-long adventure.


An adventure like
none other that I have experienced
thus far in my life.


New people,
new places,
new things to learn.


People who write.
People who read.


I am excited.
I figure I should be anxious,
but I am not really so much at all.


I will have a roommate,
we will be awesome.


And the best part is,
nobody there
knows each other.


Which makes it great.
No predispositions.
Just fun and writing
and stuff.


And adventure.


I am ready for an adventure.


I am ready for this.


Denison,
here I come!

Team

Just had an incredibly
emotionally draining 
hour session in another
little office.


But this guy was 
sort of old and nice,
funny.
He looked Persian
and had an accent,
and many nice anecdotes
and metaphors.


Have this photo of
kitties:

Emit Remus

Best, pretty much.

I feel weird- sometimes I realize what I have been through (don't scoff or whatever, it may not be much, but it's enough) and I realize how much I have changed. I don't know if it comes off as such, but I'm different. I'm more of a realist these days. I am more level-headed, less excitable, I do not care much about what other people think. My outlook on life has changed. My mind has changed. I am someone I wasn't a year ago, or even six months ago. I realize the bridges I've burned, the decisions I've made, and the things I have done. Things I wouldn't have considered at another time. I am easily annoyed. I am still a perfectionist. I take medication daily- I wouldn't have ever thought I would do that to myself. But you realize, curled in one bed or another, in your home or in a hospital- you realize that things have changed. That they are not good; that it isn't all your own fault. You realize you want to feel better. And that's when things happen and somehow medication came to be a factor. The insomnia is a factor as well, as unwanted as it is. Sometimes it just hits me- how incredibly low I felt. I haven't felt that way in a month- I am very glad for that. I guess it makes me stronger to realize that I can survive what I did. And yes, I say 'survive', because it truly is a matter of surviving. There have been days when getting out of my bed was an agonizing victory. You cannot understand until you've been there. I didn't understand what it meant to be depressed until January. Then I understood. I get it now, I live it. But I have come to terms with it, somedays. 

Sorry for another depression rant, they just come out sometimes. 

Bathtub Carp

That goddamned 
fish swam in the tub,
still. Leaving a grossly
green scum-ring around the 
waterline. Sick,
she thought. The fish
opened and closed its mouth
rhythmically, mockingly
pretty much.


She looked at this 
prehistoric thing
floating in her bathtub.
Like some fucking
Japanese painting
or something. She flicked
her cigarette ash at the fish,
who did not move.
But opened his mouth and closed it again.


The yellow light in the bathroom
made the fish look a pukey color,
and she told him so, 
to get a ruse from him.
"Hey puke fish, yeah. Puke fish,
what the hell you doin?"


No response.


"Eh, ok. Cigarette, then? 
You smoke, puke fish?"


She flicked more ashes his way.
The fish wavered and sucked at
the water's surface. The 
tap water tension release his fish lips
to the air, where an empty sound 
came from. 


"What the fuck!?" She stepped back and
frowned. "Well, alright then."


And she skimmed her hands
along the top of the water,
not quite breaking it open,
just pressing the surface.


The fish did not seem 
surprised, nor amused.
He was a subtle being 
who did not startle easy.


Her fingers plunged deeper,
grazing his green-y (but really golden)
scales. She expected his eyes to 
get bigger, his lips to stop moving,
but nothing happened.


His scales were not slimy,
but just ridged and cool.
She petted him like a dog.
The carp-fish sat still,
moving his big mouth
open close, open close.


He was making words for her.
Her cigarette burnt out but she didn't notice,
just continued looking at this 
creature in the tub. Big and
languid, fins flowing behind him.
Regal, yeah, that's it, she thought.


"Where'd you come from,
puke-fish?" Her voice had lost an
edge, she let go of her flimsy
pretexts about the swimming pukey
fish. 


He had come from an Asian market,
but he couldn't tell her this secret.
It would be to give away his history.
A history of crimson and gold,
his symbolism of wealth.


She kept running her hand
along the luminescent scales,
gentle gentle and smooth.
His eyes looked where they
could, didn't make an effort to 
move or see her. 
But he knew she was there,
above him, beyond the water.
His gills pumped tap water
and he was tired.


She was disconcerted by his 
languorous body, his stillness. 
She added more water,
checking the temperature
like you check a baby's bottle,
her clunky wrist underneath the faucet,
she spoke to him:
"Is this ok, puke-fish? You looked a little
bored, more water to move in, alright?"


The roaring sound startled him
and he darted to the other end of the 
tub, swishing his fins and watching the 
bubbles. 


She turned to faucet off,
and leaned over the tub's
edge. Her chin resting on
the ledge, she watched him
move, and she knew what he was.


She had seen a very old
book of fairytales in her youth.
New York Public Library,
1983. A faded red
book with worn binding and stains.
The title was in Chinese,
but the stories had translations.


"You're a little prince, 
aren't you, fish?"
She whispered, eyes widened,
"I've seen those paintings,
you're a great big thing, 
in the River Love, 
golden scales flashing.
You need a princess, right?"


The story in the book
had shown, in beautiful
gold-edged illustrations,
a long, wide river,
The River Love, 
with great swelling carp
inside, and these
beings pleaded with girls
doing laundry on the banks
that they were princes-
their great mouths open
close, open close. 


The fish in the tub
opened and shut his
great wide lips.
He remembered
the River Love.


She stared,
her nose now on the ledge,
half her face
disappeared behind
the bath. 
"I should kiss you,
puke-fish."


Open close, open close
went his mouth.


She reached both hands
into the cold
and lifted the flopping,
hulking river beast 
from the water,
his tail splishing water across the
room. 


She leaned in and
planted a weak kiss
onto the golden lips
of the bathtub carp.

Colours

Kiss me,
kiss me.


I just need
you to know
that I love you,
so much.


Let me kiss
your pale face
and arms and body
and lie in the grass
with you. 


Lie in bed with you
with the windows all
open in the night,
the sounds of cars
passing on the street
below us. 


Let me sing to you
and cook you
things.
Let me read the paper
to you in the morning.


I want to lie
with my head in your lap
and we could watch 
It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
together
and laugh and laugh.


I'd straighten your
tie in the mornings
and you'd kiss my nose
before you left.


Or instead of
this cute fantasy
we could have something
cheap and seedy, instead.


I guess it doesn't matter,
but to be close to you
would intoxicate me so.


Anything to be by your side.

The Museum

I have been prose-y lately, so have more:

It frightened her, the audacity
he had of reaching out
and touching the painting.
The sign which said, pretentiously,
"Please do not touch the artwork"
apparently did not apply to him.


She slapped his hand away before
she realized what she was doing.
Being a grown man, he should have been
aware of this being problematic.
His fingers lingered on canvas
as he turned to her, and she stood
open-mouthed and bird-like a foot away.


"What's wrong?" he was in a state
of oblivion. She didn't make sounds,
but pointed to the sign blatantly.
His face illuminated in realization,
but he did not move his hands.


Both hands. On the canvas.
In the middle of a museum.
Absurd.


She was completely unawares
as to what she ought to do.
Did he suddenly have amnesia?
A confusion roiled in her ribcage
which rendered her nearly catatonic
so long as he gently ran his hands along
the raised lines and impressionistic
flower fields.


He seemed content, not alarmed or
criminal. It was simply the urge
to touch this body of work.
He felt it was ok, this intimacy
with a great piece of art's history.
A building block towards modernity.


He knew the sign was there, 
ever-imposing its harsh law
in the rooms of white walls.
But nobody was in here,
in the far reaches
of a nearly deserted art museum. 
It was raining outside
and he could hear it on the roof.


Plink plink, and it kept the
people inside their houses,
away from the paintings.


She was still standing in
utter confusion and pain
beside him.


"Please stop. Why are you touching it?
You oughtn't do that, dear."
Her voice was tremulous. Her hands moved
to catch his.


He nearly laughed.
"Why shouldn't I touch this?
It is a priceless work of art
that hasn't felt any love for years.
I feel it deserves to be touched.
It is beautiful. I want to 
understand its beauty.
I want it to know it is valuable,
and that I love it dearly."


His words echoed softly against
the rain outside, and the high
white walls. He sounded
ridiculous he realized in hindsight,
but despite that, he also told the truth.


"I am in love with this painting,
and it should know."


He let his hands fall to his sides
as she looked at him with raised eyebrows
and a dour mouth.


They walked through the
rest of the halls without 
further incident.


[prose]