If you want to write you have to cut them off. You have to crack a window in a room where no one else will find you and you have to learn how to expose your soul while at the same time disappear completely. You have to understand how to make love entirely inside your mind, feel her softness as it parts for you, blinds you, envelopes you. How will you approach? How will you ask the ask and see the thing through? As the cool air sifts in over the windowpane, it causes your skin to tingle, bare only at the wrists, ankles, and face. This is how we let the world in, in small waves swallowed slow. I have seen a lot this year, yearned perhaps for too much but I think that’s just the way I’m put together and I’ve long since stopped apologizing. On this final day of a made up expression of time, I don’t feel much like reflecting. I do that every day of my life, it is exhausting. The trees are still black as fresh tar in their stoic silence, the sky is still a dirty kind of white. What do we set about trying to discover when we writers try to write? Is it all just an attempt or do we ever get to it? To where we think we need to go with words, with our incessant thinking. Observing. Mutilating. You create such elegant imagery when you tell me about a thing, the colors of the words you choose, the soft curves and jagged edges of the stories you tell with such incredible ease, grace, fire. As I listen to you, watching your mouth, your fine hands, my eyes are drowsy from champagne and firelight. Somewhere inside of you the universe is spinning about its endless sticky web, I can feel it in you, moving. Please, oh please, entrap me, bind me up and keep me. I’d like to be yours for a while. I’d like to be a succulent dreamy thing like you. Glistening. Aching. Prismatic. I’m reading Bukowski because I have all of his works and am taken by many of them, some will spit on this. But there was in him a way of nailing loneliness to a barren wall like a naked crucifix that strikes me as beautifully perverse. I hate the way it feels. I want it all over and inside of me. I want the way it hurts as the currents tear through me. I read it on repeat at the end of a year that is any year that is a string of heartbeats falling soundless upon sweet grass.
the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream
more haters than lovers.
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.
meanwhile I look at young girls
flowers of chance.
there must be a way.
surely there must be a way that we
have not yet