New sheets, or, A decry for the lousy days that could be fixed.
He wondered to himself sometimes:
“Not all things come in two’s.”
“Pineapples are lonely
Quilts never double.
The brightest lamp only needs one plug.”
And he tried to feel better about the fact that
maybe being singular in self wasn’t
so bad as the wind made it out to be.
He had no problem with the sun.
It shored its rays against a tepid atmosphere
that supported the most extraordinary of colors
that moved and danced and flaunted with ease.
Still, no celestial body competed for its complete and total influence.
Even the moon simply reflected its light.
He fell in love
with the strangers on the bus and on the train.
They were perfect and limitless and unreachable so
he had nothing else to do but
He fell in love
as a necessity. He knew he needed to feel
warmth, or the slender draw of poisons shadowed would call to him.
He was amazed
by the unexpected encounters in his life
that convinced him
he had all the luck in the world
to help his crooked smile and unfeathered wings.
He pretended to preen his
magnificent down that sank steadily in his sleepy daydream mind.
"One of these days"
he stated in black box whispers,
“I’ll look over and see
a hand vined in mine,
and I’ll know I’m squinting
from the shine in my eyes.”
as pale fabric clung to his
cold forearms and a sheet deflated around his body.
One of these days…
I’ll end up alone.
I looked up at the night sky once,
when it was pale with indigo and milk light
and I noticed that sometimes
a flustered bulb
would go out, careening across
an excitement that demanded
but instead fell silently
with a gust of exasperation and
How beautiful it would be, to be seen in such intensity.
But then the night returned, focus
burned itself out into
a foggy glass.
The pinhole bone structure of the night
draped itself on
and wishes undiscovered.
A million, billion twilight eyes,
watching me watch them,
resting on the wall of the earth
looking into a room of stars and galaxies.
"Oh, the possibilities I’ve killed simply by filling this page."
Me and mine, or, you and yours, or, that and theirs.
I poured the dregs of my sleep into my coffee
and trembled in disgust
at the sweet, lurid aroma that awoke.
The sky was earthen silt and tawny with that predawn light that only
occurs in sunrises and watercolor washcups.
I could see my dreams lifting to the top in pale clouds fluffed by their sudden release from the gravity of recollection.
I took the sun, peaking over the ridge of the horizon, and I shook some rays out over my breakfast.
I tried to put it back
where it was but I missed in my daze
and it, now unfiltered,
started to rise
I had doomed the world to light.
Wringing the stale thoughts from my eyebrows and jaws,
I thought of
You, and you, and you, and you
but never them
because I didn’t want to ruin my morning.
I roped off my oceans with fish weight eyelids
Something I’ll always regret.
I wrote in a bathroom once:
"And there wasn’t much to do."
As I washed my hands and fixed my hair,
And skipped my mind over other’s shit proverbs,
And I admired their work,
And I shook the outside air from my lungs,
And I erased the day,
And I kissed her in my neon musings,
And I straightened my shoes,
And I closed my eyes,
And I continued my day…
I had seen something similar to this a year or so back but I had always been so disappointed in the size of it, so I decided to make something a little bigger. It’s simple, but that’s alright.
I thought of you once,
when the sun was up.
I couldn’t find you.
It was too light.
The reflections too crisp.
Too many colors had come out
So I waited until nightfall
in the park of my mind
and found you,
A pale wide smile in a scratch of stars.
Beer for a friend.
I could feel the beer
creep up my spine.
It was good.
Nice. Sweet, but crisp. Brown sugar sifted into my back.
"Hey! Why don’t you just leave me alone?"
There was a tree next door that reminded me of home.
So I drank to it.
"Where’s the swing?"
And I remembered
We never put one up either.
I kissed rims and lips and toes and splinters and that sunset wind that indicates the cold to come.
My beer was getting warm.
"Hey! What’d you do that for?"
As the body emptied and fresh leaves
Wilted without the sun.
A kiss of death, that shadow.
"I never liked you anyways."
Cradling the vanquished bottle between naked fingers and a compacted-earth grip as I sobbed it into a bin.
I pulled another,
from that cardboard hospital I kept in the fridge when the sun,
decided to shine,
and when it died, too.
Top: Christopher Willits
Bottom: Some dude who is part of Klingande.
Saw Klingande at the Independent this Friday. Super fun and great upbeat music. The saxophone was a little weird but that’s tropical house?
Then saw Christopher Willits on Saturday and it was one of the coolest things I’ve been to. Chill ambient set by Eskmo, Tycho played for half a song (lol) and then Willits debuted his new album and some camera work he’d been compiling. Really cool stuff.
My roommate is growing sunflowers and they just bloomed.