Saturday, December 26, 2009

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Saturday, December 5, 2009

pilot light

I’ve been wrecked by Amelia Earhart. When she’s not around, I nuzzle the fuzz on the inside of her leather cap’s ear flaps, finger the soft folds of her tan aviator’s jacket. When she nonchalantly breezes through the room, slings her jacket over her shoulder, matador-like, I thrill to the fact that my fingerprints, the tiniest morsels of my skin, travel with her.

She always knows exactly where she is. I only know by my proximity to her. To Amelia’s left. To her right. 5,000 miles away. Beyond my grasp. Right now, she’s doing something with a map and a compass at the table, sipping her coffee. Now she’s calculating something on its edge. Now she’s talking out loud, and I pretend that she’s talking to me when she mutters, but I know her sweet nothings are just for the sky, something big, something beautiful, something that makes her free and brave and strong. Something that makes her fly. I’m nothing she even sees, with skin barely the color of sand, eyes the color of dirt in the rain. I’m hardly even here.

When I dab plane fuel behind my ears, she sighs the sweetest sound, a dove’s coo, breeze through spring branches on a warm night. She swoons slightly, she stirs, she looks up at me. And she grabs her cap and jacket. The air is calling her. That’s what she wants. That’s where she’s going. I know how it feels to want like that, to be pulled, torn apart, incapable of doing anything but that thing that is calling to you. It’s how I feel about her.

It’s why I’ve painted myself the idyllic blue of the clearest sky, bought clothes that are the shiniest silver of the fanciest planes, dyed my hair the serene dark of midnight skies. And I’m still not close enough to what she wants. I’m still not good enough for her. I’m only good when I’m near her. She’s the only thing that makes me feel good.

When her I hear propeller stutter overhead, I run outside to watch her soar, feel the sudden cold of her plane’s shadow pass over and through me. When I reach my fist up to the sky, stretch my fingers up, it’s like I can almost touch her, even when my hand is empty. From that high up, I can almost believe she’s smiling down, waving, seeing me see her, loving the reflection, seeing herself soaring over me. She’s never more beautiful than when she’s completely gone.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Monday, November 30, 2009

"What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die."

-Charles Bukowski

Sunday, November 29, 2009

yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
i thought it was there for good so I never tried.

— leonard cohen, famous blue raincoat

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Monday, November 23, 2009

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Friday, November 20, 2009

"And then we suddenly meditate, on the sidewalk we saw two boys cuddled together, they were tiny and Siamese, like little potatoes rolling out of the fire. They were grown together at the gaps between their teeth, grown together at their matchstick shoulders, at their squab bellies, they were holding a great ball, they had hats, they had tiny red hands, little pink flame tongues that trailed behind them like flags, flags of a pink state, the kingdom of colored pencils, and that larger one sang: I love you friend! They wafted a trail behind them, and we breathed that pink air and knew that that doesn't happen every day. Two little deities strolling down the sidewalk, gap toothed newlyweds, we should erect a shrine in that place, and all the prayers raised here, applications submitted, wishes expressed would be fulfilled. The little laughing God would fulfill them, playing with his wooden beard, he'd coat his cracked lips with Nivea cream, he'd mend all the scratches with Scotch tape and school glue."

***************** Snow white and Russian red

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

"Fuck you. Fuck your boyfriend. Fuck your boyfriend’s ex girlfriend. Fuck his ex girlfriend’s best friend. Fuck her best friend’s sister. Fuck anyone that has anything to do with you."

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Monday, November 16, 2009