And this is how we danced: with our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August
turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers
sweeping though my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned
into heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart
there are two headless people building a burning house.
There was always the shotgun above the fireplace.
Always another hour to kill—only to beg some god
to give it back. If not the attic, the car. If not the car,
the dream. If not the boy, his clothes. If not alive,
put down the phone. Because the year is a distance
we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say: this is how
we danced: alone in sleeping bodies. Which is to say:
This is how we loved: a knife on the tongue turning
into a tongue.
(some notes from an acid trip)
rock sunlight my hand feels like a stone / sun. helicopter. sun in my hair wind / come, come! come down over here / human conflict an inevitable thing / time like honey / a small child, i’m king of the castle!! echoing / imagine you’re in a giant’s playground / our shadows across the grass a film for ants / we give everything a name so we can teach it to others / octaves / “i will take the unspeakable and put it into words and make it dance” / orbits … invisible glass between us and world / imagine if you could hear every sound in the world / everything was exactly as it was meant to be / why do humans want to try hurting every other human so much / red balloon … we’re all explorers / torturing others as a way to get as close to death as possible / cymbals! / half-finished thoughts, bodies half-sun / isn’t everything potential energy / bottom of a swimming pool sex voice / the faster you go in space the slower you go in time / the tree is a feather is everything i’ve ever seen … old and new, alien and home … / little girl in red / time slowing down to the speed of a song / the speed of song / the purpose of life is to share / everything with a pulse / we are vessels of thought for each other / a skewer thru his arm / there is so much space / invented realities, imperfections in the glass / alice in wonderland just an acid trip / tree branches a cross-section of the brain, sprouting / can never experience things exactly as another human would / pink aura shoreline glasses violet apricot blueberry / the sun doesn’t actually move / humans personifying everything, the spirit of things, a sun with sunglasses / softest light, waves rush up .. patterns .. cells .. rhythms like the visualiser effect in windows media player / sound waves and real waves, everything alive and pulsing / the groan of the wharf like a sad whale sound / vibrations in the water like criss-cross apple pie / atoms of light, wind playing with the water like children / light travelling / water travelling / everything in its own journey / elements talking to each other .. hush hush .. slosh hush / carving the earth / landscaping is art for nature / man not dominating nature but just interacting with it / pulse / three moons / xeno - new york - suspended passing moment / inside, blurred faces foggy, people moving behind opera house glass like candle wicks, distant hum of life / throbbing / cutlery clashing / metal on porcelain plates / hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere far below / i’m not myself / in the bathroom forgot how to wash my hands / humans just blobs of sound and movement / vacuum sound growing stronger over the noise of the rest / old couple passing me just rubbing up against my reality i’m so dissociated right now / rubbing my lip it feels like i’m touching someone else / light trailing off everyone / colours swirling / touching the opera house / acknowledge human existence / holy fractals, colours, just fractals of colour and sound and movement / cars are so beautiful .. was there a road before / light particles moving throbbing, slow motion / imagine if your shadow talked to you … / all music should be listened to in the dark / laundry-line in a children’s playground / fuzzy, fuzzy / bagpipes at a funeral / wind hair spines upon the paper / everyone is just on their own path in the universe / trees a mass of dark clouds / resentment is soft and quiet, is ancient and stewed / machine-gun fireworks / architecture of concert halls / high hopes
This is such an entirely unnecessary message. You love my writing but I haven’t felt any of it so it doesn’t mean anything? Can people write about witches and wizards and orcs and vampires and ghosts? Have they known any of those things? Does that mean you can’t enjoy fictional universes either because damn those fake writers for never exorcising a demon? Furthermore, how do you know what I have and have not been through? You need to dispel the idea that I share every aspect of my life on this blog, trust me, I don’t.
annie and henry speak between the wooden fence that divides our yards. annie’s hands are painted fans she slips between the slats, pressing a finger to henry’s eyebrow gently. sometimes i see nana watching them while she washes dishes in the kitchen. to me, it seems like annie is sneaking around, but nana knows. and annie wouldn’t think to tell me, but i’ve heard her talk with henry behind closed doors. my ear against the door, quiet, and afraid, and unaware of what love is. i try to piece together what love is on my own: a bent spoon, magazine collage, annotated book, sticky notes, and bitten pencils. beneath my bed, i hoard a collection of small objects inside a shoe box. i am a cartographer, i think, mapping love in landmarks with red and blue stains across my hands.
there are stains on annie’s hands when she pulls away from henry and, for a moment, they look at each other, sprouting mountain chains and rivers, falling from their mouths, that snake across taut bellies, rigid backs, around thin wrists. she says to henry, we must not forget. she says to henry, i’m sorry. she says to henry, i only have my empty hands.