and I could not touch it
My head was still spinning from
the champagne mixed with the gin.
There were sparklers and at that moment
the alcohol reached my elbows.
All I wanted was to sit on a long subway ride
and read a book at 3 am, the light still popping
from a thin piece of strong wire.
Leaving is not what scares me but the fact
we have a fridge filled with jars of things.
The subway had stalled beneath the water,
we were bending bark some moments ago.
And so we left to build forests.
I climbed a tree to see the world.
Below I gaze into memories of
the river current that met the
ocean current in a corner of earth
nobody I know has ever been or will
ever mostly go. And how do I tell people?
I haven’t written in enough time.
the words are straight forward.
I had lost my words.
The books I read are everywhere.
There is the American man in Saudia Arabia
hunting wolves. There were the two brothers
from India, in Cambridge, and a gypsy from
Czechoslovakia. A tech company in California.
The woman hiking alone a few states over.
The poems begin after, pouring out on an
illuminated screen I could not recall what
I wanted to speak to. They were gone like
calluses on a musician’s fingers who lost
his sight. It happened just in time for us to
drive over the bridge where we crossed a
state border that made all the difference.
I had almost called to tell you, I had almost
yelled to turn around.
The way you make coffee is important.
The way you stare with your hands is
studied like most art: it is symbols.
The cold weather took my breath after
five minutes outside and was a lesson
in invincibility. We stay hopeful. Please,
do not break freely.
It had been a walk at two in the afternoon
when you can feel the sun already wanting to set.
The coldness was damp and the light muted like
a trumpet being played in private.
Perhaps we see the city through one large piece of frosted glass.
I cannot see quite in so I am unsure which way is east.
A beautiful chaos, something was always different.
But I could not name it.
And I could not touch it.
an email I wrote to myself via futureme.org back in 2010…..#yolo
In a week you are moving to College Park to intern at the Smithsonian. What happened with that? Are you still in DC? Do you have a job?
Have you traveled? New England is your love. Don’t forget about Africa. You need to go back. It’s okay if you haven’t yet, but start making plans.
Have you visited Julie in St. Vincent?
Do you have a boyfriend?
I hope you are happy and healthy. Are Jim and Kati engaged? Are you content? Are you confident?
You are beautiful. What’s your hair like?
All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.
obsessed with patagonia (and baby black bears).
“The gap between men and women in ski jumping is so small, you can’t believe it,” Bernardi told me. “Every year, with girls like Sarah, the girls are flying better, better, better.” Today, he said, there might not actually be another sport in which, at the superelite level, the differences in male and female capability are so minimal. “Maybe there is something with horses? Equestre? But even there it is half the horse.”
Most people would trade everything they know, everyone they know- they’d trade it all to know they’ve been seen, and acknowledged, that they might even be remembered. We all know the world is too big for us to be significant. So all we have is the hope of being seen, or heard, even for a moment.
—― Dave Eggers, The Circle
because my skin is hungry for it
they know no words:
they are barely in the 7th grade
and have trouble with conspiracy
elation, regrettably. I am not sure
when definitions stick to a child’s
mind; I memorized dictionaries
with knee pads and rollerblades.
orion’s belt above me but the
moon underneath my heels.
we welcome pavement.
I do not hear much of anything
because I’ve wrapped your guitar
strings around my waist. play me
quietly, underground, we are invisible
but I am above roots. I am the one now
breathing on the cement sidewalk
that curves around thinning grass.
we sometimes go to your grave on Saturdays.
I hold my ears unable to listen to the idle
traffic beyond the hill, the subway even further.
the trees always bend like puppets without strings.
I feel little between the branches.
my radiator cracks at 4am every morning like hard rain against tin and I am awake, alive and listening. the cracks are not notes but I take them to measures, they turn to water and I wash my body with a pretty melody.
I do not sleep because there is too much to see. Last Sunday leaves fell next to my window and I swear it’s snow. And then it does snow, because my skin is hungry for it, for everything. Like a child I know little words to speak, I am simply enamored by stars. And I love it, for I have loved everything. I swear to you I have loved it all.