it pulls me in like a thick wood: the way you smelled against the pine. it cuts against the incense swirling, which pretends location next to the bed. you are playing a piano on my back. you take the cold beer bottle and run it up my spine. every movement is like ringing a dirty sponge with week-old wet water. I am unsure what what is biology and what is an emotion, but I do this for hours with quiet strength. lift and twist.//you were a science crush where we explored the physics of music: sound as a longitude wave, forced vibration, natural frequency. we did the math to understand the music. six years later my chin is buried in your shoulder blade. once it was the speed of sound in air, now I simply count each breath. once it was tangled, useless words, now it’s just an instrumental break.//there is curvature in the rib of horizon; sometimes I climb buildings early in the morning. sometimes the coffee filter breaks. I watch its grinds move down to the mug all too fast. perhaps the molecules flew too quickly between each collision. I pick the mushrooms from the quiche and stand quietly in the kitchen. I sit to meditate. I run circles around the fifth.//the car was full of empty gatorade bottles. it was only two IPAs. it was only six years later. they ended up in redhook with hands like machines. what else should she expect taking the G on a sunday? there was a footbridge, there was a quiet “no.” there is an equation for this type situation, is what you would say. everything we feel can be solved by the concept of equivalence, or by finding Y, or dividing desire by tenacity.//we wrote it on paper with fine lead, and we caught up with the sunrise.
magnolia trees once budding on the green
looking positively enflamed but dashed by cold
finally, outside my window cats cry in the corridor
before six, again I am up playing with words.
semiotics, syntax, denotation to find the literal
meaning it is not a) or b) but none of the above.
I touched buttons on a screen…
in my real life I walk into fake scenarios:
these are not my hands but I held corn and
heirloom tomatoes. I put them back,
we wrote on scarves, crocheted with ink,
there is a way to translate the JMZ without
worry, we can turn apartments into houses,
cities into homes, letters into words
that tell how to melt water.
we can end things. Begin new things.
the trees will bud again each spring
science. it is the deconstructed
over written on my hands.
“The difference with racing an Ironman was that the distance introduced a completely foreign pain. An emotional fatigue creeps up on you and, over time, weighs you down slowly. When you add this to a fatiguing body, the cocktail of pain is so horrible that it exposes any weakness in your character. You simply cannot train hard enough to beat this. It requires a completely cerebral approach to conquer.
“Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in “sadness,” “joy,” or “regret.” Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions..”
To think it was pouring snow in July I tell you, I told her what I thought about the long green dress that took twenty minutes to steam, how I tried meditating next to the broken fan still catching my breath from the track where we ran 300’s with little recovery. Around and around we go
they did not serve dinner until 8:30 and the gin went straight to our heads. The confusion went straight to our hips. He said something about the tattoo, again, and I told him I want two more over the course of my life.
I stopped regretting things I prefer not to have done (long bike rides, long letters). I stopped regretting the weather and the tequila, I walked in the back of the bar expecting to see you after three years near the pull-out when you were almost in love. I stood on that corner where we said goodbye outside of the car for a long while while the engine buzzed.
It was dark on the edge of Lorimer and Richardson. I could not decipher the room we made in spring and if we can walk through it with the walls towering like that. I could not tell the women apart in my dreams.
My horoscope tells me: August. I wait I wait I wait. We could not pull away and I swear I would have carried you as far as the stars.
To think it is July and pouring snow. Like the heartbreak of birds slice the ocean ice like glass: the boat will go east and yes, we will break the current.
"Handwriting allows for more self-expression. I found I could give words a certain flourish to mimic the intonation of spoken language. Expressing myself via handwriting could also give the illusion of real-time presence. One friend told me, “it’s like you’re here with us!”