Words
Word Doodles
i wrote a poem while staring at a flower pot perched precariously on a ledge in the west village:
auburn clay caked in dirt.
sensitive, and fragile,
but use me as you must.
often times,
abandoned.
oh but when i am full,
i live for the moments where i protect
you.
where i carry your roots so close to my skin. how wonderful,
if even for a mere moment,
to have something so beautiful
to hold. my flower.
my elegant orchid, my everlasting lily, my herb garden left unattended, for far too long. but even you,
my love,
come and go.
i have grown so used
to the death of love.
i am an accessory. something to keep you upright when you’ve grown old and wilted.
a simple piece
of something
far more beautiful
than i will ever be.
wednesday night 3am scribbles n doodles:
life turned, pages in a book; chapters, bookmarks, highlights, notes. characters and introductions, commas and endings, the twists that just came with it. ‘new york, new york’, he began thinking, ‘what a wild place for an anxious mind’. he was lost in thought. thinking about everyone, thinking about how we were all just a little bit crazy. just a slice. thinking about wandering around, listening, watching, witnessing the shows of strength, of normality, of hollywood-esque virtue. but damn. that was all only merely a posture. a way for everyone to hold their heads up tall and fit themselves in. for beneath the surface, you’d find the honest mess that everyone had buried. the faults, the issues, the insecurities. you would find that everyone is trying so desperately to conform, to please, to appease. deep down youd find a slim glimmer of the truth. a deranged sense of humor, maybe, or a stack of unanswered questions that just kept piling up, or perhaps some family bullshit, or friends, or maybe a wave of ridicule making its way back from calendars ago. the trouble with conformity, the places where we grow up and reach for, is that we try to expel this formative mess. the structurally sound yet broken, the carvings, the tricky self-realizations that led us to the ‘grown-up’ part. it's those little things, its our rush to abandon and ignore those that push us towards a common mold that make us... us. perhaps it’s not something that we have to understand. maybe that malicious mess of heartache and pain in the end truly made you, you. so the next time you look at yourself in the mirror be honest with whoever and whatever it is you see staring back. cry, laugh, smile - fucking emote. be present and be you. why? because you are words beyond beautiful. no, not because of some bullshit common webster dictionary definition but because there is truly nothing else in the world like you. you are fleeting, you are different, and fleeting will forever be far more beautiful than common, and standing out will always hold much more than fitting in.
peach pie
life is a lot like a pie.
it’s all a matter of ingredients to be fed upon. used.
a peach pie. but i
like the word cobbler better.
c-o-b-b-l-e-r.
all pretty and woven together and crispy. at times,
devoured instantaneously.
meant to be savored but drunk escapades to the kitchen... never stood a chance.
those 3am, buzzed and lonely cravings.
grape juice stains on the counter top.
the toxic
green glow of light
from the time stamp on the microwave.
the monotonous hum of the refrigerator.
a dish
that was once so perfect
now sits
merely crumbs,
gathering like dust.
a drunkenly delicious love affair.
i’m used to it.
The Process of Forgetting
I picture you sitting there, in your living room, surrounded by a watered down version of a former life: hospital bed; wheelchair; an aide busies herself in the kitchen reheating something soft to eat. Swallowing has been forgotten. Classical music emanates from an FM radio perched on the piano bench. Do you remember you used to play? You held ‘The World On A String’. The sticky residue of an earlier meal clings to a bottom lip. Alive, yet lifeless, like a marionette with tangled strings.
I wonder if there is a part of you that still remembers... drawing chalk murals on the patio; the toy soldiers crafted from clay, standing at attention from the kitchen table; searching for buried treasure in the backyard. Do you remember I mercilessly teased the neighbor’s dog?
Do you remember the sea?
Do you sense your breath (what do you feel?),
your body,
your skin?
I stand at the shoreline of my childhood home. Thoughts of you always come while staring toward the sea. The tide begins to rise underneath the soles of my feet. I stand there, watching hermit crabs scurry across the soft, wet sand. I wiggle my toes. They scatter, fragile, naked bodies retreat to their homes to protect them from the intrusion.
Where do you go to find comfort when you can no longer remember home; when these sea salt remedies no longer bear any weight?
My mind wanders, and I start to cry.