you were a child, crawling on your knees towards it.
we like to watch you laughing.
and you have this great way you crinkle your nose when you’re thinking too hard.
i see the entire galaxy you’ve got spinning
right behind your head
it’s so close to chaos
so close to spinning right out of control
and i think you’ve been there before
was it terrifying?
did you see the eyesores of god?
did he laugh when you asked to come down?
would you ever go again?
it’s okay if you’re afraid. i was too. and i haven’t been to the black lava rock sand that sifts at the very bottom of the ocean. if you went any further,
do you think the core of the earth would swallow you whole?
we only want to be swallowed,
and kept warm in the stomachs of our lovers.
you’re the kind of person people want to wrap up in their childhood memories.
sometimes i think you look at the sky and see
all the puffs of smoke
nicotine addicts exhaled with their dreams
i think you lay your head on your hands
and don’t want sleep
but explanations for the lifetimes you know exist in the whites of your nail beds
you are such an exceptional human being
someone ought to tell you every day, just once, via
carrier pigeon.
so even if you forget to leave your window open,
the bird shit will be resting on the sill as a reminder.
you make me never want to be catty again. you make me want to read hundreds of books, just so i could reiterate how they made me think of you. you make me want to paint portraits of angel fish and porch railings. you make me want to laugh and cry and sing eighteenth century operettas no one can remember the libretto to.
i don’t love you.
i fear for you. and wonder if stitching enough parachutes together would cushion your fall.
was it terrifying?
did you see the eyesores of god?
did he laugh when you asked to come down?
would you ever go again?
i can’t breathe until you’re resting here with me.
madeline and i recently discovered that all of roswell is on instant queue. end, life. begin, marathon of terrible late 90’s alien show. the acting does not get better. rather, worse. and worse becomes better. because you’ve accepted the terrible acting as the norm. god, roswell was so good. why, oh why, did it get cancelled?!
sophomore boards are on tuesday. i’m so excited. monologue, sasha from ivanov. “oh, how boring, boring, boring!” i’m obsessed with her. genuinely. she’s such a beautiful character. scene, proof with my dearest madeline smith. wook at dis widdle david auburn scene! wook at dis widdle! joyful is a good word for this moment.
instead of hanging with the dads together, we opted to do full facials. first, wash. then, baking soda scrub. then, steam bath with towel. so warm. so russian. then, aztec healing clay. what it heals, i’ll never know. it just itches and makes your skin pulse and looks green so it must be good for you. lastly, wash and moisturize. mmmmmmm. i love girly skin things.
none of this is important. sometimes it’s just nice to document the ordinary.
i mean, look at ulysses. all joyce did was take a day in the life and make it epic.
because every day just might beautiful. if you let it. if the planets align. if you see a pretty boy and smile inside your belly down to your toes.
i love a lazy sunday.
i got! rhythm. i got! music. i got! my gal.
so you want to be an artist?
i can help you there, young man.
let’s have a look at you.
it’s good you’re thin. it’s good you’re fatigued. it’s good you’re somewhat gray in pallor and blue in mind. let’s keep that in mind.
so you want to recreate the world?
because there’s a problem. we’ve identified that. you think it’s broken. i think it’s just a little off-kilter. but this isn’t about me. it’s about you, and what you think, and want to feel, and would like to say, and probably should scream, and when you should go to bed every afternoon evening or sunday morning.
so you want to experience everything?
let’s have a look at you then.
are you ready for blood? are you ready for immense pain of your spirit and mind? are you ready for a third world that you can’t repair no matter how often you send a letter to the editor? are you ready to realize there might not only be a god but also not a santa or a satan or a feeling of true love? of course. you’ve been the hell and back and you’re only about nineteen years old.
what a delightful young man. what a healthy beautiful thing.
oh, you’re definitely cut from the right cloth.
how do i know?
it starts in the corner of my eye, the left one, and trickles down to the tips of my toes.i know because it falls asleep in between my legs. it rests there, and that’s where art begins. in the bowels of your lust. in the discomfiture of your genitals. in the itch, rub, rancid riot or rot where your heart gave up and your mind left town.
so you want to be an artist?
don’t waste your time talking to poets. don’t waste your time with girls.
don’t waste your time. it’s few and futile. remake the world, you beautiful bright thing.
remake the world.
maxwell edison, majoring in medicine.
storage systems are inadequate
they can’t help but mold and mildew and forget
your blood vessels are a much safer place to store your dorm room carpet
your cd collection
(who even has one of those)
your tweezers
your sweaters
your diseases
i’ve never hated anyone,
but i’ve held enough bile in my freckles to keep them at a distance
i know i’m making sense
(who believed that little white lie of surrender?)
just surrender
unto me
under me
or beside me
you fit nicely there too
storage systems are costly
and to think your money is going towards saving space, renting air
the base of your coccyx bone is a much smarter choice
for salvation and air preservation
keep your childhood there
so you can sit on your big brother’s bullying every time
you feel like you can’t stand anymore
i’ve never loved anyone,
but i’ve cradled enough infants and grown men to know
safety is the curve under your clavicle
not a crossing guard in an orange vest
i know you’ve stopped listening
(if you could hear in the first place)
but i’ll ask again
in supplication
surrender
in one stunning exhale of profane inspiration
surrender
under
me
but you can give me the electric twist.
i just ate the remainder of my pringles from last night, with hummus, and vegan chicken nuggets. which is silly, because there’s absolutely no chicken in them.
my life is in constant motion. everyone’s is, of course, because even if you lay in bed for weeks, things will still occur around you. decay will take place. other forms will grow. people will take buses and fly planes. but my days are filled, and my weeks ahead are terrifying. the sheer amount of stuff to do is unreal.
let me make a list. for my brain. for posterity.
for makeup: make a morgue. get notes from faces i missed. figure out how to do mia farrow from rosemary’s baby. figure out why i picked that. style wig. don’t punch anyone in class. or outside of class.
for poetry: do two missed prompts. reply to posted poems. draft chapbook. check status of illustrations. compile portfolio. don’t get shot.
for english: rewrite first essay for better grade. attend class. interview two people. make up research. submit research as real. analyze d14. actually go to class. really.
for acting: love shaun more.
for rocco’s: keep being awesome.
for movement: see above.
for ulysses: begin reading book. again. what does it mean to be a prism? process yesterday, for as long as it takes. rejoice. learn an irish dialect.
for boards: don’t fail maddie. finish proof. do meisner and other prep. understand that catherine’s body is not mine, she is more erratic and enclosed.
but i’m not behind. i’m not lagging. i’m not procrastinating (much). i’m preoccupied. i’m joyful. god, i’m so joyful.
i worry, because when you can see and feel and taste a change occurring, can you be so brave as to trust it? dare we?
the world is an infinite playground, and i’m just trying to master the monkey bars.
on this day in history, i realized, i haven’t had a complete thought in eight days.
get up stand up get on it.
do you ever have those moments when you’re convinced your living someone else’s life?
but like, really.
except that you absolutely can’t be because no two lives are exactly the same. and anything in a novel is definitely based off something you saw in a movie and the rest was found in one really big day you had once. some lives are fairytales. some are tragedies. mine’s like a farce. or a sketch comedy show. or i’m giving myself too much credit.
most of the time i feel really silly. really young. really. sometimes i feel tired and contrived. i’m mostly in the tired realm, but i don’t have the time to nap. which is dumb, nineteen year olds should always have the time to make. make the time to nap.
i keep thinking of this thing john steinbeck said to his editor. “i nearly always write, just as i nearly always breathe.”
and if nothing else, nothing ever else, i’d just like to write till my hands fall off and my brain runs dry of language.
