'it was worth it for the story'
The bubbles grow up, and though it's been months really, I start scrawling on the back of a business card at the subway station; cold hands and tiny print.
hood up
hood up and insides out
i wake up with blood in my mouth
wisdom teeth unremoved
this new infancy of adulthood
cutting teeth on steel and trash
hood up
hood up and feelers out
It's easy waking up in the morning these days, and the weeks pass quickly, but an increasing flow of deja vu corresponds with accumulating wanderlust. I need the ocean. I need highway rest stop bathrooms. We are reading the ingredients to Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies. I say, "We haven't eaten that many different things in a week." My soul says it is okay to stay where I am for a little while, but it also says I should keep building better days. Gallery work is paying my rent next month. We are putting together a show about capillaries. We laugh often these days. Four years ago, I wrote:
'On windy days, I like to pretend that I am God'
I can't find the rest of the poem though. Somewhere in years of pocket notebooks, with shifting phone numbers, blue lines washed away from walks in the rain, or maybe lost forever, untraced in the relics, lost in the debris of fragments and excessive commas.
It's been really windy lately.
hood up
hood up and insides out
i wake up with blood in my mouth
wisdom teeth unremoved
this new infancy of adulthood
cutting teeth on steel and trash
hood up
hood up and feelers out
It's easy waking up in the morning these days, and the weeks pass quickly, but an increasing flow of deja vu corresponds with accumulating wanderlust. I need the ocean. I need highway rest stop bathrooms. We are reading the ingredients to Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies. I say, "We haven't eaten that many different things in a week." My soul says it is okay to stay where I am for a little while, but it also says I should keep building better days. Gallery work is paying my rent next month. We are putting together a show about capillaries. We laugh often these days. Four years ago, I wrote:
'On windy days, I like to pretend that I am God'
I can't find the rest of the poem though. Somewhere in years of pocket notebooks, with shifting phone numbers, blue lines washed away from walks in the rain, or maybe lost forever, untraced in the relics, lost in the debris of fragments and excessive commas.
It's been really windy lately.