(no subject)
i. the somber incantation of crickets
summer's still alive in the soil but autumn is creeping through the atmosphere down into the nightshade and the primrose. who am i to wish for longer days -- longer days for lying with friends in grasses, longer hours to learn secrets that evaporate in sweat on shoulders and thighs, longer minutes to dream deliriously in the heat, longer seconds to pick poisonless spiders from each others' hair?
pressing on my ribcage with the tips of my fingers. now i think: swollen vital organs, space for birds and blood, calcium bonds. then i thought ; small breasts and losing weight, losing weight and weightlessness, weightlessness and tender heels scraping the pavement, the sweetness of air. now i think : the burden of spines, the strength of the human body under strain, the fragility of joints, the rejuvenation of cells. then i thought : a spear that pierced the side of christ, the pleasure in pliable muscles next to infallible bones. now i think : am i really this hard?
ii. what lies in the creases of your fist?
i am finding the transient life to be difficult. this disappoints me a great deal, as i always thought my existence would inevitably wind up in the folds of a four corner bag on a stick or some other equally insane daydream. instead, the strange beds and scattered journals and missing toothbrushes are nothing but anxieties to me. however, in those strange moments sharing the same intrinsic beauty that makes my thoughts stop, the sinews of time stretch into the edges and give me comfort resembling home more than any memories originating in my parents' house -- the clinking of dried abalone windchimes at 6:30 in the morning, running up a metal staircase during a lightning storm, petting my best girlfriend's thick auburn hair, watching blood clot over the edges of a deep cut.
i am so ashamed so much of the time. so much so. so much so. more than once, i have felt like apologizing to strangers. i don't because i fear my voice is not strong enough to carry four syllables. just once, the words rushed past my lips but tumbled past my chin as a whisper and down toward my feet as a thought heard only by me. i was spilled out across the ground and around my shoes like a child unable to control his own body. blood, urine, rib cages. birds and abalone and secrets. jeremy, i am sorry.
summer's still alive in the soil but autumn is creeping through the atmosphere down into the nightshade and the primrose. who am i to wish for longer days -- longer days for lying with friends in grasses, longer hours to learn secrets that evaporate in sweat on shoulders and thighs, longer minutes to dream deliriously in the heat, longer seconds to pick poisonless spiders from each others' hair?
pressing on my ribcage with the tips of my fingers. now i think: swollen vital organs, space for birds and blood, calcium bonds. then i thought ; small breasts and losing weight, losing weight and weightlessness, weightlessness and tender heels scraping the pavement, the sweetness of air. now i think : the burden of spines, the strength of the human body under strain, the fragility of joints, the rejuvenation of cells. then i thought : a spear that pierced the side of christ, the pleasure in pliable muscles next to infallible bones. now i think : am i really this hard?
ii. what lies in the creases of your fist?
i am finding the transient life to be difficult. this disappoints me a great deal, as i always thought my existence would inevitably wind up in the folds of a four corner bag on a stick or some other equally insane daydream. instead, the strange beds and scattered journals and missing toothbrushes are nothing but anxieties to me. however, in those strange moments sharing the same intrinsic beauty that makes my thoughts stop, the sinews of time stretch into the edges and give me comfort resembling home more than any memories originating in my parents' house -- the clinking of dried abalone windchimes at 6:30 in the morning, running up a metal staircase during a lightning storm, petting my best girlfriend's thick auburn hair, watching blood clot over the edges of a deep cut.
i am so ashamed so much of the time. so much so. so much so. more than once, i have felt like apologizing to strangers. i don't because i fear my voice is not strong enough to carry four syllables. just once, the words rushed past my lips but tumbled past my chin as a whisper and down toward my feet as a thought heard only by me. i was spilled out across the ground and around my shoes like a child unable to control his own body. blood, urine, rib cages. birds and abalone and secrets. jeremy, i am sorry.