boggle and wine and you are not here
still and all, it is quiet in isla vista today, empty streeted like the fog forces us indoors; our snow day is a clean grey sky. and empty the way this is empty, i can do, the only breathing and footprint stomp on the road. it's the other kind of empty, the nothing n my mouth eyes hands that puts me here in sore and worn green chairs, not sure if i want to be, but here, because where else? hoping to be watched with love and adoration like a stumbling child, like i really am, not like someone you'd see in pictures holding up a beer bottle or a coffee cup with shoulders and body folded for the moment, no movement.
i wonder what it will be, when leaving has happened and hearts pushed open and school beginning again. talking with linda and harry makes me feel stronger, maybe because they've seen my every step and still believe that i am capable, no matter my faltering voice and inkless hands, the empty journals and bottles unfilled, i tell them what i want and they say yes and i just inflate! and then home to my room and the quiet and the boys at work and they are leaving and that is real, too, but i'm not a housewife and nobody's mother, why do i wait for something that can't come home?
if i read that in a book i would cry for the narrator, but in five years i would read it again and it would bne like holding you - there is something there of bone and warmth but you realize in the end that it is just paper, light and soft and malleable, impossible to believe in.
last night, in the dust and dry, beats deep in the dirt and too bright to be real, i told you that there is a man in the moon, showed you how to scrunch up your face to hold some of the brightness out so he could look back at you. there are eight bottlecaps at the bottom of my purse. none of them are mine.
these things we make, dug deep like fossil fuels, like we've crafted worlds in the space between us and our spit and the everything else, like inflation and bright lights and it creates a walk that means something, an ease and breathing and momentum, that makes the space between sleeping seem workable.
someone driving by is listening to marvin gaye, and for the first time in my life i don't want to hear it. i just don't.
i wonder what it will be, when leaving has happened and hearts pushed open and school beginning again. talking with linda and harry makes me feel stronger, maybe because they've seen my every step and still believe that i am capable, no matter my faltering voice and inkless hands, the empty journals and bottles unfilled, i tell them what i want and they say yes and i just inflate! and then home to my room and the quiet and the boys at work and they are leaving and that is real, too, but i'm not a housewife and nobody's mother, why do i wait for something that can't come home?
if i read that in a book i would cry for the narrator, but in five years i would read it again and it would bne like holding you - there is something there of bone and warmth but you realize in the end that it is just paper, light and soft and malleable, impossible to believe in.
last night, in the dust and dry, beats deep in the dirt and too bright to be real, i told you that there is a man in the moon, showed you how to scrunch up your face to hold some of the brightness out so he could look back at you. there are eight bottlecaps at the bottom of my purse. none of them are mine.
these things we make, dug deep like fossil fuels, like we've crafted worlds in the space between us and our spit and the everything else, like inflation and bright lights and it creates a walk that means something, an ease and breathing and momentum, that makes the space between sleeping seem workable.
someone driving by is listening to marvin gaye, and for the first time in my life i don't want to hear it. i just don't.