I knew your zip code. I saw Austin and I liked it. I stood outside the 7-11, shirtless, drinking alone. I could go as far as any other man, though my conveyances were limited to public means of transportation. Sometimes it was light and sometimes it was dark. You know, good days, bad days. I saw the desert through the window of a Greyhound bus. It looked like any other planet where pain is the only feeling, but there were cacti blooming some kind of flower that may have been pink. Do you believe me? I opened a book to make an impression, but no one took a glance. The seat beside me was always empty. The driver never stopped. I always thought he was headed your way.
"Love Poem for People Who Hate Themselves: Like Any Other Planet," Christopher Kennedy
Sometimes I feel I’m on an island
in the lake of lost connections,
where insects buzz and hum
their electric song,
and the metronomical blink
of the cursor’s eye is a beacon
to the shore beyond. I keep
starting and restarting letters
to people I once knew, but I feel
brittle and strange, and can’t find
the right words, or at least
the ones I need. Autumn tightens
its crisp band of air like a tourniquet,
and the man-size sunflower across
the alleyway from my back door
dries on its stalk and becomes
a ghost. The cats sleep closer
now that it is cool, their bodies
heavy and round, the oddity
of their cat thoughts self-contained.
In the morning on the bus
I see the same woman every day
outside the Shell station, wheeling
her grocery cart that holds only
a green street sign reading “Emily Way”;
and the man who clasps a plum-
colored Igloo lunch cooler
with such formality, chest level,
using both hands palms up, as if
offering up his own heart. I wear
my anonymity like a scar and consider
it an excuse for voyeurism.
On the way home, behind the coffee
shop, I pass the skeletons of a sparrow,
licked clean over the course of a week
by clusters of black ants, whose
nervous, rippling activity reminded
me of television static. Now
the bare, delicate architecture
of the bird is almost fetal—tiny
skull compact as a cowry shell,
the empty curl of the ribcage,
the vertebrae of the spine linked
together with the intricate precision
of an expensive bracelet.
All evening long I keep checking
on the praying mantis
who came to perch on the lid
of the trash can. I am lost
between one thing and another,
and can’t remember which. Absinthe
green, with its backwards-pointing
knees rising in stiff peaks,
it swivels around its triangular wedge
of a head to gaze at me
with black pinpoints of eyes
each time I step out my back door
onto the stoop, and it seems as if
she is saying to me, Have you ever
eaten a pomegranate? I buy one
from the Big Bear grocery
on the corner, and the seeds
are brilliant, clear as rubies nested
in the fleshy concave hollows
of pulp. And as I pluck them out
one by one to eat, each one
leaves behind an emptiness, each
one making me more a thief.
Lee Ann Roripaugh
from Year of the Snake, Southern Illinois University Press, 2004.
Today, after days of battling laziness and forgetfulness (mostly the latter), I decided to slightly rebrand my Tumblr to cater to getting stuff out there; by stuff, I mean myself and my attempts at writing.
I tweaked my page so that the focus would be more centered to personal outputs. Also, expect more personal blogging and original works here from now on.
All this to say: Oh the desire to be relevant.
Anonymous asked: At what age did you lose your virginity?
I never lost mine, I just absorb other peoples’, making my virginity grow stronger and stronger in preparation for the final battle.
A little table to how to get rid of all that negative self-talk. We have to learn look at the good in situations too, instead of dwelling on things we can’t change- because you know what? We may not be able to change what is happening but we CAN change how we view it!