y’know. just losing sleep on a self-loathing writing/performance project while listening to acoustic covers of everything. and cramps everywhere. and tears ‘cause i’ll never not be alone.
—my brain and its overuse of hyperboles.
—my brain and its overuse of hyperboles.
1. Make coffee at 11am. Believe this will motivate you to do things that will distract you from worry.
2. Sweep and put away things on floor. Remember why some of that shit hasn’t been dealt with yet. Put it back on the floor, closer to the corner.
3. Avoid writing.
4. Question if you should drink your barely touched coffee considering it is 3pm and you want to be asleep at midnight.
5. Crop an old shirt. Chew on the unwanted pieces.
6. Pluck unwanted hairs. Consider putting makeup on.
7. Write, even when it’s mediocre.
8. Consider your brain as a separate entity. Let it indulge in memories.
9. Watch dog sleep.
10. Hear cars. See ambulance.
11. Think about what you’ll do if that thing that is worrying you happens. Stop yourself before any answers come.
12. Do not think about nudity. You’re still thinking about money.
Today I offer a steady, old love poem, worn in all the best parts.
A Yard Full of Saplings - Mary Pinkoski
When we grow old,
and we will,
I’ll catch you in your bathrobe and slippers
trying to setup a lemonade stand
at the corner of Bank and Roseberry.
When I help you…
one of my favourite poems from one of my favourite humans
the truth is,
silence will never stop feeling like heart break
and the temptation
to take the blame for it
to make it hurt less
will never go away
all the furniture my throat builds
and my tongue mends
does not make patience
easier to swallow
only serving as a reminder
of the comfort experienced
in my own mess
the problem with words is
how easily they slide into place
but mean such different things
and leave so much to be desired
once they go away
the weight of no longer having
words that are perishables
needs to stop
being the reason
to pluck more of myself
onto the table
ripe for the picking
I have begun to find the fruits of our labours.
In my pit I have been collecting all of our spit and secrets
My loneliness does not ask for passports upon entry
come they whisper
rumours spread of a free land on pigeon tealed wings
in my belly dandelions grow from the sky
watermelons plump with my fertility stretch into themselves
the clouds can no longer contain their excitement
in my belly it rains twenty four times a day
crystalized creatures have sword fights down the slides
a woman dressed in white stares at a screen
a woman dressed in white tells me she is only here to take pictures
my belly is a tourist attraction
a dumpster swarming with bees
an overcrowded swimming pool in January
a forest fire burning everything in sight
just to stay alive.
(gah. what a question)
I don’t think this worthlessness I feel is an isolated incident.
The wilting broccoli weeps for the willows, my lips drying mimic the ocean’s thirst for understanding, my whiteness wrestles to stay at the top of mountain peaks (even as it melts). My body, engraved with the same Top40 abuse stories, my heartbreaks are only extraordinary in their resemblance to yours.
The actual choice related to spitting or swallowing is relative and circumstantial. always.
We are not nothing without each other.
I contain my hope in pockets of fear. I don’t think I am alone in this. I am afraid to ask questions like: how would things change if we always gave away our last bite? I am afraid because the question is cheesy and the solutions fruitless (note the pun).
I do not believe I will get old.
(someone please remind me why I’ve taken on such an intense maybe not so fun every day project please??)
I wake up closer to .30 than .00 and check my e-mails too often for someone who knows she is loved. I take a purple pill in the morning and a white capsule in the evening. Sometimes there are red and yellow ones too. I try to eat every 3 to 5 hours. When I am lucky, I get to squish into other people. When I am lucky, I spend time in bed because I want to and not because I have to. I efficiently make messes and coziness. I do not stretch or sing every day but I would like to. I plant questions, I get surprised. There are so many feelings to feel that sometimes there is little room for much else. On good days, animal noises are made. I make plans for the future. I make puns that the good ones laugh at. I clean slowly. I bike when it is warm enough and walk when it is not.
-You can do whatever you want
-Femmes aren’t queer
-If they don’t call when they say they will, it means they don’t love you
-The police is there to protect you
-The prisons are there to protect you
-Parents do not believe themselves capable to protect you. Instead they watch from the next room
-Exploration is always about curiosity and never about power
-Phobia is always about fear and never about hate
-We must strive to be noble
-Your body is too big
-Your voice can be cumbersome
-You could have been a doctor lawyer secret spy astronaut
-Your family wishes you well
-You will always be tired
-my hair will always grow (and towards the light)
-my toes long ago turned to each other for warmth or comfort (there was nowhere else to go)
-if my fingers sweated ink my thighs, particularly the right one, would be streaked with highway billboards and lyrics and translations, all repeated
-some of my favourite stories are the ones i heard while they thought i slept
-my nose will never be my mother’s
-my grandmother used to tell me i had swimmer’s shoulders. maybe this is why i always fall ocean deep and never drown
-i used to only drink coffee with lovers, as a rule, and now i don’t drink coffee at all
-i used to hate my legs (feet, knees, thighs) for their looks until i began to love them for their function. what will i think if they stop working?
-i have never doubted that i am loved
-i trust i can carry you home if i want to and if you let me
-femme bear. through and through.
-i have always kept trying.
-hope is an illness i carry. your risk of contagion is dependent on mysteries that are beyond me
-the sun rests between my thighs on winter mornings.
-my freckles will never leave me.
-my body is not mine when i sleep
-my body is not another’s when i sleep
-there is a boy in my throat growing like a watermelon seed from the beauty mark south east of my belly button
-there is a girl breaking teeth on the word ‘woman’, sour breathed and afraid to speak.