lopesided:

A Clear Midnight
       after Walt Whitman

Long past the hour my body finds a stillness,
limbs unfurl like summer grass, and I, away from heavy thought,
revel in the silence of breathing, a turned page, of skin grazing 
skin, thinking how deep the dark goes
and you in me.

My soul, the night should smell faintly of desire, spring and all the quiet.
 

I’d sit all day
& watch your mouth
like a screen,
a window,
an accident,
& mouth the words
that spill from your lips,
like a song I’ve memorized.

triumphant you were there
(with a song on your lips,

beautiful like the sight of night
after days & days of sun)

and so much easier
on the eyes. 

I’ve lost most of July
between a blink and monday,
a scattering of days
where the sun rises
and sets with a passion
I’ve never known,
like the taste of bark
or drowning.

lopesided:

A Clear Midnight
       after Walt Whitman

Long past the hour my body finds a stillness,
limbs unfurl like summer grass, and I, away from heavy thought,
revel in the silence of breathing, a turned page, of skin grazing 
skin, thinking how deep the dark goes
and you in me.

My soul, the night should smell faintly of desire, spring and all the quiet.
 

6X6
1. why write? 

to access a moment, feeling, experience that I cannot instantly feel or go back to, to make sense of decisions, to make regrets a little less regrettable and more accessible, to find an honesty my voice does not afford me in my everyday life.

2. aesthetic

to tell the truth when living sometimes makes it too easy to lie (outwardly and down). 

3. process

once upon a time there was a daily process, lately there is nothing I can do to get a word down or out. 

4. the moment right now

peaceful. post-movie. pre-obligations.

5. shortcomings 

lack of writing ritual, lack of writing, focusing on one word till it means everything but what it should. obsessing over writing, but not writing to satisfy the obsessing. 

6. a writer is 

a mouth. a heart. a tongue. a window. a roof. 

I was surprisingly tagged by poetryaboutmilkduds (thank you!)

I tag a-unicorn-velociraptordeartodayproject, and aubriestar

43/365*

lopesided:

We live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things. Words without experience are meaningless.

                                                                 -Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

fearing the loss of meaning,
I sheltered my words
beneath my tongue,
relied on movement:
a nod, a blink,
a curl of the lips,
an extended palm.  

lopesided:

My Heart            

        after Frank O’ Hara

I will not nod all the time
nor will I quiet my voice,
I cannot meet either half way,
or all the way, I’d rather sit
in the darkness of living
rooms and small closets—
I want to be alive, a mess,
a putting together of moments
that scream and silence
all at once, I want to cry
and laugh, and walk 
on trails heavily forested,
that occasionally give way
to life beyond: all lit windows 
and fireplaces and sundays
gathered ‘round a table, alive.

lopesided:

I’m watching a person decay,
she’s crawling into her skin:
a reverse metamorphosis—
a frailty of skin and bones
and just when I think she cannot
get any smaller, a wave crashes
over her and strips her
of all the muscle she carried yesterday,
and suddenly tomorrow seems weaker,
less tangible, less important.

I’m watching a person decay,
she’s crawling into her skin:
a reverse metamorphosis—
a frailty of skin and bones
and just when I think she cannot
get any smaller, a wave crashes
over her and strips her
of all the muscle she carried yesterday,
and suddenly tomorrow seems weaker,
less tangible, less important.

I’ve bit everything
except my own
tongue & like
a song, words
spilled across—
lines like trembling
to soothe & dislocate,
adding melody
to each day
turned night
turned day.

I love this.

I love this.

My Heart            

        after Frank O’ Hara

I will not nod all the time
nor will I quiet my voice,
I cannot meet either half way,
or all the way, I’d rather sit
in the darkness of living
rooms and small closets—
I want to be alive, a mess,
a putting together of moments
that scream and silence
all at once, I want to cry
and laugh, and walk 
on trails heavily forested,
that occasionally give way
to life beyond: all lit windows 
and fireplaces and sundays
gathered ‘round a table, alive.

… — I mean the conscious heart, the fact that we are the only things in the entire universe that know true consciousness. We’re the only things—leaving religion out of it—we’re the only things in the world that know spring is coming.
T.S. Eliot

T.S. Eliot