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last season's mix tapesin every story, there is a plot.
this is called “what happens.”
what happens is usually someone dies and someone rebuilds, someone buys a wedding ring and maybe she says yes.
what happens is we lose touch.
what happens is we stop at the laundromat, and i don’t know if i am inventing the men smoking cigars on the porch, or if it is really thursday. what happens is i am nine and you are a few years older and we are in the laundromat with three baskets full of clothes.
what happens is my parents are waiting in the car and we have quarters weighing down our pockets and we are grown up as we press coins into the slots on the washing machines. we giggle because we are the youngest occupants of the one large room lined with washers and dryers, and we giggle and we wait for the buzzers. we grow unsteady, confused, younger as we realise that we have been wrong. suddenly we are infants and we glance around the room and we feed more quarters into the
leaving the nesti dreamed of
growing up a
from the oak
strong. where i
tried to feather
out my edges
i stayed firm
& full coarse.
where i tried
to love i lost
limbs & shed
skin. where i
tried to weep
over my own
roots, kept on
the impossibility of superduperveniencei love you. why not.
my thoughts hold each
other's clipped fingernails,
where i scoop my titles
from the river to wash them, where
as a woman in a fairy tale i can
get married in a pretty dress
& then die. you are the sort of
love of my life. sure. although
there is the little fact of your
six dormice. we will need one
more to make the number odd.
i love you, no reason. stop
pestering me about your poems;
i'll leave the sonnets up to you
since domesticity makes me itch.
this is the way i love you
so shut your mouth.
i'm not afraid of dying but i am
afraid of leaving you with our
dormouse family on your own.
i love you for now just because
i recently saw when harry met sally
for the first time because
my parents & their mortgages
because yellow clutches at
how to claim your birthrightshe moved constantly & never unpacked the boxes, like she'd fly away any second & watch the city unfold underneath like a lit-up bruise, with all its looping strands of streetlamps & cockeyed rivers & highways dangling jauntily from the face of the earth.
she spun a symphony beneath her, hung a spindly bridge across the womb harbouring all the world's cigars & half its barren fish.
you could send her a package & never be sure that it would reach her. she never left by plane because it meant she couldn't change her destination midflight & she listened exclusively to bob dylan & sundance film soundtracks. she sent christmas cards in march unapologetically because she believed in proving things & no one knows when jesus was born. she moved constantly & counted on everyone else to stay put so she could show up unannounced at their door at three am with blueberry muffins.
or so she said
she also once seduced a chinese god (or his son) who proposed to her in mandarin with a fortu
consi've swallowed continents en masse, & all
their statues too, or their shot glasses (i
admit to a collection) or their calls,
their laughs & hiccups, ornaments in piles
on trees the odd ingredient in pies
& tickets to museums & that night itch
of metaphysics' batty evil eye.
i listen for the strange ways we debrick
each other, say hello, craft whole triptychs
of queries after dogs & aunts, i wake
with elbows bruised from who knows which
event i tripped into (but i would bake
forever while you read me nietzsche or
the dialogues or charmed me to the floor)
love the yarn, love the bestsellerfalling for you in december was a cold fiction, myth
rich & beautiful like the frost weighing down the tip
of every blade of grass in the mornings, like heather's
house late at night, bushes swollen thick & obscuring
the street signs, with me scouring evergreen lane
for numbers, waiting for a flicker of the porchlight,
yelling her name to find out i had driven around
evergreen court in stupid sooty circles, down the street
from falling with you in december, when i was trailing
you by entire revolutions, when without your name i
thought i could hunt down your heart in the dark,
when without you i scratched the fable of our love
onto a brick in a house i'll admit i knew wasn't yours.
love poem for things that hurti burned my hand making applesauce. i burned
my finger on a log at a bonfire. i slit open
my thumb pitting peaches. my best friend's
brother scarred my left hand with his fingernails.
i ate baby squid & i watched their black bead
eyes winking in fried doll heads. more than
once my father's laugh lines made me jealous
so i laughed about it. once in the cul-de-sac where
i skinned my knees playing soccer & my brother
broke his right arm, a friend told me she liked my
best friend better. once my mother, laughing over
piles of boxes filled with my books, over the list
i was folding & refolding, over an uncomfortable
silence, said "you are my daughter" & i laughed.
to giovanna cenamimother goddess,
your whole deep greens
& your pale yellow slivers of sun
& then the blue sky sleeves
with your open fertile hands blossoming
out of them, small & serene.
your gaze a red innocence, heavy with curiousity
it graces your glowing forehead, forgotten entirely
after the shock of love in your glance.
you know this man's
profound black browns, his steady eye
the flickering immodest uncaring of calculation
hung over his lids, over the hazy grey
of city sky, this hard bent man stooped
with briefcase in hand, thickly
cloaked, thin lipped, top hatted.
you the warm unnamed bride & he
the sharp nosed Man
you the pleasant & powerful, indulgent
of his every little
the eternal forgiveness in the curve
of your lips, the unspoken
colour of power. you the patient
the unending source.
the one you think is too transparentyour eyes are a cavern
or a crevice or a gash in the belly
of the fox laid out
under the wheels of a car that always looks like the one you drove
over me, around me. we were best friends
or would have been & we wrestled
ourselves to sleep
& we cried alone in front of
mirrors & spread the stomach skin of foxes.
your eyes are an operating table. i had everything
taken out of me. your eyes are bubbles
in a jack & coke, the careful folding of your heart
around a corner.
your eyes are your mouth, scripted
over words you've had memorised since your first woman.
i am a paper dress & i interrupt your cheekbones with
your eyes are not coming to bed.
your eyes are
in the paper dress
of a fox dilated in the street & (it wasn't your car
but every car looks like yours &) when we crawled
into her caverns we found
a child & uprooted i
airskinny boy kissed me
kis,ses l,ik,e c,ommas , ,
breaking the waves of my own selfish sadness
o god skinny boy (willow man)
if I am worth something let me know. reasons 1,,2,3, , (4,5,6)
fingers curling over the top knob of
My spine (your spine is tall and proud
skinny love blue-eyed boy godless heathen /while You have no god I find mine in my own blood wide grin kid who is
, ,,, , , , ,,,,,,,,, , , ,,,,, ,,,,,,,
the first poem i wrote since i told you i love youthe star-soaked stains
that covered our nudity
gives way at last
to a tequila sunrise,
so low in the sky;
it's still bright enough
to sting my eyes,
and yet i can't bring myself
to hate it.
your body next to mine,
every effort is made
to move a heavy limb
because any space
is space i don't want.
i am sometimes humbled
by my feelings,
the way they swell
in my throat
just how the ocean
tastes the shore.
there is always something new
to find hidden in my heart,
summoned by my words,
or the salt of your skin
wearing like wind on shale
i don't think i can ever tell you
i love you enough.
if i could, i would never get dressed
so that you could never be sad-
a rewind every time
my clothes touch the floor,
never anything but nude, not naked
because with you i can be bare
i can let you see my entirety
and leave my arms uncrossed,
i can let you in
and not fear that you will break me,
or force my inner things out.
i can love you with open arms
and my lip
110538kissing in the backseat, sky on fire
heart on fire. lungs on fire
and the ashes are beautiful cause they came from you.
k i s s i n g in your basement, tv flickering
not caring. and i feel alright. fireflies flicker
prettier maybe, but this is better. this is stronger
cause it came from you.
we will taste the skyone day (maybe
soon, maybe not so soon)
there will be songs
and dancing and
love and kissing.
round stones will be
skipped just as easily as
and the sky will be the biggest and bluest I have ever seen.
maybe you never belonged to meI can still feel the weight of your lips on the curve of my collarbone. Sometimes, it feels paralyzing, crushing, absolute. Sometimes, it feels like home. Like everything.
I once heard that when you can't fall asleep it means you're awake in someone else's dream. I wonder which one of us was dreaming that night, because everything was too quiet, too easy, too perfect. You used to fall asleep next to me, your body curled against mine. It's a warmth that's not easy to forget. A hidden smile tucked into pillows and sheets. It's easy to think these things will last forever when you're tangled up together. For me, the strings of my life will always be tangled up in yours. Forever tied to you. No matter hard they attempt to fray. To fall apart. To sever.
It's snowing for the first time this year. Soft and gentle, glittering in the sunlight, falling in large flakes, easy and quiet – nothing at all like the storm that rages inside of me, turning up the corners of my heart, throwing shrapnel
the destruction of destructioni leave
&empty watter bottles
on your floor
in case you decide to forget me.
this is just our dynamic
this is just how our relationship works.
i read you chapters of the
strangest book i know
&you have me create
voices for each character.
i am most comfortable as the narrator,
but you like my crazier caricatures best.
it reminds me of how you like
the stranger ways my mind works,
&how you will pry sharp things
from my clawed fingers
&show up late for work
just to make sure i eat;
the hateful frustration i feel
when my body yearns for its
only to be thwarted by something
it can't control;
it reminds me of how you love
the parts of me i most hate,
&the way we can fight
as we go to bed
but before i fall asleep,
i nestle myself into
the curve of your back
&i am safe.
the better things
1. break the bones that burn under your skin, but believe in the blood that warms it. we are forever changed by the sweeter songs of the stars we fall from.
2. i won't look at you, or you, or you, and i know tomorrow when i sing for her you will all trip over the tile and your tongue but nothing will change outside of you. or me. we might miss each other terribly for two seconds, but we will be the same and i thank god for that
3. winter treats you well, orange ash boy. vermont expands your diaphragm and the girls are aching to fill it. (i am aching to fill it.) your freckles are there and not here, and i realize that i love you
4. i was cleaning out my car and vacuuming the backseat when i noticed a cigarette burn on the floor. and i thought, "how did this get here?" and then i thought, "oh." and i thought about all the people i don't talk to anymore, and it was okay. it really was
5. it was seventy three degrees friday when i was driving and i know it's not economically-conscious to
you are a lost cause.you are a lost cause.
i am a liar.
and we are a decrepit house
in the richest street,
of the richest city,
in the richest country.
i resent the fact that i'm lying to myself being in your vicinity.
the fact i have a different set of voices just for talking to you.
and the fact that to even look at you,
i have to at least
pretend i don't want to pretend anymore.
assault, batteryi cradle my discomfort
like a small child,
its hard heart beating against
the cold & the metronome
of the life ive built for it
destined to burn down orphanages
& send boys a-fire with my
opened eyes & opened arms
ive just been born a little
shy of the street corner
if i were to return
to the place i once called home
a war would ensue,
i would strip naked to prevent
the fight (no holds barred)
and hope my once strong
body could stop the fray
i am crossing swords with
the balance of the universe
my cotton lungs and
swallowing my doubt in
a hasty fashion
i have a hard time saying it,
but i am also in love
with the quandary
aftermaththis morning my heart woke
me up to tell me you're taking
your piece with you when you go,
tugging at the distance as your
plane left the runway and i wrenched into
the darkness you left me for and i swore
i could see the stars falling down around me
the minute i said your name and it echoed,
my god, the syllables sunk deep into the pit
of my stomach and rested there like seeds,
watered by the nights i spent telling what was left
of me to forget all of you while my insides
tried to figure out how to be less, necessarily
it never worked. it never does when you
treat hearts like candy bars, like pieces
you deserve to break off & take with you
like the chocolate centre of my soul i gave
you, instead of my blown glass shattering,
the battery that keeps me thinking about
my live wires at the edges where you picked
up & left; you had me making signal fires -
everything went up in smoke and
i found myself on the edge of arson
where i want to burn everything
down at the site, where i want to b
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More