An entry from 12/27/2013

Knowing that he watches the Time Line Music From the 70s Collection commercial is the most heart breaking thing in the world.

Drafting

Can I write on you without losing my words?
Like the wash of morning fog that dissipates in the sun
I try to hold my self in.
Always losing.
Loosely. Tiredly.
Small flutterings of me released.

And I don't know how to finish this damn poem.

Crossreference

 4:46

Untitled

Slide between my fingers because I have no strength to grip.
Like a silent heaving, the words lie unvoiced at my throat, unformed in my skull.
Pulling at memories like resin from concrete;
 recuerdos in bits like strings on a loom that I cannot work.
I sleep over paper tonight.

Lines that are too long

There is a beach
And I am not here.

The sand parts for the sinking of my feet.
With small strokes my toes dip and are gone.


My back is held by the softly ridging bark of a palm tree. And here I am. Pleasantly alone.

And I wish I was not here, not watching the glow of a screen, not waiting for the capping off of words in the image of a dot.

Scale it back

I speak in cliches.
Voice in attempts to reach.
But we always circle.
And she sits outside.

One hand rises

like the flow of warm breath
that understands a shiver
and settles over your stomach.

The question of endurance: for how long?