in the dream i’ll never tell you
we blew foamy bubbles out of steaming hot springs floating up out of rivers and creeks like islands of water inside of water. we could catch the steam on our hands and the bubbles had weight and if you blew gently they multiplied into more bubbles, lighter and lighter
and then i asked someone for milk with cinnamon and clove sprinkled in it; this person said this would taste horrible, and though i disagreed, i knew it was the exact shade and flavor of your skin and that i would pour it over your stomach and lick you clean.
oh that wicked gleeful smile of yours seems the same in dream as life.
you are such a dangerous knife.
- Good idea / bad idea: editing one’s diaries from one’s twenties into some sort of publishable diary thing?
- caravan of light
- film reels in the heart
though the flute
of my life continues its sharp wind,
though the corset
of my lungs hasn’t collapsed,
though the mushroom cap
of my foot’s arch fills
with aching lonely
though the tightrope
in my neck tightens
though the umbrella
of my hair leaks rain
though the spiderweb
snatching my dreams
snaps though the weight
isn’t much, less than a thimble
thick as a fly though
we aren’t pyramids yet
such a skinny song.
as a child
I remember this creeping, sickening fear of becoming a grown-up: what do they do with all that time? At these “jobs” they have? They don’t play? They don’t get to go to school? And this sense of doom and disaster and boredom swept down across me like a kind of seasickness.
It was a terrible feeling. And it’s terrible, being a grown-up, seeing all those fears confirmed so regularly; it’s true, it’s true, child. 80% of life is boredom and trying to figure out how to deal with various discomforts so you can make it to the 20% of joy. If you’re lucky, those percentages can slip and slide and sometimes you’ll feel like life is only 20% absurd and stupid. But don’t count on it.
i heard islands of birds roost and coast through the night’s thin ocean, thin as unsleeping, their chatter the ruffle of light on waves, the collapse of a thin girl in an old book to a faint, they chattered like children about worlds we cannot know just as the unborn whisper about us, these sorry sacks full of ghosts.
for better or worse
the morning will open its bright yawp and swallow us tomorrow.