I WILL CROCHET YOU INTO SUBMISSION, FUCKERS.
[turns all of your pasta queer] NO PASTA IS SAFE
I am the law.
I control the odds of the universe. They may not be in my favour, but they are unbiased.
Psychic powers to create and quell chaos? A bit like Loki :P
Writing a lot. Apparently I’m already a superhero.
There’s nothing worse
than feeling bad and not
being able to tell you.
Not because you’d kill me
or it would kill you, or
we don’t love each other.
It’s space. The sky is grey
and clear, with pink and
blue shadows under each cloud.
A tiny airliner drops its
specks over the UN Building.
My eyes, like millions of
glassy squares, merely reflect.
Everything sees through me,
in the daytime I’m too hot
and at night I freeze; I’m
built the wrong way for the
river and a mild gale would
break every fiber in me.
Why don’t I go east and west
instead of north and south?
It’s the architect’s fault.
And in a few years I’ll be
useless, not even an office
building. Because you have
no telephone, and live so
far away; the Pepsi-Cola sign,
the seagulls and the noise.
Frank O’Hara, “Nocturne”
…Why do tears come?
I believe I am happy
know what to do with it.
I’ll let it all slide down my face
and drop onto my tongue.
I sing the words:
How will I ever go back from here?
Derrick Brown, “Joy in Places Without You,” Strange Light
What if love is no more than
a tangle of muscles
aching to be untied
by knowing fingers?
What if love is made and nothing else -
asked Narcissus, leaning over the green iris of water.
cried Echo from the green cochlea of the woods.
And they were both right.
And they were both lonely.
I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.
And I will not be afraid
of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.
Clementine von Radics, “Mouthful of Forevers”
My name is Kylie Groat and I approve this message.
There you have it. Decided.
YESSSSS I’m so excited for our Grade A tag team sass. Between you & me (& all of the coffee just between the two of us) & Leah & Devany… Jeff should probably be afraid.
I really want to get one of those gallon sized thermoses and bring it in on the first day of class, mainly for the shits and giggles.
Oh, absolutely. Fun fact, the piece I’m writing almost had her smoking again. We’re apparently actually capable of being bad influences on professors. *win*
Win, indeed. At this point I’m just counting the days until we can bring back our Grade A tag team sass in Jeff’s class.
Go read that sentence again. I’m already kicking poetry mode into high gear XD
Interesting direction, haven’t thought of that one before :P Gretchen’s probably a little easier to handle drunk.
I’m honestly more curious to see how it would go if she was the one drunk at the conference.
Ahhhhhhh preach. Nonfiction is some tough shit, there’s so much emotional vulnerability in that. I feel you.
I know the saying is “write drunk, edit sober,” but for this piece it seems to keep pushing me in the “write sober, edit drunk, show up to revision conference drunk” direction.
Everytime I try to revise my nonfiction piece, I just end up spiraling myself into an emotion shitstorm.
I love writing, but sometimes it really should show me that same love.
When I start thinking about all the books I’ve been meaning to read
The Beatles are having none of your shit.