What is it to weep ?

It is a sad poet who has no words to express the feelings welling in their veins, no way to leak out the madness which gathers in the corners of their mind and chambers of their heart. 

How, when the shadow strikes, does a wordless poet allow themself to feel, to weep? When they know it will still live there, roaming through hallways and edging down corridors; timid, ruthless monster. 

It has many names, this monster which has taken up residence within my senses. I call it grief, or loneliness, or abandon. Although, the years have taught me it’s truest incarnation is my old, timeless friend, rage.  

Hazy.


The other night I was sitting at the bar

Talking to a person who I am seeing, but not dating
Because these days, that actually makes a difference

We were talking about the space in between
Where thoughts happen and where they occur

What I mean is, the thought that inspires the thing
And the place where that thing becomes itself

Which is the truth?
Where is the truth?

The truth is in the space between

Which we will never fully grasp
Never quite see or catch
Hazy, but
It is also in the beginning and ending
Truth lives in all three
Birth and death
Life being, of course, the space between

What we can’t see
Where we can’t see

I dreamt I went shopping the other night
I was walking down the aisles of a grocery store
The light was bright, garish
Overwhelming

I couldn’t find what I was looking for
I can never find what I am looking for

I’m the type of person who has difficulty lighting a cigarette
Always standing in the wind, stifling the flame
I strike the flint once, twice, three times before shifting
Positions

Trying again.

6am

It’s six o’clock and I’m tired of the way you make me feel, old and hungry and sad.  A useless combination. I cleared off my desk today.  I like to pretend that it will help me work.  If I have a space, dedicated, committed.  I like to use synonyms, back to back.  Because life is all about nuances.  Slight differences changing one thing from another.  A truck stops on the side of the street. To let pedestrians pass. It’s snowing out. They walk, arm in arm.  Linked. Should they fall, their fates are likely intertwined.  Unless they’re lucky or strong.  Folks don’t seem to be both anymore.

Bon Nuit

You tell me goodnight in five different languages

sleep clings to the edges of our eyes, of our lips

your voice scratches out the words

hoarse from loving and laughing, at each other//with each other

I ask you to repeat it in Russian, your native tongue

I want to hear again

how your mouth forms the words

want to watch your lips push them out

I love to watch what your mouth can do.

Small Talk

It’s an interesting feeling. Learning you’ve spent months falling for someone who could actually have never loved you back. One of those, “huh.” moments.

I’m over here feeling myself out, talking to my emotions like,

“Yo… are we good? Cuz I feel fine. But I don’t want you coming back here in like, six months messing my shit all up. Talking about ‘missing them’ or ‘broken hearts’ or whatever. Like, I’m feeling good…so…we good?”

And it feels like they’re just looking at me like,

“Yeah. Ok. Have you MET us? Good luck kiddo.”