I don't have much to say in regards to that, except for that it's Mercury Retrograde time, or to I won't let you let me down so easily (an unsent one-liner), or to this:
and the cancer eats away at me
so pleasantly
like ice cream with hard chocolate coating
pressed perfectly on a stick
but the sugar makes me sick
and in any case, I just can't stop myself
which was just some other random unsent draft in my gmail that I can't quite place, besides the date - as I was organizing all of my sent and saved and starred messages into files, and they like, gave me a bunch of work to do - can't they see I'm busy? Seriously.
Just kidding. Kind of. Anyways... yeah. So, yesterday was brilliant. We slept in Sundays. Only we like, got up and did stuff. And - well, I'll just let my notebook say it:
---
None of that ever happened. I started writing a letter to Gloria that I couldn't finish, what for the noise of my companions at the coffeehouse, dead batteries, and a lack of headphones (insert: poor planning, yes, Kristin, I know. I need to implement and maintain more systems...). I edited photos instead, a task more suited for the setting. The rest will come.
All of that aside, I was suddenly taken aback by my world, sandwiched in-between Sundays, hard to believe it's been seven days since the last Sunday at the park. Here I sit, reading in the grass, the sparkle of the lake a reach away, the light and the little shadows simultaneous on a blanket spread out purposefully under an aging tree. I fell asleep to a postcard, I woke up to a party with streamers. Laughing about vegetables and everything after, still the same mountain, people multiplied, all brought together and called to this page by the sound and the smell of the beginnings of a fire, all kept and bound by magenta ink.
"Per second, per second... and she was attracted to the (im)balance she saw him always trying to maintain, between the tweedy man of letters and the lyric and irrepressible poet."
books, all strewn about
spent
with the consumption of words
under leafy backlit trees
we are here,
you are missing.
the party afar
with streamers, but no music
like these words -
complete,
but without your voice bound to them
stretched out on a blanket
tangled limbs
purposeful touch
poets
the only sound between the silence
is our breathing
and the slap of the lakeside water
against the brick
frustrated, as I am, at the restriction.
---
I'm not sure if that last part is on that fine line of alright, good, decent, or fodder for the Salon of Shame in real-time, but whatever. I like it. It's like those pictures where I can't separate how it feels from the photograph, so to me, the afternoon was brilliant, and that's all I can see.
Back to (kindof) work. xx
vvb
Leave a comment