Humming Lungs.

He was in my dreams again last night. Dreams of returning, coming back with the swell of the sea. There he lingers, on the rooftops of my memories, hanging on in a subconscious I stubbornly dismiss. There are only nighttime journeys under our feet. He makes paper cranes of my delusions and gently rocks me, on park benches, under stars. We run through places we’ve never been together, hotels and beaches and Paris, auditoriums for our moonlit reunions. We speak as if there’s nothing to be forgiven. I never lost you, you were always here. Night makes space for us, in her knowing sympathy. She elongates Time, and sits us in her stomach. All the forgotten things, reborn in my uncharacteristically restful slumber. I wake with the rain.


Into the Wild.

As to when I shall visit civilization, it will not be soon, I think. I have not tired of the wilderness; rather I enjoy its beauty and the vagrant life I lead, more keenly all the time. I prefer the saddle to the streetcar and star-sprinkled sky to a roof, the obscure and difficult trail, leading into the unknown, to any paved highway, and the deep peace of the wild to the discontent bred by cities. Do you blame me for staying here, where I feel that I belong and am one with the world around me? It is true that I miss intelligent companionship, but there are so few with whom I can share the things that mean so much to me that I have learned to contain myself. It is enough that I am surrounded with beauty…

…I have known too much of the depths of life already, and I would prefer anything to an anticlimax.

Everett Ruess, 1934

A Comet Appears.

…We can blow on our thumbs and posture,

But the lonely is such delicate things.

The wind from a wasp could blow them

Into the sea

With stones on their feet

Lost to the light and the loving we need.

Still to come,

The worst part and you know it,

There is a numbness

In your heart and it’s growing.

The Shins, A Comet Appears

Bus Rides.

Sights seen and promptly dismissed with an apathetic eye;

We became participants in the forgetting experience//the forgetting of experiences…

We lost the longing for the man who sits behind us–

meticulously rolling cigarettes across the aisle, back and forth with the rocking of gravel, knocking shut an Altoid tin, getting off on Hennepin and Lake

We disappear under layers of makeup and mid-winter mud caked on our coats, shuffling past filled seats

We’re lost, frantically scanning bus maps

We’re reading romance novels on our iPads, husking out the pieces of chocolate from candy wrappers

We’re the little girl in the back, choreographing our hands on top of imprinted stories pushes against the glass

We’re ink on jeans

We’re fragranced with the fever of 9-5

Given life by the dusty shine of billboards and ice

We stockpile boredom and bile,

All this in a coagulation, through the dull churning of mundanities.