what is this new world,
where lines aren't there
and planes are planes
and every gesture means.
can't we be limp like piles,
gray and green and blue pieces
clumping to form a cloud
too airy to touch.
one keystroke means yes,
a 3 minute choke means no,
and where everyone is always,
always worried about motives.
when does it all fade
to reveal a landscape,
one riddled with dark breeze
or rippling waves, winking, winking.
and just, merely, say
there's just something about you
that makes me ache.
and just gesture that,
i'd rather be holding you,
than holding this paper.
and just finally admit,
we want to ache together
and we've always known that.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
crusty flamingo's
The airport used to be busy. In the sixties, our little town was a place to go to or come from. It wasn’t the largest airport, by far. They boasted of the presence of one bar, with seeded glass windows and dark paneling. There were only two dozen gates then, but something was always coming or going.
Infants with drooly faces and dark fingers would beg to be lifted up to the angled pane glass in the terminals. They would press against the warm glass, their foreheads and crusty noses flattened, and watch the planes jump off and slide down.
They used to let families back to the gates. Incoming flights were greeted by lines of people; some with flowers or signs, some sitting patiently, and some too excited to not cry.
Once, my mom took me upstairs to the smoking section. She sat at a small round table, her eyes turned off, and pulled out a long cigarette. I could always tell something was wrong when she would light her cigarette without even looking at it. It seemed like she was watching her own personal movie, and maybe she was. I stood there, the tips of my small shoes touching awkwardly, until she noticed me. “Oh honey,” she raised her knuckles, making spirals of her smoke, “why don’t you go and look for your father’s plane.”
The windows in the smoking room were even better than the terminal windows. These were large and high up, and you could see all the planes. I didn’t know which plane could be my fathers, they all looked the same.
Now that everyone’s afraid to spend money, the airport is struggling to hang on. Only one gate is operational now, and there’s barely enough flights to keep that one busy. Now our town is a place where you can get to a city. All the flights throw people to airports that can actually take them somewhere.
Almost all of the stores in the airport are closed now. They never even bothered taking apart the bar that everyone was so proud of. The bar made the airport seem legit, for some reason. All of the Floridian nick-knacks are still displayed proudly. Alligator heads, shark teeth, and pink flamingo coasters have the bar all to themselves.
I like to think that they talk to each other, that the alligator sighs “what a shame.”
And the flamingo cocks its head and asks “what is?”
“How nobody comes in here anymore, and we’re stuck here.”
I’d like to think the flamingo would be indifferent, that his head would snap back in place when he said, “at least it’s quiet.”
Infants with drooly faces and dark fingers would beg to be lifted up to the angled pane glass in the terminals. They would press against the warm glass, their foreheads and crusty noses flattened, and watch the planes jump off and slide down.
They used to let families back to the gates. Incoming flights were greeted by lines of people; some with flowers or signs, some sitting patiently, and some too excited to not cry.
Once, my mom took me upstairs to the smoking section. She sat at a small round table, her eyes turned off, and pulled out a long cigarette. I could always tell something was wrong when she would light her cigarette without even looking at it. It seemed like she was watching her own personal movie, and maybe she was. I stood there, the tips of my small shoes touching awkwardly, until she noticed me. “Oh honey,” she raised her knuckles, making spirals of her smoke, “why don’t you go and look for your father’s plane.”
The windows in the smoking room were even better than the terminal windows. These were large and high up, and you could see all the planes. I didn’t know which plane could be my fathers, they all looked the same.
Now that everyone’s afraid to spend money, the airport is struggling to hang on. Only one gate is operational now, and there’s barely enough flights to keep that one busy. Now our town is a place where you can get to a city. All the flights throw people to airports that can actually take them somewhere.
Almost all of the stores in the airport are closed now. They never even bothered taking apart the bar that everyone was so proud of. The bar made the airport seem legit, for some reason. All of the Floridian nick-knacks are still displayed proudly. Alligator heads, shark teeth, and pink flamingo coasters have the bar all to themselves.
I like to think that they talk to each other, that the alligator sighs “what a shame.”
And the flamingo cocks its head and asks “what is?”
“How nobody comes in here anymore, and we’re stuck here.”
I’d like to think the flamingo would be indifferent, that his head would snap back in place when he said, “at least it’s quiet.”
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
glutton
Let's just stick
with our awkward
waves.
-don't bother-
it's just not forming how i imagined
why bother.
eyes connect with dotten lines,
squeeze,
and release.
lift your chin up, too bright,
laugh out lout, too much, too many words
pull your chin down.
don't show that translucent
flesh.
that, with eyes, eyes, eyes.
just another girl.
just another, just another, just another girl.
i would scream
if you'd just tell me
"You're worthless".
it would feel right.
more right than all this tic tac toe bullshit.
cheeks turn into
cheeks.
one big gaping hole
right in the middle.
one big sigh escapes, rattles.
watch their noses turn up, up, up.
watch your curled fingers
get smaller, and smaller, and smaller
until the tip of your nail
makes its way around glass
and bites into your palm.
remember how it felt
to bite
until if felt like,
the skin would tear,
or something.
remember how it felt,
to push
the thick curves
deep into
your thighs.
remember the perfect,
perfect,
crescent it left
on your fuzzy skin.
with our awkward
waves.
-don't bother-
it's just not forming how i imagined
why bother.
eyes connect with dotten lines,
squeeze,
and release.
lift your chin up, too bright,
laugh out lout, too much, too many words
pull your chin down.
don't show that translucent
flesh.
that, with eyes, eyes, eyes.
just another girl.
just another, just another, just another girl.
i would scream
if you'd just tell me
"You're worthless".
it would feel right.
more right than all this tic tac toe bullshit.
cheeks turn into
cheeks.
one big gaping hole
right in the middle.
one big sigh escapes, rattles.
watch their noses turn up, up, up.
watch your curled fingers
get smaller, and smaller, and smaller
until the tip of your nail
makes its way around glass
and bites into your palm.
remember how it felt
to bite
until if felt like,
the skin would tear,
or something.
remember how it felt,
to push
the thick curves
deep into
your thighs.
remember the perfect,
perfect,
crescent it left
on your fuzzy skin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)