Dear Sweet Friends,

Come Home Soon.

 

i am your mother

December 17, 2010

if they could be the kind of friends that save you from yourself.

if they could be with you

right now.

if

only.

only,

what kind of friend would you be for them?

you with your…

you wouldn’t be for them

is what!

and i’ll tell you:

and another thing!

and you will listen when i tell you because:

i am your mother.

and we will never be friends.

what

with you and your…

friends.

 

i am your father

December 15, 2010

no one will ever be man enough for you

i can tell because:

i am your father.

hours and hours

there are so many ‘ifs’ it hurts to think about it.

dry inconsequence left in your wake.

i am waves of calm. when, where else could i get such an opportunity. sam, jak palec. i am a lump. i am made of rock. every human soul in this airport is smashing against me. they are all so vast that, when they break over my body, they feel nothing. i am a pebble. and suddenly, they move me.

entire families preparing to move across the sky.

i go into this state, i’m completely encased in myself. i’ve sucked myself into my skin. i radiate nothing. people, who tend to stare, now seem not to notice me. i can sit in an establishment. on a stool reserved FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY, and just sit. for hours. i can leech this minimal, barstool comfort. i suck in the stool too. i suck in the tabletop. my overstuffed backpack. my shoes dangling by their laces. my hoarse cough. my sour smell. invisible and wide awake. the marvel of riffraff. and without effort, i begin to suck in the rest. through my invisible, all-seeing eyeballs. the card game. the greasy, black, side-swept hair of the beautiful boy playing. the unfortunate hand of the the player opposite. johnny cash. the smell of hot animal fat. all the different languages. the beautiful boy looks over. his eyes meet my invisible eyes. his side-swept, greasy hair mirrors my side-swept, greasy hair.

hours to go. hours and hours, seventeen of them.

gęba wieś

hills lie like thick severed tongues

brimming the distance to the south

the trees on them like taste-buds.

and those that line long roads

(swollen dust-cloud gums)

are teeth

poplars, i think.

My tongue with its

deep ditches

moves heavily in a second language

and my teeth are grimey

articles to pick at with a toothpick

thin Polish trees out the window of a train sterczą jak

bristles on a toothbrush

a year to cry

i moved to poland for a year to cry. this became clear to me about two months into my stay. it wasn’t every day that i was crying at that point, but it was most days and still seemed insufficient. i had been told my whole life i was hysterical. and now, close to its place of origin, i would allow my hysteria to blossom.

feathers

someone told me a story about feathers. they once belonged to peacocks. now you can buy them at the park for five. and you can see the peacocks plump on tree branches. their tails jagged where the feathers used to be.

and at the zoo the ostriches pluck out their own.


delusions will always find their place in the cracks between us. i fill my head with your undying love, pronounced in your voice, in my own words. i’ve scripted scenes   for us to play out on moonlit docks. and maybe you have us swooning in a different setting. the distance gauged like miles of canyon between our thoughts. i’m on the edge of my own private cliff, looking at your tiny figure on the other side. and because it’s a desert setting, a leather-clad american fugitive’s landscape where the only permissible sounds are the howls of coyotes and the tinny clank of cans of beans over the crackle of a fire, maybe the papery hiss of a cigarette being lit- we stay quiet. i could yell out to you, but the echo would have me believe that at least three others love you like i do. so i crouch low, the leather of my chaps creaking, and finger the red dirt. somewhere above, a hawk throws a shrill noise out against the cliffs. my eyes dart upwards and off of your distant little body. by the time they wander back i’ve lost you.

inches apart

December 3, 2010

i don’t know what to do with you.

wrap me around our neck. for warmth.

i’m sweating.

alright.

so then?

then we will stand inches apart.

how many?

you decide, beautiful.

come closer.

 

 

a rainy confession. annon.

December 1, 2010

i bury my face in the crowd. so i can smell everybody. everybody’s cheep perfume. and everybody’s farts. i walk with my nose tailing the back of that guy’s neck. at the bus stop i wait for then to come wafting. i scan the faces for the most embarrassed looking one. i bend down next to this one pretending to tie my shoe. and take a whiff. oh it’s definitely this one. no amount of looking around in feigned disgust at whoever it was that let that out! can hide your shame. in the rain i like to smell dogs, if i can.

 

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.