travel zine; however, a little bit about why.

December 10, 2010

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.


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.


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