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this sinking feelingMaybe I’ll fill the silence that whirls around me,
maybe I won't.
It's hard to make a life from the things I do
when I think more of the things I don't.
I end up feeling like the only way to stop this sinking feeling
is to place my feet upon a boat,
so if I’m still dripping in my thinking
there's a finite ceiling
before the last of my oxygen gurgles out of my throat.
Because I won't float. This sinking feeling
is born in my anchor lungs, it's dribbled
from my weighted, burdened tongue,
rolled like a boulder over my mouth's entrance
where wordless wishes
won't form a sentence. If my breath is baited
then there are no fishes. Just those that will pass and gawp
as the sea takes each layer of my eyes
like oranges peeling.
Maybe I'll say something that matters someday
maybe I won't.
I've never said anything
that was good enough to quote; in a life of writing I hardly ever
stood by what I wrote.
It's a desperate pen grab
in the crossfire between troubles and healing.
UntitledLiving room dropped. me. Off
café of the kind you get in shopping centres say they're
looking for your next show every stranger here has tickets for the unannounced you
hands offered under mugs. Passer by eyes
looked like a departed hearse and
feet on the ground, we're sure we're breathing still
feeling a hotel crawling up the inside of a knee it won't be long (black toothpick teeth
to churn a sound machine) We're sure you're breathing still
there's just this sense
you're getting worse maybe you should think about going back to the
and expression is such a chore
delivered to the kitchen. I wonder where you begin,
I feel I'm carved off the Sunday chicken
a strip of meat flapping free from the earth and I tried but I
just can't paint any more, said,
an exhibition of room minds with a ping pong ball bouncing from height to sinking
I just don't
what relevance sight has any more kettle always clicks down what it said
and I'm staring at my worktop hands thin
A hundred and one ways not to ask someone out...and I'd devote my time to
learning the subatomic nature of the universe,
so I could manipulate it, unlike my voice;
to weave a tapestry of neptune's dark days
and saturn's wild black summers
then stitch stars to read
will you hold my hand
Just to lose out to
a girl and her,
'You free tonight?'
Head slumped on my hand in a chemistry lab,
watching liquids bubble and froth without warning;
I might as well corrode the algebra from my thoughts, because
I don't understand how this works at all.
I walked the cliffs today to try to understand
what it feels like to live on the edge. But with my feet dangling, free,
over our conversation,
I know which makes me feel alive. No jump from here could match
swimming surrendered in your eyes.
And I could probably write for Clinton Cards
but never send you a birthday card (let alone Valentine's)
for fear you might be run down by the awkwardly wobbling language
like a bike short of a spoke
cycle out of me,
and decry the style of a
Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
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