This is my mountain. I know its changing. Its mornings are my surprises and its storms are mine.
No one asked you to come here. You are not worth even the midday clear. Go back to your sunny
city and flat glass ocean window. Your leather shoes are not dew-crumpled, are not rain-stained.
Sir, you have not seen the river, and it does not miss you. It might find you, but it will not know you.
This is my mountain. Its fists are my fists and I’ll tell you they hurt. You don’t want my tumbling
bruises. Stand there and glance at false peaks but stay off my hidden ridges because summer
streams run empty. Throw your words to golden eagles—they will let them fall. These valleys are too full
to echo. Know your place in the quiet and the comfort. Do not travel. This is rock not clay.
This is chalk not sand. This is hard rock that isn’t asking. This is my mountain.
Someone asked me if I was an artist once.
I sort of stammered and squinted my eyes.
Artists’ apples don’t look like oranges,
But I’ve got faces peeping at me from margins.
In the space, I draw shapes.
I draw flowers. I draw his face.
Solve me the story of the chicken and egg.
Of the face I practiced until perfect
And the perfect face I drew to the dregs.
Even when I’m looking at yellow lilies,
My important pages still fill with
Surprised eyebrows and tidal hair.
And I know he’s not mine anymore
But damn it; he’s stuck in my pen,
Blended into this purple ink,
Bending over this paper over again, and over,
Staining the sheets that won’t hold someone else.
That won’t taste the face of someone less bitter.
So I keep my head filled and hands empty
Don’t stop me; I’m marching up, onward
I’m widening the words I write lately
‘Cause I’m scared of you filling my margins.
Even now, I know that nobody’s reading this. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t written in a while. Because my life wasn’t quite trivial enough to brush off in the French mysticism that surrounded this blog’s birth. I figured I’d write things that would be easily shrouded by the voices in my head; I couldn’t scream about the big things from the rooftops of an abandoned city. I mean, that, and that the people that I write about read this. Bold language favors carpet stains and finicky WiFi routers, not stuff that hurts people.
I’m here though. And I’ll have wanted to know what I felt tonight. And I’ll have wanted it to be buried in raw archives. Maybe artists just use art to hide their feelings from the passerby and show it to the thinker. Wonder, then, reader. What here is purely aesthetic?
Sucker-punched, guard down,
I’m hit after everything’s done
After I’ve told everyone I’m fine
After I’ve kept the right distances
And he’s picking up his pieces
And so comes the avalanche
In silent, secret, abstraction
A blinding cloud of white
Cut hair wet, tired body undressed,
Assassinated in a pocket of breath
Four years ago, I felt this before
When I held a pitchfork in the morning
And a Colorado summer’s floor fell through
A stiff breeze whispered me a name
Until I wilted and wept there in the shade
Fucking idiocy, this stuttering surrender
You got to hate me and hold me
In bruises from the fault lines.
I let good terms overturn me
And rolled away while the fire kept burning.
The cut on my right thumb
Is teaching me that I never
Hit the spacebar with my left thumb
It rests right there
Ready to space space
But habit keeps hurting
And at each damn blank spot
My right thumb sends aches right up and in
And my left is left limp
I just wanted you to know what I’m thinking about
‘Cause I was just here sitting on my couch
Thinking about how maybe you’d be here now
Or maybe we’d be talking on the phone
And maybe we’d be getting along
Maybe we’d be laughing
What if we were laughing?
Space space space space
And now my eyes feel red and
My throat feels broken
What if we were laughing?
It wouldn’t have taken too much to fix us.
I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy.
But damn. What if we were laughing?