He sat at the table writing on the back of her hand, nodding with chopsticks sticking out of his mouth. Achilles Superstar. Rice bowl lunch, clouds. Is that so? Is that–so. Hey, New Found Lost Cause, he sat at the table writing on the back of her hand, nodding nodding nodding. New found lost cause. The chopsticks, leftover from the rice bowl he ate for lunch. Achilles: Superstar. Clouds in the back of your mind, is that so? Glory glory glory, chopsticks drumsticks on the table, kleos. Drumsticks chopping up the back room back-of-the-room table. Drumsticks, chopsticks, blood nebula, wine shopping list. “You’re usage of Blood without saying Blood is perfection.” Ah kill eez superstar, wine shopping list, without You, You & Me, clouds in the back of your mind, kleos, kaleh. Pens drums chopsticks, pens to the dirt, kleos, kaleh Superstar Spin spinning. Out of control.
Never an oceanographer; most often a photographer.
Never a photographer; mostly an oceanographer.
But you lie; sometimes you are a photographer.
And sometimes photography is oceanography.
Our teeth like eyes reflect light when they show.
Do you always just jump in like this?
Well, do you always just snap the shutter open shut like this?
His eyes glowed green.
This is why people hold hands, isn’t it.
The blue blanket flipped and roared.
I sure hope so–
We ducked under the foaming sheets,
Looking out for the place the sun sleeps.
I drive up the mountain smelling like suitcases and sandalwood
And lay my blankets on the bottom bunk in the middle bedroom.
He hands me a compass to map out the trail to Taft Point,
Unaware that I wish it could just point me to where I lost myself.
In 30-degree weather.
Let’s tread the miles that surround us.
The snow shimmering like diamonds under a triple-A battery beam.
The privilege to be wrapped in down feathers and cranberry fleece.
Dried strawberries with walnut halves,
A feast at the top of Dewey Point,
Where I saw something so massive
I began to remember my existence.
I’ve walked through fire.
The holes in my ears are nothing.
I’m tattooed in ways you can’t even see, baby.
Scar tissue is the blanket I tuck myself beneath.
Can you still smell the smoke, I wonder?
Would you like to see all the ways I can fall apart?
I’m waiting for the world to become sharp again.
Ever wonder if anything’s forever?
I’d ask you to wake me, but I never sleep.
There’s a dark wolf inside, he bites my arms from time to time.
No, I’m not your nail polished roses or your soda pop sneakers.
You’ll never chip away my skin.