we wore your ashes around our necks for years. i remember when i lost mine swimming in a lake and we bought goggles and searched for hours to find that piece of you laying in the sand. faded silver, no glimmer, no reflection. we found you and it was worth it and we laughed and i put you in a box because i couldn’t afford to lose you again.
i don’t know exactly where you’re buried because i never had the guts to ask. if i knew where you laid i wouldn’t go because it’s something that i can’t do. i’m a coward that bathes in the faint sun of your life but maybe one day i’ll buy some orange juice and i’ll buy a fresh pack of cigarettes and i’ll sit on your stone and i’ll listen to joan baez and i’ll wonder how different i would be if you weren’t underground. i’ll wonder how different you would be if you had a few more years. nothing happens for a reason, i have to believe that.
when i grow up i want to be just like you and if you heard me say that you’d tell me that we never grow up we just get bigger and we just get better. i know that there’s a difference between what i remember and who you were and i wish i could calculate the distance between the image and the reality.
we feel you in every movement. like the ashes around our neck, like the push on the swing, like the paint on my fingers, like the peach jam on my toast. i could have been a better person by now.
there we go
drift up and out
like the smell of coffee
creeping down the hall
there we go
down and out
like the saturday mornings spent
hiding bagged eyes from the cashier
i saw my old teacher the other day
on robie and williams
he shook my hand and told me
i was a good kid and
i am becoming a good man
it’s all temporary
like black shoes we buy over and over
like the rooms we sleep in
like the warmth between two hands
i am learning to respect temporary
i’m not comfortable
it’s all going away
but i’m learning
i really am
i’ll pull the covers up over my eyes
i’ll change what time is to me
either just do it right out or keep it inside and don’t tell anyone and feel like dying for a while the second option is usually safer because it’s less scary good luck
i know there will be those up and downs no matter where we go. so no matter where we go our hearts will always follow
everything is long gone but the time stays stuck within the rings of the trees. the maple, the willow, the pine. this time of year the clocks appear everywhere and the hands are frozen on certain hours of certain days both long passed and short sighted. i can see people sitting on the street signs and i can see myself digging through the cracks in the sofa looking for bus change to meet everyone at the dock at midnight.
the streets tell stories and it’s a story i’ve told before. i can feel the vibrations in every footstep and i can see everyone standing outside of their houses we lived in as teenagers, as early 20s, as last month, as next year. every street corner is an intersection of memories in which i no longer care to remember. and the clocks appear everywhere. the hands are frozen. i want to change the time, but i can’t and i know that because i’ve tried before.
i see myself within the tresses of your hair and the grips of small fingers and palms. i can picture it all within the visions of burning fields and open skies. i see myself with hands on my thigh and rings around my wrist. i can picture myself hand in hand with nothing at all. these things bleed back through within autumn. as the trees change colour, the colours of my memories change too. i am ready to burn everything back down again.
there is leaving and there is flight. i am not finding myself within either category. i just want to slip out the back door at 1am. i want to disappear into the caves of minds and live within what might be perfection to someone else, but not to me. i want to be the change in the cracks of the sofa. i want to be the dock at midnight. i want to be time, but i need to understand what that means. i need to know where to set the hands on the clock. i want the streets to burn, but i don’t want to see the light that the fire makes.
i will go on and i will go back but i just want to escape without saying a word. i want to be gone in silence and in apathy. i want everything and i want nothing at all. i have to accept that somehow.
i bite my nails down to the core.
you asked me if i ever wanted to go
“i’ve got my nails,
i’ll always have my nails.
everything else is temporary.”
the car broke down
on the side of the highway.
we didn’t say anything,
you handed me a cigarette,
“we’ll call when we’re done”.
we barely cracked the windows,
we burned handheld effigies
again and again.
it’s a kitchen cold war,
the pot sits silent
staring back at us both.
it’s a cold war,
pouring blood into filters
and coffee into blood.
lets shake it up.
i kicked the habit,
but i know that we both know
the small secret between us.
that day when everyone left town
and we both slept until 3pm.
i could hear you puking upstairs
while i puked downstairs.
you made us breakfast
in complete silence.
these are wine glasses
filled to the brim
with sparkling blood.
it runneth over
for good and bad.
spilling onto gravestones.
spilling onto forgotten flowers.
spilling onto inheritance
god bless this dna.
i wrote this really depressing thing once about how everyone tells lies and secrets to their friends and family even though we know the truth and would rather accept the lies than confront what is known. it’s about how we always have secrets we’ll never reveal to anyone because we’d rather the comfort of ignorance between people we love. it’s about how we love people more if we ignore things within them. it’s about how selfish love is and how that selfishness in love takes a toll on ourselves, our family and our friends.
it’s a good one i think. i’m in the process of sorting out all my writing from the beginning and i’m slowly reading everything i ever wrote which is kinda fucked up and weird but certain things stand out and this really stands out. maybe it only stands out because it’s so personal. maybe it only stands out to me because it’s one of the only thing i’ve ever wrote that touches on the issue of substance abuse and addiction. maybe it stands out because it’s actually good. who knows.
The newspaper read, “tu est adorable.”
And I wholeheartedly concur.
i once got an old roll of film developed
not knowing what to expect
none of the pictures turned out right
except for a picture of a girl i once knew
standing on top of the
abandoned radar base
giving me the middle finger
1 was good
i laughed and thought
what a stupid metaphor for life
even the good moments
and out of grasp
and flipping me off from the past