9:32 no sense in making sense

I burned my finger on a hot glue gun today

did some double digging

played duck duck goose with some kiddos

and I miss you


played Santeria on repeat

wore lipstick

was three days off when I wrote down April 8th

and I miss you


bad judgment left turns

an elephant revival t-shirt

dreadlocks and nose piercings

chalk ball

an interview

coffee

sweat

silence

black licorice

you


things are changing

but I miss you the same

she was November

and the rain sounded out its warning that she couldn't stay

she'd tried to keep all of it in

but by the time the water drained through

she was already the pages of her favorite book

and by page 121

she was already Oregon

her pulse coursing through the Owyhee river 

because November didn't want her 

and her favorite book always made her cry 

but she was dry dry dry

wondering why she was so much green and so much desert too

by the time he found Oregon

she was already a question mark flowing through his veins

and as she made her way back to his heart

she didn't find an answer

because she was already gone

and she was never November 

or her favorite book

or Oregon

or a question mark

she was never any of these things

she was just herself

and she didn't want to be

he felt her everywhere

but he was in September by the time she was November

and he was on page 108 by the time she left as page 121

and he was beating through the Salmon River in Idaho by the time she was Oregon

and as he made his way back to himself

he didn't have an answer for either of them

because she was already gone

and he still didn't know what to say

and it grows, on it grows

I'm still so afraid to ask questions

at a poetry reading in Seattle, she spoke of crayons

and 864 miles away from home, I could still feel remnants of Paris stuck on my skin

smell the scent of history finding its way back to me

in the crowded space of people, who listened to what was being said aloud but kept missing the silent in-betweens

I felt it again

I felt like dying

powerless panic

unexplainable misery

I wanted to hurt myself

I was scared I'd hurt someone else if I didn't get the hell out of there

and I was still breathing

but I want you to know that in that moment I knew what suffocation was

and I don't understand it

please tell me why it hits me in unexpected places like that night

at times when there's nothing wrong

all of my journals since the beginning have had gaps of days, months, years

where I didn't write a single thing

I never lived and breathed in poetry

I inhale and exhale just because

I lurk and I linger

never trusting the words I write completely

because I don't know if that's what I mean

ready to run from them more than once in a while

but poetry's always there

I see it everywhere

in the footprints in the snow

in the veins on her hand

in the crinkles in his eyes when he talks about tomorrow

in their body language when they're a room apart

in his laugh that screams life

in the tragedy that lasts three seconds on the news

in the injustice that perception feeds

but I'm missing the unbearable sights

I don't take the time to look

I'm impatient again

I'm at a place in life I couldn't imagine I could be a year ago

but going back to the person I was when I was not okay

I'm okay now though

I think

and I need someone to tell me why I'm going backwards when okay doesn't mean not okay

but I'm still so afraid to ask questions

between away and gone

the freedom lied in the serenity of the dirt underneath my fingernails
damp hair from the cold currents
and old sweat resting on sun soaked skin
smoke in my bee stung eyes
and rocky imprints on dirty soles
no pretenses
just us
and the great starry-eyed view of somewhere else
drenched in rain
and moved by wind
where the moments flew freely by
just long enough for fingertip grazes
and soft blown kisses
negative space upon my hands
filled with parted lips
closer to the earth than I ever was to my hungry heart
where strangers were the best company
where the rabbits darted back and forth
and the field mice came to visit
and the crows called the morning
and the bald eagle soared
where I was unwaveringly happy
and for the first time
I didn't have to question it
my limbs were sore
but nothing hurt
nothing hurt where I was
between away and gone

pretty as not

I used to remind my hand that my a's were ugly
that the only beautiful a's were the ones with the top half
a graceful soft curve that made it seem better 
somewhat untouchable
somewhat other in a good way
somewhat more
I willed my pencil to move differently
because if my a's were ugly
I reasoned the rest of my alphabet was too

tell me something else

tell me about the tsunami trapped behind your glassy left eye
tell me how the waves strip you naked everyday
but the volcano erupted years ago
and the sky is still roaring
your heart is still shaking
tell me how the death toll is forty-four
but the population has always been one
tell me how the waves rise faster than you can swim towards dry land
so you raise your white flag
but it's transparent to roaming eyes
and invisible to shadowy search parties

tell me how you keep your eyes open because you want to see your destruction in all its glow

and feel your edges as you're swallowed whole

tell me about the wildfire burning in your dry right eye

tell me how it's 0% contained

and the wind is blowing in all directions

tell me how the smokejumpers gave up on you when the fire was small

and you gave up on yourself before you saw the sparks

tell me how the planes flew right over you because the whole world is burning to the ground

and it was too late for any solace

tell me how you're ashes and dust

tell me how you're pulverized

but the cinders still spell out S.O.S

tell me how the smoke doesn't care about your plea

tell me how you think this is hell but you never believed in heaven

tell me about the stars on your tongue
tell me how they itch to radiate their light
because someone once told you they're beacons
but your lips refuse to give them that freedom
and the staircase in your throat
is getting steeper and more jagged for words to climb
tell me how it's not a civil war anymore because your heart has always lived in Antarctica
and your mind is somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle

tell me about the dried blood in your flaring right nostril

and the sunny-side up ooze in your raw left one

tell me about the wild jungle in your left ear

and how the eyeless sounds multiply when you think you've stumbled upon a clearing

tell me about the salty sea in your right ear

and how you're made of erosion

tell me how the carelessness gets you more than effort ever has

tell me something

tell me anything

because the quiet can be savage

and you keep stepping on pins and needles

reaching for a rush

reaching for a reason

your shoulder blades more familiar to me than the color of your eyes

and I'll keep following you

I'll be right behind you

waiting for something

waiting for anything

i apologize in advance

A little while ago, I looked at Bing's image of the day on my Windows phone and saw a wonderfully eccentric beautiful birdy.  It turns out that the bird's name is 'blue-footed booby' and I don't know if it's immaturity or the weirdly giddy mood I was in, but needless to say, I laughed and laughed and laughed.  And that night, my family and I went to eat sushi at a place called 'Wasabi' and I thought my dad was joking when he said that was the name of the restaurant and I laughed and laughed.  The sushi and service were lovely but I am so puerile.  And ten seconds ago I had no clue what that word meant but I love looking for synonyms for other words and finding out what they mean and how they're related but never the same.  While we were eating sushi, I showed my family the picture of the blue-footed booby and built up the suspense before telling them its name but when I did they weren't as amused as I thought they'd be.  I was thinking of Drake and Josh too, because Megan called them 'boobs' a lot.  I call my brother 'butt' a lot.  I feel incredibly silly for this post.

So I kind of did some spur of the moment online research on the blue-footed booby and found that 'booby' comes from the Spanish word 'bobo' which means stupid fellow, clown, fool, etc.  Named so because they're a bit clumsy on land and they're not scared of humans.  I saw this short YouTube video of a smaller male blue-footed booby being rejected by a larger female one.  She just didn't like his dance moves I guess.  The poor fella.  And over the course of a two days, I've fallen in love.  I feel like it wouldn't be an insult, but kind of maybe like an endearment if I affectionately said to someone, "Oh, you blue-footed booby".  I don't know what response that would get.  I'll get back to you.  Actually, in all honesty, I probably will never say that out loud.

I'm not sure why I feel embarrassment creeping up whenever I'm on the verge of saying "I absolutely love watching MTV's Teen Wolf and The Challenge".  There's nothing to be ashamed of.  Stiles is the best and Isaac please come back and CT's beard is lush.  And I guess while I'm on the matter of not-too-shabby looking, sigh-inducing, amazing actors, I should say that I love Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Thomas Brodie-Sangster.  Maybe I just need to sit on a bench with a guy who listens to The Smiths and yell "PENIS" at the top of my lungs.  There's nothing to be ashamed of.  Okay, truthfully, I'm embarrassed for myself for all this random stuff I'm putting out there.

If you've got a secret vendetta against me because of a small reason or no reason, I have something to say to you:

I will mess you up.

With weird but changed smiles because apparently there is valid evidence from old photographs that I didn't know how to smile as a youngster.  I also have sufficiently large teeth and I remember in James Franco's Roast, someone said something along the lines of, 'Andy Samberg's teeth are so big, that each is a lonely island', and it was awful but I couldn't help but laugh, and I feel like that sometimes.  But back to messing you up.  I will smile at you and I will mean it and I'll create the most awkward bubble of silence because I never know what to say.  It might make you uneasy and it'll make me uneasy too.  But that's okay.  No ill will, no apathy.  It's okay if you hate me though, I hate me too.  That was the wrong closer.

And that ladies and gents, is a comeback to a nonexistent insult.  An odd, terrible, late-night, unrealistic, doozy comeback.