“In history there are no control groups. There is no one to tell us what might have been. We weep over the might have been, but there is no might have been.”

Page 239, All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy


fuck it,
I want bruises and recklessness
vomit and mystery
brokenness and tangled hearts
hot skin and anger
blood soaked ecstasy and cold white toothpaste
bitter black coffee and wet thighs
nakedness in the morning
and on the prairie
and in the water
and on those flannel sheets
dancing in hailstorms and crying at midday
backpacks of grey-hued pebbles
snotty handkerchiefs and empty gas tanks.

intro to september

the second tab open on Google Chrome today says Goddess
and every time I see it I scoff internally
three birds have thumped loudly into the two south facing windows
while I’ve made one cup of coffee reheated three times and four cups of two kinds of tea
yesterday I floated from person to place to person and back
a smile somehow formed on my face and my arms stretched apart
I forgot to drink water but I did listen to your voice for 53 minutes
and wondered about how it is that sunlight makes my heart run
inside my chest and I still spent 1.3 hours on Instagram


with you, wild thing

wild thing– burritos and cold toes and big dreams–
somehow I think bits of my heart are over there, with you
and I’m typing with cold fingers as the days wander their way to over
a whole lot quicker than they used to

puzzle pieces– handwritten letters and a bedroll and black coffee–
here I am walking gravel roads and concrete sidewalks, with you
and I’m introduced to Bob, Fred, Joe, and Ian and I think about my voice
a little bit more in the middle of the day now

passing time– good words and separate tears and sunlit ponies–
maybe I’m hunting for questions to answers we have, with you
and I’m hoping that while we’re standing here in this sloppy puddle of living
we’ll put on yellow rainboots

From Last Sunday

You’re heavy with decisions and they’re small things,
so small they could probably fit in your left pocket,
though the seam is ripped along the edge.

You stare at the shelf along the back wall of the dining room
and imagine drinking
every last drop
every last bottle
and falling
underneath the house and into the blank
nothingness of cold earth and frozen silence.

Instead you step out the door and button
all eight of the buttons up the front of your jacket and walk;
feet and stepping a sanctuary.

You walk down asphalt pot-holed roads you still don’t know the name of,
probably never will–you’ve never been good at remembering those sorts of things.

Behind eyelids you think about how small you could be
how you could twist and bend, tuck your toes, fold your fingers,
crook your elbows, bend your knees,
to take up less space
to hide from
the gazes of drivers behind wheels
the glare of glass windows
the doors of dark houses
the barks of old dogs.

You stop on a corner, bending both of your knees
and imagine grasping ice-laden grass and pulling it up
and over you like a blanket.

gravity and you

waterlogged, pruny fingered and toed,
soaked in the density of your own skin
and the way gravity binds you to dried grass and red dirt

you’re weightless now, it’s sunday and
smoke-filled lungs, lazing eyelids took you somewhere new. A field
in the sun near a tree, weeping willow [you think
but aren’t sure–you’ve always wanted to be a person that knows those things,]
naked legs and sore forearms floating up
and over
and then

how’d your heels hit the ground so hard,
stirring up dust on gravel roads to the abandoned corners of your own heart
for how long?
weren’t you floating for hours?
gravity and you, a kite in the sky?

& you’re here again, this fucking ground
punctuation in your poetry, marmalade on your toast
and you eat more chocolate, hoping for explanation
in all that saliva dripping from your mouth

I think I can [I think I can’t]

can’t separate the loneliness from my bones
can stave it off by being in the presence of other humans
can’t quiet repeating words: you’ll always feel this way
can drive those 7 miles 4 or 5 or 6 times in a day
can’t grow trust with just piles of words
can fear the realization that heart pieces are outside yur body now
can’t, with bait or otherwise, reel them back in
can stay in one place for today, smoke wafting lazily in and out of my lungs
can’t keep this damn cup of coffee warm
can watch shadows dance and play with sunlight on the kitchen floor