Comments Posted By absolutelynthng
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He said to think of ourselves as builders. layering bricks, foraging for twigs. magpies hoarding pieces of humanity.
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 12.08.2018 @ 6:35 am
I wonder if they can tell that we’re related? Can they see how our eyes are nearly the same tint of green? Hair, vastly different but still. The upturned nose, slight, but there? The familiarity of our communication, seamless and unspoken? Wonder if there isn’t some kid–that introverted one in the corner–was he studying us? Tracing the boundaries of our shoulders, biceps, putting the pieces of them back together? Was this kid the next Wegener, performing a reverse drift and seeing in us the Pangaea we once were? Can he put it together by the way my Alyssa grabs appetizers by the handful, dwarfs me with her shadow, is always so much more expansive and free? How I huddle inward? The kid–he’s writing in his notebook now. Alyssa–she’s throwing away the leftovers and never asking me if I’m hungry. Me–I am walking to the podium to the sound of applause, the thread connecting us thinning, thinning / and dust.
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 12.06.2018 @ 4:12 pm
“… It’s…. semi-related? Maybe?”
“Okay, so, let me get this straight. You’ve had this rash for… how long? Four months now? And you just now thought it might be related?”
“Well… I don’t know, sometimes I just get itchy for awhile but then it goes away, so I just thought…”
“Right. Well, Jimmy, I’m going to need you to lie back.”
l o l o l o l dialogue is HORRIBLE WHYYYYYYYY
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 12.06.2018 @ 3:52 pm
How is this possibly related to anything that I need to know? Seriously. We sit here and speak words back and forth, back and forth and I do not understand the point / the point from A to B, she tries to draw it out for me, on the wipeboard, with everyone looking at me now. Their eyes, burning into me, until she starts drawing a something intricate. What is this? Some kind of sick game of pictionary?
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 12.06.2018 @ 3:45 pm
Fun. Out-to-the-bars-fun. Eating the free peanuts, swaying to the band. Leaned against the counter, her mouth moving, fast and shifting / with the moment–fun. Her idea of fun. My idea of fun–we fuck in the bathroom, whisper each others names in pleasure. Vomit up / all our feelings into each other’s hands. Follow a theory to its end, cracking open a cold / one–find the secrets of the universe inside of it until we’re dizzy–fun. Fun in her nail beds, pushing the edges of them back and back, revealing the undersides of our bodies, study the nourishment–how it branches through us to the very tips of our fingers. She thinks it’s fun to watch me stumble into a room, taken aback by the brightness of it; and I think it’s fun to hear her laugh through the wall. Tears-of-gratitude-fun. Brought to my knees in front of her expansiveness, smiling when she pauses, gathering the bulk of it in her throat and spilling / the words out between us. So fun that it aches / just a little.
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 12.05.2018 @ 5:36 am
Is this fun? Is it? Do you feel your skin tingle at the sight of her and do you define this ritual as fun? Does it remind you of the playground or the scented markers in your clenched fists? Is it the bodies-electric? Circling in, then out, a wave function soon to collapse? Is the physics of it fun / to you? Would you spend the day wrapping yourself around her, tongue in cheek or something / like it? Does the shape of her ears resemble tiny fossils that you uncover with your fingertips, gentle and echoing with dust? Is this fun for you? Do you laugh to yourself when you dream yourself crushing their house into tiny pieces, a broken toy left / to rot? Is it fun for you, to imagine yourself into magnet, heavy and pulling / her into you, slow at first, then / entangled.
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 12.04.2018 @ 8:37 pm
Your eyes, an oasis, daring me to write cliche poem after cliche poem but I stare them down in resistance, determined. I will not. You will not turn me into a traveler / weeping at the sight of you. I will not draw the demarcations of your cheekbones against the sand, hills sweeping into shallow pools that I crouch down to peer inside–catch my own reflection, brutal / and awakening.
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 12.04.2018 @ 6:32 pm
Wired to the morphine, drip dripping, I almost feel sorry for him now. Can almost feel the hint of empathy creep into my own circulatory system–in parallel. Unconscious, bruised and bleeding from the inside, he looks small, pitiful and he does not scare me any longer. I think about what it would feel like to take his hand into my hand, bend his fingers back, back, all the way; wonder if he would feel this too–our own feelings-of-this-occurrence in symmetry, back to back, a kind of intimation of the worst kind. I think about what it would feel like to kiss his forehead in the middle of this hospital room–baptize him in a forgiveness he did not ask for.
I walk to my car through the infinite parking lot having done none of these things. I climb into my truck and smile back at the older woman passing by; follow the dot of her body as turns to blur in the distance. I start the engine and he lies still in the bed, his organ of body taking all of the sweet nothings into itself with a kind / of greediness.
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 11.29.2018 @ 6:46 pm
You’re always cutting corners. In utero, even, pretending the rules didn’t apply to you. And here, now, kneeling in the dirt, spreading the seeds without the proper treatment. Though, maybe, it is less about corners this time and more about a specific kind of revolt. Against the older women looking over your shoulder, against the presence of your mother underneath your knees, and against the earth itself, so righteous. As if by planting these seeds all wrong you will undo the weight of them pressing in on you, recoiling in revulsion. Imagining the relief you think maybe you will walk from this sacred ground, find another; tend to the soil and plant yourself with such tenderness. With the relief you think you will cultivate all your withdrawn limbs, let them tangle around the scenery, up the building walls and the legs of your friends. Slowly making your way to their ankles, they feel your touch and begin to whisper your name, coaxing you further–a whisper-chant that you store inside your cytoplasm until you grow so long, so big that you don’t remember your name. Or the names of the older women looking over your shoulder. Or even the name of corner that you cut coming into the world–though, it is etched in stone, somewhere, far away, bare are lacking the love / of your embrace.
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 11.27.2018 @ 6:57 pm
You try to get all the corners this time. Gather the cobwebs into your palms and try to make yourself less afraid of the world. A tiny speck crawls along your life line, trapped in a maze until the fan spins back around and it tumbles, over the soft edge of your hand or, to it, the end of the earth. You think to crouch down, take it up into your care again but instead you lose yourself in the perspective imagined: the disrupt, a home invaded and the free fall into oblivion.
And the next second you remember, you were trying to get all the corners this time and your legs extend / bringing you exactly where you want to go.
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 11.27.2018 @ 6:31 pm
How many corners have you sent me to? Sitting there, in the chair, facing the intersection? How many corners have I studied with my fingertips? How many times have you studied my back, hunched over in obedience? How many corners have I send myself to and watched myself / from afar?
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 11.27.2018 @ 6:14 pm
Steer me, darling. We are careening now–into the space between truth and lie. Did you think it could be avoided?
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 11.25.2018 @ 8:27 pm
I steer you out of the door. Exit the bar. Kicked out, we fall into the streets and shout. We shout until the skies are angry with us and it hurts our feelings. We fall into the gutters and blame the wind and the hands of the gods. We break each others hearts–I mean / bones, they break the silence with the flutter of their wings, sending gusts into the caverns of our ears.
I do not know what they look like, even now / and it hurts. Sends the hairs on my arms into a colossal uprising. And when I look out the window I wonder if you ever learned to break out of your own heart, out of your own box, out of your own / cell.
I steer myself to the left of the wreckage and you mumble the colors of the shirts that I wore when I saved you–that time at the park, on the riverbank, in the barn and under the freeway. You list them off with indifference, fingering the scrap metal sticking out of your stomach. Your lilac shirt stained with the brine of what we have done and I steer myself away / from the bloom.
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 11.25.2018 @ 8:09 pm
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You steer the conversation from the reason that I cannot love you. You do this with ease. And I will not accept this. But still–I have no choice and you walk
from the earth and I
» Posted By absolutelynthng On 11.25.2018 @ 4:36 pm