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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
August 31, 2009
~Awasteof-paint has the perfect solution to one's writer block in turning it into its own fundamental source of creativity in you're the coffee.
Featured by LadyLincoln
Suggested by Gir-Gir
Literature Text
paint by numbers and my writers block
are having sex again. i can't do anything
creative on my own anymore. we are
scattered snapshots, disorganized,
not in order, and i'm my own "out of order"
sign on a bathroom stall door in a public
washroom. my clavicles won't let go of my ankles.
i sleep in diagonals and wake up with
"i-slept-all-wrong" and "i-have-a-stiffness-
in-my-neck-and-a-crick-in-my-back."
i had intercourse with purity,
i used dirt as laundry detergent,
i slept with insomnia as my pillow,
and this morning i ate my hygiene
in the shower. tan lines were typewritten
on my cheeks when i wore your ugly
fingers. you are the coffee stain of
i-wish-i-didnt-do-that on my teeth.
you are the wine stain of i-don't-remember-
what-i-did-last-night-but-i-know-it-was-stupid
without the i-don't-remember part and minus
the wine. let's go fishing and reel in some
of that makeup that covers up upper left
hand placements and downright fuckups.
my notebook is a room and all the letters
are all the people inside the breathing space.
there are so many letters, but still, the only
word i see is lonely. i tell you the unborn
baby in my stomach is dying. your heart
beats under three miles of skin. three miles of
gathering electric thoughts and forming
acoustic sentences. three miles of my
eagerness. three miles of my throat-won't-
let-go-of-this-longing-feeling-the-same-
way-planet-earth-won't-let-go-of-my-wrists.
three minutes of silence that appears to be
oceans deep. the silence in between the
words is as clear as the water in between
the honest eyes and the broomstick hands
that sweep away the stars. you say that
you'll have the eulogy typed up by friday.
there's a shard of glass in my cup coaster
and it hurts me in ways my calculator can't
calculate. i eat raisins and dried printer ink
and apply saltwater to dried lips. i throw
eye drops into the ocean and free the
tapeworm of its boredom and starvation.
the coffee is cold. i leave the room.
are having sex again. i can't do anything
creative on my own anymore. we are
scattered snapshots, disorganized,
not in order, and i'm my own "out of order"
sign on a bathroom stall door in a public
washroom. my clavicles won't let go of my ankles.
i sleep in diagonals and wake up with
"i-slept-all-wrong" and "i-have-a-stiffness-
in-my-neck-and-a-crick-in-my-back."
i had intercourse with purity,
i used dirt as laundry detergent,
i slept with insomnia as my pillow,
and this morning i ate my hygiene
in the shower. tan lines were typewritten
on my cheeks when i wore your ugly
fingers. you are the coffee stain of
i-wish-i-didnt-do-that on my teeth.
you are the wine stain of i-don't-remember-
what-i-did-last-night-but-i-know-it-was-stupid
without the i-don't-remember part and minus
the wine. let's go fishing and reel in some
of that makeup that covers up upper left
hand placements and downright fuckups.
my notebook is a room and all the letters
are all the people inside the breathing space.
there are so many letters, but still, the only
word i see is lonely. i tell you the unborn
baby in my stomach is dying. your heart
beats under three miles of skin. three miles of
gathering electric thoughts and forming
acoustic sentences. three miles of my
eagerness. three miles of my throat-won't-
let-go-of-this-longing-feeling-the-same-
way-planet-earth-won't-let-go-of-my-wrists.
three minutes of silence that appears to be
oceans deep. the silence in between the
words is as clear as the water in between
the honest eyes and the broomstick hands
that sweep away the stars. you say that
you'll have the eulogy typed up by friday.
there's a shard of glass in my cup coaster
and it hurts me in ways my calculator can't
calculate. i eat raisins and dried printer ink
and apply saltwater to dried lips. i throw
eye drops into the ocean and free the
tapeworm of its boredom and starvation.
the coffee is cold. i leave the room.
Literature
to map sunrises...
one day I will tell my daughter to touch herself
before she ever lets a man do it for her, to learn
her body-secrets and the shape of pleasure. I will
tell her that San Francisco always keeps your heart.
that her skin is a blank canvas, that hair grows,
the value of the right kind of disrespect. that the older
we get, the more we need the people who knew us
when we were young. I will tell my daughter
to give away the secrets that keep her up at night,
and that there is never a wrong time to love someone,
but sometimes a wrong way. I will teach my daughter
to travel without makeup; that sometimes forever means
morning and sometime
Literature
We Watched Ourselves Dissipate
we caught our breath with butterfly nets
and exhaled
the pieces of each other's wings
that stuck in our lungs.
the sky gave a shiver and the stars
unsealed, their firefly cores shimmering
and fluttering
toward us.
plucking them from the air, they slip
between our fingertips
and fall like butterfly wings
to the ground.
we conduct the celestial engagement with
our metallic hearts
that control this unsteady rhythm of
love crescendos
and staccato love-making.
like conductors in an orchestra.
our lives write the love songs.
Literature
The Thing About Cliches
I.
If this were a cliché,
A poem, or both
It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex.
There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. Well throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity.
This is not a cliché anymore.
So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page.
II.
If this were a romance,
A message in a bottle, or both
It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys
Suggested Collections
full title: you're the coffee, we're the room
ohhhhh my goodness.
thank you so so much for all the support on this.
it means so so so much.
ohhhhh my goodness.
thank you so so much for all the support on this.
it means so so so much.
Comments334
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that was awesome! it flows. and makes me want to read it again. just to hear my favorite parts.. or all of it.