i do
do you believe that if you repeat something, again and again, it will eventually come true? do you believe that everything psychological is biological- simeltaneously? do you believe the stars are placed with purpose? do you believe that one night underneath them can change everything? do you believe that life needs a soundtrack? do you believe everything means something, especially nothing? do you always want what you can't have? do you ever get it? do you ever tell secrets? do you listen in on other people's conversations? do you pretend about anything? do you eat non-breakfast foods for breakfast? do you eat breakfast for diner? do you feel like you are watching your life on television? do you feel its an interactive video game at best? do you think all your feelings? do you have imaginary conversations? do you believe you know what other people are thinking? do you refer to authors and musicians in casual conversations, as if they've been taking only to you? do you like cream cheese? do you secretly (or not so secretly) eat 2 cans of tuna every day? do you worry about never falling in love? do you worry you already have? do you feel exhausted just thinking about all the things you'd like to learn? do you believe in ghosts? do you believe in things you can't see? do you believe in something you've never seen? do you want something you've never seen? do you believe it's out there somewhere?
An Intellectual Conversation
“Antonio Damasio is the Dr. Phil of neurology,” he tells me, in a forceful voice. I could have put together an argument, but I’m preoccupied with a memory of third grade, when I tried to defend the existence of Santa Claus. I’ve never met him. I’ve read about him. I’ve thought about him. I’ve heard a couple stories. I've listened to people taller than me. I just believe. I open my mouth to speak, but I say nothing. Inside me, emotion bulges, banging at my chest and varying my breaths. I stare at his name, Antonio Damasio, sideways down the spines on my shelf. I'm suddenly an adult, not because I pay my own rent, but becuase I look up and no one's there.
The truth about cheesecake
Music is cheesecake. And by this I mean, or they mean, or at least they tell me, music is seductive. It’s a trait that can be added, much like an accessory, to anyone who needs a little sprucing up. Music is seductive. Add it to a pair of intense eyes and worn jeans, and it tastes smooth and thick, like chocolate. It’s warm and a little wet and it lingers. It makes you close your eyes, release your muscles, and when combined with a large glass of wine, it makes you a little smooth and warm and wet yourself. Men who obtain this music, who control it, who wear it like a tight t-shirt, are seductive. They make you close your eyes, release your muscle, and feel a little smooth and warm and wet. They don’t have to feed you cheesecake; you will have sex with them anyway. They know this even if you don’t, even if you’ve never had a slice of cheesecake.
I don't
There is a woman sitting in front of me on the train. Her profile faces me and her knee is hitting my bag of groceries. Her skin is this incredibly creamy beige color, but her hair is fake. She is wearing a wig. It's tinted slightly red, but it's mostly brown, and it suits her creamy skin quite well. Still, it's fake. I know it, and she knows it, though I don't think she knows I know, nor do I think anyone else knows. I'm worried about her young, unwrinkled, thin, creamy skin. As she turns her head, the hair moves in a solid, unnatural motion. I'm thinking about the chemo treatment she is returning from. Although she too is carrying a bag, I'm worried she isn't eating enough. When she gets up and walks through the sliding doors, I'm worried that I don't care about her anymore.
so broken hearted
My heart is beating unnecessarily. Sometimes, I think, if you ask them- that’s what they’ll tell you. Standing just beyond earshot of the rhythm, steadied upon imposition, but a position anyhow, less obstructed than mine. They reach into your mind and build it themselves; constructing sunshine memories from fluorescent lights.
Cigarettes and chocolate milk
it's been awhile, and no one has been here to ask me... "so, what was the coolest part of your day?" and i really miss hearing that question. so i'm gonna answer anyway. today, it was listening to this song and simultaneously tasting cigarettes and chocolate milk while watching the world around me come together and come alive and finally fit. because it usually doesn't fit and it usually takes a while to meet someone who makes it fit and it usually feels slightly crooked without them. without them, conversations are jagged, expressions are blank, it appears nothing really is nothing and really means nothing. reality is one dimensional. but maybe, "they" are highly overrated (i have suspected this all along). maybe, if the soundtrack is that fucking good, the movie doesn't even matter. or at least, the difference between what actually happens, and what you expect to happen isn't disappointing because in your mind, everyone is tapping their foot, dancing through your favorite songs, moving at your own pace, and everything is in its right place.
you never closed your eyes and heard me play guitar
and you'll slip away before you can remember how it felt to mean everything to me. you say you wake up lonely, but my life is an empty sea, and the horizon's always farther than it seems to be.
suspiciously lonely
you called the other day to ask me how I've been
well, ever since i left, i've been wondering the same thing
i guess by now the disappointments gone away
but the silence still reminds me of my birthday
in the crowd of strangers, everyday
i see the same faces on different streets
in the crowd of strangers, it's suspiciously lonely
to never hear one speak
it's not raining, but it might as well be
the sky is turning purple and exploding in the sea
the shallow light tastes like mold and poverty
it's always colder than i'd prefer it to be
in the crowd of strangers, everyday
i see the same faces on different streets
in the crowd of strangers, it's suspiciously lonely
to never hear one speak
i have the feeling no one knows me and it's true
i have more thoughts in my head than people to tell them to
i walk home alone like girls alone shouldn't do
i contemplate my freedom and think about the news
in the crowd of strangers, everyday
i see the same faces on different streets
in the crowd of strangers, it's suspiciously lonely
to never hear one speak
you said
last night i had a dream
you came home
to find me asleep.
my hair, covering my face, was
twisted in pages
of the book i read.
and you,
told me that you loved me
for the first time.
and you,
carried me to bed
before i heard
a word you said.
in the morning,
light pours through
the shade of my window.
i get up, throw away my
favorite songs,
lay back on my pillow.
because i,
know it's wrong to dwell on
people who think
they're characters in books.
and believe them
when they tell you,
they never heard
a word you said.
"life is a rhythm,"
he says, hesitating, tapping his foot with the thud of the base. "You have to move with it," his broad smile illuminates the sun- kissed wrinkles that extend from his eyes like long lashes. His words taste like sand and salt and weathered air. He is smiling at a woman twice his age, and meaning it. He leans in closer when the surrounding music becomes slightly intrusive. The bar stool shakes beneath him from the stomping of feet to the beat, but his eyes do not waiver.
