who was the girl i snapped test shots of by that flower wrapped fountain on memorial drive. it was in a gated yard against a stone and brick building. the day was hot and sticky, and we were hot and sticky from walking. why do i remember the curl of flowers but not the curl of her lip. why the peak of the fountain, grey-brown and sharp sided, but not the peak of my passions for her. am i going to lose everything? even the things once photographed—now buried in a sea of photographs. 

I give.

1 March 11 9:36:06 am

we reach for stars. burn out our hearts. bone and ash and the rolling black fire of night will see us through. we steady our palsied hands with lies and dig deeper into the hot-wet wound of our-self(ves). march will find either our bottom or our end. april will hold either our after-birth or greying quieted limbs. may will hold all, or nothing.  

when your own body becomes enemy you have no friends. 

21 February 11 4:51:40 pm

we fucking destroyed january. we put it in our mouths and chewed it down. gristle and stone and all. we destroyed it. nothing it threw held sway. it died a day at a time; now february need follow. we know it’s february because our heart is a broken shoreline. because our blood rolls just below a constant boil and our bodies cry out for the coming melt. we know we cannot give up. not this time. we see and recognize the patterns of our destruction, cup them by trembling-hand and hope to swallow them down. 

just don’t choke.

21 February 11 1:33:35 pm

browsing tumblr and stumbling across past lovers transformed into masturbatory material for other men puts me off. porn reveals itself for what it is for a second. abstracting the experiences of real humans and making them fit for anyone who wants to inject themselves into the scene. they don’t have to deal with the complexities of love, or the drama following drunk hookups, or the loss of friends or the slow burn of want that comes from watching someone from afar you can’t have but would like to. Might get your dick hard but it aint doing anything for your life. just pictures of girls to you, memories that follow me with all the real complexity of life. doesn’t seem a fair trade. 

21 February 11 11:55:14 am

you wake rough-raw. the first hit misses it’s mark. double down. there’s enough pain to go around. maybe if you drown the body-pain, steep it, with an aching heart, or longing mind. maybe if you soak in the stink of nostalgia you can use the weight of it to break the connection. read yourself. remember finding god. the scrambling neurosis of recovery. that black heart with perfect hips. the second time you found yourself naked and next to a sweet plum. remember the knotted shoulders and late nights worrying over money, and expectations. remember the episodic hopes. the tidal flow of failure. maybe if you roll hard into the past you can leave this broken body a couple quiet seconds.