marina's beauty, lucky charms
"so you finally said i could leave but
i
didn't
want..."
from sep 2000 issue of brill's content, specifically, "didion's daughters" by katie roiphe:
She (Joan Didion) loves long, oddly constructed sentences, with ridiculously complicated syntax, often in the passive tense, that are weirdly beautiful, like tall and awkward teenagers.
and now. for this my unstructured waking dream losing.
listening to julie doiron's "will you still love me in december." a song that maybe moved marina. beautiful one.
when i get it all down. when i. when will i. wren.
when i would run away
and how things seem
and you sat in math class in seventh grade and you remember, you recall being told by your instructor that, "subtraction is just the addition of a negative." and things are so simple but you can't get over them. and as things pass through you. can't. and you fall a lot, and cry maybe. or maybe you just don't speak. but your eyes your eyes your muscles your limbs they betray everything to anyone willing to look, to anyone finding their way.
the tiny man doing laps around the borders of my eyeline. under my eyelids he scampers, and this then they have the nerve to say, this is where Heroin Chic comes from. no dearest. i haven't gotten any wishful sleep, any wishful SLEEPING.
he needs to cut his beard he tells you. why. does he tell you this.
something you notice: maybe i've just been lucky, but the food here isn't bad at all. feeling like a princess at the dining table, ruffled sleeves and petaled shoulders rising up above the seams. hawking for a reason. ringlets even. his body cutting cake, the veins in his arm straining, the red ruddy pointer finger pressed against the plastic knife, embracing. the remnants of sugar on your skin. thinking of deep red apples.
no one does the counting. or perhaps we all do and we are silent. that counts, though.
guessing things. the opener "i guess." what it means to start everything that way, every frontier, the latch hook from which you dangle. tear stains again. you don't even trust yourself.
waiting for a train. waiting on the train. stepping back, stepping off, against hard steel and clickety click talons. bright eyes and curdled lips. purses. not belong. you wait for something to happen, maybe for someone to come pick you up from this station. you find a dirty bench. you lie. and you shake from fear and lust.
rustling paper sounds. "this fiery sadness called desire," you dream of the paper moth returning, gracing you with its presence. an honor you would have. something you don't.
where has all your humility gone? this is why. this is why you cannot find the fathoms.
you have lost, your own kind.
(i guess it's mine)
i
didn't
want..."
from sep 2000 issue of brill's content, specifically, "didion's daughters" by katie roiphe:
She (Joan Didion) loves long, oddly constructed sentences, with ridiculously complicated syntax, often in the passive tense, that are weirdly beautiful, like tall and awkward teenagers.
and now. for this my unstructured waking dream losing.
listening to julie doiron's "will you still love me in december." a song that maybe moved marina. beautiful one.
when i get it all down. when i. when will i. wren.
when i would run away
and how things seem
and you sat in math class in seventh grade and you remember, you recall being told by your instructor that, "subtraction is just the addition of a negative." and things are so simple but you can't get over them. and as things pass through you. can't. and you fall a lot, and cry maybe. or maybe you just don't speak. but your eyes your eyes your muscles your limbs they betray everything to anyone willing to look, to anyone finding their way.
the tiny man doing laps around the borders of my eyeline. under my eyelids he scampers, and this then they have the nerve to say, this is where Heroin Chic comes from. no dearest. i haven't gotten any wishful sleep, any wishful SLEEPING.
he needs to cut his beard he tells you. why. does he tell you this.
something you notice: maybe i've just been lucky, but the food here isn't bad at all. feeling like a princess at the dining table, ruffled sleeves and petaled shoulders rising up above the seams. hawking for a reason. ringlets even. his body cutting cake, the veins in his arm straining, the red ruddy pointer finger pressed against the plastic knife, embracing. the remnants of sugar on your skin. thinking of deep red apples.
no one does the counting. or perhaps we all do and we are silent. that counts, though.
guessing things. the opener "i guess." what it means to start everything that way, every frontier, the latch hook from which you dangle. tear stains again. you don't even trust yourself.
waiting for a train. waiting on the train. stepping back, stepping off, against hard steel and clickety click talons. bright eyes and curdled lips. purses. not belong. you wait for something to happen, maybe for someone to come pick you up from this station. you find a dirty bench. you lie. and you shake from fear and lust.
rustling paper sounds. "this fiery sadness called desire," you dream of the paper moth returning, gracing you with its presence. an honor you would have. something you don't.
where has all your humility gone? this is why. this is why you cannot find the fathoms.
you have lost, your own kind.
(i guess it's mine)