i am still loving you carefully and cautiously and finally (finally!) the words are pouring out of me like music. they told me: forget, because he will forget. Do not bother to remember the faires breathing small and quick in the cracks of our lives. do not bother, because they die like moths in the… Continue reading poem: sad confession put to good music
Tag: the last pavilion
poem: almost song lyrics. almost.
i burned my tongue on late november last year, we were still together. and now, lonely girls sit under fake blue moons, twisting their lives into small categories: the before and the after. hey, don't think it's romantic just because of the lo-fi coffee sounds. last year, we were bold and defiant: miniature buddhas bounced… Continue reading poem: almost song lyrics. almost.
poem: what do i call this
I guess I don't need to talk to him because I already know everything he would say. I know when he would roll his eyes, and that I would laugh; and I remember the few times I was charming enough to make him laugh; he threw back his head, all of his pretention going up… Continue reading poem: what do i call this
poem: what is not (lost & found)
I am looking for him everywhere but he is not even in my dreams he is scattered over the snow in kicked-up footprints he is the smudges on the windows when I breathe against the glass, watching my loneliness fog into my fingertips, watching him always not appear. little girl (asked in broken english) why… Continue reading poem: what is not (lost & found)
poem: gods at small tables
she walked past him in a red coat. he was sitting in the hazing that comes in the dawn. his back to the window and the world and his soul in his typing fingers, the innocence in him always stark and fresh. his leg stretched out just so, his headphones taped over his ears, and… Continue reading poem: gods at small tables
poem: coming awake after dreams
I am nursing a headache imagining that of my five fingers, the one with the blue nail, with the edges dyed blue, the nicks painted with flowers, its color making it a foreigner to the other four. Imagining that this one is happy that this one is all at piece with being strange and being… Continue reading poem: coming awake after dreams
writing: screenplay, #1
[a boy and a girl, both mid-teens. each rather drab-looking; not Hollywood ordinary, just ordinary. sitting with their legs between the iron slats of a balcony. crows and city noise in the background. a cornflower blue sky, some clouds] the girl: I can't even talk to him, not anymore. It's driving me crazy. the boy:… Continue reading writing: screenplay, #1
poem: stock character, female
she turned very slightly; smiled. she said I know you know we know we all know That we are just matter. she bit her lip, she brushed her hair behind the pixeled part of her ear coming sharply in and out of focus. A bad movie; the director is inebriated. reset the lenses and and… Continue reading poem: stock character, female
poem: the third boy is just myth
along the lighted corridors he turned and smiled slightly: that odd thing girls do when they manufacture a crush for a boy that they don't really like, or care about. along the pagan corridors of the forest, and among the thyme and sticky ryegrass he takes her hand he presses her fingers carefully to his… Continue reading poem: the third boy is just myth
poem: portrait of a lady, january 2019
pine tree hands make ginger kisses. they are better than the crowd of girls: nice, but all emotional. the boys carry rocks on their heads and in their eyes; the girl tuck the rocks into athletic bags and into breasts. she is with the boys, competing, the rocks split open to Intelligence and Intellect, and… Continue reading poem: portrait of a lady, january 2019
the last pavilion 