confetti made of glass shards

goddammit there it goes again.

sometimes i wish things were a little more desperate. i'm way better at dealing with things going wrong than things staying right.

that dented, pummeled carwreck, blinkers flashing, abandoned under the bridge in the dark, it makes me think of you somehow, the beauty and exhalation of yr collisions, the quiet explosions we bobble back and forth, yr dusty shoulders and roadburned thighs.

i love the word collision; i always have. a tom robbins character once said "this is not a relationship we're involved in, you and i, this is a collision." i think that's about right for every encounter. every stranger, every lover, every momentary smile you share on the street - glances and fingertips and even just the edges of our proximities colliding and diverging at dizzying rates.

don't you wish we could pretend to be anything but random?

melting

i don't know what to say but that this structure fits a bit too tight for my liking. i don't know what to do but turn my stubborn mournful back to yr face, again and again, curling into myself in a sulky attempt at revival.

we chopped vegetables into a sweet and spicy magic stew, and watched those fireworks reflect in windows behind the back porch. it seems appropriate that they were hidden behind a building too tall, only visible in these tiny, paned reenactments. you say i'm feeling sympathy pangs but i wonder if it's something a bit more than that. i'm thirsty for new tunes, new hipbones, new streets wide enough and empty enough and smooth enough for my 2 AM journeys; i'm ready for there to be a destination other than home, ever. i heard those drumbeats and flung open the front door ecstatically to the street, only to find they were in the basement after all. does everything really only happen downstairs and inside and every day? whatever happened to my drunken pirate antics, my topless squadron and my endlessly rambling feet?

dammit.

(it's so hot i think my eardrums are melting inside me.)

new doorways

i walked to yr still
& i drank my fill.

i put on the right song, sleepy mournful slow, and suddenly this place felt like home, taking away all my frantic urges to unpack and rearrange. somehow if the tune in the air sounds right, my body relaxes down into itself, and everything else falls into place.

our new place is strange and grimy and damp; it needs some fresh air and bright colors and love. but i think if we fill it with bikes and books and more jars of spices than we can ever use, if we pound some longevity into it with our dancing feet, i think it might taste like home for a while.

lately i'm getting dizzy again when i try and look at the view, reaching points past which i can't project myself. someone asked me why i'm coming back to chicago after vienna, next winter when i'm done with school and this midwestern city will be dark and frozen and lonely, and my usual answer of "i like chicago" didn't seem quite to suffice. i've never been in a place for this achingly long. i can't remember if i want somewhere else more. i'm scared to give it too much of my life and my heart, because then what will i do when i leave? (the assumption that i will leave is what makes it comforting and frightening both.)

in any case, once we can walk through our halls without tripping over boxes and upturned chairs, once we adjust to ourselves and each other, it's going to be wonderful to come home to this place at night.

his skin is gold from the whiskey in his blood.