dissemination

charcoaled fine lines dissolve into the background;
dusk's drop cloth of an orange-rimmed sunset
glistens the tightrope that swings between headway
and steady every day nothing.
gently with the rolls of thunder fracturing in the distance
escaping light breaks over interrupted movements-
the armored trepidation of reality- a tender and tenacious crawl
between yes, no, what you think you know, and what you think
you've been able to say without exactly saying.
this double-edged weapon of verbal explosion
illuminates an obliquely wandering path
far past the horizon, beyond promise and doubt, and it blinks
like headlights or maybe it's blinking like one a.m. in union square-
which, while we're there:

i wish i was still in new york city
where these stomping ruminations get caught, dragged beneath
the break-speed whirl of taxis, the tumultuous ease
of rush hour footsteps. and the lurch of the train
disseminates patterned thoughts, driving conscience
from the unspoken script that multiplied and murmured
endlessly. but here, outside the city limits,

this weighted dance swings heavy and low. wrenched
from the ashen strokes of able distraction, these delicate lines
alight and break from their suffocation, heaving themselves
into the careening traffic of my mind. red lights failed me long ago.
and it rushes me back
to the place where notions
can't break into words thrust from my mouth
and i trip over instead of saunter between the lines,
it's just that, to say, to explain:
when i don't answer i'm always
trying to say yes.

subtle imperfections / i think i know too much

http://newyork.craigslist.org/brk/abo/768961969.html

I'd like that. Like, now. I'd need a roommate though, and it'd have to be someone as modestly introverted as I am. And it'd have to not be someone currently in my life who also wants to make the shift to true city life (because this "city/town" that I live in now is pushing the limits of wanting to be bigger than it really is).

Slowly, I'm allowing myself to realize that my tendency of feeling boxed-in and claustrophobic, though bizarrely comforting at times, is unhealthy and can only be remedied by uprooting this life.

I came into this summer with high hopes of: remaining single, keeping my head above water, Figuring Things Out, getting lost in New England (mainly Maine), writing, organizing my life, bettering my soul. It hasn't really panned out to any of those accomplishments, and I didn't think those were lofty goals, really. Totally attainable. But I should have known myself better.

I allowed myself to be lured back into my formerly dismantled relationship; we broke apart for all of 2 months, maybe. I went back in with these outrageous expectations and not even a month later, I'm already disenchanted. Bitter, too, I think. And yet, because I am who I am (a part-time eternal optimist/total closet masochist), I've stayed/persevered and continue to try and make it work. Probably, I A) should not have allowed this to happen, B) should not tough it out, and C) am a slight moron in the heart area.

While I have completed significant beach time, I haven't ventured to Maine, which's completely sad because I haven't been there in ten years. Or eleven? Last time I was there, I had a boyfriend instead of a boifriend (and I've never said that out loud but one of my exes refers to herself as a "boi" so it's only fair that I lump her into that terminology; she'd like it if she wasn't busy sending me text messages about how she hopes I'm happy that I'm a liar, but I've no fucking clue what I'm lying about especially if I haven't spoken to her in three weeks), had long hair, and wore a lot of striped shirts from The Gap. Maine is beautiful and prime for escapism; the kind with brilliant mountains and ankle-numbing wisps of waves. Also, lots of rocks and lobster, but I'm not the seafood type.

I'm not sure what exactly I thought I would Figure Out over the summer (and I love how I keep writing as though the summer is over when it's not even August yet), but it probably had something to do with:
1. The Former Ex, Now Current Again
2. The 5 Years Ago Ex, recently resurrected Something, now thinks I'm a Liar and is a WTF Nothing
3. The Persistent Infatuation/Never Gonna Get It
4. Non-heart/libido things like my job, where else I want to get certified, where I can transfer to finish grad school
5. My Work with the Keyboard/Pen, which has been completely nonexistent since, actually, I shoved off #2 and gave #1 the means to enter stage left

About that #5... I don't know why it's so hard for me to write when I'm feeling mostly normal. And "normal," of course, is such a loose term for semi-okay-not-crushed-&-incapacitated-by-tedious-affairs-of-the-heart-&-libido. My dad is forever telling me that I'm dramatic/a good writer, but he seems incapable of putting together the equation. In order to be a good writer, I have to have a good imagination, which therefore lends an artistic and perhaps exaggerated perspective when dealing with/manipulating data in my everyday life. I'm not dramatic; I simply like to react (usually), embellish (sometimes), and have a wide variety of facial expressions that generally do not include casual/constant smiles. Why I struggle with taking the hideous normalcy of my life and turning it into something creative, I so don't know.

What I can do in these dwindling days of my summer freedom is attack with vengeance the possibilities that are accessible to me. Totally possible. And yet, kind of improbable. Which's lame.

What do I do with all these letters I wrote to myself

I know it's not a lost cause (you probably are, you know that?) but it is tangled. Weeds to cut through, sidestep the roots.

I'm having a hard time understanding that it's 7pm.

I slammed my car door shut today and caught a glance thru someone else's window. I thought it was you. Such a visceral thought, a synthetic jolt through my already tense body. The same nose, the same slips of hair shaping the chin. How could she have your nose? It's plagiarism, art-copy, motionless irreducible fallacy. Her hair was short, shaped differently. I've rationalized this in the several hours that have passed. It wasn't your car. It wasn't you. "Why don't you just grab her and kiss her?"

Tying your shoes is easy.

We spun NYC in the palms of our hands and somewhere in the spins of the park your teeth let go of my heart and I haven't seen it since. Off somewhere with my common sense, my practicality, my way of making life work. I Freudian slipped anyone for anyway and I told you this class was going to further instigate my natural inclination to think.too.much.

I've had enough temporary acquisition

VI.
Snap. Focus. Step back, second glance. Tentative click- second guess, click. Erase. Zoom. New lens, wider angle. Zoom. Focus. Refocus. Realign. Pose. Motion. Shadows. Refocus. Snap. Snap. Snap. Setting sun. Focus. Erase. Delete all. Empty. Search. Zoom. Focus. Still.

October
My fingers are stuffed down the front of your jeans and all you can think to say is: "I don't remember where I left my keys." My teeth grip the edge of your shoulder. I can't remember where we began and you can't recall who you are. I fuck you and taste a stranger. Your keys are in my pocket, your fingers are gripping my ass, everyone is leaving and I want to disappear.

Exhume
We ran digital analysis over our late afternoon bodies. Numbers glinted in the awkward sunlight beaming through the blinds. I couldn't add and you laughed through the multiplication of our limbs and digits, identities and secrets. The night I met you, you scribbled a poem on my inner thigh and told me to follow you home. I chased your coattails up W 181st onto Fort Washington Ave. You were a blur of red and black, bursting through parked cars and errant cabs. I watch the movement of life now, gridlocking on the GW Bridge, and wonder when I'll find my way home.