Palm trees and the beige buildings.  You can’t see those.  You can’t see the mini orange tube dress.  Legs extending long.   The damp sand stuck to her feet.  You can’t see the shapes of men’s bodies inside her imagination.  Pelicans floating, resting on the water’s surface.

Rocks scattered and seaweed adrift.

Intense warm penetrating skin, deposits into muscles like an unexpected opiate.   You can’t see the melting tension or the man in mind off-site, his absence.  You can’t see a wish.  Traces of graphite and charcoal in mind reach figures like touching, instead the outlines of bodies stretching.

You can’t see the far leaning palm trees to the left in the wind so precariously tall at this distance, green beams to a point aloft perched on long thin stems, the turn of her head toward beige long extending ranch-style apartments and muted businesses laid into sideways horizons, or the true colors or true expanse of the whole scene and most of all you can’t see her.

Men between two sights, one slow breath between them.  Ankles against the water’s pulse.  Language speaking inside sees past to dimensions off-shore, watching.

Contrast between younger and older.

Later, pelican’s wings will shift into kitesurfers.  Then hers will be the only eyes closed.  Wind pulling soft at the tide, then violent.  Legs crossed in the cooling sand, whipping round the long braid and wet dress, face tilts up toward sun burning warm water off our bodies, chest open.

You can’t see her.

 

 

It’s Fine to Give Up on Love but the Alternative Might Be Worse

This week’s concurrent bad vibe and drooping orchid proves that love kills flowers.

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Even after blooming amidst this season’s overabundance of rain and uncharacteristic near-freezing temperatures.

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It had hardly seemed like winter from this point of view.  It takes more greens and blooms than can fill a bedroom to kill a bad vibe…

 

 

To this I can’t help but comply with full attention.

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Bright orange and yellow ornaments titivating a feral front yard.  Like wearing nice clothes but opting out of shower, shave, and brushing teeth.

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Pretty shade of red, I’m thinking about making out.

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Looks like sprouted fish eggs genetically modified by cheeky vegan scientists to produce inedible baby flowers instead of fry.  Seriously not sure if these neon pink (totally unedited) flowers were real, or if the camera made all it up just to fuck with me.

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I’ll take the love wherever I can get it.

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As for these, the same applies.  Strange as it may seem.

 

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Really this is no place for resolutions not to care about anybody or anything anymore.  In this place you are not wrong and they are not wrong, nobody is wrong.  Nobody is right.

It’s fine to wear the same clothes as yesterday, eat ice cream and cheeze-its for lunch and not give a shit sometimes.  It’s fine to fall for another epic sleep for the third or fourth time, to lie in bed all day for how many days in a row, don’t remember.  This place accepts your tears and sticks around for the cruelest phases to end embracing the whole of it.

This place will not eat you up inside, will not burn you out.  This place gives all of itself, everything, whether or not it’s seen.  It’s not the most appealing idea at times but this place is not stupid.  It is absolutely not stupid.  Yet it is not clever either.

This place doesn’t need other people’s opinions about what’s wrong.  This place isn’t as lost as it appears.

This place is no place special.  No place unique.  No where to go, no where to travel.  This place is all around everywhere and even in the worst most unbearable phases of life which we will all inevitably experience, it’s available anytime.

 

 

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It’s not stupid.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Know Nobody Here

Today, I’m running away in my own town.  I love days like this.  I can already feel it.

I wake up and I know nobody here.  I don’t think.  Who I will see, what I will do, I don’t know I don’t care and it doesn’t matter.  I have to hurry, I don’t want to wake up too much before I leave because I might start to think.

I throw on the first clothes I see.  Pretty unremarkable outfit, black black and more black.  Color may be flattering, but black is easy.  Color is inside me anyway.  I don’t think, I don’t see.  Slide the hair tie from my hair, unravel the night’s braid.  Don’t put it up, don’t even brush it.  Don’t need makeup.

There isn’t anyone around in the apartment in this moment and the moment spreads joyfully.  This place is empty, the rest of the world is empty.  The world forgets its weather report today.  Anything can happen this morning, in this beginning.  Everything’s undefined, unnamed.

Water.  Don’t wake up, don’t see, don’t think.  Don’t make coffee, get it later.  Just leave, get out, run.  Hurry up.  I throw everything into a bag which isn’t much today, just enough and down the dark stairs.

Slam the door behind me and pause in the warm light, in open possibility.  The sun gleaming off the plants, the fence, all the windows, all the vehicles.

I’m free here, just as I would be if I were somewhere else.  In Mexico.  In Italy.  India.  I can’t bring everything with me.  I have hardly any money.  There’s only so much you can take, so you must make a choice.  I don’t have much of anything really, anyway.  What’s inside me.  That’s all.

I may as well be away right now this minute.  Watching out the train window, the trees float by on the vast landscape.  I lower my pen and write. I am so free.  One letter to a friend I’ll forget to send, one journal entry on the type of music this outstretched uninhabited lonely plain calls out to me, one letter to a lover that’s better left unsent, several notes to my teachers.  I write for me.  I won’t be spinning some yarn in those words about what I’m doing next.  I’m not going to do.  I don’t know how to do, anymore.

Then I find myself here in the crowded cafe a half-block from my house, a seven-year residence.  Finally, I take a sip of my coffee.  I know nobody here.  Nobody sees me.

Nobody.