~~~take a ride in my boat~~~~
Theres a time for making dinner, for a stone stomach like snow topped little pilars
outside the federal buildings
outside the bullshit past cloud-ology and what is twelve years old besides this bourbon,
this car
that I now call my boat, so we can take a ride
in my boat.
(car)
I can't even glide anymore, i can think of driving across the bridge and down a one lane highway behind farm things with wheels and hay to come upon the twisting river and limestone hills caked in daffodil,
but to see whom? or who? or why
1 comment:
In the morning before work,
I get confused and imagine that for 2011, I am still in high school; it is my senior fall year, and I have become afflicted with sleep paralysis for the first time ever. My dad, utterly unemployed shouting at my mom, throwing soda cans all over the living room my face, dragging me even from one room into the next, me mouthing, “I know this isn’t you”, running pretty well, and the first time I touched another (well it was spring), I reached around the backside of her jeans, but also I think it was the first time I’d made out since first grade. Don’t tell anyone. My intent was pretty blurry but also withdrawn through a poorly drawn series of kaleidoscopes. I could have drowned in a pile of words on the beach. In a pile of snow shells, poorly lit.
There were wet years without retention.
But 2011, the amnesiac fall 2011 (I don’t remember any winter; I was taking off my shirt on windy beaches), my final year, intersected with a tacked-on semester for her. We sat it down with little adventures and drinks rustling despite that time I wrote ‘I’m him’ in IQ84 that night she didn’t show up when I fell asleep on the Christmas couch and fantasized about those outlines arriving there and finding the night, closing it up slow. But mostly it was just driving decaying places and turning them over for something pretty, accidentally pushing beds back apart, watching a lot of Netflix, recording some pretty cute covers, leaving shards of hair around that I would call ‘skeletons’, hair in general as a motif (‘curls’), trading clothes under the starlight and pretending it was more. Probably the most I’ve ever scribbled margins closed in my life.
As some of my peers are wont to do, I recently re-viewed movie 24, and it looked like some pretty chemicals, but I misremember now, more than druggy sensations, I mean, another person who was really fun to hang at the grocery with draping around blue pillows and the synapses between fall breaks.
I don’t have an office, but there is a portion of the back Clean Lakes lab bench puffed up with my name in quotation marks and this black thick binder dabbling with syndicalism and light purple tape and also my cold weather warm clothes for stream sampling, gloves silly and thick and that feels okay. I’ve been listening for a long time, and there is that one song, “I wait for the click but it doesn’t kick in … I have weird memories of you” which feels faint as I sip on a lot more than a glass of wine and my life is always branching away, trees beyond my reach.
It’s like finding somebody else’s library book, two years too late.
Post a Comment