http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/9HiOtb/www.opacity.us/
so cool
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
You've gone away enough when will you decide to stay
The semester has barely started and I'm planning my escape already. Although I don't yet know what it will entail, a summer of travel, visiting friends in Nairobi, grad school in another country, Thailand, Vietnam, a series of places I've never been? I am unsure, the plans don't need to be made yet, not exactly, but I want to find more places to explore. I want to move South, or East, or to warmth. I want an endless amount of time to explore in and no where I need to be.
Friday, January 21, 2011
That single word it landlocked me, Turned the masts to cedar trees, and the wind to gravel roads
Megan Falley | The Honest House
THE HONEST HOUSE
In an effort not to crawl back to you, I crossed the 2 train off my subway map in blue ink, called it a river, sold my canoe.
Swept the soot from the chimney into a vase, scattered it all over Manhattan. Husband, I pretended it was your ash.
Spoke your name in past tense and still, when we found ourselves in the same bar, phoned a mystic. Told her I was seeing ghosts.
When you confessed your mistress, her red hair, her scars, how you learned them from up-close, from inside out, you were no longer the man I married but a dead deer in the center of our swimming pool.
Our dog has always considered you a burglar. Knew to spit, bark, bite before I did. Once while you were sleeping, I stitched her electric fence through your skin. I wear her shock collar on nights I go out drinking, on days I can’t find a reason to stay away even though you have left so many behind.
I’ve watched you with other women. The way you hand fruit to supermarket clerks, how your eyebrows lift at anyone with fake nails. Your favorite party story is how you once,publicly, pleasured a girl with your band mate’s drumstick. It’s no wonder we don’t love the same music.
On our first date, I bought a dress off a woman in Brooklyn so I could stay with you one more day. Last week I threw your clothes from our roof knowing they would have fallen faster had there been a body in them.
When I found a picture of your ex-lovers tits, used as a bookmark, I began opening every novel upside down like a teenager shaking birthday cards waiting for cash to fall out. This explains my love for fiction. We were never married. The dog is not ours.
While washing the dishes I watch from the window as the children we never had drown in the piss-filled pool. I’ve never tried to save them. I invented that pool, this sink.
Did you know that the metronome inside us quickens when telling a lie? I want to build an honest house, where the motion detector is so sharp it knows when my thoughts leave the room. Where the clap-on lamp works as a polygraph. When you swear you still love me, the lights flicker.
THE HONEST HOUSE
In an effort not to crawl back to you, I crossed the 2 train off my subway map in blue ink, called it a river, sold my canoe.
Swept the soot from the chimney into a vase, scattered it all over Manhattan. Husband, I pretended it was your ash.
Spoke your name in past tense and still, when we found ourselves in the same bar, phoned a mystic. Told her I was seeing ghosts.
When you confessed your mistress, her red hair, her scars, how you learned them from up-close, from inside out, you were no longer the man I married but a dead deer in the center of our swimming pool.
Our dog has always considered you a burglar. Knew to spit, bark, bite before I did. Once while you were sleeping, I stitched her electric fence through your skin. I wear her shock collar on nights I go out drinking, on days I can’t find a reason to stay away even though you have left so many behind.
I’ve watched you with other women. The way you hand fruit to supermarket clerks, how your eyebrows lift at anyone with fake nails. Your favorite party story is how you once,publicly, pleasured a girl with your band mate’s drumstick. It’s no wonder we don’t love the same music.
On our first date, I bought a dress off a woman in Brooklyn so I could stay with you one more day. Last week I threw your clothes from our roof knowing they would have fallen faster had there been a body in them.
When I found a picture of your ex-lovers tits, used as a bookmark, I began opening every novel upside down like a teenager shaking birthday cards waiting for cash to fall out. This explains my love for fiction. We were never married. The dog is not ours.
While washing the dishes I watch from the window as the children we never had drown in the piss-filled pool. I’ve never tried to save them. I invented that pool, this sink.
Did you know that the metronome inside us quickens when telling a lie? I want to build an honest house, where the motion detector is so sharp it knows when my thoughts leave the room. Where the clap-on lamp works as a polygraph. When you swear you still love me, the lights flicker.
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