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Greta, Thea, Townes

Wedge pillows and balloon style gowns.

Graham, Berit, Penn

Tap water tests and no gin.

Eliot, Abbey, Holden

Ten years in we folded.

Ezra, Margot, Maeby

I think we’re ready, baby.

 

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George and the Shore

This is a tale about George and, as you may have guessed by now, a shore. George is just like you and me. He doesn’t have super powers. He cannot fly, and he doesn’t even have night vision (except of course when he uses his night vision goggles).

George lives on a shore. Do you know what a shore is? I’ll tell you what I know about a shore just to be sure.

A shore is where land stops and water begins, which makes the certainty of a shore hard to see for sure.  There’s really no clear line or path on a shore, because the water’s tide changes the shore’s perimeter every few counts of a “Mississippi”.  Do you count in Mississippi’s, too? Maybe that’s just something people down in Mississippi do.

Anyway, I guess a shoreline is a pretty simple concept, but for George there is an awful lot of trouble that comes along with living on a shore. I can’t think of all the confusing bits right now, but I can tell you the most significant trouble is George’s inability to ever be, you know, sure.

I heard George say a shore is like a fringe – loose, unformed, and always on the mend. Living on the shore means he’s mostly in flux. He gets pushed back and rebuilds, back and rebuilds, back and rebuilds. Sometimes though, really scary storms come through and erode the shore’s border so much that he has to build from scratch on a new shore a few feet back from where he began. Does that make sense to you? I’m sure.

Well, George got so scared of the shore that he moved to a place off the coast of France. It’s on the water and everything, just like Mississippi, but in France they call the shoreline a Riviera.

He says he’s happy there, but I’m pretty sure any shore — no matter what you call it — is still a shore.

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Through the Miles

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Sometimes – I think –

I’ve nearly found you

but my memory is fooled

by washed images that drew

from faces it never knew.

 

Can you tell me –

Which part of you I should search for

as the lost characteristics accrue

with ever voice I hear

that isn’t you?

 

Is it a song? A touch?

A look or a smile?

I’d like to think I’d find you –

even through the miles.

 

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daughters

Father blog

 

If I had enough memories to remember

I’d string them together with falsehoods of you.

Each moment, a thread, woven snippets of truth

with transient hems for your light to shine through.

A new image, a father, a friend.

If only by imagination –

I’d create to mend.

 

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Erased

Artwork by Jennis Li Cheng Tien

Do you believe in corporeal love?

I ask as you rhyme and feign

appreciation for those you’ve crossed

in love or pain.

 

Whether built from rebellion or rushed affection

You swear to me blindly

There’s a spark, a connection.

 

But you’ve never found your place

in the barriers, restraints

That torment and harrow

until you’re soon erased.

 

A societal spirit that falls

for false elation in a worn out play

where desire is shunted, loyalty praised.

 

What freedom to float with you

amidst that modern plain

where names are not marred

in a celestial vein.

 

Where love is captured,

breathed in and soared.

Rushed between every crevice

unleashed, enjoyed.

 

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Brim

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How does this heart bend and mould

from a confined chest

into a hand to hold.

 

Does it move by one accord

or with a riotous play that

leaves you scorned?

 

Will it travel back and stray again?

I’ve heard trough time all pain will mend.

 

But can I stop the rampant rush?

The heat, the lush, the mush and guts.

 

I pushed it back, I clinched it tight.

I begged that demon not to fight.

 

But it’s still —

hovering.

Slowing seeping into my skin

rushing out at every brim.

 

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Catenary

I have a body 5,129 miles from my home. All seven organs, all 206 bones, and three layers of skin. A mesh of veins and muscles and tendons are all there, too. Ten toes, ten fingers, and breath in its mouth.

I tied two toes with big, red strings before I sent her off sailing into another dream. My body, you know, has seen a lot. But down here, I can feel she is starting to pop.

She’s walked 22.2 miles, traveled Normandie and Paris. She’s eaten a crate of cheese, and a whole fish with carrots.

I let her go on pretending she’s dauntless and brave, but I can see her strings are starting to fade.

So I gave her two toes a few tugs while she was out there – suspended and free – and I asked her nicely to remember me.

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You Get to Stop

I’m nearing the end of my graduate program. Life is hectic, my mind is fuzzy, and my brain seems to work in reverse. I mix up numbers and letters, I put milk in the cabinet instead of the refrigerator, and every three to four months I catch myself crying in public from a song on the radio or a bird in the sky.  Bright lights make my head pound, I can’t handle people walking behind me, and I’ve convinced myself there is a recorder in my apartment transmitting information into instagram ads.

My mom is starting to worry, “Do you have schizophrenia?” She asks earnestly.

“I just need to sleep.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“I just need to sleep.”

I believe I’ve grown immensely as a student; but for some reason, transcribing what is in my head onto paper (or onto a keypad) remains the most difficult task for me. This is bold to say, but my trouble with writing isn’t geared around fear. What people think of my work, or the weird sense of pride I must have to feel it is important enough prose to share, no longer haunts me. Instead, I’ve replaced that fear with a bigger one.

An indefatigable thought that asks: What are you saying?

Continue reading “You Get to Stop”

Eight Years

Year One

Rules:

(1) Don’t touch my face or

(2) Watch me shower or

(3) Slap my ass in public or

(4) Open pickle jars for me or

(5) Wake me up before I’m ready or

(6) Let me oversleep or

(7) Say anything about working out or

(8) Buy me flowers when you know I like plants or

(9) Open doors for me or

(10) Tell me not to cry.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? 

I don’t like tree bark or pomegranate seeds or when roots cling to plants that are already dead.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? 

I can’t think about space. DON’T MAKE ME. There are too many little parts in one picture; too many small things swirling together. Dark Matter. Gas. How did you even find me?

I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

I like birds because they are bovine. You are the only one who knows that. They are not feeble or angelic! Eight hollowed bones in each wing and they spend all day nesting. MORONS.

NO ONE ELSE UNDERSTANDS. 

Year Eight (365 days times 8 plus 2 leap years and 3 hours)

Rules:

(1) Never leave me.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND? 

You are my star; my nested bird in chaos.

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