Synesthesia

When I tasted your voice
Aesthetic resonation from forlorn air
When I heard your eyes
In my ephemeral glances
When I felt your skin
Iconoclast alabaster
And slick-swollen red
In conversations carried out
I felt alive

Tabula Rasa

Your imperfect may-buds
Prove crimson against the rotting, repugnant
Leaves of August
Remember, we spoke of wine
Has Dionysus denied me?
Imagine
Myself, a slab of pallor
And your cup overflowing
Sweet opportunity, a mouthful of dust
What words were written, that may have been beautiful
I revoke them now

Temporary

What a shame
My rose-tinted glasses no longer see the same
Now, I take the views of the past in jest
Hang the remnants on the wall
And laugh at the bulk of my beliefs

Your words were a reminder
To replace black mascara webs about my eyes
Combustible energy for the mornings when I wake up
And you are not in the sun

Licensed Perfection

Eyes closed
In confirmation that the deed is done
Sickly sweet fruit-flesh
Find your roots elsewhere
For my ground is not lush
Rather, a melted wax womb
And you are my Icarus

Bitch Sonata

Drive, you.

Drive past the brown brick confines, a game you used to play (used to play you)

Drive in the center lane- closed, neutral, fuck off

Pull in to yourself and turn it off- sit and scream

Drive yourself to the edge and back again, if you can.

Contentment is a red-dress hitchhiker. Don’t stop.

Excerpt

Because we’re excited about
A meeting, a reunion
Correction
The ring, three stones on my furthermost finger
Are fool stars of the future
In tonight’s hot-blooded cold
I miss you

A Current Abstraction

Where the lobes leap outward
And sink in, processing irrational emotion
Quiet, quiet
Contemplation finds me here
Ours are hearts too easily made glad
Although I've imagined
(Enraptured)
Sheets, illuminated in the sangre light of sunrise
All others in dissolution
In these uncertain
Days (14 and counting)
Only voices may entwine
In desultory desires

Rejection and Reflection

On Thursday, September 27th, I entered Galbraith's office with unrivaled optimism, only to find that I did not react to rejection well. My first article- "The Green Scene"- was turned down due to it's lack of uniqueness- vivre, I suppose you'd call it. My mind itself welled with emotion; I felt like crying as I left her office, embarassed and ashamed- but no tears came. Instead, I drove aimlessly for a while, and ended up in a pleasant, quiet park off of 40th Street. The sky above me was blue, but the alternating clouds made the shade hazy. I found myself on the swingset, rocking back and forth in the empty air; I threw my head back intermittently, the rush of blood to my head giving me a taste of euphoria- a childish orgasm. "We are so fond of being out among nature because it has no opinions about us" reassured the small violet volume held fast between my legs. By the time I left the park, I was calm again.

~

I went to Starbucks the subsequent morning to inocu-latte (Bird) myself before Algebra. As I nursed my iced caramel macchiato, a man and two women entered, discussing the cult status- and distinct aroma- of the venue. "It's so acidic- like rolled coins and coffee!" said the man. "It's almost enough to give me a headache." He then began discussing his college roommate's success as an amateur producer and his attendance of the Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah. I joined him for a few minutes, intrigued, but failed to learn his name before we parted.