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My dear, dear wooden heart
A face I remember still on the Polaroid lens
Capturing musky sunshine and wheatgrass
Flushing seamlessly with your hair for it is the same color
As my bedroom walls
As my blood
As my lips, your lips, what we drew from each other
The color running through our tremulous chambers
Left paint on our teeth
My Revlon.
Oh my love
How unconsciously you tortured my generous arms
The black and blue
The rivets of salt water the fountain of youth.
Now maple syrup, amber eyes sings to me softly out of tune
Ever above me, always above me your cheekbones hide the moon.
We eat at a diner under a silent freeway
And I let you have my eggs
On your bed next to the propane heater
We tremble and lie still.
Still my pale palm searches the pillow for your tresses.
While I sleep my cheek feels the flutter of your lashes
While I dream I see you kneeling
You gaze upon your ivory tower
It’s chipped pedicure its corseted flesh
And I cry at the climax realizing I am only a fetish.
In the only photo of us we are sitting in a tree.
I am smiling.
I am happy.
Your face is covered with leaves.
For the past three years or so, I’ve flirted with running a bit. Here and there, on the weekends. Initially to prevent myself from yelling at my father in high school and beat away some rage (so I have this thing against beating pillows. I like the feathers INSIDE), running became a go-to for stress relief my senior year. There was a mile-long stretch behind my house that gradually ascended to a massive water tank at the edge of highway 50.
When I moved to New York, I ran occasionally. Running in Central Park was nice but at times pretentious. I mean, I was running with people who sailed ten miles or so for laughs. Who walked around with futuristic goggles because that’s how fast they went (apparently). AND THEN there was the walk back to my apartment, covered in sweat, shirt and shorts conforming to every curve and a construction worker isn’t going to pass that up. Hell no, he’s going to whistle and harass with everything he’s got. Awesome.
While in New York, my running moved indoors. On the treadmill.
In the past year or so I’ve dropped it, than picked it up again, than forgot about it, than remembered “Hey… that thing I used to do that made me move faster. Maybe I should get into that again.”
But last month, for a birthday present, I received some new running shoes. And now I cannot stop. I’ve geeked out on running my friends. I pick up fitness magazines. I read research on training techniques. I look up half-marathon dates and spend hours creating playlists to complement the perfect run. I browse sporting good stores.
I browse sporting good stores. God damn.
At any rate, my future now incorporates the following: A master’s degree at a college with a huge green that I can run around. A string of vacations organized around major marathons. Adopting a Siberian husky that can keep up with my stride. Finding a man with calves just as sexy as mine.
Horizontal Inspiration. That’s what its all about.
My other shoes, by the way, are going here: http://shoe4africa.org/sendshoes.htm
Now if you’ll pardon me, I need to discuss Freud’s theory of the “uncanny,” attend a critical theory class, blah blah blah… and RUN INTERVALS!!!!! Yes.
(I am tipsy).
I only just stumbled on you, remembering (once again), that I HAVE A BLOG and it has been left on the side of a metaphysical road where poems perish before a reader has a chance to come along to discover it. Remembering never comes too late, I believe, in a world full of similes. Like, I was so like busy, as busy as I could possibly be you know, so like, SORRY and all that but I’m here now so let’s party.
It really is too bad that I met up with you while buzzing about with various alcohols, because for the first time in my life, I not only have a clear goal of what I am doing, but a clearer view of who I am with all my subconscious insecurities and parent-less confidence. If I were in a more, say, sober state I might delve into the recent books I’ve read, or the recent observations I’ve made, or perhaps a chapter from An Exaggerated Dreamscape of Metropolitan Stereotypes which I’m sure all of you remember.
Instead let’s look at the lady that just left the counter. She is wearing mesh walking shoes with a red poly-blend dress. Her hair is short and brown with her bangs pushed back with her Oakley sunglasses. Allow me to fill you in on what she just said to the barista:
Lady in Red: “I bet I have more friends than you.”
Barista: “Hm. Can I get anything for you?”
LiR: “I have more money than you.”
Barista: (blank stare.)
LiR: “It must suck to have to take a job. I have so much money I don’t have to take a job. It must suck being where you’re at.”
Barista: “Truly. And how is being an unemployed bitch working out for you?”
LiR: “I want a large white mocha.”
Barista: “K. That’s $4.31.”
LiR: (Hands Barista a card)
Barista: (Runs card.)
(Awkward silence and upward glance.)
Barista: “Can I see your card again? It declined.”
LiR: “Why would I run my card again if it declined?”
Barista: “It must be the modem. You have so much money.”
Lady in Red pulls out a small camera, takes a panorama of the coffee house then leaves.
I’m sorry, but I must take advantage of the particularly wacked customers I come across.
I need some water. I’ll keep your ear just in case.
I have a bad habit of promising my presence at social gatherings when my presence should probably be caste in loneliness in front of a computer screen hashing out my thesis on Self Reliance.
This next gathering however is easily justified despite the portfolio due tomorrow. A good friend of mine has been frantically painting for the last week, pausing momentarily only to dip cookies in milk and talk to his mentor at the tap house. So he’s been busting his ass, and I cannot in good consciousness tell him, “Your art show sounds fascinating, but I have (cough) really important stuff going on. Stuff that rhymes with dinals and involves my GPA, aka “The Decider.” So, just, you know, put on another one sometime and I’ll be sure to show.”
THE PROBLEM lies in my timetable. If the timetable was a can of 7up, it would self-combust. I’ve resigned to staying up all night.
Praise be to his noodly appendage for landing me a job in a coffee house where caffeine is readily abundant.
(Must admit that I have surpassed a healthy tolerance level for espresso. I’ve taken to just snacking on the beans straight, and sometimes I sneak the left-over grinds in the back room, line them up on a bar stool and snort them.)
I hope to see you in the morning.
