Nov 15, 2016

hands

I can't help but think about your hands.  I want them just to be touching me, in some small way.  Caressing my knee, holding my hand, feeling my heart.  I imagine them sometimes disembodied from the rest of you, wondering if it would be the same without you there.  It isn't.  Without you attached they become these strange faceless, anonymous pieces of flesh, growing cold and wrapped around my waist or caressing my cheek as I fall into a dreamless, hopeless sleep.

Sometimes I think about the time we went out, and ended up talking until late at the bar on East Broadway.  It was winter, so I had on some kind of fancy stockings to help keep the heat in.  That day they were some kind of textured lace that made my whole lower half look like a sculpted art piece, attached at the waist.  Feeling my knees, your fingers found the ripped hole in my jeans, and the lace beneath.  I think it surprised us both.

drafted: 4/2013

bikes

you asked me about biking in SF and i didn't want to answer because she was mine and you weren't supposed to know about her.  that sort of thing doesn't condense well into three second conversations.

my sf bike was beautiful.  when the shop man roller her out, with her mint handle bars, that was it.  (the guy who sold it to me was real nice.  he's from farther south than i am -- mexico city.)  riding her home from the bike shop was one of the scarier things i've done in a while.  up hill!

her name was beauty.  we went everywhere together.  i loved putting her on the front of buses when it got dark or i was too tired to hoof it up back to richmond.  one night it rained, and we had to wait for a few buses to pass before one with space for both of us came.  i loved her even more after that.  she was mine, in the way that you want to be someone's sometimes.

she was a beast.  fast, lightweight, low, gears that didn't crank up quite high enough, too short in the body, not enough room for foot clearance.  we ate up pavement, and hills, and golden gate bridges.  went on ferry rides.  she would have liked to meet you.


drafted: 6/2013

One Dimensional

I feel so one dimensional sometimes. I know it's not true. That like its the opposite of being true. But cardboard isn't a fun thing to emulate.

Brittle, focused, ambitious. With sharp angles and no one I want to call when it gets late and I feel empty.

It takes two people to make a person, I guess.

drafted: 1/2015

blank canvas

this canvas is blank. does that mean it's time for me to start afresh? that's one of the side effects of blank canvas -- it brings...