pyza

[pyza]

Early May

I saw a picture of you on Instagram

I caved in, opening that thing

Curly brown hair, hooded black

You remind me of you

Standing in that exact place where

you had thrown your keys from your window to me

Innumerable times

Countless times

Centuries of keys falling

Before i could come up inside.

They got stuck in the tree once.

We extended several half damaged tape measures, I sat on your shoulders, I flailed the fragile measuring sticks at the branches. I remember worrying about your body. I was always worried about your body.

You were surprised how little time it took us to retrieve those keys. Later, you were taken off guard when I retrievd our time.

So now I have felt you through a photograph 

In a steel gaze, eyes I know are tinged grey green

You are beautiful.

You always were to me.

[pyza]

Lust Junkie Dialogues: Tinder Excerpts

I.

Do you like forks too?

For Now

the dildo market is a fun new challenge. 

Where is your origin?

It’s really an outsider experience, this tinder thing

II.

feel free to see a kiss out of a hole

I want an own thing.

How long have you been here?

Forever

III

Maybe I will write spiteful songs about you.

Building my aesthetic capital

I am waiting outside

IV

I couldn’t sleep

What is your least coveted snack?

It’s called Bamba, it’s an Israeli peanut flavored snack, like Flips

V

Weirdo

Soldier in town drinking butterfly snapple

walkin the streets passing out poison apples

Not sure what I was expecting at first

[pyza]

I have always liked falling in love, and falling out of myself.

These are my numb fruits. I carry them with marbles: 

That that painting needs a laxative. That there is a therapist for anthropologists, waving a manual for culture shock in field work.

If only there were other such initiators. 

[pyza]

Sudden openness, Unusual events

That the kitchen is a mess

My bed drenched in sex

With your scarred skin 

For once I can stand it

[pyza]

The moment this blog became a monument to my stunted romantic stunts

It was on April first, when we had strolled through the east side, then downtown, we climbed into empty ruins. He took photos of me laying in their gutted innards or coming out of a tacky Spati, or climbing atop a post office box. It became a joke, this growing collection of weird photos of a strange girl.

We had strolled from Atari, an Antifa flavored venue - full of black sweatshirt hooded utopians like us. Legs touching,a persistent stare. It was two in the morning and in front of ‘Twenty One’ club that we were trying to part. Drunken youths tumbled from the steep stepped gates of the lust palace, holding roses, honoring a type of obnoxious inebriation   that can only exist in the ghastly glow of the city’s sleepless center.

He laughed at the idea of ‘compromised professional integrity.’ They will notice a difference, he says, for we are two street cats. I cannot think of you the same way now. But what will change dear? We’ll make sarcastic fun just as before.

And so, before the ‘I will never hurt you’s,’ before hasty departures before pancakes and consolations or whatever, he put his hands on my shoulders.  No one can no, I said.

He lived with ghosts. They were serious, filling out tax forms all night. Passive aggressively finishing the milk, putting the spoons in incorrect slots. There was a statuette of Shiva and the bust of Thoman Mann on the desk, a poster of Ella Fitzgerald and Elvis - a framed concert ticket from 92. I wasn’t born yet, that a point of contention.

We slept like two lost street cats.

[pyza]

Erasure, a kind of homage to“this is water”

A trace was a type of vandalism to security, and so they gleamed insecure

i am unstable, made hysterical at the slightest triggering, altering with mania and depression. the two haunt around my skull, my skull my skull my loved lady skull breach the thin perimeter of my self esteem and defecate in my mind I am told of acts, to which i react more strongly than i would have guessed possible, probable it is not so much a question of theory. in theory i would like to be such-and-such. i would like to imagine that concessions are mutual, that there is something in each to share, to be close to, and these things i do imagine, but no. the reaction i did not anticipate that consumes me as each tends to do is a question of individuation and human vanity.

what do i mean by this:

individual actions spear soil closer to us than the abstracted utopias we have agreed on.

what do i mean by this:

i love you in a few ways, and i possess you only once with each quenching grip glimpsing and losing my sight

what do i mean by this:

the ship was never built. the ship was a dreamt craft. and cast away the moment one of us left the room to merge with terrestrials and become animals again and chew on cud again and fall into it all over again

what do i mean by this:

a thing is not a thing though uncertainty disables me it keeps me under the prattle of an electric clock the music of which was written by Modern Lovers and when those Modern Lovers wake they tread around each other solemnly careful not to leave marks in the water

[pyza]

Should I take mother to the grind core crust punk show? A Collection of Iphone Notes

“Are you competitive?” 

you walk around your former lovers apartment and pick a hair from their current lover off of your shirt. and you smirk a little.

there was a giant cup of suck my dick. From that cup she sipped.

A woman buys eight packages of olives while a boy waits with his ketchup

An innocent affair, and yet: I bet two kopecks and one dead pig that no one finds out. 

It's crazy how sentimentality became indistinguishable from garbage. I couldn't ask him what heroin was like, about what parts in the grand systemic failure we are living in had particularly snubbed him. But after I turned the Merantz off he said, "At the end of the day, you're the one lighting the crack pipe. I've heard the same excuses a million times, the blame put on an abusive parent, or a shitty partner, or on never having a leg up from anyone. At the end of the day you're the one lighting that pipe." Then we planned a scrabble marathon.

"Are you competitive?"

"I get that way."

"I'll hand your ass back to you."

The benches are made up of neon beams. On one of these peripheral thrones there's an older elegant man slowly chewing through the end of his cone, playing with it. Edible marble. Elbows on knees and hunched, he's burning a hole into a square of space directly before him, anticipating the entrance to a cosmic portal to a world made of fat free frozen cream.

[pyza]

13.09.16.

12:01am i bike around the old town of Leipzig, over the meticulously set stones no larger than a palm, strain my neck looking up at the gothic churches with their crafted stained windows and at the casual arches of the passage ways, at the vestibules, the aged banisters, the molten curb, i'm looking at all this, this trial and error for beauty, 

and all this antiquated effort gives me an ache

 this proof this testament 

that some people built this city stone by stone, probably by the hands of those who did not agree or  even care at all it pulls because someone had a hard hope.

Today i began, i began an affair Stone by stone. 

The gentlest of touches beginning in an abandoned place. 

Gentle hands, like I were made of glass.

I look around this town, at some crumbling brick, at some attempts at absolution, at it getting in the way of itself, at the slow chiseling of the next generations version of How Things Ought to Be Placed,  and it pulls at that rock in me.

[pyza]

Industry of Souls

The stone master blasted a silver name into a stone

He peered and told me he once read

That the soul weights seven grams in sores

And you must know the weight of souls

In handling all their imported stones

Dear stone master, yours must weigh more 

And that your son crafts monuments for the dead, when hasn't lived yet

I saw his painting of an open palm, and measured his nerves when he sped in the car,

and had the same semblance of feeling as those kids in Keosauqua 

where that beautiful boy with the cleft lip said

I don't give out cigarettes. It's bad karma.

[pyza]

Relative to what

i was considering one of my relationships, and thought, that perhaps everything was done backwards

When we fucked before we knew each other

And were at our best before declaring commitment

And moved in together for careerist reasons

And at that point got too close for comfort because it seemed permanent and perforated and permafrosted 

That we shared a laundry machine after supposidly breaking up, and that then for the first time i went to have dinner with the beautiful boistrous family

But there is no right way to go about these boundaries and meanings and levels of fulfillment And there is no end point, no fantasy to obtain, just peaks and pivots

and I wonder now what these confining words can mean when im not shackled by them quite.

Oh dear. Dear dear dear. I fall back on metaphors to digest what happens around me.

When something is good its a four leafed clover    

that grows back and can be plucked again

if you stick around to watch it .

[pyza]

Chronos wields memory like an ax

We were cold. You named the bear. 

In short, we were completely unprepared.

We exchanged coincidences as we forged them, 

but of boundaries we had none.

You said, ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.” But you were fixated on the state of my curtains. I could see how both could bother you.

Chance was this jest 

We eked a marvel from that 

Brutal Benefactor. (An asshole, in your words.)

Resurfacing I told you, “I think I’m in trouble.”

You laughed.             

“I think we’re both in trouble.”

We slept under a fluorescent lilac peel, an unbearable sky  

You made me patient. Don’t you know? I was transfixed by a silence of many requirements. An expanse of sky carried by one. Then its joke spread on us!  

and yet 

I yearn for the knowledge I stole through your skin. Don’t you know?