almostsomewheremaybe

[almostsomewheremaybe]

After many springs by Langston Hughes

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Soon

the night is suffocating under chemical warfare, tears gas and smoke, choking, pretense is a wildfire the days are hot and long even the sun is heavy with blood we are all tired of this June, tell us please, will it be soon?

[almostsomewheremaybe]

yesterday she wore the necklace you gave her today, she didn’t it didn’t match her outfit, or it was just too old she wanted to believe that anything was possible and that prophecy started with self-espression so today she pinned pictures on pinterest of new tattoo inspo and she dm’d her best friend a few different hair do’s don’t get confused or feel used it used to be true that the necklace you gave her was an inspiration, a declaration of affection but her inclination is elevation and so today she drew pistols with the girl in the mirror the girl from yesterday with the necklace you gave her was too slow and so today she went without you and there was more of herself it helps to understand you didn’t lose if she won and at least you can always remember yesterday when she wore the necklace you gave her

[almostsomewheremaybe]

death is a vanishing act grief, child-like astonishment shocked and surprised and suspicious that it can't be real

[almostsomewheremaybe]

"don't let it bother you" first of all, everything bothers me

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Mary Oliver, "From The Book of Time." Devotions

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Desire is a guest. I don’t starve it, nor do I let it feast. I serve it tea, not the whole of me.

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Vladimir Mayakovsky, translated by Dorien Rottenberg, from Poems; "I Love,"

[almostsomewheremaybe]

hundreds and thousands

She loves rats and crumbs in her bread. The snail with a crushed shell. Everyone deserves a chance. She adores forgotten music and old cracked paint. Grimy streets. Graffiti. Dirty words and thoughts. The hallmarks of a wasteland. She admires brutally lived-in honesty. The temerity of testified struggle. All these misfortunate motifs had somehow survived, and kept going, so what everyone else views as the decline of civilization, for her, is more proof that life is worth living. She’d prefer Pittsburgh to Paris. A lost cause she could ponder in a park. She loves London. Grey and rainy and cold and shitty and she calls that city a lady. In London, they call sprinkles hundreds and thousands. As if the sweetness and vibrancy and joy was so overwhelming it can only mean an incalculable quantity. Every rugged, slashed, out-of-commission dream that proudly faces the light of day is rainbow fantasia in her eyes. Hundreds and thousands of everyday vulgarities are trophies and medals when she tells it. The scuffed shoe in the gutter, and the dying cigarette shared by a couple in the back of a dingy bar are priceless adornments. Poetry enough. Miracles that make life and love, yes love, beautiful to her. Because a beautiful thing is first, importantly, and always real. I admire her for this. Broken things mean a lot to her. Mean everything to her.

I am just not one of them.

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Good Boy!

i sit by the window of your world, waiting under some spell like trance, panting like a dog, like a good boy, obeying i can’t speak your language, but i accept what i hear, smiling, tail wagging

[almostsomewheremaybe]

— Jasmine Gibson, from "Hot-Hand Fallacy," Don't Let Them See Me Like This (Nightboat Books, 2018) (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Tyler Shields, Casablanca

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Three Extinctions

They are three mass death events everyone is bound to go through. These plagues occur in this order. The first, is the dying out of magic. Faith. The child learns she cannot fly or power a lightbulb with thought. He discovers Santa isn't real. There's no Hogwarts. It's all a "lie." The toys will not awake in his absence. Magic dies. For most of us anyway. The second crucifixion is that of God. Hope. The higher power. The entirety of creation in an expression of stewardship. The mystery of the universe is "unmasked." We are alone, and there is no plan. No clockmaker. No pantheon of partying deities. There is incidental evolution, and nothing more. For most of us anyway. The third betrayal is an endless war set upon Love. Love is declared enemy from all sides. It's carpet bombed into oblivion. Too dangerous. Too much trouble. Expensive. Priceless. Soulmates don't exist. The ones you love hurt you the most. Love hurts. Love isn't even real. It's exposed as a "fraud." For most of us anyway. The world without magic, faith, hope, God, and Love... what is it? What are we? Slaves and Masters? Guilty and complacent? Lost and dying out? Most of us cannot live like that. Some of us, anyway.

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Good Grief

in my wildest dreams, you never left, never could under the darkest tempest, yoked by my tears love, the kind you were, and always will be is a renegade shaft of hope, a lighthouse with arms, holding me back from a sea of troubles

[almostsomewheremaybe]

h o l e s

i had a missing, empty, losing, sort-of-life swiss cheese held it together better than me a fishing net, even, with all it’s empty space could’ve been a safe compared to the way i let everything slip away nothing stayed but took the highway on gone through my life’s holes, those in my pockets and in my story in my hands and in my heart i suppose i can only say i was whole on the occasion you were nearby even after, and if, only in my mind yes, when i thought of you my cup overflowed the wounds all closed the pot of my life was filled with gold a rich soil that nurtured my soul but before anyone could k now the c racks and g ap s all st arted to s how th e spl i nter in g c e nter co uld no lo n ge r hol d an d i n th e en d h o l e s w e r e a l l t h a t w o u l d g r o w

[almostsomewheremaybe]

“My heart is moved by all I cannot save:”

— Adrienne Rich, from “Natural Resources” (via theclassicsreader)

[almostsomewheremaybe]

they don’t make mirrors for the shit I became