yoooo guys these wings my dad made look INSANE i can’t wait to try them tomorrow
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That's the peculiar thing about a second go
On paper, it looks like a first shot
(or how the first shot should have gone)
Using words like
"try"
Saying things like
"We'll take it slow"
and actually meaning it
Foregoing cruise control altogether
To take the path on foot
Talking about
Seeing this through
As if we haven't already screamed down this tunnel
From either side
Referencing endings
Like we don't know the sulfur taste of that abyss
As intimately
As infinitely
As every hope we ever had leading up to it
That's the peculiar thing about a second go
This time, I don't want to outlive it.
Pedestrians /.w.m.w.
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So you’re the one they say spins the world
Do you just sit here in the dew of glittering stars
Your trousers damp, your eyes watering
Moving the world only when it threatens to stop?
No, I haven’t come to mock. Sorry. That was rude
I had a reason to see you. I need a favor
I was wondering if you could let it stop this time
You see, I can feel the rotation slowing
and I’ve seen the shadow of your hand, lifted to push
but you always do this
The horizons approach the slowest when you want to embrace them
and the moments I try to cling to, vanish like they were never there
It’s like how you always know where to find your keys
until you have to look for them
So really, what’s the worst that could happen
If you could let us sit still for just a little while?
Forget the deaths, the births, the flowers and tides of the next rotation
Just let me breathe without every exhale screaming the impending
of good things ending, young things aging, familiar things changing
Can I please have this one moment
and not fear that I might be wasting it?
Thank you. That’s all I ask. But I understand if it’s too much. I understand if you have to spin the world again. We all twinkle and glimmer like stardust. We’ve got to make something of our spark before it fades.
Really, we have so little time. But that’s all we have.
The One Who Spins The World (via deerborne)
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I seem to only be depressed when you put a pen in my hand
which is really quite lovely
I can bleed onto all the pages so they stick together (you’ll never have the patience to pull them apart without tearing, destroying whatever secrets are inside)
once every page is stained and my fingers are drained bone white, I can put my pen down, toss my hair, and flash a smile
when you ask what is the matter I can tell you it’s fine and mean it
because it is fine
until the next time I drop my gaze to empty pages knowing I am the one to fill them
like the flesh-eating plant from a tongue-in-cheek show at the 5th ave, my notebooks have a very specific appetite
I seem to only be depressed with a pen in my hand
-when you point to my words and ask me if I’m okay, how can I explain to you that I am and I’m not /.w.m.w.
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darling if you wake up in darkness
and don’t like what you see
then do whatever it takes
to let the light in
-it really is that simple /.w.m.w.
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punctuate the black quiet
with your fists, already battered
or your words, harsh and untamed
splash the night with bits of light
like crinkle-cut stars of glass bits
sparkling on asphalt
curl your fingers around that pen
and do not flinch from the lines and swirls
it puts on this page
you aren’t the only one who is lost here
–The Cartographers All Are Blind
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dust devils
they will try to make you feel small
when they discover you are incapable
of mimicking their apathy
but no falcon ever coveted the dirt
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grief
is patient
and inevitable
as winter
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delayed onset
when solitude was restored to me
and I made time to rest
there you were, in the jagged wet of my heart
demanding to be felt
and then, the temptation,
and then, the weakness
and now, the pain
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How could I forget
that the unfamiliar
the distraction
the desperate pace of
survival
performance
work
wallets
calendars
and
moving moving moving moving moving
are the best anesthesia
and so I moved and moved and moved and moved
until 1300 miles later
I put a key into a red door
and fell into a room with a thousand books
and a wall of gold lamplight
and spent dim mornings in the pale glow of my own room
on my own bed
and I started thinking about open endings
and you
it lives in your closet and doesn’t mind waiting until you return /.w.m.w.
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and when your songs came on, I politely skipped them, and I felt no pain
Whether by miracle or malfunction, walking away from you on a Thursday morning didn’t break me
So I put my head down and threw myself into what was in front of me until I was 1300 miles away
And still, there were no echoes of your name in my heart in the moments of truth just before sleep took me
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there was no burial
I tensed for impact
it did not come
My heart didn’t wail with breaking
and since it didn’t speak first,
I didn’t ask.
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October brought the first bone-knocking chills
Every shiver is an earthquake
So when my ribs are swords
clashing between the tremors,
my left hand a stranger to the right,
this is sparring on level ground.
Well met,
well matched,
the contradiction.
A stroke for blood
kisses a perfect parry
Sparks, sweating brow
The shriek of iron and steel and bone
and the agony of ambush
Stalemate.
A ballet, petrified.
So tell them, when they ask,
how I turned to salt
when I looked back to my inferno city
even as my feet flew me away
Ado, Ambidextrous /.w.m.w.
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kicking up dust
out of the gate
fever and sweat to stay ahead of the curve
it’s coiling at my heels
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forgive me my stammering
this is not the poem I came here to write
if I had known it would be like this,
I’d have written fewer songs about teeth
and waiting
and avalanches
I would have practiced, instead,
with poems about dust motes,
and the books I lost myself in before I even knew I was lonely
about the tire swing
and the tree in my backyard I used to climb higher and higher, until the branches were skinnier than my thumbs
I would have written about the trick my stepdad taught me the winter it snowed up to our knees--
you can use a bucket as a mold for bricks to build an igloo.
you scoop it through the lake of white in the yard till it’s full, then you pack the snow down, and you turn it upside down with a good thump to shake out the frozen cylinder.
(like the white-wrapped hay rolls you always see on fields from the freeway, that look like giant marshmallows)
and you won’t even notice that it got dark so early,
or that there’s snow melting in your boots where your toes are already numb.
the light from inside is orange glowing on blue winter, and that’s always been my favorite color combination, and god I wish I had written more of that--
because then I’d have words for how it feels to make you laugh.
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The oceans I would cross for you
would cleave in two to surrender my passage
The mountains would lift the train of their skirts to become tunnels
And I would hold my breath running through them
and knit every wish into dandelion fluff for you
Birds would shed their feathers
Tumbleweeds would thunder like chariots
The woods would become wings
And I would fight god and men and myself to reach you
Bruises like badges in full decorum
I would rip the canopy of night from the sky
so all that remains is the glory and light
of a billion naked stars,
If you wanted.
If you wanted, I’d be a sword
I would cut down armies and overgrowth to make your path
I could be a shield, and no bullet of hail or roaring vendetta would ever touch you
I can be your fanfare, your runaway train, your tropical storm that levels skyscrapers. Your alchemist, your confidant, the one who tastes your food and sips your wine to test for poison, your compass, your bodyguard, your sinkless ship.
But do not ask me to be your lover.
I don’t know how to be soft.
Achilles /.w.m.w.
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