walker-cd - Tumblr blog

[walker-cd]

2014 grunge moodboard. This reminds me of my aunt Mel...

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- now my life is sweet like cinnamon

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- Be a freak like me too -

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- watercolor eyes -

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[walker-cd]

Kristof Kintera - all my bad thoughts

[walker-cd]

you’re sitting across from me in a shitty diner in anywhere, america, and i watch you pour too much creamer in your coffee and i think “i love you.” you look up, catching me staring, and for a moment i think i’m brave enough to say it, but i take too long and the moment passes. i take the balled up straw wraper and flick it at you, pretending that was my plan all along. you laugh. i never want to go another day without hearing that laugh. i think i will have all the time in the world to say it.

[walker-cd]

Running Against The Wind

A poem by C.D. Walker

Ever since I was young, I was fascinated by the idea of dichotomies.

The hellish infernos that singe clockwork California summers

are the same flames that are tamed cook my burgers and steaks to a perfect medium rare.

How a man can be so hellbent on fracking juice from an unripe orange,

and the mother oasis, promising to hold safe its seeds till blooming,

evaporates not at high noon, but as the dimmest star succumbs

to the rising sun.

A great light ruled the day

and the lesser light ruled the night,

where the fruit’s scars are to be sealed in the past.

If only the sun never rose to a new day?

Carved into my brain, heart, and soul are scales

balancing the forces of fiery summers,

numbing, frost-biting winters,

and springs that sometimes bear daisies in the plains.

My constitution does not wane or wax overnight like passing moons.

Instead, it switches FM to AM to static to silence to metal to gospel like traffic lights flash from green to red,

and red to green.

I floor the gas pedal with a lead foot and go from zero-to-sixty

in 13.7 seconds.

When I'm feeling free, I'll turn up my radio

and beg my hand shyly through the open driver’s window

like a bear cub learning from mother to fish for himself.

I am not driving the car.

I am laying down.

I stand half an inch tall

 and two grams soaking wet.

On the bitten fingernail of a calloused fingertip - that’s my fix.

I've yet to live great - let alone ask how to drive the car.

My explorations and experiences lay foundation

on a giant's contrived still hand.

I’ve wanted more and I always have.

I want to reach farther than him.

I must stop. I’m tired.

I must stop running. I’m tired, I promise. Folks, I promise I’m tired as hell.

I must stop wading through the oceans.

I must stop stepping through the flames.

I must stop looking for daisies that aren’t blooming in the plains.

I must stop mourning oranges who never bloomed.

I must stop running against the wind.

C.D. Walker