poetry archive and a main for other tendencies. too sentimental to give it up but the day tumblr lets me switch primaries i will rejoicemostly @crossbackpoke-check here
211 posts
Say Hello To God For Me If You Find Him In Your Patterns
say hello to god for me if you find him in your patterns
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More Posts from Csoip
occupation day
a girl walks in wearing a NASA shirt and galaxy print leggings, everyone thinks oh, rockets, she’s got the glasses to be an engineer. she raises her hand to ask, is the never-ending void an acceptable job? there was a help wanted sign on the desk of the universe and i’m attempting to fill the position. a pencil two rows over gets pulled in by her gravity (purple with black and blue sparkles) and she just smiles, tosses it back out past her edges and says you’re lucky it wasn’t turned into spaghetti. the physics goes over their head. all over her paper she observes and draws particles and she knows that by doing this she changes what they are but maybe if she didn’t notice them they wouldn’t exist at all. later when the teacher calls on her she says quantum mechanics and the formula for how long it takes to reach the ground because this time an entire desk rolled over to her, the focus of the room. it's an occupational hazard, drawing things in. red and blue logo and she thinks there’s some light inside it just can’t get out past her event horizon and she wants to know has anyone ever heard of something coming out of a black hole, or anyone coming back? her shoes have constellations like her freckles and no one noticed when they winked, twinkled, she shimmered out of existence. she was going to prove wormholes and timeless stars and maybe dead cats she was just waiting for her rocket to take off the ground. empty desk and David Bowie and the occupational hazards of being a black hole that even in your lack of existence everyone is pulled in by your void, the spaces in between stars and the letters on her t-shirt spelling out G A L A X Y where she left blank spaces for compensation. she’s somewhere out there tearing up a storm or aurora borealis, shining green-blue lights so far past herself she could never lose them. entire worlds and universes she could swallow in an instant with her big, hungry eyes. always looking up saying is there more? and knowing every star by name. a girl walks out of the room, into the office of the universe and applies for the position to fill the spaces, checks all the boxes until she’s told yes. supernova bursts forth from the room but she still says do you think anyone could ever find the edges? and runs chasing after it, laughing, crying, filling up the void.
chain of gold
love her for it, and in spite of it; for this she will love you. and of this, nameless in its entirety, something good will grow. do not doubt this. do not forget this. for anything, for everything, for this: love her love her love her.
lost weekend
second time in two days that I’ve fallen asleep on the car ride home, been woken up by someone shouting that we’re here. weekend road trips and blurry eyes under the fading streetlights of an empty road, windows down just to feel alive. we’re driving by streets that i can’t pronounce the names of and stopping in all-nite diners for a roomful of truckers drinking coffee and us, ordering one of everything on the menu, stealing jelly packets or sugar, no one can tell which. back on the road for fourteen hours with half the car asleep while i drive straight on through the quiet night, headlights flickering down the roads in front of us and everybody dreaming towards a neon tomorrow shining like a gas station sign in the middle of nowhere waiting for us to pull up and ask for directions, do you know how to get to another lost weekend? and the girl with bubble gum hair behind the counter says keep driving and you’ll find it, drive through the week endlessly and stop when we get to Saturday, dream on past the edges and into the splatter-painted night. kids in a truck with empty hands and big hearts and something waiting to be lost or losing, time slipping away across state lines and highway lights like the road beneath us. half-asleep waiting to be woken up, staring out the window hoping nobody ever tells us that we’re there and we can just keep searching, for ourselves or for a miracle whichever one comes first.
DEPARTING FROM THIS LIFE
this leaving is not fire or burning or catastrophe; instead a hung rope, knotted with careful precision a blade cut deep enough but not too deep. quiet. gentle. drawn out like a noose wrapped around a thin neck. frantic gasps of breath like starting to drown, the thought that you can breathe water and the ache inside of flooded lungs. everything in this world will one day drown. from love or from absence a lack of oxygen with a knife’ precision cutting through, you with the sad eyes know what this means this leaving, how it is a loss of air in a void no fires can burn don’t call this a catastrophe-destruction, and i cannot tell if the word i am looking for to describe this is tragedy or eventually and i am not sure of the difference in between.
recovery and frank sinatra
snow on telephone wires and fifteen years of weathering this winter. i cannot believe i have made it to this day, a future in advance, waiting to see which way this life unfolds. an old phonograph scratches at the record’s ends, static over roof tops, sound waves breaking through crescents of white. a wave through foam and bursting colours. i keep asking the same questions over and over and i guess that’s what keeps me living, trying to find the answer. is that what Jean meant when he said, who am i? without and within. music, piano fading so i flip the record. frank sinatra and i have learned a lot together. we know what happens when you fall in love, when you fall out, in between. we go together, him and i through these telephones and microphones and static, empty nights. outside it’s cold, enough that the table shakes with it even, the house trembling in the wind. we are fragile but somehow still standing if that is a miracle. someone left the door open and now everything’s come in. i don’t try to stop it anymore and they sit quiet, listen to the record play while the snow falls. in this way we have learned to wear the days together and now fifteen years later i am still standing, frank sinatra in my hand, before i sit and listen until i fall asleep.