tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20115214935534724452024-02-19T04:16:42.648-08:00AFTERNOON TEA. madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.comBlogger137125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-12802515634555706302012-03-18T07:53:00.001-07:002012-03-18T07:59:50.241-07:00Inhale the yawning frost<br />
let it gather and collect<br />
beside your sleepy heart<br />
drowsy from neglect. <br />
Rest your ghostly frame, <br />
hush her muddled drawl. <br />
You say you're feeling numb <br />
but I know you feel it all. madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-85203050619135133692012-01-29T11:34:00.001-08:002012-01-29T11:36:23.505-08:00Your soul is like a vagrant,<br />
slinking through the alleys <br />
of exposed cat ribcages <br />
and rotting mangoes<br />
and maggots lacking wings. <br />
You watch a rabid mutt <br />
peel flesh from the bone<br />
of something long decomposed. <br />
You're gathering<br />
a stack of phonebooks<br />
a spool of cobwebs<br />
for a nest to keep you warm,<br />
momma bird. <br />
But don't you know,<br />
that I could be your home? <br />
<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEfhvQEcVilcckmIUotSBp4UBT4zBbxr6iIp2VRAw05Oo2EKzdtM6q9W2BQEXCUvPQQbWGGEMmuUjtBfDeCqw6Ubh4svf1bYojejKQl5ob7fuA-Kr31AipmTIt93pZqVZPW7QL-GdiTfH/s640/blogger-image-379789632.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEfhvQEcVilcckmIUotSBp4UBT4zBbxr6iIp2VRAw05Oo2EKzdtM6q9W2BQEXCUvPQQbWGGEMmuUjtBfDeCqw6Ubh4svf1bYojejKQl5ob7fuA-Kr31AipmTIt93pZqVZPW7QL-GdiTfH/s640/blogger-image-379789632.jpg" /></a></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-2981972796975407832012-01-13T18:12:00.001-08:002012-01-13T18:12:09.908-08:00I'm back.For a long time I felt like I was unable post here because the man I was dating was obsessively checking to see if I had leaked any of my thoughts into this blog. This place has always been a refuge- a place to write and release and heal and ramble. But I couldn't ramble about my love-life insecurities and my anxiousness to leave and my suffocating, sorrow-ridden self in a public place. It would have given me away long before it was actually over. After that, I was nervous to write here. I would sit down with a hot cup of tea between my knees and stare at the little blinking cursor begging me to spill, and my hands would tremble and my pulse would quicken and I would always, always end up dumping out my cold cup of untouched tea and pick up a book to mindlessly lose myself in. I couldn't write because I refused to wallow.
Life, since then, is blissful. It's healthy, you know? I live the healthiest, happiest life. I wake grudgingly, but happily, at an ungodly hour when the sky is still dark and the streets are empty save for vagrants and troubadours. I brew coffee and read the paper in the quiet, sleepy hours of my workplace and set out hot steaming cups of caffeine to the addicts and early-wakers of my city. I walk to school, my bookbag slung across my chest and my water bottle swaying slightly with my footsteps. I learn, I buy a cup of tea, I learn again, I buy another cup of tea. I come home to naked bricks and unreachable ceilings and best of all, a tall and open-armed man that laughs when I lick his face like a kitten and kisses me with a fervor equitable to Howard Roark's architectural desire. Life is good, and I'm back. madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-53428588626579474562011-09-25T08:12:00.001-07:002011-09-25T08:12:16.859-07:00(Official) Change of Address.Safeguard all that is important to you. Take your yellow curtains with the lace silhouettes down. Neatly fold your clam-colored sheets and the quilt your mother gave you for your birthday and place them in a cardboard box. Press your fingers to the spine of each beloved book and carry them to the elevator. Place them in your backseat. Glance at the mailbox with the tiny numbers and your name written on a wrinkled piece of yellow paper. Disassemble the cradle of sleeping bones. Pack it up, pack it up, pack it up. Withdraw your possessions into protection. Not a trace of you remains here. Do not be afraid when you close the door to a hollow room. Slink to your knees inside your loft that smells like fabric softener, your loft of scattered underwear and exposed bricks. Count the neatly stacked boxes of buttons and threads and bubble-wrapped ceramics. Feel your lover's hand slide into yours and squeeze. Become cognizant of that feeling- that sedated, placid, extremely blissful feeling associated with home. Feel a smile spread across your face and the laugh lines in the corners of your eyes crinkle because your eyes are smiling too. These boxes mean something to you, but not what they used to. madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-77110327326752751082011-03-07T13:53:00.000-08:002011-03-07T13:53:23.373-08:00Stairs rattle<br />
on the way up<br />
to fill a coffee cup, ink<br />
and batteries for the oracle. <br />
Every tier is parallel<br />
to four skeleton legs<br />
where they tread,<br />
silver with disease,<br />
slowly eroding,<br />
as the top of the staircase remains untouched<br />
however desperate the stride.<br />
This sun god mythology<br />
serves only to undercut<br />
a wilting Inca sky<br />
under which rising flares<br />
one cream one gold<br />
peel the cracking heels<br />
from steps caked<br />
with buttercups. madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-47763027555479069912011-01-21T19:27:00.000-08:002011-01-21T19:27:23.143-08:00Desert Sleep.I dream I am<br />
a pale saguaro.<br />
Shedding needles<br />
pierce a yellow rind<br />
shriveling<br />
at my ankles.<br />
Her seeds,<br />
stale and gaping<br />
in a nest<br />
of terra cotta.<br />
I recall<br />
waking up<br />
in a desert bog<br />
with sand beneath<br />
my fingernails.<br />
The morning<br />
reeked of sleep<br />
and lemonade. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pWnT8mBAmR7U8q_RrEs54ld39O9bpynFaAaX6QU_pX1l40ecKwOcPyh_U8GdFLfGsuri2WP7Jah_1WStvT38Mff_O0eueEt6-OPRI2QcWQ5KJkkp8jrUd3-WCpzTw9jqbVs-V8GG5-2B/s1600/foto%252Cnevada%252Cpolaroid%252Csteppe%252Cw%25C3%25BCste-811fbaf364a54cac43d1137004db7dd4_h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pWnT8mBAmR7U8q_RrEs54ld39O9bpynFaAaX6QU_pX1l40ecKwOcPyh_U8GdFLfGsuri2WP7Jah_1WStvT38Mff_O0eueEt6-OPRI2QcWQ5KJkkp8jrUd3-WCpzTw9jqbVs-V8GG5-2B/s400/foto%252Cnevada%252Cpolaroid%252Csteppe%252Cw%25C3%25BCste-811fbaf364a54cac43d1137004db7dd4_h.jpg" width="326" /></a></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-81824384891454809792010-12-23T16:10:00.000-08:002010-12-23T16:11:36.643-08:00Found an early, bitter snow<br />
on your barren outer piece<br />
so I peeled away the flakes<br />
like dead cells from the fleece.<br />
My teeth became the seeds<br />
and my gums became a shell<br />
while I warmed an early frost<br />
and your swollen brothers fell.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSCVa0tKYvS3MTS-A9YTAN57i9zf1REcQTS1N8TfrCGQN1c42AeaoL2C1wij59Czr3fIYPvTtenzPNYiKCjjcfM_ftCE_1fuKpe6ySqsp5FbSK-_fSp9NWe6T9aQo2TtxLbNUgH3Ff-U_G/s1600/apple4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSCVa0tKYvS3MTS-A9YTAN57i9zf1REcQTS1N8TfrCGQN1c42AeaoL2C1wij59Czr3fIYPvTtenzPNYiKCjjcfM_ftCE_1fuKpe6ySqsp5FbSK-_fSp9NWe6T9aQo2TtxLbNUgH3Ff-U_G/s400/apple4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-1887697053223915412010-11-15T13:56:00.000-08:002010-11-15T13:57:20.686-08:00Quiet in your movements<br />
as your teeth split<br />
like sea clams.<br />
Opening and closing.<br />
Your dove-gray jaw<br />
heaves in high staccato,<br />
charting gentle flagships<br />
and postmarking<br />
a sea of white-washed<br />
heel and shin conversations.<br />
Tiny splinters of light<br />
beneath the tide pools<br />
reveal delicate shells,<br />
making real<br />
the faraway sounds<br />
of a name.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZjbepALAFkE56tfE4EJS-Mu3rUt0hNMu3zMY_XNtNuLLt5xHxHAqb4zw_gUjWS6pd8ll8-h_xi-ZtoOstFMkX2N0tpQk2TuQns00rzHxQGtyEaoiA72Hqp7CW2mb_SNzfMVaMx4VbpKf/s1600/margaretdurow5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZjbepALAFkE56tfE4EJS-Mu3rUt0hNMu3zMY_XNtNuLLt5xHxHAqb4zw_gUjWS6pd8ll8-h_xi-ZtoOstFMkX2N0tpQk2TuQns00rzHxQGtyEaoiA72Hqp7CW2mb_SNzfMVaMx4VbpKf/s400/margaretdurow5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Maragret Durow </span></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-20856253214391172592010-11-05T07:06:00.000-07:002010-11-05T07:33:03.307-07:00Happiness.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1HAeFw_t3RgsL6hiEbfOpHXECvWeImP7XeKjG8dnJAWagZz48X7uDQ1Q9EHbJBbnmA02KQi0JsKr1omtnY2GaH0jggj5b_Q7mpoueTuVOjqm24BQN_NuiJvWCvcNY9xDoYbWyYK0k97-0/s1600/Photo+on+2010-11-04+at+17.05+%233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1HAeFw_t3RgsL6hiEbfOpHXECvWeImP7XeKjG8dnJAWagZz48X7uDQ1Q9EHbJBbnmA02KQi0JsKr1omtnY2GaH0jggj5b_Q7mpoueTuVOjqm24BQN_NuiJvWCvcNY9xDoYbWyYK0k97-0/s400/Photo+on+2010-11-04+at+17.05+%233.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">It's been a long time coming.</div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-31987155034755492842010-11-04T15:01:00.000-07:002010-11-04T15:02:02.011-07:00This pastel morning<br />
has two monogrammed organs<br />
to ease the aching<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxt_mOJMP-TDNZ7faj5PTcUGBqi378ab4OSJLpwMDPWooTu7LJmxk3lK2_005kc9tWWo7SdycjSPSQvlsqjyeeO7yMZdSOu2PJRwB4A2VVac1_cuEWyeti18AWsHefkcUAyDMeRMP3iTgG/s1600/leade_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxt_mOJMP-TDNZ7faj5PTcUGBqi378ab4OSJLpwMDPWooTu7LJmxk3lK2_005kc9tWWo7SdycjSPSQvlsqjyeeO7yMZdSOu2PJRwB4A2VVac1_cuEWyeti18AWsHefkcUAyDMeRMP3iTgG/s400/leade_large.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span id="goog_809246704"></span><span id="goog_809246705"></span>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-75423399650020500492010-11-04T14:52:00.000-07:002010-11-04T14:53:19.376-07:00Something Special.<div style="text-align: center;">I’ve been running and slipping and I can’t catch my breath even when I’m sitting still, legs outstretched in my new black boots with the metallic insides, outstretched onto a marble table and my back flat against a taupe-colored chair that is probably meant for relaxation and light reading, because I’m in the library of the university that I’ve been attending and there are a hundreds of living bodies and sleeping bodies and ill bodies wandering and dozing and side stepping their way around me, with slack jaws and sucking teeth and sandbag dropping eyes, and there’s a bundled woman in front of me with bare feet and tired toes and we smiled at each other because we both have one of the those faces that you see and think you recognize so you smile sideways, just in case, and we may have had a class sometime, both quietly sitting in hard wooden chairs with smooth, silver legs and our lips tight and straight as we listened to the others converse and we studied by ourselves before midterms and hardly squeaked in class, our grey little faces like mice in the back of the classroom or in the taupe colored chairs of the library, two shy little things with hearstrings and irregular lungs because we can’t catch our breath and perhaps it’s strange that identifying with a barefoot woman is comforting but don’t we all call people with similar characteristics our friends and our lovers and it’s only getting harder and harder for me to identify with the people that share such close similarities to my own because I’m weary and getting defensive and hardly an exclamation point in the universe if you see it as a narrative and earth is hardly a pinprick, and I’m rambling and the thin black letters are getting nearer and nearer to the time where academic books will be opened and pens will be picked up, vertically dragging on sheets of crisp paper, and my heels will clack on the cold linoleum that always reminds me of a dimly lit hospital hallway and really, in relation to the milky way, we are just rambling bodies that are smaller than the period at the end of this sentence.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99knQMI-ocuE7Zx1-GliiwTrsUvJmqws2GpKXhSbWIjE5g1-7a-yhS7eE4JGGdKfUoeQzCoagnJauyDfEddF-yerEs4FqtEyR_cvMq9Ht4P9BQcmS4Hu79hKP5auCyC56fAM1NgT7qEEh/s1600/vavovi+rec2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99knQMI-ocuE7Zx1-GliiwTrsUvJmqws2GpKXhSbWIjE5g1-7a-yhS7eE4JGGdKfUoeQzCoagnJauyDfEddF-yerEs4FqtEyR_cvMq9Ht4P9BQcmS4Hu79hKP5auCyC56fAM1NgT7qEEh/s400/vavovi+rec2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-78881544510471488242010-10-29T10:23:00.000-07:002010-10-29T10:23:46.204-07:00Freshly soaped shoulders <br />
are lapping up blue paint<br />
as the refrigerator hisses<br />
and lungs gently deflate.<br />
Webs and spindled legs<br />
are unraveling in the sink<br />
and a spoon of heavy pears<br />
is clinging to your drink.<br />
The faucet's dripping mold<br />
but your skull- it feels at ease,<br />
your mouth is slightly open<br />
and it's letting in a breeze.<br />
Your fingers kiss the kettle,<br />
caressing lustrous metal, <br />
and it's cold inside this home<br />
but the halls are yours roam.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1LF6ruMvO-h0lGqu6_jivr7ObszA9ef4h6QvGETNoHmgB61mXPosMNV0nuaTQlBlw17E7m5C3n2Kt89AWFPbs3q_l0mJ15tCylRbEGMsWIbZ04R9o1u9v-U-1VXgdQIGE4atsMkDa6otW/s1600/jencausey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1LF6ruMvO-h0lGqu6_jivr7ObszA9ef4h6QvGETNoHmgB61mXPosMNV0nuaTQlBlw17E7m5C3n2Kt89AWFPbs3q_l0mJ15tCylRbEGMsWIbZ04R9o1u9v-U-1VXgdQIGE4atsMkDa6otW/s400/jencausey.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span id="goog_320211019"></span><!--EndFragment-->madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-10198465100565343552010-10-16T17:45:00.000-07:002010-10-16T17:52:19.293-07:00Basic Space.<div style="text-align: center;">In Seattle, the air smelled like salt and clams and basil and crisp autumn leaves. The loveliest smells, the warmest smells on the coldest of mornings. We drove past callow gardens with red and blue birdhouses. Walked beneath crossroads with spiderweb cables, guiding swerving metro buses. Stepped over manholes where steam seeped from the underground city. Fish scales lined the walls above galleries and pale strings hung limply from tree limbs. We drove from the forest hideaways, away from the most darling of twins. I wondered if business ever brought you to Seattle and I wept when I thought of the souvenir gifts that I couldn't hand to you and the letters I had been writing but never slipped into the mailbox. I made Peter feel the hollow spots in my hands, the places where tiny birds could make a nest for little robin eggs. Between the bones. Middle finger-forefinger nests. I snapped photos of the lumber factories, the steel factories, and the cement factories. Man-made pleasantries in the middle of somewhere. I drank chamomile lavender tea and coconut black tea and raspberry Italian soda in the loveliest cafes. We drenched ourselves in hotel hot tubs in our underthings because we had forgotten swimsuits. I whispered goodbye to the sea when we stepped off four wooden posts. </div><div style="text-align: center;">On the way home, we drove from the outskirts of Portland alongside the yellow lights of steam boats and white sails. The basic spaces of my skin and three sleeping bodies, my skin and the road. I came over the top of a midnight hill, the top of the world perhaps, and I saw a thousand blinking red lights. <i>I've missed you</i>, I thought. <span style="color: #990000;">Hello, hello, hello</span> they blinked to me. I stared at my face in the rear-view mirror for a moment, I looked so pale, so washed out. <i>You ghostly thing, </i>I thought. We hid away on the interstate and I thanked Peter and Chelsey and Sean for the loveliest three days away from home. </div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-9116353477122003972010-10-05T18:03:00.000-07:002010-10-05T18:03:29.158-07:00Have you seen the skies?<br />
Almond slivers<br />
and apricot strokes.<br />
Porcelain bats swoon<br />
at the nape of bare wrists,<br />
suspending the flares<br />
with crescents shaped<br />
like fingernails.<br />
The silhouettes of<br />
grapevine limbs<br />
purr at hollow webs.<br />
But there are rings<br />
around the moon<br />
and frost is coming.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_34Dmj0_G-kfMXrYpptowHnSpDJckscVTwwmNoxLezjDi7tlyQPI2YSHOCv1AHBygmVLXrIlR2HYwwXTZOKdlcMVBSqtcrvIPUPhwCGp2WhyRp0YKJq6tO3SH51NbcF659ncI81fID6Zc/s1600/duy+huynh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_34Dmj0_G-kfMXrYpptowHnSpDJckscVTwwmNoxLezjDi7tlyQPI2YSHOCv1AHBygmVLXrIlR2HYwwXTZOKdlcMVBSqtcrvIPUPhwCGp2WhyRp0YKJq6tO3SH51NbcF659ncI81fID6Zc/s400/duy+huynh.jpg" width="398" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Duy Huynh</span></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-60919356981421035212010-10-04T07:24:00.000-07:002010-10-04T07:24:58.225-07:00Half Asleep.<div style="text-align: center;">The water trickles and I'm mumbling to myself to turn the music down because there are two sleeping bodies outside the door and I'm half asleep and it's early. I step inside the shower, brush against a thin curtain of pale greens and blues and the shower scalds me, brands little tear-shaped marks on my lower back. It's so hot that it's cold and I stare at my kneecaps covered in gooseflesh and I wonder why the uprising of hair follicles is called something so bizarre. It's dark outside and as soon as we hit a steady 68 I let myself linger in the space between dreaming and living. My left cheek is pressed against a pair of blue denim. I sit up slightly and stare at the delicate blue threads. I am a moth and my wings have left white powder on my resting place, I breathe into the air and they dissolve and we breath them in, these little wings like specks of dust. I place a small gold key inside a small silver lock and twist, I listen for the chime of gears moving and a deadbolt fastening and I smile, remove a gray wall that's collapsing inside of itself. I think about losing my friend. And it's only the middle of my week and I can't hear anyone over the music because it's too loud and I'm muttering to myself to turn it down. And then I realize the music is just my humming, something someone once told my they do when they're nervous. But I'm not nervous, I'm just half asleep.</div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-13893371656709229662010-09-21T15:17:00.000-07:002010-09-21T15:17:24.760-07:00Deathwatch beetles crawl<br />
within lackluster rings<br />
as back-lit cabins fall,<br />
but they are lacking wings.<br />
Our tongues are silent rails<br />
in an ash-enveloped cage<br />
and a catacomb of blurs<br />
are mistaking lust for rage.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujtFSqvrTAMu2CItZR_Szp1h8MR5JTDF4b-hxc1x27f7AZPMM8U3qRA9vkn8AXSVL9AKG1FYI3EoE1hmYvukzyfpVSg7O_TpuFScce5ZsUx2eCCz0plDV14Rh0yeoQozObPnVYpfzIqwG/s1600/Train+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujtFSqvrTAMu2CItZR_Szp1h8MR5JTDF4b-hxc1x27f7AZPMM8U3qRA9vkn8AXSVL9AKG1FYI3EoE1hmYvukzyfpVSg7O_TpuFScce5ZsUx2eCCz0plDV14Rh0yeoQozObPnVYpfzIqwG/s400/Train+window.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-65835794133112364622010-09-15T10:22:00.000-07:002010-09-15T10:22:07.301-07:00Rusty.<div style="text-align: center;">I'm taking a moment, a brief relapse, to purge the words. My skull is like a rusty little typewriter in the shadows, tapping black keys. I'm taking a break from memorizing literary terms and breaking down the human cell until there's nothing left but a thousand little electrons buzzing around a tightly bound nucleus. The past few days have been rushed, in a word. </div><div style="text-align: center;">I keep thinking about a beautiful baby girl, my best friend's little sister gave birth to the most amazing spirit. Her name is Lilleigh. I held her a few short hours after she emerged into the cool air. I brushed the pads of my fingers over her fontanels, feeling the grooves where bones folded into skin. I wept, staring into her gray eyes, watching her, watching me. She looks so much like her mother.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> My calves are sore from organizing the spice cabinet in a new, yellow kitchen. My mouth felt strange for the expanse of about three hours, I said the word dad, out loud. To him, in the flesh. It was so strange. It really was. </div><div style="text-align: center;">My eyes are tired from staring at this back lit-screen in coffee shops with aromas of nostalgia. I'm having a hard time finding time to write, and read. I want to read so badly, I walked into a bookstore and was compelled to buy new books but could only manage the first thirteen pages of the lyrical script before I had to set it aside and picked up a heavier, denser leaf with a thousand more prickly veins and a wider stem. This semester is killing me, and I'm afraid I may have packed on too much, but I crave the knowledge. I crave the avalanche. My books and I have a paradoxical relationship. I have fallen in love with every one of my classes. My creative writing class, especially. I wish I could make time to write. This morning I made linden flowers tea, I held honey by the ankles and let it bleed down onto a dusty teabag. I let white petals loll around the vacancies of my cheeks, I let steam warm my fingerprints. I'm hungry for boredom.</div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-26724373302498620922010-09-06T07:55:00.000-07:002010-09-06T07:55:45.396-07:00There is a pair of mooncalves,<br />
blue and stagnant on the wall,<br />
and the window traffic slurs<br />
and the legs begin to crawl.<br />
Their cold protruding caps<br />
are enticing like the tides<br />
and my sweet Achilles gills<br />
are all sputtering in stride.<br />
The water here is murky <br />
as my chest compresses bones<br />
and I'm thirsty for escaping<br />
and not for casting stones.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGA-7kf08ryWjiA4RYFcmCw_4wqbTQ3eWQ-wzhhNMYlsrktE0oeHl8AiSSV_yKIb0Xvib0yQlAO2i4QSaXTS3fb6Q_3MzyKIPS1vhS7zRf44d3jl4GVFej0QjK72iaeVlBEk2X_SP_fzrk/s1600/margaretdurow2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGA-7kf08ryWjiA4RYFcmCw_4wqbTQ3eWQ-wzhhNMYlsrktE0oeHl8AiSSV_yKIb0Xvib0yQlAO2i4QSaXTS3fb6Q_3MzyKIPS1vhS7zRf44d3jl4GVFej0QjK72iaeVlBEk2X_SP_fzrk/s400/margaretdurow2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Photo Credit: Margaret Durow </span></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-16674504648830453122010-08-29T13:02:00.000-07:002010-08-29T13:02:09.416-07:00Morning Tea<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">I wrote this for my creative writing class last week, my first fiction piece <b>ever. </b>Flash fiction. It's slightly morbid. I apologize to those of you with weak stomachs. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">A hard, wooden chair cut into my back like razorblades, bruising the protruding disks of my vertebrates. I sat with my knees curled into my abdomen and for precisely twenty-three minutes I watched the violet shadows disintegrate into pale sunlight like an embryo escaping the womb. Sweat swirled from my tiny teacup and whisked itself into the cavities of my nostrils. It was then that my grandmother, aged ninety-eight years, interrupted the still morning. Her face was made of endless layers of skin, thin and transparent like a decaying peach slice. She made her way to the counter to pour herself a cup of tea. The splintered marrow in her hands caused her to drop the teapot, a Blue Willow china set from my mother’s first anniversary. I began to cry. Her nimble legs stooped down to pick up the shattered pieces of blue and ivory petals. I dripped from my chair and puddled around my grandmother. I stroked her hollow cheek and smiled at her to reassure her that everything was okay. She flinched away from me, cracking her skull against the corner of the counter; a tiny stream of blood trickled down her forehead and dripped onto a fragment of the teapot. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">I stared down at her limp chest and embraced the stillness of the room. I sauntered back to the kitchen chair facing the window and gripped my warm tea. It was lukewarm now. My fingers were sticky like maple syrup. I glanced at my grandmother again, her limbs looked like a paper doll chain, the ones my mother use to help me slice ribbon for to hang in the windowsill of the reading room. I held a large shard of Blue Willow in my palm and remembered how easy her skin was to slice through, like aged paper. A pool of blood seeped into the floorboards, it was the color of gingerbread tea. I decided to steep that for the afternoon. </div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-18531253970970348212010-08-23T11:48:00.000-07:002010-08-23T11:48:52.731-07:00<div>I can sense your soul</div><div>slipping and hanging there</div><div>like a mid-morning cat,<br />
and your grasp on clarity<br />
becomes a porous scene<br />
from monotone lungs.</div><div>But the sun is pale<br />
and whisked with wings</div><div>like smooth vanilla tea</div><div>and I can feel you clinging</div><div>to the tiny white feathers<br />
in the garden.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWZcVbp6t-20ZTbdVe3hW6bbusKfxqu7rE8__jN6ghcR4ezvngEOmYN78aakpkPyLdQxkKC7QTVkLtbw7LdVOAFLBICxj5rbEHw2U7sBNXOVrRW9Vj08gfSlpAwd31jLG3PNRCXKUTqfq/s1600/vavovirec3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWZcVbp6t-20ZTbdVe3hW6bbusKfxqu7rE8__jN6ghcR4ezvngEOmYN78aakpkPyLdQxkKC7QTVkLtbw7LdVOAFLBICxj5rbEHw2U7sBNXOVrRW9Vj08gfSlpAwd31jLG3PNRCXKUTqfq/s400/vavovirec3.jpg" width="377" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Vavovi Rec</span></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-86259051415116009942010-08-18T09:47:00.000-07:002010-08-18T09:47:44.660-07:00Angst.<div style="text-align: center;">I am feeling anxious, and nervous, and excited, and like a volcano is simmering in the very tiny capillaries of the arches of my feet and slowly, s l o w l y, rising up into the kneecaps and hip bone sockets and pelvic cavities and abdomen, and singeing the wings of the thrashing damselflies and butter wings hibernating there. Another academic year, and did you know, that I often miss the first day of class to purposefully avoid introduction games and the blushing of cheekbones and stumbling of words? I bet you didn't. I think this year, I'll attend the first day. I'll quietly sit in a mothball scented auditorium with two hundred students and listen to the hiss of the radiators. I think back to last year, and running to class early to claim my seat by the window, or seat 86, or a place to hang my mittens and my scarf on the radiator hinges. I would open up my journal, and write until my elbow ached, like little pinpricks, write until my professor would stalk in, three minutes late everyday. I would watch him swathe the board in white chalk, throw the green slab upward with the flick of a wrist. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Mostly, the volcano is warm and familiar. The thought of my soles on a lackluster shortcut to the library or the humanities building, padding the smooth freckled concrete. Gathering leaves to press in my yellow leaflets, adding to my watercolor leaf collection. I am ready to fall back into routine, ready to carry a thermos of cinnamon coffee in knit covered palms. I'm anxious to slip beneath the train tracks and watch the flickering lights twitch, feel leaf tornadoes surround my calves, inevitably glance at the branches to see if the world has changed colors and dipped into Autumn. </div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-80618992102320817392010-08-15T14:38:00.000-07:002010-08-18T09:54:58.308-07:00When ankles are tea lights<br />
blown out with the whirring,<br />
and lungs swell like dreams<br />
that are more than recurring,<br />
blue spokes melt the lightning<br />
that drip from wax fingers<br />
and bones cling to narrows<br />
where the seeping road lingers.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3DsCeHvFtjAhSZ826znBTBu_94KY7QJvCei4hzQVxXKO9wj9q1nY6u4gXpLRs6jxuZs57A2PKAEAddwWzPc8XZZwryDZsrsd5hJOu91Rb06-Evzn8ZyUSF2Ltz8V42Di0OHFaAgjUt_L/s1600/biker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3DsCeHvFtjAhSZ826znBTBu_94KY7QJvCei4hzQVxXKO9wj9q1nY6u4gXpLRs6jxuZs57A2PKAEAddwWzPc8XZZwryDZsrsd5hJOu91Rb06-Evzn8ZyUSF2Ltz8V42Di0OHFaAgjUt_L/s400/biker.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-81362540625857368772010-08-09T11:58:00.000-07:002010-08-09T12:58:54.557-07:00Free Writing.<div style="text-align: center;">I'm out of breath, and out of words, and every building annex is a quiet escape from the tornadoes. The past fourteen days have been like a speeding whirlpool in a deep, chaotic sea of colorless waves. Last night, especially, was when I felt it.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I was so quiet. So shy. So antisocial. I was worried of tying up my tongue, saying the wrong words. Blushing like warm summer tomatoes. And so I sat, eating dinner, four little children at the table to my right, and seven others laughing and reminiscing. I was silent, blue eyes staring at my plate. The little pieces of mango and black beans. I watched a lonely fly cling to the white cotton oxford next to me. The little guy, starved for attention. And then I thought to myself, <i>I am feeling sorry for this little fly, and I should be contributing to the conversation at hand, or shooing it away at least.</i> But I couldn't, I couldn't think of one thing to say. My introvert personality crowding my thoughts. I wish that I didn't get like this, at times. </div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm excited for the upcoming week, however. Silence and bare shoulders and scabbed knees and bristle cone pines. Ten or fifteen flashing lights, like healthy comets, focusing and refocusing and delicately learning. Insanely high altitude, and my blonde hair whipping around my lips and tangling in my lashes. A different setting, a different lifestyle, if only for four or five days. And now I'm home, finally home from the busy weekend and the busy dinners. My home away from home, for a few more hours, before I leave for the city again. Writing, and tracing mosaic shapes on the furniture, and talking to my mother about which classes I should be taking, and trying to find my textbooks online. And I'm in a good place right now, even with all of these natural disasters of hearts raging around me, with everyone I know clinging to the trenches. I'm bringing the colors back. The hues are returning, I'm feeling better.</div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-88289135545074134392010-08-08T14:16:00.000-07:002010-08-09T12:09:00.571-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>It was morning when<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">spider lights burned</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">in the attic of my mind,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">when splitting boxes</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">kissed the floorboards</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">among the withering moths. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It is now almost Autumn</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">and it will still be months</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">before I shake the powder</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">and smooth brown lips</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">to rip and rewound </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">the events of May.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5X_Th_wOouPCmhzauKHyIM8GX2KF8yq5MtS4sK-MYjXTAgBEqkBfAdqdJnGU9i1600rhC0w2h96HMLFPI631XfJGOo7WEPMkO8_20OBvmwkJg99scfEwLUVVpjDZGhcjHFvLafwlH6mfM/s1600/attic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5X_Th_wOouPCmhzauKHyIM8GX2KF8yq5MtS4sK-MYjXTAgBEqkBfAdqdJnGU9i1600rhC0w2h96HMLFPI631XfJGOo7WEPMkO8_20OBvmwkJg99scfEwLUVVpjDZGhcjHFvLafwlH6mfM/s400/attic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2011521493553472445.post-76027050605462510572010-08-01T20:58:00.000-07:002010-08-01T21:33:21.461-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Let's walk, my legs say, sweeping heels</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">against the cool cement, tendons flexing, knees</span></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">peeling from the bone. I drift to the roots,</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">a little slinking. The pursed ashen lips</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">are a mess for the dawn, and soon enough,</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">my veins are the night. Twelve ribs crackle</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and clamor from sight, and the warm air rots</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">beneath thin almond eyes and tangled brows</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">whether someone left the light on, or not.</span></span></div>madison.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01875941887866953215noreply@blogger.com9