thrashing line (redux)

"The moment you thought to ignite fell more gravel than breath, and careful ache. I still feel the debt. I love you and will give you more. But tonight, I am turned out—a milky film slipping through waste glass, cigarette eyes choked to the street, the divine speck left cold."

—Ian William L.

anautumn

"Sitting on a bench in a park on one of the last days of autumn. Leaves falling like snow. A soft meteor strike. Thick pin-pricks of afternoon. The light shining through their bones. I wish I could pen each one to the page."

—Ian William L.

212918052014

I am losing my voice. I am always losing my voice. I always have been. I let the world into the head and chop me into firewood. Be Ouroboros with an ax wound. I write backwards, suck it in like blood. Vampires between the paragraphs. I am screaming a mountain. I am rock face less. The tense always fucks me. The wanting and the not wanting. I feel imaginary sadness. None of this matters or is worthy.

But I have to record something.

I breathed heavy and nothing came out

I made nothing beautiful. I see it, though.

SOMEONE COME OUT, AND SAY: I UNDERSTAND YOUR CONDITION.

Practice.

Swallow down another photograph.

Filter blur.

I am nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing under all of this.

Study the chemicals. They go so fast. Faster than my keystrokes.

Why couldn't you just be louder every moment you are saved?

Mute. Nothing. Silence. Clenched teeth. Head in my hands

Atomic illumination of information and connection.

Life is good. This is all my head inventing.

Experiment.

Call this flux. I have.

I am failing my dreams. It's true.

So, this exists in tandem. The mirror side of my shadow. Always has.

I just breathe in songs and berate myself until my feet feel floor. Until I retreat.

But I tell the truth. I am not a writer. I always say that. They always disagree. But this is proof. I am trying my hardest and only this mess falls out. Rings of scissors. Schisms. Traps under feet.

I will invent a way that lets me speak the story that is singing jet flight and ends of everything behind.

My head hunts me.

I will speak.

unprecedented

“You are so busy being you that you have no idea how utterly unprecedented you are.”

—The Fault In Our Stars; John Green

all of the stars

No words for how beautiful this is.

hope is the thing with feathers

"Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all."

—Hope Is The Thing With Feathers; Emily Dickinson

(some absence) (redux)

That paper cup holding back—a night sweat cuts, to a lip—in expanse of his breathing in—moving out into the grass, never stopping for—a streak, scant, of star flashing—palpitation, or eyelids firing, or weight of love—cast forking spider-silk I claw, from—wakeful blood-tremors—that clasp lovers holding back.

—Ian William L.

a thing loves

"If a thing loves, it is infinite."

—Annotations to Swedenborg; William Blake

restless

"There’s this kind of songbird that thinks it dies every time the sun goes down. In the morning, when it wakes up, it’s totally shocked to still be alive, so it sings this really beautiful song. I've sung every morning since I met you."

Restless; Jason Lew

love

"One day we will look at the past with love."

For your mix tape or infinite playlist; file under:
Hope Sound

Listen to the whole Hope Sound mix tape:
http://open.spotify.com/user/1231033109/playlist/2pUTGe6fm6nx326iicnLqQ

dust, maybe, never mine (redux)

"This picture I keep blurs into gasoline, burns until I nurse a blood nose and I am singing. I smile, and it stings, and I name the shapes, really, just chasing them back to smaller bones, thumbing at rings of so many taller trees. I hear autumn, my car keys, your lighter fluid and your eyes. Still, I have tried, to understand your sparrow pieces, and how they chip at mine."

—Ian William L.