playwright
That's another matter, Brandy Alexander - Subscribe
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playwright
That's another matter, Brandy Alexander - Subscribe
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| Love, and that's all. |
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playwright
What makes you forgettable January 29, 2008; 8:58 PM - Subscribe
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So yeah, I've thought about you recently. I'm trying to be more careful with my love. Doling out tiny, measured bits to worthy strangers, shedding some feather-sized pieces to lay in the perfect corners nature makes, and saving the rest for myself. Except there's someone captured in my photographic brain that makes me want to free every last bit. I have the feeling that this sudden rush of happy feeling and artistic energy will be sewn and painted and written into new projects and plans, mapped-out dreams brought to fruition by a sudden, nameless motivation. All this wishing and waiting, and we were living in the trees all along. I feel so silly for not realizing it sooner, but then, there were so many veils obscuring my vision, so many hands blurring across my heart before. There's something about 2008. |
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playwright
Sorry I August 28, 2007; 8:12 PM - Subscribe
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missed your call. x The world is a dangerous place. So many people moving between each other, passing glances and never looking back. So many nameless faces with scraps of sentences attached to their memories, lost among so many others sewn upon the patchwork quilt that is the makeshift file cabinet of my subconscious, stretching out for miles in every direction. Dangerous and lovely. I have a feeling that my eyes are about to be astounded. Some beautiful, inevitable combination of colors will come to them and it will be the most perfect image that I have ever experienced, because behind it there will also be beauty, genuity. Those passing glances turned to smiles, your lips moving to speak. Acquaintances made friends. Things are so much better now. |
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playwright
Sometimes I'm August 27, 2007; 11:43 PM - Subscribe
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the homeless man splayed drunk across the sidewalk, rambling life lessons in some angry new language, inventing stories as if it might stop someone on the street and hold them there, locked in momentary friendship. Spewing emotional bullshit with eyes wet and black, aglisten with the perfect orange of streetlamp glow, claiming to have reached some immaculate conclusion on the subject, but just full of shit. Just full of it, and sometimes I walk the dark streets of these neighborhoods alone, sucking in the night air like a last breath and wishing I could solve your life with the simple brush of hair against skin, or simple words that simply float out of my mouth, or a not-empty wallet. Worrying about worrying about things, too many things, two people who can and can't and will and will, will, will. x  Hello, little girl lost in halos, traipsing through fields of cinnamon and snow, Christmas tree gardens beginning to grow under your little feet, breathing in childhood memory. How many empty hearts will you follow? How many empty bottles will you swallow? The numbers you collect jangle like keys in your pocket, if only you would take them out and spend them on so many waiting doors. Janitor of burdens, let go of your rusting collections piece by ancient piece, quit your job, flee the country. x 
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playwright
Sweetened with pure cane sugar July 28, 2007; 6:02 PM - Subscribe
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Had I known you were going to holocaust me in a matter of minutes I would have finished that abandoned portrait of our love and filled in all of those tiny spaces with black paint. Instead I slowly turned in that trough of old feeling, thinking, this is leading to me walking off of the edge of a cliff. When I was three years old, and this might have been a dream, my parents took me to a beautiful park and we hiked across the top of a waterfall. We looked down from a tiny perch of jutting rock and I was so afraid to die, but they promised not to let me fall, and I trusted them with my life. Once in high school I burned a wide line of purple on my left arm with an iron. I distinctly recall not reacting fast enough, that moment when I knew I was stupidly causing myself injury, but was unable to immediately stop the cause due to lazy gross motor skills. Today I reacted far quicker, though my wound looks somewhat dire. It fascinates me how I manage to cover myself in angry bruises and puffy red scratches. For every scab or sunken purple mark that gradually fades to a more acceptable color of skin, a new dent appears somewhere. My body could tell stories. You're head over heels, obsessed. I can't take you on, I can't add you to a list of names, I don't want you on my plate, I am lonely, leave me alone. Your company was beautiful until you ruined it, and now I just want to shut you out of all my windows and doors and sleep you away with medicine. Come back to the person that you were. I felt something pure. It stamped its feet on my chest with such volume and shook me, shook me up all frightened and furious and filled my head with fire. And it was ugly, and it was mad, and when it left I felt brutally cleansed or robbed as if that thing which shouted such vulgar poetry inside me had erased a memory, scrubbed some written-upon part of me clean, and the remaining impossibility just lingered like a cloud of ash over the world, stinging my eyes with realization and the inevitable misery that follows. You never showed me that poem that you wrote. |
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playwright
Strawberry water July 20, 2007; 6:11 PM - Subscribe
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Cars flash by, peeking in through the windows with childlike, wildflower-like eyes. Sugar pours down my throat. My pink brain is coated with laughter soft like an electric blanket, with hazy field people and cold, spilled water. I don't wanna live through winter. I can't stand to see everything ending. Summer covers the water under the bridge in algae. The remnants of life show their bones. A park bench, chairs, a construction sign. Angels walk by and say their hellos. They stare at me, dangling my legs over the edge, sucking on a cigarette, staring down from the middle of nowhere, my favorite place in the universe. Knowing I wasn't going to die. I decided it was a stupid idea. The world collapses and rebuilds itself around me. I can do nothing but watch. |
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playwright
Short stories July 12, 2007; 6:16 PM - Subscribe
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Where did the storm go? Now, the sky looks kinda blue. We can't decide what kind of weather we want. It's too hot in the attic, but she can't sleep with the fan on. I can't stop putting things in my mouth; I need something to fill it. I'm singing because it's too silent. Everyone is sleeping, or reading books. |
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playwright
Hah! July 12, 2007; 12:05 AM - Subscribe
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I wrote today. I'm writing. I can write. |
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playwright
It's getting light outside, and things are happening inside of my head June 28, 2007; 5:24 AM - Subscribe
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I've been writing poems. It's something new, because it's been so long. I've finally reached back into something that I used to be, to pull out some fragments of a personality. I stumbled down so many steps, blinded by my silly doubts and tripped over that hidden heart, a place filled with words that I used to know. I found an old path that I loved to follow, a book stashed between walls that details a history most complex and enchanting. To read it is not to relive past moments, but to taste a familiar taste, only now I am able to appreciate the depth and richness of its flavor. A new slant of light hits our subject. Or subjects. I suppose that would be more accurate. We've boarded up this window and created another with our fists, you, and you, and you, and so many yous. And I. It's an army of battling points of view, arguing over each other, shouting and then whispering, creating hymns of scattered harmonies that rise and fall and then suddenly crash, darkening into discordance, shaking my brain with war. These eyes are just opened. The world is fresh and bright and clean and it stabs my pupils like sharp knuckles. But to look away is to fail, for it begs to be described and understood. Alone, it is only what it is, and cannot make itself what it yearns to be. Will I feel this way forever, wanting this so completely, feeling right with the world, though my head aches from such discovery? No, but there is something reassuring in this knowledge. Perhaps its brevity makes it all the more valuable to experience. I know it will slowly vanish, and I will look on, wondering, as it slips into the folds of lost time, leaving only tiny traces of its existence in my mind. I don't mind. |
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playwright
Who knows why June 25, 2007; 8:15 PM - Subscribe
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They say, It must be a brilliant match; I think of striking the match and the immediate crackle of its lighting, the burst of light before it continues to burn. Is that us? I'd like to write poems and poems, I'd like to carve into my walls so many words that they run over each other and begin to blend together until it's just nonsense, so many sentences running together into a great illogical synthesis, and it will mean nothing, because it will mean everything at the same time, twenty-nine contradictions existing in perfect harmony, or disharmony, depending on how you will decide to read it. I think it's funny how you just fall short, by a mere number; just, just. It's another almost added to a list of almosts that stretches on forever into history. I'm falling off the edge. I'm moving toward a revolution, a great sequence of losses and gains. I'm headed toward the Sun, I'll burn up before I get there. I'll run out before I've run the whole way to the other side of the world. I'll run out of steam. But I will go, and it's the going that matters, that's really the point of the thing. Do you see? It doesn't matter. Everything has become forgettable. But I'm still teetering, here. Still waiting for an answer to escape your open lips, unexpected, filled with promise. |
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playwright
Picture in my mailbox June 17, 2007; 9:48 PM - Subscribe
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We might be alike. You're not talking much. I'm full of life. Leaves are filling my mouth, so bitter, so gag-reflex. The moment before death, when everything becomes overwhelmingly vibrant, the catch just before the fall, the corrected misstep. That adrenaline rush, recreating the world, the transition from blurry instability to knowledge, to feeling, to names and shapes. I'm in it. Turning into something. And you. And you. You, you. Would you just. Will you please. I want to ask something of you, but it really must be you asking yourself, to... to. Let go. Yeah, sometimes, I can't speak. Sometimes I hide under blankets, letting myself suffocate, becoming warm with all the wishes I keep under there with me. But I throw them off, I write my fevers away, I carve them into memory, and they will, they will, they will disappear. I will burn them up of my own volition. I can't take yours away. It's a vague thing, this; it's difficult to see everything clearly while in transit. But hear me, please, hear this, through the noise of traffic and look past the dizzy display of lights, the stretching lines, just understand. There's a melody out in the world, just playing over and over, quiet and clandestine, but you can hear it underneath the racket of everyday, and it's beautiful. And I am in love. With the way the world ripens and blooms and bursts open, the velocity with which people will move, strangers becoming friends, friends, ohhhhhhhhhhh, everythinggggggg. How the yous change and blend. How the days just keep ending, again and again, on good notes, or, perhaps, bad notes, and no matter what happens, I can't keep from smiling. Wave goodbye. Make it a happy ending. Say hello, take my hand, let's go, let go. We'll never sleep, we'll never be alone. All that light inside, all that hope! It just beams. We all glow. Keep your eyes open! Get outside! Love. |
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playwright
Angsty nonsense May 28, 2007; 2:14 AM - Subscribe
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The world is muted. The pitter-patter of keyboard keys is very far away. From the other side of my window, something breathes, cool and rustling. Should I wander, barefoot, into the night? Let it take my hair up on its invisible wings, soft against my face; let it scrape the soles of my feet and raise the hair on my arms? Follow the sidewalk until I'm good and lost, or stolen by crimes? Hands on the grass, no keys, only paper. Tear it out with my teeth, strain through them a meaning, pull up those words from deep down, pull them out! Grab a handful of something, make it count. Words on my tongue, tired to get loose, will it satisfy to have my neck in a noose? Let me go? Throw you off? Dive into the water, black, gone under the current, "take that train underwater, then we could talk it through"? This is a hallucination. This is a dream. This is a test, you're testing me, you're tapping into some psychological energy buried in a time capsule. Hidden in my wall. Some ancient treasure underground, under piles and piles of dust, locked in a safe. This does not exist, it does not exist. I do not exist. But if you could read my mind (Abrupt ending). |
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playwright
We lost our lives in backyards May 25, 2007; 3:08 AM - Subscribe
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My god, Summer is a thing of mystery. She's fallen asleep on me, taken up the whole couch. It's alright, I took a caffeine pill, so it's not like I'll be sleeping for awhile anyway. My head is rambling, fragments trailing off in so many directions at once, like arms reaching out into blank space for something just beyond the colorlessness. Maybe it's a tiny, shining moment, lost in time. I haven't thought about it much lately, but now, I wonder, how come none of us can forget? How come we cling to that color, that blur of smiles and nameless feelings? So many nameless feelings, melting together into one, vague image of a thing we just can't get back to, we won't ever touch that, that, again. So much green. So much beauty. It amazes me how unclear it has become, and yet how important it remains. This summer feels almost the same. The feelings are close. It's as if someone I have lost is breathing into my lungs, someone I can't possibly see. It's this ghost. Something, someone that vanishes as soon as you know it, or he, or she, is there. A mystery, a mystery, hiding in laughter and withering in picked flowers from my backyard. Perhaps we lost our lives in backyards, or in basements, or just in each other. I'll never really know. Do you remember that night that I snuck out the back door, to sit outside under the clouds until the rain began to fall? I was out of my head. I was wearing the turquoise shirt, the one I wrote a poem on, and later ripped a hole in. I don't know where that shirt is now. I must have said so many ridiculous things, you probably don't even remember them. I collapsed later and you told me I asked you to go fishing. In my backyard. What about that one perfect day, when we walked to your cousin's from school and jumped in her pool with all of our clothes on? I think all of us were there. We kept throwing things at each other. It started to rain, but it was the most beautiful thing, the sun was still shining down on us through the raindrops. I remember standing out in the road with those boys. Standing in the gutter as it filled up, feeling the warmest feeling. Feeling so full of everything that I could just burst. And the next summer, they ripped the pool out. My mom has reminded me, more than once, of how I used to beat her at games of Memory when I was only three years old. I played Memory a few years ago, I forget when and where and with who, but I know I lost. It's funny. I'm not sure how well I can remember now, or how well I remembered things then. Can we trust ourselves to remember anything purely for what it was? Can we remember anything, write or tell anything that relays a pure emotion, that getting-back-to, that one feeling that permeated our existence for a day, or a few hours, or even just a second? Can we recapture it, or is it gone? If only there were bottles for these things. Bottles for sunshine, bottles for bonfires, bottles for the color green and for the smell of a basement full of kids in love. I would have a collection. But I know we can all be new. Green doesn't get any less green, no matter how many times it reappears. The Sun doesn't die. My backyard might fall off of a cliff, but I'll have you all in my heart, and I'll never let you go, no matter how my memory degrades over time. You're as shiny as ever, do you know? I keep writing about you, over and over and over. I'll keep thinking of you, every summer that begins. I love you. Every one of you. And I don't think, anymore, that it really matters why. |
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playwright
This must have been collecting in my brain, and I just couldn't name it until now May 21, 2007; 11:47 PM - Subscribe
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You still look like God, you're built on stilts. Face in shadow, towering above, carved out of soap. I want to grow up to meet your eyes. I want to reach up and pull you down to my face, so I can talk into you. I'll learn to be tall as the Sun and to shine down over you, pouring light into your corners, seeing all of you at once. I'll bring myself to your height, and suddenly, we'll be like waves crashing into one another and settling back into the sea. Swimming in mirrors, your image and mine pressed like silhouettes onto an endlessness of white, dividing the world in half. To catch a wisp of your hair in my fingers. You're the picture in my locket when it opens to a heart. I'm always looking for you in the rooms of my head, turning on the lights at night and whispering your name into the space. Are you there? Are you listening? I wait for the reply, the echo of my lonely notes upon the air. You are there, some hidden, lurking presence existing on the edge of every feeling like a slipping memory. I want to touch you before you're gone. I knew when I first met you that if we would end, we'd end violently. Flames in my head, everything exploding, apocalypse. Fire, fire, fire. You're sleeping now, and I can see the way you look with closed eyelids. I hope I always wake up before you, and can watch them flutter open, smile spread across your face. |
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playwright
Happy May 17, 2007; 8:15 PM - Subscribe
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| Always waiting for that tiny little smile to turn up the corners of your mouth, make you crinkle like paper once flat, now new. Your silences fill my mouth with sweet stones I crush between my teeth, tastes so feathery, the branches I climb when I reach up to the sky to feel the faces of the clouds looking down at me, so sweet. The breath of summer fills my eyes with air and light and it holds us together, hands clasped, blind. All the pages that I write could add up to hundreds of little rhymes, they fill my time with frames of mind and feelings held close to a heart or two, but they don't hold on to you. There are only numbers to chase after you, clinging feebly to those memories caught like fireflies in sparkling jars that dance between my dreams, all clambering and green as grass. And why? you ask, it's something that climbs crazily up my spine, that pulls my face into that lovely shape. It's you, it's you, words slide off like water and pool, and nothing sticks. We're oblivious. We're a blur, millions of fast colors drawn up into some shiny, swimming handful of adjectives. |
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playwright
Patch up yer wounds, weary broken traveler May 6, 2007; 11:18 PM - Subscribe
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My feet are tired but my heart is beating and bright and full and it will carry me for as long as I will it. Sometimes you must sharpen your needles and swallow your tongue and sew those holes up so you can't crawl into them and hide any longer, trying to hurt yourself inside of them. I found the way out and I've blocked it off until it explodes open again. And I'll keep running to the light, wherever it goes, however dim it becomes. I want to see. Peel back my eyelids. Inflate my crushed lungs, free me from the debris my hands make. If we create our own misery, we can kill it just as easily. |
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playwright
Deficiency May 6, 2007; 6:34 PM - Subscribe
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"My body is a cage... that keeps me from dancin' with the one I love, but my mind holds the key." Things have been ripped out of me. I hope I can sew myself back together. |
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playwright
Music sounds better April 4, 2007; 2:08 PM - Subscribe
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I was never good enough for you, and I never will be. (So many times, I'd try to make you understand, explain it forwards and backwards, a million ways, but you just weren't there. We were never on the same plane. Disconnected, I'd just curl up next to you, just wishing, wishing, wishing you'd just know.) So fuck it. (No! No! NO! I didn't want to let you go, I didn't want to just.) I'm a ghost. Why don't you listen? Why don't you listen? Why don't you (I finally did it, I finally, finally said something, it was easy really, it just spilled out of my mouth, these brave words just spilled out before you and you said, no. You said, I do not accept your sacrifice. I do not accept your, this.) listen? I can never talk to you, why don't you ever tell me? You never TELL me! You never tell me. (Never, never, never, never, no, there can't be that many, I just. What? I just, just, I'm trying to sort things out in my head, but they're so... something, there's no, words, there's no, logic, there's no beginning to the story, no anything, nothing.) Goodnight. |
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playwright
Feelin' good lost. March 26, 2007; 10:27 PM - Subscribe
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All of a sudden, everything just falls into place. Friends fall down, but they get back up. Dust off your knees. Chin up. I think I can almost hear your smile through the phone, it's like, finally, finally, finally, F, R, double E. I don't know where I'm going. Don't know where I'm going to be next month, this summer, next year. I might just up and get outta here, but hey, you know, I don't really mind not having a plan. Let's play it by ear, let's just let the days stretch out in front of us like blank canvases we'll cover in paint. The rain is washing all signs of winter away. Lights breaking through the sky, it's beautiful. Everything is gonna get clean again. All of us are going to feel new. Today I saw purple flowers shooting up through the mud, and it reminded me of something long forgot. A flower at the top of the Alpensee, so blue and tiny and perfect. I remember all of the cow bells ringing, a chorus of chimes, and the clouds slowly rolling, and the water, smooth and shiny ripples calmly billowing in the breeze. We had reached the end of a journey, and it was so unbelievably satisfying, just undescribable. Sometimes photographs just can't even capture that moment, when you don't know something has happened that will change you, but later you look back and you realize how happy you were, and that means something. So maybe this means something, too. |
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playwright
It seems like a perfect fit. March 25, 2007; 6:00 PM - Subscribe
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Some songs, I play on repeat for hours and hours. Just listening to it over and over, letting the words sink into my brain, get absorbed forever, attached to a memory. I'm just a person. Anyone could be like me. Whose love am I worthy of? I-I-I, I just don't know. Sometimes I just wish for a postcard from a faraway place, "I wish you were here"; sometimes I wish I was sendin' one to you. Sometimes I wish our brains were connected so you could just know everything that I feel. Sometimes I wonder if you can read my mind but you would never tell me, never let me know your secret. I'll never tell you that one of mine, never ever ever. You'll never know. But I wish you could. I wish you could just know, I wish, wish, wish, you could just know. |