Oct 17
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New Flowers

Graph paper is not as solid as it seems.
The points where lines meet
are thrumming with new flowers. 

Our world is a binary one,
made of parallels and perpendiculars 
and passionate collisions.

Oct 16
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God and the Homeowner's Association

Oct 16
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London has a shimmery grit. Its ornate facades are stained. Its beautiful places are large, but sideways. The cement kills your feet. The gardens are locked behind gates. Shops and restaurants are either too grand or too grimy for a jet-lagged American tourist.

I love london. It‘s a place you walk through, then wander through, before finding a humanist library hidden in the attic of an old theater. 

The oblique grace, 
of smirks and sneers, 
of canal water and cigarette smell, 
of five story toy stores and underground street markets, 
of apartments on top of cathedrals 
of too many unappealing pubs all in a row, 
of tired feet that know the cement will never end but keep walking, 
consuming because the endless grey fills them with a hungry fire and a sour passion. 

Oct 15
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Between Two Points

After I cried, 
I felt clean. 

Chocolate stained teeth and puffy eyes, 
I had taken my medicine. 

The smallness in my heart is big sometimes; 
its flowers are more like fireworks. 

The books I read echo,
The words I write crumble,
under the sheer weight of a beautiful sunrise. 

“Do something pretty while you can
 Don't fall asleep
Driving from California to new york”*

I turned the heat up, 
Until I sweated my flame.  

To lie on the soft rug sweating and glorious.  
To watch the leaves fall and land.
To read Camus and picture passion. 

It’s an image really, 
if life comes to nothing. 

*Lyrics from Belle and Sebastian’s song, We Rule The School.
Oct 15
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Want to go to Copenhagen?

The apartment was full of warm light. It was nestled near the top of one of Manhattan's highest towers. The storm thrashed the floor to ceiling windows with harmless theatrics. I was sprawled on a too-stiff couch, staring up at the deconstructed chandelier that subtly denoted the seating area. The fixture was imported from Copenhagen where they made an art of filtering light.   

I reached for the martini I had set on the coffee table. “Want to go to Copenhagen?”

Aiden pressed a hand against the window. “Why Copenhagen? I would rather be somewhere like Bermuda... or maybe Province. What’s the south of France like in October?” 

“Stories always start when it’s dark and stormy. Have you ever heard of anything exciting beginning on a warm and clear night? ” I laughed. “It was a clear and warm night in Aix when suddenly, out of the fountains, came a giant gooey monster.”  

“We had our first date on a summer evening.’ He pouted.
Oct 14
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Saran Wrap

The bulky mass of white noise 
is gently buzzing. 

Tightly woven nothingness, 
I attempt to unravel with confused fingers. 

Under the whirling plastic fan, 
I knit a scarf from purple polyester. 

Row after row of garter stich 
until it’s long enough

to stifle and pad 
the aching places, 
to mute the openness
and dull the intricacies.

I fill the fluorescent waiting room
with hollow gasps
until there is only space 
for ceaseless humming.

Oct 13
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I have always identified, rather sheepishly, as an intellectual. Considering that I am interested in linguistics, classical history, and mathematical philosophy, It’s the only title that has fit. But for me, the label has both a frivolous quality and dark romance. When I think of an intellectual, I see a Raskolnikov like character, holed up in some filthy apartment, drinking plum brandy and furiously typing idealized political theories. A professor who lectures in their bathrobe. Or maybe an amoral speech writer, spinning grandiose lies for despots. I think of the Lenins, Kierkigaards, and Brucans of history. And to be perfectly honest I wouldn’t be terrible opposed to joining their ranks. Communism looked great on paper; I would love to pen a political philosophy just as preposterous. I think it would be fascinating to spend my life attempting to reconcile devout lutheranism with existentialism.
Oct 12
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The cement can only soak up so much rain. 
The sidewalk shimmers.


Then the water collects in invisible cracks. 
It pools in gutters and teapots
and saturates our shoes, 
our sandals, 
our sneakers, 
our boots, 
our hob-nails. 

We walk together: 
You, in your yellow raincoat;
I, exposed.

Your hand is my only defense against the downpour.  

I hold it tightly
and press myself against your cold polyester shell. 
I can feel the warmth underneath, 

You’re shimmering
and about to spill.

Oct 12
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We Are

The world is blurred around the edges
as I sit listening to my mother 
read a summery of our music.  

I can’t form sentences.  
I can’t delineate denotations from connotations. 

I found it buried in the living history that:   
sense and sentence share the latin root to feel.  

The sheep with kind eyes is not proud. 
Why does it stare up?

My turquoise blanket is frayed and stained and lovely. 
Why is the red applique is falling off?. 

I am not sitting on my chair.
Why is it burdened so? 

I am. 
She is. 
We are.

Oct 11
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In the Tulip

Her lips were curled into the hollow of a tulip. 
She smiled, filling me with a tiny spring.  

We were quiet,
hiding from the clouds, 
from the loudness of our spoken selves,  

in the hesitant rhythm, 
the small rhythm, 
of keyboard clacking. 

We wrote together. 
And I could see
from the way she smiled 
that she wrote spring.