I faked out my philosophy professor

somehow I had forgotten that this was our last day living side by side, and that you’d return to the substance of pensive thoughts and late nights. A couple notes in a song that carried me to a place neither of us really inhabited. You know, as it was.

You don’t know, do you? But I promise, we had good moments together. Your presence, and I.

Still more real than what you’ve been to me recently. I blame myself.

I always blame myself.

I try to blame myself.


about someone I don’t know

the gentle receptive nature; moistened with intrigue and the expectance of something only you can perceive; you’ll speak without concerning yourself with the words, trusting that your mouth will obey the becoming of your mind; if you laugh you will remember why it was necessary


call me on Thursday night

I thought I was loving you, but it turns out I’ve been ignoring you for years. Not your presence; not your memory; not the smell of your hair or the angle of your eyes or the bold petulance of your voice when you believe in your own infallibility; not your diet, not how often you exercise, not how much sleep you get when you’re motivated by that perfect score, light on late into the night, make-up on thick the next morning when you go out; not the times you laugh, the times you smile, and what it must mean in regards to your chemistry; not the boys who take you to dinner and the girls who get you drunk; not the books you quote or the heroes you profess to have; not the ignorance you possess when dealing with the unknown, not the polish of your walk and the force of your mind; I could never ignore the way my chest constricts when you head out into deeper waters; I could never ignore the rage that burns inside of me when you arrive at some conclusion I’ve long sought; I will never be able to ignore the pain I felt by your heartless, thoughtless design and the love I experienced when I told myself that I deserved it; and above all I cannot ignore the fact that if I had only resisted my own mind and body, you might still worship me as you once did.



i’m here, we might as well take it all the way,

round it out with a refluxive expression, if I keep blinking, if I keep eating –

still, we sit in stagnation; bouncing off objects, cracked tile and an orange bicycle on the wall

still, we stick our hands under the streaming liquid; lick our fingers; then slip our heads under

familiar sounds; jubilant invasions; waves, molecules, nerves, fibers, tension, liberty




The hand that grips the pencil is hardly mine; I can admire it, not lay claim to it, for it acts in such rigid understanding of its purpose – strokes appear on a sheet of notebook paper and the notebook I had purchased wasn’t meant for its current use, was an oversight on my part, I only needed four. And it was black. I thought, a stark use, an important one, because the color black and my imagination are complimentary, but in the end I kept it open for so long that I forgot its hue and turned my attention to the wastefulness of a pile of unused paper lined at that – so tailored to their specific purpose that the sight of them nearly made me feel ashamed of myself. It is the same with books, these days. Words, cleverly developed – ruthlessly ordered – impatiently scrawled in a flurry of vitality and in the presence of a thousand whispering voices of affirmation and terror – there are some of those ‘words’ on the notebook page now but they are not of the same make and model. Do they receive the same treatment? I can hardly tell, for some were written in service of the others, but in such a way that they simplified and mystified and stupefied the first. And anyway it’s all a matter of shame to begin with, for now the book lies closed and I cannot remember its hue. It cannot touch me. And I cannot seem to touch my working hand.