Spring tidings

At the end of the hallway, I felt my whole life open up.

At the end of the hallway, I felt my whole life open up.

It’s good to make things that can’t be understood right away—maybe can’t be understood at all.

It means you’re operating outside of the bounds of rationality, which is important.

Get on my back and tell me what’s out there. I want someone to tell me what to do.

I imagined him holding my face in his hands, but that didn’t last long. It lacked honesty.

I like seeing the bus’s fat face at the top of the hill.

I like it when the spring smells like smoke.

I like to see the wet stones of someone’s eyes. To feel confused.

I wish I could stop looking away.

I wish I weren’t afraid of being obvious.

There’s a dark drop on the table. A man holding the corner as he turns. Gripping the edge with two fingers.

There’s a million ways to be beautiful, and you aren’t one of them. There’s something preventing it—a withholding. You can’t even look at it.

Well, so—straighten your fucking back. Get better at it.

The world is so flooded and flush with senses—the only thing to do is block it out before you go blind. Red warm lamps suffuse the air, making themselves glow. I love to use eleven words where one or two might suffice. Suffuse. Suffice.

It’s the luscious soft sounds I sniff out. Snuffle. Sugar. Shush.

Earlier this week I used the word metaphysical, but I wanted to say, ontological.

Don’t tell me why you are afraid. I already know that!

Tell me what you’ve decided in order to go on.

Yesterday in my office, staying up late just because I wanted to, I realize that I didn’t have to feel bad for anything. Because I was already there.

The light late and blue, the open window sweet and cool, the smell of aloe. What was it I’m trying to feel?

And the slantier I write, the better it feels. Letting words drip off of me like butter.