pencil.

you’re so long and dry, impatient. six
month stutter i outlined
and traced

and he erased, and
every time we’ve turned our
backs we have exposed
another white lace silhouette.

there is no one to tell.
he has gone, with promises of
ice skates, fingers linked as
they collapse on couches, under
pillows, the ceilings of dead
living rooms with walls whose
paint is chipped and split;
there is no wait.

the calendar is pencil, gaps
forged by passing
time and wrists.

calendar.

this is the last night before i will finally live on my own.

i’m leaving tomorrow. i have nothing to look back at.
i never really do.

i’ve taken everything apart and down over the past few days, but just now i noticed that the calendar is still on the wall. i’ve thought about taking it down, but i kept stopping myself from doing it because it makes no sense to remove it. i still need it. i still need to know what day it is.

i don’t.
i have a phone, obviously. and i can count the days without a calendar, at least for two or three. i don’t need it. and i should have taken it down when i took away my photographs and notes and birthday cards and coasters and yorick and everything else.

but i left it. i keep leaving it. and now i’ve even recognized that i don’t need it and i still will leave it. until i’m gone tomorrow.

fuck.
i’ll probably forget it now that i’ve made such a big deal about it.

weather.

an attraction less halted,
more swept with the
streets by the salt trucks

he tells me it’s been
a long year, thinned like
the bottoms of socks we would
fold on his bed,
deflated like bellies
emptied for
summer, bites from
the bugs in the grass, or limp,
fallen like leaves, as far as
we have to the floor.

i say i forget.
don’t remember that bed,
or the weather

bed.

today i stayed in bed ALL DAY!
things you can do from bed:
write poetry, call out into the hall at your roommates, drink coffee, take pictures with gunther, be adorable as a direct result, read books, text your sister, watch videos on youtube, empty a hat, plan in/words readings, eat pasta, be sad, daydream, research a novel, write your friends’ birthdays in your planner, call your mom, watch movies, organize old photos, look through old scrapbooks, edit old writing, e-mail the girl next door, smell bad, have naps, jump on the bed, make the bed, unmake the bed, drink more coffee, not worry about it, be loyal, be friendly, be mean, think about swans, unthink about swans, re-read chapbooks put out by friends, listen to sublime, listen to leftover crack, listen to ok go, chat with your friends online, ask for cheer-ups online, receive requested cheer-ups and periodically cheer up, throughout the day.

baseball.

one of my fish pretends to be asleep in the front of the tank, he is only really sleeping when he is at the back with the other side by side facing in opposite directions and it’s a trick like how when i left my bedroom to walk around the block and smoke a cigarette and think about how alone i’d like to be later, much later, impossibly later, and now, but not right now, the pendulum had stopped swinging on the clock, the perfect clock, and i made a note to myself that i would remember it later but now that i’m home it is swinging again because it does that, it starts and stops at will and sometimes i think it is gunther or the things in the room, things i don’t know about because i’ve lost track of my mugs and my towels and things are just things, i don’t know what they are can’t define, there’s too much and i looked over, it’s stopped now, again, it knows, and this is why i forget so easily and miss your hands on my throat and my fingers in yours because this is what happens, i come home and everything is different, i look again and it’s back the way it was, there is no change, we are stable, everything is stability and it breathes and evolves and spawns algae and droplets of water, and yesterday i saw a man kick violently a fish into the canal and later a dead fish and there’s no correlation these things they just happen, and i wish it was march again, not waiting by the door again, he smelled like stale beer and garbage and sweat and that was okay, he was also refreshing, like i am disgusting and silent, and lonely, i feel like i can’t get away with it or with anything or with writing like this when the snow isn’t melting and i can’t get back and i want to like i used to want to open my eyes and i used to ask for things and i used to make bargains and now! now everything has fallen apart, but i have a baseball.

fourth floor power shortage.

it’s the first day now, it’s finally here, it finally came.
it was a long, lazy, lovely summer and it’s over. i have one year left to go and the rest of my life, eternal summers with the worst weather. permanent vacation to the wrong destination, or something, i guess. i’ve never been on vacation but i imagine i’d be pissed if it rained the whole time. and here i thought i would start this year off optimistic.

it’s raining, because that might serve as official proof that the summer is gone. i don’t know why i can’t stop thinking about it, i wasn’t even particularly attached to this past summer. sometimes it’s easiest to complain about things that have already happened and can’t be changed. sometimes it’s just easier still to complain about the ordinary, trying to avoid thinking about larger, heavier problems. i don’t know if i have a large heavy problem. no one here looks like they have problems. everyone is all jittery and smiley with first-day-of-a-forgotten-routine excitement. come back in a week and it’s going to be another old shuffle, everyone avoiding eye contact and burying their heads in books and coffees and ipods and anti-social. like i’ve been the whole time.

sometimes i don’t know what’s worse. or better.
time always moving, things always changing, new people filling new shoes that have been choked back like thirty year old weeds… or staying the same. walking the halls, touching the brick built back in the day, the replanted weeds. being where something’s happened already, where too many people have breathed and even more fingers have touched.

if time is the old bald cheater i feel like i need to go back in it a little bit.