So I guess my brain’s somewhat lighter.  My lungs are darker.  My eyes a little fuzzier and my thoughts a little clearer.  My waist is bigger but my heart’s shrunk drastically.  When I blink the world gets worse and unless you put some effort into it- it won’t get any better.  I’ve got to get better.

Someone once said “quality isn’t an act, it’s a habit”.  If we met him today we’d leave him unemployed and he wouldn’t bathe like the rest of them.  He’d probably log on to couchsurfing.com and have hair so messy it would look cool from afar.  He’d tell you to call him ‘tot’ for short and roll his own cigarettes.  Of this, I am certain.

The uncertain is too vast to celebrate anymore.  The future is uncertain and that’s what makes it so scary.  That’s what gives me hope.  Hope to get better.  Hope to weigh down my brain, pink up my lunges, clear out my eyes, and fill my mind with more than I need.  My waist can stay the same so long as my heart grows back to size.  I hope to hate to blink, for blinking means closing my eyes to a world so beautiful and uncertain even Aristotle would have a chance.  I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

Warming our ball-toes

Curled over the five inch flame

And squealing when we get too close.

It burnt our toes

And made our cheeks just as red

Like they turned in years prior.

Along the walls of our stomachs

The flutter of butterfly wings

Tickle the inside of our nervous bodies.

Quickly the nerves dissipate

Because it feels so natural

To be this close to you.

I’m about two feet from what I can only imagine is an intimate part of a man’s body. I don’t like it but I can’t stop staring. I imagine it has a long story behind it and he probably doesn’t tell many people. He certainly won’t tell me so I’ll sit here and speculate while he sleeps; dreaming of only god knows what while we fly 35 thousand feet above his home. He has most of his head shaved because hair doesn’t grow there anymore. Too much testosterone? Maybe a dastardly accident…likely a combination of both.

I tied a woman’s shoe this morning. I didn’t know her and didn’t need to. She seemed uneasy about the incredible travel that I would need to take- from six feet in the air to a few inches off the ground- but I figured we were taking an even larger one together so why not let bygones be bygones. Her elderly back disabled her from being able to bend down so she walked slowly as to not trip. Rather than ask for help she just took a slower route. I often find myself taking the same course of action and consider it to be second nature at this point. It’s funny that I can point out the ridiculousness of another person’s actions and call the same ones sane when I am the one hobbling.

I learned today that the contents of bubbly drinks enter the blood system at a faster rate than still drinks. The context further warned of the dangers of mixing alcohol with carbonated drinks due to the faster absorption rate. To me it just seems more efficient.

I hear the

Splash

Of a big kid jumping into an even

Bigger pool

And I’m brought back to better times

Things are going well

But that’s only my sentiment

Because I’m not paying that much attention

I dumped my bag of words

All over your head

Like a coach after a victory

You’re showering in my thoughts

And you’ll dance in my shower so long as my

Words don’t creep inside your hollow

Hollow ears.

My words got inside your hollow

Hollow head

And now we don’t talk

Anymore.

I think we’re okay so long as our noses only touch when we kiss.  I think our noses touch too much.  I never really much liked my nose until about a year ago when that piece of cork was suspended from it.  Since then I’ve had a bit more respect about myself.   Taking pride in our flaws permits growth and that’s what I’ve needed to do for quite some time now.  Grow.  Now my nose is a dressed up version of another woman’s.  From what I understand she was pretty impressive before I came around- as most women tend to be.  If you want to keep that level of impressiveness I’d advice you against falling asleep with your nose against mine.  It’s all downhill from there.

Lesbians

are obsessed with art, photography, painting, poetry, obscure literature, writing, folk guitar, acoustic music, coffee shops, nature, astrology, their vaginas, other vaginas

Orgasms

cuddling, fighting the patriarchy, bending gender norms, politics, their 938472 cats and/or dogs, and most importantly trying to seem radically different from every other lesbian which also leads to their obsession with irony because

They’re all the fuckin same.

I browse through things that nobody needs on top of a cloudy nation that tells me to cut my own hair to be different. I don’t like their subconscious feed and change the channel. I’m going somewhere new in a pilgrimage of sorts. She told me what she really meant once during a religious experience. She put her bed on the floor. ‘Fuck the frame’ so I’m on a plane. I use the space under my bed for storage. Maybe one day I’ll put our pictures under there. I’m writing on something that a future passenger may see essential to throw away. Some guilt follows me because of this but I’ve really needed to clear that oversized head of mine for quite some time now. This is my public apology to those with weak stomachs. For a paycheck or two, degrading on how demeaning your job is, you can buy an entire couch for your dog and lose my respect all in one swift card swipe. For slightly less you could even brand that roasting animal tissue that you call dinner with your initials. To prove my disgust I’d probably use this tool to brand your testicles in your sleep. Who is the sick one here? I can’t tell.

Sometimes I miss you so much I think my heart might explode.

In fact, sometimes I picture just that action.

A dub but no preceding lub

My ventricles

They swell with blood

And I know my valves fail on me because

Sometimes I miss you so much my heart

Explodes.

But I’ll always come to my senses

Really, it’s not that big of a deal

Irrational

I try not to be so I realize:

My heart will keep beating

Just like it has for the past two decades

My heart will keep beating without fail

All day every day. You can’t

Make me explode.

I realize:

You can’t make

Me.

I wrapped my hand around the side of her neck. My icy fingers were comforted by the heat she emitted. That would be the last form of comfort I’d ever receive from her. My lips brushed against the edges of her ear the exact manner she had taught me months earlier. “I love you and if you want me to stop, then I will.” Not that she was going to, but she had no time to respond. The orchestra violently started to play. She bought me dinner and brought me home. It was the cleanest break that could possibly come from a situation so messy. She wanted me to stop- so I did. I believe it to be the best thing I’ve ever done for either of us.

The (simple and incredibly satisfying) End.

In the moment I decide to live

Another just doesn’t.

And I don’t need your alcohol to feel

This fucked up

It just comes naturally to someone

Like me and I think that maybe if I wasn’t so

Displaced I might just feel

Safe.

She says

‘I love you’ to me.

Whenever I need it

Wherever I need it

She will say ‘I love you’ to me

Just about on command.

Like a magician I simply need to

Point my wand in her direction and the words simply

Fall out from between her teeth.

‘I love you’.

And every time she says it

It’s like I’m hearing it for the first time.

‘I love you’

Any wound is bandaged and nursed

And covered and healed when she says

‘I love you’ to me.

And she makes me think that

Maybe I’m not so displaced

Because she almost makes me feel safe

When she says
I love you.

]]> http://j9foley.wordpress.com/2009/01/30/the-ocean-breeze-is-salty-modest-mouse/feed/ 1 J9 Foley http://j9foley.wordpress.com/2009/01/20/streetcars-42nd-st/ http://j9foley.wordpress.com/2009/01/20/streetcars-42nd-st/#comments Tue, 20 Jan 2009 20:42:11 +0000 J9 Foley http://j9foley.wordpress.com/?p=205 ]]>

I don’t listen to songs anymore. Just talkers, words, poets, thoughts, minds out loud. I just don’t listen to songs anymore. I’ve heard the songs. They’ve all been played. And so have I. But I can’t listen to silence so I’ll settle for the mindless jabber of anyone just so long as they aren’t singing to a tune. Every tune has a memory and I don’t care for my memories anymore.

It’s all fluid.  Our thoughts, feelings, sexuality, emotions, and most importantly in this story, gender. 

He has a girlfriend.  End of story, final punctuation mark, close the book- this man has a girlfriend and if you watched our interaction you’d think it was me.  It was me.  His new girlfriend is someone I cared about and often I feel guilty when I realize how much we flirt.  When I realize he still has feelings for me and touches me in ways that I know she’d be uncomfortable with, I feel bad for the new girlfriend.  When we hug hello he adjusts his head so the space between his nose and chin can graze my neck.  I then listen to him inhale my epithelium as we often did when together.  When we hug goodbye he holds on like this hug could very well be our last.  I then feel him grab at my clothes like it’d make the hug mean more.  I feel culpable when he makes advances that scream intimacy.  I’d have killed him if he had done this to another girl while we were together- but when I think about it, he did.  I’d normally be an advocate for recycling but in this case it just seems cruel.

I confessed my guilt to him one day.  He couldn’t seem to comprehend.  I told him that I felt bad for flirting with him when his girlfriend used to be a friend of mine.  He told me not to worry about it because she didn’t seem to care about me when she made a move on him, so why should i?  I’m not interested in playing that game.  Anyone with logic like that doesn’t deserve the attention of one girl, let alone two.  Following that, I made a deal with myself.  Every time I speak to him from now on I owe five dollars to an organization that I greatly dislike.  It is hoped that through this the both of us will be able to move on.  If it doesn’t help us move on I can at least guarantee you that the NRA will not be monetarily supported by Jeanine Foley, no matter what.