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letter to a little me1. these are the anniversaries that will stay with you,
for better or worse:
things go up in december, as if the coming of a new year
gives the old one a kick in the pants.
look forward to decembers.
time likes to tie weights to your collarbones with silk ribbons.
right now i am two years into a subdued grief,
five years into a wild regret. but don't be scared;
just as many feathers balance out the iron.
i am three years into something truly
2. you will get better. the words on the page will eventually
come a bit closer to the pictures in your head.
by the way, you think in pictures--you don't see that now,
but look for it. use it to your advantage.
stop with the heavy moralizing. you try too hard.
you will abandon false modesty and snobbishness,
as you will find out that they are not attractive qualities.
you will, however, trade them in for navelgazing
and perhaps a bit of haughtiness and pre
to be a writerjump into the world headfirst
crack open your skull on the ocean
sink like a forgotten shipwreck in the belly of a herman whale
come up for air
stumble across the words of the story-- tell it again
lie to a loved one, a stranger, both of them
get away with it in a stolen limousine
write lists that you will never complete
hang them like goodbyes from anywhere they will stick
fall in love like a wrecking ball, destroy a whole city (pretend to)
have your ernest heart ridden with bulletholes, alone on a timber hillside
find god, realize he is just as lost as the rest of us
give him a kurt laugh and look elsewhere
grow an ego with hooves & horns & three eyeballs
feed it four times a day, sacrifice your sons
cut yourself open and bleed, intestine and sentiment in sulfuric puddles
if not by your own hand, find someone who will do it for you
create storybook characters, or at least a story for them to be in
compare everything to the bible
pick your teeth with similes
cloak metaphors with cigar
postcards and thank you notesdear Carson,
for you my friend, the odds will forever be
in your favor; I know you are a lover,
I know that somewhere inside a child looks up
to the cosmic sky or witnesses the wonder
of gravity for the first time: you are binary,
a paradox— infinite
you are a warrior, a beautiful beacon of light
& warmth & fiery passion; a sun, perhaps, for you
are strong, far more than I: you will never
cease to be a smoldering ember and the earth
will never cease to watch you glow
a candle is a no more fitting form, you are explosive
fireworks, a feather, gentle and delicate
spiritual vulnerability; if all could open the truth
from their pores, acquaint to it over tea as you, I think
we could figure out how sweet the fruits
of unrequited love can really be
I can feel the culture in your bones, the ring of understanding
in your ears— your voice is a psalm from the gods;
your heart, the purest gift to the world. To only an honor
it has been to be aboard
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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