i once wove a web that tangled my feet.
stories and fiction for feelings on me.
never before had i tasted deceit.
you said you were sorry. i disagree.
island hide isolation. your new life.
three years deep. i’m done hollowing inside.
and you’ll never mention your 10-year wife,
after i collapsed, how could i divide?
clouds came finally, encasing only. truth.
do you know how long that i could not see?
corruption of lost devouring youth,
no thought toward what being in love should be.
sweet hindsight brings grace of being set free.
i lit that piece of life, ancient debris.
It’s pushing 1am blog tribe. Allen Stone rocked my world inside out and upside down.
The first time I heard his music I felt like we would meet. And then when I found out that I used to sit next to his girlfriend’s brother’s girl at my last job in Australia… I mean, come ON.
I put on tasseled cowboy boots and my Allen Stone t-shirt earlier and clicked my heels over to Terminal 5. This is where I had the complete pleasure of meeting the fine gentleman that is Allen Stone. He is exactly the way that he seems to be, a glowing, art-soul whose beam alone lights up a room. Once he starts to sing? Forget it.
I was so excited, I was literally shaking. Allen Stone’s music has been important and special to me since I first discovered him by accident over the summer. It’s not too often I can listen to lyrics. He’s such a beautiful Writer, his words are a pleasure.
So I thought it would be super cool if I brought my book for him to hold in a photo, that in itself made my month. But when we hugged goodbye and he said, “Can I keep this?” I felt like I got electrocuted – but in a super-good, amazing way.
Definitely a night I’ll remember for lifetimes. Meeting him was certainly de ja vu. Maybe one day I’ll catch up with him and his pretty lady down under.
Inside of this circle, there are no corners to hide. Every line I follow leads me back inside. Gravity pulls me from the center, every time.
Quite often when I read my poetry it’s like I’m having an out of body experience. I process the pieces, and I understand that I wrote them, but it takes me to a frame of life that I quite often haven’t visited for a minute - particularly reading old work.
My poetry is what keeps me sane. It’s like my scripted world exactly as I sense it with no challenge or debate. I guess that’s part of what makes it so different to me from my other writing.
For example, Novel, when it’s bloody done, will be pitched. I’ll basically get my bitch on and beg and plead important people until someone notices and publishes it for me.
I think I’ll always self-publish my poetry. That’s my guts.
I made a new friend recently who left my apartment with Poetry One, Two and Three in tow. I think he is the only person on Earth, besides me, who has all three of those books. I don’t even really want to read them anymore. My voice has changed so much over the past five years. Sometimes when I read old poetry, it’s like I don’t even know who I was then.
I like the words that I’ve been painting this week. Probably because of what inspires them. I’ve gone on inspiration tangents before, next to love it’s my favorite feeling and in a way they go hand in hand.
Oh, and PS. I’M GOING TO MEET ALLEN STONE IN LIKE TEN HOURS!!
direction (of diving)
patterns of vision. luster combustion.
this light. off of him. onto him. this
pace slowing head turning stop
where you realize that the two of you
did not cease. running. i escaped
and he turned. i stopped. and i never
pause to stand in one place. i keep
the pull of the moon and sun’s heat
in the palms of my hands. he felt hot
to me. like something individual to fit
a space unknown as vacant. heart
tides of together
i met him. another. morning
after the other before another;
because men? they (just) simply
again and again and again.
so… i looked up and he was
down. do you really know what
it takes being (?). he stole a
piece of me. too long ago. now
to recall back then. nevermind. (more…)