am working on a new project; i love street fashion & street fashion photography, and from some girls wander i found this. i was looking through them (some of them are revolting, some of them are cool, some of them are just interesting) and then i was inspired to use the photos to write stories. so, here. people could also, if they feel like it, be aware of this. which is a bit of an old project.
edit: the links aren't showing up in my browser, but they are there, on the words 'this' and 'here'.
new project
'91
a photo and the song in inspired. maybe someday (i.e. if I am ever actually able to play it on guitar) I'll post a recording of the song.
up on the bookshelf there’s a class picture from you in a
gaudy frame from some bargain store, it’s true that I am
quiet now, but there used to be thise song, and I’m
here for now but I’ll move on before long and in the
frugal light of 1991 I was
up all night, so I never saw the sun and in the
cooler days of fall I was
dragging you around but you weren’t holding me at all. it’s a
perfect point of view
from underneath the bookshelf when I’ve got nothing to do. it’s a
perfect place to stay when I’m
reading myself blind and I am
gonna be okay…
when I typewrite all my words are automatic some
acoustic guitar and a little pretty static. there are
old notes from you that collect in little piles and I
don’t believe that you’ve gone so many miles as you pretend
and in the light of 1991 I was
up all night, never ever saw the sun and in the
cooler days of fall I was
dragging you around but you weren’t holding me at all. it’s a
perfect point of view
from underneath the wing chair when I’ve got too much to do. it’s a
perfect place to stay when I’m
talking myself hoarse and I’m
gonna be okay…
and you smile down like you know all of my falsehood
and I lie you down, glassed-in face against the dark wood
if you see me now with your blue tie and your combed hair
well you’ll have come in through the door, don’t want you
watching me from up there anymore.
in the half-light shining back from 1991 I stayed
up all night and fell asleep before the sunrise, in the
cooler days of fall I was still holding on
when we had nothing there at all. it’s a
perfect point of view
coming back eight years later when there’s nothing I can do. it’s a
perfect place to stay, in this quiet dimension where I know I’ll be okay
and I know I’ll be okay…
if dark..
I am made of shell, you know, black shell skin and silver-pearl under my eyelids, silver-pearl inside my mouth, silver-pearl fingernails. Last night, we walked very far under a sky like a fan, but then at midnight, we paused long enough in conversation/thought to notice that we had walked in a full circle and were back at the bridge home. That made neither of us happy, so after thinking for a while, you ran off, and while you ran, I sat on the railing of the bridge and dug in my bag for my matchbook. And when you came back with a jerry-can of gasoline, I had found them, and...
You are made of shell, I know- pale freckled crab-shell, gently perplexed in your eyes, illicit pale red as you talk like snapping claws. This morning we walked very fast under a sky like an ember, breathing in the heavy smoke, breathing in the heavy smoke. The border guards shot at us, but missed. That made us both alive, so we ran through the damp unleaved saplings like a pair of phoenixes, like panthers, and when we came out the other side of the forest, we collided. We collided, rolled, scrambled upright, and found ourselves face-to-face with each other's loaded guns, breathing heavy, burning hard. And we were covered in each other's bruises, and I saw your finger tightening and...
if arid...
After a while, my mouth was tangled up in the words, the ascenders of the b's and d's, the descenders of the g's and y's digging into the soft places they could find, serifs in my molars and loops of o's and a's and q's around my tongue. Small words like 'we' and 'lace' pressed up against the roof of my mouth. Longer words like 'insistent' and 'weathered' wedged across the lines of my jaw. I was quiet for a while.
(I am sometimes quiet; for a while, you know.)
I, never more awkward then when the axis turns vertical, somehow clambered down the rock face and I sat at the bottom with my feet in the white chalky dust to give the letters time to dissolve. You, never more graceful than when the axis of motion is vertical, dropped, balls of your feet twin little muffled spurts of white chalky dust. After a while, I thought about, what if the letters had tastes?
(I sometimes taste things that are tasteless; you know.)
And you, I know you have tasted a's and l's like cherry-candy. I wonder if you know what it looks like, your blue hair against the silver sun.
Kino-Eyes, part III
Canto IV
Under the delineated dark stars,
she sang softly to herself. You could
see the way she thought, the burden of it
on her ribcage, the quiet weight of it on
her lungs. Her breathing came shallow.
You could see the way she thought, and yet
the thoughts were hidden. She laid her careful body
on the dark tangle of grass like a forest in a fairy-tale,
and she looked up at the black sky as deep as time and space
and the stars, and you could not read her mind.
But the I-beams
but the crack of steel on the
bones of arms,
but what are you
to make of your own lack of
belief?
But under the cracked shelter
there is a crying among the ranks of the women
and a hollow feeling in the chests of the men.
Every limb will be snapped,
Every vein bled dry,
but what of
your own lack of belief?
Canto IV
Softly, ungregarious,
she laid her head on his shoulder.
It was not what she wished for, his shoulder,
and for many days she had kept to herself.
Perhaps he was the answer to those quiet questions
she had not asked. After all, he did fit against her
very well, and if she could sleep there,
perhaps she could forget the he who had
come before, and how her head had dragged
over the spikes of his shoulder.
Softly she let him lead her and wound her for now.
Canto X
If the sun were less pitiless,
If the moon less bloodred
If the earth less hard and cracked
If the sea less swallowing and hateful
Or if the teeth of the animals were not so bared
Or if the arms of the people were not so laden with gunmetal lashes,
Then I were not.
5word carryon: phantom fronthall
question
discouragement
quite
open
more
--
when I look at you, I think things that are
quite open; the way oranges roll along the countertop,
the way stories I half-told roll
across my tongue--
things required and under
the glass-topped table two people
hide in awkward wedges. if you
need a little more discouragement, I can provide that
for you, or if you would prefer to be quite ignored, I can
give you that.
if you were quite alone in an open space like
a white field or an airstrip, and if I
suddenly appeared quite close to you, my breath
trickling over the warmer places of the air like
fog down stairs; if the real reason for sewing shut
the doors of the phantom fronthall had to do with
your answer to that-- then do you suppose
we could more or less settle on the correct proportion
of discouragement and blank eyes?
..
..
open question.
--
are you a poet? ask me about 5word carry-ons.
(lascivious/rearguard/until/tote/green)
Chapter 4- Innocent/Irrelevant/Chokehold
The lamplight burdens me with a false sense of need. The need to confess. The need to release the chokehold I have around the throat of my disembodied disbelief. The need to hear what has been straining towards that open mouth for so many days now. I want to go upstairs where it's quiet; and I know there is no one to confess to.
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