stay and see what becomes of us

I talked to Cora about romantic feelings, and she listened, and responded, and it was wonderful.

She told me that she doesn't think I should do psychedelic drugs. She told me she doesn't want me to change.

Everything is peaceful, calm, and perfect now. I'm sitting in Des Moines. I'm about to eat ice cream, maybe. I feel attractive. I am attracted to that boy I won't name, not now. I really just feel right with the world.

Thanks, god.

For Aaron

For Aaron

I would not hesitate to call you my friend.

Today you waved in a most undignified manner as you sped past me on your bicycle.

There is something baffling in you.

Once I went to your dorm to borrow your clothing, and found it amusing and disconcerting that we wear the same size, in women's and men's.

I consider it quite likely that I weigh more than you do.

Sometimes I see you and cannot speak for minutes.

I wouldn't hesitate to call you a friend.

what would you do/ if you knew how much I wanted you

"I'm thinking of a night I knew up north:

A thunderstorm had come and groaned and gone.

There was a girl I took down by the river:
We let mosquitoes have our arms for free,

We let each other's hands go where they would.
I'm thinking of a night I knew up north,

It was the largest night I ever knew
(A thunderstorm had come and groaned and gone)

And water dripped right down from leaves on high.
There was a girl I took down by the river,

A girl I loved, though she is long since gone.
We let mosquitoes have our arms for free,

We saw the river carry branches fast
(We let each other's hands go where they would)"

-from "Night Music" by Kevin Hart

two truths

 -Tomorrow we will wake up and undo todays's mistakes

-Nothing I used to define myself in high school is true

come and open up your folding chair

The poem that was more like the Jackson Pollock painting I made with my eyes shut while I listened to the CD I made for the boy who will never hear it.

The poem that was more like the wall keeping everything from crashing down on me, keeping my eyes from closing while I slouch deeper into this chair.

The poem that was more like the sound of the television blaring, imposing upon me with its clamor and racket, the poem that wouldn't stop and refused to obey etiquette.

The poem that was more like my bed where I couldn't rest, not yet, because somehow the night is young. The poem that understood me and all my longings.

The poem that was more than a poem, the poem that was my life and then just the sensation, only, of this laptop resting on my body, my fingers stroking this keypad, these keys, and striving to send some message out to the stars. The poem that was this.

The poem of today, yesterday, and the day I go back home. The poem of returning, of journeys and of newness. The poem of summer and wonder. The poem of bread and popsicles, the poem of free verse association, and the poem of India, the poem of home, the poem of my hands are shaking, the poem of will someone know that I was here, the poem of will I have any impact. The poem.

 

Either everything's important or nothing is;

Either everyone loves me, or no one does;

Either I make my life with every decision, or it makes me;

Either I am in love. Or I am. I am.

I'm re-thinking my sexuality, re-imagining who I can be. Terrifying? Yes. A bad thing? No.