No Ideas

Don't be confused by the title of this post; I am certainly not out of ideas. Honestly, quite the opposite has been happening lately, and I couldn't be happier. But more on that later.

I've been looking forward to posting this piece since I wrote it, simply because I love it. It's not my best work or anything, but there's something about it that I'm really proud of, and I can't wait to share it with you.

It's another one of these prose poems that I hacked up and arranged into a "real" poem (no, I don't want to get into the prose poetry debate right now), because for some reason this is the style that has come out when I sit down to write lately. When I hack it up like this, I can focus on the collections of words that I really like and want to accent without having to dig through text blocks.
I wrote this poem less than a month ago, if I remember correctly. It means a lot to me, and there are moments in it that I really enjoy, and I hope you do too!

--

No Ideas

I thought her skin on mine would save me, but it was

her mind on a paintbrush that woke me. Her heart was on

the page of a used book and I think

she might be the most beautiful girl in the world.

She is the most beautiful girl in the world.

And she has no idea.

Fresh air, crisp night, her art.

A brush hangs from between her teeth, resting on soft lips,

and she has no idea.

(She came over to me again and rested her head on my shoulder. She was smirking. I swear she could hear the cardiovibration in my chest; I like to think she did, at least. And before I could catch my breath, she was back on the floor conjuring colours to her will once more, and yes I used that spelling on purpose.)

She makes me want to draw creatures that do not exist and

name them after her movements and sounds—

her sighs and her shrugs, her screams and

her smiles. Her smiles

alone would be a race all its own.

These monsters aren’t really monsters at all. But we have no idea.

I would draw her if I could,

or take a photograph,

but I have no concept of lighting. I have no idea. Then again

the world has seemed dimmer since I first saw her smile.

She sits on the floor in her pajamas,

glowing. My emotion should be tangible.

The heat from my bloodflow should have ignited me.

But I am unnoticed,

my clothes dirty, and two fans

are blowing into bloodshot eyes.

And she has no idea.

--

One last thing before I post this: I won't be posting any new writing next week, but will instead be writing a regular blog post about some updates and such. There are exciting things happening in my life and I look forward to sharing them with you.

love.

Adam

Hinges

I wasn't sure I wanted to post this poem so late at night, as most people who read this will read this in the morning anyway, but I was itching to post it all day so I'm doing it.

This poem differs from the last two posts in the sense that this one is less universal in meaning and intent, and more specific to a time in my life. That's all I'll say about that.

I hope you enjoy it.

love.

PS. I'm really looking forward to next week's post.

--

Hinges

That twin-sized bed never was big enough for both of us.

The doorway was a picture frame,

and you bit your lip and this was how I would remember you.

My shirt draped over your limbs,

a sheet on a sapling,

filling me with longing but knowing

it was too big. That was the point. I needed to brush my teeth;

bristles on enamel, spit, rinse.

-

I returned and you were face down, sheets pulled back just enough to whet my eyes. The two of us in bed was like a pair of sticks whose cores never touched, but were twisted enough within one another’s branches to merit the title of tangled.

Every four breaths, our bodies would, together, rise and fall.

My shirt was too big and my bed was too small.

Fissures of Men

Hello again, everyone!

I realize I'm a couple days behind this whole "post a new piece once a week" thing, but I just moved to Kalamazoo and didn't have time to attend to this. However, I got the wifi in my apartment to work, so now I can continue.

This next piece is a poem I wrote this past Summer. It was originally formatted in simple paragraphs, and not in the way it is now, but I got home from work today and realized this is a poem, and not a prose poem like I thought (the specifics of which are not important).

So without further ado, here is Fissures of Men. As always, comments and helpful criticisms are appreciated!

love.

--

Fissures of Men

You told me you don’t believe in anything

beyond what we can see.

It was the middle of the night;

dawn was hours away. We were wrapped in blankets,

twisting around us like vines,

and you were naked, but I wasn’t—

or was it the other way around?

When those words left your lips, our bed cracked in half

and an oceanic chasm threatened to pull us to its depths

by our ankles. I reached across and I smiled

feeling you reaching too

and our fingertips touched.

-

I can see the way you look down at me, your eyes trying to suck mine dry. I can see your lips and tongue, tracing and licking my bones clean. I can see the way your hips move on mine, waves crashing. I can see the way your dark hair cracks across the pillow, the impact of your brilliance on bland fabric. I can see your body, bare and pink, and precious.

I tell you that what we can see proves something beyond what we can see.

You roll over and go back to sleep.

Our faults are our faults.

The Chase

Hello, everyone! Back so soon?

Like I mentioned in my last post, I wrote a few short pieces this Summer, and I would like to post them here. However, I am only going to post one per week in September (and if I continue writing short things in addition to the big projects, this will continue past September).

I would like to start with a flash fiction story called "The Chase" that I wrote one day in June, if I remember correctly. I just remember an image of a young woman walking out of a shop with a sunflower appearing in my head, and when I started writing it, this story came out with it.

As always, feedback is appreciated. Enjoy!

lovelovelove

Adam

--

The Chase

He saw her for the first time as she was coming out of a flower shop holding a single sunflower. Her sundress, a navy blue, floated ethereal under the light lift of the breeze, and her hair, the same shade as the center of the flower, followed the lead of the cloth. He could not see her face; there was a smudge on the window.

The desire to follow her, to introduce himself and perhaps spark some sort of something, was gravitational. They were on the outskirts of the city, straddling the blurred line between the industrial fields of buildings and the natural metropolis of cornstalks, but she was looking toward the skyscrapers. He dropped the last two bites of his sandwich and left a tip, feeling the force of the summer heat before hearing the diner door slam shut behind him. By this time, she was already heading toward downtown, a ray of light darting for dark.

He walked quickly, wondering how she could have gotten so far ahead of him in so little time. As he weaved between businessmen, the air became heavier; it was as though the heart of the city toward which he was headed was a heat source in itself. Each step summoned more sweat. However, the woman flowed through the crowd with ease, dripping down the sidewalk that scorched him so.

When she reached the apartment steps, he felt shade-like relief, knowing the chase had finally ceased. He placed his foot on the first step. Her back was to him.

“Hey, I—“

He touched her shoulder, the navy cloth hot on his fingers. She turned; his heart blazed bright in scalding anticipation.

But her eyes were cool pools of blue. Her skin washed smoothly over her face. Her smile was a splash of seaspray. She was raindrop frail and yet storm strong.

His entire being was extinguished.

“Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

She smiled, nodded, and continued up the complex steps, giving him a small wave and saying nothing.

He hailed a taxi and climbed into the filthy yellow machine. The sludge-spotted sunray sped toward the fields, out of the city. A smudge on the window kept the sun out of his eyes as it set over the corn stalks.