an old poem about things falling apart

BONES

The first look trailer for my short film/poetry project BONES is live! Watch it below.

shock, horror, anger

no words for the atrocity we have committed against our country. 

all I have left is poems. read the zine on my website.

spent my saturday in the bleached desert wasteland outside mecca, ca shooting my latest project: a hybrid of poetry & film called bones. more information about the project on my website.

the persistent sun left me quite sunburned, so I'm slathering myself in black tea & coco butter. I love the sparse strangeness of the california desert, the way it rolls out into the blue sky like sugar cookie dough.

now we enter post-production.

on skies + colours

Journal:

"Reading Daybook: The Journal of an Artist by Anne Truitt & thinking about all the skies I have seen, all the different types of air. 

Thinking about how the air looked in different places & how you might lay that out. 

The warm wet yellows of New Orleans.
The steeliness of Paris, grey almost like iron.
The cold blue/grey of London
The brownishness of Brooklyn. 

& Los Angeles is bright--like primary colours, with a kind of occasional yellowish twinge. 

Why I think I never went much into visual art is because I could never get the translation right between my head & the execution of it by my hand. I can think of the yellows, but I cannot make them."

letter on running

journal

"fall starts in two days.
another fall, more time passes. & me in exactly the same place.
I'm tired of standing still.

but it's as if my arms & legs have atrophied. they can't move. maybe they never could.

I'm starting to think that the only movement I've ever done has been running away.

I ran away from Oregon. I ran away from New York. I ran away from every place & responsibility in between. I've only run.
now I'm getting that feeling again. that tingling under my skin. I want to run. to abandon everything.
staying still feels like staying stuck & that feels like dying.

but maybe you can never really get anywhere if you keep running. maybe that feeling I've had--that my life doesn't add up to anything--is because nothing can build if you're always starting over." 

summer poem

the last day of august

& the sun curls
around my bones
like wet paper

but hotter than
the soup I
microwave
for dinner

I've waited
a thousand
years
for the sight
of these burns