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Literature Text
there is an angel sitting next to me.
her hands are tucked like wings against each other,
each blue life-vein peeking out through
too-white, too-thin skin.
a dog-earred copy of The Great Gatsby
waits in the pocket of the seat in front of her.
any other day, that might be a metaphor,
but today it is just a lonely book
whose owner is even lonelier.
there is an angel in the plane seat next to me.
while i am closing my eyes to say goodbye to the ground,
she is opening hers wider to say hello to the sky.
her spine is bending against the metal side,
like maybe if she pushed enough she could be free.
as the plane starts moving faster and faster,
the ground tells me, “see you later.”
and as the wheels draw back into the plane’s belly,
the sky tells her, “welcome back old friend.”
there is an angel sitting next to me on a plane,
and it sounds like the start of a bad joke.
she is beautiful with spindly fingers, fly-away hair,
green eyes and a feather soft smile.
i am just a human with too much food in her stomach,
who is constantly battling evil that isn’t really evil and
swallowing truth that isn’t really truth.
she offers that her name is Katie, and
i have never felt more inadequate of my name—
how ironic it is, that this normal name belonged to this
beautiful creature, and my own extraordinary name
belonged only to me, someone so extra ordinary.
for each of us, the three hour plane ride
was spent battling our own demons in silence.
i wanted to ask her if she remembered
what it was like to fly,
but looking at her hands balled into fists on her knees
and her red-rimmed eyes and olive-rimmed pupils
staring doggedly at each passing cloud
through the two inch window of the cage we were sitting in,
i thought to myself,
“stupid question.”
her hands are tucked like wings against each other,
each blue life-vein peeking out through
too-white, too-thin skin.
a dog-earred copy of The Great Gatsby
waits in the pocket of the seat in front of her.
any other day, that might be a metaphor,
but today it is just a lonely book
whose owner is even lonelier.
there is an angel in the plane seat next to me.
while i am closing my eyes to say goodbye to the ground,
she is opening hers wider to say hello to the sky.
her spine is bending against the metal side,
like maybe if she pushed enough she could be free.
as the plane starts moving faster and faster,
the ground tells me, “see you later.”
and as the wheels draw back into the plane’s belly,
the sky tells her, “welcome back old friend.”
there is an angel sitting next to me on a plane,
and it sounds like the start of a bad joke.
she is beautiful with spindly fingers, fly-away hair,
green eyes and a feather soft smile.
i am just a human with too much food in her stomach,
who is constantly battling evil that isn’t really evil and
swallowing truth that isn’t really truth.
she offers that her name is Katie, and
i have never felt more inadequate of my name—
how ironic it is, that this normal name belonged to this
beautiful creature, and my own extraordinary name
belonged only to me, someone so extra ordinary.
for each of us, the three hour plane ride
was spent battling our own demons in silence.
i wanted to ask her if she remembered
what it was like to fly,
but looking at her hands balled into fists on her knees
and her red-rimmed eyes and olive-rimmed pupils
staring doggedly at each passing cloud
through the two inch window of the cage we were sitting in,
i thought to myself,
“stupid question.”
Literature
memoirs
neon trees / weed / bad coffee:
i threw that suicide VHS tape in the trash, because
i couldn't stuff it down my throat. either way,
i think it's a pretty valuable lesson.
the sunrise looks so pixelated from here. i guess
god didn't make the sky in 1080p after all
but that's what i've got left
or i could spend my life in the empty room
comparing the gaps left by people who have died
and people who have walked away.
-
god texts me saying sorry about the sky. i'm just so tired.
i tell her, it's okay. me too. what are next week's lottery numbers?
to collect every pixel for new VIP heaven
would take every defibrillated heart and then som
Literature
~
our eyes were fogged with farewells marking territories down our cheeks.
the ache felt like smoke at the edge of my throat and i was afraid
to say it loud before you said the ocean kissed your taste buds. we just knew.
maps tore apart and our paper walls built with just enough faith to last three decades broke.
it's been too long since we've been hurt with the blue of the sky and you are not the ache in my bones –
you're the crusts between my fingers when i tried to let the sun make me feel less alone.
you’re the clicking of knuckles i feel inside
and the fishhooks fumbling to pull out some pride
from arching, collapsing
(deep
Literature
you are, you will be
this is meant to be heard: https://soundcloud.com/c-e-moore/you-are-you-will-be-by-your-methamphetamine
--
my body
is beautiful
wait
no
fuck
try again with more
conviction this time.
my body is beautiful;
its curves ascend more than the rugged
Alps, they
fall like contradictions from a politically
incorrect statement, my body is the
pavement of my mind's highway but these
flyovers keep
collapsing, I'm
trapped under the debris of
esteem
(not self-esteem, that requires
a mind-heart team effort)
my lips have kissed all kinds of
royalty; my hands have polished enough
crowns and sworn fealty to the right
people. my loyal legs once opened
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So maybe I should start out saying sorry I haven't exactly been active in a really, really long time? Uh...I guess you could blame it on performance anxieties--it always happens after I submit a poem that's really good (or at least that a lot of people like), and I gain a whole bunch of watchers, I'm like, intensely afraid I'll screw up or offend or something or that I just won't ever be able to write as well as that one time and I'll be this disappointment or--
WELL. ALSO maybe it's because I had Spring Break and was in Austin, Texas until very recently. I finished up this poem (which I started writing on the plane, sitting next to a girl named Katie--but I think you got that part) just now, and decided to submit it because I haven't in a really long time.
ON A SIDE NOTE TO END THIS LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE AT 1:30 IN THE MORNING: I thought those People on Paper poems were awkward to write but do you realize how awkward it is to write a poem about someone when that someone is sitting right next to you?
------
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
-Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen
WELL. ALSO maybe it's because I had Spring Break and was in Austin, Texas until very recently. I finished up this poem (which I started writing on the plane, sitting next to a girl named Katie--but I think you got that part) just now, and decided to submit it because I haven't in a really long time.
ON A SIDE NOTE TO END THIS LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE AT 1:30 IN THE MORNING: I thought those People on Paper poems were awkward to write but do you realize how awkward it is to write a poem about someone when that someone is sitting right next to you?
------
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
-Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen
© 2013 - 2024 MisfitableGrae
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I wonder how Katie would feel if she got this in the mail one day . . . 