Consolation

thefam

There will, in fact –

come days where all you remember

is the tug.

The binds pulling

splintering at the seams

ready to snap –

the moments before

rope becomes fray.

Remember, then

the hours without aim

tinged with the aftertaste

of cheap cocktails,

cigarette smoke,

and talk.

Wander again

and return.

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Consolation

[AudioCoffee]: To Be Heard

 

This creative space is

stifling –

you’ve got all this room to

trickle water out into the void

but the ocean stretches out forever

and you’re fucking about with the sink.

It’s sending paper airplanes with

poems written on them off clifftops

hoping someone’ll snatch them up,

except you’re the one person on the planet,

and you should really be trying

to punch holes in the goddamn atomosphere.

[AudioCoffee]: To Be Heard

[AudioCoffee]: From Words on Stone

Hello, hello! I usually don’t preface these things, but I tried something a little different with this week’s AudioCoffee. This piece is one I did a while back – specifically meant to be heard instead of just read. So if I sound a little more, ah….slurry, with some of my words, or my enunciation falls through a bit more, that’s definitely something I was shooting for. And, to add for some scene setting, I also edited in a nice little quiet rain track behind the spoken words – just for dramatic flair.

Also, audio quality’s nowhere NEAR perfect. =P Bear with me, people. I’m trying a new pop filter.

Anyway, time to get out of my own way. Here’s the Soundcloud player. Away we go~

So uh,

it’s been a while, hasn’t it?

You look

well.

I mean

I can see the raccoon rings under your

eyes, smell the tobacco tar

on your tongue, and I’m guessing there’s more

Morgan in that thermos than there is Joe

but you know,

you look

well.

Well in that tired old

dog slumped inches from their

bed sort of way.

I’m not…

…doing this right, am I?

I mean…it’s

hard.

We said we’d always be honest,

but that was back when being

honest chalked up to

talking about how much we couldn’t

stop thinking about each other

or

how work was bothering

us more than usual

or how

we were having a crisis of self

and didn’t know if this

was the stamp we wanted

to leave on the world.

It was an easier time, you know?

Back when the sheets

smelled like lavender,

alarm clocks meant

nothing, and the coffee was

always sweet.

You’d be having a bad day

I’d say stupid shit

you’d laugh

and we’d be

alright.

That was the

deal,

remember?

I guess it’s a little harder now,

what with…

well…

Anyway….

How have I been?

Admittedly…

everything seems static

around here.

Static in that whole

grass sits

it rains

grass grows

grass gets mowed

kind of way.

Being stuck in

the same place tends to

do that do you.

You know a thing or two about that,

don’t you?

A big part of me

doesn’t know what I

want,

talking to you

here.

That old normalcy would be nice,

as if that could

even be given.

As if someone could wash

the sweat and ash

out of the sheets,

give us reasons to

set alarms,

and make that coffee

anything but black

right now.

Wishful thinking, right?

You might even laugh.

I guess a bigger part of me

wants to stay honest, though.

A bigger part of me

wants you to just

get you to

wake up and notice

the grass creeping

waist high around

you –

the dust settling in blankets

thick

enough to sleep under.

There’s too much outside

those quiet walls

the shuttered blinds

this rusted fence

to just keep

sleeping it all away.

And your time

is much better spent

talking to something other

than carved words on stone.

Please.

Please stop coming back.

 

[AudioCoffee]: From Words on Stone

[AudioCoffee] To Pound’s Station

Like a scene from Pound

where everyone in this

station is

an apparition, save for –

no –

I can’t say that, can I?

All the faces

are blurred now.

Yours,

mine,

the nameless passing

around

through

between

cradling it

all of it

and it’s all just

smoke,

blown away when the

Amtrac blurs past

on its way to Penn Station.

Ezra –

I’ve fought your words

since first I heard them –

two lines that,

before,

got only one response from me:

Bullshit.

Utter Bullshit.

After all, how could

anyone even presume to know

how to condense so much

life

into

fifty-seven letters

fourteen words

there’s too much

there’s just too much.

And somehow you packed it

into a blurb

smaller

than an address line.

It’s as if someone decided to write

about the ocean

and settled on

yellow fish.

Truth be told I

still

don’t understand why you

would.

But I get

that you can.

I see how the faces blur

like water on bark,

dropping from the grain before

you can

name them.

But they do have names,

Ezra.

They have voices.

Listen close,

and you might hear it, too.

 

[AudioCoffee] To Pound’s Station