It's official, I'm ABD. All But (Motherf*cking) Disseration. You might think it's the year of the dragon, but it's actually Year of the Dissertation.
So many of my friends leave Denver this weekend. I'm trying not to be bummed out. But I wrote a poem to all those who are leaving. So the "you" is all of you who're "exodusing," you slinking silhouettes, and those already gone. So long, sailors:
The Ache Poem
From inside the mountain I’m
a drum. Inside the drum, I’m
counting slowly to ten, trying to step
out of the hottest shower. Next
& naked, I wash the dishes to air-dry.
People leave by airplane. They leave
by UHaul. By cloudy Fords. With full
tanks. By noose & ash. I know they’re not
leaving me, per say, but how do you not
feel left. Silhouettes fill with pollen &
slivers of soap. Somewhere you’re
eating breakfast or hanging from my mind’s
bridge. Somewhere you’re sidereal, fixing
high beams. Or blowing eyelashes from your
computer keyboard. Inside the mountain is
room temperature. Air circulates through
a series of words. I stack three towels
for guests. An extra bar of soap for the squeamish.
Soon a silhouette will send a painting in the mail.
Of a bloody train, a lace carousel, the sound I’m trying
to fill each space with. Outside the mountain
my hair glints like a CD on your dashboard.
Transportation means I miss you. Or maybe
a mountain could find a tunnel. Like how right now
my arm reaches into your guts. You are a drumset.
The sky above these plains looks like it belongs
to the sea & here I am with those excited eyes.
I'm at KJS's new apartment right now. It's cute & I'm watching her unpack sieves & dishes. She had to give me fashion advice this morning. I think I'm dressed like a white collar criminal, & she told me even though I am, that's acceptable. Although I should probably buy a white bra. Any men reading this, you have NO idea how annoyingly expensive bras are.
Look, a night yard filled with dandelions: