( i want wind to blow )

monsterhousepress:

* FORTHCOMING FROM MONSTER HOUSE PRESS *

Dearly beloved Columbusite Ryan Starinsky’s first chapbook of poems / prose poems, thinking of everything, is forthcoming from Monster House Press later this month!
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* TWO POEMS FROM THE CHAPBOOK *

bike lock

walked outside [of Bat Chapters while the last band was still playing] and her bike was locked to his bike [which was locked next to my bike that didn’t have any bike locked to it] so i left, biked home.

KRANG

during that second, i could feel my head weighing heavier; the tide, strong and slow like a locomotive approaching another stop. my eyelids open and close, soft like doors, undocumented to all but myself, as if we were meant to remember each moment when we actually realize something we hadn’t known before.

what i see now are things at ease, things that rest and never bleed. these things keep me here staring, a small voice reminding me to do something, like change the clocks, sound of an older man yearning for his untroubled body back, his sharp mind; the way he remembers himself—even still defending wars and friends, telling me he believed in them.

we’re walking on a tangent in a field of flowers wearing the sun’s skin, where everything just looks beautiful. (sure, once a vision of the long haired mailman now crossing the yard, pretending to blend in.) what will just be when we know where we’re going, when we walk with purpose.

i remember when you stood in another room describing us as tumbleweeds. the last words i can remember feeling. you were blunt, you were true and i bought it. after that though, things felt different, the silence was enough to know who you’d been talking about.

having the time to focus on the darkness, hiding that reverence you let brush against your arm, never trying to hold it in your hands. like finding a cartoon birthday card of a kid holding his father’s axe, reminding me of when i was young and untouched, buried in a shoebox. we belong to our minds.

work all day, try to make your hair look like minnie mouse’s ears for approx thirty minutes at various junctures throughout, fail, (but come close), listen to your dog howl at ambulances, there are always ambulances now, it seems, they are just all the time, you never noticed before, before the howling, now it’s ubiquitous, the farmer who delivers eggs to the restaurant you work at says ‘never seen this guy before’ to you and you say ‘i usually work nights’, he grins and gives you a receipt and goes home, close your eyes and touch your index fingers gently on the closed lids and your body collapses into a black hole of itself, you imagine your life is something you wake into like a storyline and you just kind of plug into it, and though it is written, it is not without wonder

Reading poems in INDY at INDY READS BOOKS on Saturdee, May 25th, y’all.

(Ever since I was a kid and learned to write—on lines on worksheets in school, on the backs of soccer jerseys, on forms at doctor’s offices—my last name has been too long to fit into designated spaces.)

katherlne:

the first person to die was probably like “dude what”

was probably the entire time they were alive like “dude whatttttt”

My friend Ginger recorded three songs for a tour-travel of Europe she is currently on.  I helped with some vocals and piano on the first track, “On the Ice,” a ‘fictional’ song in which our protagonist considers loneliness and meaning while living and working in Antarctica.  Heart, heart, heart.

slowyourspeed:

The Sidekicks - Good Things (The Menzingers cover)

at walmart the self checkout overseer checks my id giggling incredulously saying that’s not youuuu / that’s not you ooh / that’s an old meeee-annnn / THAT’S AN OLD ME-AN and then in the parking lot an old man with maroon dress shirt tucked in it’s night time the moon is up he shunts a shopping cart into a cylindrical concrete lamp post those things in parking lots you know and steps into his car slams the door and peels out

hung out with a dear one while she worked her second to last serving shift at the restaurant we work at, felt warm and home, gave j. a ride to his house, blasted frightened rabbit’s new album, headbanging (remembered the optometrist fitting glasses to my head, asking earnestly, “do you headbang often?”), singing, singing, singing, the people waiting at stoplights next to me looking at me singing with various facial expressions, got high and took a nap, dog chewed on my shoe, drank wine, played my housemates’s song on guitar with his opera singer sister playing bass, him on drums, singing, so warm, watched the full moon rise over our neighborhood’s tree horizon, inexplicably strange life declaring itself, i am changing, always, right now, back then, someday soon, can’t keep the truth from occurring.

We do not need to prove anything here.  All proof is always only a subsequent undertaking on the basis of presuppositions.

- Martin Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought, from the essay ‘…Poetically Man Dwells…”

OH REALLY, WITTGENSTEIN?