Metaphysics

The earth doesn't even know.
The kettle vibrates and sweats nervously and confused,
asking, "Should I boil? Will I explode?"

Little things like this

Hey Bill it's Nathan just wanted to let you know that the basement is flooded all the way to the stairs and almost to the far wall already

Hehe wrong number.

Sorry

Sorry about your basement, though

January rain

I just got back home from my friend's place and it is raining beautifully, the city bold and damp. My feet clacked with each step like in the movies. I love hearing footsteps in movies. And my socks were soaked since I was wearing thin, slip-on shoes. But the feeling of wetness and cold is refreshing, to feel my saliva churn and freshen, my lips plump and sticky with the rain. It's living.

For most of my life, I have been the one observing, looking, writing, photographing, capturing. On the outside looking in. But now, after having these panic attacks and dark and gray days, I feel as if the world is telling me to live now. To not philosophize all of the time but to live. To be the man on that bike who I observe out my window. To be that laughing woman in a circle with friends. To be in the cold, wavy waters, instead of writing about its curve and fierce current.

There needs to be a balance. Whether or not I know it, everything will be okay. There is a time for gray winters and a time for drenching rain that makes the city lights more vivid and red and green, the blackness like oil. The puddles.

And I feel as if I need to not think. To dance. To be the way I am when intoxicated- not taking anything personal. To sit on a train and not care about the strangers glancing and judging. To breathe and to feel and to do things without thinking. I am smarter when I do not think. Cleverness is innate.

These are the things I don't say

How the radiator brought an ephemeral warmth,
and moaned when it did,
his face satanic and red.
I saw his teeth for the first time and pulled the slipping pillow
underneath my head,
with the kitten purring on my hair.

The white paint that chips off of decrepit wood in Monterey Bay

I want my clothes to resemble the seagulls and the sky.
Denim and white collar,
blue and white skies.

So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright

I live and then I die.
I am the firefly.