written on a cell phone notes app on August 1, 2017. one of many, many winding and long-suffering poems that i have on my iPhone. although still not as long-suffering as our drive up to Buffalo, New York. perhaps if this was written during a run to the grocery store it would be much neater.
features: lots of discourse about trees, the weather, and the color green. also some general senses of ennui and existential dread.
everything here is green and
overwhelming. the air smells sweet, heavy
and drenched with pollen. under the
drooping, massive branches of a tree, i
fantasize about being swallowed whole. i
fantasize about sleeping here, hands
folded above my stomach as i make sense
of the small patches of sunlight breaking
through the branches. as the miles fly by,
my bladder is tight. my stomach clenches
and opens slowly like a fist. i am tired of
being mediocre. i am tired of being
uninspired, or of not knowing inspiration
when i feel it. i feel like i have let every
good thing in my life slip away. my face is
tight and hot, and i dare not touch it. my
fingers are still and cold. it is summer, and
my parents leave the window down as we
drive. it is summer in new york and i
thought it would be colder. i wasn’t
prepared for 90 degree weather in
rochester. i was ready to feel cold. a
stinging chill. it’s summer in new york and
we are still driving. i want to lay under a
tree and eat peaches. i want to climb the
aching branches and read thick and
heavy books until my thick and heavy
eyelids drop. i want to stop eating until
my thick and heavy body drops. i guess
this is the heartbreak of travel. going to a
new place but realizing you’re still the
same person. going to your birthplace and
being a stranger. my chest is tight. these
days it feels like i am always wound up
tight, but photographs don’t lie. they
expose my horrid softness – the rolls of my
stomach, slouch of my posture, fat in my
face. the air inside of our car smells
like stale smoke, so my parents crack the
window open. it is summer in new york
and it is warm. i shouldn’t have brought
my sweaters, mom says. mom doesn’t
understand how cold i am right now. the
window is down. or it was; now the AC is
on. it’s raining. fat dewdrops slide lazily
down the glass. i remember tracing
patterns on the fogged up glass and
thinking about ghosting, about how my
designs would disappear, but not really,
how they’d reanimate on another rainy
day when the windows fogged up again.
i’m thinking about summer, but it is
summer. summer in new york. we are
driving to buffalo with the windows up
because it is raining. the trees are so tall.
everything is so green here.