Garvin Avenue
We tried for something, I guess, I don't know. There was this thing, underneath the invective. I was fooled by your sense of adventure. Which was gussied up and underneath the make-up was a chronic need for alcohol. I don't know, maybe I never finished the painting before I was spit out by your mouth. So soft. I called her on the phone.
It's interesting, how it changes. And really, here is the thing, honestly: we were (10:00pm on a school night) trying to find the thing that would fix his tears and the mistake of forgetting a school project, so I unearthed my shoebox of photos, and there it was my God good gracious. There was this one poorly shot 4x6, the city of olympia sign, the one near Division and Dickinson, I remember riding past that place on my bike a million times and thinking, so this is the color green. I will remember, I swear, in some way beyond my infantile and poorly timed desire to keep pace with my sister.
We had gotten there after moving on from air mattresses and this place that I swear, the maintenance guy was stacking bodies like cord wood.
God you can get so wrapped up. Graduate school, chicken pot pie, the man you were supposed to marry. And will. And so you come upon a photograph from another life and this song that is what was playing after Thekla the bartender with the English accent the 41 back up the hill before you even knew it. When,
your entire life you have lived by this principle that you have no name for and you sit in lecture one day and Bob and Marianne talk about Convulsive Beauty while you sketch in the margins and you have never, ever, been so sure. And so sure of how absolutely fleeting. But that's part of it, right, buddy? God but how fleeting.
And so you think about the 55 into Cleveland and how you used to see jon on the 41 on the way into campus full bus fogged windows B&B coffee from downtown. It can never be the same, and that is the beauty of it. And of the now. The throwing yourself into paintings on winter break and finally deciding to own the soft and breakable thing. And how the hard and obstinate thing plays into that. The thing that isn't copied into a by-line. And I could see for miles, miles, miles.
And you slip into some coffee shop west 25th and market avenue, you remember being so protected and how the two of you didn't know anything beyond a bottle of wine and when the bills were due and god, how it kills you to think of the tears in the bathroom, how you can in some way understand that. How you need the italics. Here is the thing, buddy: you can't go back, no matter how many pictures. Oh, the beauty we are capable of in this life! My innocence would make me weep.
I wish I had been born the son of a female shark.
It's interesting, how it changes. And really, here is the thing, honestly: we were (10:00pm on a school night) trying to find the thing that would fix his tears and the mistake of forgetting a school project, so I unearthed my shoebox of photos, and there it was my God good gracious. There was this one poorly shot 4x6, the city of olympia sign, the one near Division and Dickinson, I remember riding past that place on my bike a million times and thinking, so this is the color green. I will remember, I swear, in some way beyond my infantile and poorly timed desire to keep pace with my sister.
We had gotten there after moving on from air mattresses and this place that I swear, the maintenance guy was stacking bodies like cord wood.
God you can get so wrapped up. Graduate school, chicken pot pie, the man you were supposed to marry. And will. And so you come upon a photograph from another life and this song that is what was playing after Thekla the bartender with the English accent the 41 back up the hill before you even knew it. When,
your entire life you have lived by this principle that you have no name for and you sit in lecture one day and Bob and Marianne talk about Convulsive Beauty while you sketch in the margins and you have never, ever, been so sure. And so sure of how absolutely fleeting. But that's part of it, right, buddy? God but how fleeting.
And so you think about the 55 into Cleveland and how you used to see jon on the 41 on the way into campus full bus fogged windows B&B coffee from downtown. It can never be the same, and that is the beauty of it. And of the now. The throwing yourself into paintings on winter break and finally deciding to own the soft and breakable thing. And how the hard and obstinate thing plays into that. The thing that isn't copied into a by-line. And I could see for miles, miles, miles.
And you slip into some coffee shop west 25th and market avenue, you remember being so protected and how the two of you didn't know anything beyond a bottle of wine and when the bills were due and god, how it kills you to think of the tears in the bathroom, how you can in some way understand that. How you need the italics. Here is the thing, buddy: you can't go back, no matter how many pictures. Oh, the beauty we are capable of in this life! My innocence would make me weep.
I wish I had been born the son of a female shark.
