The last of days are hard because they fuck with your head. The last minutes of the last hours of the last days of the–months, minutes, seconds. Some month you can’t remember, and you don’t know when the last DAY will finally appear. You know it’s the last days because you’ve been taken over by cliches instead of your thoughts. You never used to think in cliches. Unless you were in love, but even then. You thought you were too special and that because you were so special your love must be special, with a special person, and it was so unique it didn’t matter if you lazily said your heart skipped or that I love you. You had his son. Now he has his son. You now have a pile of random, old, photos.
This one time I wrote a story, but it wasn’t a real story because it actually happened and it happened to a girl who wasn’t/isn’t me. I just share her birth certificate and a deep longing to see more worlds. Very poorly, I played the flute. So did she.
She and I heard people crunching very loudly—pieces of toasted bread because that’s what they did in Spain and France and other places.
—In my head— in what used to be my brain—I look into a bowl of soup—egg drop soup—I stare into the steamingsteamingsteaming—
—and then I walked through a door that could of led anywhere; glass that wasn’t a door, nor was it any where. It was a window with panes and surrounding the panes was crispy brown wood with crinkling white paint—beyond the door was a cement sidewalk because we only have cement in the capitals of small states.
Everywhere else they have concrete, with yellow, faded stripes— and iridescent lights, lights that are meant to look old, but they’re not as old as 1895.
I hid in my coffee shop—I hid in my studio above Comma Coffee, on the highway that goes through Carson City.
And then he held the door open, for me to leave the coffee shop with him—and I did. And, on my drumsticks, I looked for my beat. Which I found and then forgot.
THE PAST IS SUCH A CURIOUS CREATURE (Poem CXXVII) by Emily Dickinson The Past is such a curious creature To look her in the face, A transport may receipt us Or a Disgrace. Unarmed if any meet her, I charge him fly! Her faded ammunition Might yet reply!