I've been thinking a lot in Korean lately, I don't know why, but it kind of feels nice.
Another interesting Korean word: 청춘 (which means 'blue spring' and often refers to one's early 20s).
I laugh and I grieve and I party and I think and I don't think and I say things I regret and I cry and I feel like dying but I feel young and alive more than ever. I spent this morning being naked in my apartment walking around drinking chai tea and thinking about "A la recherche de Gertrude Stein" by Frank O'Hara.
That's what I'm into right now: Being young and alive.
Blue spring cool.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
SWINGIN' PARTY
If being afraid is a crime, we hang side by side
at the swinging party down the line.
at the swinging party down the line.
June
She smoked cigarettes during those two years I lived with her and the whole time I had absolutely no clue.
She never ate but drank five cups of coffee everyday. Even when she came to pick me up whenever I called, painted my toes in red every week("it's the only acceptable color on toes") and watched Project Runway with me on lazy afternoons, I could still picture her having affairs with really attractive men.
One day she asked for a picture of me and kept it in her wallet. I sometimes wonder where that picture is right now.
She hasn't been in a single dream since.
When she wanted to talk to me about something serious, her voice always brightened up. As if she's trying to be a clown; a clown who wears outlandish makeup and costumes and juggles, walks a tightrope, and does tricks gracefully on a flying trapeze to make his audience forget about gravity. We both knew we were never going to be real astronauts and be in space where there is no gravity, so we kept on being clowns. Trying to convince each other to forget about something.
I miss her. She became the 'gravity.' Except I don't ever want to forget about it.
She never ate but drank five cups of coffee everyday. Even when she came to pick me up whenever I called, painted my toes in red every week("it's the only acceptable color on toes") and watched Project Runway with me on lazy afternoons, I could still picture her having affairs with really attractive men.
One day she asked for a picture of me and kept it in her wallet. I sometimes wonder where that picture is right now.
She hasn't been in a single dream since.
When she wanted to talk to me about something serious, her voice always brightened up. As if she's trying to be a clown; a clown who wears outlandish makeup and costumes and juggles, walks a tightrope, and does tricks gracefully on a flying trapeze to make his audience forget about gravity. We both knew we were never going to be real astronauts and be in space where there is no gravity, so we kept on being clowns. Trying to convince each other to forget about something.
I miss her. She became the 'gravity.' Except I don't ever want to forget about it.
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