Esme Writes.


Nearly Summer, Years ago.
13 May 2012, 17:31
Filed under: Echo Park, Esme Writes

He pointed at the helicopter that had been hovering over the city all evening.

D’ya get those a lot?

I hadn’t noticed the chopping drone until my eyes followed his finger.

Yeh, most weekend nights. Guess I forget to see them.

His hand dropped to his side and my fingers found his. His hand felt good next to mine. We walked next to Sunset Boulevard. I had no idea what time it was.

We shared a faint buzzing moment of silence as our feet crushed glass into concrete. I already wanted to be naked next to him.

The road let to my apartment, hollow and dark.

The spaces outside of my room never felt cozy. I worried about the empty spaces as I rushed to find a bottle of bourbon and glasses, my fingers still warm from his hand.

He followed me up the stairs to two glasses neat and my records littering the floor.

My back to him sitting easily on my bed, the blinds caught his face in oblique scissor shadows, as I turned, the record sang.

He murmur-sang the words.

My leg curled underneath my hip and we sat listening to Bob Dylan on the other side of my bedroom.

You look beautiful. You are beautiful. D’ya get that a lot?

I did, but from his lips it meant more than it had before. I felt beautiful as he said it.

I want to kiss you.

My lips found his and it was simple.

We shed our clothes easily.

He felt good between my legs.

We slept quickly.

The morning shrilled it’s presence from my phone. I caught his heavy gaze as I whispered to the shower.

When I came back, towel-wrapped and rushing, he was already dressed.

He snuck out my bedroom door as I turned away to re-wrap my towel but let it fall to the floor, remembering that most of my underwear were dirty. I slipped on a tank top as a soft knock pushed my door open.

His eyes widened at my skin. I didn’t try to cover up.

We’re headed back to the loft now. I wanted to say I’ll see you soon.

I walked to the door, kissed his cheek. He spoke into my ear.

I could watch you get dressed forever.

[Edited 12/28/12]

 



afternoon

we blow kisses easily
we once met the death of
dandelions with so much
earnest hope

wishes pour from
skeletons to join
pollen and dust that spike
afternoon breezes with magic

two lips two hands two feet
ten fingers ten toes
to tend to the tasks
doled out from a hat
on high

steps on a pavement that
fades in to sandy dirt and trash
the glint of broken bottles
the retch of used condoms
they all commit the same crimes
under a long wheezing streetlamp

we echo down alleys and
remember the sudden
easy sweetness
maple syrup notes poured out
from the man tucked into a stoop

Oh how we wished we could feel
the relish the sun
takes in bouncing off
a dented trombone

there are the pieces of conversations
that float from mouths
from teeth
from hearts
from stomachs
they drift on the same breath
that once lifted the wishing seeds
and join the sunlight
swirling around shoulders.

***

I’ve been struggling a bit this week- so easy to be distracted.

-e



My Apology to Ernest Hemingway

sometimes there is
in dreams
a shocking practicality

and often in reality
there is a frightening
loss of possibility

to be honest
I’m grasping at thinnest air
praying I can remember how to make
Mr. Hemingway proud-

the truest thing I know, right now
though sir,
is that I am not nearly
enough



vile and god given
12 April 2012, 18:19
Filed under: Esme Writes, Poetry | Tags: , ,

it’s the lighting of
bars that make them
the caves of lonely defeated men
the solemn clatter of
an empty pint glass in
mid-afternoon while the sun burns
retinas outside
the slumped shoulders
silent glassy eyes
order another
to soothe shaking hand
ease the spinning mind
caress the cold intestine
sweetly
oh that devil oh his
soft hands and light feet
lucid and liquid
fire-starting
bearer of matches and
so matchless



Spring into Summer

OH my children, oh such preciousness
lined like patient dolls on shelves
we all once wore patent leather on Easter mornings
and they began so slowly
those bloody sunsets
set all the buildings cotton candy
glowing friendly pink cheeks
it doesn’t make it easier
all the pastel colored words
the first time meeting
the first languid finger tracing
the same pale tracks on new skin
all the same color as the evening skies
above

OH you pretty children
I’d love to lock you away
dolls on the shelves don’t see daylight
and the shoes are scuffed at the end of the day

OH these grass stained knees
and the crack of a surging baseball bat
concrete that knows not skin nor bone

Children, my precious children
where is your plastic
where is your glitter
we have some sweetness to burn

OH my children, my precious children
it tears so gently these things made of
lace and spiders webs
OH you remember the way the stones
cut your knees
and how suddenly red stains fingers

HOW hot new tears are

HOW precious, my children

HOW sickening yellow the old cure-alls turn
the metal of mercurochrome
pale lavender bruises

OH  how I lost those shoes
OH how I kicked them off
unfeeling feet so lightly on very sharp rocks

OH my children
OH my God



reconstruction of constructed memories
9 April 2012, 19:31
Filed under: Uncategorized

the ones let slip through
the haze of a few too many whiskeys
and an equal extravagance of words
the luciousness of wine-drunk flirtations
and the record-hiss beneath ledges
candle laden
remembering reeling
stars floating the same trajectories as aeroplanes
gentle trips and a stumble up and down stairs
up them again
the sweaters he wore
the jackets
the ghosts of cigarettes from the bar
the shadows on walls
the things whether well said or not
slurred
slid through lips bitten and begging to be bit
how many bottles of wine
how many records
how many beds and sockless feet
the mornings after in light just a bit too
sharp
the slow shut of a bedroom door and
the fleeing to a car
the relief of a key jammed into ignitions
and the squinting drive home to a bed you know better



dust

 

I’m waiting for the dust
I’ve kicked up from hurling myself
across the country again
to settle

I’d like to then sweep it up
take a week or so to sift through
the fineness of it all
then chuck it out the window
watch it fall like snow on the
coldest days
to that pebbled pavement
four flights down

I’d like to sit then, in the windows
above this relentless street
kiss the afternoon sun
with parted lips
just a little too dry
lazy summer kisses
with just a touch
of that wind from over the river




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