Combray

they were dumb kids

far too much space spanning 

belt loops and sticky hands and old age for their liking, so they

resolved to be as young as possible. 

candles and tin cans and 

all that is probably what

everything is about, isn’t it?

i always hoped so

but never 

spoke,

so,

priorities made level

and shot through the frontal part

are always ready to make me cry. 

buttergloryson:

Knuckleheads with

big mouths and

stupid glasses,

half the time they’re

laughing about something

between them

(no one else thought the

waitress was pretty but

they both fell in love

when she made dirty

jokes)

Arms flopped over

shoulders and

battles to show

each other

new songs.

How he won

dominoes well

that’s between him and

Jim Beam,

and

i’m pretty sure

we all had a

good laugh.

dreamingofcombray:

beside what they left

me on bedside table

those three cigarettes and 

awful scrawl making

little of bigdeal, 

there was a little thanks, i suppose. 

latent enough to always shy away when pried

and never really made into anything

but a pregnant pause,

pregnant

pause before 

whatever i was going to complain at them about 

even happened. 

___

i was always ready to perform, 

always ready to go home and cry

afterwards, never really wanted 

to talk about it, missed the trips to 

pier because i was stuck in suffocating concrete and 

brutal corners, edging down 

on the very last that a man 

can hold between goddamn

frail teeth, hands hardly-warm. 

buttergloryson:

I used to

cry with

Nick every time

we’d hang out.

We’d always just

work our

way through a bottle of

brown,

talking about

books and

such and

always end up

on

friendship,

how it’s good to

have allies and

buddies you’d give

your life for,

and we had a

spot

at North Ave. Beach,

where a jetty coils

round and

you can stare at the

Drake,

or

Navy Pier,

and he just

always wrote so much

better than me

and I felt like

a pup nipping at his

ankles any time I’d

gotten something down.

He was quiet,

but always felt it

deeper,

would get sad and

angry and make me feel like I was

missing something.

One night we sat on

gym mats under the

el tracks at

Fullerton,

pausing our conversations

whenever the

trains passed overhead,

and passing the plastic

fifth while wiping

away tears.

He’s in

Brazil now,

and I doubt he

cries all that much

more like we used to,

but he saved my

life when I

needed him most,

came to drink by the

fire while I was still

finding my mind,

rode the train in from

Evanston just to

give me support,

and I don’t think

I ever really thanked him.

Thank you.

dreamingofcombray:

and so i still told him

i was paralyzed by

the better angels of my 

nature/future even though

i knew it’d do no good

and i’d still have to write, 

discuss polka dots and that old california-intact-lipstick grind we’ve all grown to know and love. 

she never told me what

time it was. legs were crossed and 

uncrossed, and opposite them eyebrows 

upped-and-downed just slowly 

enough that no one noticed anything the slightest bit off about any of it. 

i was so backward the whole time,

i all-but-forgot to be forward. 

in the first place, 

there was the time we lived in,

hipster or no, we were just a but more than

merely contextual. just a thisness and thatness from 

being in places where we’d do 

more than fight over

email and trash each others’

apartments 

when there was nothing else to do, 

nowhere else to put our fingers, mouths, arms and legs all stained quite red. 

buttergloryson:

dreamingofcombray:

just atoms away,

see it! the carpenters and architects, marketing magnates with hard hats have rallied!

don’t let progress fall on yr. head —

close the gap before it eats you whole,

space for but a few nails could take yr. head right

this

fucking

second.

___

remember the

raindrop

And we still

argue through 

email correspondence

I started because when 

I saw her first she was 

wearing a blue and white 

polka dot dress,

tattered old brown leather

combat boots, 

red lipstick and was 

reading a book about 

beer.

We were in the 

mountains of 

Oakland and

she had a 

slight speech 

impediment but 

didn’t recoil when I 

asker her about the 

book.

She asked me if I knew

where to get a good drink

and I simply had 

no idea,

and it was a 

shame,

but when I walked behind

her the next day as we

wandered to our

debate rounds her

jeans rode low and 

she wiggled,

hair pulled tight and 

the same bright red

lipstick.

She hasn’t moved to 

Spain yet and we 

sometimes still talk

and argue over

email correspondence

about who’s the 

bigger hipster,

and I’m pretty sure 

she won when

we were still sitting at

Berkeley,

before she had to 

rush to 

catch the 

bus,

and before we 

parted with a simple 

handshake, 

and I never got to 

taste 

her 

lipstick.

beside what they left

me on bedside table

those three cigarettes and 

awful scrawl making

little of bigdeal, 

there was a little thanks, i suppose. 

latent enough to always shy away when pried

and never really made into anything

but a pregnant pause,

pregnant

pause before 

whatever i was going to complain at them about 

even happened. 

___

i was always ready to perform, 

always ready to go home and cry

afterwards, never really wanted 

to talk about it, missed the trips to 

pier because i was stuck in suffocating concrete and 

brutal corners, edging down 

on the very last that a man 

can hold between goddamn

frail teeth, hands hardly-warm. 

buttergloryson:

I used to

cry with

Nick every time

we’d hang out.

We’d always just

work our

way through a bottle of

brown,

talking about

books and

such and

always end up

on

friendship,

how it’s good to

have allies and

buddies you’d give

your life for,

and we had a

spot

at North Ave. Beach,

where a jetty coils

round and

you can stare at the

Drake,

or

Navy Pier,

and he just

always wrote so much

better than me

and I felt like

a pup nipping at his

ankles any time I’d

gotten something down.

He was quiet,

but always felt it

deeper,

would get sad and

angry and make me feel like I was

missing something.

One night we sat on

gym mats under the

el tracks at

Fullerton,

pausing our conversations

whenever the

trains passed overhead,

and passing the plastic

fifth while wiping

away tears.

He’s in

Brazil now,

and I doubt he

cries all that much

more like we used to,

but he saved my

life when I

needed him most,

came to drink by the

fire while I was still

finding my mind,

rode the train in from

Evanston just to

give me support,

and I don’t think

I ever really thanked him.

Thank you.

dreamingofcombray:

and so i still told him

i was paralyzed by

the better angels of my 

nature/future even though

i knew it’d do no good

and i’d still have to write, 

discuss polka dots and that old california-intact-lipstick grind we’ve all grown to know and love. 

she never told me what

time it was. legs were crossed and 

uncrossed, and opposite them eyebrows 

upped-and-downed just slowly 

enough that no one noticed anything the slightest bit off about any of it. 

i was so backward the whole time,

i all-but-forgot to be forward. 

in the first place, 

there was the time we lived in,

hipster or no, we were just a but more than

merely contextual. just a thisness and thatness from 

being in places where we’d do 

more than fight over

email and trash each others’

apartments 

when there was nothing else to do, 

nowhere else to put our fingers, mouths, arms and legs all stained quite red. 

buttergloryson:

dreamingofcombray:

just atoms away,

see it! the carpenters and architects, marketing magnates with hard hats have rallied!

don’t let progress fall on yr. head —

close the gap before it eats you whole,

space for but a few nails could take yr. head right

this

fucking

second.

___

remember the

raindrop

And we still

argue through 

email correspondence

I started because when 

I saw her first she was 

wearing a blue and white 

polka dot dress,

tattered old brown leather

combat boots, 

red lipstick and was 

reading a book about 

beer.

We were in the 

mountains of 

Oakland and

she had a 

slight speech 

impediment but 

didn’t recoil when I 

asker her about the 

book.

She asked me if I knew

where to get a good drink

and I simply had 

no idea,

and it was a 

shame,

but when I walked behind

her the next day as we

wandered to our

debate rounds her

jeans rode low and 

she wiggled,

hair pulled tight and 

the same bright red

lipstick.

She hasn’t moved to 

Spain yet and we 

sometimes still talk

and argue over

email correspondence

about who’s the 

bigger hipster,

and I’m pretty sure 

she won when

we were still sitting at

Berkeley,

before she had to 

rush to 

catch the 

bus,

and before we 

parted with a simple 

handshake, 

and I never got to 

taste 

her 

lipstick.

and so i still told him

i was paralyzed by

the better angels of my 

nature/future even though

i knew it’d do no good

and i’d still have to write, 

discuss polka dots and that old california-intact-lipstick grind we’ve all grown to know and love. 

she never told me what

time it was. legs were crossed and 

uncrossed, and opposite them eyebrows 

upped-and-downed just slowly 

enough that no one noticed anything the slightest bit off about any of it. 

i was so backward the whole time,

i all-but-forgot to be forward. 

in the first place, 

there was the time we lived in,

hipster or no, we were just a but more than

merely contextual. just a thisness and thatness from 

being in places where we’d do 

more than fight over

email and trash each others’

apartments 

when there was nothing else to do, 

nowhere else to put our fingers, mouths, arms and legs all stained quite red. 

buttergloryson:

dreamingofcombray:

just atoms away,

see it! the carpenters and architects, marketing magnates with hard hats have rallied!

don’t let progress fall on yr. head —

close the gap before it eats you whole,

space for but a few nails could take yr. head right

this

fucking

second.

___

remember the

raindrop

And we still

argue through 

email correspondence

I started because when 

I saw her first she was 

wearing a blue and white 

polka dot dress,

tattered old brown leather

combat boots, 

red lipstick and was 

reading a book about 

beer.

We were in the 

mountains of 

Oakland and

she had a 

slight speech 

impediment but 

didn’t recoil when I 

asker her about the 

book.

She asked me if I knew

where to get a good drink

and I simply had 

no idea,

and it was a 

shame,

but when I walked behind

her the next day as we

wandered to our

debate rounds her

jeans rode low and 

she wiggled,

hair pulled tight and 

the same bright red

lipstick.

She hasn’t moved to 

Spain yet and we 

sometimes still talk

and argue over

email correspondence

about who’s the 

bigger hipster,

and I’m pretty sure 

she won when

we were still sitting at

Berkeley,

before she had to 

rush to 

catch the 

bus,

and before we 

parted with a simple 

handshake, 

and I never got to 

taste 

her 

lipstick.