Whoever you are
I hope you like jazz.
My dad has always loved jazz.
It is something you can maybe talk about.
I hope the music easily sweeps you up
and makes you believe
in something more than us.
I find the whole world to be filled
with handfuls of light
making me believe
in something bigger than this.
I hope all your white shirts have stains.
Not because I think you are careless
or don’t know how to eat spaghetti
but because your life never slowed down enough
to not climb to the top of that huge tree
or down into that cavernous ditch
or clean off all the pen smudges
when you went to scratch your neck
poetry utensil in hand.
I hope both your knees have scars
from the fool you once were,
about pretending you knew how to skateboard
and threw yourself in
instruction manual getting lost
in the path not taken.
I hope you drink your coffee
I don’t know another way to make it.
And I hope you prefer the sunrise.
Because it has always proved
the next day we get to start again.
Even after the day has covered you
in its exhausting dust
and you can believe in the sunrise.
I hope you like bare feet
and awful movies
and cowboy boots
and pillowcases that can never stay on their pillows
and early Sunday nights
and bicycle riding
and small hands.
And if you maybe you do
I was wondering
when I can no longer see,
could you make sure I never have to
look for your hand.
Let our palms already be lying
next to each other
whether intertwined or not.
Do not be far.
And I’ll stay here.
For as long as we both
and can eat breakfast.
I’ll stay here.
- Steph Holmbo
You have 6 tattoos.
Full lips. Good, strong hands.
You have 7 freckles on your back,
they map out the big dipper.
You have a scar on your left arm
you carved in high school.
The first time you pulled off your t shirt
I traced the line with my fingers and fell in love
with your strength.
You are a hero
for living from that moment
to this one. You never need to apologize
for how you chose to survive
Your body is a map I know every inch of
and if anyone else
were to kiss me, all they would taste
is your name.
This also points to my complete inability to admit that Philip Seymour Hoffman is gone.
Call me crazy, but I think I want to try to start using this to post essays, especially about music. I don’t know what that looks like right now, but if someone could hold me accountable to at least try that, that’d be rad.
(This may be because I watched Almost Famous again last night with my partner and just sat there crying by myself [she’s really sick and was really asleep.])
Date a girl who breathes. Date a girl who takes in oxygen the same way you take in bullshit tropes, in and out and constantly. Date a girl who will set you on fire because she is a dragon, a warrior, a brutal reminder that she’s not a girl who triumphs herself “not like other girls” because she knows they’re all different. Date a girl who isn’t romanticized because she reads or travels or is a cool girl. Date a girl who you don’t call “a cool girl” to imply that other girls are lesser and she’s only unique because you’ve labeled her that way. Date a girl who doesn’t get “points” for liking video games. Date somebody you think is a “slut,” you elitist old-timey prick. Date a girl who wears grandpa sweaters because she ate all the grandpas. Date a girl who bores you with tidbits about the weather. Date an imperfect girl. Date the movie 500 Days of Summer. Date a picture of Jennifer Lawrence holding War & Peace and a slice of pizza. Date a pizza in the shape of a girl. Date a girl who likes the tv shows and the music you hate. Date a brown m&m. Date a girl who doesn’t make you her special little snowflake in all your efforts to seem superior and grandiose. Date a girl who spoils all your favorite movies, you little shit. Date a girl who puts her hair in a cute top bun and drinks tea and smears mac-and-cheese all over her body like it’s the mud of all the mountains you dream of. Date a girl who eats the fucking food off your plate and puts ex-lax in your oatmeal. Date a girl who smells like the sea and that one writing class you took where you wrote a bunch of poems about cigarettes by the beach and took up smoking cloves. Date a girl who has been dead for FORTY YEARS. Date a girl who reminds you of the ex that still thinks you’re an asshole. Date a girl who is a mermaid that will drag you to the bottom of the sea. Pearly white teeth, sharp. Huddled ocean fear. You can hear yourself screaming. Date the girl who haunts your house. Date a girl who makes you question yourself, the way you make poetry your lifestyle and use words like “streetlamp” and “spine” and smoke signals” in every day conversation you smug fuck. Date a girl who can recite books: if you give a mouse a cookie, Apollo 13 junior novelization, that children’s book with the Rottweiler that had no words (edit: 3 words). Date a girl who poops. Date a girl who gets annoyed when you show up late, even if it’s only 5 minutes. Date a girl who talks too much during movies. Date a girl who sweats. Date a girl with arm hair. Date a girl with flabby arms. Date a girl who chews her cuticles. Date a girl because nobody’s perfect. Date a girl who wears the high-waisted pants and the deep maroon lipstick you hate. Date a girl who saved somebody on the Hindenberg. Date a girl with real anxiety who makes you realize it’s all not a fucking escape to beautiful things. Date a girl who is a snake. Date a girl who eats your heart. Date your mirror. Date a photoset. Date a girl who. Date a girl what. Date a girl who likes you. Date a plant. Go fuck yourself.
Lewis Mundt, excerpt from “Water” (via pigmenting)
(Someone quoted my poem and it’s gotten over 40,000 notes and that’s super, super bizarre to me.)