My Mental Milkcrate » inklings

When hope is more like hunger pangs

Jessica N. Coles — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 04:49:07 +0000

Perhaps there is no start to this conversation. Roll the dial across every frequency from right to left and back again. The hiss and buzz of amplitude modulation with occasional focus on something intelligible. Four bars from an old song. The answer to an unknown question. An opinion offered to a midnight audience of five. Phonemes scattered on the speaker dancing secret messages into the passenger seat.

If, perhaps, there were more to say tonight, I would find myself curled around the steering wheel, resting on your wrist. And all the other secret places you never thought to lie about.

Releasing

Jessica N. Coles — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 04:06:32 +0000

In the many days of silence, perfect words flit like restless thoughts through axons and dendrites. Like elusive spices in a creamy sauce and silk fluttering against the ankle in an inexplicable draft. Shades of black on black on blue in a moonlit night. Magpie feathers gliding on a winter breeze.

We fight against the gravity of small bodies. And leave the corners blank.

A logic of colours

Jessica N. Coles — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 04:32:59 +0000

We stood where green turned to blue, watching the spectrum spin in all directions, caught in the spray of a garden hose. We heard the kaleidoscope tinkle mosaic out of the windows of old houses. Old homes. We were yellow and orange and purple and all the glint of silver and gold. And we knew where to put the shadowy black to bring out the fire in red.

To be in the world

Jessica N. Coles — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 02:12:59 +0000

My cherished,

I left you 100 days ago today. Walked out over the grass and found myself spectacularly at the bottom of a fountain collecting wishes. But not for long. In the 100 days since then, I have experienced several hundred humans. Quite possibly into the thousands, but you see, I lost count. I began by handing out pennies, and when the pennies ran out, I wandered to the edge of a river to gather pebbles. I smiled at people and said hello, good day, take care. More than they did to me. It was mostly glorious. I could see eyes full of suspicion even though they wanted to trust. They wanted to find me in their family of hello, good day, take care. But the pebbles ran out too. And now, 100 days later, I am coming home to you. I think. If I can find the soles of my feet above the first shake of fallen leaves. They will lead me to you with the rustle of fading heartbeats.

Untold secrets

Jessica N. Coles — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 23:57:50 +0000

We would believe. Today and yesterday and next week and last year and ten years down the road. That our secrets remain stitched to the undersides of our finest coats. That our shirts betray no faded ink and our pristine gloves absorb no nervous sweat. We would believe the creases in our trousers maintain stiff lines and hang without crumpled knees. But your beating heart will pucker your left breast pocket, and my lungs will burst buttons that clatter over the tabletop. This conversation will tumble like a pile of dirty socks we lost and left unfolded.

Half-written

Jessica N. Coles — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 03:43:37 +0000

I have crisped under hot skies and I’m ready for the cooling. August isn’t even half done, but my summer is on the downswing. I have started to notice that the daylight is less: the sun is finally exhaling after weeks of holding its breath. I am deeply aware of the twilight tonight. I am deep in the twilight.

A young Old Man reminded me (inadvertently and impersonally) that a song that must be written if you can hear it, and must be shared if it’s your heart. So I picked up my guitar again and waited for my throat to catch. I am deeply aware of the twilight tonight. And all that’s missing here are the fireflies and the firelight and maybe your face. I am deep in the twilight.

Sleep is walking back to me, washing under me, and tickling my feet. I’m ankles deep in heartbeats that fell from my memories. And we wandered open and wide to the sound of a lazy brown river meandering over the ground. I am deeply aware of the twilight tonight. And your kisses are here in the candlelight. I am deep in the twilight.

A Blank Piece of Paper

Jessica N. Coles — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 14:29:05 +0000

Perhaps we are among the last. To listen to the click of an analog clock and stare at the possibility within a blank page. Pen hovering and heavy with unformed phrases. We are searching for the story. The heart, the beat, the string of what runs along our bones. Amassing graphemes and morphemes in the crook above the thumb. They’ll tumble down the pen and fall into the curves and scrawls of repeating ink. We will shape the secrets into discernible code where we will disappear amid the snap of synapses behind our eyes.

Connecting

Jessica Coles — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 14:09:50 +0000

We sat on the balcony, my words and I, tossing back ice-cold cider and summertime snacks. Sweating bottles and sweaty temples, the sticky sun crisping our stomachs and toes. We chuckled into the silence of crows and sparrows and magpies and bees. Biding and buying time. Stocking up against the autumn staring into the corners of our eyes. We knew, my words and I, where the story would turn. Where the climax would shudder into rapid resolution. We sat anyway. Stayed put. Smiled and held our hands against the concrete.

These absences are becoming tedious

Jessica Coles — Tue, 05 May 2009 02:05:51 +0000

The second time her brother left she ate a 14 oz. tin of cherry pie filling and washed it down with 500 mL of chocolate milk. The sound of water boiling became accusatory. Her daily shower rasped like steel brushes against her skin until her pores were naked and raw. Steam accosted her nostrils with fizzling explosions of odourlessness. Images refracted where no boundary conditions existed. She pressed her tongue against her alveolar ridge and waited.

The second time her brother left was promiseless. A wink and a whisper in the midnight twilight fire. An echoey song sung into the body of a guitar and twisted into columns of humming summer bugs. Bricks and cinderblocks breathing ash onto melting rubber soles. A kiss dropped on the forehead at evening’s end. A piece of chewing gum meant to chase cheap beer off her tongue.

The second time her brother left her feet tapped impatiently under the table. Her fork dropped again and again. Into her lap and to the floor. Onto her plate, into her lap and to the floor. Against her glass, onto her plate, into her lap and to the floor. She was eating peas that the fork staccato skipped past in jazz solo rhythms. She didn’t ask to be excused.

Simultaneity

Jessica Coles — Fri, 01 May 2009 16:50:29 +0000

She washes her hands. The soap smells like the Indian grocery store and other places she’s never been. The water is too cold, but she lets it run over her wrists for a few more seconds than necessary as she scrutinizes the shape of her chin in the mirror.

He opens the door. The air is heavy with steaming cedar planks and re-condensing water vapour. The sweat begins to bead on his forehead, on his upper lip, behind his knees. He closes his eyes and sinks into the sensation of sodden hair settling against the back of his neck.

They wave hello and smile. Pleasantries skip through their teeth in animated flashes of unasked questions. The curiosity between them snaps like pea pods under impatient fingernails, but the facade never falters. They are careful not to move into accidental intimacy, and their feet plant against minute signals of discomfort.

She trips on the uneven sidewalk. Blood oozes around tiny rocks embedded in her knees and palms. The high-pitched wail never comes, but the rest of them run to escape anyway. She squats in the fresh-cut grass and inspects the severed and dying skin for a moment before a ladybug lands next to the scrape and distracts her.

We hold hands across the table. The conversation is intense, and perhaps the woman two tables over believes we are lovers. I sip lemonade through a straw as the cadence of your words wafts around us like glacial breezes in a heat wave.