I soiled the pants you bought me. You know the ones before the wedding. I got red wine on them while you were dancing. You looked like a golden feather. when you flipped your hair back. And your dress twirled. And you flashed to my living room. In that red skirt you used to wear. where you kissed me on the couch. But it was in Carol’s eyes then. And you wanted only just once. I still have no...
America. My allegiance comes not only from familiarity but from your variety. Your beauty. Your endless roads. Your glimmering glass skyscrapers. Your assholes. Your lovers. Your honest men. Your sunset on the Pacific. Your snow up East. Your southern bells. Your rumbling engines. Your 4 a.m. freeway roar. Your Indians. Your Africans. Your Asians. Your Germans. Your Mexicans. Your holidays. Your...
Some would like to fall asleep and wake when everything is better. When their lives are better. When they have what they want. When everything’s perfect. But then you’d have no satisfaction from making it that way. Because it never feels as good if it’s just handed to you. And anyways, dreaming for that long could be dangerous.
College is the only way. Every nerd has something wrong with them. Every frat guy is a douche. Every musician is a dick. Every black man steals. Every white man hates black men. Indian people smell. Parents know what’s good for you. Every woman cooks. Every man provides. Only dead-beat Dads. Marijuana is for losers. Alcohol is acceptable. Only women can be sluts. Men hugging in pictures are...
The only problem with good advice, is that there is too much of it.
To Be Read Aloud
Everything that has ever made me feel free was cathartic. Freezing on Natoma, crushing asphalt in rain shirtless in March swallowing rocks the dusty way up to Mulholland like a pack of Wolves. Fingers pricked and a horny dog with deep breaths in Fall right after the quick endless backstretch behind Pukes quiet to the sound of trees and the nature that we were. And then round about the metal...
My suit is black. It’s nothing special. It was assembled from lucky thrift store finds. But I look good in it. Your dress is black. It’s long and it shines sometimes but not with sequins, just the way the fabric moves around you. We’re dancing, but because our heads don’t move it looks like we’re almost still sometimes, and I can get a clear look of your...
Like the sound of footsteps and voices and then the sudden silence, You are a great impact on me. But those voices, like you, are just out of reach. And to tell me to give up would not convince me there is no hope. Because to hope like this everyday is romantic and healthy and beautiful, And because you are this romance and health and beauty, it seems okay to me. Okay to know what those...
It rained, and the water droplets on the backseat window flashed like lightning when the cars passed. We went to ramapo and smoked. My days collided into two rotating spheres. Humming and vibrating. The pulse that would soon break me into the pieces I came from. -Blake Wrobbel 13 March 2010
There are small trees on a sandbar where the reeds are high off some north jersey highway on the way to the city. Where I forgot there was somewhere to go and something I had to do. Where for a second I remembered only my dreams and forgot everything that has recently seemed to fall between them. -Blake Wrobbel 14 March 2010
Spread out in front of me is a sea of ideas and dreams and endless canyon roads; of soft lit firelight and sundown glow. Of comfort in the touch of skin; Of finding dreams coming alive, at the end of the accelerator, at the tip of the dial, at the start of every idea. the ball of every pen. each line each period next sentence capitalize. each heartbeat butterflies roadtrip sunrise. ...
I see you in the pale morning sunlight. In the fresh, wet air. I see you and how you’ve become so wonderful in the light that comes through the blinds at sunrise your lips parted, your cheeks full. I swear I knew it all along. I will. I will. -Blake Wrobbel 12 March 2010
My fingers were getting cold and it was getting harder to press the keys on my phone. I looked up above the field and past the ridge of apartments and pine trees where the palm trees looked so sharp against the sky. The sun passed behind chalk hill, and I noticed the influence of winter. The desire for love on the cold grass of my high school. The roar of the freeway, close by. -Blake...
A knock. The hollow sound of wood. A lonely ring, awakening the soft drifting through our allotted time. To return awake to scribbles of the real world. A theory in chalk. Our direction guided by commands Of overbearing silence and wonder. The holes in the ceiling In which upturned bodies pour their wildest thoughts. The dreams of worry and anticipation, true wants and true desires. Of...