Thomas Patrick Levy

Author of I Don't Mind if You're Feeling Alone & Please Don't Leave Me Scarlett Johansson.

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STORIES

YOU THE FOREST

You the forest move like skies, you the trees and breeze are waking with every bird and sun and you the forest sometimes cold with your bare neck and limbs all twisted. You the forest falling and you the forest with your windy spine. I want you felled. Everything a mist, your finger whispers down against the floor where moss and creek all trickle, where mist is breaking stick and twig. You breathe the forest in the skies. Your breathe the dirt between your toes. Your neck stripped of leaf and thorn and the trees all split and heaving.

The Big Picture

Could you also be water, lifted sky. Just could you be time, there, so deep. Go let me struggle, electric across the cities the line ground under code, the line ground but not bone and all you send is wire, sweeping scenery, and road. I’m home, you understand I’m born. Could you go let this across all the country, go let deserts veil this up with everything because going is wind. Oh wonders, oh wind, oh sand, were you angel, were you clarity. If love were wet its heart were eyes and you’re but bone. A discussion you’re blaming, you’re history, of course you’re in position thinking YOU’RE JUST LINE, YOU’RE JUST PUZZLE. Don’t place yourself loose or clouded, don’t go soon and greet. Live and try, so empty, wishing one lifetime so feeling and stomping. My holding is quiet, it’s mean. Again I am that avalanche, that voice. Again I am that buried being, forgetting that you’re a corner but different. All memories are clouds and you’re different but not a maze. Isn’t stillness truth. Aren’t predictions streams. Aren’t we surrounded constantly. Aren’t you enough. Wide open and too far. Is this picture still. Is this picture a not a line. Is this not sky.

YOU THE WINTER

I want you the sun the trees the moon the stars I want you the birds and I want the bedtime you the you who is not alone who is not the moon nor the sun nor the tress I want you the soft lake water I want you the summertime I want your hair your hands your heart I want you the lips I want you the shore I want you the smooth red rock that breaks the glass of the lake I want you the winter and you the wind I want the morning time you and I want you that rises like steam from damp road under orange lights I want you the tongue and I want your chest I want you that flies and I want you that spits I want your butterfly fingers in my gut I want your bicycle hips in my head I want to sleep and I want you alone I want to see your heart and touch your heart I want your legs like leaves in the grass I want you against trees and I want you against dark I want your hair a mess of lace I want you yesterday and I want you ice I want your whispers like slits in a dress I want you the crack of lightning I want you loud I want you

LONESOME

It’s all lonesome and he knows only Lord can leave him shot-broke, the whistle wicked and star-falling. The moon’s his rotten train. He knows it does nothing. He knows only wicked pleases. He knows only Lord can leave him loaded. He can please all that nothing. The well does nothing and the yard only falls. When he gets enough he cries there is nothing lonesome. Here he’s alone. Here there’s that much nothing.

WHY IS YOUR HAIR SO PERFECT

Your feet are all blister and floorboard. Your walk is warped. You look like everyone I have ever seen. I say THE GEOMETRY IS ALL WRONG. You are all shampoo and shoulders. There’s so much water and it’s just appeared. You are almost all panties. I don’t notice what your fingers do when you’re not talking loud enough. You are all shampoo and shoulder and panties. I can’t find your toes. I say say THESE SHOES ARE THE WRONG SHOES. I use your shampoo and it still feels wrong. I don’t know where to put my hands. I say I WANT TO TOUCH YOU. I don’t know which words are the right words. I say I AM GOING TO COUGH ALL RIGHT. Your hair is still perfect. I tie a rope to the ceiling and I tie ropes to your ankles. I say YOUR FEET MUST HURT.Your hair barely moves in the air. Your soles are rough, your soles are sharp. Your hair barely moves even though we’re moving really fucking fast. I try to turn these circles into memories. You look like no one I have ever seen. The water is everywhere and the shampoo is in my eyes. You’re walking away. I say YOU’RE SHIRT IS TOO DAMN LONG. I say YOUR HAIR IS PERFECT.

ALL YOUR THINGS ARE FLOWERS

All your things are flowers and your flowers thrive. It’s summertime and we go out into the fields and we watch the trees move slow. The wind is painful. The clouds are vague. Your skin is bare and your skin is hot and we get near the trees so I can eat the trees. You say THESE THINGS DON’T FIT IN HERE. I’m rubbing bark on your skin to make you cold. You say IT’S A GODDAMN DESERT ALL THE TIME. We aren’t near a lake so we don’t drink the lake. We’re thirsty, we drive so many miles. I have a bag of your smallest things and all I think is FLAT. There’s desert everywhere. There’s your hair everywhere. I think FUCK YOUR UNDERWEAR. There’s shredded tire everywhere. I think FUCK YOUR HAIR. I am stuck out here with something sticky in my throat and when I throw all your flowers into the trash they become the clouds. You say I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THERE IS ONLY ROAD. You’re in your underwear. There are not so many leaves. The trash is all empty boxes. The empty boxes never belonged here. Your underwear is not a flower. Your flowers are not all gone. I find a lake and I drink that lake. I find your hair and I keep your hair.

I AM GOING TO DO SOMETHING

I am going to do something you can’t ever talk about. I am going to be really fucking quick. I am going to turn all these rocks into flowers, I am going to turn the flowers into circles and then, in the morning, when there is no fog, you will sit in the circle and you will say YOUR CIRCLES ARE NOT REALLY CIRCLES. You know how this must feel. I take you home and then you go to sleep. I take you home and there is lots of fog. I am yelling things and you are putting together the pieces of a dream. I say I WOULD HAVE YOUR HAIR A MESS. I do something that embarrasses you. My skin is hot so we use aloe and then we do something that you tell your friends all about. The fog is in the bathroom and on the mirror, the fog is in the hallway and the bedroom. I can’t see you but you’re pretty, I can’t see you but that’s okay.

WHY IS YOUR HAIR SO PERFECT

You look like everyone I have ever seen. Your feet are all blistered. You walk like a warped floorboard and I say THE GEOMETRY IS ALL WRONG. You are all shampoo and shoulders. The water has just appeared. You are almost all panties. I don’t notice what your fingers are doing when you’re not talking loud enough. Your are all shampoo and shoulders and panties. I say THOSE SHOES ARE THE WRONG SHOES. I use your shampoo despite my shame. I don’t know how to touch you so I say I WANT TO TOUCH YOU. I don’t know how to speak to you so I say I AM GOING TO COUGH ALL RIGHT. I can’t seem to stop and still your hair is perfect. I tie ropes to the ceiling and I tie ropes to your ankles. I say I DO NOT WANT TO HURT. I say YOUR SOLES ARE SHARP. Your hair barely moves in the air. Your hair barely moves even though we’re moving really fucking fast. I’m trying to turn your circles into memories. I keep thinking BAMBOO BAMBOO BAMBOO. You look like no one I have ever seen. You walk away and I say YOU’RE SHIRT IS TOO DAMN LONG.

THIS IS MOSTLY YOUR FAULT

These hills are old. I pull years of string out of my throat. I rest my head against your belly. This is mostly your fault. The years are rivers. The rivers are old and they flow down between your shoulders. We thread like string between these hills. We fuck and we fray and we spit. I am worried. You say THESE HILLS WERE MADE FOR RIVER. You say THESE HILLS WERE MADE FOR GOATS. My string was made to make you warm but you are never warm. The windows are fogged, but not for the right reasons. This river runs alright. I say EVERYTHING IS MOSTLY YOURS. I say EVERYTHING IS MOSTLY YOUR FAULT. This river runs all night. We’re going to drown between these hills. We’re not going to sleep very well. You don’t say anything. The river flows from your mouth.

THE TREES DO NOT BELONG HERE

The trees do not belong here. The dirt’s all wrong. You’re outside in a stranger’s car, wearing a stranger’s shorts. Your legs are not your legs and I’m barefoot, running after you. The palm trees are out of place. Your pigtails are the wrong color. I’m all hot and wet and quiet when you cross the street. And the tress move away from us. And there is a humid ringing. The wind carries some music. I don’t know why there’s an ocean. I cross the street and then there are no trees. I’m singing you a song. I’m drinking ocean water until I’m sick. You say THE PALM TREES DO NOT BELONG HERE. I am struck by a cinderblock. Your legs are still not your legs. My skin stings all over, my song is not the ocean. Your back is smooth. The palm trees do not belong here. Our backs are pressed together. Your hair is not your hair.

Stories

You are cutting string. The wind is coming through the buildings. I am touching myself. I am not alone and you are sleeping in another city. In this story I am really fucking mad. You say YOU ARE BEING A GOOD PERSON TODAY but I’m not really being a good person. I say I AM GOING STEADY. The lights are dark. It’s daytime, we’re all really drunk but it’s only in this story. I say IT’S ONLY A FEW MINUTES UNTIL THE NEXT CITY. I say IN THIS STORY YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE MORE VIOLENT. It’s really a story about a person you want to kill. You are not cutting string and there is no knife. The tablecloths are stained. This city is another story.