Halloween

Of course, with my luck, I'm sick on Halloween.

As for my posting entries for every day of my favorite month, I got a little behind...this tends to happen when I put stipulations on myself, as if I'm rebelling against my own guidelines without even realizing it. One reason I got behind is because I was caught up in finishing my list. You can find it here at another blog I am starting, specifically just to keep track of my progress. The countdown starts today and ends July 29, 2011. Therefore, this entry will have to suffice for making up for the last week of this glorious month.

The week of: Day 25-Day 31
happy hauntings



I remember:
Splintered hands from jumping fences (waves swell)
scrambling up:seeking the sweet chime
doorframes like ropes
die trying
( to ring that invisible bell)
have you ever?
stumbled upon a discarded, forgotten treasure in the lost and found?
i have.
faced down a time when you asked yourself:
is it time to stop climbing, now?
never.
fireflies never stop lighting up the night,
although we can only see them in the summer
ladybugs never stop their flight,
although they pause to land somewhere from time to time.
like now, my feet planted happily at such a great height
generously jingling rhythms float from...
the clocktower. (itself now frozen in mock time)
inverted---> yes, the consummate contradiction

and when the apocalypse is upon us,
just pretend the ceiling is the ground
i'll be waiting in this secret place,
our world upside down.




XXXVI. "Continuity"

There is in certain ancient things a trace
Of some dim essence - more than form or weight;
A tenuous aether, indeterminate,
Yet linked with all the laws of time and space.
A faint, veiled sign of continuities
That outward eyes can never quite descry;
Of locked dimensions harbouring years gone by,
And out of reach except for hidden keys.

It moves me most when slanting sunbeams glow
On old farm buildings set against a hill,
And paint with life the shapes which linger still
From centuries less a dream than this we know.
In that strange light I feel I am not far
From the fixed mass whose sides the ages are.





tonight the fires will burn for the northwest.

humpty dumpty was pushed

Day 21, 22, 23, and 24
Damage control for weary souls



When dreams drain you (your love, mother's life, and air stolen)
i will be there to refill.
Little rich splashes of epic
chocolately wines
to show you there is substance
within a turtle's shell
(survivor trivia)
Organs of pumpkin,
sticky on guitar strings,
just cut cut cut cut cut cut cut it out:
instant fix, karmic chuckle.
if i am the symphony than you are the beats,
the swirling melodies,
the unparalleled beauty of improv that makes me
my architect of sound.
A connoisseur of words, he said
the jazz of language.
begrudgingly acknowledged blessings
manifest a knowing glow-
pondering the desire to be your immortality,
better-than-codine
to my “just messenger:”
i'll be counting the hours until Christmas morning
present upon gift unwrapped as i sink deeper
into my abyss(es) of choice
yes,
we'll bake Halloween cookies on Christmas,
shaped like random rectangles
of post apocalyptic love
i hear tennies pounding asphalt-
but no figures emerge in the
midnight nearly spent hour streetlights
traditional medicinal hymnal,
the fires are burning once more:
pride is bonfire scars, matching.
Porcelain dolls under the bed beckon like
the likelihood that the black and white
candies are merely trickery,
like popcorn ceiling spontaneity:
cloud picture constellations, flawlessly.
I ache I ache I ache I ache I ache I ache I ache
with it.
Longing for him.
Pregnant REM
I sneak away from the corners that hold sleeping beings
to a remote room that holds dark things-
of the sweetest, smoky nature,
however
see me- struggling to push the window open, it's calling to me
this night- one to find cars in flames alongside the freeway
and although it was another witness that made bare (this),
i can still feel it
from eons away
i lock myself within this oddity-sanctuary,
a familiarity that is haunting
(like the trees
slowmotion swingdancing,
eaves rustling and putting rust-singe
in my singing bones)
tonight, perfect is:
utterly alone
accompanied only by the ghost of an oversized trampoline
with tears in its springs,
remembering rainbow crystal mesh happenings
balls tossed through the gaps
from overconfidence,
misjudgment that left
a young girl hanging from one foot,
wailing in despair
(head mere inches from the grass.)
pleasure derived in my own insanity
(pray it's not temporary)
hush hush little baby-
everything is just fine.
Lipbiting secrets in the guestroom
elude to revisitations
of another time-
(will force you to-)
remember to close the closet door
each night.
Bloody Mary Bloody Mary Bloody Mar-
bawk.bawk.bawk.
I recall moments with measured seconds,
like 3 consecutive spins in the dark,
waiting for the guillotine to fall,
who will be the unlucky one to prove
unbelievers wrong?
red flash reflection.
white wooden bars hiss,
holding their poise as domestic ultraviolence
rubs against them coyly, begging,
naturally breathing away erosions of time-
sucking the dirt smear stains into itself,
opulent eyes
twinkling.
Ears feeding- every nuance, the zombies of foilage
scattering,
cloudy distance dog barking
I pick up each echo of fragment of pavement
that is shocked and shifted,
bruised in the process,
“time” drifting.
Tonight the earth is making love to itself.
The kind of love you could call fucking.
I am mesmerized, paralyzed-
both more alive than ever before and slowly dying
as i try my hardest to swallow every drop,
thick and meaty,
of the blackest plum sensuality.
The windchimes and train moans
weave themselves into the obscure October winds,
bringing with them a night for sirens
awakening tender senses,
rousing my soul in sleep.
I'm lounging in the pink butterscotch flowered prison
of a baby bed,
feet melting into the wet towels of experience
...somewhere in another century.
The leaves are laughing deliriously,
whispering in fever as they flee,
scurry,
faces hidden inside of themselves (and their coats of howling mystery)
the drapes sigh, shift their weight,
wishing to be the trunks of the shapeshifting trees,
the arms of madness
reaching [neverending] for repletion.
And with this night
(for the first time that any shade of mind could recognize)
comes the shriekings of a new age,
dawn breaks over me,
wracking waves of recognition.
Feelings intimately fresh-faced (blood stained chaste virgin)
and yet strangely and eerily familiar
like suffocation dreams and horse blankets,
closet shoe racks and black sequined disco dresses.
Taillights burn like coals
and the lights blemishing the yellow walls flicker
(i haven't believed in irony, lately)
momentary shadowboxing,
as if an invisible stopwatch programmed to pre-set
specific seconds
is reminding me to return to my seat-
the show is about to begin.
This is a land
where you try and fit all of yourself under one blanket-
then the expectation of awakening
to shivering
is replaced by the (full two armed- no half bullshit)
deep embrace of your perfect comforter,
the otherworldly comfort only a cold front can bring=
living
in the constant delight of the song ending right upon
reaching your destination.
I am Jack's bathroom stall misbehavior.
Time- like minuscule shards of glass found in an elbow
that's balancing on a busied arm
(detoxing.)
no one understands when I say I don't believe in Neosporin.

synergy

Day 19
Burgeoning




you are my green
naturally, inherently vibrant
lush, fresh, deeply serene
and perceived, by my eyes, better than all other colors
seen
1000 guitars smashed across the surface,
when the disfigured face of the world rears its head
you see, instead,
pretty paint that softly coats the surface,
covering the ugliness, now forgotten
seeping into brambly, thorned edges
until only fleecy beauty remains
awakening to a vanilla cream spice dessert tea kiss
a delicacy that brings warmth into the crevices
like an old friend's forgiveness.






Day 20
Protraction





she sends out armies of syllables
recalling weakness and darker times
like a winter cloud,
poignantly beautiful and diplomatic
she doesn't see her own strength
her hair, at night, caught
in shadow like so many threads (memories of fraying)
running through a waterfall,
weaves the frivolous air until,
at daybreak, above a deadfall
of flies' wings clustered
in the corner of a room,
you push it
away from your eyes.
and then like a
fresh breath exchange on a december morning,
you rise.
steam like pain, evaporating-
which is blending with oxygen,
melding but never forgetting
there is always an imprinted memory-
the existence of moisture
a sweat beaded brow,
submission to a mission
you thought you had a say so in,
but didn't.
the artistry
you once saw in the symmetry,
beats a hasty retreat,
leaving you
with a stigma you can't give back.
but the voice from within your chest
resonates, holds no lack
of cultivation
vibrates forward tenaciously
and binds sensation
into the waves
of juncture.





flashes of green light strike the lightning rod
and it receives them eagerly,
shuddering under the vigor
of nature's nerve impulses,
electric, somehow both possessing
the sheer, ephemeral beauty of fleeting
and the penetration of longevity.

leave your windows open to let the night in

Day 15
Dip into Dreams
Remembering to forget, forgetting to remember

I remember so many nights
desire to spin, hands clasped
before vertigo- then fulfillment upon falling to the grass,
dizzy and spent
only october and I'm already thinking tree of lights





supposedly when you dream you're falling-
when you can literally feel the pull of gravity,
the encompassing release, the drop of your stomach-
your soul temporarily leaves your body in the midst of sleep
astro-projection, of sorts
perhaps that's why at certain times in my life more than others,
I dream constantly of falling
because my soul aches, fiercely, for liberation.
dreams.
memories that look a lot like me
taped up around a hollowed out creation
and inside, a lightbox of colors, reflectors, broken glass
beautifully whole in its scatterbrained debris
swirling, ethereal/a little delusional
rainbow.spinning.twisting.
christmas lights in the touchable, audible distance (tipsy squeals)
that's the ticket. a carnival mood
take me there, i'll light up the night for you
i want you marinate in them with me
those strange, welcoming city colors, bits of childhood nostalgia
all twisted and crispy toasted brown
something deep fried dirty to perfection
with sprinklings of sweet, white purity
like a funnel cake.
more savory when fleeting
like sexy snowcone abandonment
something deliciously saccharine & refreshing
that longs for freedom
sweet enough to not be selfish,
it allows itself, for a few minutes, to be eaten
then it jumps from between what seemed a safe grip
to land among the dirt of the earth
where, although nothing like its surroundings
it finds happiness.
(a splash of succulent among the drab monotones)

Day 16
Know your Onion

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light like the careful undressing of love.

It is believed the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an object of worship. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe.

In the Eden of my eternal autumn midnight garden:

The consummate wild onion grows,

extending its vines of love up the walls of the deepest parts

of my spirit.

When I think how far the onion has traveled

just to enter my stew today,

I could kneel and praise all small forgotten miracles,

excitedly and gently peeling the crackly paper,

bounty after bounty is offered me.

Pearly layers in smooth agreement,

mantle upon mantle of perfect, zesty wilderness

revealing bits of fascinating history and depth that knows no perimeters.

And I would never scold the onion for causing tears.

It is right that tears fall for something so noble

but taken for granted, forgotten.

How at meals, we sit to eat,commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma

but never on the translucence of onion,

now soft, now divided,

or its traditionally honorable career:

For the sake of others, disappears.

Onion, luminous flask, your beauty formed

petal by petal,

crystal scales expanded you

and in the secrecy of the dark earth

your belly grew round with dew.

Under the earth the miracle happened,

and when your clumsy green stem appeared,

your leaves were born like swords in the garden,

the earth heaped up her power

showing your naked transparency,

and as the remote sea in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite

duplicated the magnolia,

so did the earth make you,onion,

clear as a planet,

and destined to shine,

constant constellation,

round rose of water,

upon the table of the poor.

Generously you undo your globe of freshness

in the fervent consummation of the cooking pot,

and the crystal shred in the flaming heat of the oil is

transformed into a curled golden feather.

Then, too, I will recall how fertile is your influence on the love of the salad,

and it seems that the sky contributes

by giving you the shape of hailstones

to celebrate your chopped brightness

on the hemispheres of a tomato.

But within reach of the hands of the people,

sprinkled with oil,

dusted with a bit of salt,

you kill the hunger of the day-laborer on his hard path.

Fairy godmother wrapped in delicate papyrus,

you rise from the ground

eternal, whole, pure

like an astral seed,

and when the kitchen knife cuts you, there arises the only tear without sorrow.

You make us cry without hurting us.

I have praised everything that exists,

but to me, onion, you are more beautiful

than a bird of dazzling feathers

you are to my eyes a heavenly globe,

a platinum goblet,

an unmoving dance of the snowy anemone

and the fragrance of the earth lives in your crystalline nature.

Dear Onion:

Your fierce kiss will stay on my lips,

loyally lingering and faithful as we are,

for as long as we are.

Your scent will cling to my fingers,

cleansing my eyes with tears

like a lover.

The white blooms of your floral head

scatter seeds of change and joy,

blossoming bright across my starry eyes

and bringing peace like arms of a mother.

Our skin is just a cover up for the land where none dare go,

an internal inferno, the anathema of anatomy.

In an onion there's only onion,

from its tip to its toe,

onionymous monomania,

unanimous omninudity.

We hold veins, nerves, organs, fat

For us, our skin is merely a mask

But the onion does not realize its own courageousness

(lion among men)

For it bears no camouflage

Inch by inch, between the endless tiers

(exploration is shameless)

it is purely Onion

a quiet, gentle giant

that will live far beyond three hundred years.

Nature's roundest tummy, its greatest success story,the onion drapes itself in its own aureoles of glory.

And I find no coincidence in the fact

that I used to loathe the taste, fear it

and not too long ago- a shift in the path

now I savor, with endless relish, the poignance

especially raw and crisp, stimulating the entirety of my health

the powerful taste of mother nature herself.

Day 17
Pacing a faceless maw somewhere vague

the crawl space is a place for rubber chickens
in a lime wig and non taped nerd kit glasses.
my fake tattoo sleeve is sweaty and i'm hoping for a miracle,
a recipe for success in the racks of vintage and burlesque,
some pretty piece of puzzle.
weird feelings build and flux like bloody, melting childhood mountains
rainbow majesty in overture.
gone again and i'm craving a silk caress across this heated skin,
like my mustard gold venice scarf
a simple stroke for us odd dreamer folk.
black tea, iced and sweating/suits me
and my thoughts sound like seasonal flavors
and those little pumpkin buckets we used to hang from tree branches.
beneath there is an aching
i have no name for this
distraction is the exotic birth of instant gratification
and it is an embraced given that fall brings such things,
occult happenings
the full moon the night prior is a reminder
purple glitter batter underground of batting lashes
beaded secrets in the bathroom,
blue painted eyes that sparkle with red label
and i'm frightened, sensing the nervous sickness in his absence
and simultaneously craving the bareness
that only i know exists underneath the orange-yellow-browns


she photographs my profile beneath the grayscale polka dotted straw
mismatched greenblue polka germany sweater and all
and i can almost recall a time
when all the trees wrapped me in vagary things
reminders of a true, unadulterated freedom in overhang form
like a beloved shadow that momentarily frightens you,
and then becomes a comfort constant.
his voice is my smile in skin softening vanilla water
and i can almost imagine he is beside me,
climbing, slipping, sliding, delving, soaking
gleeful laughter a bittersweet symphony
as the colorful sugar palisade avalanche buries us,
we are immortal on our playground.
(and if the flames take you out,
i'll go down too
but only after grabbing some ashes,
taking them to the garden,
baptizing the seeds-to-fruit,
and eating some of you.
the perfect last meal.)

Day 18
A second dip
Too beautiful to be a junebug
so instead, i'll be your firefly
guarding your bed & lighting the way so your nightmares can
swiftly find their way out the door each night.

without his hands, it took ten minutes.
at midnight
unzipped boots walk to the entrance of a begrudgingly open gas station
and i can't stop wishing for a change in scenery
but i cannot seem to discern the voice that beseeches me.
each morning i wake up smelling different
of temples,
rainforest canopies,
north winds and the crystal salts of deep sea,
open fields and mountain crossings,
foreign city smog and faraway beds
in each dream, one thing remains the same
i wed life,
walking an aisle of fallen soldiers in orange, yellows, and reds

it remains both life savior and silent killer- this dreamworld
bringing to us every buried or known fear, memory, longing, pain
celebrations of hauntings and visionaries
the most intense and intimate catharsis is through incubus
moment upon moment frozen,
as we subconsciously simmer in brain narcotics
organic waves of chemicals
and i will come find you,
every night if I have to to
make sure you are not on your back
and to practice my schlitterbahn skills
if you start to choke and suffocate in the depths of colored black
(that's what dreams remind me of. those papers we would color as kids, that were an assortment of crayon rainbows, colored over by all black. you had to scratch at the murk, chipping it away, to form a pretty, vibrant picture in the darkness)
don't worry about your closed eyelids, lover
you keep on purging,
i'll be sure to keep you breathing.

no one lives to be three hundred anymore

Day 13 & 14
I think they were giants.

serial box heroes and cereal killers got nothing on us.
proof of power is in the rain, don't run
oh origin of life, dear vehicle of sanctity,
wash me in lushness of longevity
so that even in death, i am wet.
reality is complex,
not just because thousands of beasts less spectacular then the crocodile are present in water
but also because it touches upon what is not visible.
blood of the earth, freedom in falling
without the grace of embracing it
nothing grows on the hill except greed.

don't you waste me in the ground.
literally
my toothpaste reads
"J A S O N Powersmile"
(pure, natural, and organic)


i awake with the tail of dreams in my morning mouth
and maybe tails are not truly the ending, nor heads the beginning
memories of a summer spent east brings the rains south
for miles and miles I can see, I feel
the clouds part for his smile
mueseli with honey, chamomile
terrace talks in Rome,
it has been awhile.
i long to flee home now and then
-watch his face reflected in train window panes
dilapidated stands of records, rusty letters, postcards, books teaching Zen
nutella rice cakes and reminiscing
when a simple comfort in a street-pissing world lies
in the old man with a wooden tobacco pipe and sapient eyes
but today the pears are perfect in my mouth



i'm harvesting body paint ponderings and visualizing
the candid light of Austrian snow rooms
quilted red beds and wires that don't exist merely for message transmitting
but for framing mountain blooms
take me home in my white bikewheel ripped dress
if you promise to scatter yourself with me,
i'll be sure to do the rest,
i'll feel less alone.
we rarely make eye contact with the homeless.


head tinglies again. i revisit old fears
a little boy's dove noises in Vietnamese corner dives
minty plum sauce and ink spots, eerily alive
suddenly- swinging from familiar chandeliers
like i was born to love
(you)
a little girl's pink clad squeals echo, frolicking in fall frontyard spheres
as the smokysweet rain plasters dirty blond curls to callow cheeks
acetaminophen flies from cracked car windows
and i feel my heart leaping over the tree innard streaks
the support of self pleasuring hands slip from the cloth chair

i can smell the Santa Ana fire winds
and the orchard ink of his hair.

boats, boots... just-a-bit

Days 10, 11, 12
The Paradox of Stasis

eternal sunrise like a radish
pulled up beneath us
lustrations of iris revolving on sun sinking,
the trees are hungry,
carefully swallowing
i'm basking in that slow smile
the twins are joyous,
nestled right between the forever day and night
perfectly straddling the line of black and white
a promise pigment in the glassy waters,
reflections, permeated twilight
an immortal midnight garden to revel in
i'm living in grayscale
a timeless, unspeakable beauty
it seems my whole life,
i have dreamed of the plenary contradiction
an equilibrium preserved forever
in caressing shadows, a faultless harmony
irony: mismatched socks,
opposites worn, freak accident breathes new purpose
no combination of colors could rival
this love.
suddenly it is clear:
how boats stay afloat on the surface



imagine.
music box lips , boot songs
he unzips them and kisses them
no other pair of these would do
ensnared in maroon draped heavens:
ladybugs need cocoons, too



young bride hypnotized by smoky eyes in the dark
refusing to remove gazes
prolific pools she loves to flounder in,
bobbing and levitating like the boats
buoyantly balanced, weightless
in waters that sparkle and glisten
(with pretty thoughts)



two stigmas on the dirty earth
one pure, simple, colorless stain
the creamy white of a blank slate
the coconut of childhood remains,
and he says maybe it's a sign
that those times are meant to be left behind
this is my reminder to him
that the waves of memories are never too thin to float in
when an icy treat becomes nothing more than a rainbow smear
in the concrete jungle sea-
a bright, multicolored sugary tarnish
while perhaps slightly less edible,
the beauty is not lost to us



swaying, wavering roots
crawl from the underside of each ship,
stretching down to greet the murky depths of sea,
dancing
anchoring each with gentle coaxing, treasures
only the ocean could retrieve
we watch them soundlessly,
the glowing candied-skin sky melting,
dripping down onto his chocolate dipped spun gold head
we are not trying
to decipher whether or not they are sprouting
from the reaches of the wet abyss
or whether heaven is growing downwards



choking on grit.
and my turtle peaks his head above the ripples
fresh faced from the bottomless pit
i come up for air simultaneously
to find you floating there next to me
you pique my curiosity from ocean floor scavenging
and when i retreat to the blackest chasm one more
it will be a journey ventured alongside
what i had all along been looking for.



euphoria is a
red seesaw dance
cheese and cheap wine dizzies
coffee shop-church chalkboards hold no patience for chance,
(no lack of vitality in the complimentary colors of this dried flower)
instead,
the scrawled signs-
they emanate a soft, sumptuous power
like two lovers that join as one being
for the very first time,
sweat clad and love drunk
now ingrained permanently in their respective minds:
fusion.
of the grandest daedalian type


more sensual than salad finger food,
fingerlicking traces.
more breathtaking
than the melding of freckle geometry,
handmade paper heart faces.
he sees me.
sunflower throne..
freeing.
more beautiful at night,
yes.
you are just my kind
(of picnic)

the wings are wide

Day 8 & 9
Love is...
still believing in fireworks even after Santa has gone.

if i was young, i'd flee this town
i'd bury my dreams underground
as did i,
we drink to die,
we drink tonight
far from home,
elephant gun-let's take them down one by one
we'll lay it down,
it's not been found (it's not around)
Let the seasons begin
(it rolls right on, let's take the big king down)

..and it rips through the silence of our camp at night.





sitting on top of the world, you and i
toes dipping into incoming tides, the colors of unicorn pillows
before even witnessing firsthand, you're well-versed in that look in my eyes
particularly perfect epitome-your description of release
...finds me shivering, alive
you had to sit down.

(aroused)

a permanent change within- crackles,

electric (your bright blood)

across your rhythmic skin

I feel it all, nestling its way into its new home, from hours away

(soaking in your artisanship keeps me soft and pliant all day)

Yin

Day 7, Part Zwei (Yin)
When I grow up, I want to be a pumpkin
yours, specifically,
larger than life


On this 7th day, 7 things to be grateful for(oh, how to choose...) :
1.Falling asleep with an ethereal dreamworld painted on your retinas: a fantastical landscape painting of rich colors, leaves in mid-shift, deep wetness of rain (the smell of damp wood lullabies your brain) Sliding under the covers clothes-less, rumble of thunder rocking your full-to-the-brim psyche to a slumber
I can feel you here.
2. Awaking to an undiluted joy like no other and gorgeous emails (immediate excitement&anticipation upon eyes opening), then opening the blinds to find a literally breathstealing sight you were not expecting: a golden shower of light from just post sunrise, bathing the whispering lushness of treetops in hocus-pocus against the backdrop of a flawlessly streak free cerulean sky...
cool winds seeping in from broken screen, leaking from the illuminated tableau beyond your window
(carrying the thaumaturgical beauty inside and filling you with a reverence and awareness-almost painful-of how lovely life is)
Captain. You rock my boat.
3.Silk robes on freshly showered skin
S/he: division of self and soulmate
4.Delicious Pho soup walking distance from your house, chocolate non-pudding to wash it down, and for extra measure...best friend tutors
In the darkness, there is no distinguishing you from me, the space between
..everything blends together, we become one another
5. Mutual masturbation= reciprocal door opening, newfound appreciations, influential inspiration- release that sets you free
I'd like to sit inside that head
...of yours and have a tea party.
6.Trying to sing Diana Ross
Studying= no sleep for me, but i'll sneak away to go get tangled up in the dream weaves above your bed
7.Loving the feeling of thinking nonstop about someone, craving their voice
Nothing will ever be the same,

Love's the best sensation
hiding in the lion's mane




So i'll clear the road, the gravel
and the thornbush in your path
that burns a scented oil
that i'll drip into your bath
the water's there to warm you
and the earth is warmer when you laugh

and love is the scene i render
when you catch me wide awake
and love is the dream you enter
though i shake and shake and shake you
and love's the best endeavor
waiting in the lion's mane

yang

Day 7, Part Eins [Yang]
(It's gonna be a yin-yang sort of day)

Sometimes the pessimist wins the wrestling match
i'll regain hold after a much needed
System cleansing, you see
(clickclick.deleted.)
please excuse me while i briefly empty the waste basket that becomes me

After the 4th time the bird shit hit me,
I realized the universe was laughing gleefully
and then- a 5th time in my food for good measure


What is this cerebral madness?
Only the fittest seeds survive
Seems today I'm digging a grave
for the traditionalist protection of your resurrection
(leave me, complacency)
a long trench across the Great Divide
Washing the dishes in the first of two rotting sinks,
since the last no-good never-enough canyon popped its load on me..
while the windstealing feeling is familiar, it has been awhile
i'm burning bridges and building skyrise condos destined for destruction
(just for you: choking on the vile need for SUCCEED)
the human condition condescension of your well intentioned smile

you'll say i'm grasping straws

Shredded by strange city street lines
Press my face up against the glass
with both eyelids shut and no, this won't get any easier
shitbrown irises are blistered, bruised with guilt, the creeping vines
are crawling upwards towards consume. Grass,
but not the pretty pale thin sticked kind
(his favorite)
no, I'm rolling down a hill of St. Augustine hell,
the person I feel I should be the ugly roots
that screech up from the foundation of earth
wrapping tight to trap and suffocate me
(a father's words like late night crackhead hauntings,
the face-to-gravel grind of reality is anything but Victorian,
a bit off chunk of romantic notions)

I am jack's deformed disillusioned definition of security,
sighting them shape shifting
dissolve into the darkness
a final opinion is of less value than an appreciation of
intolerance for obscurity

a weakness lies in the bottomless well of indecision. discretion,
(leave me, sickness)
the peak of weak is a dried up favorite creek,
a longing for the caress of waters that perhaps never belonged
brushing aside in discontent the minuscule signs of life
i wish i had energy to feel weak. one day again
grown in wide open spaces
we turn ourselves inside out
expose what we're afraid to see
and i know what he's thinking
i told myself
you keep pulling

an ice storm threatens the leaves
fluttering in the horizon, i refuse to climb these metaphorical bullshit money trees
preference to remain the weakest link

one single phone call.
now grown up a tad more, more petrified i think.
it takes the posioned cake,
take it all

for my dandelions

Day 6
If it Smashes Down:
Chase Starlight


what is the use of screaming at a machine in frustration,
as it eats the music,
skipping streaming of consciousness?
it's only auto-pilot performing its purpose,
fulfilling its destiny dutifully.

Save your Breath,
instead,
for singing in the shower
[as kaleidoscopic bits of flower wilderness
are massaged into your sudsy head.]

I was reading through old journal jottings from Europe, from the day my ex-roomie and I explored Dachau outside of Munich (the first concentration camp.)
What rose to the surface of my mind is itching under my fadedcopper (rusted helicopter) skin,
needing to be shed.
What we saw there, that day, could never truly be captured in words,
no matter how delightful (or stark&dark) the words, but I still wanted to soak in it awhile.
An except from my travel journal-
"Raw Truth in Exile:

I've been seeking it in everything
and now we chase the obsidian ghosts of history as we board the train to Dachau.
Kellen and I agree: these parts of history-
the black underbelly of the beast,
no matter how melancholy-
they should never be drowned or blocked out,
no eyes should be closed to it."


My eyes could scarcely comprehend and take everything in, being in the exact same places as thousands had suffered fiercely and died in.
There is so much to learn in such a place: weird to say, but I could have stayed for days, and still I would have been discovering useful knowledge and awareness of the past and its relevance in the world today, things I never gave nearly enough lingering thought to.
However, its about so much more than learning, this history.
I got a glimpse like I never have before at innumerable levels of the human condition:
how completely corrupt, cruel, and unrelenting humans can be (esp. in their quest for power/selfishness/greed) and yet also, how avidly courageous and strong they can be, even in the most extreme and debilitating conditions.

Can you imagine being so terrified by the threat of death-constant, filling your body with dread every waking hour of every day, that you ran into the borderline/edge of the no-go zone, knowing you would instantly be fired upon...ending the endless suffering and mistreatment you had been experiencing for far too long?

And yet- what stood out above the background-din [static rumble] of pain and haunting images was the discovery of all the ways the prisoners clung to the smallest signs of hope (through each other, writing, reading, music...the beat goes on).
Sometimes the prisoners were kept in barracks, chained to the walls, that let no light in. The only way they could tell it was day outside was through hearing the faint singing from outside from other prisoners. One man began to knock on the wall, reaching out to another prisoner, who soon figured out that he was knocking the ABCs,
and began to decode the message the other man was giving him.
They communicated this way, knocking was their way of speaking-about their background, who they were, where they came from. Prisoners did these things in order to salvage what was left of their state of being-
a way to preserve their faith and delay the psychological decay going on within them (since they couldn't do much to delay the physical decay brought on by malnutrition and mistreatment.)
The smallest bit of light filtering into their cells could bring such relief and joy...a few minutes in the library? They looked forward to for weeks.
These prisoners knew that if they even left a fingerprint on a locker, or had a button missing, they risked terrible punishment: even just an imperfectly made bed could lead to them getting beaten or put "on the pole" (hung from a pole for hours on end). And yet....so many of them kept seeking out methods of self assertion to help them grasp on to hope (clinging to solidarity).
One of the main ways they did this was through poetry- poetry was capable of giving back to them the sensitivity and remaining humanity they sought to preserve. I read a poem one of the men wrote in secrecy while at the camp, and it brought tears to my eyes, truly and poignantly moving me.
"In suffering lies the song of poetry, like a hymn that liberates and penetrates to the bottom of the truth....
I seek to express open wounds of the soul that no one can heal,
wounds that are much deeper than the ones that weaken our bodies."
The poetry I read did not only resonate with the agony of captivity, but with something banished from normal thoughts of youth and stemming from one of the hardest gifts to know and achieve that we are given:
forgiveness.
This is where the real courage comes into play, when even the most horrible of human suffering and loneliness occurs, and one can reach beyond the suffocating anger, pain, resentment, hatred, emptiness....and forgive (the things that hound us in the night).
This is why the writing I read struck me so deeply- it was not just a cry for help, an expression of soul-wrenching desperation,
it was an elegy of freedom.
We take freedom for granted.
Freedom to live, to let go, to love, to forgive, to give, to take, to grieve, to make...
Our suffering is what makes us so beautifully supreme: ferociously powerful in our unsurpassed fragility.
(And the alternative to feeling the pain of loss is having nothing to lose).

Flashback: Death was brought upon vast numbers of people with no hesitation, no sympathy, no mercy...bodies were taken away piled on one another, miles high, in backs of trucks,
taken to the crematorium then thrown aside, discarded like bits of gum wrappers in the summer wind. The dead were robbed of all dignity completely.
That broke me.
Would I have been one of the hundreds, if I had lived in that time and place?
I love the color green and all it represents, symbolizes, signifies to me...
but back then, it made certain people stand out as abnormal- a green triangle was the symbol associated with the "asocials", or people who demonstrated "asocial behavior" (prisoners who were taken into preventive custody.) So many groups of people were denounced, it was not just Jews...it was those who rebelled against the government, spies, prisoners of war, Austrians, emigrants, homosexuals, different religious groups, etc. All of them were punished without warning, at the slightest insubordination or order from others (as in, not just the Nazis- even someone like a kitchen worker.) And aforementioned "asocial behavior" could have been virtually anything the Nazis got a wild hair up their ass to arrest someone for:
"nigger jazz"
"degenerate art"
"gutter literature"
I'm fairly certain I would have been among the convicted:
I tap my feet and jig wildly to jazz,
am currently reading a number of sullied books (soaked in gutter water, think: "The Preverse Garden: Fairytales for Adults"....oh, such a hopeless romantic, har har)
and some of the twisted, progressive, obscure art I adore would fall far outside the category of "degenerate"
This realization is what made me realize I am one of those who takes their freedom for granted...
it is easy to thrash in the jade waters of cynicism when we aren't reminded,
even in little ways,
especially by ourselves,
of how lucky we truly are.
Each passing minute,
every liberation of mind, body, spirit allowed,
no matter how small and seemingly insignificant,
each delicious meal I eat,
the comfortable beds I sleep in (topped with liberal amounts of pillow goodness),
the souls I bathe in,
the love that lights my fire,
the abundance of (especially fleeting) beautiful light shed in my life,
everything I observe and soak up (no matter place, person, word, music note, taste, smell, caress, idea, dream, wish, ache,
blah blah hour long rant goes here)
it is all so valuable.
I seek to try my hardest to fully savor everything that surrounds me to the best of my ability,
to celebrate the elegantly evil universe in all its splendor



Yes, indeed-life is at best, brief
...maybe we are just biding our time until the black hole arrives
and swallows us, whole,
nothing but an airy belch existing as proof of our mark
or, quite possibly,
it is a mere shadow of what exists in the infinite abyss, the Unknown
There is a sinister, crawling shadow that beckons from behind every pretty thing
but does that mean we should compromise our pretty living,
question the fireworks? no, not enough time
(It could all be snatched from us in the blink of an eye)

My favorite part was this:
learning of how the prisoners were so ravenously hungry- not only for food to nourish their body, but for hope to quench their devastated souls-
that they would secretly eat dandelions


It is when i am neck deep in the quicksand-moor
that I stumble across these lovely-ugly creatures (like sunflowers)
these yellow bits of hope
mere weeds- fierce beauty disguised as homeliness and simplicity
isolated and strong

how could one go through this life without tap-dancing along the tightrope edge
(fear of corners-losing oneself),
without feeling the thick ache of resignation?
It is when I feel myself sinking the quickest,
like Venice,
destined to be sucked down into the depths of murky nothingness,
that I remember the unspeakable beauty of the city-
and how,
although its life is simply slow death,
it holds light like no other.





paper cup fraying string connections sustain
for the time being-
when the firestorm settles, we will still remain
morbid gods holding hands,
the tightrope of what they call time
stretched tight between you and i,
mountains of magic rumble upwards from the spot where our worlds collide.





dandelions,
blossoming upon the golden nymph skin
the halo you put me in,
you see me for me
the free, roaming spirit that lies and glows beneath
the facade of weed.

wordless chorus

what a weekend. time for catch up

Day 2-5
sometimes there are no words. only love

suddenly. an unexplainable, visceral chemistry
instantaneous and melodious
it draws us close and holds tight
the ball of crackling energy exchanged fuels a force deeply ingrained
the same magnetism that I soaked up one warm night months ago, kneeling in the rain
it absorbs our spirits,(i'm a sponge for details) transcends body and mind
we are constantly learning, about and from each other
in every lips-touch-wrist, garden kiss, shooting star wish
there is something viciously beautiful and love-lit
(although there is no word in any language or wildest fancy to describe it)
bit by bit, the pieces fall together and by some grace of fate, magically fit
even if we don't understand the source of such a strangely beautiful, rapidly growing sunflower
[[the core of the enigma, the origin of the seed]]
to deny the mystery means to deny the power.

Happily stranded in the unmoving lightning storms of/in one another's minds
every nuance brings an exotic peace-content curiosity
bent on the loss of sense of time
there is nothing redundant, insincere, or cliche about the flawless verbosity
hauntingly captivating, you are..
alarmingly alive.
You are the provocative, mystic winds lifting my soul in flight
the burning gases chasing worlds in the brewing midnight skies
the flashing, sweeping lights that pierce the fragrant October night
christening the precious dark with beacons of bright...
feeling.
Love is a lighthouse.
conventions could only dream of what this is made of and in
the universe thoughtfully contemplated your request-
[[the proof twinkles in the ethereal cold air warming your heart and chilling your skin]]
-and the gnawing awareness that it's shifting for us is it's way of wishing you the best

Hope is desire riding on the breath that dusts the fire from a German chocolate cake,
the unspoken delicacy that straddled the wind and began the journey home.

Homemade red flower wreaths encircle yellow peter pan hats wonderfully
(once again, a perfect fit) and i find myself encircled, likewise, in the oblivion of
your sloe eyes and half smile
Love is a mosaic glittering in spring oblivion's sunshine,
reflecting in fountains of youth.
You are the golden breeze that sweeps through the tousled waves of richly opulent leaf-sprays
and carries me away from something i mistook for home,
surprised to discover, as i fall towards new bountiful horizons,
a splendor unlike anything i have ever known.
Love is the fertility that produces a fruit tree
(flourishing tall and proud with musician-hand branches that breathe ashes into the zephyrs,
giving (re)birth to souls that seek the ultimate liberty)-
Love is the damp earth that forms the walking-path of the road to awe.




Pleasure little treasure.
i surrender, admit
i cannot deny.
the sensations that become me upon waking to that look in your eye
i'm dreaming of repeat
you sink my battleship, bullseye, following suit behind,
a breath for a breath, a pace meant to last and built to match mine
yes, we find each other
whether surreptitiously or effortlessly, it's still every time
Heaven is two muses living in an eternal Eden, feeding one another fresh handpicked apples,
the threat of banishment the last thing from their minds.
(an infinite autumn)
my hands have not been so impeccably fulfilled in ages
peach sticky, pumpkin picking,
reeking of garden, tangled in the inky hair of the gentle beast
joining with companions that hit chords so consummate you could hear the predestined
caressing another's aura- balcony affection feast
wrapping around the chainlinked cage (spelled L I F E)
i am content locked inside, swimming in the dusky, epic oceans of liquid fire (iris-like)
Freedom is swallowing the key,
starting from scratch..the manifestation of a brand new colony,
a personalized live-in Halloween-Christmas village, made explicitly for you and me.
l'arte d'arrangiarsi:
the art of making something out of nothing
(like turning a few simple ingredients into a smorgasbord, a few gathered friends into a festival, or a few small sticks and stones into raging, leaping flames)
you can be my violinist, triumphantly caroling in the just-fallen powder layer
i'll take time away from the ultimate photobooth and bakery
to ice skate with the town's tightless slut shakily
and then bring you home trays of banana bread still hot from the brick oven
we'll ride the haunted ferris wheel, glorious in our heights timidity togetherness

To fall is to .....
if tasting my lips is your communion
then my faith lies in falling,
not organized genocide
your cherubic touch is the divine theology to which i prescribe
and your mouth, immaculate, brushing my skin leaves me a fervent follower,
drifting towards sleep's remembered forgettings amidst prayers at night
if i can remember to breathe,
breathe in the scent you left tangled in my hair.

I'm splitter splattering along the edging of beautiful,
a history, taunting me,
of causing brilliant disasters and insignificant casualties
(so many times fucked up, or maybe it's me who is fucked up)
YET...
somewhere between growing into a woman
(who had sex behind unfamiliar bushes on school nights with boys that called themselves men and were near strangers-lips tasting of cigarette smoke and halfhearted affection)
..i had dreams where I swiftly danced around moonbeams and specklekissed the stars,
and it was me who made them shine, and I cried at their beauty as they soared across the heavens
or, that is,
i fell onto the path. a leaf in your delicious lap, a hope to grasp
yeah, that's right-
You're a dream, my star.
maybe it's you who should be pinching me
if i fell long and hit hard enough
would i slam into your soul?
taste the ecstasy of every complex simplicity

Unadulterated intimate gratification-every part satiation (no man left behind)
be my ongoing interruption.
and the way you shuffle your feet sometimes ...shyly, anxiously, instinctively?
more endlessly thrilling than a cheese-gore plethora (gradeB midnight horror flick, you follow me?)
you watch every move with unequaled fascination
..laughter is never at a loss
but i am.
it's easy to be speechless when, whilst wandering a labyrinth of unimaginable curves
you stumble across a treasure chest
brimming with wonders and every existing thing beyond words


Discovery takes a new name tonight.
i'm crouched beneath a shower of leaves and stars,
arms open wide (in gratitude and surprise)
torrents of atonement
happily licking the wetness from skin suddenly unbroken
simmering in, inhaling, the unequivocal creation only once plainly spoken
and yes, i admit- i often get flustered
when trying to find a comprehensible form of expression, i find only silence
comfortable but clumsy
i will wear the badge with pride, it reads
"stripped of once sought for dignity"
Fulfillment is the sighs of lover's drowning in one another, a drug to live off of,
the indefectible caress
...the one that satisfies contradiction infallibly.
(the simultaneous needs for spontaneity and messy consistency)

My reflection (head miles high in the blue hour candy puff sky) has been altered.
echoes of your radiance stare back at me, non-smugly
it's such a lovely feeling..
to pass a perfect stranger who smiles at you sincerely,
and realize that they are humming, possessing a bare bones sort of happy,
for all the world to see
then suddenly realize they are a splitting image of yourself
or to hear these words
"it has been so long since i have seen you like.. this."
This is telling me that truthful-buoyancy,
so real and pure it is disquieting,
can happen in reality
i'm crossing my fingers and counting up the seconds
but for once, no tracers of cynicism tempt my vision's foresight
i stand, boot clad feet rooted to the earth, triumphant and ready
all hauntings aside,
i am enticed by this integral autumn twilight hayride
and will surf any speed bumps with confident knees


We are covert foliage dwellers, the joy of dark beer consuming park benches,
beloved exploration takes place, hiding beyond country festival blooms
air thick and sweet with addiction, eyes speaking volumes
(indeed-i love old people, but when competing with his soft one dimpled smile,
german polka dancing is for the birds)
besides..
you know how it goes. actions speak louder than words
are you already becoming part of me?
(from bent knees,
rings forgotten on the railing, she asks
will you please?)
synchronized hours and white-fuzzed clothes fall to the floor
unparalleled release in each other, from the first beautifully tentative couch kiss
to the hip alignment shaking my core

and when you taste your own soul on another's lips for the first time
everything is taken to another level
and it's like losing your virginity (but in my case, with a more sublime revel)

I'm sinking deeper into the gorgeously odd background music mixture
fake plastic trees and ghosts of braying donkeys
the moon glows in your mouth
and in the deepest gasp of spirit you're backlit and radiant, a now permanent fixture
you paint me trembling
so, my hands mold the lines of your face and body,
returning the favor justly
and i meant what i said.
while sporadicly devious,
(like an "accidental" cheap wine spill tumbling from a white plastic cup)
You are the most spectacular work of art that even the wildest of dreams have yet to scheme up.


Fruit stand hunting with supreme company, windows down,
wind tangling your hair and psyche into a past-pretty disaster
tiny dancers on lips,
kindred hearts jumping in time
like synchronized swimmers skyrocketing through the rolling waters of life
(pouring onto pages-screens-through the use of unconventional poetry and rhyme)
oh, lionfire,
your demure roar stirs me even in the deepest of sleep
effervescent embers spark the edges of a onceuponatime blank canvas,
ravishing and smoldering
the Phoenix chose that fateful night to remember she had wings
shake off the ashes, re-learn the kinetics and movements of alive
then, reincarnated
fly for the very first time.



For a self-proclaimed, expert procrastinator it's hard enough to study
it's far more difficult when i'm trying to recall and memorize
..each individual propensity and subtlety of your radiance, your body
[and God, you really are stunning]
my mind is racing the tick-tick-tocks, forming meaningful patterns that had yet to exist
whispering dew-strung webs of words my sanity resists;

we float in and out of the conscious humdrum of every day,
spinning in a beautiful display and array of pacification
because of this .... reality just isn't on our side
i am jack's dream-coated smile.

anticipating the REM resplendence you induce
what more could i do?
(how could i ever be expected to sleep, otherwise-
knowing i have to wait to wake up to you?)
reminder: patience, little tugger
everything worthwhile is meant to be held out for and held between excess
You are the eagerly long awaited, guiltless pleasure and unsullied ecstasy of recess.
(or better yet: You are my Pandemonium)