en mi alma (dos meses)

Quiero correr con usted entre los caribúes y sentir tu cuerpo contra las minas en las ruinas.
Voy a encontrar tu en la quema de bosques.




Voy a amarte hasta que mi cuerpo físico deja de existir, e incluso después de que, mi espíritu se saborean en los suyos.




[El cardenal está fuera de la ventana.]

demon fuzz

tidbits:
tear it to shreds,
(the past is a grotesque)
animal
noises

it has been a long time since I had a place I called my own.

when you finally learn to respect yourself after years of failed attempts,
it feels like coming home.

everyone who knows me is aware of how much of an advocate of detox i am. (damn new aged hippie freak)


co-dependence is
battles of bedazzled wars,
and now it has become clear and laid bare at last-
learning after the saxophone blisters and harmonica hand me downs
(ground into ash crumbles of crinkly pavement beneath old suede boots and feet just slightly too large for body type,
sexy vinyl spins and then you feel reborn
again and again
wires singing in shame but not without reason
as the seasons shift towards new once more)

1.

The day I leave the city, the sky is spitting. It's three days earlier than I had so painstakingly planned. I'm queasy and gassy- too much cheap tequila last night. Correction: just the right amount, actually. I can feel the bruises starting to form on my thighs. I ate enough RaisinBran this morning to feed a small country in the Eastern Hemisphere, leaning against the counter stovetop his tiny kitchen space, watching him sleep. He was tangled in his Winnie the Pooh sheets, naked, his puff of dusty curls haloing his babyface on the torn pillowcase. I left two scribbled notes and a poem in the back of his graphic novel on the smudged tile on his bathroom floor; the quarter full liquor bottle sitting topless next to the sex armchair. If I took it with me I was sure to get drunk on the bus. I think I'm still a little drunk, anyway.

I'm trying to ignore the sinking sensation, the nagging feeling that I shouldn't be leaving. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to be nine divine days, nine sinful nights of self-delving, dolce vita...romantic, sensual, adventurous- with mornings waking up wrapped up in him and days where I am his Maria,
nights where he pulls screams from my swollen lips like God gasping for air in the heated Babel evenings,
where language had no hold or meaning,
where every tongue found its love burning in the face of another,
in the sands of ever after,
and not in the post scrutiny of desperation...
where pretension chokes recession of growth through fingerless gloved hands
on dirty, emotionless streets of the West corners.

There is no more whispering out loud, among these soggy, piss soaked streets, uncomfortable and stiff a lot like me, remembering his disdain and distance as he walked me to the station in the rain,
backpack half zipped and leaking belongings as I stole sideways glances at his dampened homeless clothes and oceans of callow skin.
And now I've got a nonrefundable ticket to some shithole in Montana, where I'll transfer to another bus that will take me for Denver, then hop on yet a third that will send me all the way to Dallas...but at least I get to take a little piece of him with me,
I guess.

My nether regions are still throbbing, gathering a dull ache as the minutes pass, and a few hours ago I sprawled naked on the icy, ambivalent checkerboards of ceramic stone next to his shower, pen hastily scribbling words both ornery and wistful, tinges of tiny bits of sadness evident even as I sign off by telling him (for the first time with true meaning, and yet with none at all) I love him.

I remember the last and first sentences of the letter only-
it began with, "I don't know what time it is. The blinds are rattling, you're already snoring, and the deep wet warmth of you between my legs is making me want this moment to linger on much (MUCH) longer."

I peeled off the black satin gloves and I sat there a jumbled heap. Tableau of the royal mess I am, right now. He was right- I am dumb.
Utterly, completely,
idiotic. For making the decisions I have made,
these days.

I'm watching the Vietnamese woman that owns the Pho Bac- the cozy dive thai joint in the train station- fill the bottles of cock sauce,
and fuck,
I'm dwelling on the morning trudge to the bus station once again,
paper bag of random groceries soggy and near ripping, quiet and disgusted.
Everything is damp and gloomy, my face and pride are sticky, our goodbye is brief and lacking,
devoid of any emotion,
obligatory hug.

That's right, I did take your suspenders.
Take THAT
you lousy bum:
You'll shake your head in disbelief and call me crazy
[but I would rather hold that title than the realization I treated someone like shit
put them down and turned them away with assumptions
because they disappointed my unrealistic expectations-
of what love,
or something like it,
is supposed to be.]


Soggy amber leaves plastered to wet pavement, construction workers- dirty drapings of denim and matching hardhats. Coarse voices a distant rumble behind A Whole New World:
I'm singing in my head, his fault,
oh -and the irony just had to strike me
just as we're passing places we could have torn up,
together.

He's delicious in his woolen brown old man's sweater with the elbow patches, eyes still lazy with morning, damp cigarette dangling from one mouth corner as he refuses to meet my eyes or ask questions,
business once more,
highbrow as always.

I debate dropping my entire load of baggage (pun intended) and running the mile or two back to his apartment to crawl back into bed with him. For the first time in a long time, I suddenly crave nicotine. I'm talking myself out of buying a pack at the next stop. I think I might cry a little, instead.
Like last night,
sweaty,
makeup running,
lying half on and half off his throne of glorybox,
trying to swallow my sobs and hiccups as he dozed off beside me in post coital slumber.
One of his knees was propped up against the wall, both arms splayed lazily above his head.
I bit my own lip to keep from making audible whimpers,
and drifted off disturbed and drunk instead,
and yes-indeed, he did hold me at one point,
I'm not sure what to make of it but don't really give a rat's ass,
anymore.
I will say I'm through,
all the while knowing I should have been long ago,
and not quite convincing myself either way,
scrambling to sever the ties and leave the pieces behind, but all the while missing the puffs of his cheeks when he laughed in my direction and smiled in multiples of
sincerity and slight surprises of affection.




2.

I miss the tunnels in the Czech countryside,
writing in the dark train tunnels
(those moments you meet eyes with a stranger, briefly,
on a passing bus in a foreign land)

The hills were so alive to me,
life so full to bursting,
splendors so big and so small I often thought I would..
spontaneously combust

I want to be back on the cobblestoned streets of Prague,
amongst the terracotta-cream-mint buildings
(with only three malicious dogs)





3.

When I rub the pumpkin spice into my thirsty skin, remembrance floods me-
and when I step out into the icy, clear,
Cedar strewn night air,
my body acts of its own accord,
becoming flushed, soft, and warm from the sudden onslaught of thoughts...
like legwarmers enveloping taut thighs,
which are pressed tight to the fleshy sides of your neck,
you allow them to quiver alongside your cheeks momentarily before peeling them off,
slowly.
I have no words
for the sensations that pulsate through my spine
upon recalling your teeth clamped tight,
divine
HARD
around circles of my flesh.




4.

We are deer, naked wild, I'm caught in the headlights-
jumping and tripping,
skipping through your mind.


5.

You.
manifest in me a fierce understanding and amity of the human condition.


6.

I think it was Freud that said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, hoping to get different results.
Each time, you are believed to know better,
and to learn a valuable lesson on account of your mistakes.
So then what exactly makes someone repeat certain actions when they indeed know better?
Insanity? Defiance? Stupidity?


7.

We drove through a winter wonderland last night....some nameless Northwest cities. Quiet. Still. Empty. Covered in a fine layer of snow that seemed to absorb all noise (Except for the glow of inward hatred).
My boots crunched footprints into it, tossing a little onto my dirty pantlegs- I had to refrain from kicking it up joyously in girlish excitement: the gas station was playing Don't Fear the Reaper, and I felt odd.
I could only afford a shitty side salad at McDonalds...my last dollar. I'm going to have to break down, choke down my pride, and ask for more funds before I make it to the last and final stretch, homeward bound.
I've already stolen two granola bars...
would have gotten more but these goddamned gas stations have video cameras and fairly watchful patrons minding the registers.
I hate this.
I spent the last of my money on an expensive meal for him that I struggled vigorously at getting flawless,
some cheap liquor to make sure he got drunk enough to love me momentarily,
and now all I have to show for it is a ruin of overfucked, over-invested friendship and infatuation,
backtrack five years and maybe then I would be the one inducing vomit for a smidgeon of pity.
How sickening. I disgust myself.
And as for whatever happened to my self respect and dignity...
leaving early to try and retain a semblance of it means nothing if I counteract my own redressed intentions,
perhaps she was right: I'm pathetic and desperate.


8.

I can hear you sucking on the cigarette through the reciever

and the deep-lit darkness of humid late summer night-breeze seeps between the cracks-
splintering my skin, soaking it,
I'm recalling the unsteadiness in my footsteps as your voice penetrates the balmy stillness
first glass of thick, rich wine in months...
it slides through the vein web-locks deliriously,
sending forth sparks of urges that surge through red chipped fingetips
whispering, "write of this"
such sexy venom
leave me, sickness
my entire body is thrashing with disease,
need for him


9.

I'm watching you lick your blood scab
cheeks flushed
eyes half lidded and lazy
you light up
I can hardly stand this
why won't you allow me to have it one more time,
just a little something to remember you by?
last night
please.
permanent marker behind your ear
puffy lobes so biteable
your confidence sucks me in
black hole,
howling.

deliver me

and sometimes I dream of Spain
crisscrossed wired strings of laundry happenings
like garden awnings, with ivy rich red bricks,
mulled wine shades splashed across pouting skies of grey and gold
clay pot etchings speak shrilly
as we spin through the night, just to get it right-
this sensation
the heat of Eastern summer evenings
the wind whips us into dance
as the tied sheets scramble
and liberation unravels our doubts
that this is less then just right
and the lights are in the trees
with every pressure change
we surround ourselves with saving grace,
the distant sea lullabies
crashing waves of bareboned battles
between pleasures of flesh and spirit
our secrets steam in the wrought iron corners,
pot kettle black
wooden carvings and open doorways laugh, like ancient art

when my tousled spirals turn into faded knots of memory
sometimes my desire to flee is so searing it becomes flesh eating
and i feel the sickness swallowing me feet up
speak to me in Spanish,
release this tightening in the center of my throat
and early in the morning, middle of the night
i wake up damp and feverish near delirious
with train cabin hauntings
remembering the doughy thick pretzels pressed tight between cardboard and foil
the mist settling over the cold dawning fields
savored from the cherry tree
wind farms slow motion moan
when a one man memorial service given from jean-clad knees
soaked to the bone
light with ancestry's ashes
bone after bone bubbling with creation
is enough to broaden the horizons of a hundred forever afters

come with me,
the road to awe.

heaven is

rainbow stained open window paned showers after lingering wind-dance runs.
chocolate and cherries with bitter amber chasers.
marshmellow lips, slow Sunday morning post brunch parking lot shared kiss,
leisurely sinking into the Universe,
deep into hearts and windows down
no music for once- letting the rhythms and noises of the world soak into skin, reveling in them,
Full
to the brim.




The woman's feet pounded the amber gravel ruthlessly, crunching and grinding out invisible patterns, gesticulating, lingering and sinking into the sun baked grounds.
Her soul was laughing loudly, with dignity but without postulation; her blood was singing in her veins. She was on her second circle, round two of her late afternoon run through the quiet, rustling woods. She had already stopped at an old abandoned amphitheater to have tea with her own mind, who had expressed its belief that yes, it was about time. The earth had murmured to her through the eaves of the concrete, ivy, and Frisbee golf sites scattered like sporadic sunken treasures among the alder trees. It had said, you're home now, you have found your place, and it is everywhere; you belong here. With me. By his side.

The sunlight was filtering through the bramble of tree branches, and the humidity that she had felt sink into her skin upon entering the outside air was now being swept away by whips of wind from the Northeast that brought cool tumbles of clouds. She sucked in air gratefully, feeling it slide down her throat and fill her lungs like water, cleansing and nourishing, panoptic. Musical eyes soaked up the birth of light all around, suddenly coming to rest upon a small, lone bell-shaped bloom off the beaten path. Stopping in her tracks, she stood and stared, unmoving. The forest was still suddenly, motionless, and the clearing that she moved off the gravel to step into was a dreamscape of earthen browns, mottled grays, subtle greens. The only vibrant splash of color, standing tall and proud, stately, autonomous, was this little gem of blossoming sienna-red floret.

Her feet crushed leaf crumbles and brackets of dried thicket as she wandered closer, curious and enthralled, humbled by the beauty and mesmerized by the underlying flow of energy, the intimation beneath the surface of unbroken flesh (browned by the summer). She felt spiderwebs brush her flushed face and did not care, did not move to pull them away from her sticky skin or damp, tangled hair. The woman saw him there, saw him in this flower, hearty and courageous, alone but bound infinitely to everything surrounding, with nature and immeasurably one with the world. She bent down and kissed the garnet petals delicately, eyelids fluttering shut and yes, yes she could see, feel his lips enveloping her own, plushy and vastly searching, loving and sultry. It was as though her downturned face was really meeting his own upturned mouth, silken and pliable and feather-soft. She lost herself in this moment of daydream bliss, on this hidden island in the foilage of heaven, and forgot who she was for a moment, knowing nothing but the inward growth of soul and merging of magics.

When the woman's eyes reopened at last to allow the scenery to permeate her sight, her mind once more, she felt herself melting and transuding into the terrain, sweaty and complacent. She felt another presence suddenly, as though secret eyes were following her every nuance of movement, and she turned instinctively, calm but still sentient. No other being or mammal was anywhere to be seen, but her eyes seemed to float instantly over to the source, the essence reaching out to her through the caresses of eternal spring. Another sanguine, cardinal colored flower grew a few yards away, dancing gleefully in the tempering currents, independently evolving, divine and prospering.

The two blushing scarlet jewel-blossoms were saturated with virility, regardless of their solitude, and their auras fed off of one another, salubrious and wholesome. The woman could sense an invisible symbiosis vibrating in the air between the pair of breathing, propagating metaphors- a tacit juncture that was more alive than anything perceivable by time. The union between the secular spheres of the isolated flowers was fertile, lush, and the woman was moved to tears. She stood there momentarily, feeling it roll over her body in fragrant waves, lulling her spirit into a state of quiescent tranquility she had never known before or imagined to exist. She acknowledged it with a smile, then continued on her way, newborn and overflowing with raw bliss.

She stopped once more, further down the path, and kneeled, everything within her laid bare, and lowered her forehead to the rock strewn turf, resting it there for a moment and breathing in the thick earth where the soil was turning and the pebbles warming. And from her subjacent position, knees scraped and sullied, the woman expressed her thankfulness fervently, only lifting her gaze to collide with the sun's rays, staring into the lustrous voltage with hungry, open eyes. And she knew it, just as she knew the burning orb would rise every dawn until the day it burst and shattered in the sky, spewing the beginning of the end in the form of utter darkness over the forsaken lands. She felt it flood her and pervade every orifice and stoma with trembling shocks of cognizance that felt a lot like thunder bolts- out of the blackness, out of endlessness, out of the thick and anxious silence like an admission spoken unexpectedly into the motionless, meaningful hush within a lovers' car ride home.

When she rose again, everything was illuminated. She began to run, run back the way she had come. As tides turned and tossed and maneuvered tectonic plates, all the while whispering her name and reaching out to her from provinces away, a longing grew and crawled, creeped up the walls of her consciousness, and she wanted to run and run and run until the sea enveloped her aching feet.

She spoke his name aloud. She rolled the syllables around her tongue like sugar coated strawberry slices on a midsummer's day, and swallowed them, then spit them out once more, enunciating each subtlety, delighting in the piquancy. And then she whispered, spilled, vocalized, sang her secret into the bubbling gusts of wind that were flying alongside vessel and mind alike, sending it into the open with an articulate shove and a gleeful leap. The woman's expatiation of devotion was released with only the burgeoning branches of God as her witness, and she was satisfied with this. The overhang of unseasoned April overheard her admission, that she loved him, and later,when the day began to deepen and grow weary and heavy, like cumulonimbus cloud formations beginning to sprout visceral lightning storms, a spark manifested.

A fertilization beyond conceivable notions, unspoken and unbeknownst: a few days later, she would run through the same corners of the world and stumble across a third cherry-chestnut baby bloom, the offspring of two souls converging.

old manifesto just for fun

Art of this century does not just speak aloud to viewers, it screams...and thrashes, bleeds, squirms. It is raw and carnal in its nature and yet cuddly like a childhood teddy bear; it clings to your hands like the remnants of a juicy orange,
dripping,

Drizzling,

Down chins and lips.

I believe in the art of hardened nipples, upside down hair blow-drying, sap staining car windows.

An ethereal, otherworldly art that sings, dances, laughs, hates, cries, loves, parties, creates, destroys, links, uses, and fucks.

Art of this century is everywhere and nowhere at once. It must be sought out and used to slowly bang one's head against until an idea bursts forth and coats them thickly. It builds from tradition yet is unconventional; it breaks norms into pieces and rearranges them apathetically at random. It is harmonic in all its chaos, like the crashing,

Splashing,

Breaking of waves upon warm waiting sand.

I believe in an art of contradictions, of revolution and peace alike, of the bizarre and the strangely sensual.
A vehement, insistent art that runs up to you and grabs you by the throat, squeezing you into oblivion with its power and impression.

Art must be enigmatic, always. There cannot be a specific answer to seek out, or a destination, only a conundrum-journey. It leaves you begging on dirt-dusted knees for more,
PLEASE,

More,

More....until you collapse in fatigue (only for a two minute break before going a second round).

Art of this century is scalding; it fixes what is broken and breaks what is fixed. It throws reality in a blender and sprinkles dreams atop, sending them into a flurry and opening the top suddenly, so the contents fly,

Hurtle,

Careen every which way.

I believe in the art of broken taillights, lighting storms, winter bike riding, streams of sweat trickling down a spine, baby oil.
A playful, electric art that pokes fun at a stagnant society, that employs math, politics, science, and stereotypes in the creative process, then turns around and makes mincemeat of them.

Art of this century bends, twists like yoga and tickles then abuses your fancy into submission, like an eager dominatrix in black leather with dangling whips and chains. It sends you into the corner for time-out and draws a whimper from your lips; it feeds the frenzy and takes advantage of sensibility, oozing,

Seeping,

Gushing like chocolate syrup into the crevices of your mind.

I believe in the art of freckled and pierced noses, morning coffee, ready-made TV dinners, trashy magazines.
A paralyzing, stupefying art that recommends picking wedgies in public and turns heads faster than a perfectly proportioned redhead.

Art must be an intentional accident, always. There cannot be specific guidelines to strictly adhere to, or a certain direction to flow in, only a beautiful disaster of haphazard, sensory matter. Its effortless splendor heaves you down,
D

O

W

N

Deep...into the fiery pits of abandon (never to be seen again).

sometimes, no words: only metaphor

Recorded,
so I can remember.
Slows the Cedar Song
Exposing her quiet steps
Spill down a porch lit road.



Letter-Fiction
An Exercise-Experiment,
Getting in the Mood



It was the first morning he called her beautiful.

She had just gotten done getting herself off in the bathroom. She wondered how large a portion of her life had been spent in various bathrooms, masturbating. Holding her breath as the sensations poured over her. Probably a sizable chunk of time, yes, certainly. Now she was sitting at her desk, happily lining up small piles of salted almonds still in the shell, fresh blueberries, and vitamins. Her hair was a mess. It was always a mess. She cracked the husks of the nuts slowly and deliberately, savoring the dry, brittle popping noises and the messy shards of shell that fluttered to the desk. Her female cat, the long haired one with the wide, green eyes, was sitting at her feet perfectly still, watching her with those huge, black swimming pupils. No almonds for her- besides, she really just wanted to be petted. The feline watched as she swallowed her pills one by one, cautiously so as not to encounter the inevitable catching of one in her throat, that disgusting lump feeling that lingered for hours after.

She was still basking in it. The glorified satisfaction of the night prior, and of awakening early to the curve of his body, good coffee, classical music...oh, how she adored the lewd, whispered Spanish in her ear. She could get used to it, to him. Her days had been brighter lately, and her nights both amorous and quiescent, something akin to perfect.
They would take turns reading to one another,
and he would make her hot, buttery grilled cheese; they mixed mate and chianti in their stomachs with a glowing glee painted across both their faces,
sparkling eyes and flushed, warm cheeks.

Time to get down to business. She wanted to run a few miles and share this energy with the outside air, maybe masturbate again before class-but only after she stopped by the store for cinnamon. He had mentioned baked apples earlier, when their voices were still foggy with sleep and eyes still crusty, begrudgingly opening and closing in the day's first light. She liked satisfying his sporadic cravings, and seeing that glorious flash of white suddenly appear in the midst of a sea of stubble.

She had never been good with on the spot, vocalized expression. She could sit down, when in the right frame of mind, and effortlessly flood pages and pages with eager emotion. She could leave loved ones and strangers speechless in the wake of her written word; her passion easily tumbled from her, in the disguise of letters and punctuation points and carefully chosen metaphors, falling through her fingers to decorate blank pages and white, lined canvases. However, she was not quite as blessed with the ability to fluidly articulate affections and sentiments out loud. She would stumble over explanations and stutter a little, avert her gaze as her cheeks burned rosy and tepid. She liked to think of herself as a postulant connoisseur of words. Later, she would sit and simmer in all the possibilities of witty phrasings, the responses she had longed to give whomever she had been speaking with but had been unable to find the right choice of vernacular to assign to.

However, there were exceptions. If she was in a bullshitting mood, felt no need to be sincere, or was discussing manners of s simple, casual nature- it was gravy. Easy, baby. She could hold her own in these situations, and keep a steady hand and graceful mouth. It was when meaningful circumstances that stirred powerful pathos in her arose that her tongue tied itself in knots like cherry stems, sexy but useless.

So she had not surprised herself when she choked when he asked her, very persistently, the night before:
"What do you think about me?"

Her mind went blank. Wide open space and static, a gentle panic. How to describe the indescribable? Can't be done, writer or not. Her problem was, she couldn't accept this fact- stubborn shrew. She liked to try too hard. Stop it. There was such a thing as wasting time while
trying to impress.
Soul meets body.
Remember to breathe.
Tacit thoughts trembled like dewdrops on early morning lawns, threatening to clumsily spill down the blades with no regard to poise or pizazz. She lost herself in them and her lips were suddenly chapped, cracking a little at the edges. Her legs, bare beneath his old high school track shorts, were goosebumped and nervous jiggling.

She came to and found she was rambling.
God, what an idiot.
She briefly considered groaning in frustration but kept batting words around instead.

He was contemplative, patient, and romantic- tangled around her, eager for feedback. They were freshly showered and cozy and warm, tucked into the nook of couch cushions and wooden walls with bookshelves and canoe paddles and rain-forest blankets.

What she wanted to say was,
"I think you're stunning.
Breath stealing in all your mannerism rhythms,
lulling me into a hypnotic, ecstatic state
altering between peace, volatility, and carnality.
I like the way you jump and jolt in your sleep.
I like the way you always thank me,
so appreciative,
even when it is unnecessary or without real reason.
I like the way you are so involved in the lives and joys of others. Your loyalty, your ferocious compassion, quiet but fierce,
like a leopard, active and powerfully strong even while lounging in the heat.
I think you are blood of the earth.
Directly plugged into nature's core,
pertinently and inherently earth-bound and yet destined for the Great Beyond.
I like your raw spirituality,
how it seeps from your pores and casts a soft glow around every movement, every nuance.
I like your dark sensuality,
your hummingbird mind-
always busy, always flitting-flying in several directions, all the time (rapidly spinning, colorful blur of gems, fireworks, sparks, nectar).
I like your wide open eyes, your avoidance of the prevalent blindness sweeping societies,
observant and constant fidelity-
to questioning, delving, to living and loving life,
your loved ones, yourself,
the world.
I think you have a sparkling presence.
A gem of a judicious, perennial soul- a rarity,
with the ability to permeate and permutate, provoke change liberally.
I like your pure, undiluted sincerity. Your honesty, sometimes perfectly brutal,
but always in good taste:
I like your sarcasm, your opinionated, loud-mouthed, smart-ass spunk.
I like how you are not afraid, in the least,
LET GO.
(Release)
I like the boy in you-
your youthful spirit,
that childlike joyousness you have maintained and will always contain within...
and the man,
(from which stems that gorgeous and favored temporal laugh, post intimate acts)
the writer too.
(spectacularly woven webs of words that spin me up, wrapped in splendor and awe)
I like the boy scout in you,
showing his face sporadically through bouts of beautiful-useful-
handy-dandy-nonsense,
vivacious, innocent excitement.
I like the dirty, the nitty gritty, the violent, morbid, obscure propensities of your riddle.
I like how intuitive you are,
and how you read my body, my eyes, my vibes, my mind
like a worn in, favorite book-
nearly a second nature (every corner, every nook.)
I like you, your epic kindness, your perseverance and tenacity.
I like the hopeless romantic, the scientist, the intellect, the father, the missionary, the monk, the cynic,
the activist, the people pleasing politician, the hippie, the mentor/teacher and counselor/listener, the artist, the carpenter, the comedian, the performer, the philosopher, the perfectionist, the chatterbox, the worrywart/over analyzer, the historian, the cultured world traveler, the journalist.
I like every devotion, prayer, belief, ache, longing, restlessness, obsession, quirk.
I like you,
my wild colibrí, grizzly mountain man,
always in motion, changing,
with your inherent curiosity,
in all your whiskey drinking, manual laboring, outdoor-frequenting glory..
sexy little moments, country-boy materialization:
Your peekaboo accents send me spinning into giddy arousal.
I like the way you look at me when you want to kiss me,
how often you steal my breath..
I love your unrestrained laugh and that sparkle you get in your dreamer's eyes,
your weak stomach and your fear of death.
I love your vernacular and diction, your pouf of hair and sensual chameleon eyes, your flow and your friction.
I adore watching you...
how you move in the water,
how you play your music, how your music plays you,
how your singing moves and touches, resonates deeply-
how you let it, feel the beauty and omnipotence of the rhythm rip through you.
I like your incredible taste, (in everything),
getting in your car and hearing backwoods bluegrass playing,
coming home..
to you.
to fabulous new vinyl, good wine, chocolate, favorite groceries, tea already brewing, bedroom air thickening and smoky with nagchampa
and sex.
I like that you would do anything for me,
and how evident this is in every move you make,
and I like the steady-handed awareness within my core
that I would sprint to the ends of the earth and back for you,
give up all of myself...
that there is nothing I wouldn't do
or sacrifice
for your contentment,
not even my life.
I love how you fuck me.
The ways you make love to me,
the way your tongue parts me masterfully,
how perfect it feels to have you inside of my warm, moist depths,
how flawlessly our bodies fit together,
as though they were formed from mold that was meant to form-fit,
two pieces of a larger than life jigsaw puzzle separated at birth (reunited).
I love how you love, and know how, to fortuitously make use of your hands, body, mind, eyes, and voice
to the best of your ability...far more than most.
I like how you always give homeless men one beer,
how you always give me the last bite,
or the most flavorful slice of pizza.
I like how excited you get at every and any opportunity to make me smile or laugh.
I think you are this shimmering ball of radiant energy,
a dynamic, mellifluous shade of blue...
calming and possessing absolute peace yet harnessing sheer power:
my kundalini shakti.
I like your modesty, humbleness,
and yet your delicious confidence:
you know and love who you are, are are never scared to be yourself.
I adore your passion- how much you give all of yourself,
put all of your effort into, and pride yourself in
the things you do...
possessing true devotion.
I like how you refuse to settle for mediocrity,
and constantly push and challenge yourself,
and others, especially me-
I like that keep me accountable, how you make me work for it,
and how you endlessly and imcomprehensibly make me a better woman, a better human.
I like your nervousness during scary movies,
and that you are active, reactive, and proactive.
I like how much of a storyteller you are:
a spectacular performer of many trades...
your enthusiasm, animation, expressiveness,
painted across every exquisite inch of your face,
woven into your body language,
shimmering in your words.
I like that you get as hot about my talents, weird tendencies, quirks
as I do about yours.
I like that you are real-
you aren't the least bit pretentious or artificial,
attempting to woo me:
that when the resplendent words you are so capable of leave your lips,
when you tell me pretty things,
i know you mean them.
I think you are a magnificent elucidation of Balance...
even in your most crazed, chaotic moments:
silly and playful, a cheeky and grand sense of humor,
and yet serious at all the right moments/
affectionate and yet valuing of space: both yours and mine/
respectful, such a gentleman/an asshole when you need to be.
I like your dirty mouth and your titillating sexuality
I like how detail- oriented you are.
You make note of the little things,
the ones others never notice,
and take time to savor lifes simple pleasures.
I love that you understand the importance of holding things between excess.
You don't overdo it..
and you kiss me at just the right moments, but never too much,
you hold out, make me wait,
and ache,
and make me all the more awe-struck when you finally propitiate.
I adore your fierce independence, and the way you withdraw within yourself, do your own thing for hours on end, immerse yourself in you, and what satisfies your soul.
I like how you always open the door for me. Run on the outside. Give me the hot water. Sleep on the floor near me when I pass out on the couch. Are my alarm clock, even on grumpybitch mornings.
I think your corazón is pure, solid gold,
and the most luxuriant, sparklingly bright, captivating treasure,
gift,
I have ever been lucky enough to be graced with the presence of.
I love that you bury your face in the back of my hair. I want you to stay there,
to stay here
with me,
always."


She did not say any of those things. After his inquiry, cross-examination for sake of honesty, she just smiled mysteriously at him, and babbled like a chatty Cathy brook in spring's first wing stretching. After all, she was an avid proponent of letting the most powerful unmentionables remain unspoken.

Not unwritten, mind you.

when wildflowers grow on walls

The cheery wind kites strung along the colorful front porch of the pre-school whipped around teasingly in the lazy morning breeze, and the cardinal fluttered to a resting spot on the branch of a speckled cedar tree. She was gazing at the cozy white building, with its quiet joy and red, green, yellow lined windows and doorways with a sort of soft longing, dreamy eyes smiling beneath the swoop of dusty brownish bangs. The candy-striped laughter of children seemed to echo off the chain links, the fenced off play area full of plastic novelties, shiny slides, trinkets, baubles, and hiding places. Lupita had never seen them outside, but the cardinal had, and he bristled and lifted his wings in sunny memory of their round, puerile merriment, relishing in his own observance of the similarities in her pigtailed buoyancy, rainbow earrings dangling with pride and aligned with her cotton candy lips. Her hips were swinging with a particularly noticeable gaiety, and his heart swelled as he watched her slowly savor her morning toast, imagining he was the sprouted grains dissolving on her lush, pink tongue. A sigh of breath left his beak and blended with the balmy air as he surveyed her, seeing her sink into fancies with a recognizable but fresh-faced bounce in her step. The cardinal had followed her in flight from the moment she crossed the threshold, the cracked terra-cotta-rose stone entryway of the little cabin nestled in the woods she now called home. As she crossed the warming pavement and patches of new spring grass, beginning to grow distant enough that he could no longer see the shine of stretching sun in her glossy black orbs of her sunglasses, he unfolded his amber-red feathered arms and slid back into the wind sprays, catching a current that sent him coasting in the wake of her wild mustang grape skin and pumpkin spice scent. She did not look at him, but he was always with her, and she was aware, and humming for him again.

He debated settling himself directly in her path, lighting upon the tops of the blooming magnolias alongside the little hopping robin, or perhaps in the bubbling greenery of the St. Augustine lining the sides of the sea of cement where her feet padded deliberately, tucked inside teal knee highs and slip ons. But Lupita was looking at the dandelions, and he loathed the thought of interrupting her, because he knew the saffron flowers represented hope to her. He saw the sparkle of meaning stir deep inside of her and span her golden face, and wished he could be soaring instead through the valleys and mountain torrents of her mind.

The little bird was puffy with poise and pride as he looked on, watching the involuntary practiced ease with which she tucked the edges of her skull bandanna in as she passed the coin-operated Laundromat with the chipped 24 hour sign in the wide windows. She was seductive in even the smallest of gestures, confident and yet unaware of her own grace, even in clumsy moments. And as for the cardinal- he was quite simply the epitome of agile propriety,a cultivated picture of meteoric beauty and song, transient yet constant, mellifluous and beyond brimming with harmonies of the earth and still, natural serenity.

Lupita stopped suddenly in her journey, appearing to sense some presence abruptly, and she turned on her heel to survey the open air and areas spanning her line of sight. Her face was curious, contemplative, and she removed her sunglasses so as to scan more effective, blinking to allow her eyes to adjust to the light filtering through the scarce puffs of cloud in the cerulean skies. The cardinal became swiftly self conscious of his impertinent shadowing, and swooped to land amongst some foliage near the Cavalry Chapel of the Springs. He admired her from afar as she shaded her inquisitive chestnut eyes and tugged a little on her plaid shorts in befuddlement, turning to face first the rise of the pure white cathedral steeple, then the dark red brick of the post office with its protective lining of stately palm trees, waving their fronds in the brilliance of ultraviolet light. A slight smile curved her lips in bemused confusion, but her eyelashes fluttered upwards towards the heavens with a tinge of knowing. She returned the sunglasses to their rightful position perched upon her bejeweled nose, and reassumed her steady pace, in the search for iced green tea to soothe away the late March heat. The cardinal followed soon behind, eager to soak in ever more, to revel in her circle of warmth.

His blood rushed faster as he beheld the curve of her bare breasts beneath the paper-thin fabric of her vibrant summer tee, her taut, bronze legs reflected in the glass of the dance studio's doorway as she passed. He fought the humid gusts and watched her pause to debate purchasing a daily paper, as she bit her lip in distraction but soon thereafter remembered her purpose, stride picking up pace as she scrutinized the surrounding range, hoping her bank just so happened to reside nearby. A young man glanced up from the papers he was deliberating intently as they crossed paths, then returned his gaze wearily back to his study materials with a steady focus, and the cardinal tittered as Lupita whispered to herself in his passing "It's in the bag," and helped herself to a giggle.

void upon void upon void

After pre-grinding the morning's quality coffee he would lock all the doors in his cozy cabin, one by one with care and practiced ease, to keep the murderers out. A thick and sweet woodsy smell like burning autumn leaves would hang and hover in the warm air, draped like freshly made sheets across the heated breeze from the window unit that stirred strands of her pigtails as she watched him move,
like ripples across sighing brooks from the skipped rocks of lovers picnicking in the sun.
He was a hummingbird. And she loved to see him flitting, flying,
frenzying from one flower to another,
always moving,
moving mountains with that bright eyed wide smile she so adored.
It would flash across his features from time to time,
weary in the late hours but still shining and prominent and slightly knee-weakening even.
The momentary gleam of pure white in that sea of scruff would make her toes curl with joy,
hibernating within her fuzzy house slippers, chipped orange polish slowly cracking off with the passage of time.
His flannel coat would hang haphazardly over the rocking chair and the scuffle of his bare feet across the faded browns and navys of the oriental rug would make her feel at home,
and whenever her lips parted to murmur these things out loud she found herself kissing him instead.
And he knew.
He told her stories about flying refrigerators and the children of old women beating the piss out of salesman,
as she laid curled up on his chest giggling and grinning girlishly in giddiness,
and he knew. He knew, and so did she, that night.
It hit her headfirst like a soccer ball gone astray and aimed wrong and yet just right,
straight to the side of the head and pit-stop at her fluttering heart.
Christmas lights outside in the trees, lit into the night, dangling from the branches and swaying lightly and carefree in March's easy, breezy, cool wind song,
and she knew.
Mug lifted to mouth with the straw bracelet hand, curled toes, and vertigo, and then-
this strange glow. Welcome and bubbling, seeping and melting, spreading and blossoming, burgeoning and birthing...yes, it was there now, to stay.
Irises in the window, half-wilted but still regal, facial hair in her toothbrush bristles, and she liked it there more and more every day.

"The ghosts are back," he whispered.







She carefully unfolded the parchment-like paper with her rainbow gloves, wary and eager.
The ripe smell of fresh strawberries coming from her bag made her stomach grumble impatiently. "Shhhhhh," she said. And then she read.




His words on her windshield, his scent all over and creeping into her head,
and outside air was like water once again, she was breathing deep and drinking it all in with no lack of fervent gratitude: the Universe was swelling for them.

There were promises quietly lying in his steps and spring could be seen in the little white buds gathering in the bushes lining the avenue, the ones with plastic bags tangled in the branches. She didn't mind that she came home smelling like fish and chips, or corned beef and cabbage, or fried corn dodgers, grease smudged in the denim wrapped around her thighs; she didn't mind that her Spanish was too rusty for her preference, or that she would sometimes wake in the night choking on air, sweaty and feeling nervous, as though she had been fleeing, or dying, because she could share dairy-less ice cream with him as he weaved tales of the gem of his childhood- her favorite reservoir of sweet, soft power, wistful and rustic and the most delightful feast of memories her mind had ever devoured. In the wee hours of the morning, smears of chocolate would appear across the white and shiny polished surface of his keyboard and would later leave the residue of laughter in his mouth while she dreamed of making love to him in the river waters after dark, or behind the dunes while the salted moonswept waves washed away their cynical sides and happily scratched their sun browned skin with seaweed.

Her bathroom smelled like Spanish Amber and cedar, and her mind was filtering images she could barely fathom, torrents upon torrents of aquatic ponderings, fresh and sparkling from the aquifer and pushed through the natural springs like thin honey. She would run through the old, familiar neighborhood with a thick head of joy, over the rusting and crumbling sidewalks, and she would remember rollerblading through the gutters and sewers, or sleeping in the guest bedroom with the the closet ghost. One black rectangle of stone had slid slyly from her grandmother's ring on her left hand, but she only noted it and smiled, for nostalgia coated and nursed the newness streaming through her networks of capillaries, replenishing the drought soiled banks and filling her up, satiating her growth and her streamlining spirit, branches upon branches upon branches like the ones she slept in as a youth.

sometimes, no words: only metaphor

Recorded,
so I can remember.
Slows the Cedar Song
Exposing her quiet steps
Spill down a porch lit road.



Letter-Fiction
An Exercise-Experiment,
Getting in the Mood



It was the first morning he called her beautiful.

She had just gotten done getting herself off in the bathroom. She wondered how large a portion of her life had been spent in various bathrooms, masturbating. Holding her breath as the sensations poured over her. Probably a sizable chunk of time, yes, certainly. Now she was sitting at her desk, happily lining up small piles of salted almonds still in the shell, fresh blueberries, and vitamins. Her hair was a mess. It was always a mess. She cracked the husks of the nuts slowly and deliberately, savoring the dry, brittle popping noises and the messy shards of shell that fluttered to the desk. Her female cat, the long haired one with the wide, green eyes, was sitting at her feet perfectly still, watching her with those huge, black swimming pupils. No almonds for her- besides, she really just wanted to be petted. The feline watched as she swallowed her pills one by one, cautiously so as not to encounter the inevitable catching of one in her throat, that disgusting lump feeling that lingered for hours after.

She was still basking in it. The glorified satisfaction of the night prior, and of awakening early to the curve of his body, good coffee, classical music...oh, how she adored the lewd, whispered Spanish in her ear. She could get used to it, to him. Her days had been brighter lately, and her nights both amorous and quiescent, something akin to perfect.
They would take turns reading to one another,
and he would make her hot, buttery grilled cheese; they mixed mate and chianti in their stomachs with a glowing glee painted across both their faces,
sparkling eyes and flushed, warm cheeks.

Time to get down to business. She wanted to run a few miles and share this energy with the outside air, maybe masturbate again before class-but only after she stopped by the store for cinnamon. He had mentioned baked apples earlier, when their voices were still foggy with sleep and eyes still crusty, begrudgingly opening and closing in the day's first light. She liked satisfying his sporadic cravings, and seeing that glorious flash of white suddenly appear in the midst of a sea of stubble.

She had never been good with on the spot, vocalized expression. She could sit down, when in the right frame of mind, and effortlessly flood pages and pages with eager emotion. She could leave loved ones and strangers speechless in the wake of her written word; her passion easily tumbled from her, in the disguise of letters and punctuation points and carefully chosen metaphors, falling through her fingers to decorate blank pages and white, lined canvases. However, she was not quite as blessed with the ability to fluidly articulate affections and sentiments out loud. She would stumble over explanations and stutter a little, avert her gaze as her cheeks burned rosy and tepid. She liked to think of herself as a postulant connoisseur of words. Later, she would sit and simmer in all the possibilities of witty phrasings, the responses she had longed to give whomever she had been speaking with but had been unable to find the right choice of vernacular to assign to.

However, there were exceptions. If she was in a bullshitting mood, felt no need to be sincere, or was discussing manners of s simple, casual nature- it was gravy. Easy, baby. She could hold her own in these situations, and keep a steady hand and graceful mouth. It was when meaningful circumstances that stirred powerful pathos in her arose that her tongue tied itself in knots like cherry stems, sexy but useless.

So she did not surprise herself when she choked when he asked her, very persistently, the night before:
"What do you think about me?"

Her mind went blank. Wide open space and static, a gentle panic. How to describe the indescribable? Can't be done, writer or not. Her problem was, she couldn't accept this fact- stubborn shrew. She liked to try too hard. Stop it. There was such a thing as wasting time while
trying to impress.
Soul meets body.
Remember to breathe.
Unspoken thoughts trembled like dewdrops on early morning lawns, threatening to clumsily spill down the blades with no regard to poise or pizazz. She lost herself in them and her lips were suddenly chapped, cracking a little at the edges. Her legs, bare beneath his old high school track shorts, were goosebumped and nervous jiggling.

She came to and found she was rambling.
God, what an idiot.
She briefly considered groaning in frustration but kept batting words around instead.

He was contemplative, patient, and romantic- tangled around her, eager for feedback. They were freshly showered and cozy and warm, tucked into the nook of couch cushions and wooden walls with bookshelves and canoe paddles and rain-forest blankets.

What she wanted to say was,
"I think you're stunning.
Breath stealing in all your mannerism rhythms,
lulling me into a hypnotic, ecstatic state
altering between peace, volatility, and carnality.
I like the way you jump and jolt in your sleep.
I like the way you always thank me,
so appreciative,
even when it is unnecessary or without real reason.
I like the way you are so involved in the lives and joys of others. Your loyalty, your compassion, quiet but fierce,
like a leopard, active and strong even while lounging in the heat.
I think you are blood of the earth.
Directly plugged into nature's core,
pertinently and inherently earth-bound and yet destined for the Great Beyond.
I like your raw spirituality,
how it seeps from your pores and casts a soft glow around every movement, every nuance.
I like your dark sensuality,
your hummingbird mind-
always busy, always flitting-flying in several directions, all the time (rapidly spinning, colorful blur of gems, fireworks, sparks, nectar).
I like your wide open eyes, your avoidance of the prevalent blindness sweeping societies,
observant and constant fidelity-
to questioning, delving, to living and loving life,
your loved ones, yourself,
the world.
I think you have a sparkling presence.
A gem of a judicious, perennial soul- a rarity,
with the ability to permeate and permutate, provoke change liberally.
I like your pure, undiluted sincerity. Your honesty, sometimes perfectly brutal,
but always in good taste:
I like your sarcasm, your opinionated, loud-mouthed, smart-ass spunk.
I like how you are not afraid, in the least,
LET GO.
(Release)
I like the boy in you-
your youthful spirit,
that childlike joyousness you have maintained and will always contain within...
and the man,
(from which stems that gorgeous and favored temporal laugh, post intimate acts)
the writer too.
(spectacularly woven webs of words that spin me up, wrapped in splendor and awe)
I like the boy scout in you,
showing his face sporadically through bouts of beautiful-useful-
handy-dandy-nonsense,
vivacious, innocent excitement.
I like the dirty, the nitty gritty, the violent, morbid, obscure pieces of your puzzle.
I like how intuitive you are,
and how you read my body, my eyes
like a worn in, favorite book-
nearly a second nature (every corner, every nook.)
I like you, compassionately kind,
grizzly mountain man,
in all your whiskey drinking, manual laboring, outdoor-frequenting glory..
sexy little moments, country-boy materialization.
Your peekaboo accents send me spinning into giddy arousal.
I like the way you look at me when you want to kiss me,
how often you steal my breath..
I love your unrestrained laugh and that sparkle you get in your dreamer's eyes,
your weak stomach and your fear of death.
I adore watching you...
how you move in the water,
how you play your music, how your music plays you,
the beauty of your singing-
letting it, feeling the beauty and omnipotence of the rhythm rip through you.
I like your incredible taste, (in everything),
getting in your car and hearing backwoods bluegrass playing,
coming home..
to you.
to fabulous new vinyl, good wine, chocolate, favorite groceries, tea already brewing, bedroom air thickening and smoky with nagchampa
and sex.
I like that you would do anything for me,
and how evident this is in every move you make,
and I like the steady-handed awareness within my core
that I would sprint to the ends of the earth and back for you,
give up all of myself...
that there is nothing I wouldn't do
or sacrifice
for your contentment,
not even my life.
I love how you fuck me.
The ways you make love to me,
the way your tongue parts me masterfully,
how perfect it feels to have you inside of my warm, moist depths,
how flawlessly our bodies fit together,
as though they were formed from mold that was meant to form-fit,
two pieces of a larger than life jigsaw puzzle separated at birth (reunited).
I love how you love, and know how, to fortuitously use your hands, body, mind, eyes, and voice
to the best of your ability...far more than most.
I think you are this shimmering ball of radiant energy,
a dynamic, mellifluous shade of blue...
calming and possessing absolute peace yet harnessing sheer power:
my kundalini shakti.
I like your modesty, humbleness,
and yet your delicious confidence:
you know and love who you are, are are never scared to be yourself.
I adore your passion- how much you give all of yourself,
put all of your effort into, and pride yourself in
the things you do...
true devotion.
I like how you refuse to settle for mediocrity,
and constantly push and challenge yourself,
and others.
I like your nervousness during scary movies,
and that you are active, reactive, and proactive.
I like how much of a storyteller you are:
a spectacular performer of many trades...
your enthusiasm, animation, expressiveness,
painted across every exquisite inch of your face,
woven into your body language,
shimmering in your words.
I like that you get as hot about my talents, weird tendencies, quirks
as I do about yours.
I like that you are real-
you aren't the least bit pretentious or artificial,
attempting to woo me:
that when the resplendent words you are so capable of leave your lips,
when you tell me pretty things,
i know you mean them.
I think you are a magnificent elucidation of Balance...
even in your most crazed, chaotic moments:
silly and playful, a cheeky and grand sense of humor,
and yet serious at all the right moments/
affectionate and yet valuing of space: both yours and mine/
respectful, such a gentleman/an asshole when you need to be.
I like your dirty mouth and your titillating sexuality
I like how detail- oriented you are.
You make note of the little things,
the ones others never notice,
and take time to savor lifes simple pleasures.
I love that you understand the importance of holding things between excess.
You don't overdo it..
and you kiss me at just the right moments, but never too much,
you hold out, make me wait,
and ache,
and make me all the more awe-struck when you finally propitiate.
I adore your fierce independence, and the way you withdraw within yourself, do your own thing for hours on end, immerse yourself in you, and what satisfies your soul.
I like how you always open the door for me. Run on the outside. Give me the hot water. Sleep on the floor near me when I pass out on the couch. Are my alarm clock, even on grumpybitch mornings.
I think your corazón is pure, solid gold,
and the most luxuriant, sparklingly bright, captivating treasure,
gift,
I have ever been lucky enough to be graced with the presence of.
I love that you bury your face in the back of my hair. I want you to stay there,
to stay here
with me,
always."


She did not say any of those things. After his inquiry, cross-examination for sake of honesty, she just smiled mysteriously at him, and babbled like a chatty Cathy brook in spring's first wing stretching. After all, she was an avid proponent of letting the most powerful unmentionables remain unspoken.

Not unwritten, mind you.

just saying

seek out the most luxuriant green patch of grass for your meditation
(best session yet. maybe it is the beautiful sleep.)
match hair bandannas with your friend
(buy one in every color.)
pour cinnamon and sugar on your apples
(share them)
chase vitamins with wine
(red,rich, and with chocolate accents...or your favorite kind.)
sneak a cigarette and revel in the guilt of it
(embrace little bouts of vulnerability. they're sexy)
hit snooze twenty times and put off the endless to-dos for more bed
(cozy under the piles of blankets and soak up their body heat instead)
read bloody, sexy short fiction for bedtime stories
(coffee. lots and lots and lots of it.)
dance....extra close, pressed tight against another's sweaty clothes
(on school nights)
cool your heated skin by kissing in the night rain
(naked)
laugh loud at awkwardness, unexpected or fabricated
(don't hog your weirdness all to yourself)
don't always do things on time
(Buddha's shit: the best kind)


write letters with stolen pens.
leave little pieces of your heart behind, random placement.
waste coughdrops.
dill-dally.


decorate (dust).
pick up (new bad habits).
neglect (brushing your hair).
be (a sponge for details).
go (barefoot in public).
draw (it out).
embrace (the art of odd jewelery).
splurge (on four dollar cookies).
savor (pointless walks).
climb (trees).
spend quality time (on good sex and masturbation).
let yourself (trust).
embrace (the fall).










the appreciation of pleasure can be an anchor of one's humanity.

in a world of disorder
disaster
and fraud,
sometimes only beauty can be trusted.
artistic excellence is incorruptible,
pleasure cannot be bargained down.

and don't forget your vitamins

The little hanging paper tag suspended from my teabag
reads Feeling Down? Hot Liquids Bring Relief
And I can't help but bite my bottom lip in guilt:
Stacking laundry lists, and yet
Regardless-
All I can seem to bleed from my swollen mind, right now
Is the thought that I could really just use
A different kind of Hot Liquids
Than the herbal medley seeping in its porcelain chamber
...Tea is delicious, don't get me wrong
And as much as it makes me feel at home within myself,
It lacks a certain intimacy

The kind your skin soaks up and revels in
After you've wrapped yourself tightly in (and tied a bow on the head with a flourish)
Another's body language (read: fluids)


Oh, I could get more graphic, believe me..
if I succumbed to the whims of my primal drumbeat ponderings
no details would be spared.
BUT no need for me to share the state of my hormones currently,
it's late and I'm frustrated with my own contradictory desires and urges
Wanting nothing more than to crawl under my candy comforter naked and set up shop,
content and alone and soft skinned,
eyelids lacking any preoccupations or obligations
Nothing but the sound of my own deep chested breaths to lull me
into still waters.
And yet...
there is this big, fat,
bulky, throbbing
image
sitting in the corner of my consciousness
Of something like darkened, honest eyes
shining with awareness and with nothing to hide,
grabbing me mid glimpse,
-caught me.

I'd like to look at you a little longer,
but I'm always late in this game anyway..
So i'll just forget to remind myself exactly how much dirty brevity
can hit the spot
(X marks it, you called it)
Lately I have been for lack of hustle
and in this day and age,
often times it seems far too hopeless anyway,
we're all left feeling like
the only solution to the tug of war
is to live constantly
one deep.
And maybe it is.




An unshakeable connection,
soft heated flesh in the night
a laugh that sits deep within my bones and embeds itself there,
okay. These are all nice, too.
Hey, longing....fuck you.
I don't have time anymore.
HotLiquids
BringRelief

[i need to push myself more.]

traditional medicinals for the soul
if it ain't broke...
don't fix it.


we're all waiting,
in between the lines.

it's time.

At first, this was going to come to light in the form of a letter...but I decided to borrow a friend's idea and instead post it here, although in my case it will be a one time affair, as opposed to a series. I normally choose to leave my blogs fairly vague and obscure; this is a matter of personal preference for the period in my life but is also a defense mechanism sometimes, and a way of trying not to broadcast my personal affairs too far beyond certain realms. Not because I find this inappropriate or excessive, I just never am quite sure whether it is okay with whoever may be involved in my postings, so I leave things open ended and allow people to draw their own conclusions. A lot of times, I think it's more challenging this way, to myself and to whomever may read my blog. However, I have been been doing a sizable amount of thinking in relation to this particular subject and decided I wanted to be openly heard this time around. I want my feelings on this matter to be laid out, unfolded, and creased upon the table, because it's important for me to rest with a little more ease knowing I didn't allow the status quo to remain a stale question mark, not without, at the very least, an effort to share my thoughts. I don't like feeling like I have been fully censoring myself for the sake of others, holding back my stream of consciousness for fear of stepping on toes and agitating the still waters. I refuse to keep quiet just because it is your preferred choice of action, because it is easier and less hurtful, more peaceful and backed away from the boundaries of conflict, which I know you are not a fan of. My intention is not to cause conflict, however....or to cause any sort of guilt or assumptions. I don't expect agreement, apology, confrontation, or even a response at this point in time...as has been the custom anyway. I just need you to read this and consider it, and hear me. Because I have come too far to let my level of self respect drop a few notches because I am ashamed enough about decisions I have made in the past, or my tendencies, to force myself to accept the past couple of months and hover in this suspended reign of static nothingness.

What I am getting at, more specifically is- I'm not really okay with everything. I'm not angry, and I hold no grudges, I'm not bitter or confused or throwing myself any degree of pity party-because I'm not blind to the areas in which I myself have gone, and went, completely wrong and made some bad decisions. I know what was brought upon by my choices, my own actions...and I also know some things occurred that were beyond my control. I am perfectly aware of certain reasons that may exist for why you did what you did...that is why I told you I don't blame you. Because in fact, it would be more logical to blame myself, and yet I refuse to do that also, because I don't believe either of us are entirely at fault. There were some challenging circumstances, I know...and I know you bit your tongue on more than one occasion because you wanted me to be happy and free, even if it was at your expense, and you knew what it would cost in the long run. I could never thank you enough for allowing me to truly be myself, no matter how much of a mess I might have been, and for loving every individual sliver of fiber, physical or metaphorical/metaphysical, making up the woman and spirit that I am...regardless of flaws in character, regardless of anything and everything that shadows the light in me, regardless of how difficult (and yet contradictingly easy) it may be sometimes to love a free spirit. I shared more of myself with you than I have shared with most, I hope you know that, and know that I don't regret any of it, not in the slightest. But I digress- this is not a "farewell " letter, meant to stir up tears, regrets, or old feelings, revisited...it's just something I need to do, because it is haunting me enough to make me feel a little robotic most days, waiting for something that refuses to come, was maybe not meant to come in the first place. I know how difficult and trying things got after the joyous whirlwind of magic that was our autumn... and I had no intentions on allowing my descent to bring you down, to rope you up and pull you into the depths of the stone wells of despair when I was drowning. I did not expect to be saved, I didn't feel self entitled to a knight in shimmering coats of majestic power to come woo me off my feet and carry me off into the blinding rays of setting sun, no- I promise you, you were not simply some crutch to hold me up and distract me, a phase, a certain shade in my calendar book. And I apologize if this is the way things came off to you, as I'm sure they did in some points of time. It was never my intention to put the weight of responsibility on your shoulders when I went downhill, to make you wait around for the rebirth- phoenix, rising from the smoldering ashes-nor to make you fall in love with me, only to be forced to let me go and float on [feeling as though the period of time we shared was nothing more than a waking dream, something a soul of a poet, a musician would conjer up out of hope.] You and I both know you chose this. And to some degree, I believe I also know the majority of reasons. I know sometimes it is less painful to let time do the talking...and I'm okay with that. I acknowledge the various degrees of reasoning involved here. What I'm not okay with is the decision to quietly move on and allow the door to shut itself with barely a resounding tap as you tiptoe to another room..
probably to record words that morphed from a story, a tale of two lovers, to something easily generalized to fit an emotion instead of a person, someone special.
I know you held no expectations of me...I know you wanted me to have complete liberty. Again, thank you. But maybe this is one area you went wrong. This is something I am coming to understand is not as acceptable to me as I thought, originally. As wonderful, compassionate, and selfless you were most times, allowing me all the breathing room I needed (which is something very crucial, don't get me wrong- to a certain degree) perhaps you SHOULD have had expectations. Because I did. I expected you to be honest with me. Not by omission, or blank spaces. I didn't expect you to pull me out of the bubbling swamp muck, or even to throw me a line, or wait on the shore as i slowly, inch by inch, worked my body parts out one by one. I was not ever playing victim. I warned you far in advance of what was on the horizon...and no, I didn't expect that to mean I could use "I told you so" as an excuse when it was all said and done. It was simply because I wanted to put myself out there for you, to open up more than I had ever been willing to do in the past with someone I cared so deeply for, allowing you to see darker shades of my soul than I ever believed I would be able to share with anyone other than myself (and sometimes not even.) I didn't expect you to get your hands dirty. But I did expect you to care enough about who I was a person, not just me as a creative-inspirational feeder-passionate-dreamlover-ladybug aglow, but me as a whole entity (even the stranger I am apt to become in rough times, as many others are prone to do as well) to come clean with me . Mind you- NOT care enough to stick around, because I wouldn't expect that of anyone who was no longer in love...but it would have been nice to know you were still there, anyway, even if your faith and fascination had dwindled and faded...as a friend, if nothing else. Instead, there was silence. And as suddenly as I had felt filled that fateful October, I felt completely alone. Used.Not to say you didn't feel that way too at some point..and I'm sorry if this is the case. But.. Love or no love, I felt as though first and foremost I was simply an outlet you plugged yourself into, and then, nearly as rapidly, out of, afraid to admit out loud that the possibility had dawned that it was indeed an idea that most hypnotized you, a vitality and a brightness of spirit, a mystery and a state of living that took on the guise of dreaming, instead of an actual being, soul, itself.
An air sprite archetype.
Easy to fall in love with,
just as easy to leave that same love behind without a second glance.

I'm sorry if I hurt you, it was the last thing I wanted...and the last thing you wanted too, you even said so. But it's not fair for me to take all the fall. You did hurt me too. I just needed you to know that. I know you are sorry...as am I. So please, remember I mean it when I say the point of this is not to force an apology or regret out of you. I just want some things to be clear...and in order for my own mind to achieve a degree of clarity, I had to detox some of this.

I resented the fact that you told me the person I had become was not the person that I truly was, that the person I was when we met was the real me (buried beneath a layer of shit-my words, not yours). Suffering or no, I was still me...maybe not as inspiring, maybe not as fiery...but me, all the same. And as I mentioned, I didn't expect saving grace. I know I told you it was something I had to deal with on my own, that only I could help myself. But please don't blame your disappearance on my request for time and space, because that would be asking me to believe it was an act of yielding compassion. And it was not. Understanding and quietly accepting, expressing your affections..yes, that was. But not even bothering to explain to me what was happening, not taking the time and effort to let me know and be honest? No...that was cowardly. You wouldn't have even had to explain your actions in depth, if it was too much for you to do- I wouldn't have thrashed and screamed and bitched, if I knew it's what you needed and wanted, or thought best. But I wasn't even given the respect of .." Hey, here's the deal. I need to break free of this. Period."
I was left to wonder and beat myself to a bloody pulp over it, feeling like such a heartbreaker and a royal, pathetic mess, when I don't feel as though that is a complete and adequate picture at all.

I'm sorry if this is all a little much. I don't mean to overwhelm you, I promise. It was just past due time for me to stand up for myself and for my beliefs and say these things, and close the space and tense energy between us that I've been hovering in instead of waiting for you to do it for me, like a pussy. I'm doing this not out of some show of power or resentment, because like I said, I have no hard feelings, I assure you. I just feel that I owe it to both myself, and to you, to tell the truth. Because everything I ever told you was the truth... and because I love you too much to stand by passively and allow the white noise to build without my words being heard. It's the only thing I can do, so I have to do it.

There are many more things I want to say, but I think this is sufficient right now. I don't want to go overboard (too late, possibly)...and after the rush of rememberance-tide hit me inwards, I'm exhuasted and can only hope that the rest you will somehow already know, inherently.

I still think about you every day..
and I will never stop being sorry for the course of things-
and yet, if I could go back, I wouldn't trade any of it,
not for any amount of beautiful, abundant thing
on the face of this earth.

through the looking glass

karma chameleon
or playground love?


Humpty dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty dumpty had a great fall
all the kings horses and all the kings men
couldn't put Humpty back together again.


that's where it all started, you see...
with Humpty.


Nana's house:
brimming with brassware,
brown carpet seas,
floral embroidery, lace tapestry
then this..
coinciding, colliding
the naivety and shame
curiosity and strange, misunderstood need
if I could go back in time
I would whisper in the small, sweet ear-
the young flesh still freshly molding-
of a neverending expanse of wide open,
spread before the bare feet...
i remember playing in the sprinkler,
on top of the beloved stretched black bouyancy
despite the warnings of
the trampolice...
if only someone had warned me,
then.
that the Secret Garden probing
would birth something wild inside of me.




I dreamed about you again last night..
i was topless in your parents house,
they came home and scolded you instead.
And while I hid in the bathroom
a coward on edge
you cried to them that you didn't mean to disappoint
and I felt sick with myself



Too low to find my way
Too high to wonder why








"I don't know what you mean by 'glory,'" Alice said.
Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. "Of course you don't – till I tell you. I meant 'there's a nice knock-down argument for you!'"
"But 'glory' doesn't mean 'a nice knock-down argument,'" Alice objected.
"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in a rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less."
"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean different things."
"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master – that's all."
Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again.
"They've a temper, some of them – particularly verbs, they're the proudest – adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs – however, I can manage the whole lot! Impenetrability! That's what I say!"



i hate that feeling you get
feeling forgettable.

evaporar

and when the fog finally clears,
a pretty piece of shine will spin new webs of luminescence here
the grass beneath the castles
of glittering glass, blackberry windowpanes, and smoke
soaks up the haze,
inhaling and becoming
simultaneously something that is
a sum much more than itself.

suggestion to self: skip temptations of naps more often-
keep on trudging through the thick sludge
of a day that drags souls through
mud-like prisms
of a time when every cloud had reason
and a fluff to rival homesweethome.

breakthrough
hey there, little red riding hood
i could have sworn i have already met you,
but coated in slime from the belly of the beast
left you a tad more unrecognizable
a world of restitution, cynics, and sugar addictions
ain't got nothin on you, anyway.
fallen off the path to chase butterflies;
pick poinsettas
gleaming, unfurling..
in the dark wilderness for g'ma
there is a beauty in your mistake,
and redemption belongs beyond rebellion
regardless of what tune
you're humming as you stroll along.


i knew better when i spit it out,
a new time, a new ride.
and i was surprised at my own spirit
this time.




two hours of sleep and i still woke up before my alarm,
at exactly 5:27
remembering the delicious oddities of my dreams,
catching myself mid REM drooling
and how exhilarating
not to mention refreshing
to know a time is coming,
horizon glowing/child within roaming wild
once again,
back in business.

two lost souls

swimming in a fishbowl



Can you tell?

Heaven from Hell
Blue skies from pain
A green field from a cold steel rail
A smile from a veil

Trade
Your heroes for ghosts
Hot ashes for trees
Hot air for a cool breeze
Cold comfort for change
Exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage

Wish you were here.


Running over the same old ground..
What have you found?
The same old fears.




I like listening to my neighbor's music through the walls.
But I don't like feeling like I don't have enough soul for myself.
However







I still believe in you.