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.

shot in the dark

He was a great balloon maker
the balloons were never known for speed
there's no way you'll get sweet

you asked me to waste some time
come out to see the sun
you're all we've got

but i said i think there's more of them like us
and he said "you might be right..
we'll find them in time somewhere"

He was a great balloon maker
then they outlawed all balloons
he packed up and put his things away.



Read from start to end and again the fearlessness of thoughts in print

strips the chord of a sensible word and what's worse

she left her mark, indelible the nature of a scripted verse

keeps my eyes set on the page, and it says

frankly dear I'm forced to give it up

tried my hand and now I've had enough

even though we have to say goodbye

keep me in mind

blamed in advance for the past with no bearing on a present tense

all that's left are claims that she made when she said

oh dear someday we'll learn to be better fit to pursue one another

but 'til then we'll call it the end as she adds

frankly dear the drifters had it right

stayed the afternoon and left at night

even though we have to say goodbye

keep me in mind



Maybe come with me to the coast
And watch the way the rain comes down
Out of the shadows she's more passionate
We'll watch her role roll in from the south

She'll wrap her sheets 'round us
Forget the sun

Moving from sea to land dancing
Swinging with the boats out there
She steps on toes if she wants to
But never because of lack of care

..It's all in the mask, you see



Don't cry, I'll bring this home to you
If I can make this night light enough to move

Cargo (tugboat) ships move sluggishly by
Tracking on the horizon line
There's a luster from the city lights
On the waves that kiss our feet
And we're thinking of going in
The times getting thin
Out there, are you still alive?
I stay up hours worried about detox-strangling
But anyway, this is a city for not sleeping
And the clocks are set by feel
At those moments from where I sit
None of it seems real



Toss, turn, and flip
until the ground becomes the overhead
but instead of sunken battleships
I find emptiness instead.

And you'll say I can't save me unless you let me
(go)
but my dreams have been lonely
lately.

cycles

once

a single cell

found that it was full of light

and for the first time there was seeing

when

i was a bird

i could see where the stars had turned

and i set out on my journey

high

in the head of a mountain goat

i could see across a valley

under the shining trees something moving

deep

in the green sea

I saw two sides of the water

and I swam between them

..i look at you

in the first light of the morning

for as long as i can
but secretly,
peeking from behind curtains of hair
while i'm spoiling.

original light broke apart,

the Gnostics say,

when time began,

singular radiance

fractioned into form

-- an easy theory

to believe,

especially in early summer-

when that first performance

seems repeated daily.

though wouldn't it mean

each fracturing took us

that much further

from heaven?

not in this town.

not in midsummer winter: hazy harbor

and cloudbank, white houses'

endlessly broken planes,

a long argument

of lilac shadows and whites

as blue as noon:

phrasebooks of day,

articulated most of all

in these roses,

which mount, rise, fall, and swell

in dynasties of bloom,

their easy idiom

a soundless compaction

of lip on lip. their work,

these thick flowerheads?

built to contain

sunlight, they interrupt

that movement just enough

to transfix in air, at eye level,

now: held still, and shattering,

which is the way with light:

the more you break it

the nearer it comes to whole.



these days,
lately:
..only flesh still

welcoming to flesh.

feels like hurtling into vast darkness,

the sky itself whistling of space

the black matter between stars

the red shift as the light dies,

warmth a temporary aberration,

entropy as a season.






i'm sliding open windows and slipping out, across apocalyptic ground
dreams reaching out, unfurling, to wrap me in shadowy waters
washed in a copper tinged mouth is the hint of his bodytalk
silence stretches wide and seeds awareness-
two beings. more kindred than originally thought
not legible
but the same strange animal
I don the shape of a woman,
a coquette with confidence like hot and cold
yet I am bound by deeply embedded golden truths
of yearning, season, and flesh...
bruised from the coarse affection sweettalk, attempts to grind it in
make it stick
although the existence of such, the unspoken
is already unknowingly powerful enough to
drown even the riptides of
time.-
(streaming by in the festively lit night,
seeping into words that brush on addiction and sedation
faraway and familiar both:
nostalgic laughter,
light airbrush touches
sitting on old news and sewing new tunes,
yuletide wrestling matches)








clumsy stumble down the ravine, to your hotelbed
where we meet,
you say- with no secrets to tell

and you are laid out
across the dance floor,
probing your doubt,
i go deep into you in search of more
your resistance sings a lot like mine

we have our lives away from the meeting point
where all things seem placed carefully like collectibles
splashed with vague memories..
the space between, when closing, is
precious yet forgettable,
you can't discern- to the other- what is overlooked and what is held close
tight to the chest like the ghost of someone else,
filling holes

(like packed rooms filled with our reflections in countless mirrored eyes
only there is a blankness, something bottomless and unrecognizable
unremembered reasons that we rationalize away the following days
keeping ourselves safe.
and i can see what boils deeper, beneath the surface tension)

but i hope somewhere hidden beneath the seams
ragged as they may be, like 70s hand-me-down cloth
you know
i continue/d to want you always,
even long spread thin distance pulls the heartstrings
through this fog of years we have sped through;
we dream of times that don't exist in our days,
and we each go into every night to come undone.



merry christmas
(sleep of reason)
once again.

sheets

3 day bus trip cross country. learning the hard way.
Struggle is the food from which change is made.

Anything in life that is worth having will cause some inconvenience before you get it.


the mountains and evergreens are soothing
but it still stings
if pain is weakness leaving the body,
and blue sky is my weakness,
then I'm purging.
eerie:
we pass tanks and army trucks on the country roads,
the heads of camo clad men peep from the tops of green clothed tops
ready for action
all systems go...going where?
it's snowing/the sky is pure white,
the world is opening up, on the verge of swallowing me whole.
the roads are slippery, throwing old moisture,
like my skin
dare i say it would have been safer to fly?
but he was right
the drive was breathtaking: like a dreamworld
akin to the ethereal train ride through the Alps
yes, I think I needed it, again...
solitude. soul in flight& fleeing something unnameable
with powdered sugarcapped giants-
the crest of God's breast
behind mere window panes,
wrapped in feathered green pines
that have surely been holding their breath for all time,
just so that we may oxygen thrive and evolve.
he would say they are invisible...
thoughtless and absorbent
soaking up excess ego driven ponderings.
in order to truly see them for what they are
to completely revel in their beauty
we must go invisible too.
there are cabins smoking in the belly of the woods/
I'm at a loss.
and I can still smell it on my skin, my clothes,
the scent of surrender.
ghost fog shrouds the birds flying east
blanketing the hilltops
penetrating the earth,
my heart opens its eyes
crusty with smeared mascara and sleep.
I want to be invisible.
wrapped tightly under an invisibility cloak,
listening to tv news coverage about pirates.
They still exist?
I'm lingering on steam rising from potholes,
barefoot in a corset, a stranger on these streets
wandering for hours
finding release in the unfamiliar territory that's leering at me-
I can sense it even hiding beneath
those damn Winnie sheets.

falling into overcast oblivion.
there are no trees whatsoever wherever we are now,
none,
just wide open plains
(or maybe they've just gone invisible,
and I'm too lost in memories to find them)
gray depths,
i am faceless. the silence speaks to me here.

People from my bus journey:
*Towering man with grey beard and kind eyes in the restaurant of the Amarillo bus station: we talked politics over tea, his huge one filled with nondairy creamer, mine small and bland. We agreed that America is headed for a revolution- common man v.s. the bureaucrat. He said he was getting too old to stand the cold.
*Bus driver that tried his hardest job to do his job better than average, took pride in driving us to Denver...kept telling us repeatedly he wanted those hours to be the best of our journey, and would do whatever it took to make it pleasant and enjoyable. We were behind schedule, which wasn't his fault, but the driver before him... so he hurried, took short rest stops, and was apologetic because of it- when he got off and switched drivers, he kept insisting he tried his best, was sorry for whoever missed their connection. Only a couple of people thanked him...no one seemed to give a damn that he was giving it his all, and wanted to stick out from all the others in the sea of drivers. I felt a little sad, thinking of him going home feeling unfulfilled. I regret not hugging him.
*Crazy old foreign man with no luggage but a plastic bag of alcohol- which no one was aware of until he started stumbling around, reeking of liquor, then pissed and shit himself, his seat, and the entirety of the bus bathroom. The lady bus driver with the long braid down her back cussed at him and quickly "removed" him from "her" bus- I was relieved, he had been hacking for hours in a disgustingly wet manner and was almost right across the aisle from me. I was still a little weirded out, being so near the soiled seat...
but she proved herself a great driver, getting us through the snow ridden, just re-opened streets (barely missed the snowstorm). I admit, at first I doubted her ability,
how sexist of me-
but it's not my fault our first woman driver seemed to think it was appropriate to brake every 3 seconds.
*Semi-friend found in the "thug" who looked the part but didn't act it- baggy black everything, shaved head, but with a kung fu panda blanket wrapped around his neck and shoulders. We watched HotRod together on his mini dvd player- ridiculous movie but it still made me laugh, maybe I needed that.
*Little adorable black girl with the head full of rainbow barrettes wanted some of my bread...I wanted to give her some, but was afraid her mom would be overly cautious...don't take candy from strangers and all that jazz (when I was younger I had a shirt that read: "Strangers have the best candy." What a slut.)
*Bald man in grey sweatshirt, white denim jacket, and matching (kind of) khaki-white jeans- he couldn't bear to leave his Xbox for his thanksgiving trip home, so there it was- boxed up and ready to board next to him. His style and Burt Reynolds mustache made me smile and mean it; he read my mind "Reminds me of a bad movie. With the way I'm dressed, you'd have thought I stepped off the cover of a corny old 80s film." I laughed but didn't mention I completely agreed: (he talked and talked and talked, cracking what i wouldn't quite call jokes) I did almost slip up and say, however, that it was a good thing he was unwilling to pay 2 dollars for the Pepsi he wanted so badly- after all, why pay such a high price to damage your teeth, when I could punch you in the mouth for free?

No, I'm not violent. Just ornery, sometimes.
*On the bus to Dallas- my fellow passenger was a thin haired, poncho clad guy with dark facial stubble and a woodsy smell. We talked about transcendentalism; he said he thinks the worst kind of slavery is the kind we put on ourselves, in everyday life. As his icebreaker, he asked me if I had been writing vertically; and he had never seen a cotton field before. I thought all elementary schools in the South did that for a field trip- visited a cotton farm? Well, I guess St Louis isn't considered South, anyway..

It's the times when I feel most lonely that my love for myself grows in strength the most. Regardless of the creepy things I learned from the security guard in Denver during my 4.5 hour layover, ("If you saw the types and amounts of weapons I've confiscated in a days worth time, you wouldn't ever take a bus again.") I don't regret my choice to ride Greyhound....it was both a self inflicted reward and punishment. Walking alone in downtown Denver- 7 blocks to the Cheesecake Factory to eat a delicious meal and drink green tea by myself on a Friday night- was exactly what I needed after my Seattle mishap. I watched the well dressed couples and groups stroll the holiday-lit streets, happy and rosy cheeked; I breathed in the brisk air, free of makeup and aware of the slight yearning and sadness that washed over me- but I didn't feel empty, not nearly. I was ok with myself, happy with the world...and that was plenty satisfying for me.

[haiku]
Deceitful quiet.
Drunkard ranting, flying cool
Brown mopheaded brute.

[to do list]
channel negative energy into warmth for others,
the world.
new living arrangements asap
get my sheet together (and a new comforter to complete my fantastic chocolate brown sheets)
get rid of unnecessary stuff, ie CLOTHES=
i want to live more minimalistically.
pursue BALANCE
don't eat a whole box of german sugar cookies when upset/stressed
ever. again.

maybe more meditation.

**Dante says that God is not merely a blinding vision of glorious light,
but that He is, most of all,
l'amor che move il sole el' altre stelle
the love that moves the sun and the other stars.

i'm (very slowly) trying to learn to quiet my mind.
(the things that are hardest are the best kind)
**from the Bhagavad Vita. the most ancient text of yoga:
"Oh Krishna, the mind is restless, turbulent, strong, and unyielding...
as difficult to subdue as the wind."

You are what you think. Your emotions are the slaves to your thoughts,
and you are the slave to your emotions.

Of course, knowing these things and heeding them are two totally different things.
My thoughts are swaying like kelp in the black ocean current of night.
Especially after considering one of my worst fears could be an actual truth.
(C'mon optimistic gene, don't fail me now.)

the honey bees are dying

a street sweeper at this time of night only makes the bleeding skies more eerie.
reflection hazy.
worn out is as lonely does,
i feel like i could close my eyes for decades,
and when i lift my eyelids i'll have missed nothing.
nothing but a little smudged mascara and a 5 am phone call,
echoing from an empty car
while freshly changed sheets turn over in their sleep.
spring will come as usual, only this time my grin will be toothless
like a jack o lantern,
only less square. still a little empty and rotting
i am fluffy like pumpkin pie filling,
you roll it around on your tongue and murmur "hmm. interesting.."
only it's not quite your style,
so a few bites into it you quit and abandon your sweettooth,
fondling the crust edges aimlessly,
the taste of familiarity.

i keep catching myself hiding in the strangest places,
like a creepy subconscious game of sardines.
if only i could pack all the masks into a trunk and swallow the key,
and then when my plane goes down
you can bite into the fruit of my ash-tree
and savor the metallic taste of finally. finally free?
once there is no more skin to disguise.

the static snowstorm of dreams is a small solace
when you're too indecisive to choose a winter coat.
the warm, oozing embrace of a comfort laden bed brings less ease
when you wake up in cold sweats, chasing breaths and ghosts
that haunt visions of lands that you can't recall
as real at all, anymore.

i don't think i'll have turkey this year. i would feel too guilty.
for once in my life i thought from their point of view
the kind of creature who looks up into the heavens when it rains,
astounded by the miracle, so flabbergasted by the sensation
and caught in the moment,
that they forget to close their mouths-wide open in amazement-
and drown themselves.
i feel like we're kindred spirits, you see...
scatterbrained and too curious for our own good
and when i look up, turn my gaze skywards..
whether out of desire (to be washed clean and pure),
fascination,
optimism,
reverence,
etc
i just lose myself in the madness and end up choking
on the beauty of it all.
plus,
i'm sure i would taste just as delicious if i were full of cornbread
instead of organs (or lack thereof).

summer rain or whale semen?
it's all the same when you can't read the code anyway,
when the emblems could stand for something
less meaningful and more laughable
the pretty intangible symbolism suddenly becomes
the butt of your own joke above your butt
(slightly to the left.)

maybe i just need to get the celery out of my ass.

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.