Take me into you.
Take me in like the last lingering beads of heat,
as the remnants of summer cling to the suckling breast of fall,
hang on-
Hold tight to the rush ,
arms clenching veins pushing back, into
the final hoorah of summer's sex.
Self love in the bathroom.
Some sort of plain cubicle with its dusty tile sores,
its reckoning-
Olive ceramic beckoning and backwards light switch,
the splash-splotches of nondescript gray cloud plaster clusters
and the lack of window is still inviting,
however briefly.
Sweat globules seep slowly.
Damp hairline and now bleeding into those chestnut strips of bangs,
stale and somehow still novice-
Unseasoned in this birth of season,
like the chewed bones of sea or grandma carpet
the color of Redwood bark.
Blackberries ripen rapidly in this air.
Stilled breath pocket for old pangs,
pressed roughly against the counter edge and driven like horizontal rain-
His hill country underestimated patience,
as the stormy redhead's ruddy cheeks place in her
an eerie and enigmatic calm,
a beloved echo for her own roots unparalleled
as Red scavenges for cigarettes and
his chipper black-clad form molds itself to the football futon.
Stove-top pot jolts.
Packed tight heat waves,
like familiarity of regularity, the cathartic tea aims to soothe-
The blunt end of those reflections
or maybe it's the feathered fedora curls that simplify,
bulls-eye,
tongue-rub out the stamps of months passed.
Smooth stimulus.
Scratch your coated teeth upon enamel sheen,
watching a certain red-wine stupor stumble to the fridge-
Meteoric dozing and douse of second-round shrimp,
the filtered water tastes like blank slate and mobile home memories
that are not quite your own.
Cool air crispy-creeps.
Suddenly radioless room and the smell of meat,
temperature summoning and reeks of classroom flings-
Old French movies,
black and white and steaming tea mugs of last year
(always the Queen of Selection)
recalling the half stranger with a knack for black humor
and wordplay sliding his cold hands up the steaming curves
of beneath-the-shirt.
Lips flawlessly pushy.
And the not-quite-bedtime memories overpower,
the heated panting and lonely bed smudged with dirt-
Avoided like hush that night the apocryphal shotgun leaned into the corner
and he whispered into your silence,
sweetened the itch of skin.
Tonight muscles bunch around bones
and dreams are side by side
assembly lines of vitamin warriors like movable mountains,
a sort of St. John's wort mood.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
shame on
i am black eyes under limp hair. stringy drizzle in the threads of thrift stores clothes-supposedly the best kind- (supposedly, always supposedly, shot in the dark. he says it's all a shot in the dark)-
but easy to come by, already worn thirty-six times. there is vibrancy in the shift of continents but no condolence for those who sponge it up. drop by drop by drop and still faded. still the holes they sink within themselves, into a sheltered veil of safely cultured ignorance. and the blender mind, shallow breath, saggy old bones.
and when you touch my cheek and tread my dirt, the barren land is moist once more, fertile and teeming with ornamental lines of grace. not of this world. i will twist and struggle and thrash and shriek, i will cut my own bruises just to watch the contradiction of processed progress,
but each time i refuse to stamp myself with the destruction of healthy water molecules and trembling bits of jade-shaded hopelessness. the wine of sticks of iron in my organs.
ashes ashes. we all break down. the threshold is a humid piece of chewed gum underneath the sneaker of success. redress and then undress, curl up in your own stagnant fears again. stand tall, every day is Judgement calling. his beard hides grey well but then there is the black, the rivulets and streamers of sky and of black, pure and potent and hard-shell. where is the fallacy? each time I send search teams, instead it finds me. every time. time. every time. illusion, seclusion, delusion, fuck you quantum physics. fuck you organized religion. fuck your science and your truth and your common sense and your metaphysics and your independent ethics and your rationale and your irrational love. in the end, we all fall down. until then, i just want a warm bed and windows open to let fall crawl in.
but easy to come by, already worn thirty-six times. there is vibrancy in the shift of continents but no condolence for those who sponge it up. drop by drop by drop and still faded. still the holes they sink within themselves, into a sheltered veil of safely cultured ignorance. and the blender mind, shallow breath, saggy old bones.
and when you touch my cheek and tread my dirt, the barren land is moist once more, fertile and teeming with ornamental lines of grace. not of this world. i will twist and struggle and thrash and shriek, i will cut my own bruises just to watch the contradiction of processed progress,
but each time i refuse to stamp myself with the destruction of healthy water molecules and trembling bits of jade-shaded hopelessness. the wine of sticks of iron in my organs.
ashes ashes. we all break down. the threshold is a humid piece of chewed gum underneath the sneaker of success. redress and then undress, curl up in your own stagnant fears again. stand tall, every day is Judgement calling. his beard hides grey well but then there is the black, the rivulets and streamers of sky and of black, pure and potent and hard-shell. where is the fallacy? each time I send search teams, instead it finds me. every time. time. every time. illusion, seclusion, delusion, fuck you quantum physics. fuck you organized religion. fuck your science and your truth and your common sense and your metaphysics and your independent ethics and your rationale and your irrational love. in the end, we all fall down. until then, i just want a warm bed and windows open to let fall crawl in.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
scathed, it will pass and evaporate like the hover and blink of endless nights.
the moment missed,
dismissed as time blankets the thick of brine in
double nostril sigh,
choke...don't choke,
i'll gently pull the lever of layers
and peel away the cloaked pressure of
black. black like the minds of so many lives in denial,
table scraps for the monster and its alien claws toughen,
molars harden, eyes darkened,
grows and grows and grows and.
you think I will allow it.
too locked away from light to peel the lids open and meet the eyes
of dreams. brush of skin against that lightest of feather chamber,
opening dainty and gulping air like grass. it transfers and lingers
like years of clumped salt and dirty grains. mouthful. mouth full
of torn pockets of exploit. teeth clenched tight around the gnarled,
decrepit fingers of beat. deadbeat smiles.
slow rain like soft rockets of discontent. nervous shifting,
sheetless mattress.
it's ok to sink a little, deep.
vapid and colorless. melted sands of grime and shit like mudsockets,
but keep your fingers stretched high
and wait for that moment the twine wraps tight.
on the other side,
there are no rainbow goblins.
golden smears of sticky sustenance,
honey windchimes.
the repletion of fall's lullabies stapled into your joints,
droplets sucked up the strings of leafveins until the void is echoing once more,
and the abyss is quite suddenly
lacking a certain lifelessness.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
up and up and.
i found you on the riverbanks breathing red sand like justice
and when the waters sighed, your hair curled against my skin
and held me there with flower stems.
the latitude of leaves and multiplication surges
depends upon the ability to release the follicles from their
waxy prison. behind the source there burns the sun,
behind the sun there is an efflorescence
an opening, an outstretched network of spiderweb furrows,
the silhouette of truth.
imagine-
truth in the sway of your laughs underneath the shade
these sweet brief rains, tints of shedding and peculiarly crooked change
they fall upon me like the draping of autumn.
and September sings in
saffron ceramic.
I'll make that beloved 5 minute walk,
7 if I linger just right at the muddy roots
imagining you as though you
were truly real and not just some figment of
foreign imagination,
floating on the puddles, purely peppermint-ginger memories
where the souls of our soles are stamped into the wet dirt
like the ash in the lungs of Santa Ana summer in the West.
deep violet stranger;
the companionship of cardinals-
not simply outside the panes but in the trees of reach.
I'm imagining the red that runs like sweet mountain thyme
beneath the paper thin crown of skin
of delicate wrist.
you are, it is,
piercing.
space scalped and then hung up like hot compress towels to
air out,
dehydrate,
rest.
and yes,
I remember the star-winds
I can practically feel the brisk pull of the arteries
the moon-call of the tar-gravel rocks upon the sticky roof tiles of the treehouse,
the bottom of the mug my relief.
unwound,
founded on nothing more than the rush of electric blood and thunder
as my bones greet the season with
new reason to
unfold.
étranger douce , vous remplissez mon cœur.
and when the waters sighed, your hair curled against my skin
and held me there with flower stems.
the latitude of leaves and multiplication surges
depends upon the ability to release the follicles from their
waxy prison. behind the source there burns the sun,
behind the sun there is an efflorescence
an opening, an outstretched network of spiderweb furrows,
the silhouette of truth.
imagine-
truth in the sway of your laughs underneath the shade
these sweet brief rains, tints of shedding and peculiarly crooked change
they fall upon me like the draping of autumn.
and September sings in
saffron ceramic.
I'll make that beloved 5 minute walk,
7 if I linger just right at the muddy roots
imagining you as though you
were truly real and not just some figment of
foreign imagination,
floating on the puddles, purely peppermint-ginger memories
where the souls of our soles are stamped into the wet dirt
like the ash in the lungs of Santa Ana summer in the West.
deep violet stranger;
the companionship of cardinals-
not simply outside the panes but in the trees of reach.
I'm imagining the red that runs like sweet mountain thyme
beneath the paper thin crown of skin
of delicate wrist.
you are, it is,
piercing.
space scalped and then hung up like hot compress towels to
air out,
dehydrate,
rest.
and yes,
I remember the star-winds
I can practically feel the brisk pull of the arteries
the moon-call of the tar-gravel rocks upon the sticky roof tiles of the treehouse,
the bottom of the mug my relief.
unwound,
founded on nothing more than the rush of electric blood and thunder
as my bones greet the season with
new reason to
unfold.
étranger douce , vous remplissez mon cœur.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
for those of you that want to follow our travels
here is our travel blog:
http://hummingbirdhighway.blogspot.com
http://hummingbirdhighway.blogspot.com
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Creaky bones sighed beneath the stretch of stringy, wilting skin that beset her weary body, singing in blind faith as only the most devotional of hymns do, stretching the silences like painstakingly hand-woven quilted blankets. Her handled crutch inched forward languidly, she was in no rush to live, or to remember. Breakfast was a stable subsidy of the not-so -distant future, and the wide, perpetual grin congealing her cracked red-stained lips gave confirmation to this fact: she was not afraid of death.
Genavive moved with the slow reason and humility of forgetful grace, stringy oyster hair giving glimpses of scalp while her gaping, toothless turtle mouth sculpted an inexhaustible smile that seemed to give away her merciful joy. That same jack-o-lantern smile was fixed on the recollections of the sincerity of spring rather than aches and pains, no matter how prevailing or arresting. She held the steaming mug close to her hollowed chest, which was still gently rising, falling beneath her cream blazer; the pantyhose crumpling under her open toed sandals, balling near the pinky toes, seemed to sing of the rings of years past like the innards of the most archaic, judicious of redwoods. Her peach silk shirt rustled in diplomatic complacency as her napkin stippled her face in an effortlessly stately manner, pooling into a lingering and unwavering gaze that emanated contentment.
She sat in the bay window alcove looking out over the neglected yard and once-garden she could no longer afford the strength to sufficiently maintain, no tinge of regret visible in her eyes, all forlorn debris wiped clean by reverence for life and all it brings. Her dry whisper of a cough barely made a ripple in the gentle air of the pea green house with its teal and coral trim, brittle like the trembling age-spotted hands and sunken wrinkles of time etched into the corners of her eyes. There was an immeasurable dignity in her gestures, the clutching of the warm mug with two hands, grasping the cup as if it were a prize, a small treasure in peacefully delicate times. She always drank hot apple cider in the summertime even though it made sweat gather and bead beneath her nylon stockings;it stirred a peaceful familiarity within her that reminded her of years past, cold winters in her old New Jersey home, back when she could still bounce for hours on the oversized trampoline with her eyes closed. Soothing to the soul.
Staring out clasped in dream, she soaked up the scenes of droopy green landscape, with cracked tin watering cans, rustling brass wind chimes, and rusting wrought iron gate lines, posts pointing skywards in silent exalt. The old wooden swing swung and creaked lightly from the unfolding hands of the largest tree branches shadowing the sloping hills of yard, its frayed yellow rope peeling away like slivers shellfish skin and quivering in the humid breeze. Genavive's children lived halfway across the continent and never bothered to visit. The grandchildren they had blessed her with were already too old for swings, but even when they were still ripe with youth and budding with energy, the swing had hung lifeless and empty from the sprawling elm arms, a device she had appealed upon a strapping teen boy in the neighborhood-teeming with moxie and the need to build, move, create-to decorate the lands of her lawn with. She had hoped it would help entice more children to come and play within her viewing distance, so she could watch contentedly from her window, absorbing the purity of ecstasy and echoed staccato bursts of laughter. She was a happy woman. But even the happiest get lonely. Perhaps those that are capable of containing the most powerful of joys are also prone to the the heaviest of isolations.
But of course, it helped to have Erica. Erica had been her saving benefaction for many years now, had shared these long silences bridging tighter and wider as the days grew quieter. Erica had been with her, by her side, for the most lackluster of nights and the most aching of mornings. Erica had faithfully walked beside her every cool evening, down the road to the edge of the the grass knolls above the wide expanse of clearing that Genavive so adored-although not as much as the feel of the soft down of tight chocolate curls of her companion underneath her wizened hand. There was one lone tree that stood strong in the dead center of the valley, a tree of unknown name and breed that proudly shed its sheath of leaves in winter, reveling in self rebirth, and turned fire copper at the onset of autumn's sigh. This tree was very special to her. For this tree, Genavive had a place of the highest veneration perched on the pumpings of her heart, right next to the spot in which her beloved Erica remained.
Before dinner every evening the temperature allowed, she slowly worked her hips specifically to make this walk, for this tree, with Erica traipsing alongside her with no lack of loyalty. She would always stop her journey at the boundaries of the lush precipices bordering the trough, wishing she possessed the same balance, virility, and sturdiness the tree maintained, so that she could venture down the uneven terrain of the hills and cross into the mossy lowlands where the tree lived and breathed the Southern air like sailors inhaled the sea. But she did not lose herself in the wistful longing, she did not burden herself with ruefulness. Instead, she lived through the tree, from a distance- she lived its history, its honor, its growth, its vitality and veins of salted earth. She would remember the feel of another's fingers with her own. She would relish in the tree's whispered secrets, and the way that all existence ceased to exist when she spoke with it, from afar. With Erica always sprawling in the shade near her feet, sometimes panting and squinty eyed when the sun bled just right, but always watching her, Genavive would pray for love to always remain, and for each day she once again opened her eyes to reveal to her the world.
Genavive moved with the slow reason and humility of forgetful grace, stringy oyster hair giving glimpses of scalp while her gaping, toothless turtle mouth sculpted an inexhaustible smile that seemed to give away her merciful joy. That same jack-o-lantern smile was fixed on the recollections of the sincerity of spring rather than aches and pains, no matter how prevailing or arresting. She held the steaming mug close to her hollowed chest, which was still gently rising, falling beneath her cream blazer; the pantyhose crumpling under her open toed sandals, balling near the pinky toes, seemed to sing of the rings of years past like the innards of the most archaic, judicious of redwoods. Her peach silk shirt rustled in diplomatic complacency as her napkin stippled her face in an effortlessly stately manner, pooling into a lingering and unwavering gaze that emanated contentment.
She sat in the bay window alcove looking out over the neglected yard and once-garden she could no longer afford the strength to sufficiently maintain, no tinge of regret visible in her eyes, all forlorn debris wiped clean by reverence for life and all it brings. Her dry whisper of a cough barely made a ripple in the gentle air of the pea green house with its teal and coral trim, brittle like the trembling age-spotted hands and sunken wrinkles of time etched into the corners of her eyes. There was an immeasurable dignity in her gestures, the clutching of the warm mug with two hands, grasping the cup as if it were a prize, a small treasure in peacefully delicate times. She always drank hot apple cider in the summertime even though it made sweat gather and bead beneath her nylon stockings;it stirred a peaceful familiarity within her that reminded her of years past, cold winters in her old New Jersey home, back when she could still bounce for hours on the oversized trampoline with her eyes closed. Soothing to the soul.
Staring out clasped in dream, she soaked up the scenes of droopy green landscape, with cracked tin watering cans, rustling brass wind chimes, and rusting wrought iron gate lines, posts pointing skywards in silent exalt. The old wooden swing swung and creaked lightly from the unfolding hands of the largest tree branches shadowing the sloping hills of yard, its frayed yellow rope peeling away like slivers shellfish skin and quivering in the humid breeze. Genavive's children lived halfway across the continent and never bothered to visit. The grandchildren they had blessed her with were already too old for swings, but even when they were still ripe with youth and budding with energy, the swing had hung lifeless and empty from the sprawling elm arms, a device she had appealed upon a strapping teen boy in the neighborhood-teeming with moxie and the need to build, move, create-to decorate the lands of her lawn with. She had hoped it would help entice more children to come and play within her viewing distance, so she could watch contentedly from her window, absorbing the purity of ecstasy and echoed staccato bursts of laughter. She was a happy woman. But even the happiest get lonely. Perhaps those that are capable of containing the most powerful of joys are also prone to the the heaviest of isolations.
But of course, it helped to have Erica. Erica had been her saving benefaction for many years now, had shared these long silences bridging tighter and wider as the days grew quieter. Erica had been with her, by her side, for the most lackluster of nights and the most aching of mornings. Erica had faithfully walked beside her every cool evening, down the road to the edge of the the grass knolls above the wide expanse of clearing that Genavive so adored-although not as much as the feel of the soft down of tight chocolate curls of her companion underneath her wizened hand. There was one lone tree that stood strong in the dead center of the valley, a tree of unknown name and breed that proudly shed its sheath of leaves in winter, reveling in self rebirth, and turned fire copper at the onset of autumn's sigh. This tree was very special to her. For this tree, Genavive had a place of the highest veneration perched on the pumpings of her heart, right next to the spot in which her beloved Erica remained.
Before dinner every evening the temperature allowed, she slowly worked her hips specifically to make this walk, for this tree, with Erica traipsing alongside her with no lack of loyalty. She would always stop her journey at the boundaries of the lush precipices bordering the trough, wishing she possessed the same balance, virility, and sturdiness the tree maintained, so that she could venture down the uneven terrain of the hills and cross into the mossy lowlands where the tree lived and breathed the Southern air like sailors inhaled the sea. But she did not lose herself in the wistful longing, she did not burden herself with ruefulness. Instead, she lived through the tree, from a distance- she lived its history, its honor, its growth, its vitality and veins of salted earth. She would remember the feel of another's fingers with her own. She would relish in the tree's whispered secrets, and the way that all existence ceased to exist when she spoke with it, from afar. With Erica always sprawling in the shade near her feet, sometimes panting and squinty eyed when the sun bled just right, but always watching her, Genavive would pray for love to always remain, and for each day she once again opened her eyes to reveal to her the world.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
tendrils
my marrow's spiderweb tunnels echo with your walk of life. across the wide red river grains of the Southern Provinces of the Sahara and within the staccato outlines of the museums of Old France, you drive my smallest bits to become something infinitely more powerful than religion.
my pigtails ache for your alternative medicine.
soaring through the high reaches of arches in the dirt crosswalks of the Capri Islands
or building bridges across the muscled bronze contours of a new breed of David-
you were felt in fibrous existence even months before your bang thrust persistence
of entrance.
(in Rome we walked the alleys of rippled drumbeat breath circles,
i sensed you growing wild in the distant reaches of my secret Arcadia,
in every shadowed brick crevice.
moonlight illumination.
between the book bars and coaxed cafe Campari hushes,
i taste a real woman's soft whisper meditation,
her chocolate serenity,
and watch her shoulders curve just the right way on the stairway:
and already an effortlessly blinding birthing of light grew on my pixie rings of peace,
my self salvation germinating.
we push our approbation through the lands of search-
barbarian bus stations and Jesus sandals that wrap our ankles and break our bread,
and somewhere a slice of my head is simmering
in the juices of your pre-bliss preparation;
beard saturation &
rainbow recollections
that lead me to believe every step was one in accordance with the laws of
Lot.)
my pigtails ache for your alternative medicine.
soaring through the high reaches of arches in the dirt crosswalks of the Capri Islands
or building bridges across the muscled bronze contours of a new breed of David-
you were felt in fibrous existence even months before your bang thrust persistence
of entrance.
(in Rome we walked the alleys of rippled drumbeat breath circles,
i sensed you growing wild in the distant reaches of my secret Arcadia,
in every shadowed brick crevice.
moonlight illumination.
between the book bars and coaxed cafe Campari hushes,
i taste a real woman's soft whisper meditation,
her chocolate serenity,
and watch her shoulders curve just the right way on the stairway:
and already an effortlessly blinding birthing of light grew on my pixie rings of peace,
my self salvation germinating.
we push our approbation through the lands of search-
barbarian bus stations and Jesus sandals that wrap our ankles and break our bread,
and somewhere a slice of my head is simmering
in the juices of your pre-bliss preparation;
beard saturation &
rainbow recollections
that lead me to believe every step was one in accordance with the laws of
Lot.)
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
pigment
there are times I feel it wash over me like the crests of distant oceans,
when corrosion is nothing more than a few days worth of eager impatience-
waiting to stack the waning wood piles high with gasoline coatings as the
old foreigner blue jays sing,
vicious, soaring libertines-
supposedly spiritual symbolism that sometimes spontaneously
chokes you:
distant and mocking.
Yet a resonance of your stretched taut smile,
under the history of darkened Southern lit streets, in the feared fluorescent grocery aisle,
morphs the memories of false whimsies
into shades of future paintings-lights in the mountain villages and trees,
trains that only flee onward into the invisible cities of blue hour vagaries:
suddenly-
it is rather unthreatening,
recalling
the reminders of days you felt the sting
of ambivalence shake your roots like an unrecognizable pair of eyes
in a red lipped smudged mirror
after night mist
(set in and settled in your calcium-deficient bones).
Only now they creep upon you like the reposed recognition of happiness,
outpourings of admittance and proliferation like spring showers
in the beckoning field light
of morning,
when the drought is at its weakest
and the terrors crouching belly-flat beneath the floorboards of home
are only quivers of earth, now
like miniscule, mysterious seeds of delight,
meant to rattle the lungs and flat land plains of familiar territory
with new fight evident in their book-end fringed eyes,
(pages upon pages of beautiful, poised artifacts, now alive)
becoming echoes of folk tales around fires,
succumbing,
when everyone knows exactly when the bean stalk begins its growth,
can sense the dirt shaking beneath their curled toes.
(like water for chocolate),
i will be
your carefully contemplated ambivalence towards technology,
your favorite instilled and installed gift of ideology,
your specialty ingredient, fresh-baked cakewalk reward,
your sexually explicit diving board,
your 1000 years of solitude,
your pre and post creation music mood,
your freedom river waterfall walk,
your bedroom artwork stolen chalk,
your everything free-falling, flying, and flowing,
the children you raise beyond candlelit autumn sowing,
the movement of your point to point,
the oil that heals each premature creaking joint,
the learning that blossom-feeds your large cowboy-hatted head from every (forgiven) ego driven instance,
the conquering and delivering of every new country's distance,
the softly inhaled dust of your centuries birthing ancestry and crossing blood lines,
the building of villas and vine-strewn gardens that embody the beginnings of family wines,
the seeping of your silent stillness,
the raging of your self nemesis.
(like connect the dot chakras in mediation),
you are
my canopy of zipline refuge alongside fresh mango strewn leaves,
my shifting season-weather skin metamorphoses,
my pureed purified water pancakes (not flawless in shape but perfect in taste) upon waking,
my gleeful, leaping jump into epic leaf piles after heaven sent sweaty afternoons of raking,
my homemade salsa, immaculate enchilada cravings fulfilled,
my mid-winter hot spring dip sigh of relief involuntarily spilled,
my inexplainable, irreversible "chemical reaction,"
my sunburned headrush of simple, pacific satisfaction,
my home brightening houseplant leaves and blooms, purified oxygen,
the foreign sunbeams & moonrays coaxing my eyelids open upon the lands of every place i've been,
the hand constructed bridge for Mecci's pond,
the unexplained lightshow through the glowing horizon fog,
the magical realism growing wild,
the triumph attained with each unpaved mile,
the dictionary of favorite nursery rhymes,
the rocks that pull me skywards on solitary and shared mountain climbs,
the gleam in my masked eyes above naked flesh deep within November wood,
the absorbent petal protection, my goblin Robin-hood.
the most organic, timeless phenomenon
has lit the wicks of my life.
and around every corner i find
more reason.
when corrosion is nothing more than a few days worth of eager impatience-
waiting to stack the waning wood piles high with gasoline coatings as the
old foreigner blue jays sing,
vicious, soaring libertines-
supposedly spiritual symbolism that sometimes spontaneously
chokes you:
distant and mocking.
Yet a resonance of your stretched taut smile,
under the history of darkened Southern lit streets, in the feared fluorescent grocery aisle,
morphs the memories of false whimsies
into shades of future paintings-lights in the mountain villages and trees,
trains that only flee onward into the invisible cities of blue hour vagaries:
suddenly-
it is rather unthreatening,
recalling
the reminders of days you felt the sting
of ambivalence shake your roots like an unrecognizable pair of eyes
in a red lipped smudged mirror
after night mist
(set in and settled in your calcium-deficient bones).
Only now they creep upon you like the reposed recognition of happiness,
outpourings of admittance and proliferation like spring showers
in the beckoning field light
of morning,
when the drought is at its weakest
and the terrors crouching belly-flat beneath the floorboards of home
are only quivers of earth, now
like miniscule, mysterious seeds of delight,
meant to rattle the lungs and flat land plains of familiar territory
with new fight evident in their book-end fringed eyes,
(pages upon pages of beautiful, poised artifacts, now alive)
becoming echoes of folk tales around fires,
succumbing,
when everyone knows exactly when the bean stalk begins its growth,
can sense the dirt shaking beneath their curled toes.
(like water for chocolate),
i will be
your carefully contemplated ambivalence towards technology,
your favorite instilled and installed gift of ideology,
your specialty ingredient, fresh-baked cakewalk reward,
your sexually explicit diving board,
your 1000 years of solitude,
your pre and post creation music mood,
your freedom river waterfall walk,
your bedroom artwork stolen chalk,
your everything free-falling, flying, and flowing,
the children you raise beyond candlelit autumn sowing,
the movement of your point to point,
the oil that heals each premature creaking joint,
the learning that blossom-feeds your large cowboy-hatted head from every (forgiven) ego driven instance,
the conquering and delivering of every new country's distance,
the softly inhaled dust of your centuries birthing ancestry and crossing blood lines,
the building of villas and vine-strewn gardens that embody the beginnings of family wines,
the seeping of your silent stillness,
the raging of your self nemesis.
(like connect the dot chakras in mediation),
you are
my canopy of zipline refuge alongside fresh mango strewn leaves,
my shifting season-weather skin metamorphoses,
my pureed purified water pancakes (not flawless in shape but perfect in taste) upon waking,
my gleeful, leaping jump into epic leaf piles after heaven sent sweaty afternoons of raking,
my homemade salsa, immaculate enchilada cravings fulfilled,
my mid-winter hot spring dip sigh of relief involuntarily spilled,
my inexplainable, irreversible "chemical reaction,"
my sunburned headrush of simple, pacific satisfaction,
my home brightening houseplant leaves and blooms, purified oxygen,
the foreign sunbeams & moonrays coaxing my eyelids open upon the lands of every place i've been,
the hand constructed bridge for Mecci's pond,
the unexplained lightshow through the glowing horizon fog,
the magical realism growing wild,
the triumph attained with each unpaved mile,
the dictionary of favorite nursery rhymes,
the rocks that pull me skywards on solitary and shared mountain climbs,
the gleam in my masked eyes above naked flesh deep within November wood,
the absorbent petal protection, my goblin Robin-hood.
the most organic, timeless phenomenon
has lit the wicks of my life.
and around every corner i find
more reason.
Monday, April 27, 2009
el tramposo [parte uno]
The day the news was spread like squealing lightning siren fire, from eave to eave like dangling, dripping, darkened happenings beneath moist autumn streetlights, a woman came home to her husband. She found him lying naked on the cambric couch, drowning in his dreams, where dew gathered in his throat and children with eager eyes sucked the ends of honeysuckle blooms and stood nearby, leering. The steel kettle was feverish and whistling deliriously, reminiscent of the wailing of winds and whistle warning alarms as she pulled her tornado tennis shoes on and tried not to think about the threat of sickness, tried not to float away.
Sometimes in his subconscious he would play with fire trucks- not minuscule plastic trinkets, but bright red monsters with ladders like claws, swinging and swooping and soaring. But on this particular afternoon, with its tightly wound coating of humidity that kept the mosquitoes plump and greedy, his soul was trying to escape-and in its valiant thrash of struggle it was choking him, floundering legs kicking at his throat and licking him with flame like Midwest field grass fires.
In another life, at another time, he would wake up startled and soaked in his own sweat, and his wife would sit next to him in the darkening light of the living room and rest her hand on his stomach in concern. She knew what it felt like, sleep that strangles, and she would murmur into his ear, nose nestled into the coarse curls of sideburns there, and tell him,
"Sometimes I forget I'm looking at another person."
He would twist his position and realign himself with her, breathing beginning to recycle, and ask her in a voice guttural with extinction,
"What do you think you're looking at?"
"Myself."
But on this day, he would not awake yet, would keep himself suspended in the sludge of detox as he slept, slept restlessly like a child on the bright blue nap mats after recess and apple juice, and she padded quietly past to the kitchen to check the voice messages, feeling the mounting pressure of trepidation swarm her skin in prickles like something was beyond not right in the world. The birds weren't chirping. There was a deep and thickening silence like the static weight of underground, but with a barely concealed current of menace like the hot wired charge rumbling through the hollows of tall ceiling rods.
The air outside was boiling in such a way that made people forget, momentarily, their own names, and stumble through the darkness of the day.
And the woman found no red blinking light amidst the black plastic, but she found a hastily scribbled note on the purple sticky pad resting on the dining room table,
Call Joe
it read.
The woman felt a strangeness wash over her, and she picked up the cold cordless phone receiver and walked to the patio door window, drawing the blinds high and peering outside as the storm rolled in quicker like the unfurling spindly fingers lining God's palms. She hated the sound of dial tones and dialed the familiar number quickly; next door the new neighbors were watching a Wonder Years marathon, and the screen flickered across the grey outpourings of bloodclotted clouds, beckoning to her from the twilight zone of Janurary's dim.
Rain pellets suddenly blossomed across the clear panes before her eyes, picking up shards of shattered light like CMWK rainbow droplets of saliva on a computer screen, and she fell to her knees and screamed. Her despair was shrill and careening as the telephone slipped from her hand and hit the chilly, indifferent marble tiles with a crack and a snap, breaking apart and eviscerating itself instantaneously.
Sometimes in his subconscious he would play with fire trucks- not minuscule plastic trinkets, but bright red monsters with ladders like claws, swinging and swooping and soaring. But on this particular afternoon, with its tightly wound coating of humidity that kept the mosquitoes plump and greedy, his soul was trying to escape-and in its valiant thrash of struggle it was choking him, floundering legs kicking at his throat and licking him with flame like Midwest field grass fires.
In another life, at another time, he would wake up startled and soaked in his own sweat, and his wife would sit next to him in the darkening light of the living room and rest her hand on his stomach in concern. She knew what it felt like, sleep that strangles, and she would murmur into his ear, nose nestled into the coarse curls of sideburns there, and tell him,
"Sometimes I forget I'm looking at another person."
He would twist his position and realign himself with her, breathing beginning to recycle, and ask her in a voice guttural with extinction,
"What do you think you're looking at?"
"Myself."
But on this day, he would not awake yet, would keep himself suspended in the sludge of detox as he slept, slept restlessly like a child on the bright blue nap mats after recess and apple juice, and she padded quietly past to the kitchen to check the voice messages, feeling the mounting pressure of trepidation swarm her skin in prickles like something was beyond not right in the world. The birds weren't chirping. There was a deep and thickening silence like the static weight of underground, but with a barely concealed current of menace like the hot wired charge rumbling through the hollows of tall ceiling rods.
The air outside was boiling in such a way that made people forget, momentarily, their own names, and stumble through the darkness of the day.
And the woman found no red blinking light amidst the black plastic, but she found a hastily scribbled note on the purple sticky pad resting on the dining room table,
Call Joe
it read.
The woman felt a strangeness wash over her, and she picked up the cold cordless phone receiver and walked to the patio door window, drawing the blinds high and peering outside as the storm rolled in quicker like the unfurling spindly fingers lining God's palms. She hated the sound of dial tones and dialed the familiar number quickly; next door the new neighbors were watching a Wonder Years marathon, and the screen flickered across the grey outpourings of bloodclotted clouds, beckoning to her from the twilight zone of Janurary's dim.
Rain pellets suddenly blossomed across the clear panes before her eyes, picking up shards of shattered light like CMWK rainbow droplets of saliva on a computer screen, and she fell to her knees and screamed. Her despair was shrill and careening as the telephone slipped from her hand and hit the chilly, indifferent marble tiles with a crack and a snap, breaking apart and eviscerating itself instantaneously.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
breakfast
And he refilled his coffee, quietly beautiful beyond the crystal rock candle holder, peppermint smile; even the adolescent pre-teens with cokes and cartoon knapsacks and string-bean legs could not ruin this morning moment. Over the conjoining gazes, there lived a lone kiwi splash of green on the plate palette, as the lovers spoke in the tongue of Southern forest regions where canopies sheltered the flourishing foliage beds like queens protected by stone air castles.
"I want to kiss you again," he whispered across his second cup, crumbs clinging to his favorite sweater sleeves lined with static along the casually fathomless talk of authentic Spanish cooking, Mediterranean lifestyle cravings. His coffee spilled as he sheepishly stumbled over his concession and thanked her absentmindedly but meaningfully for breakfast, gratitude slipping from his profuse, scaffolded lips.
And they became symmetrical strawberries. Split perfectly down the middle, two equal portioned parts of a ripe, delectable whole. Fiddling, he was quite simply breathtaking, and there was talk of Franz Kafpka: breakfast of champions, hungover life of the Gods. There are gourmet cheeses, fresh fruit, chocolate croissants, and fresh baguettes; across the small, subtly lit room, the old woman coughs, a dry and wheezing sound, as he inquires the restaurant owners about the coffee...something about the earthy-ness of Fredricksburg origin.
And then there was Mexico. "I have to show you that place."
And she believed him.
The dark, rich Mexican coffee. Thick, sweet bread fresh and steaming in the windows of the street bakeries, fish tacos and virginal bananas. The mention of chorizo and barbacoa cooked in a plow disc, with iced chileda to wash down with, made saliva gather in her mouth regardless of her vegetarianism.
It's all about the separation of flavors. Being inside of one another. And she could see her reflection, echoed back effortlessly.
He was growing passionate about Tibetan highlanders, the practices of women marrying families of brothers...and she was studying his pineapple-brie smudged fingertips intently, wondering if it would be considered an appropriate response to suck the remnants off. Probably not. But when he worked himself up and his storm blew in,when the vehenemence of his animation beset him, she couldn't help but humor the stumble of her composure. He licked them, catching her eye. That smile. He. Him.
"Did you hear about what the Pope said?"
One statement.
Cleaning the crumbs.
The Catholic Church was tooting their own horn and she felt the relishing of glory as a lightbulb fizzled on in his top right brain quadrant and he text messaged his editor about the next article he would write. She could sense it turning over in his words, passion singing and slightly smug as he deserved to be.
Later she would long for the Tibetan Book of the Dead, hearing the Munich monks chanting once more in the spinning carousel of her head, haunting her beautifully. He would take notice and mental note it, plotting the next novel he would buy her, small gesture of affection. He had packed up all his things, ready to send off, live a monastic life, and it was flooding his eyes as he admitted this, holding her hands across the table. He loved her enough to be her fellow conundrum, watching her closely from the other side, the sway of her rainbow earrings, lips tumbling smiles at her sadistic curiosity and mention of past pain inflictions.
The Universe works in the most mysterious of ways, sabotaging her sabotage. It would not let anything ruin these slow Sunday mornings,
the sunlight newly glowing in their eyes as they descend ever deeper into the world,
completing circles of soul.
Welcome home.
There exists a transition from religious to spiritual,
it is a crowning point, a spark plug, exigency,
high noon.
Stillness speaks.
"When you stop trying to define it, you can actually be it."
All the in between,
the most powerful of joys, ecstasy,
are not meant to be spoken about aloud or described accurately (and yet still, the pen is impossible to set down sometimes).
And maybe being a good writer is to understand this.
"I want to kiss you again," he whispered across his second cup, crumbs clinging to his favorite sweater sleeves lined with static along the casually fathomless talk of authentic Spanish cooking, Mediterranean lifestyle cravings. His coffee spilled as he sheepishly stumbled over his concession and thanked her absentmindedly but meaningfully for breakfast, gratitude slipping from his profuse, scaffolded lips.
And they became symmetrical strawberries. Split perfectly down the middle, two equal portioned parts of a ripe, delectable whole. Fiddling, he was quite simply breathtaking, and there was talk of Franz Kafpka: breakfast of champions, hungover life of the Gods. There are gourmet cheeses, fresh fruit, chocolate croissants, and fresh baguettes; across the small, subtly lit room, the old woman coughs, a dry and wheezing sound, as he inquires the restaurant owners about the coffee...something about the earthy-ness of Fredricksburg origin.
And then there was Mexico. "I have to show you that place."
And she believed him.
The dark, rich Mexican coffee. Thick, sweet bread fresh and steaming in the windows of the street bakeries, fish tacos and virginal bananas. The mention of chorizo and barbacoa cooked in a plow disc, with iced chileda to wash down with, made saliva gather in her mouth regardless of her vegetarianism.
It's all about the separation of flavors. Being inside of one another. And she could see her reflection, echoed back effortlessly.
He was growing passionate about Tibetan highlanders, the practices of women marrying families of brothers...and she was studying his pineapple-brie smudged fingertips intently, wondering if it would be considered an appropriate response to suck the remnants off. Probably not. But when he worked himself up and his storm blew in,when the vehenemence of his animation beset him, she couldn't help but humor the stumble of her composure. He licked them, catching her eye. That smile. He. Him.
"Did you hear about what the Pope said?"
One statement.
Cleaning the crumbs.
The Catholic Church was tooting their own horn and she felt the relishing of glory as a lightbulb fizzled on in his top right brain quadrant and he text messaged his editor about the next article he would write. She could sense it turning over in his words, passion singing and slightly smug as he deserved to be.
Later she would long for the Tibetan Book of the Dead, hearing the Munich monks chanting once more in the spinning carousel of her head, haunting her beautifully. He would take notice and mental note it, plotting the next novel he would buy her, small gesture of affection. He had packed up all his things, ready to send off, live a monastic life, and it was flooding his eyes as he admitted this, holding her hands across the table. He loved her enough to be her fellow conundrum, watching her closely from the other side, the sway of her rainbow earrings, lips tumbling smiles at her sadistic curiosity and mention of past pain inflictions.
The Universe works in the most mysterious of ways, sabotaging her sabotage. It would not let anything ruin these slow Sunday mornings,
the sunlight newly glowing in their eyes as they descend ever deeper into the world,
completing circles of soul.
Welcome home.
There exists a transition from religious to spiritual,
it is a crowning point, a spark plug, exigency,
high noon.
Stillness speaks.
"When you stop trying to define it, you can actually be it."
All the in between,
the most powerful of joys, ecstasy,
are not meant to be spoken about aloud or described accurately (and yet still, the pen is impossible to set down sometimes).
And maybe being a good writer is to understand this.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
even Russia.
Cool air seeping in from the grubby, cracked windowsill soothing and smudging
along naked flesh,smothered in rivulets of warm water
beneath the detached shower head
being cradled between bare legs
in careful cogitation
as if a honeyed olive oil soapsud complexion
could celebrate
a body's onomatopoeia,
reinforcing the source
through port manteau
like Spilling
fresh homemade salsa,
piquant and playfully sheepish/
straight from the jar all over work clothes
or the beans about being in love, accidentally, on the deck over the river mid-rant.
Clumsy collection of collisions
akin to a pre Columbian coalition
of stalwart-skinned feet caught in the gateway;
beloved hindrances
like hitting sensitive hips on the doorknob,
or reading Great Gatsby out loud during the simplicity of bathroom trips.
And there exists an aggregate becoming,
coming
full circle,
a newfound and spellbound Discovery Zone
after loss of patience and false defeat.
Her finding lies
in an earth vendor,
an enthusiastic lender
of an open ear to the elderly Air Force storytelling
and ramblings
about gardening and Indians,
as squash plants and basil leaves distinguish
a damp and dewy resting place,
untrodden landscape,
state-of-the-art
and slowly paving the path
for nest building,
exploring bandwidths of growth
from the smoldering ash of eradication
creation from destruction/
jolting forward in soaring space and
vein webbing.
The Night Sky stretched and wrapped tight across the swept lands of epitome
like MamMah's quilted counterpane,
painstakingly and fearlessly encompassing all directions,
nursing
childhood nostalgia bled from starlight, sweeping winds of Capri blowing secrets
and the three of them have suddenly become
the most exquisitely delicate of
leaden soldiers
looking forward.
It must be.
(Es muss sein)
Go.
Take it and run with it.
Respect Wordsworth's original words
as the clouds of Plaster edge ever closer to the moon,
floating with Southern seeds of the future's call to arms
advocating steel sunflowers around a wedding band finger
and yet foreseeing something far more superior,
when questioning the hunting of doves
quickly becomes an entity
quite utterly crushed
beneath the helm
of the favorite
worn out
pair of
shoon.
Her Mexican blood was bubbling
as a floater's should,
head bent to smell the non-jasmine blossoms
in the tree overhang.
The dynamic embroidery on the caustic yellow
of her blouse
clung to her thin frame
in geometric floral swirled traditions
with practiced ease,
and she was fully unaware of her cultivated beauty.
They sat outside on the cabin's stone porch
beyond the stretch of summer,
sweat beading quiet as he wove tales from his mountain days,
stealing glances at Honey from across the way,
the cradle of hammock recumbent
and swaying.
He spoke of the music of lightning storms,
of rock throwing contests
in open
along naked flesh,smothered in rivulets of warm water
beneath the detached shower head
being cradled between bare legs
in careful cogitation
as if a honeyed olive oil soapsud complexion
could celebrate
a body's onomatopoeia,
reinforcing the source
through port manteau
like Spilling
fresh homemade salsa,
piquant and playfully sheepish/
straight from the jar all over work clothes
or the beans about being in love, accidentally, on the deck over the river mid-rant.
Clumsy collection of collisions
akin to a pre Columbian coalition
of stalwart-skinned feet caught in the gateway;
beloved hindrances
like hitting sensitive hips on the doorknob,
or reading Great Gatsby out loud during the simplicity of bathroom trips.
And there exists an aggregate becoming,
coming
full circle,
a newfound and spellbound Discovery Zone
after loss of patience and false defeat.
Her finding lies
in an earth vendor,
an enthusiastic lender
of an open ear to the elderly Air Force storytelling
and ramblings
about gardening and Indians,
as squash plants and basil leaves distinguish
a damp and dewy resting place,
untrodden landscape,
state-of-the-art
and slowly paving the path
for nest building,
exploring bandwidths of growth
from the smoldering ash of eradication
creation from destruction/
jolting forward in soaring space and
vein webbing.
The Night Sky stretched and wrapped tight across the swept lands of epitome
like MamMah's quilted counterpane,
painstakingly and fearlessly encompassing all directions,
nursing
childhood nostalgia bled from starlight, sweeping winds of Capri blowing secrets
and the three of them have suddenly become
the most exquisitely delicate of
leaden soldiers
looking forward.
It must be.
(Es muss sein)
Go.
Take it and run with it.
Respect Wordsworth's original words
as the clouds of Plaster edge ever closer to the moon,
floating with Southern seeds of the future's call to arms
advocating steel sunflowers around a wedding band finger
and yet foreseeing something far more superior,
when questioning the hunting of doves
quickly becomes an entity
quite utterly crushed
beneath the helm
of the favorite
worn out
pair of
shoon.
She took off her black strappy sandals,
soft wine stained lips
parted in contemplation
of past flings,
voice transpiring
to echo like moisture-beaded cave swallows
in the hollowed glass.
soft wine stained lips
parted in contemplation
of past flings,
voice transpiring
to echo like moisture-beaded cave swallows
in the hollowed glass.
Her Mexican blood was bubbling
as a floater's should,
head bent to smell the non-jasmine blossoms
in the tree overhang.
The dynamic embroidery on the caustic yellow
of her blouse
clung to her thin frame
in geometric floral swirled traditions
with practiced ease,
and she was fully unaware of her cultivated beauty.
They sat outside on the cabin's stone porch
beyond the stretch of summer,
sweat beading quiet as he wove tales from his mountain days,
stealing glances at Honey from across the way,
the cradle of hammock recumbent
and swaying.
He spoke of the music of lightning storms,
of rock throwing contests
in open
air fields,
of week long sojourns to nirvana;
eyes glazed with recollection of escape.
She would find ways to blame herself
and they would resist,
choking her words away
with
rich wines,
virtuous foods,
heated water,
tree fairy tinkle-bells of laughter,
sour cream coffee cake.
of week long sojourns to nirvana;
eyes glazed with recollection of escape.
She would find ways to blame herself
and they would resist,
choking her words away
with
rich wines,
virtuous foods,
heated water,
tree fairy tinkle-bells of laughter,
sour cream coffee cake.
And they celebrated her life that night. The severing of a tie, the receding of stagnant tide.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Creaky bones sighed beneath the stretch of stringy, wilting skin that beset her weary body, singing in blind faith as only the most devotional of hymns do, stretching the silences like painstakingly hand-woven quilted blankets. Her handled crutch inched forward languidly, she was in no rush to live, or to remember. Breakfast was a stable subsidy of the not-so -distant future, and the wide, perpetual grin congealing her cracked red-stained lips gave confirmation to this fact: she was not afraid of death.
Genavive moved with the slow reason and humility of forgetful grace, stringy oyster hair giving glimpses of scalp while her gaping, toothless turtle mouth sculpted an inexhaustible smile that seemed to give away her merciful joy. That same jack-o-lantern smile was fixed on the recollections of the shrill, sincere giggles of youths rather than aches and pains, no matter how prevailing or arresting. She held the steaming mug close to her hollowed chest, which was still and gently rising, falling beneath her cream blazer; the pantyhose crumpling under her open toed sandals, balling near the pinky toes, seemed to sing of the rings of years past like the innards of the most archaic, judicious of redwoods. Her peach silk shirt rustled in diplomatic complacency as her napkin stippled her face in an effortlessly stately manner, pooling into a lingering and unwavering gaze that emanated contentment.
She sat in the bay window alcove looking out over the neglected yard and once-garden she could no longer afford the strength to sufficiently maintain, no tinge of regret visible in her eyes, all forlorn debris wiped clean by reverence for life and all it brings. Her dry whisper of a cough barely made a ripple in the gentle air of the pea green house with its teal and coral trim, brittle like the trembling age-spotted hands and sunken wrinkles of time etched into the corners of her eyes. There was an immeasurable dignity in her gestures, the clutching of the warm mug with two hands, grasping the cup as if it were a prize, a small treasure in peacefully delicate times. She always drank hot apple cider in the summertime even though it made sweat gather and bead beneath her nylon stockings;it stirred a peaceful familiarity within her that reminded her of years past, cold winters in her old New Jersey home, back when she could still bounce for hours on the oversized trampoline with her eyes closed. Soothing to the soul.
Staring out clasped in dream, she soaked up the scenes of droopy green landscape, with cracked tin watering cans, rusting brass wind chimes, and wrought iron gate lines, posts pointing skywards in silent exalt. The old wooden swing swung and creaked lightly from the unfolding hands of the largest tree branches shadowing the sloping hills of yard, its frayed yellow rope peeling away like slivers shellfish skin and quivering in the humid breeze. Genavive's children lived halfway across the continent and never bothered to visit. The grandchildren they had blessed her with were already too old for swings, but even when they were still ripe with youth and budding with energy, the swing had hung lifeless and empty from the sprawling elm arms, a device she had appealed upon a strapping teen boy in the neighborhood-teeming with moxie and the need to build, move, create-to decorate the lands of her lawn with. She had hoped it would help entice more children to come and play within her viewing distance, so she could watch contentedly from her window, absorbing the purity of ecstasy and echoed staccato bursts of laughter. She was a happy woman. But even the happiest got lonely. Perhaps those that are capable of containing the most powerful of joys are also prone to the the heaviest of isolations.
But of course, it helped to have Erica. Erica had been her saving benefaction for many years now, had shared these long silences stretching tighter and wider as the days grew quieter. Erica had been with her, by her side, for the most lackluster nights nights and the most aching of mornings. Erica had faithfully walked beside her every cool evening, down the road to the edge of the the grass knolls above the wide expanse of clearing that Genavive so adored-although not as much as the feel of the soft down of tight chocolate curls of her companion underneath her wizened hand. There was one lone tree that stood strong in the dead center of the valley, a tree of unknown name and breed that proudly shed its sheath of leaves in winter, reveling in self rebirth, and turned fire copper at the onset of autumn's sigh. This tree was very special to her. For this tree, Genavive had a place of the highest veneration perched on the pumpings of her heart, right next to the spot in which her beloved Erica remained.
Before dinner every evening the temperature allowed, she slowly worked her hips specifically to make this walk, for this tree, with Erica traipsing alongside her with no lack of loyalty. She would always stop her journey at the boundaries of the lush precipices bordering the trough, wishing she possessed the same balance, virility, and sturdiness the tree maintained, so that she could venture down the uneven terrain of the hills and cross into the mossy lowlands where the tree lived and breathed the Southern air like sailors inhaled the sea. But she did not lose herself in the wistful longing, she did not burden herself with ruefulness. Instead, she lived through the tree, from a distance- she lived its history, its honor, its growth, its vitality and veins of salted earth. She would remember the feel of another's fingers with her own. She would relish in the tree's whispered secrets, and the way that all existence ceased to exist when she spoke with it, from afar. With Erica always sprawling in the shade near her feet, sometimes panting and squinty eyed when the sun bled just right, but always watching her, Genavive would pray for love to always remain, and for each day she once again opened her eyes to reveal to her the world.
Genavive moved with the slow reason and humility of forgetful grace, stringy oyster hair giving glimpses of scalp while her gaping, toothless turtle mouth sculpted an inexhaustible smile that seemed to give away her merciful joy. That same jack-o-lantern smile was fixed on the recollections of the shrill, sincere giggles of youths rather than aches and pains, no matter how prevailing or arresting. She held the steaming mug close to her hollowed chest, which was still and gently rising, falling beneath her cream blazer; the pantyhose crumpling under her open toed sandals, balling near the pinky toes, seemed to sing of the rings of years past like the innards of the most archaic, judicious of redwoods. Her peach silk shirt rustled in diplomatic complacency as her napkin stippled her face in an effortlessly stately manner, pooling into a lingering and unwavering gaze that emanated contentment.
She sat in the bay window alcove looking out over the neglected yard and once-garden she could no longer afford the strength to sufficiently maintain, no tinge of regret visible in her eyes, all forlorn debris wiped clean by reverence for life and all it brings. Her dry whisper of a cough barely made a ripple in the gentle air of the pea green house with its teal and coral trim, brittle like the trembling age-spotted hands and sunken wrinkles of time etched into the corners of her eyes. There was an immeasurable dignity in her gestures, the clutching of the warm mug with two hands, grasping the cup as if it were a prize, a small treasure in peacefully delicate times. She always drank hot apple cider in the summertime even though it made sweat gather and bead beneath her nylon stockings;it stirred a peaceful familiarity within her that reminded her of years past, cold winters in her old New Jersey home, back when she could still bounce for hours on the oversized trampoline with her eyes closed. Soothing to the soul.
Staring out clasped in dream, she soaked up the scenes of droopy green landscape, with cracked tin watering cans, rusting brass wind chimes, and wrought iron gate lines, posts pointing skywards in silent exalt. The old wooden swing swung and creaked lightly from the unfolding hands of the largest tree branches shadowing the sloping hills of yard, its frayed yellow rope peeling away like slivers shellfish skin and quivering in the humid breeze. Genavive's children lived halfway across the continent and never bothered to visit. The grandchildren they had blessed her with were already too old for swings, but even when they were still ripe with youth and budding with energy, the swing had hung lifeless and empty from the sprawling elm arms, a device she had appealed upon a strapping teen boy in the neighborhood-teeming with moxie and the need to build, move, create-to decorate the lands of her lawn with. She had hoped it would help entice more children to come and play within her viewing distance, so she could watch contentedly from her window, absorbing the purity of ecstasy and echoed staccato bursts of laughter. She was a happy woman. But even the happiest got lonely. Perhaps those that are capable of containing the most powerful of joys are also prone to the the heaviest of isolations.
But of course, it helped to have Erica. Erica had been her saving benefaction for many years now, had shared these long silences stretching tighter and wider as the days grew quieter. Erica had been with her, by her side, for the most lackluster nights nights and the most aching of mornings. Erica had faithfully walked beside her every cool evening, down the road to the edge of the the grass knolls above the wide expanse of clearing that Genavive so adored-although not as much as the feel of the soft down of tight chocolate curls of her companion underneath her wizened hand. There was one lone tree that stood strong in the dead center of the valley, a tree of unknown name and breed that proudly shed its sheath of leaves in winter, reveling in self rebirth, and turned fire copper at the onset of autumn's sigh. This tree was very special to her. For this tree, Genavive had a place of the highest veneration perched on the pumpings of her heart, right next to the spot in which her beloved Erica remained.
Before dinner every evening the temperature allowed, she slowly worked her hips specifically to make this walk, for this tree, with Erica traipsing alongside her with no lack of loyalty. She would always stop her journey at the boundaries of the lush precipices bordering the trough, wishing she possessed the same balance, virility, and sturdiness the tree maintained, so that she could venture down the uneven terrain of the hills and cross into the mossy lowlands where the tree lived and breathed the Southern air like sailors inhaled the sea. But she did not lose herself in the wistful longing, she did not burden herself with ruefulness. Instead, she lived through the tree, from a distance- she lived its history, its honor, its growth, its vitality and veins of salted earth. She would remember the feel of another's fingers with her own. She would relish in the tree's whispered secrets, and the way that all existence ceased to exist when she spoke with it, from afar. With Erica always sprawling in the shade near her feet, sometimes panting and squinty eyed when the sun bled just right, but always watching her, Genavive would pray for love to always remain, and for each day she once again opened her eyes to reveal to her the world.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
hún jörð
this purple rubber heart is a gift.
and the frame had pink gloved hands, green and pink (white 70's) sneakers chewed at the toes,
mangled and majestic,
it stood stooped and clumsy awkward,
but still supporting itself proudly with tribute to the endowment stored within.
and inside its sweet iconic embrace was the little boy, bald head and Dumbo ears,
cupcake icing smudged across his boyish lips,
goofy and half mischievous glee scrolled across tender features-
like the undercurrent of colorful candy shops with unicorn horn rainbow swirl lollipops-
complemented by the buffalo t-shirt.
and the eyes were the same,
still penetrating at such a young age.
Later, there are eyes like Bibles in the ancient ruins, converging and manifesting origin as she swears she will not let him lose faith in himself, ever. Stale popcorn like simple pleasures, the blood of Christ like living room floor promises, thriving in the light of your spirit and the life of your essence.
"Issachar is one tough donkey
crouching beneath the corrals,
When he saw how good the place was,
how pleasant the country,
He gave up his freedom
and went to work as a slave.
I wait in hope of your salvation, God.
Gad will be attacked by bandits,
but he will trip them up.
Asher will become famous for rich foods,
candies and sweets fit for kings.
Naphtali is a deer running free
that gives birth to lovely fawns.
May the blessings of your father
exceed the blessings of the ancient mountains,
surpass the delights of the eternal hills,
May they rest on the head of Joseph,
on the brow of the one consecrated among his brothers.
Benjamin is a ravenous wolf,
all day he gorges on his kill,
at evening divides what's left over....
Joseph threw himself on his father, wept over him, and kissed him."
Genesis 49.16-50
It's funny, the things we forget when we become too proud.
And
(No use crying over)
wine spilled...
(but they still did)
Over her,
and suddenly it was upon him as well,
and the pages were rolling with the waves of the purity of past moments
that are held balanced between two palms outstretched, exposed and naked,
there is nothing secular about the way your lips seek mine out in reverence, between shadows and the sun's last fading rays.
Two slots in the ice cube try were replete with watery sustenance, and there are gunshot fireworks on the horizon, like bombs falling in the distance, as the little girl with pigtails and the young boy in denim suspenders held hands and walked until the end of the earth was upon them. His heart was heavy and hers was thump-thumping furiously as she suddenly sensed his hidden tribulation, as the earth shattered from its outskirts inwards, explosives descending to splinter fate as they lit the hillsides with broken yet newly blossomed faith and highlighted the small children's darkening, freckled skin...devotion bleeding shard-bits of the allegiance it had been simmering in. The passing cars were whispering hints of street rain like they did in the early summer when porch lights were still meaningful enough to remember, when the warm oil-soaked strands of Yucca branches called out across the foreign lands to lure in strangers from the past. Sirens squalled in the far-off as God spoke through her for the first time. They cried together, and they loved one another, and the Universe collapsed inwards as the lights of the city skyline sizzled and fizzled out, disappearing with puff-puff-puffs of air (breathing in, and out, slow and steady). And yet, in the darkness, their eyes still sparkled.
Frozen wine bottles and giving trees were not quite enough for me,
but I will hold your hand no matter how dim the candles flicker,
and when all else ceases mobility I will swallow the disquiet until I begin to tremble and cannot contain the movement of your soul,
then I will explode and scatter (fear existing but abating)
all over and upon your every waking moment
like the realization that clouds can burst while still propagating.
And when the morning comes the sickness will be in her, stout, having sucked it from the martyr's skin while he slept and subconsciously slipped out of, shed the sloughed shell of struggle.
and the frame had pink gloved hands, green and pink (white 70's) sneakers chewed at the toes,
mangled and majestic,
it stood stooped and clumsy awkward,
but still supporting itself proudly with tribute to the endowment stored within.
and inside its sweet iconic embrace was the little boy, bald head and Dumbo ears,
cupcake icing smudged across his boyish lips,
goofy and half mischievous glee scrolled across tender features-
like the undercurrent of colorful candy shops with unicorn horn rainbow swirl lollipops-
complemented by the buffalo t-shirt.
and the eyes were the same,
still penetrating at such a young age.
Later, there are eyes like Bibles in the ancient ruins, converging and manifesting origin as she swears she will not let him lose faith in himself, ever. Stale popcorn like simple pleasures, the blood of Christ like living room floor promises, thriving in the light of your spirit and the life of your essence.
"Issachar is one tough donkey
crouching beneath the corrals,
When he saw how good the place was,
how pleasant the country,
He gave up his freedom
and went to work as a slave.
I wait in hope of your salvation, God.
Gad will be attacked by bandits,
but he will trip them up.
Asher will become famous for rich foods,
candies and sweets fit for kings.
Naphtali is a deer running free
that gives birth to lovely fawns.
May the blessings of your father
exceed the blessings of the ancient mountains,
surpass the delights of the eternal hills,
May they rest on the head of Joseph,
on the brow of the one consecrated among his brothers.
Benjamin is a ravenous wolf,
all day he gorges on his kill,
at evening divides what's left over....
Joseph threw himself on his father, wept over him, and kissed him."
Genesis 49.16-50
It's funny, the things we forget when we become too proud.
And
(No use crying over)
wine spilled...
(but they still did)
Over her,
and suddenly it was upon him as well,
and the pages were rolling with the waves of the purity of past moments
that are held balanced between two palms outstretched, exposed and naked,
there is nothing secular about the way your lips seek mine out in reverence, between shadows and the sun's last fading rays.
Two slots in the ice cube try were replete with watery sustenance, and there are gunshot fireworks on the horizon, like bombs falling in the distance, as the little girl with pigtails and the young boy in denim suspenders held hands and walked until the end of the earth was upon them. His heart was heavy and hers was thump-thumping furiously as she suddenly sensed his hidden tribulation, as the earth shattered from its outskirts inwards, explosives descending to splinter fate as they lit the hillsides with broken yet newly blossomed faith and highlighted the small children's darkening, freckled skin...devotion bleeding shard-bits of the allegiance it had been simmering in. The passing cars were whispering hints of street rain like they did in the early summer when porch lights were still meaningful enough to remember, when the warm oil-soaked strands of Yucca branches called out across the foreign lands to lure in strangers from the past. Sirens squalled in the far-off as God spoke through her for the first time. They cried together, and they loved one another, and the Universe collapsed inwards as the lights of the city skyline sizzled and fizzled out, disappearing with puff-puff-puffs of air (breathing in, and out, slow and steady). And yet, in the darkness, their eyes still sparkled.
Frozen wine bottles and giving trees were not quite enough for me,
but I will hold your hand no matter how dim the candles flicker,
and when all else ceases mobility I will swallow the disquiet until I begin to tremble and cannot contain the movement of your soul,
then I will explode and scatter (fear existing but abating)
all over and upon your every waking moment
like the realization that clouds can burst while still propagating.
And when the morning comes the sickness will be in her, stout, having sucked it from the martyr's skin while he slept and subconsciously slipped out of, shed the sloughed shell of struggle.
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.]
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.]
Sunday, April 19, 2009
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.
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.
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