Hubris.todaywe're youngerthan we're ever gonnabe.i. and we finally did it,drove to the mountainswatched meteorsand let the mattressgrow dampunder our loveunder the starsii. there are things tobe reconcilediii. my eyes sting likechlorine, but fromcrying,I finally disappointedthem;the highest order of shameiv. but you cannot putpeople into pockets;good, baddon't mixwith themv. and I cannot choosewho I lovevi. your lenses are straight,elite and proudmine, open and accumulatingfilthvii. maybe I should run away more often,we never talk like thisviii. and you have to realisethat I live in
if only, if only.i.we drove nowhereand we spoke a language that nobody understoodunderneath a foreign skyblanketed in the scent of pine.ii.you told memy eyes were like envelopesbecause they were alwaysopeningclosingfluttering to the soundof breaking sealsand ink stained fingertips.iii.i told youwe should run awayto a new landwith new facesbecausei was enamoredwith people i had never encounteredand places i had never gone.iv.you laughed at meand said thatif i didn't spend so much time with my headburied in world mapsi would realizethat i was living on one.v.i remember it rained that dayand the tea went coldbut the
Reversed Singularity? but of time, i do digress & my intentions have been writin sumerian, and dreamt; buthere to live obsolete:swift swing, precarious pang with my heart's guiltless intention --fingernails scratch & fityour name; tasting still succulence, feeling still tyranny of will, being still drowned cortex-deep, hearing still--the wisp of a faltered laughtersheltered & swaying & playingamongst the dead, the hornedhonoured and torn, formedlong and forlorn'd--oh time, my bittersweet demisedying is no longer a sacred art and is sincerity in its purest form cloaked with fault & artless bourne
Liquid Cityhere, at the bottom - lovers.there are lovers disassembling themselveslost in and to thedesperate motion in of - waves. - did you think the continentsmoved themselves? see them slip,in an open sleep. less go, come. come and, and - again. tremblinghere, at the bottom - their eyes are lightless. hollow bodies leftrestless, the sea does not sleep.
to myself: past/present/future/fourth dimensionto the girl before speech:you are not a prodigy, despite talent for taking care of yourself.understanding politics by grade school isn't worth muchbeing loved is.having your hand gripped when stumbling.playful laugh coaxed from your lungs.bounce as much as you can. cherish your days of knowing how to land.to the girl with my fingers:they aren't as beautiful as they are lost.shaking; nerves over taken by demonsscreaming in the night.struggling to tear needle away from skintoo crooked to be melodicnot articulate enough to move masseshoping to find north; seeking direction.to the girl after healing:
The ElementsI.Wine as red as stained glassis lifted up & tilted backEmpty cupstouch wood like thunderhaving given up graceII.Blue veinsthread across wrists & palmsspent vessels returning to the heartFingertips suffused with pulselift to lightning's loveliness
IfWe candraw lines and give them nameslike elementsas they are discoveredOr etch into our skinsthis soloecal desireuntil it is impossible to tellwhere words stopand life begins.I wouldFind a common rhythm that includesyou in my arms, my handsand lungs and thoughtstracing the outline of youentangled with mecolliding like two lost particleslocked in a shared gravitydrifting through the vacuumof space. I could.Exhale, andremembersentence structure.
mosaics.sometimes uniqueis not loud;or bright, alive and raging,possessed of a hunger for the atypical,up front and too close,or thrice-pierced and drenchedin the rebellionsparticular to the latest generation.sometimes it is a girl withmouse brown hair and eyesthe color of weak tea,who stands with her schoolbooks clutchedto her chest, in uniform shades of grey-bluelike the midmorning autumn skywho has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,pale lips and pale cheeksand words that don't always come outthe way she meanswho holds the universein the intricacies of her fingerprintsand laughs in treble clef notesand u
Pausing By The WineMarriage isthe frustration of realitywhen the man who works the wine sectionpauses in his tracks to make sureyou've found everything you "really need...are you sure?"With a look that tells youhe finds you sort of beautifuland you wonder how your life might be different,if any man other than this onehad ever looked at you like that.
I Have No Names for all My Teacup BabesI feel always like I am starting over.As a magpie I gather trinkets under my pillow,bay leaves and bags of herbs to bring the next lover to me,to call the next dream-face forwarda picturepainted in the tea leaves.But truth be told the start-againis never clean, is never gentle,and the sweat of all that labouris a fire on my skin, telling me I will never resist its wind-cry.The moon comes when I call, to help me;midwife, she is, and she carries into being my new selveslike the babes they are, teaches them to fill long footsteps like hers.Truth be told, I tire of the destinyI was given onceI am a teacup
SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand versus the athletic ki
resipiscenthe was one of those dick-faced kids in shades of bright polyester salmon who seemed to always be laughing or looking at me. an ambiguous-named, feminine-famed all-school american douchebag in those quality leather sandals in the wintertime and golf-green shorts.ta give you some background i'm about as far away on the social scale from him as one can get. you know how all the little groups overlap and flap together, pushed around in the wet sand like wave-rivulets blending little facets of stones together until it makes a dune? well our groups---they didn't even touch. i mean you could go from pop-jock to lacrosse to dipper to weed-dealer to
SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribsand then against each other's.November became solstice, and
Lightning Bug CosmosI lace my skin up like a corset, peel back the blinds on my eyelids, and take a step forward, waking from the poppies to the lightning bug glow of truth tapping on my eardrums.In front of the mirror I stand, but what I notice is not the awkward crook of my nose or butterfly lashes. I look into the lighted mirror as if searching for answers hidden underRibbon-like sets of veins, arteries and nerves.Sometimes it all flows correctly; sometimes everything becomes knotted up in all the wrong places. Skin toughened by beatings brought about by the
It starts with a flash-bang and a Majulahi.June's hauled her here again andshe's tapping at my classroom window,A gazillion tiny fingers rapping in succession(When she said "invitation" I didn't realise she meant soaking half the country, the spike in umbrella prices has nothing to do with me)What's worse than an impatient child is one with the whole atmosphere as her battering ramwhen she tries to say something the urgency brims overand one million exclamation marksis beginning to sound like static frazzling out on the pavementsii.She is without choice: when Cloud mother tips her out she must go, and go she willcaught in an obtuse cycle, fought over