O poor soul! Soon,
I must make a choice to explore
either your soft face, to delve
into the ultimate meaningfulness of our love, or
I may jettison myself far
out among the stars to try and grasp something larger
than ourselves and our often-petty
circular loving.
Which shall I choose?
Do I care to explore that bond
which once held us close like refugees, that union
against the common enemy that was ourselves,
against the greying New York City
streets that birthed us?
Shall I return to myself, childlike, curled
on the bathroom floor, sobbing at your holy feet
as I professed my desire, singular and dawning:
to become
like you
to be
merged in some greater entity than my lonely self
and to probe the darkest recesses of your lovely flesh.
I cried, drugged and bewildered on the bathmat
and grasped your cold knees,
terrified by the immediacy of my nothingness.
You were all I knew,
brilliant orange,
taurean mistress, keeper
of my heart and of all the wisdom in this
damn world of plastic, gutter
trash and the sighs of the lonely.
I felt for you, blindly
begging in the darkness to be born,
knowing that myself would only be consummated
if I could consume you with kisses.
I loved the moon because I orbited you, o earth
grounding of my adolescent childhood
dictator of my self
mother of my desire to be alone,
but not lonely.
It was your pain that made me-
it was the pangs of your heart that forced me into being.
And now I choose, returning:
do I explore my motherland once more?
Or do I use that chemical otherness to dance
in realms known, but not felt
the paradox:
felt but not known.
When I rise, will it be to greet the dawn of myself
or of us? How can
I reconcile you with my vision of the cosmos, how can
I both love you and that which appears
to frighten you most?
You shy away from causality,
from the consequence of you,
while I go running, furiously in search of life,
poignantly striving for meaning.
I often find it in myself
and once I found it in your breath,
your breasts,
but now I no longer see you as that fractaling spiral
as that exploding pattern, that flower--
I see you grey-faced from 2 am
I see you digging inside yourself
hiding from the luminescent spheres that guide us all
blocking them out with fistfuls
of dank self-reproach,
covering your face with fear
that seeps under your fingernails like moist, black earth.
I want to tell you all of this, but I am afraid
of your seal-brown eyes-- I am terrified
that they will look at me with confusion
and an intense not-knowing.
I realize now that although you birthed me,
you are not my mother -- I am.
This makes me realize that I do not know you
and my stomach aches as I remember you
crying to me, in fear of my rejection.
(Sometimes)
I do not want you to love me because you never used to
and I would rather not know your soul.
If I did, my heart would be torn open,
a whirling galaxy of lust and pain,
a frightened and awful miasma of otherness.
I would have to realize that I have been lying
to you, to myself
to the entire world.
(Sometimes)
I wish that I still loved you as I had loved you-
now I see that you are broken, not holy
and I feel seismic, waves of fear.
You emanate an uncertainty I can hardly fathom, and I feel you
like a black hole, like the center of a galaxy.
Perhaps you are the singularity
and I, the world.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
sad poem
As I trace these swirling lines
out of the elegiac palms of my black hands
I feel myself being lifted
out of the ground by my roots, plucked
bare and writhing from the shivering soil
to twist gray-faced and wizened like a breach birth
hanging from the palms of your blank,
white hands. And as my
poisoned roots swell around my heart
I twist and curl tighter
trying to avoid your murderous hands
trying to enshrine myself
nymphlike in a cave of bark
squinting my eyes against the the needle rays
of the eclipse that is rolling across your
beautiful eyes, and slowly hiding
your once-beautiful gaze.
And from this height you drop me
a wan and helpless teardrop
an acorn from the mighty oak
of your barren hostility. I know
this is not you, o towering
one, o sterile mask. You look
at me like I am a dead thing
(and maybe I am)
and I cling to you with my poisoned roots,
crying for fear
that both of us will die.
Paradoxically, I will always remember you as you now
hold me: a small child
wrapped in bark, trying
desperately to protect against the harsh
winds that blow outside the boundaries of love, a selfmade
papoose, raising hands to protect against the harsh
blinding sliver, the eclipse's knife edge,
that pale sickle that acts
as a solitary and pathetic tribute,
the surrendering flag of all we used to know
and now still hold, dear.
out of the elegiac palms of my black hands
I feel myself being lifted
out of the ground by my roots, plucked
bare and writhing from the shivering soil
to twist gray-faced and wizened like a breach birth
hanging from the palms of your blank,
white hands. And as my
poisoned roots swell around my heart
I twist and curl tighter
trying to avoid your murderous hands
trying to enshrine myself
nymphlike in a cave of bark
squinting my eyes against the the needle rays
of the eclipse that is rolling across your
beautiful eyes, and slowly hiding
your once-beautiful gaze.
And from this height you drop me
a wan and helpless teardrop
an acorn from the mighty oak
of your barren hostility. I know
this is not you, o towering
one, o sterile mask. You look
at me like I am a dead thing
(and maybe I am)
and I cling to you with my poisoned roots,
crying for fear
that both of us will die.
Paradoxically, I will always remember you as you now
hold me: a small child
wrapped in bark, trying
desperately to protect against the harsh
winds that blow outside the boundaries of love, a selfmade
papoose, raising hands to protect against the harsh
blinding sliver, the eclipse's knife edge,
that pale sickle that acts
as a solitary and pathetic tribute,
the surrendering flag of all we used to know
and now still hold, dear.
Monday, November 2, 2009
gardening
Let go, let go! Let
go each petal tightly curled around your hammering
heart. Unfold them
tenderly, softly pry at their
tearfully moistened cocoon
with your clumsy, eager fingers.
Dirty your hands in the soil of your open chest
as you gently harvest the fruits of eighteen years
of watching and waiting
fearful, hoping that someday this small thing inside you
would nod up from the till.
Let go, let go, quieter now but still
diligent- do not forget what those early moments felt like.
Remember what that first petal looked like in your hand,
softly translucent and wrinkled,
remember how delicate it was to hold.
go each petal tightly curled around your hammering
heart. Unfold them
tenderly, softly pry at their
tearfully moistened cocoon
with your clumsy, eager fingers.
Dirty your hands in the soil of your open chest
as you gently harvest the fruits of eighteen years
of watching and waiting
fearful, hoping that someday this small thing inside you
would nod up from the till.
Let go, let go, quieter now but still
diligent- do not forget what those early moments felt like.
Remember what that first petal looked like in your hand,
softly translucent and wrinkled,
remember how delicate it was to hold.
together
I'm sitting in my room with the national playing and
feeling good for once. Maybe
I'm finally figuring out how to be around people
and not arm myself too heavily, to shed
my meshy links at the door
and dance happily
among the friendly spirits,
the wavering egos who desire happiness and
that's it.
I'm learning that wanting to be happy isn't such a bad thing
and that closeness is a truer form of knowledge than anything that can be written.
While I sit here alone I feel surrounded by a pulsing
yellow-radiant sphere, like the small gleams
that the sun makes on the hills over Portland. At night
when I look at the moon it tells me
that I am no longer alone
and that I never deserved to be.
feeling good for once. Maybe
I'm finally figuring out how to be around people
and not arm myself too heavily, to shed
my meshy links at the door
and dance happily
among the friendly spirits,
the wavering egos who desire happiness and
that's it.
I'm learning that wanting to be happy isn't such a bad thing
and that closeness is a truer form of knowledge than anything that can be written.
While I sit here alone I feel surrounded by a pulsing
yellow-radiant sphere, like the small gleams
that the sun makes on the hills over Portland. At night
when I look at the moon it tells me
that I am no longer alone
and that I never deserved to be.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
hamster
My heart is racingpumping madly.
I am a small thing, true
but this is beyond the norm
for my mammalian frame.
Rather, I feel like I've been quietly fed
into a new pushbutton universe, where
everything whirrs and clickhums
mechanically. I feel my clumsy flesh straining
to replicate the metal ballet, feel
its grossness, its lumpy and imperfect solidarity,
and know that if i tried once more to
compete with the machines I would be reduced
to a sliver, a ghost, a spark
to be consumed quickly in the circuits, by the need
intense and white
for human power.
So instead I become what my heart says I am
I am the hamster on the wheel,
I am the small warm thing trapped
and helpless by the powers that be
running swiftly
never knowing where I'm going
realizing slowly that it doesn't matter
and nursing small memories, childlike
of how it felt to run on grass.
I am a small thing, true
but this is beyond the norm
for my mammalian frame.
Rather, I feel like I've been quietly fed
into a new pushbutton universe, where
everything whirrs and clickhums
mechanically. I feel my clumsy flesh straining
to replicate the metal ballet, feel
its grossness, its lumpy and imperfect solidarity,
and know that if i tried once more to
compete with the machines I would be reduced
to a sliver, a ghost, a spark
to be consumed quickly in the circuits, by the need
intense and white
for human power.
So instead I become what my heart says I am
I am the hamster on the wheel,
I am the small warm thing trapped
and helpless by the powers that be
running swiftly
never knowing where I'm going
realizing slowly that it doesn't matter
and nursing small memories, childlike
of how it felt to run on grass.
knowing
There was a time I used to know
things in my inward heart, things
that only those you read know.
I don't know how I figured them out
but I had a few good years in which the world
revealed itself to me, cracked open like a clamshell.
I knew what gods know and
it all made sense, somehow.
I guess I was alone back then, so things were
simple; I was a quiet, lonely country.
When I started to know people better,
and love, I stopped understanding many things
or at least, I forgot thinking about them so much.
An intrepid messenger in me needed
to know about the warm craftings of others, and although
much of me revolted, scared
of how our serenity might be troubled,
he was determined and brave, so eventually
I readied my ships and we set out.
I live on a massive, shifting continent now. No longer
is my home a small crystalline bubble
suspended in bright space. There is color here and
such life! But still, often
I want to return to that place of knowing
that I still reach sometimes, only at the most
heady moments of conversation with a new
friend, one whose eyes show me they knew things too,
once, and perhaps still might.
O, once
I lived in a place unlike any; it was populated
by only myself
and my great thoughts.
things in my inward heart, things
that only those you read know.
I don't know how I figured them out
but I had a few good years in which the world
revealed itself to me, cracked open like a clamshell.
I knew what gods know and
it all made sense, somehow.
I guess I was alone back then, so things were
simple; I was a quiet, lonely country.
When I started to know people better,
and love, I stopped understanding many things
or at least, I forgot thinking about them so much.
An intrepid messenger in me needed
to know about the warm craftings of others, and although
much of me revolted, scared
of how our serenity might be troubled,
he was determined and brave, so eventually
I readied my ships and we set out.
I live on a massive, shifting continent now. No longer
is my home a small crystalline bubble
suspended in bright space. There is color here and
such life! But still, often
I want to return to that place of knowing
that I still reach sometimes, only at the most
heady moments of conversation with a new
friend, one whose eyes show me they knew things too,
once, and perhaps still might.
O, once
I lived in a place unlike any; it was populated
by only myself
and my great thoughts.
nakedness
Something is wrong with me, a
coldness like the longest stretch of that
last week of winter, the one
before you start to catch sight of hoping
spring, when it seems as though all
your days and nights will end with the same mundane
routine of shedding layers too mindless
to examine what your numb
fingers are fumbling with.
We undress to sleep, we
quietly take off those things that
hide our nakedness from ourselves
I feel like I am forgetting to do that
I feel like every day I am
sleeping clothed, slowly
forgetting what my naked body looks like
in all its honesty.
coldness like the longest stretch of that
last week of winter, the one
before you start to catch sight of hoping
spring, when it seems as though all
your days and nights will end with the same mundane
routine of shedding layers too mindless
to examine what your numb
fingers are fumbling with.
We undress to sleep, we
quietly take off those things that
hide our nakedness from ourselves
I feel like I am forgetting to do that
I feel like every day I am
sleeping clothed, slowly
forgetting what my naked body looks like
in all its honesty.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
In The Dark Tent
A dust storm raged and spat
angry mouthful of bitter alkali against
the walls of the swinging tent. Outside
my family worked, hard
trying to break camp
so we could return to the world.
Inside I sat, hunched, gripping
a flashlight in my teeth madly
scribbling what I could recall of the night
my heart burst open. They entreated me
'help!' but I glared beastly at them
baring the few teeth I had left
unobscured by the light.
From then on we worked
silently, all smudged, breathing
frantic particles, they furious while I
madly
came into being.
angry mouthful of bitter alkali against
the walls of the swinging tent. Outside
my family worked, hard
trying to break camp
so we could return to the world.
Inside I sat, hunched, gripping
a flashlight in my teeth madly
scribbling what I could recall of the night
my heart burst open. They entreated me
'help!' but I glared beastly at them
baring the few teeth I had left
unobscured by the light.
From then on we worked
silently, all smudged, breathing
frantic particles, they furious while I
madly
came into being.
Night I
Last August, among crowds
of refugees from our culture, among the hum: their
third eyes nodding in syncopation
to the rhythm of the music drifting from the colored bus
the chant of the wandering monk, o
the guttering midnight wind and
the pulsation of a secret:
one inward heart beating through the machine
and briefly painting flames across the sky
it stained black by infinity,
by the letters describing each possibility
they ran together to form
a bottomless sea, a spiral void, a tube;
it was among this I burst open
alone
and the lotus within me flowered.
of refugees from our culture, among the hum: their
third eyes nodding in syncopation
to the rhythm of the music drifting from the colored bus
the chant of the wandering monk, o
the guttering midnight wind and
the pulsation of a secret:
one inward heart beating through the machine
and briefly painting flames across the sky
it stained black by infinity,
by the letters describing each possibility
they ran together to form
a bottomless sea, a spiral void, a tube;
it was among this I burst open
alone
and the lotus within me flowered.
In The White Tent
There was
a moment
in which I stood transfixed
and watched colored lights
shimmer in and out of one another
and explode on the back walls
of my eyelids they watched
those things inside me
empty out
into the white tent
that dim room and disperse
like smoke among the linens;
they shrouded others, and in
the moment before I lost my
balance, I hung there
truly empty
like a star.
written 4.16.09
edited 9.3.09
a moment
in which I stood transfixed
and watched colored lights
shimmer in and out of one another
and explode on the back walls
of my eyelids they watched
those things inside me
empty out
into the white tent
that dim room and disperse
like smoke among the linens;
they shrouded others, and in
the moment before I lost my
balance, I hung there
truly empty
like a star.
written 4.16.09
edited 9.3.09
I Would See
The fog crawls across the mountain
like an army of white termites
swallowing trees and
I can only see it because I'm
in the air. And if
there was an ant below me
I'd never know it
I'd pass it by unknowingly;
In sleep I pass by whole forests
unconsciously
I am just a particle
asleep in the air
If I were on the ground I'd see the ant
I'd see the air I'd see the trees
but I wouldn't see the fog like an army
instead it would see me like an ant,
and I would become invisible in whiteness
I would be the same, but hidden
and someone in the air would never see me.
written 4.16.09 at Reed College
like an army of white termites
swallowing trees and
I can only see it because I'm
in the air. And if
there was an ant below me
I'd never know it
I'd pass it by unknowingly;
In sleep I pass by whole forests
unconsciously
I am just a particle
asleep in the air
If I were on the ground I'd see the ant
I'd see the air I'd see the trees
but I wouldn't see the fog like an army
instead it would see me like an ant,
and I would become invisible in whiteness
I would be the same, but hidden
and someone in the air would never see me.
written 4.16.09 at Reed College
Physics
I will conquer that
which oppresses my
coiled heart
I will unfold
the petals of sacred lilies and make
manifest the shining wisdom
I will know; trace
the spiraling patterns the orbitals
and meridians. I will find out
how everything is the same and how
it is all one and how
we all commingle brains
aligned in resonance with the planet core,
deep-thinking of
the movements of space and
the all-time
we secretly inhabit
which oppresses my
coiled heart
I will unfold
the petals of sacred lilies and make
manifest the shining wisdom
I will know; trace
the spiraling patterns the orbitals
and meridians. I will find out
how everything is the same and how
it is all one and how
we all commingle brains
aligned in resonance with the planet core,
deep-thinking of
the movements of space and
the all-time
we secretly inhabit
Portrait
I sob on the floor for
you, your arched ribs
spreading
and the trail hollow
that leads from your marble hips
(I'm kissing it)
you, your arched ribs
spreading
and the trail hollow
that leads from your marble hips
(I'm kissing it)
Monday, June 1, 2009
Erowid Experience Vaults: Nitrous Oxide - The Ultimate Lack of Truth - 31722
such a benign thing produces so
much; I was right about our brainmaps
our explosions under eyelids
being infinite. Three
atoms unlock a hidden world.
such a benign thing produces so
much; I was right about our brainmaps
our explosions under eyelids
being infinite. Three
atoms unlock a hidden world.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
chronicling
in november i revised It Was Like Losing a Favorite Necklace:
Slipping off like the times midwinter
jostled mercury like pearls down
my jacket into the lapel slithering
unnoticed to vanish, for
Fate: it was the
Fates condensed and meddling;
she knows your weak spots,
screams them
aware that I tread the fault lines regardless,
searching for quiet possibility lurking there, fuel
for reparation. And it is known I know better -- I am
not blinded by love nor soldered
tight in obligation to you, to
love -- you're
like a piece of jewelery, like
my very favorite one
but I can still take you off
or lose you
or even change my mind about you sometimes;
you will not always match me
you will get in the way
you will be itchy
and you will make me remember things
that have nothing to do with you
things that are long dead.
I haven't written a real, good poem in months. realistically, probably not since november or december, unless i'm forgetting something. It fucking sucks. Everything I say is trite and oversimplified and I feel anxiety like static interrupting the signal between my brain and that golden spacious feeling that my chest cavity gets when I know I am writing the right words, the right things. it's not like i've been strapped for material lately, either. fuck.
i have no time to sit down and experience myself. i know what i'm doing on a day-to-day basis but i have entirely lost my motivation to keep feeling, or maybe thinking. i miss being passionate about patterns so much, i miss believing in magic i miss childhood i miss thinking i could understand the world and i miss feeling like i could ever be important, ever have the stamina to become an important person. i feel like an infant i feel useless i feel crippled. i feel naked and talentless and pathetic i feel all too normal, too human, too dull. none of the books i read are making it all work out nothing is showing me the way i'm starting to think there is no way i know there's no way out of here out of me out of this family this life these predilections and insecurities, this body. i watch television, i love sex and sleeping and emotions i love believing that everyone is the same but o really i love thinking that i am purer i try harder i could empathize with an asteroid i am connectivity incarnate i am in touch with the universe i am singing the song of the black hole at the center of the galaxy. i still believe in magic i still believe in god i still believe in animus and ritual and a linkage a force a connectivity a network of mind of love as the basis of life in shamanism and totemic cultures in women and the holiness of babies and prayer. i believe in the beauty of truth i love the oneness of all i love orbitals and the specific conditions for life the wonderful lattices and patterns created by our atmosphere, our core, our trees our vast vast oceans deserts i believe in the golden ratio i believe in the sublime. i want a family. i am astounded that anyone loves me. i often forget that i love anyone else. i am shocked that there is a human condition shocked that i am tapping into what every book is about what every 'great man' thinks about what every religion tries to answer and solve what everyone knows is true and hates and loves and can never escape from. i wonder how many people are so acutely aware of the cartesian dualities that we have all been trained to subscribe to i wonder if it's ever going to be truly possible to disseminate the distinctions of the world to live in a sludge in a grey and sparkling mosaic. i love destiny. i believe in the fifth dimension, i believe in all dimensions as somehow real, somewhere outside our brains i beleive that all of the forces and picture that make up halluciantions are concrete i believe that magic exists i cannot accept that i am just an animal just a sack of biological machinery i love my animalness but i need there to be more, i need an external force i need a green-tinged soft-focus shimmering entity to envelop my entire consciousness to become my being to become everyone and to do what then? i wish i could say that i wouldn't go crazy in the woods i wish i wish i was able to be at peace within myself i wish o i wish that i didn't need variation that i didn't have a destructive urge that i didn't have a computer that i wasn't slowly succumbing to this world, this world of pleasures and distractions and technologies and convenience. i trust none of it. i trust no man but i must believe that somewhere, out there, is a perfect person and i don't care who they are i just need to know that it is possible that somebody has successfully blended all the lines crossed all divisions so i can do what they do and enjoy enjoy enjoy my life for one fucking second to live free of anxiety of will of the need to be known. tolstoy says that will is an illusion because we are all of us directed by the hand of god the and of god that is really just the algorhythmic pattern of the universe of time of history just like the mayans said just like all religions say all wisdom because that makes it feel better that makes all the pain go away then life is safe. but what if it's bullshit. everything i know i hear from an unreliable source everything is opinion based everything is subjective and we humans are so damn inventive that there is no way of knowing the truth there is no truth. all there is is me and everything else and a gigantic fucking web of causality and a nebulous jelly (that doesn't even make any sense forget it) an ether that carries our impressions of one another to and fro our impulses our moods so i can almost read his mind, any mind, so i know all situations yes can typify everything and yet
Slipping off like the times midwinter
jostled mercury like pearls down
my jacket into the lapel slithering
unnoticed to vanish, for
Fate: it was the
Fates condensed and meddling;
she knows your weak spots,
screams them
aware that I tread the fault lines regardless,
searching for quiet possibility lurking there, fuel
for reparation. And it is known I know better -- I am
not blinded by love nor soldered
tight in obligation to you, to
love -- you're
like a piece of jewelery, like
my very favorite one
but I can still take you off
or lose you
or even change my mind about you sometimes;
you will not always match me
you will get in the way
you will be itchy
and you will make me remember things
that have nothing to do with you
things that are long dead.
I haven't written a real, good poem in months. realistically, probably not since november or december, unless i'm forgetting something. It fucking sucks. Everything I say is trite and oversimplified and I feel anxiety like static interrupting the signal between my brain and that golden spacious feeling that my chest cavity gets when I know I am writing the right words, the right things. it's not like i've been strapped for material lately, either. fuck.
i have no time to sit down and experience myself. i know what i'm doing on a day-to-day basis but i have entirely lost my motivation to keep feeling, or maybe thinking. i miss being passionate about patterns so much, i miss believing in magic i miss childhood i miss thinking i could understand the world and i miss feeling like i could ever be important, ever have the stamina to become an important person. i feel like an infant i feel useless i feel crippled. i feel naked and talentless and pathetic i feel all too normal, too human, too dull. none of the books i read are making it all work out nothing is showing me the way i'm starting to think there is no way i know there's no way out of here out of me out of this family this life these predilections and insecurities, this body. i watch television, i love sex and sleeping and emotions i love believing that everyone is the same but o really i love thinking that i am purer i try harder i could empathize with an asteroid i am connectivity incarnate i am in touch with the universe i am singing the song of the black hole at the center of the galaxy. i still believe in magic i still believe in god i still believe in animus and ritual and a linkage a force a connectivity a network of mind of love as the basis of life in shamanism and totemic cultures in women and the holiness of babies and prayer. i believe in the beauty of truth i love the oneness of all i love orbitals and the specific conditions for life the wonderful lattices and patterns created by our atmosphere, our core, our trees our vast vast oceans deserts i believe in the golden ratio i believe in the sublime. i want a family. i am astounded that anyone loves me. i often forget that i love anyone else. i am shocked that there is a human condition shocked that i am tapping into what every book is about what every 'great man' thinks about what every religion tries to answer and solve what everyone knows is true and hates and loves and can never escape from. i wonder how many people are so acutely aware of the cartesian dualities that we have all been trained to subscribe to i wonder if it's ever going to be truly possible to disseminate the distinctions of the world to live in a sludge in a grey and sparkling mosaic. i love destiny. i believe in the fifth dimension, i believe in all dimensions as somehow real, somewhere outside our brains i beleive that all of the forces and picture that make up halluciantions are concrete i believe that magic exists i cannot accept that i am just an animal just a sack of biological machinery i love my animalness but i need there to be more, i need an external force i need a green-tinged soft-focus shimmering entity to envelop my entire consciousness to become my being to become everyone and to do what then? i wish i could say that i wouldn't go crazy in the woods i wish i wish i was able to be at peace within myself i wish o i wish that i didn't need variation that i didn't have a destructive urge that i didn't have a computer that i wasn't slowly succumbing to this world, this world of pleasures and distractions and technologies and convenience. i trust none of it. i trust no man but i must believe that somewhere, out there, is a perfect person and i don't care who they are i just need to know that it is possible that somebody has successfully blended all the lines crossed all divisions so i can do what they do and enjoy enjoy enjoy my life for one fucking second to live free of anxiety of will of the need to be known. tolstoy says that will is an illusion because we are all of us directed by the hand of god the and of god that is really just the algorhythmic pattern of the universe of time of history just like the mayans said just like all religions say all wisdom because that makes it feel better that makes all the pain go away then life is safe. but what if it's bullshit. everything i know i hear from an unreliable source everything is opinion based everything is subjective and we humans are so damn inventive that there is no way of knowing the truth there is no truth. all there is is me and everything else and a gigantic fucking web of causality and a nebulous jelly (that doesn't even make any sense forget it) an ether that carries our impressions of one another to and fro our impulses our moods so i can almost read his mind, any mind, so i know all situations yes can typify everything and yet
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Portrait 3.29.09
I remember reading Alex
Grey to you in bed, showing
you the way he traced perfect forms
examining their nude faces
and thighs, conscious
that we ourselves were naked.
I remember the yellowness of the light
as it traced the graceful dip
of your equine nose.
Grey to you in bed, showing
you the way he traced perfect forms
examining their nude faces
and thighs, conscious
that we ourselves were naked.
I remember the yellowness of the light
as it traced the graceful dip
of your equine nose.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
i'm not a ladies man, i'm a landmine
title by Why?
Frustration comes in waves, bursting out behind an
Underdone conclusion as I watch you, resent you for
Creating this rift between us - usually so tender, why is it when I need
Kindness that you dismiss me the hardest.
Frustration comes in waves, bursting out behind an
Underdone conclusion as I watch you, resent you for
Creating this rift between us - usually so tender, why is it when I need
Kindness that you dismiss me the hardest.
Friday, January 23, 2009
geometry
legs swinging from
the top of the low wall
we make diamonds in the pavement
and i watch the sky
for clouds that look like mountains
and feel that there is no wind-
our movements hang
like silt underwater and
the sun in its stillness
casts golden motes
on the tips of our brown feet.
it is because you are a safe place
that i tell you about
the tiny things i see.
the top of the low wall
we make diamonds in the pavement
and i watch the sky
for clouds that look like mountains
and feel that there is no wind-
our movements hang
like silt underwater and
the sun in its stillness
casts golden motes
on the tips of our brown feet.
it is because you are a safe place
that i tell you about
the tiny things i see.
lightning
alone in my room at night
i imagine you
as storms pelt my windows
as lighting threatens the church tower
i imagine you out
on your roof, glorying
in rain magic
curling through the dark ends
of your wet hair, legs
spread wide in
a defiant stance
with lightning cracking purple
around you
alone in my room at night
i imagine welcoming you
with a blanket, safe
from the harsh winds.
i imagine you
as storms pelt my windows
as lighting threatens the church tower
i imagine you out
on your roof, glorying
in rain magic
curling through the dark ends
of your wet hair, legs
spread wide in
a defiant stance
with lightning cracking purple
around you
alone in my room at night
i imagine welcoming you
with a blanket, safe
from the harsh winds.
lagrimas
only for you; tiny
raindrops glisten poised
on my eyelashes, they are
myself, my insides
coming out, overcoming reason
a dizzying wellspring burst suddenly
conjured from my heart
by that longing to combine
which is finally made
manifest as they trickle into
your pores and i sigh with
relief: we are together
you are in my arms.
raindrops glisten poised
on my eyelashes, they are
myself, my insides
coming out, overcoming reason
a dizzying wellspring burst suddenly
conjured from my heart
by that longing to combine
which is finally made
manifest as they trickle into
your pores and i sigh with
relief: we are together
you are in my arms.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
awe
we hide in museums
softly giggling
in awe of sperm wales
in awe of amethysts, black holes
synthetic coral reefs the largest
oldest tree we look
at the painted moon,
the greatest detail in that hollow
place, we sit quietly underground
in awe of machines, in awe
of the smoky trails wandering
from our mouths,
reflected by the lake
we are in awe of each other.
softly giggling
in awe of sperm wales
in awe of amethysts, black holes
synthetic coral reefs the largest
oldest tree we look
at the painted moon,
the greatest detail in that hollow
place, we sit quietly underground
in awe of machines, in awe
of the smoky trails wandering
from our mouths,
reflected by the lake
we are in awe of each other.
ursa minor
the smallest nose
nuzzles me gently: ursa
minor, littlest bear you are
written in the stars you are
my magnetic north you are
the only place i can stand to be
in all my polar wanderings
all the loveless nights and
carelessnesses
bigger bears- you are the only one
who can melt my lonely
little heart, you are the only one
with your small warm nose
and wise old eyes, who knows
all the secrets of the stars
the wind and the trees.
nuzzles me gently: ursa
minor, littlest bear you are
written in the stars you are
my magnetic north you are
the only place i can stand to be
in all my polar wanderings
all the loveless nights and
carelessnesses
bigger bears- you are the only one
who can melt my lonely
little heart, you are the only one
with your small warm nose
and wise old eyes, who knows
all the secrets of the stars
the wind and the trees.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Repulsion
heat between our shimmering backs
created by the angry negation of our polarities two
magnets drawn far apart
cometlike
to different orbitals
a mutual jettison of space waste accelerating
too fast for entropy or loneliness to catch
up with us we are screaming with delight
luxuriating in the speed of our separation
we are riding the frequencies of our screams
we have entirely forgotten one another
we have been annihilated by the blissful
shockwaves that repulsion creates
morphed by the excitement, we are smeared
and neutralized we hang starlike for an instantaneous six months
crystalline and beautiful we wonder
and slowly, hanging
we regain harmony and quietly our polarities tire
of the pretense that interference creates to remember
that once it was separateness that drew us together and it was not ourselves
nor the orbits we complacently trace but the false idolatry that made us think
we were the same
repulsive creature from whom we both fled.
created by the angry negation of our polarities two
magnets drawn far apart
cometlike
to different orbitals
a mutual jettison of space waste accelerating
too fast for entropy or loneliness to catch
up with us we are screaming with delight
luxuriating in the speed of our separation
we are riding the frequencies of our screams
we have entirely forgotten one another
we have been annihilated by the blissful
shockwaves that repulsion creates
morphed by the excitement, we are smeared
and neutralized we hang starlike for an instantaneous six months
crystalline and beautiful we wonder
and slowly, hanging
we regain harmony and quietly our polarities tire
of the pretense that interference creates to remember
that once it was separateness that drew us together and it was not ourselves
nor the orbits we complacently trace but the false idolatry that made us think
we were the same
repulsive creature from whom we both fled.
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