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seventy-three |
July 8th, 2008 @ 12:00am |
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for william, III
You asked me to write you poetry
Can't you see? I recite
verse every hour with my eyes
and hands, iambs of joy
that comes so easily in your presence
(and although you are away)
no duplication with ink
can mean more than our communion.
Take each kiss, instead,
as penned line of love.
A poem? I would rather give
my vision, that you might know
the way I see you;
I have no skill with rhyme, but one
moment will sing you odes and sonnets
more meaningful than words.
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| 170 hit(s) |
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seventy-two |
April 23rd, 2008 @ 12:00am |
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18 April, 2008
red line I
this land of glass and stone
captures warmth (between
the storefronts of a thousand
investments and hopes)
where three, four, five
pairs of hands are one unit
familiar.
This could be ours.
Small ears and sticky lips,
our heat caught and reflected
timelessly
(and oh so selfishly, in
an era where a man lone
and afraid is a thing distasteful)
Land of hypocrisy, its mask
this bustling and wholesome
square (someday, someday, our endless
whisper) We will be too distracted by
a New Life to notice.
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| 36 hit(s) |
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seventy-one |
April 16th, 2008 @ 12:00am |
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11 January, 2008
for william, II
If I could direct the path my dreams take
(the simplicity of turning a white page)
of capture the patterns my exhalations make, the result
would be an hour lost in the memory of
the way your skin tastes (in the dark
of a warm room) the small quiet
of the journey of your hands, always,
the slow moments filed with your eyes,
closed, the purposeful movement
your dreaming orders and
the ardor and
Anticipation of a first kiss
Yet, I see only the west
the fervent grabbing the sun makes, sinking,
slicing beams through grey clouds towards
the paradise of the south
(a thousand lines of light yearning
towards last attempts at blue)
in the gathering dark.
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| 27 hit(s) |
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seventy |
April 16th, 2008 @ 12:00am |
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06 January, 2008
for william, I
It is springtime where you are,
and to my mind your breath is
the warmest breeze (your eyes the only
stars I care to see and your smile, the sun)
that warms with each steady moment
And yet, this cold I feel
(this winter) is not
the bitter tang of air through bare branches
as I walk, or sit quietly
with a lit cigarette.
Nothing is quiet, outdoors,
where my smoke and breath spiral
to mix with the grey sky.
Winter is not a dead thing.
Death, instead, is
the silence of a room where I once
had a thousand nights of dreamless sleep,
a cool sheet, an empty pillow where
your head once lay.
Days of cold, and then
This freak summer that
streams in from the south.
Honest emotion and truth are
unfamiliar feelings on my tongue
(and the sun seems a symbol
of the new certainty I embrace)
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| 20 hit(s) |
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sixty-nine |
April 13th, 2008 @ 12:00am |
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seventeen hours
the absence of a small flame
has turned the world to water-
we rock (hand to chin to hair to
hand) and the breeze, the current
pulls at our limbs.
My thoughts cling like silt and
a small place screams with
anxiety- I will not feed it.
The sun I used for a
blanket, wrapped its warmth around
me and focused on Anything Else
(the smell of the wind in
your throat) has set
too soon and
I cannot break the surface of
this ocean, addiction.
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| 23 hit(s) |
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sixty-eight |
April 6th, 2008 @ 12:00am |
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04 April, 2008
"Vertebrae," he called it and left it
there for me to contemplate
as I wore your mark on my breast
and stood and stared,
hiding from the sun.
I have too many thoughts for you
and you have none except for how the blossoms fall
like false
rain
on your lap.
Bronze in a garden or petals
in hair cannot calm jealousy.
Look! I am yours
but no amount of smoke can bribe you to
be mine
You are Your Own (sculpture,
artist, and
meadow)
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| 44 hit(s) |
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sixty-seven |
April 6th, 2008 @ 12:00am |
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03 April, 2008
Rather than a stone wall
those thousand pebbles
placement, precision and the
illusion of comfort that mortar
and vines promise
a thousand pebbles clog the drain
and my hands are clean.
Dirt streaks my face, the walls
and a silt-loam reflection follows
me through the halls, but
my nail beds would gleam in the sun
had the rain not followed me home.
I am not strong enough for boulders.
Those pebbles would have done me in
had I not a friend to help me
Call me a counterfeit!
rub your dirt on my palms
I will still have the whites of my eyes
and water to wash today away
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| 37 hit(s) |
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sixty-six |
October 21st, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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the poem i Will never show you
There is no future for us
you're a mean drunk
a narcissist and a
liar. You smile too wide
ly at bedtime and
goodnews
but never have one to
spare for compassion
you're every mirror's enemy
and every mother's heartbreak
and every time you spring
to your feet i roll my eyes, but
you're decent in bed
you kiss softly and always
have a shoulder to spare
(even if your heart's not in it)
you make me angry and
are harsh with words but
sometimes
i can be just as mean.
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| 20 hit(s) |
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sixty-five |
September 25th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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17 September, 2007
The pure heredities of solid colored skies
mock the stripes of evening, casting
shame on the way my blood pulses
(unevenly) in thin veins.
Where the haze whitens,
camels glide, journey in the
snapping mist
(the smoke of their breath
the fog from the rolling dunes) distantly
the sky stretches over
and within me, the stillness spiteful
of personal deserts.
I am taut (and I have barely learned
to welcome the embrace)
my skin, the brittle slices,
a thousand shards of moisture from
shallow pores.
I spit, the god
of another bitter oasis
More miracles for my collection.
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| 24 hit(s) |
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sixty-four |
September 12th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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There exists, somewhere
hidden in the hard sounds
your hands convey (idolatry
in dilating pressure) a
concrete sense (the brick
wall life hurtles toward)
of security
Pause holds no sway
in the dialect of our
love
(syllables unpronounced
by clumsy southern tongues)
Crimson sunsets over a
charlatan paradise go
unnoticed
but for (the stirring air on
a solitary face) your presence
I am not sure how I feel about this. I had the urge to play with hard sounds and strong words today. I do not know if anyone will be able to hear a difference but me.
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| 22 hit(s) |
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sixty-two |
September 10th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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28 July 2007
Thirty years from now, when
I am settled in my own feelings of
Importance and Purpose (or
I have lost them altogether)
I might look back and say
"Summer of 2007, when I
signed my name in the corner of
books of poetry, philosophy (and
wondered in my children would ever see
the script as childish)
read and digested Rand, was
Unsatisfied, moved on to Nietzsche,
drank, smoked, and worked
in a Laundromat for low pay and
no respect, grew wary at new boys,
succumbed to familiar faces, envied
the way girls looked from across the room,
spent money and did not contemplate
The Future, ran around like a mad
woman, barely slept, searched for
Meaning
I was eighteen, decent health,
cramped handwriting and emotional
range, living for myself through a
glass of vodka and a ballpoint pen"
The best summer of my life?
The only sure thing right now is that
I cannot find a better term for
retrospection in the present tense than
"pathetic."
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| 24 hit(s) |
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sixty-one |
September 10th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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26 July 2007
A car, a car
A Chevy (black ink and just
as mutable) sits revs
its engine in the corner
of my mind
Hello
and a comma, and a pause
and a sideways glance at you
The light hits your eyes (sparks)
in a not-quite-right way, a
Hello
and a nod, It's Fine
Hello
in a way, that way as
if we never said goodbye.
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| 25 hit(s) |
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sixty |
June 30th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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10 June 2007
Clouds roll over fiveseventy-one
Fingertips of pressure (pleasure
as he slips from third to fourth
gear) tell of a land
tell of a place: Summertime
and her elusive era of
citronella and stick-shift bruises;
Summertime, and passing cars (those
ships on the horizon) cruising,
that feeling of arrival as
The Limit (as you approach me)
gets pushed, shoved (millimeters
milliseconds of a million-dollar)
smile; Baby, the road goes
rolling on for miles more
past the horizon line
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| 41 hit(s) |
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fifty-nine |
June 30th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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4 June 2007
My hair curling over his fingers,
pH strips that crackle and
flow, he tests my
acidity and balks not
when the colors reveal reds,
orange-yellows (colorblind,
but his only disability is hope)
Noose of a garterbelt and
round rings of eyemakeup
(round rings of churchbells)
tricks to tease and trap a man,
a perfected suggested smile while
I myself end up caught
Uncaring infidelity:
that headache you (can't) handle
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| 33 hit(s) |
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fifty-eight |
May 9th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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"I don't part-ic-ul-arly feel
like being nice today" (breathlessly)
proclaimed she in her salt-spray tone
The mesmer of her dappled eyes
(animal from a sunlit cage) calls.
Little peacock!
Slinking through the forest as though
you had been made of more than
carbon (copy of an all-
too-familiar landscape)
A nation of discomfort holds council in
my leaden chest (willing
a look of awe from my face) as
She spices the air with power and
beauty, the aro(bow string still singing)
matic stench of self-sufficiency.
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| 30 hit(s) |
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fifty-seven |
May 3rd, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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plate tectonics
A surrealist's mindgarden of images form
in front of my squinted eyes
I, the blasphemed daughter, wait
in silence for my judgement's call, and
(as I put a cap on upward motion)
experience stills my anger.
Stoic porcelain figure, I
(cool to the ever-absent touch of) a
mother's hand of justice.
My sisters and father, they speak
Their Own Language above my ears;
while my mind slips over the meanings
I assign importance to each breath.
For a handful of sunny days I
let my imperfections lay bare
Now, cold seeps into the furrows and
I am cracked open like a glass jar.
Even the raindrops have deserted me.
Cold-stinging bites of retribution remind
of the ever-present storm clouds (as
I silently rue the return of my
five-day-absent ghost)
Flower petals (flung open like windows to
catch the breeze) recall themselves
And I, wary as a Chinese fortune, follow.
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| 35 hit(s) |
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fifty-six |
April 23rd, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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Prelude to a summer romance:
I, spontaneity arrested, walk
on eggshells, ricepaper (like so many monks
he described in passing conversation)
That zenprogress feeling of filling the silence
with memories the size of teacups.
All life reduces to a pinpoint in the moment
Ethan, with his smooth cool hands
calls my name in His Own Way
(The solemnity of his eyes, pale blue,
clearer than any winter sky)
Vowel sounds, and his pure grin
when I turn to find his eyes on mine
(Purity, he tells me, is environmental
A lie spun by juxtaposition)
I still cannot help but feel like
black tar, pulling at his feet, his hands
Biblical damnation only a woman can offer
(Served from behind the facade of my own
good intentions)
Yet Ethan, he kissed me under porchlights
Stretching each present-tense as far
as it would go, one hand on my waist
one hand on my back, and
my name on his two lips (He
spoke my name again, in that strange way
as if to remind me of something just forgotten)
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| 40 hit(s) |
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fifty-five |
April 18th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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on someone you may know
The hypocrisy of Our Flagship sets
sail every Wednesday, as
the hidden sun begins its long climb.
My one wish was once to send it off, a
(violent) crash of glass against its
impenetrable hull.
Jaded by its comings, its goings
new longings (to bask in the stately glow of
its anticipating cabins) overwhelm
with their velocity.
A multitude of gloved hands wave farewell
on the poignant shore.
I lower mine, wondering, would
I ever be the one looking down?
(clasping the rail in exultation
of my own arrival, hardly
remembering the ants on the shoreline
left behind with one step onto gangplank)
Bliss itself looks paperthin when
outside the portholes, looking in.
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| 43 hit(s) |
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fifty-four |
April 15th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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great aunt marje
Marjorie needs a good cry, I thought
As I hid in the corner like the sinner I was
They paraded the dead in front of her,
a reminder of her age and status
(Faces of former loves undoubtedly
cracking the scabs of time)
The thing I fear most is age, not death
To be put on display in a blue-pants-suit
(a shaking slumping bag of bones, we'll)
Praise the Lord, 'cause Marjie's still alive
(If I ever shut down, it will be my own doing
not time's gentle drip-drip torture boring holes)
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| 37 hit(s) |
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fifty-three |
April 8th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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What is the soul of poetry?
True emotion lies (within
the mind of fools, a purity)
untainted by logic's boister
and imposition
Oh, to lay once more
in the dark presence of a god
Hot breath and hands the only indictment
(sentenced by caress to the
hot fever of passion's pain)
Love's torture knows no master,
and I no relief.
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| 42 hit(s) |
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fifty-one |
April 8th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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There is a girl inside me whimpering for your attentions
Lock-keeper of love's door, her hands
a mess of sores
gloveless against the spines and barbs of
poetic nonsense, spun
on a shoddy loom.
She is small and sullen in my mirror-box
combing through logic and strife
That savage search for beauty
born too late, old too early
round tones and long vowels a relic of
Loam-founded seats of the past
Form, the caustic commotion
of superiors and peers
Whisks like dry leaves on a wind
that flows over cheeks,
gold curls over pale-powder neck
as she sways, eyes soft on the horizon
I can't decide whether I like this or not. This is what happens when I try to imitate someone else's style. If it doesn't come naturally, it's not meaningful.
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| 42 hit(s) |
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fifty |
March 29th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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Waiting In Cars
The familiar landscape black
outside black windows, I meditate
(mediate, between heart and mind)
Question, and wait
for an unfamiliar voice in my ear
(Music, do you know you play for
a villain?)
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| 45 hit(s) |
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forty-nine |
March 21st, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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The intone, drone of lullaby speech
as fingers spin through silken split ends
Loafers pace (cream cable follows, swaggering)
Ruby glints over a hand's path
This booming man, vindictive veteran
Spins his faerietales of formulas, the
adventures of slope and correlation
Variables and intercepts fall like dust
into heavy eyes (as forehead hits hand)
lids sink, until jarring voice jolts me into
wakefullness.
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| 39 hit(s) |
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forty-eight |
March 21st, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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20 March, 2007
Disease is a spiral in my irises
its curves and lines play
Pattern on whatever the grey-green captures
Infection spreads with a single glance
yet (unable to resist tracing the path of
brown curls' collision) I wait
Pause
Count
Breaths
until liquid looks hit mine, and
my gaze darts away, a cloudy fish
upon the cross-streams of your smile
(growing, waves of envious longing ebb
and build) along the banks of conspiracy
I lounge in a hypocrite's palace of sand
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| 43 hit(s) |
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forty-seven |
March 17th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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My worst enemy and I paced
rectangles under halogen hum
Empty locker eyes witnessing
We (we discussed) are the same person
While she expounded on our
differences (twopointoh, she called me) I
thought, isn't that funny!
how it is the nature of human
existance to want to keep the old and familiar
Progress is something only experimented with
Striven for as we adhere to what Works.
This isn't really a poem. It's just what came out.
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| 40 hit(s) |
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forty-six |
March 7th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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Handful
Well if we are speaking in truths, now
then here is one for you:
It is true that I fall in love everyday, nearly
With a thin-wristed girl or some heavy-eyed boy, and
(if everything is black or white) it is
because I have fallen so completely out
of love with reality
It is almost a sickness!
Hazily, I catch myself dwelling
on how their eyes would look, laying
next to mine, when
Stop (the mathematician screams)
and I do, until the next one passes by
A second truth: maybe (and odds are all in favor)
I just do not remember how to be alone
Four years spent racing to escape it robbed me
(of dignity, of conscience) but
day by day I am building my island
Stockpiling, walling, mining the beaches
Third: I was proud of myself for more
than two months, this fall
and I feel that same pride, presently
(the jeweled mantra of celibacy, and
I pretending it was invited)
I will wear it in a crown before long
You Will See
Four: I lie to no one and to
Everyone, all at once, and five
The truth I will never speak
(understanding is a sinking life-raft) How
can something be at once true and false?
I will leave that one to the non
existant God I so look forward to
meeting.
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| 58 hit(s) |
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forty-five |
March 6th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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1 March, 2007
Who the hell (I say to myself) do
you think you are? (Well, I reply,
an almost-skinny blonde girl, chestless
moralless, moraleless)
You really shouldn't be so damn (my
mental self starts, stomping a mental cigarette)
negative all the time
When I argue with myself (I muse quietly, so
I won't hear) there are often no right answers.
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| 46 hit(s) |
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forty-four |
March 5th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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lent
If I count all my vices
(I am doing some heavy thinking, tonight, for
twenty cents a minute) tick
them off, finger by finger
of course I'm lacking!
One bad habit in the place of another, the
(seemingly) endless cycle of replacement
Maybe I should stop looking at beautiful women
(with honey eyes and molton lips) torn
between lust and envy, or
fast, day and night, give up liquor,
give up men (my soul
already half an empty shell, I'll
give it something to rattle about)
Too bad I'm not actually Catholic- I
like ceremony and candles almost as much
as my own narcissism.
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| 43 hit(s) |
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forty-two |
March 4th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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She belongs to the late-afternoon, under first spring glows of Coastal Sunshine (the kind found on Floridean shores, only rarely glimpsed in the Jersey wasted, make-believe land.) I'd like to pin her to the dark and rainy first hours of a new year, but
every inch of spite and decay I felt at that moment poisons that memory. So it goes.
His memories, the good ones, are centered on the half-light of late summer, walking the streets under the indecisive haze of morning v. night (and every time I hear "Guero," I'm there.)
Except for "Go It Alone." That song is mine.
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| 49 hit(s) |
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forty-one |
February 28th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
|
It was at the eight-season oasis of my
retail desert that I first put words to it
"Well, no," I paused, as sympathetic ears danced
a thousand affirmations, explaining "it's
not that I hate her (persay) we're
just far too much alike."
Now, as I awake to husky static hints of sarcasm (that
voice I sometimes wish to shake, plead
'hurry up' as it pauses once again) that
voice far too much like my own
I also nod (olive branch gripped tightly)
and wish her good luck (in all endeavors, Parallel
and Perpendicular)
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| 42 hit(s) |
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forty |
February 25th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
|
Today's disgusted reflection revealed, that
I am constantly surrounded by ugliness
Thick limbs, worn clothing, odors
Graceless stumbling gait, the
press of the masses, forward!
I sometimes feel I am waiting on an eternal line
Inching onward towards consumption, and
if I cannot escape the crush of
limbs and bodies, soon
I will scream
(Not that my scream would be any holier than his, or yours)
If I was not the only being whose presence Stops where
my body Stops, then
we all might have a little more
room to
Breathe.
Just a theory.
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| 47 hit(s) |
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thirty-nine |
February 25th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
|
The Coffin-Maker is calling my name, again
He whispers, slowly, from corners
His soft mouth caressing the single syllable, murmurs
Falling like mist on water
I try to ignore him, feeling his gaze (his
coquette winks a memory of a dream)
The Coffin-Maker is calling my name, again!
A laughing slur, basking
in the steel glow of his own persuasiveness
He knows I hear him, and he can Feel
my anger, glinting Spark of hatred, his
Pretentious calm eyes roving, waiting
The Coffin-Maker is calling my name, softly
It's been five weeks now, and
I have yet to answer once.
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| 44 hit(s) |
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thirty-eight |
February 14th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
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paramour
I sometimes feel I have met you twice
The you that laughs and points, confides
and stands so far it sometimes seems
you are not around, that same
mouth I've seen grow, kiss other women,
hang over toilet seats, give advice, eat, drink, a thousand times
The reality of relationship: you,
over five long years of observation,
The one I can't quite capture
I'm far more intimate with a stranger: a
shade of you, one whose eyes seek me
out, with whom I share moment(ous)
silent minutes
Uncomfortable, unspeaking, familiarity: (my)
force of tender delicacy
(and maybe You feel that there are two I's for your two you's
and it doesn't bother you that they Just Don't
Match)
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| 44 hit(s) |
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thirty-seven |
February 9th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
|
6 February, 2007
Seeing you across the room
The Noble bubble of self-possession
Calculation of movement and
utter focus of turned-away eyes.
Suit-clad limbs no woman (at least not I) could ever
Call her own, with a lover's
Tenacity!
Your set-of-mouth melting as you lend yourself
out, seeming at once Borrower
and beneficiary.
All the words of sentiment I'd spin
Could not compete to fill the brisk detachment of
your laughing sensibility (while
feather-lightness and gaze catch
my breath, a key-hole from a lover who may not
exist)
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| 49 hit(s) |
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thirty-six |
February 6th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
|
Sarah
It seems the most obtuse part of you is your
Presence and bearing
Making yourself known with a laugh, the
glint and warmth of the exotic
Erotica of your eyes
or, more often, your silence.
Purposeful steps pausing for a word or a
Shared sorrowful sigh
Curves supported by elbows, ledge-pressed
(the brown tafetta of your hair falling over
red-cottoned shoulders)
Your daily casual confrontation that
makes
men
wonder.
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| 51 hit(s) |
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thirty-five |
January 26th, 2007 @ 12:00am |
|
six minutes badly spent:
I'm tired of winter
Every finger is swollen and every knuckle
cracked, and
I'm content to waste my day
asleep, street clothes and bedsheets
While my friends are out having a time
It's not so much jealousy or loneliness as
the feeling that I missed
something.
It's been a bad week, a bad month, because
contrary to popular belief
My bed has remained empty for quite some time
And long sleeves, long pants, three blankets
still can't quite keep out the cold.
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| 49 hit(s) |
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thirty-four |
December 5th, 2006 @ 12:00am |
|
Friday night I made promises I couldn't keep, again
Unimagined hours before, my eyes cleared
Mind calmed, focused on the warmth on either side
The chaser's chasee phenomenon, taste
of poison on my tongue
(a Swedish princess's Swedish delight,
the rip-off Russian invention
tainted by Nordic air and plastic cups)
Scent of orange-flavoured filler mixing with
bottle spins and (tongue) twisters
That one on my left,
I knew his name and I still knew mine, so
Why not? seemed the general consensus
(It wasn't supposed to be me travelling to
Disneyland, but name one time I've followed through)
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| 57 hit(s) |
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thirty-one |
November 10th, 2006 @ 12:00am |
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7 November, 11:50 pm
in still of night, doors locked
drawers empty of illusionary substance
(for what substance has smoke, anyway)
frigid chill of still air, bare arms
Braving unknown above-covers territory
for a glimpse of
Perfection, through the misty panes.
the solitary clock, ticking
One beat, one breath, pen-strokes melding
to rhythm, gear-created
in the soft half-shadowed
(somewhere, half between a dream and waking)
grey.
Doublepost.
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| 60 hit(s) |
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thirty |
November 10th, 2006 @ 12:00am |
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28 September, 2006; 6:52 pm
Center center middle
My heart
(fading too soon) so(a)r(e)s
fingertips, fingers
(re) Petition (revenge)
unity, unify (falling now)
habit (I love yous)
conquest (consequence)
sequence.
Order. End.
(ste) Realization.
This one sucks (the most. They all suck.)
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| 61 hit(s) |
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twenty-nine |
November 10th, 2006 @ 12:00am |
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9 September, 2005 [edited 4 September 2006]
Side-stepping carpet waltz
The race the rush, to kiss undress
Entwine engage
A practiced grace
No spared time and no duress
Heartbeats footsteps hands atuned
You the sun and I the moon
The heat of breath
The scent of skin
Nearer still, now drawing in, and
Oh! How I missed this place
The teasing, grazing, pause of hand
The music, sighs
The light, your face
Your mouth, temptation I can't stand
It's unfinished. It won't be finished.
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| 57 hit(s) |
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thirty-two |
November 10th, 2006 @ 12:00am |
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10 November, 2006
I once said
"Is there anything better?"
But I've said a lot of things,
And meant hardly any of them.
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| 58 hit(s) |
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twenty-eight |
November 10th, 2006 @ 12:00am |
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7 August, 2006; 12:28 am
I remember when
(we had first metagain, the sky was blue
and every green leaf seemed kin in our branches)
You loved me
and it showed in every word, soft-whispered
(no search for affection in bills paid typed words and)
feather-swept gazes caressing (stolen)
kisses
Youwe erected promises in sweat (touches
tickles those Goddamned)
eyes (Goddamn it all) ever meeting
Never without
Each former desert an oasis, (grey sky now)
threatening
eternal(ly dry, parched, our new expression of)
love (as your new eternity dawns golden).
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| 54 hit(s) |
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twenty-four |
July 20th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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His eyes couldn't seem to decide which scene in front of him they wanted to focus on more. In rhythm, his gaze darted back and forth between the sleeping figure beside him and the scrolling blue of old-news headlines. Every image, every word registered with the kind of clarity only coming from adrenaline-fueled late-night wakefulness. Perfect eyelashes splayed on perfect cheeks, Supreme Court Decision. Steady breathing, eathquake victims. Silk straps sliding off pale shoulders, car bombing. He didn't care for either picture, really. They both were sensationalized beyond recognition- the prospect of a beautiful woman in bed with him far more glamorous than his current position really was. The women in his mind didn't sigh and mouth names in their sleep that weren't his; the police pursuit at 30 miles per hour wasn't called a high-speed chase.
Sighing himself, he tried to gather how he has gotten to his present situation. Had his distaste for the figure beside him been building since he'd first met her, or had it come on suddenly, the inevitable late night epiphany of one who had been up too early, out too late, too busy in bed to sleep? Had the mixture of alcohol, cigarette breath, and cheap perfume stirred his senses to this point of realization? He hated her; he did, he always has. He resented her role in tying him to this room, their room; this bed, their bed; this television, this apartment; their whole existance and relationship together that he knew he would do nothing to alter.
Did accepting the fact that he would live in hatred of her, their, his very existance make him more of a man than those who drive their cars off cliffs, or less?
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| 89 hit(s) |
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twenty-three |
July 3rd, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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Somewhere between my first and second drinks, I decided two things. One, that the children in front of me were our future, and two, that I was never having kids.
I managed to have a heart-to-heart with a ten year old without spilling anything.
"Listen," it probably went, "you've got to stop beating girls up, because starting at your age the girls are going to be weaker than you, and you can really hurt them."
What exactly I said, I don't remember. I was working on completing one sentence at a time. My mind was drifting.
"You should never hit girls.. even your sisters. Especially them. Because if you hit girls, then you are never going to get a girlfriend, or get married. Ever. And you don't want that, right?"
This same boy later went on to push me into the diving board. I have pictures of the scrape.
Action. Reaction.
There are circumstances that make people lose faith in you. Apparently, I will fuck anything that looks at me twice. Apparently, alcohol has nothing to do with it. This is how she sees me. She is afraid to leave me alone with people. She's suspicious, constantly on guard.
I know why she thinks this. I know why other people think this. I know why they're wrong.
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| 93 hit(s) |
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twenty-two |
June 23rd, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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I feel perverse. Have you ever walked behind someone, watching their legs? I couldn't get out of my mind, all I could think about, were those legs and how one day they would be wrapped around someone else's. Would it be worth it? Would they enjoy it? I suppose that it's the fate of all people, to live and die and procreate. Not in that order, not to be morbid, nay-saying, a doom-seeker, but it's what occurred to me at the time. The purpose of paper is to preserve the moment, so I grabbed the first paper I saw. I don't remember writing it, but it's in my handwriting, there, pencil on a yellow flier.
Don't forget. Don't forgive.
And this is just how I feel this week. Mortal. I'm writing everything down, trying to preserve it. Fleeting. I could copy here what I wrote last night in the dark, sideways and criss-crossing, but I won't. I didn't capture anything of importance, except
I was in the garage, on the verge of a panic attack. No rhyme or reason, just because I could. Because my lungs were full of smoke and my music was loud and my mind was going. Just.. going. I was writing, and most of it makes no sense, except for one mirage of reality that I wish I hadn't glimpsed.
I hate to admit that I need[ed] this, but I did.
This is a shell of what I was trying to capture last night. I still didn't do it, but I gave it a good try.
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| 88 hit(s) |
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twenty-one |
June 22nd, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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I can't even really begin to formulate what I want to say. Another time. Tomorrow. Later. We'll see.
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| 67 hit(s) |
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nineteen |
June 14th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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[Bobby]: smoke makes u feel alive?
[Bobby]: thats a contradiction if i ever heard one
Hmm.
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| 88 hit(s) |
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eighteen |
June 5th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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[Tom]: TELL HER TO DIE OF CANCER
Ouch.
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| 68 hit(s) |
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seventeen |
May 26th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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Stumbled out of bed. First words out of my mouth?
"Oh, fuck. That's right."
Upside, oh ye eternal optimist: I'm glad it's not the first of the month. What a Rabbit-Rabbit that would be.
I have some insecurities. Complexes. Well-founded discretion.
But none of that matters. I have Trix cereal.
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| 67 hit(s) |
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sixteen |
May 25th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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I need a cigarette.
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| 76 hit(s) |
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fifteen |
May 25th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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with an e thanks: my dear, what are we even talking about anymore?
Gil: darling, i haven't a clue.
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| 70 hit(s) |
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fourteen, reprise |
May 23rd, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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La noche pasada: Napkin, red ink, me unable to sleep. Note to self. Pre-purpose scribbles.
"I'm telling you the truth here, Claire," she said.
I should have hung up on her. I should have done something.
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| 82 hit(s) |
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thirteen |
May 23rd, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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Napkin, red ink, me unable to sleep. Note to self. Pre-blog scribbles.
"I'm telling you the truth, Claire."
I wanted to punch a wall.
and
She's never going to be all yours. I don't know why you're bothering.
So I told myself. So I believe[d].
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| 65 hit(s) |
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twelve |
May 21st, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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This weekend has been a blur. Faces, places, boardwalk lights. Smiles, telephone numbers. Wishing I could stay, wishing I could touch you. Fingertips, lips, teeth, bookstore stacks and you and I, and
Dear God, I miss you.
Mallratting has become a game. Can you get away with stealing that? Can I find someone to feed my imagined addictions?
Answer: no/yes, yes/no/yes. 60% is not a bad turnout.
You have your cigarettes, your tank-tops, flip-flops, pop-tops. Neon lights. Butane flames. What am I left with? Cigarette hair, 12 am, your phone number.
I watched the tide tonight, and it affected me like I knew it would. It made me feel alive, young. Screaming in the background, stomach clenching, money betting. But I felt infinite. Claimed infinance in carrying on those conversations. Just words. I made every one count, or at least tried. It's a process, I'm improving. Life's too short to shoot the breeze.
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| 76 hit(s) |
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eleven |
May 17th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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It's Tuesday, which seems like a perfect day to be in love.
My best friend is in love, but she's always in love. We both are, it's just that she's more willing to share it with me than I seem to be with anyone else.
She pastes me love notes that he sends her, and I get to laugh at their grammer flaws, spelling errors. It's sweet, sickly sweet with their wavery sincerity. I want him to love her, need him to, just as much as she does. I can't stand her to be unhappy.
She puts up with all my bullshit, and is thus worth her weight in gold.
And when she's at home in bed, crying, who do I have to smoke with?
Exactly.
I am in love, and always have been, and probably always will be. Friend-love, my Lainers. Otherwise should be inconsequetial to you, whoever you may be.
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| 68 hit(s) |
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ten |
May 16th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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I was attacked today. Kamikaze. Stealth-bombed.
I must say, it felt good. Happy good. Butterflies and such.
I am a sucker. Nice lips, nice smell, I love yous.
And I'll be yours, devotedly, until you get rid of me.
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| 66 hit(s) |
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nine, reprise |
May 15th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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They're so stupid, so over-dramatic and frivolous, that I'm glad my birthday passed with a football game and worrying about the turkey getting burned and three glasses of wine. November 25th, Thanksgiving, and I was in love.
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| 75 hit(s) |
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eight |
May 14th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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I'm listening to, and I'm thinking about, death.
It started off with Sweet Sixteens.
I'm trying to remember the last one I went to. They're so stupid, so over-dramatic and frivolous, that I'm glad my birthday passed with a football game and worrying about the turkey getting burned and three glasses of wine. November 25th, Thanksgiving, and I was in love. A month later, I wasn't anymore. We were too fickle, really. So it goes.
Funeral are like Sweet Sixteens. Vice versa. Funerals came first. Ritual and cleansing, but funerals are more lasting. I remember the last funeral I went to, and chances are I'll never forget.
This all has a form, streamlined theme. I just am too lazy to fight for it at the moment.
----
I've been informed that my new brother's name is Bob. I give him 24 hours, at most.
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| 68 hit(s) |
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six |
May 14th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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with an e thanks: nothing really.. you?
In what context does this mean "Tell me every grievance of your life?"
"Please... the world wants to know. Needs."
Irony: I once considered psychology as an occupation. Why? I can't even stand listening to the whining of those I consider my friends.
I suppose the money was an incentive. Big. Huge. As always. etc.
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| 86 hit(s) |
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five |
May 13th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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I don't think you're getting it. I don't think I'm getting it. I know she's not.
I spent the last forty minutes of my school day in a bathroom stall. I learned a lot, namely how to do my math homework.
One consonant can change the world.
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| 82 hit(s) |
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four |
May 11th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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The other day, when I was cleaning the garage, I found the coffee grinder. Handed it off to my sister. Told her to throw it away.
"Wait."
Took it back. Opened it. Sniffed, tasted.
It hadn't been used for coffee much, lately.
I pointed this out to my mother.
"Oh.. I thought I threw that away."
I stared. I'm getting good at it.
"You can do that now."
"Yeah. Obviously no one is going to be grinding any coffee beans in this anymore. I wouldn't drink out of it, anyway."
I have since thought about this, and now I'm sorry I threw it away.
Otherwise, this didn't bother me. Life is good, life is nice. Only problem, currently. The song I am trying to listen to is taking forever to buffer.
44%...
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| 71 hit(s) |
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three |
May 10th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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The single downside of this username: I don't like the fact that it has the word "scar" in it.
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| 87 hit(s) |
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two |
May 10th, 2005 @ 12:00am |
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There must be some sort of line between "Lying" and "Avoiding the truth." My problem, I don't know where it is. I step on it. Scuff it up. Trip over it.
I should tell her. I will, eventually. I just can't right now.
Speaking of tripping, I really did trip today. Lain laughed. I was too tired to.
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| 71 hit(s) |
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