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ADDED 8.4.04
Walking here in the artificial moonlight feels like nothing but a reenactment. Those were the nights
of October two years long past when crickets prayed their dying meditations and homemade Halloween yard decorations quickened
our steps. They were nights of being carried. I recall too many pretend kisses, like actors making love. Those were the nights
when my body didn't belong to me. We were sneaky children playing the role of conspicuous kings and queens with out quarter-machine
rings and sacred inside jokes. Our walk together looked as peaceful as a moonlit seaside stroll, but we were only walking
against broken seashells and snappy crabs going who knows where, maybe around the continent for no reason. Tomorrow was a
myth that surprised us every morning - it became an ache that started fires; it was a dread that we held in the back
of our throats. When did you become so scared of me?
In more childish days I would spread these seeds I so anxiously try to unbury, uproot. I blew them into
the wind like dandelion dust. I mailed them to Timbuktu and sent them off into rushing rivers. I know I'll never be able to
uncover them. I'll be tattooing band-aids to my veins, my toes. I knew something was wrong when I got a fairy-tale fortune
in a burnt fortune cookie.
-to Scott Farwell xmas '03-
I cannot sleep. Your smile is wicked and it robs me of rest... dream thief, that's what you are. On my sheltered,
thirsty plane there will be peace. Just seeing you gathers me up and scatters me all at once. It can turn any sullen, richrich
purple into a cheerful yellow. You and I consist of so much more than typing, more than a couple of laughs and blushing. No,
there is a very real, warm person who sinks their teeth into my words; someone who I easily remember with a dark blue raincoat
and a baseball cap with hints of blonde and reddish hair peeking out to greet me. Until I can hold onto those strong arms
and that smiling face in an airport somewhere, I hold onto these memories, keep typing, keep praying for your safe return.
"We're imperfect people leading fucked-up lives in a messed up place to live them." - Stribe
I disagree.I think we're imperfect people not doing the best we know how, undeserving of this beautiful
planet we're managing to give a slow death. Humanity isn't perfect - thats what is so fucking beautiful about us! We have
free agency, free will. Unlike animals, our instincts are hidden within the bellies of our souls behind layers of years like
a pine tree; shells over shells of what everyone tells us to do. Therefore, we have emotions. Love, hate, bitterness, sentimentality...
I have to look up at the patchwork of clouds with a smattering of stars admiring their reluctant moon and I wonder who is
really watching me now?
ADDED 7.29.04
I dreamt that I was in a hall lined with baby grands. It was a corridor of ivory keys and timid, clam-like
shells held ajar. One in the far corner plays a haunting childhood memory soundtrack by a masked player. I lay down underneath
hoping that the vibration with absorb in my skin, certain that I would be taken elsewhere. I see the toe-like wheels in their
delicate and effortless support. the masked player sweats and stomps and screams, wishing that so much more could be communicated
with his all-too-human hands. I see the strings in anxious, tense movement like blood veins contracting, so mechanically.
The piano breathes. On my knees, I look at all the clamshells raised in the air and it seems in this ballroom of Kawaiis,
the black bodies are frozen in a dance, a gala, of which ironically there is silence.
ADDED 7.25.04
He held my face tightly in his warm, familiar palms and turned away, afraid of the sting from looking into
my eyes. He picked me up and swallowed me in his arms. He sighed heavily, trying to relieve the rock caught in his lungs as
he whispered "I hate you. I hate you."
Dead of night. There's nothing here but windchimes, open sky, and steam-breath mixing with cold air like
cigarette smoke. It's very stale. The dry leaves, brown and sick, fall to the grassy wet ground. I don't want to go to sleep.
I don't want to stop thinking. Something in this withered chill of an hour beckons to me. Could be sleep. Maybe its the romantic
death that surrounds me: the paint chips on the cement, the constellations that envelop me, the ashes in my tea. Everything
is so comatose, so silent. But so warm. Everything seems to snuggle, everything seems to huddle. Fall isn't really a fall
at all, its one step closer to snowy days with cloudless skies. Its one step closer to hot cocoa and fireplaces, and thick
quilts. Fall is the waiting room for warm embraces, warm skin, warm sleep.
I wish he'd let me adore him, even if he is sick. I wish I could cuddle up to him, take in his smell just
because I could... stare at a screen with him, make him tomato soup or spoon-feed him his medicine. Maybe he's a big baby
when he's sick. Aren't we all? Maybe he wishes I was there, just to hold him, run my fingers through his soft, fine hair.
Grab his waist, watch him squirm as I tickle his sides just to see him crack a smile. I want to run my palms up his calves
and feel the shock of hair near his shins. So unlike mine. So male. Everything that might eventually drive me mad is
fresh and I wanna play in the snow before it gets dirty!
I'd be okay to lay in your arms
I think that'd be just fine.
To snuggle up to you as close as close can be
Follow the steady rhythm of your breathing
yeah, that'd be alright.
Maybe to see your mouth wide open
while you snore I'd try hard
not to awake you with my giggles.
Yeah, I'd be okay with that.
INTERIOR
I don't understand people who are afraid of the ocean. It's warm, inviting. Its outstretched arms welcome
like a deacon on sunday. You can bury yourself there, in its body, hide away, run. It's home. It's a funny thing, finding
yourself at the ocean. Such a rush to the senses! The salty smell that dances in your nose, the hushed roar of a
body that never sleeps, the sudden warmth that calms and settles in your skin against the wind. With pounding pulse and scalding
toes, I let myself immerse slowly, but she had a different idea. She was excited to see me, her anxious fingers told me so.
I feel tugged at, like a child wanting to play and kneading stubby fingers into my hem. I am not in rhythm yet, I just let
it happen. And I'm under, I'm back- breath. I get tousled like curly hair in a convertable. You think that's cute, huh? Or
is it initiation? Past the breaker, I find the nurturing state, a listening emotion in the calm ripples. There's a coldness
at my feet and warmth on my face and shoulders. Down. Down. Just go far away from that world, just get further away. Surfacing
is for slackers. Take yourself, go. I feel her grab my hands and I am surrounded again. Her interior - its like being inside
my own head. If only I could open my eyes! Oh, push on through, think! What more? Where are we going? I look back and
get scared. I'm pretty far... I am the only one who can get me back on land. I go under once more, a farewell hug. Abscheid.
She understands. Her arms escort me safely to that place where problems really do happen, mistakes are made, and consequences
must be answered. My foot finds the rough, carpeting sand and I miss her already. What's worse is that I have to wash her
off. She is forever calling me home with every passing tide I'm gone.
HOLLOW APPLE
I've been here before
In transition
This shaky-landing-lift-off
When I no longer belong to you
And I don't have to follow our rules
The ballcourt is yours
But I feel you're just watching the game
Waiting for me to finish the play
This intersection of planes...
We have to remind ourselves not to care
Not to bear the thought that I might
actually
miss him.
EMBRYO 12/03
Daughter turns the handle of her parent's side door and steps into the cold night. She opens the paper package,
two left, and lights one. She blows smoke into the face of the starry sky. Daughter is lost on her own front porch. She marvels
at how seperated her life is. It's a chemical change, like baking a cake, she thinks. Daughter can feel failure, a sarcastic
emotion, brushing her hair and pulling at her scalp. She feels that she is a favorite of failure's. She can feel removed prayers
assailing her and twice removed prayers that patronize. Daughter tries to be real and show satisfaction with her own life.
Not even the moon shows its full self. Daughter feels a hankering. A pull. A thirst. Something bigger than this cigarette.
Bigger than that twin bed. Bigger than the crescent moon. Daughter wants something so bad that she can't identify.
The Benjamin Dunham Home for Relationship Refugees
This cozy cottage, this warm place full of sunlight and laundry lint, strange music and wine, smiles and
sinks that drip, drip, drip... There is poetry and paintings adorning every wall, bird nest in my window sill, gravel and
mushrooms. This organic little shack is a dear old friend. Hold onto these! Guitars jeweled with neon stickers, magazine art,
riddled sharpie scribbles and 80's cigarette advertisements.
Here on the porch is where I do my best thinking. The constant purr of the cars is thrown against the bass
of the stereo indoors and content little chirp of the birds. Oh, such an urban audio massage! I see people in their cars and
buses turn their heads as their vehicle is stopped by red. They notice me in my world so different from their own. They wonder
what my name is. What would it be like to be me?I invite them into my life for two minutes and in that humanity-contemplating
moment, their curiosities grow on the surface, they want to roll down the window and ask me why I'm smiling or what I'm thinking
about when the light turns green and I forever leave their life and memory. I am a part of that person for a brief moment.
I have a big family, I realize.
If you were here right now, I would plant my feet into yours to walk wherever you go. I would sew my hand
into yours so that I could always feel your pulse, always squeeze your fingers when I'm being sarcastic. I would breathe from
the well-spring of your lips and give you a kiss for every star in sight.
If you were here right now, I'd fall - no, collapse into you and relish in the warmth and strong-hold of
your arms. I'd breathe in your thoughts and lose myself in a dreamlike consciousness. I'd become a child again, finding tiny
happiness in every fold and button of your clothing, curling your shoelaces around my fingers, making little discoveries of
your body.
I would draw a map of it all so I could find my way home again, if you were here right now.
<tessa>
...is a beautiful creature who holds her boys in little fish bowls. She coos and babies them, and sprinkles
her attention at the top, just enough to maintain them. Those shells of men; she has a school of them. They swim up to the
glass and suspend themselves in awe of her. She is arresting. I'm not sure where she fits in. Despite my jealousy, I too have
found myself in wonder of this gazelle, this hunter among humans.
<jonathan>
...has fallen into Tessa's pretty wrath. Poor thing that once talked about backpacking, Rilke, homelessness,
art... has become a tiny dog in her sight. She's got him on his hind legs, dancing for attention.
<Charze>
...the girl who wants to flail her arms about him, give him a kiss on every inch of his body, worship his
muses and surrender every muscle she has to his posession. Charze. She is a beauty not of this world. Her eyes dance like
crystals in a window and her voice tinkles like tiny bells at Christmas. Any man would be mad to deny her. Charze, the Aphrodite
of Persia, is made of curls and honey. She waits on her knees in an undefeated exhaustion for a lust-drunken, hypnotized fool.
It's really very simple: I want you. I crave you. I long for the sandy-warmth of your skin, the pace of
your breath against my back. I long to turn over after unpleasant dreams or insomnia and let my palm hug your hip bone as
your breath rises and falls... rises and falls... I miss sleepless nights of inside jokes and nakedness. I could tolerate
the cold of night when I reach for more sheets to discover you've stolen them all - so I must cuddle. Damn. I miss hearing
you sigh as you cross from sober planes to states of release. I want you, Its really that simple.
Birds must have the loveliest lives. Every morning in welcoming anticipation of the rising sun, they sing
their usual hello songs over and over. That great light in the sky, how happy it makes them! Their big yellow friend puts
warmth in their cheeks and illuminates their world. How marvelous would it be to live among the earnest trees in the
breaking light, through the leaves, the soft drip of rain.
Untitled
I'm sitting on a hot Sunday night
The black sky has never been so far away
Still wearing my work-clothes from morning
I had no one to dress up for
My calendar had been stuck
On the last month I gave a damn
It seemed so right at the time
That I change my mind
Sink into something new
but this time the silver lining
has nothing more to say when I
say to myself I think I've just made
the biggest mistake.
There's something to be said for taking the world off your shoulders and throwing it to the ground, spreading
shy legs and inviting foreign life inside your very being. When we sleep, he slips his hand down and holds me. I think its
so sexy that the warmth and delicacy of the female sex is soothing or comforting to a man. I think I'm most at peace like
that, when we're taking such deep breaths from eachother; entwining sweaty palms and fingers and push for more. In those moments,
every ounce of affection and attraction and feeling manifests itself.
He's trouble. I feel something inside the core of the earth burn a little hotter, making the floor tremble
beneath me when our eyes meet. Its something very amazing, terrible, magnetic, shattering, thrilling, murderous, and gentle.
Your love's the killin' kind...
Yesterday, I cracked. I ate at McDonalds. "For here or to go?". These two black men waited rather impatiently
at the front of the line. The taller one says to the other, "I should've stayed in jail". Don't think about that line for
too long.
When I sit down and contemplate the long hours of work ahead of me, a stout little girl named Rosa sits
in front of me and asks me if she could sing for me. "I can sing good!" she promises. I nod and she begins to sing the longest
but most innocent little song she called "I'm Leaving You" about a girl who goes to 'the store' and sees her boyfriend hugging
another girl. It was the cutest thing I'd heard since "oops i deed eet again, play with my ha, lost in game, ooh bay baby".
I went up to the counter again, just to get some water, and she wraps her arms around my waist, looking up into my face and
just smiling away. Her father retrieved her shortly after that saying "I've been waitin' for you in the car!". As she leaves,
I wonder just how alone she is.
Jessica. Acissej. "Hey, you'd be ear!". Its the little things that make Jessica happy. Cooking for and bathing
Mei Ling. Making french fries. John Lennon. Comparison of roles in psychology. Although she is a bold little tomboy who speaks
in a gruff, almost dikey tone, she is covertly feminine and strikingly gorgeous. She is the kind of girl one would look for
at the beach among all the bikinis, blonde hair, but-her-faces, eek! braces, acne, and over-accessorized... damn. But wait,
there she is. Simple, lovely, Jessica. You are overcome by the salt-water-sweet smell of her. she smiles to greet you with
a fancy string of pearls inside her fire engine lips. You are surprised by her rough, northern accent and her sharp, dry humor,
as well as her intelligence. She isn't a one-night-stand girl. This is the kind of girl you'd hate yourself for giving it
all up after one night. You've never been the kind who thought "true love waits", but now that you've witnessed te delicate
spirit that is Jessica, you can question a lot more about your previous notions of love.
Marianne filled her spit of a room with smoke. She's having another one of those overcast conversations
with herself. She hates herself for it; its all too cliche! The runny mascara, bloodshot eyeballs, tugging at the curtains
from the tear-damp mattress, fetal curling. She cried for pity's sake which is no reason really. She'd had a good day after
all, until her luxury of having orange juice in the fridge ran dry. She demanded of the heavens "Why can't I buy orange juice?
Why don't I deserve juice?".
Most of her days ended this way unless she could afford to pay rent - and - buy a bag of her favorite
junk food. It was the ritual, to exhaust her brain with television radiation watching paid programming and fill her empty
belly, nutrient deprived and thirsty, chock full of corn syrup, gelatin, and sodium. She'd feel sick and yet sublimely happy,
drunken with crunchy morsels and stained with crumbs. Her breath is the smell of .99 cent specials.
She owned a car once, but like most things in her life, she had to sell it. It was the prettiest little
white Plymouth Horizon you'll ever see.. even a little scratch would warrant some kind of cover-up be it nail polish, white-out,
glue, whatever was available to her. It had the loudest engine one the block - which should win awards in her neighborhood.
That engine could roar - it revved like a bitch about to get her revenge. It gave Marriane a strange courage - if not that,
it sure helped to wake her up every day.
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