often never enough

we lost our open mouthes somewhere in space
the currency is different there, like smokey explosions where no one can see
the combination of our heat and our wholes make the night wicked
its cold here and the baby cried when i tried to kiss her face

in the evenings we sat by fires, hopeful, because kindling wrapped in birch bark ignite
and scorch, it is desirable to feel this alive
it is sinful to take too much

the ground work has been lain, or tried
sometimes the beams shake and we cannot find our way to safe ground
each step mocks the last and each time we move, our bodies tremble
whether it is from the anticipation of fear or from the regularity of the sensation cannot be discerned

when the moon rose again this month i noticed the sliver first
i noticed the black sky in its absence and i counted the stars that filled its void
with the coming months i feel the new and the ending and seek the grace that might fall on us if the path is paved
we are never the construction workers, we say the same
and i never let cats join in in our unraveling spool games

the ink is drying, the pages have stuck together
my monkey arms lose their flexibility and i wonder if it ever was
to begin the day with a night is a new. i search for the cave where once i was brilliant
and now the attics dust comes to settle on sheets and stuffed bears with no true name
i cannot find my keys, misplaced in the hands of a sister
who lives in cancer heaven like a stag or a falcon
she holds her pincers nobly, her arch angel name echos off the stones that once were dirt

secret names float through the air, and together we noted the importance
their importance.
the candle burned to the core, when its wick was lit the flame had three parts
and its deepest, a black orb so pure is mistaken for shame
mistaken for shame or hurt, simply because its outer shells invite and rage
i hold candles to my chest, sometimes to let the wax drop, slither, harden, crack.
I tenderly peel away dead light and care for the broken.

under needled conifer a twelve year old gelded chestnut lost his rider
finding there the quiet that barns and pastures cannot obtain
the chestnut flicks his ears, there are no flies
we watch, we are eager children and we have spotted some great treasure

your head is a wasteland, you would have me believe, nothing grows but baby spiders
and speaking frankly, i noticed your fear before anything else
and i looked at you from across cement one night, and your eyes shined just so
and your lips moved to part the silence
if that moment ever completes, i will bathe myself in sand until the unobtainable because untainted

and then there came the time when i saw red bumps along my skin
now a tattoo artist lies comatose, his masterpiece unfinished, his client sulks
her back is undone
you mentioned once that you felt with every inch of your soul and i forgot to ask you if
that is different from the heart.

im coming around, started or startled
perhaps like a bird, caged and wrinkled, the floor is paper clippings and droppings
collecting the impatience of time in a fluttering canary's chest
its pale yellow reminds me of easter sun and altered eggs
the girl runs forever, her hair holds beads in place, in two years she will outgrow the style and start to repress her beauty
it is catastrophic, her sixth birthday blamed the rest
six is half less than twelve, the glass remained half empty for considerable years, tripping even the smallest wires
i watched as you watched her, and from the inside she squirmed, the new old and the old new cannot exist together without a disruption

'come with me' called the wind, i was tempted.
the wind knows the breath of every world, could it forever circulate? perhaps the air that you taste in phoenix is my exhale from alaska.
speaking through time our voices travel, it is so without our knowledge, in weak moments we forget that we came from an eggshell
we forget each other, because our bodies cannot touch
we do not know how to touch our thoughts
you have assured me that someday it will happen
i hold out for someday
but not for you

hindi gods and holy cow come to me in my dreams
when walking through gardens the spirits of dead beans flock to subdued shepherds
they sleep with their eyes open to trick the moon, they speak in hushed tones to trick themselves
i myself find the fields full of life, you see them as harvested exclusion
the worrisome never rest, i want to tell you this, sleep with your heart extended to the hurtling heavens
with dreams come vision and we lock together that close perfection
i cannot yet find our differences

when the red sea parted and coarse hair curled, i watched from the overhanging trees
biblical babies storm sand castles, clenching their fists to take the crusade to your back porch
thats where we sat, with our fingers and our tick hearts tocking as we spoke
its then that i reminded you of our tea with the queen and the knights who raised their weapons to us when we crossed the threshold
she sang in a garden, and we stole the pears from her trees
to see pear trees in the arctic, no wonder our lives have been so blessed

as it comes to pass we prepare our silences
the breaded and bleeding breasts that we set to the fire browned and calmed after a few moments
still nothing but the hour glass tells time, stuck to the table, a fairy tale, a curse
a witch with her nose in a book, she calls on her sister for comfort only to find her feet twisted beneath the basement
the black dog always saw more than those would have thought
and for christmas this year you suggested we dress in costume and character

i understand now that the ground work was never truly lain
it bleeds instability leaving footsteps dangerous, it is just as much work to find the audience as it is to write the story
shifts of the unknown often leave the weary in constant shock, it is impossible for us to find our way back
who are the people that we have become, they follow in shadows, stalking the future as energy claims its prize in our ponders
we shake the leaves off dying trees and dance in the plunging foliage, sometimes you tell me that things will be OK
sometimes you surprise even me, but often never enough.

Tries to avoid the shortcut

This is the end of everything that I have ever known. What happens next could change everything. For a long time now I have been feeling the fever of change, it is burning me alive until I find that smoky reprise, where everything fits. What scares me, what amazes me, what takes me under is the fact that probably nothing will ever fit. In some ways this is a relief. For no one, would I change my person, but for a love I could conceive putting different aspects of my being out there. There are many to choose from, which is also frightening and a relief.
In the end, it will just be me, and I am fully aware of that. This life is for people, it is for you and it is for me. What this means to me means I can love like I have no tomorrow. It means that from now on, there is no reason to forget what I am saying now. It means that from this moment on I will spend my life finding joy and pain and every other detail that I cannot think of at this time.
It is shaming to say that I have been afraid for the majority of my life. This statement is true, however there was a time when I was the most carefree and happy person I could imagine. When the transformation took place, I could not pin point exactly. Possibly it occurred when I was five, that it happened so early is once again, frightening and a relief. The amount of time that I spent unhappy just means that there is less for me to not understand. For it is true, I do understand unhappiness, perhaps. This thought does not frighten me anymore. The only thing that frightens me is being afraid. Who was it that said “the only thing to fear is fear itself”? Franklin D. Roosevelt.
What I need to work on is taking myself out of a moment. To learn how to be without fully being there is something that I must master. This is all of course speculative because I cannot know what anyone else is thinking but me. The only thoughts that I know are my own. This is also frightening and a relief. To be able to read someone’s mind would be a dangerous thing, I personally already think I know what people are thinking all the time and that is a burden; whether it is true that I know these thoughts or not.
Mel Gibson starred in a movie called What Women Want. Apart from a wonderful use of alliteration, this movie projects the thoughts of women after Mel’s character falls into a bathtub and gets electrocuted. The thoughts that we the viewers hear along with Mel’s character (his true name slips me) are for the most part shallow and self involved. Does this portray women as vapid or just humanity? The fact that he is able to hear only women’s intimate thoughts bothers me slightly. Perhaps it’s just my Women Studies class finally getting to me, but this invasion into the most secret place that there could ever be, and to only venture into the minds WOMEN is degrading.
If you think about it, the mind is the one place that is impossible for other people to explore. No matter what anyone thinks, they will never know me unless I let them and that is the beauty of the mind. It is the ultimate escape place. No one can follow me there, and I use it often. It is almost as though it is my home, and to come out means leaving the safest place in the world. Perhaps my depression has been because I have spent too much time in my head. For the life of me I cannot believe why this would be true, only I can. If you spend too much time with yourself you become isolated from other humanity, which is vitally important as a person to find. If you do not spend enough time in your head then you become shallow and unconcerned with yourself, with your spiritual self at least. This is death.
It is important, in my views to balance these notions. One cannot spend too much time in their head, but they must also spend enough time there to understand themselves. It is tricky and almost unfair to ask of someone, but really, who is doing the asking? This might be too tangential even for me. Just going to have to take it anyway, sometimes it’s good to follow the white rabbit.
The subject of god, God, Allah… I couldn’t even begin to cover all of the names of that being. To be honest, I don’t know if I would want to. It is just such a mountain; I am very out of shape. But really, am I? It seems that I do a fair amount of thinking; I find love in me that I am not sure originated from me. Could it be that there is a being that cares for me, that knows I am here, that I am present, that my eyes are open? Is there an all knowing force? This goes back to reading minds. If there is a God that knows all, knows your shames and your joys then what? And what gives that being the right to know me when I myself do not. This is all theoretical of course, because who would want to admit to something like that.
There is that fear again, it is fear that is humanities greatest downfall, of that I am sure. It would be my pleasure to help fight that fear, I will be a warrior for hope.

its gut check time

my secret is eating me. there is no way i will ever say it. I have already said it, which makes it even better. It isn't so much that I don't want people to know, because really.. I don't care. I just can't make it real to myself. If I say it outloud, it wont be be true anymore. I'm having fun with this secret. This secret and I are friends.

Last night I dreamed that everyone was unjust. I was the only person who knew what was real and everyone listened to me. Its like that movie about idiots. i can't go into detail, my brain is made of much. my writing professor was having a bad day, I wanted to hold her hand and tell her it would be ok. I didn't because she would probably sue me or something. Only, I don't really think she would. Sometimes I just want to kiss people. I have to get out. i can't be at this school anymore. im going crazy. its too small. i think im bored. im so bored. fuck. i get bored so easily. escape route. commitment issues. blah blah. i am going. i can't even write right now.

Griz

Going for two, when really it should be three. But that is a secret.
At some point I'll make it to the library, where I will not do any work.
I will feel productive though, because I read the Bible this morning, and it was kind of moving.
God versus god. Its a thought. I'm good at working with the incomplete. If I had someone to start things for me, I could finish them. Team effort. I like team efforts. I hate working with people. I'm better alone. I hate to be alone.
didIgetya? I smell like old laundry. Its sickening, I almost like it. Defiance, I can understand that word much more than stupidity. Maybe the two go hand in hand, because really, I am so defiant for no reason. Just for the fuck of it. Its me, fucking shit up. Every day. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. A lot, but its just social trouble, and really. who gives a fuck about that.
Obviously we all do, thats why its funny.

Today I have to write three papers. I have to read more of the Bible and I have to read some other stuff. In reality, I don't actually have to do it today, but if I don't, I wont. I know myself. Maybe I'm just being defiant of myself. Thats a new one.
Not really though, because I remember because sad when I was young and staying sad just because I could.
But I don't think thats really the same thing.

For lunch today I had the usual asparagus, (i just turned my itunes on and the first song that came up was We're All Mad Here by the lovely Tom Waits) tofu and potatoes. It was oddly satisfying. I like being a vegetarian. It takes some of the joy out of eating, which really needed to happen for me. Eat to survive. Thats how it should be. But I still enjoy it. Its just a need. Like drink, or sex. or mind games. Mind games are more important to me than eating.
We're all mad here. Mad as a hatter. I like to scare people. not to the point where they are damaged.. but sometimes its good to remind people that im not sane. i mean, for the most part.. yes i am a sane individual. i function in society and i can have a conversation, and maybe we could even have a relationship and you would never know that i have a back exit. thats how i like to think of it. if i so choose i can leave.

It brings the question of sanity into the picture though. Thanks Tom! For instance, my oldest friends dad is getting sued by his ex-girlfriend. We don't know why. They had a rocky relationship as far as I know, but my friends dad is a great guy and there is no reason in the world that the ex-girlfriend should be doing this. I guess that doesn't really make sense..but the point is that crazies are out there. and the more people can understand that, the less crazy the crazies are. and then who cares? and then people can be themselves. people would step outside of their fear of not fitting into society.

i have to make a new paragraph to slow myself down. i just feel so strongly! if people were kind, if people were patient, if we could just have more compassion and try to understand WHY someone is doing what they are doing, then the world would be such a different place. i try to do these things, I guess thats all i can possibly ask for. it isn't easy to break new ground, or even think about it. its scary! and society is here for a reason, right? so why bother fighting! but you have to fight. i have to fight. i get so bored if im not feeling passionate about something. or some one.
I have no closing thoughts. i lied.
i want to breech the 4th wall.
happy.

Coyote and the Moon

It comes to me in waves. These last few weeks have been a blur, for no reason. This morning I woke up at 7:22, Laura and Jack are gone for now and were gone when I woke, so I decided to take a walk. It was kind of planned out already, I hadn't thought about it, but I knew the second that I opened my eyes that I would do it. It was kindly and beautiful. If only I could build a temple every place that I visited, thats what I'm working on now. Creating finds me on these days, and I am grateful for it.

Last nights full moon put me on edge. It seems that I took the role of Coyote, one that I am familiar with, perhaps I am now. It was an interesting night and I barely said a word. This is a poem that I wrote at some point:


Dewey Finds a Lover


I want to fall in love with a librarian
But communicate solely through
"Chat With a Librarian"
Which I am told should never be used
As a dating service
She would not wear spectacles
And correct all of my spelling errors.

I get offended when knowledge is lorded over
I get offended when My Librarian doesn't
Return texts.

Careful Frank came down the stairs
He wore spectacles.
Careful Frank, your poor slippers, padding
Like Clifford the dog, big tongue

The Librarian sips Orangina, her straw is clear
My Librarian has broad shoulders
She swaggers, she limps, gold leaves
My Librarian collects beautiful images.

When she reads to me, My Librarian lets her hair go
And she laughs, and I laugh, I am reminded
That this is a love story
For once
And when this new winter comes, I will
Stow my summer dresses under Milan Kundera
He sits like a prince on my frock.
I tell him I don't like feminists
He doesn't look surprised, I have a traitor face
He says he wishes I were real
And I respond in the same
Before My Librarian comes home for lunch


These are pictures from my walk this morning












I do have more to say, I wont say it. Yet.