Friday, December 23, 2011
Choking back melancholy painfully on marble stairs, your echoing footsteps to sing of that ache, beating unexpectedly, knocking the wind from my chest. I wasn't supposed to be vulnerable. Neither were you. You weren't supposed to see.
Gripping arms promise nothing, but hope — tentatively, of course — for more. Or so I'd like to think.
My subconscious runs its fingers through your hair guiltily late at night when I sleep.
It knows it shouldn't. I can do nothing about it.
Was I like the young girl from Sadec, the bus that took me up the mountain like the boat that took her down the Mekong River for the last time,
her tears as startling to her as mine were to me?
The universality of human experience, of human emotion. For many things, there are no separations of time or space.
Are we bound, then, to the roads we are able to tread?
Are we bound to find love where we walk? bound to extract life's darkest, most profound secrets from only the few people we are able to meet, the few places we are able to go? bound to find meaning amid the confines of circumstance?
Yes, of course.
What do you expect? A just God?
You wear on my mind, but I'm no longer sure it's you.
Sometimes, I think it's me.
Sometimes, I think you weren't even there at all.
Friday, December 9, 2011
We are twins, same race, same place. Parallel lives, just a few decades apart from each other.
It doesn't matter. Some things are timeless, anyhow...
Things like this. Emotion, confusion, isolation raw and on fire, searing the bones on my body, the bones in my head. Hoping that in another, we'd both find some footing. But just for the night.
Tomorrow, I will climb a mountain to the very top. Take my secrets and whisper them in a hole and cover it with dirt. No one but the wind will know of my struggle.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Masticated, ground up ruthlessly, spit back out, my standards held as steady as my grip on my mind.
I crawl out doorways in clothes I've worn for the past two days. I don't even notice, until
a sidelong glance and a casual comment, "You look like you just woke up."
Woke up from what?
I haven't slept in years. Not that I'd expect you to know anything about me. Or my habits. Or the plague of a whimpering mind, the slow grind of the blade on steel, not to sharpen, but to dull.
That slow grind, how it seeps into your skin.
Fires turn to flickers, passions turn wan.
I burn candles by the window to remind me.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Scratchy gray threads of cheap upholstery, explored.
We search for solace from ourselves.
Orange lamplights dance in half-built streets, illuminating metal arms of sleeping cranes.
Morning dew hangs in the air. We do, too,
suspended, silent, still.
Our tongues are wrapped in cobwebs, important words left untouched.
We fight it off, until Atlas bends, weak and worn,
and Babylon crumbles.
Guilt recedes to the back of the mind,
a silent whimper pounding, pounding,
So here it is, here's Samson's call,
A bloody blow before a fall.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
One is tangible, one is not.
One can be questioned. The other cannot.
And it's easy to question one when the other grabs you by the waist, no strings, no promises, no questions. Just surprises and lack of expectation.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Has it really only been five months?
Five months since I saw you that way for the first time, five months since I left you that way for the first time. Five months and we've already been further than Columbus could ever have hoped to go.
You say we have yet to travel the world, to go places together, to see things.
It's not true.
I've seen mountains and seas, sunsets and sunrises through my dusty windows. I've seen millions of people, read millions of words, cried millions of tears, thought millions of thoughts.
I fall asleep every night and wake up every morning and have traveled thousands and thousands of miles, and I have never, for a single second, left your side.
You've never left mine.
Maybe when I come back we'll both be old, skin sagging from the weight of our sleepless nights and wrinkles etched into our faces from the hours we've spent smiling while straining.
And if we both died tomorrow, bones crumbling prematurely from holding each other up, it would be okay. I wouldn't be sad.
Because five months with you is worth a lifetime.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
in the room, in my bed, in my head, it hardly matters where I hide.
It's dark even when the sun shines, especially when the sun shines.
I feel it through the autumn winds, the slow-setting breath of solitude inching its way down my back,
stripping trust from the deeper layers of my skin, stripping warmth.
I feel the onset of more sleepless nights to come, more restless wandering,
more half-smoked packs, half-finished paintings, cups of cold coffee sitting on my desk, waiting for the dusk to turn into dawn, waiting for empty hands, empty souls
to wash out the dregs.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Live in one, and you no longer matter. It swallows you whole and spits you back out on its grimy streets. It strips away your layers until you're just a small, insignificant part of a whole. Part of a whole that will never really need you.
People no longer write but to speak of decadence in them, these cities. Youth, excitement, glamour. Money. Growth growth growth, always growth, always growing, and it's never enough. Growing on the outside.
Inside, it's all dead.
There is beauty in lackluster grit. But oh, that lackluster grit, how it wears me down.
I want to sleep by the water and sand it away, this shell,
the one I sleep in and awaken in and breathe in.
I want to bathe in the rays of the moon, the ones only seen when there are no lights to compete with it, no buildings to obscure the view. No death to taint my livelihood.
No cage for my spirit. No more iron bars.
I need to find to find the ocean soon,
to know I'm not the only one.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Fire through my windows in the morning, fire through my eyelids in the afternoon, burning,
reminding me that there is no rest. There is never any rest.
I get on my knees at night and beg for rain. I beg for the color gray,
gray like the dinner dress draped across my lanky bones. Gray like the color I pull over my head before I go to sleep.
Gray hangs on my walls. It buries itself in the musty folds of my curtains.
It wraps itself around my waist.
I wear it well.
I'll hide some in my closet, in my drawers. I'll collect it until the day I have enough.
Enough to douse the angry flames in the sky,
to paint clouds, to paint fog, to paint rain.
And I will sleep.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Sometimes, they think I'm stupid. I know they think I'm stupid.
But everyone's stupid about some things, and if there's anything I don't mind so much being stupid about, it's for being in love.
Not that unrequited stuff, nor the silly, ungrounded infatuations of the youth. Things like that don't last the storm, and this is a tempest.
My god, is it a tempest.
But the thing about tempests is that once you've beaten past it, hands blistered from fighting the current with your oars, face wind-chapped, body drained from swimming for days, and you're crawling back onto shore crushed to a pulp but not defeated,
nothing else will ever seem quite so difficult anymore.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
There's hardly a week that goes by that you don't appear in my thoughts somehow, somewhere. Sometimes it's the wonderful things I remember, sometimes it's how much you hurt me. You hurt me like nobody has ever hurt me, like nobody ever will again in my life.
He hasn't got what you had, your sheer, ingenius brilliance of mind. The same brilliance that made me fall in love with you, the same brilliance that you gave a bit of to me, the same brilliance that ultimately turned me away from you. The same brilliance that is now dulled, masked, tainted into some unrecognizable form by the life you choose to live, a life that I wish never to be immersed again.
But he has eyes that see the truth, hands with a gentle touch, and a heart full of love. Unconditional love that not only did you not have for me, but also exploited from me. His mind holds the rain without the clouds. In him, I find the solace, the peace, the beauty of safety, of security, that I never found in you. With him, I am never afraid to love. With you, I always was.
I have missed the feeling of loving passionately with no reserve.
Call this a parting letter, if you will. It seems clear enough now that our lives will not intersect much anymore, and if they do, it will only be a sort of passing reverie, a brief acknowledgment of everything we loved in each other, everything we hated in each other, before we both turn and walk in the opposite direction, something we both knew would eventually happen. We knew this years and years ago, even right from the beginning.
But no matter how much you've put me through, how many years of emotional pain and torment I endured for you, I will still always love you and wish all the best for you.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Door cracked open with the key in the hole. I teeter, tip-toed on the edge.
I no longer sing behind stone walls where they can't hear me.
The mountains, they awaken to my morning songs.
Cliché — I am.
But all lovers are. It is mocked until it is known, until you know
that the seas and skies are not large enough.
They are never enough.
Transparent — I am.
A sleek and polished looking glass. No flowery prose nor leaden lines.
Windowpanes defogged, and my sleeve is damp.
I trace patterns into the glass.
They see me. They know.
Vulnerable, I am.
I am not afraid.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
I am suspended in mid-air, the weathered walls of my room dangling on a thread, a thread stretched so thin I never really know when it's going to break. Or if it will at all.
When it rains here, this rapidly moving city sits still for a little while. The tiny cars below move a little slower, the voices outside are quieter. The air is thick with some sort of silent contemplation.
Hungover, listless people stretch out of bed and toss out empty bottles in time for the Sabbath, repenting a week's worth of sin.
Cleansing, washing, purging.
We wipe the rust from our wheels, the sleep from our eyes, the dust from our books.
Here, there is no amount of decadence the rain can't rinse away.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Penciled-in plans constructed on brittle foundations.
I feel you in my sleep, corporeal, palpable. Hair like the silk dress I left at home.
I awaken as brutally as I fall asleep.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Absence makes the heart forgetful.
Only time will really tell.
For now, there are strokes to glue a crumbling wall. Hundreds of strokes for hundreds of characters, hundreds of miles, hundreds of days.
Then perhaps in hundreds of days, we'll be able exchange uncertainty for beauty, pain for complacency, tumult for peace. And single-digit hours won't drive us to madness, delusions of our melting skin reaching tendrils into each other's subconscious.
But right now, I'd give a finger for your hand on my cheek
to dry the saline on this sunburnt visage,
bright sun on a moonlight face.
Friday, May 27, 2011
determined to sap at the stem until the bitterness subsides or until we fall asleep, whichever comes first.
It's usually the latter.
There's not too much that Nepenthe can't mask.
We'll wake up and wipe the grime from the window, or is it from our eyes?
It has been so long that it's hard to tell.
Arsenic melts like sugar in our mouths.
If I could, I'd plant hyacinths over this grave, this arid dirt that has been plowed over and over. I'd buy enough to build a sea, blue like the great Pacific. When everything's blue, there will be no difference between the land and water.
No vast deserts to cross, to sky to separate.
We'll dig holes and bury our bones until our hands are raw, only to have them dug up again and reburied again,
iron shovels burning rusty blisters into our hands.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
I was comfortable in my discomfort.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
That let us bet when we know we should fold
On rocks i dreamt of where we'd stepped
And of the whole mess of roads we're now on."
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The gods, they wove some sort of fabric, gilded wisps between their fingers. Played cat's cradle with dark matter, spun into the threads of time.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Je suis libre, comme un montgolfière seule.
Flottant, léger, sans un pays, sans abri, sans destination.
Où j'habite, là est mon foyer.
J'existe partout et nulle part au même temps.
Je n'ai pas de liens à un endroit particulier, à les gens particulier, même pas à mon famille.
Je n'ai pas une famille. Je suis un produit de l'air.
Mais, quelquefois, quand il pleut dans la ville
et quand je suis amoureuse,
je suis déboussolé. Je ne sais plus rien.
Quelquefois, j'ai peur. Quelquefois, je ne suis pas sûr.
Mon cœur, c'est une chambre vide.
Et moi, une carcasse vive.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
And there are the others who are caged misfits, knitted woolen gloves worn in the desert. Stuffed hurriedly into small towns and ordinary suburbs here and there, chained to duty at a young age and stifled by company for their entire lives. Those for whom the ordinary cannot satiate, but can find no easy way out.
"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." There are those who are accepting of their desperation. There are those do not know of their desperation.