My journal wandered private for awhile. Reposting publicly.
When the sun came out we painted his skin, starting from the polite corner. "Meet you on the other side." Black wrought iron in the rain, warm so we didn't get tired. Your clothes perfect, mine dripping from my limbs. There are photos somewhere, you know and I don't. Stopping for tea by a huge fire in the park.
Just one more time. Really. Just to see.
Courting disaster in your best dress.
This is how you go out tonight.
Sanity is not something you can lose. But it is something you can find.
the reddest strawberries, in their seeds,
the finest details, the slope of the land
and see the fire in your blue-green eyes
what you see every time you close them.
it's so simple, but that doesn't make it common
we are lovers of complexity; our obsessions demand it.
you know I want more of you
but I'll take what I can get
the poems I write,
not the poems I post
que sera, sera
like a kitty
and not all, but enough
these moments happen once
for better and worse
or throw your body off a cliff
something about the way you,
something and stop, and
something, over and over, wet skin
and who will vacuum
if you let it all fall around your shoulders....
Knowing how isn't enough,
I want to know why not
for every other way.
I prefer to post revelations born of staring far too long at a pile of dirty laundry... than the laundry itself.
banking on the fables
saving a few moments every day,
like sea-green glass in a jar
"there is a price to be paid for all good places, and a price that all good places have to pay"
forgive me for hell is safer
in property value
heaven has nowhere to go
Have some life. There's plenty to spare.
And you wonder, "How can it get any better than this?"
Because it has to keep improving, right?
And you never run out of answers.
Experiences are for enjoying. No matter how painful. When I get to choose, I will. But once all the cards are dealt, there's no asking for more.
"I like coffee and I like tea..."
It's a manner of speaking
not a matter of fact, but taste
"And when she kisses me it tasted like cinnamon..."
How quickly, how surely everything breaks, when the basics slide. "It's a thin curtain between theatre and life," and " In the name of all that's real, I'm going." It takes only a half-step into madness to take the whole flight.
We went to see The Crucible
last night. :)
If there are to be delusions,
and it being life, there probably are,
then let them be happy ones,
and leave to others,
the invention of sadness.
dead like a phoenix
and that's either very dead
or only sleeping
bed of ashes, looking for fire
after all arguments,
I'll still be here
and you'll still be here
it'll be you and me,
and a pile of words
so big you'd have to walk
just to see the sun.
Mwahaha. :) Yeah. I've got LCD screens,
and colors and pretty shiny things that go
squee! when you poke them or touch softly along
her neck, melted chocolate and honey dripping on
tasty skin. You know just what I mean, and creepy
stalker-like messages on every highway sign read
stories to you as you pass, and you wonder what's
ahead, but I don't know either. Let's find out. :)
Tired of line breaks, one poet broke and decided one thought and one line, together. Let half thoughts and half-poems mingle their halting lives but not near these, these finished thoughts, one line complete. All others fall short and beg forgiveness for their unsettled text. And content, he sighs and lets rest that pen whose ink flows smoothly from beginning to end.
A name for something you have.
And in time, it gets easier, some say cheaper.
wearing only the finest rags.
cooling from a bath.
and it goes on forever.
perhaps they are all mesured by weight;
by how big a mark is left on the earth when gone
the moon is overfull and spills herself on my bed
I've been fucking pillows long enough to have grandpillows
perhaps they all loved me and left me. ;)
There are promises, yes. Never is a promise. And you bargain with the devil.
And the space between them shapes a heart. And the negative space is overfull.
His favorite place was the hole she left. Torn walls and open sky.
I'll see you someday, in a city not our own, a cafe with a side of liberty.
He stitched himself back together again. There are things we say,
that blossom silence, and things that grow like wildflowers in conversation.
I learned to sleepwalk years ago, and now I have to make sure I'm awake. Add one to the list of easier to never learn.
Paint it black, paint it red, purple.
Any color, but give me a brush
and your hand and the night.
Sweetness and light, sleeping on pavement.
Home is where you are.
A DreamTrying to visit Mary, who lived in my gradparents house, and had a backyard overgrown with tomatoes and two kinds of apricot trees, one of which grew single-segment tangerines without peels.
I was in a play, with Trevor, and spent an hour or two kissing a tall thin girl. The play was about a house, and time travel; I think I was guilty of travelling back in time and making a flooded house looked fixed, briefly. I'm not sure why; I never read the end. The script was pleasant to listen to; classical setting.
And they say, that night, it was easier to believe.
Paint the audience; they are your canvas; for this time, you own them. Only a few can see the stage; they're watching the lights, they're watching the lasers and each other. You have their ears and their eyes.
An anatomically correct scarecrow, so they have something to be afraid of.
Unable to resist the now.
To say yes to this one moment... is to say yes to all of eternity.
I want to write something for you.
No outside world today. Inside is fabric and wrapping paper and saying yes. Liquid skin, soaked in color that only appears at night.
And yes, I would feed you grapes, build baths worthy of a goddess. I want to see you do better than I have; I believe you can.
It is not timidly nor reluctantly that we say yes. I will not shy from sickness or depravity; I say pass the plates of all those who will not eat their fill; I will not see it wasted.
In an attic room, the wallpaper inside-out.
whispered and cold, words misunderstood
icy glass, speculative, sketchy white
slowly, touching, halos linked, melting
snowfall, let it go,
our insecurities are having a roast
in another life
secretly want forever in a teardrop
find the highest place just to fall
you know what I'm talking about
it's the same thing among them
the greatest story ever told,
and it's whispered and sung
the melody of passerby steps
city of sin, I miss you sometimes
the sidewalks hot to my feet
keep the nights a little cold
as if afraid of becoming spoiled -
I can only laugh at that.
"Some say something was lost that day, but I don't believe it."
She snorts, "And you've still got your innocence?"
"Yeah," he grins, "You want some of it?" and gestures.
So they went to New York with a few sheets of paper
and came back with pockets full of dreams.
We are all sensitive people.
"That's the price you pay," she says. But we know the price was paid long ago, and not by us, rather like a gift from a forgotten aunt. Already she was forgetting who, and why, left with the vaguest fossil of a reason.
The hurry scurried off with their childhood; each to the other became quickly unknown. They left wondering what was real for another day, and followed the path of least responsibility as far as it would go. Before turning, by leaves, beneath a red willow lived a sunset who deserved a last goodbye. And parted, skin afire; it was in a cloud of sex they traveled, for protection and for comfort and against little but not condescendingly so. The convenience store wanted an arm and a leg for some tact, so they took their chances, packed them in suitcases and beads, all manner of trinkets. Sold some, lent them, gave them away, and faced ice, faced fire, with it all behind them, but not on their backs, mind you, for they didn't. Slipped and fell more than once, in love, by the way. Learned a few tricks, pretty ones too,
"It should be hard," her hands echo the words, "to put your whole self into a few moments, to package and give to someone else, that should be hard..." her voice trails and her tapered, rippling motions ease to rest.
"But it isn't."
It takes more energy to avoid doing something than to do it.
slippery thoughts, the other kind, like floaters
never erase, no matter how bad it sounds
you curled around me,
me coiled around you
it looks nothing like this
when snakes do it.
You did a nice job with the sheets
maybe I'll wash them someday,
or we could just keep painting over.
and I meant to tell you,
about all the explanations you've saved me
by being you.
sweet, sharp ambiguity,
hold me front and back
flame always looks like it's smiling
there's a cool woman who doesn't like me
I see her every day,
and wonder if she'll say hello.
I miss snow days.
Even if the whole company doesn't shut down.
"Nice job on that project. Take a long weekend."
"We're fixing the servers today. Don't come in."
plus of course, "The weather blows.
Go burn something. Have some tea."
the baby's crying there's no more room
the cat's trying to eat her.
I was holding you when you sprung a leak
and dripped, like concentrate down my arm
from a drink just frozen enough to crack
and seep half-crystals and liquid free
and touch my clothes and my face,
I was holding you when you sprung a leak
and now you're everywhere
It's otherworldly. Like a secret, frozen moment.
One of those days where everything feels like it's melting
The trees look like ghosts, and I wonder about the bushes
It's half dreams, driving with knees through the traffic,
watching the signs, and wiping a dry windshield for ten miles
it's not surprising I have a thing for drowning in you.