Sunday, June 25, 2006

st. elsewhere and his band of maniacal moody monks

. . . flee . . . fly . . . flew . . . fled . . .

i did, she said. and when she could not speak for singing, and his eyes were dancing along with the curve of her hips, there was a
deep beneath the surface of the lake.
because there is something radioactive in that glimmer,
the way she fills his
spaces, interior, with the kind of june blues that only come
from misplaced affection.
she walks ahead, afraid to stray too close in case
he catches on.
to her adoration, that is.
someone might find out, and splinter the fragile
connection they've both come for miles to
wonder at.
i've traveled a long way alone,
she whispers to herself, attempting to justify the hesitation.
but he gives her glow; a piece of night-blooming jasmine that twines along the rusted iron gates on the inside of her head.
she makes him echo.
so there that is, he said.
what is? she slides her arms through the air, spinning oxygen together so that it resembles bits of broken clocks.
this jazz you're singing, he says.
and at once she remembers the melody he is humming.
his voice is falling, deeper into its smoky depths, those places behind his vocal cords that purr until they break, illuminated by their own intensity.
stop, she says. she's crying hard.
there is no room for forgetting anymore.
i swear, if this chariot we're riding ends rotting in the dust. if it dies bleached blinding bright white in the sun,
there will be nothing left of me but this.
who says it will? he asks.
who says it won't?
i promise there will be no forgetting, he says.
you promise?
i do.
she tries to
. . . flee . . . fly . . . flow . . . flood . . .
into the looking glass, but out, his hands spread like oil
and her wings catch between their
opalescence, and
she settles, determined to
remain past the morning.

things to remember:
are you wearing a shirt? i had a girlfriend who wore a shirt once...
coffee talk
applebees.fosters.latenight chats.
amusing rotc stories
rain storms

cmon now
who do you
who do you who do you who do you
think you are?
ha ha ha
bless your soul...

Monday, June 19, 2006

things to remember

i'm terrified of forgetting. not big things, or people, because i know i will remember those. [i have the memory of an elephant, after all.] what i'm afraid of is forgetting little moments, the tiny spaces between inside jokes and shared words that begin to stitch people into a layer of silk and cement. the combination of the two, that makes us stick to each other, unquestioningly. without explanation. that space i'm afraid of, when it doesn't fill, and i'm even more terrified to forget the feeling that comes with it. on those nights (in kitchens, on driveways, around tables, over coffee, with movies, before doorframes, on sofas) that i just want to cling to, remember every second. literally...i'm not quoting a cliche. i wish i could fill myself with seconds like these.

things to remember:

voice inflections and the manners in which people tell stories.
the reflections of light in the eyes of hippies in the giant living room at dusk.
dancing to techno, drinking gin, making rosemary bread, and being in a bubble.
catalpa is a kind of tree.
the feeling of 'taking note' of your body.
the islands. the accent of the islands.
carrying stargazer lilies through humidity and crowded streets.
the way that the lake sounds so similar to the ocean outside of my window.

soundtrack (thus far) to summer 2006:
walking on broken glass (annie lennox)
leave me to love (imogen heap)
40 years (counting crows)
the other side (david gray)
gone going (black eyed peas feat. jack johnson)
fakin' amnesia (bikeride)
night moves (bob seger)
where there's a road (robbie fulks)
creep (tlc)
stirling brig (the corries)
fever (peggy lee)
send me on my way (rusted root)
don't stop me now (queen)
earthquakes and sharks (brandston)
katmandu (bela fleck)
the islands

GOD: i own you like i own the caves.
THE OCEAN: not a chance. no comparison.
GOD: i made you. i could tame you.
THE OCEAN: at one time, maybe. but not now.
GOD: i will come to you, freeze you, break you.
THE OCEAN: i will spread myself like wings. i am a billion tiny feathers. you have no idea what's happened to me.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

the spiralling of a thought

all these strings are attaching to me,
and i can't find the scissors. yeah... i can't
remember where i was, i forgot. knitting it all, these holes
that i need, to crawl through a brick wall,
is hard to say the least.
where's that thought,
that thought uncomplicated things?
where's that peace of mind, that peace
that made it easy?
i got you a murky light, tell me what can you see?

tired body. the mind is begging for release, for time to expand and spread like the tentacles of an
ink-spotted squid in the midst of all that ocean, all that water swaying and sinking deeper into the sand so that it becomes
black because there is no other place for light but in the cracks that do not exist.
all that ocean, rushing against the corners of my skull, and it's spilling. if you look closely, stare directly into
the eyes that are buried beneath my lashes [those strands of piano colored wire] that have closed, behind the twisting memory of green and hazel
and gray that interlace the surface of my iris, beneath these lines there is the sea, leaking. beads are forming,
bursting through my skin and howling for ink. these beads are words,
haunting the invisible spaces between oxygen molecules,
seducing my finger tips with the promise of magnetism, then rushing away just before they're caught
in the steel.
so much pressure is building there, beneath the surface of my body. it's swimming through
my veins, filling muscle with sound so quickly, like violin strings shriek when they break. snapping. small. infinitely important to the symphony.
but the words are crammed between crevices, stifled inside the
moments just before i become silent, asleep. because of a tired body.

gone going (jack johnson cover by the black eyed peas)
lonelily (damien rice)
jones green apple carbonated candy
the meditation room at the top of the tower in the morning, by the lake, with sunshine.
bob seger and neil young roadtrip repeats
dumpstered bread
tim o'brien
'the birth of something terrible'
rain on the roof, 3rd floor residence.
falling into schedules
pillows that retain scents
perkins and wine
tangent queen 2.0
co-op life
friends at night and cacciato in the morning
limeade, the slowing down of time, and sleep.

i'm sorry if i'm bad at this. i'm really not used to it... that isn't much of an excuse, but i think it scares me a little to finally have to leave me to love. it'll take me awhile, probably too long, it'll spoil, i'm sure. that's what i do. it's just that i'm trying not to this time. i'll try, i swear.

because if you let your eyes disappear from the points at which they are actually looking, things will begin to grow and sway and follow themselves in circles until their shapes have been totally misshappen. there is a constant buzzing, right behind the ears, and your eyes begin to follow things while they trace even though one eye will ineffectually and incompletely close. then the prickles begin, like pepper and cayenne, and they have melted and begun to fade inside your irises. the spinning becomes like the swaying of the ocean, which comes at five along with the sounds of that bell, that beast that rings across the waters like bullets of forgotten ballet-battled ruins.

there are multiple levels, which grow out of any sort of space that is inside or outside the consciousness. colors and shapes begins to collect words and emotions and ideas like the strings of lightning things that grow from the sky out of dust particles. the traces will never remain like they would in deep sand or between waves at night. your ears and eyes jump to twenty-four seconds at once, still beginning to sprout cerulean wrapped skeletons. hallelujah. thoughts begin to follow themselves down into stalagmite tunnels, rocks and hollow furrowings into the spaces of your brain that are all fizzing (like explosions inside ocean waves echoing through the nerve endings in your memories).