I wanted to know how he felt for awhile
so I put on his shoes and
smoked one of his cigarettes
If I'd stayed who I was
I'd probably've put it out
But while i was out there
I thought about the swans
Sleeping in our front yard
We always hope for snow on that day
But their white feathers
Shining under the ice
Bathed in blue behind their
Tails and s-necks
Black eyed beauties with their speckled young
Just their pretty Had our eyes on those days
But mostly though
their willingness
To be there
And how I woke to the white
Still tucked in from dark
Next to the blue in the front
That alone was more delightful and calming
Than than the glowing red footprints
In the blue footprint'd snow's dawn

Sometimes I feel I can outsmart the cold,
I can stay unscathed by it's funk
I can hold off from my fear, bearing wind without tear
But usually that just means I'm drunk

bubbly water

One of the first things he told me
Was that he cried for the first time in years
And the tears were so hot it felt like they'd been boiling for that long
I'm not sure what he was crying about but it's really not important

Because now I actually know what you mean.

mistress mudslide

I'm Calling For Poop Letters.

1. "I am pooping right now. I've become so regular. This time every day. [My roommates] make mention of it nearly daily. 'It's 5:30 man, RIGHT ON SCHEDULE!' Or, "Ugh...Can you flush as you go?' Once, [I was] scolded for waiting all day to poo 'cause I said often I have to go in the morning when one of them is already in the poo-room. 'You let it marinate all day. THAT'S why it smells so bad!'"

2. "Awwww. Pooping and messaging me? That is so sweet! Can you flush as you go! Poor girl. Can't a princess shit in peace!? I am marinatin' right now myself. I've been putting off my shower because of it. I feel as if I'm on the verge. But now quite ready to expel the days (months, years) dirty laundry. This one is going to be very offensive. [My dog], he relishes it, though. Our respective poop scents are what binds us."

1/5

1. i'd never really thought of going there. I'd never really thought of going to any of those places. I think I always knew I'd get there one day, though I believe I always thought of IT as ONE. Despite knowing how many are jammed like magical sardines in a can of mouth-watering beauty - I thought i'd live in a van like they did. Have christmas under a twig with hand drawn portrait-cards. Have our faces drawn into sinister greys and whites. He'd grow a mustache. It's silly to think much of the same, but its the only thing of theirs I've really cherished. I've looked at them and wondered where it went. Wonder if I'll ever grow too old to sleep on a sheet-less mattress in a snow mounded boxed of blue (or yellow, or green, or red).

I really thought I'd see more palm trees before I'd see another cobble stone'd road -- more cobbled than the South of Houston, older than the pebbles on that Koh. I expected a want to stay there instantly -- and I did, if only for the roads, and the stone'd fences. And for them.

Lots of it was special (by that I mean, momentous, magical, un-general), but most of it wasn't (by that I mean, it was all memorable, each corner and each tilt of the head; it proved to be interesting, as every new place is, and-- remarkably unique. But we still woke sandy eye'd and molded into our bodies as we do every morning, words hurt just as much, and the sun shone the same way as it does at home). To me thats what made the experience so painfully, beautifully real. I think I have said before that each place, (even the furthest from here) that I have been has so sorely familiar; just slightly slanted. I think that stands here, too. I don't mean that to sound negative - quite the opposite. It gave me the greatest sense of familiarity and solace laced with opulence it wasn't until our third stop that I longed for some concrete I'd already stepped on and perhaps the sound of my mother's voice.

Anyway, it was beautiful to look at, but what struck me most was the feeling in the air. As we progressed, things got more beautiful, or at least my eyes were finally wide enough to take me some place else, and i was finally able to swallow the freedom that kissed me from the beginning. We opted to walk, a lot. We missed the big things, and I wasn't even a bit disappointed, just a little worried of what I might tell her when I got home. That soon faded though, I just wish I could have spent more time in the first. Going, I knew I would feel this regret, this longing to walk longer with them beside us, but I was grateful for the one night with them, speaking of Paris, and other places I have not been, where I jotted down the one word to describe this place and all its parts: Honesty.

Its funny how betrayed we can feel over here. Spiteful, full of blame for those who are supposed to protect us. Its not our fault - after all, they told us they would, or rather --they promised us they would, and we were told not to do much other than to obey. There, though... with the pints and the twang, the tables and empty glasses littering the alley-ways, the dark wooden boxes filled with candles and families, enjoying a beer with your baby. Here, things that are monitored are not solely outlawed. They allow you to make mistakes. The closings at 10. The hand made paper bound in pressed leather. The stables turned vendors. The way they smile only if you smile at them. They don't push their way to you when they see your sparkling shoes - they let you come to them, and they treat you with their own bouts of human interaction. Its so beautifully un-special; which i think is what makes it so perpetually inspiring.

Onions cooking in an oil sopped pan
Retard comments from the couch
I used to be strong
I think
Now I'll never know without

what will

What will come of those parallels
Confined in wood; chalky white linings
Bound in foam
There to encase the sounds that are made
Muffle them like an adulterous scream
and your head, in my opinion
To catch your precious mind from breaking
Just incase things get a little too crazy.
I havent been there in awhile
I haven't heard much from there either
Although I haven't been too keen on
Listening at all
Not even to torture myself
Which is what's most surprising

That summer when I met you,
When i thought I knew sound then
Wasn't until the drives and the colours
And the way you spoke;
so frustrated from your feeling
Of compassion for the notes
You showed me how I felt
Each time you let me choose the one
Of five you'd laid out
It hurt but
That's when I knew I loved you

And ive always kind of enjoyed
Torturing myself with music since then

Back again, though new parallels
And new foam
Different bodies; or at least
Mixed Into a different pattern
This time

I wonder if I will be able
To make a sound at all

I wish I could howl like
Midnight upstairs

glimpse

He is showering
He is coughing
The dogs are howling upstairs
The cat is sleeping
The black one is weeping
I've spent hours like this
Slicing pears.

not that you are wondering

but i didn't forget

i drew annoyances

and i did it the way

you probably wouldn't want it

and the truth is

i thought of you

and i've cried a good happysad before

and i probably will again

(it was just nice to have an excuse

to make it about

you

though i never really need one)

my gut hurt mostly and she was in my mind

'cause she's still here

where i am

i know i'll never know her

but thats okay with me

i'm just glad i know of her

anyway, yeah

i didn't forget

i just didn't write it here

smells like fire in here --

metal city fire in my bedroom

first time all year

creaks along the side

startled sounding

bedroom covers so cold they're hot

especially without another body

within

her ears are moving back and forth; i'm calm if she is

while she circles around me; cold but not cuddled

i let her find her place --

white on my knee at once,

green to hazel soon after

bottom right--

top left--

rear to face--

between my legs--

beneath my arm--

bodies bundled--

and the best part

light hairs of her fifth

on my face

gently

ever so lightly

like when we sleep at night three bundled and grazed

i like when we're alone

she's different with me

things I have done, things I have thought about doing

Hands to the right at 140
Tongue glued to a pole
A stick in a spoke
A red jalapeno'd burn of the lips

05

sometime in may, bound in blankets, tired, and tile-d from the bathroom floor, i washed my face and exited, attempted slumbers next to a body i used to live in. Pupils peering in directions of my drips the moment i entered; my third eye heard it before she said it, "oh. we thought you were crying," . A forced laugh pushed out of me and my two normal eyes flickered at my own dishonesty. Funny how familiar it can feel each time despite being shocked at the way my tongue moves like clock-work.

"i am here" was the message received shortly after. still bound and tile-d, it was one of the few times i recall feeling a hug that i couldn't actually touch. I cried about wanting another manhattan, but i just wanted the laughter. Or the choice. There, I felt Understood, and thrusted forcefully at our opposite battery-ends. I sat in the hall way for sometime. He pushed. I asked him not to. He obliged. He went to sleep that night feeling helpless, but when he awoke he felt normal again, like clock-work.

when i returned home i cried in the kitchen and he held me, and that was one of the few times i've accepted an embrace and let it engorge me in a state where i could barely stand. He never asked me why, because he already knew. I called her for impending sounds-stirring because for once i knew i could. what i mean by that is, i know i always could. but, for the first it felt solid, strong, untouchable, past the point of too-good-to-be-true-touching-and-holding-believing-it-could-be-dropped-at-any-moment-fleeting-feeling, onto hands-held-through-storms-and-a-silent hug-bound-and-tile-d. Our timings were impeccable. I think i always had one foot out the door (i think i always have one foot out the door) but i swear at the time i didn't think i did. I thought i gave you everything i had - i would have even given you my body. But i guess I did; if i didn't my longer lasting-s and those who can vouch for my youth would be able to, and i wouldn't have needed a spare hard-drive to show a past chapter. I thought i learned how to hold more; offering a finger to each outreached hand--- but, then it was gone; like clock-work.

after effects of a dream

i read so many exhales, buzzings of purported truth and it haunts me.

he hates when we aren't self-aware

but how can we be

we only know our faces in the mirror

which is the opposite of how we look, in truth

i see his opposite of preach quite often and

everyone hates a hypocrite

so i guess it is truth

afterall

but who am i

a sucked-soul dry of seeping

and weeping-wet from wonder

exploited affection and cabin-talks

the highest hopes we've had since infancy

what happened to them,

and why am i alone

lonely strands waiting patiently for a grooming

unkept brows and an addiction thats bad for my skin

(and my sanity)

needled-nails and ivory stained brown

i used to think i could be pretty if i tried

but my face is the same colour as my neck

and i can't remember the last time i used a brush

i haven't changed much but i feel a little different

choosing battles has never been my strong point

but i've always been a good listener.

tragedies

an invitation for a stroll, fingers forever on that pulse now, searching for the most beauty in these ninety degree angles

(china has one without any, i didn't think it was possible until i saw it, and then i did and it looked like every other, just on a slant. Funny, i found traveling to be such; something familiar, just on a slant).

hummed and haa'd for a while, frustration pushing others out the door; this isn't all that new to me (though i'm always learning), i just felt some need for another kind of method.

(kind of like this one, in a sense).

got to thinking while on that saunter, one of the few tragedies of time + place

how beautiful he looked in the moonlight with that old chunk of metal and its colourful strap, among a slew of other things, too perfect for paper (it would seem)

How these impressions are bestowed only on the street, away from any reason to apply

trapping feelings unless burned...

because i was on that street the thoughts be gone for ever

but

had i not been there i never would have thought them at all.

on this day

tired eyes seeking open hearts and closed mouths; famished minds seeking nourishment in

truth,

which is what they won't find here, i've been told.

i read a lot about being dropped, and i hunt for more quite often; sometimes i feel i wont be complete

unless it hurts

and i am justified to fuel the hurting myself.

i never dropped you; or at least i never meant to.
but i guess i did.

hands-washed, calendar-pages-turned-to-kittens-kind-of-dropped i feel

and how do i tell

a famished mind seeking truth

(mine, yours)

that your incessant eruptions push me so far i don't know that i'll never get back.

still

We mentioned while we were there how similar we felt
Entrapped with beauty but hearts still beating to that same drum and every morning waking up to that sandy-eye'd gaze
And it wasn't until I looked back that I realized how far id run
With him but, still running
Bittersweet song and sigh
That was never for me and I should have known that
But
I can feel it reeling me in again and I don't want it to
It felt so cold when I saw it there
(from there)
Perhaps because I was surrounded by honesty
But
That really shouldn't matter
Because until then I thought this was real truth

You don't remember all the promises you made me
And that's ok
I don't remember much of what I don't mean either
But I know what it's like to feel like you mean it
However
When you locked me in that corner and forced my gaze I could feel you drinking me
And it hurt almost-- I remember feeling as though you could see me naked
And it frightened me

But then I look in the mirror and see mine
Overgrown with unkept
And freckles that look like dirt
Recurring red bumps and the hair
I don't deserve to have.

Sometimes I feel all I need is this book and her... Though not crying beside me
I'd rather she walked freely but
We are both scared
Naive and
I really do love her too much
him when we are both reeling in new
Helping to get to where we need to be
And sometimes
I really feel like that's what I've got
And I like that

apperatif

Toes curled
Hair of white and grey
(blue)
20 year old scotch and irish
Yes
Thank you
It's good to be home

old wordings

When the sky is so grey
It can only burst white
And I am in a place unknown
Reeling something but
I don't know what
I can't even force a smile
To apply my blush

But hey, at least I can
Apply my blush
At all

It's always too much or too little
Or not at all
The truth is I am doing it so often
All around my exhausted lumpy head
Feeling it or holding it or
Thinking how I can keep it in a sentence
Forever
But I never can
Even here right now

How could any tongue-d sounds tell

this warmness
And the light of a growing red
Deep inside
And the rumbling of that hunger

That I feel

Don't you know that words are dead anyway?

You told me my eyes were beauty
i thought that meant you could see my truth

Amsterdam pt. 1

Nothing more than laughter
Cats kneading paws....makin' muffins
Excited from the beginning
From my desk at work
To the floor of their one-room flat
To the canal'd breezed room with smoke sun rays
Littered with the things I usually hide by morning.
To the meeting at the phallic statue
To his Canada goose jacket with
The Montreal sweat shirt from twenty years ago
To his love of this place
To his reading addiction and the way he kisses his wife and his honesty with fitting us in
Baby sparkles in her eyes
Talking to her while they smoked
(indoors, for once, though in another room)
I could feel warmth from her
Pure interest in what bellows in
Her pupils
I was jealous of that
But from the moment she kissed me on each cheek when me met
To the third one paused by a thank you
The strongest thank you i had felt in a long time
Eyes latched on mine an I could feel her taking me in
A thanks for a congratulations
Baby sparkles his/herself
And she probably has forgotten

These are moments I remember and hold
Beneath my skin
Latched to the muscle of my eye and the string of my heart
Sitting in the dimmest of the quietest I had seen there
Realized it's romance less raunch
Not that it was anything less than sheer pretty

It was a whole other pretty because of them

wien pt. 1

trickled nightly in the middle; dripping wet with white shine

if you told me they washed them down to make them pretty

i'd believe you

its only more sparkly that way

anyhow

we saw a man doing it on our way out

soapy water around the corner

he almost splashed us and i hoped he would

and he smiled as he apologized

(at least i think he did)

i saw what she held one of the days

small strokes filled large in comparison

i don't have that patience so i appreciate

yours

and those ones that literally shine,

lights glowing behind

wood, or canvas

hard-fibre and metal

i don't know how you did that

and i wonder if you did

either way

i hope i will some day

thank you for your sketches, they made me feel so human

its funny how much i hold it now,

that place.

even then -- i knew it was pretty

you'd be a fool to think

it normal

but it took me

even when i was hurt

and it held me

and i felt safe

i might belong there

but i might just still be

under its spell

i don't know

i'm not really one to fall

for new places

its funny how boiled - hot our entrance was

screaming a language we thought they couldn't understand

they always seemed to be laughing at us and

for once i didn't mind

and they didn't seem to dislike us

either

the moment i thought

this is where i need to be

may have been

when i saw the place that chooses only

to serve a baked potato, hot wine

but a baked potato

with tzatziki and cheese

and whatever

the hell you

want

i just hope that isn't just during

the wiener christkindlmarkt

and

only then

breath

I can hear it so clearly and it's surprising though I don't know why. (just wrote don't twice In a row)

the heartbeat in my ears. the pulse counteracted sounds
instrumental

intentional

slides outta my left one
and I don't know if that's cause
my left one I'd smaller or
bigger cause
my left one is bigger

(ad you know)

and fuck. it's cold in here

and I think I may actually put on some music.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Europe is honesty.

this Saturday

Seams of calm next to imprinted tan leather
Embossed with a name for me
Filled with coin of a place I'll soon know
Embraced more tightly this time
I'm really lucky.

it's today

pushed through a kind of forcing i never wanted to know

(or did, but was too afraid to go alone)

alone i am and have to be

most would scoff at my unease

the beginning has always been the hardest

and

after a significant amount of ticks and tocks

its seemingly harder to start

things are never as bad as they seem

she's always told me and so

i've always seen

but

here we are

the beginning

i don't wanna be adjusted but

i will

if it makes things easier

I knew it would return, I just wasn't sure when

Round crown'd metal chipped with stories
Found under the door's shadow (and a few dusty towels)
Looks the same since I saw it last
Just a few more tales I couldnt see
In it's lacking

confessions v.1.3

lashes are next

I've mentioned that I have fixations
My left eyebrow takes a toll
Bunching and rubbing the wiry strands
Pushing hard
They are different from others
Each makeup the width of two
Hardened and coarse
Needled into my pores
Back to where they sprouted
At the hand
Of my pressured finger

confessions v.1.2

feathers have always grazed my lips
I even used to suck my thumb to them
often
satin ribbons and the smoothness of
that white blanket stained yellow. though the best will always be
the bunching of the silky short strands of the Siamese;
who lent their bodies to my fingertips
twins that laid in hearts and linked kink-tails tied inside
and the other blinded left from birth
behind those names that rhymed with
fling song and basha.

thanks, you guys. I miss you.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

confessions v.1.0

sometimes i like to hold soda in my mouth so that it can eat away at all the leftover food bits stuck in my teeth

iii

Broken in three. I had a flash of blue while washing the dishes. It was so bright and instant I was sure it lit up the room so brightly that it wouldn't go unnoticed, but when I turned around everything was in its place, including Him. I asked him if he saw it matter-of-factly, and always off in his reading mind he asked me to repeat myself (with one sound).

My room is tidy like it was on December 31st 2009. I can think of five people who can vouch for this.

Soon, I am going to a strange place that shares the name of a past of mine, followed by four more stops in vacant images in a continent I've only flown over. I'll be among a family of long missed faces and strangers with accents. Mostly, I'll be with Him. I get to watch his first flight. His first landing. His first adult experience than will render him a child lost in fresh curiosity. I get to be alone with Him. Walk through cobblestone'd streets and see his familiar face against the freshness of a new air. We'll speak to each other through a different sounding babble, we will walk through the streets and and stand on bridges and breathe in silence.

at least i hope we do.

can you read this?

.

how

How?

How? How?

How?

How? How?

How?

How? How?

How?

11:46 pm

Untitled testing breath on my shoulder
Good night. It's still before midnight.
Sorry I missed the beer and the laughs
Eyes Burned a hole to my brain
Chest bare and cold but
Comfortable
Toe sweats in shin hair while I watch a movie
Quoted "peck juice". ...
I planned on having rum but I stayed green instead
Awake in this heavy vessel sprawled out
In the black
Of this box
Cluttered-but-wish-it-were-clean
Feeling
Tomorrow, maybe.

P.S. Your leg is cold, but your foot is hot.

m

I've never seen your face, sparing that one moment you left it up and sent it to only me, I saw your eyes, though out-of-date, i saw, i looked, and thought really just how perfectly fitted to their canvas they seemed. I imagine what they've seen. Where they drift to when you are listening.

I suppose i saw them That One Time, when he drank the white russians and I drank the gin, i was wearing stripes and red buttons. Puffy shoulders - and i still liked to straighten my hair. They argued in the living room. It was a mixing of the host's two facades, i don't even know if she was aware. I certainly wasn't at the time. We were all just being honest, at least as honest as we were capable of being then, even to ourselves. The music was bad. You stayed in the kitchen, he spoke to you. Had I known you were there (now) I would have. But I'm glad I didn't. I would have been embarrassed. Still, I wonder what got you out of the house then. Surely now, it would be a much better trip.

You have a way. I can feel you. I felt you before you ever directed your text toward me, or rather, before I asked you to. You never speak unless spoken to, and you really only give and never ask to get. and I know you have heard this before. You are one that receives praise a lot, I know. Though your own honesty and alertness for your surroundings prohibits you from feeling this truth from others. I know you think their applause is their way of keeping you up so it hurts less when you fall down, but... if you only knew. Really.

I love your alliterated words and the way you piece sounds together so that they evoke a sick sensation even i can get myself to feel. I feel so flowery and flowing and fucking fantastic, really. Words very rarely touch me, despite my over-eager willingness to purge, I rarely feel a thing from others'. You don't know the weight, but I know you will, one day. You can't see the beauty of your own language, just yet. I will make you see. What is it with me? This eagerness to pick up what i deem broken and mend and stitch and, I swear, I don't want the credit. I don't even think you're broken. With the others, thats what I thought it was, but I don't. I promise I don't. Not with you. I just want you to feel beautiful, for a moment. Beauty is only momentary, after all. I want you to see beauty now, see yours. I know you can hear it. You know its there but you don't even know you create it. You will see. Even if i have to kidnap you (i will), you will see. We will sit in a room walled with sound from option and fingers and you will watch, apprehensively at first, you will want to dive in, i know you will want to. And like the time I walked into that back room of my house on the hill and watched them tap on things with the lamp on, amazed by their willingness to exist that way in light; you will, too.

It wasn't until i'd emerged from the dark that I realized I am still afraid of it.

From a different world you and i, and him, and her, especially her, i know how much you love her. Funny how often your name is mentioned in your absence. Or, is it absence? Surely it feels like you are around now. I don't know that you can be absent when your body was never there, or, here. But you're here now. At least we like to talk about you as if you will be, soon. I want you to know that I will never pretend to know your pain, but I will always be willing to distract. Your willingness to sit and listen is one of your many distinctions. So few are blessed with this rare marvel, and you have lent it to me so much I would willingly give you a limb. I would cut it off my self. I can't count the amount of times I've cried. Honesty. You are honesty. Perturbed little piece of stink in front of you, that of which you talk about so often, the make up of yourself, as you so bluntly think. That furry little set of eye balls that watch your every move. I've never seen him but I know he's there. (I was just kidding when I said I didn't believe you). I am so glad that he's there. I know he is glad for you too. I am glad for you. Even if i never see your face (i will), I will always be glad for you. You think you have seen every inch of you but I haven't seen your mouth move, and I know it will move differently from how you expect, I know I won't be disappointed. I can't be. I want you to meet her. I want you to meet me. No, I want to meet you. I want to touch you. I want you to show me all the things that are broken about you and I want to watch them mend. I want to sit in silence and watch you struggle to find the words. I want you to look at us while we see your face realize that we don't need any. That we'll never need any.

I miss you today, and I don't even know you(r face)

(but i know you).

over the weekend

...and after we drove in surrounded by stone

and bodied-trees dressed in

flowers

i breathed out

thinking we're surrounded by people but only our hearts are beating

foggy eyed

i once ran down an escalator going

up

after a foggy-eye'd mistake

to go against the grain in this manner

particularly

i'd just

rather

not

(if you know me you know)

i am still

not sure why i did

moving stairs got-me-to-thinking

i like when we can move ourselves

instead

or at least

want to

i like real cases

no matter how long or wide

you can walk or

stand or

incline or

decline

you can even sit

still

for awhile

less choice to more doings

i was drunk enough to try

no static stairs in sight

so i thought

and with the red pump i made it

somehow

only to my right spotted vacant

peripherals i see the shadow of

a real case

climbing up

or down

in the same way that i came

like sounds

He couldn't hide his words
In fuzz soaked
Metaphor with no meaning
To it's mother
He could only say what was
And what he knew and
What he hoped
And
She doesnt coat her words either
In fact
Mostly she doesn't use words at all
Only pushes of gut wrenching

betwixt-ing's

archaic

sounds that sound

like themselves

whats that

onomatopoeia

I can't stand to be topless
When you won't hear me speak

i never want to like you when you're sorry

its tough though

you never take your eyes off me

hey

remember that time?

i'll tell you in the morning.

Sandwich at 12:00 am

Heavy breath on my back
Ribs squeezed fisted knuckles
I can feel his heart and
Hear his hum now
Knees wrapped into the pocket
Of mine
A kind of holding that is giving
We always share our warmth
A kind of holding not of habit
Necessarily; but
Out of comfort and fitting
Perfectly with our zigzagged forms
As I write this she arrives
She can smell us touching
Settles herself in on the other side of me
Sandwiched between two briskly besting hearts
The only warm bodies I usually want to touch
I never have trouble sleeping
When they are near
Having them both is a real treat
When she moves - it's closer
Purrs deeper each time

Stretches out and says
I'm not sure
conversing with his
other mind

Returns his Arm
Each
subtle movements
(on my part)
Responded with an instinctual
pressing of my back
Soft and barely
There

My favorite kind

i want to go here when i die, or before:

Like her

I wish they were all like her
Talks like hushes and
How she licks my salted seeping nose
It hurts but that coo is all I need
The scratches on the emery and
How she walks all around us
I'd let you wake me up for nothing
I appreciate your concern

(somedays, not today)

Kiss me again because
I will always choose your neck
To nuzzle

over my left shoulder

and just now, he said as he held her:

you smell like dirty feet; you must have been sleeping in the wrong socks.

g.

i see a simulation

i hope in stream

sweet scenes of

sweet bees

regurgitated worms

into baby's mouths

their ignorance makes

yours

shine

and, thats fine.

i just want mine to mean something

even if only

to me

From over there

I'd always been fascinated with down under there, the farthest place from me. Fascinated by the people, their twangy tongue and sun-kissed locks. As a child I'd expected they'd be the most different from me, how could they even live in this world? I'd selected one from there, and a few weeks later I received an envelope that I'd previously imagined mail from there would look like, security patterned blue seeping through on the inside with red checks along the outer-edges. A strange footed animal on the stamp, the envelope fluffed outward with the items inside. The words were trivial, but not to me, then. She listed her hobbies, asked me about mine. We shared a love for animals and I was jealous of her living on a farm. Of course she did. She was on the other side of the world. Years later I'd get close to there, but I'd stop at the Indian Ocean, only looking over towards the islands where I'd heard a familiar movie was filmed. Hot white sand, hot blue water. Boats with handmade sails - that too was how I'd pictured it.

We met some from there, as I'd imagined we would (somehow); spent our last night drinking the resort dry next to a fire we built beside our feet. We traded accents (or attempted to), and i went to sleep that night with the cat I met.

We'd write a few times a year sending photos before the phenomenon of inter-connected addresses and screens and instant mail were the norm. She wore a green fleece next to a white horse. The landscape in the background mimicked what I saw in my mind, thought one day we'd ride together over the sparse brown flicked with green, looking out for snakes, and bird-eating spiders.

I was ten when we first spoke, and there were others, Finland, Singapore, some without return addresses. Still, her. Even when the letters stopped, still, her.

We almost saw each others faces in real-time, ten years ago. He was supposed to go for the sport, I was supposed to join him as his sister. It wasn't his time, and in turn, it wasn't mine either. (He eventually took me much later, close, to the hot, white sand and the hot blue water, stopping at the Indian Ocean).

Once that strange phenomenal world settled among us all - up here and down there the same, we spoke sporadically, once confiding in lost relationships of the same span. I don't think it mattered to either of us but we both played the part - we seemed to be in the same spot, from all the way over there.

I've always been privy to strange friendships, despite the flutters of self doubt and fear of the eyes. I go through with what's asked, though, at least the once. I'm never disappointed. I hope they aren't, either.

Recently I found out she was here, in the city, where I live. She'd been over here once or twice, but never here. She wrote to me on my phone. I stared at it for a long time. I felt her proximity. I thought about the green fleece and the white horse. I pictured her wearing it but I knew she wouldn't. I saw her smile, her ten year old hair and the dirt on her face.

I asked him to come with me. I asked him too. He didn't know where we were going, but he didn't care. That's what I like about him. Nearby where they stayed, we spoke to one of the many in this place who always ask to get but never offer to give. One of the Assumed Entitled's. We obliged, somewhat apprehensively. We should have known, with his shirt reading a big black FUCK OFF. I don't know about the others but it was kind of a rush. Almost immediately, I spotted her. I knew it was her by the way she stood, even. I'd never seen her flesh or her hair or that smile except in that photo but there she was. I ran over and embraced her. I think I even skipped. I hugged her's. We introduced. The Assumed Entitled was a great ice-breaker. We walked. Later, he told me that the clutch set up the ease for the rest of the night. It made me feel in control.

I mentioned to her the photo, she referred to the green fleece and white horse. She mentioned her name. She reminded me of my first letter and the phonetic spelling of my last name. She still asked. We drank and talked over skipped silences and cased guitars. She talked of her fear of moths and how she didn't mind the spiders --despite their ability to kill. A hundred times the size of any one found here, I stared and asked. She told me about their webs mimicking unraveled steel wool. She smiled when she talked. I thought of how often I'd pictured her voice. Soaked in surreal as her soft sound bounced against my right ear. She was so gentle, and I trusted her. She felt like part of me, I wonder if she considered me part of her. I'd forgotten all we talked about throughout the years. It seemed like she knew my family. She talked of roadkill, and her love of the unknown or unseen (squirrels). We reminisced of the time we saw one twitching under a tire. She asked the best spot to seek out raccoons. I told her to look behind her.

I didn't bring the keyboard --I didn't care. She pushed all night, though. The other. I was somewhat vexed and a little hurt - after all, this was a Once. I don't think I told her that though, so how could I. After all, I never do. I just tip-toe, I've always tip-toed. Starry eyed and light on feet, I am commended a lot for this but also condemned. I don't blame them. She could wait, we had hours, after all. And she did, happily.

I met her other and he was everything I'd hoped for. They seemed like old friends. He shared the same name as an old pet. I wanted to stay there all night. Our time together axed their Tourist plans, but, they didn't seem to mind. We parted as we part most hands - with plans to have another, I thought they might pan out, but I wasn't entirely shocked when they didn't. We took turns cradling this time, even her other, even my others. They made their way back, we met the ones who were waiting.

garden friends

I spotted him on the porch behind a trail of wet. He spotted me, too, I think. Or maybe, he was just spotted. Long eyes, pretty to look at. He was slow, very, slow. So slow in fact, we didn't even notice him move.

I sat there for awhile, taking photos of him. he moved, but not fast enough to affect the capture. Once provoked he'd curl up slightly, shrinking his size to almost half of what he was capable of. I was warned the lights might scare him. But, he wasn't going anywhere.

I'd never seen anything like him. I scooped him up, careful not to harm his soft body, placed him next to the tree at least six times his size. He chose to stay on the vessel. I went into the kitchen to find some leftovers. I handed him a cooked glazed carrot. He latched to it, like it were his last meal (and maybe it was; how would I know?), and we watched the orange shrink in size ever so slightly, much like his body had moments before. I think he liked the dirt and the succulent sweet of the vegetable more than the hard nailed wood, but I can't be sure. Perhaps he was long on his journey in search of a new home.

None the less, in the morning, both he and the carrot were gone.

....:...

please see:

fished from the past truer words

than the present

but you should know:

the only true extension of myself

is bound in yellow

(at the moment).

SEEDS - november 2009

and when you spoke about

the whales just now

and how you cried and

smiled

my heart welled

and my eyes would have too

but i am pretty good

at hiding it

I am sick/sock of your d's.

A note from you

We can all be silent and faceless if we want to be
I thought he was you
I don't find it insane to pretend to be another-- it could be fun
Something I would do in my teens and
The constructed emotion I see from you often
Shakes the saliva from my sixteen year old tongue
I am there (most of the time)
And when i'm not

I can't explain why

and I wish you wouldn't ask
We will get there one day
I think
And if we don't you will find another
That will remind you

where i am

(here)

You miss me when I'm there
I miss you when I am here
Interesting block of arrangements
I tear in thought
You hired someone
It should have been me
I won't blame you, no
I won't say a word
Interesting blue blurs on a header
A tonbstone near my knee
Eyes roaming above and
There you are
I remember when we put you there

I am sorry for not visiting
In form; often or
Ever
you're there
Often though
Here in this space
I was your only.

she said you'd appreciate a visit

from your only

(after)

Your still only
You didn't care and
That's what I loved most about you

Long

So long sweet sailor of mind
Guts and pined-for feeling
Wool hats (of knits and trilby)
Water specked with white dots (feathers)
Out this train window
Home for the holidays
Familiar faces in tow
New families
It does feel like that, doesn't it?
A family ....
I can tell he is from a small town
Sweet curls under sweat-soaks
And smelly feet under toned
Calves
And they are all from the same place as me
But we didn't know when we were there
Even him; who is mine
And to him, I want to start kissing him hello
And goodbye
Even in front of them
I want my hand held with eyes
Watching and
I'll never grope you in public but
It'd be nice to know you wanted me
To

i write most with a cloudy mind

or clouded lungs

phone ramble

i almost lost my hat (again)

nearly flew off in a hot underground wind

i remember why i never introduced

it to my bicycle

got on the wrong way

so sure

how often do i feel like i am going

the right way

i feel we could all be him

J - we are all so simple

why are we so afraid to show

simplicity pure

we were as simple as him

simpler...obviously

why isn't it beautiful when we say it?

is it because we are alive?

He has all the answers and

we only just have to listen

women are the niggers of the world

fat old mother hen

unworthy to be our friend

if you don't believe me take a look

at the one you're with

just do

you've heard it before, and before

love is the answer.

happy birthday soon

you would probably despise me (my love

for you)

but

i would love you the same

and her the same (too)

as i do

GOODNIGHT

toes touch so slightly

effortlessly

ever so lightly

seemingly robotic

but smooth

in the doze with your soothing hum

finally here again

its nice to miss you sometimes

he never cuts his toenails but

i'd rather they scratch me

than not be here

at all

29 helens agree

promptness is important

i haven't looked up

once yet

is it still an iPhone addiction

if i'm writing words in a

"notepad"?

(constantly)

...and that time...

more of the early aughts; or not (do you even know what the aughts are? this dictionary doesn't).

drunk scribbles from that time (and that time...

and that time...

and that time...)

SAAHS lets just go with it.

you don't want what we can have you want what i can

give you

not to share

but

what i have given you is

what you wish you could have

in your bedroom

and, i can't lend it to you

anymore

i came to the conclusion and told you about it

but i never meant

this

but my denial should have told me

and

well

i am not surprised at all.

i am not surprised at all

that they are with you in the woods now. i mean, was it anyone else?

no.

it was always them.

and thats okay, it was fun.

We all talk in our own language, and, really

those few minds i put to bed nightly

and

those who own the lighters

i hold in my back pocket are the only ones

who can sound out the s' in my slurred tongue.

they can pick the tufts from your hair, and i know that they want to

thats the thing

they want to

and i don't

i can love you from a far

and

its the only way

it should be

and you want it that way

even if you can't

admit it

and

you know this

and it was fun pretending for awhile

and the ones who don't need

to ask

of

anything

and yet i am

willing to give

i'm a dreamer

i'm a dreamer

but i'm not the only one

but

we are one

you have me

i just can't give you all of it because

i know i'll never get it back

and the ones who don't need

to ask

of

anything

and yet i am

willing to give

its taken me this long to realize and

i don't mind

its just nice to know

theres a reason you're there and then you're not

you're afraid to show all the ones who

love those eyes

and, i guess i don't blame you

i mean, i don't know

(what its like)

i just think

the coward in the corner will be called on

soon enough

and i wish

you'd just give something real and flawed

and ugly

because you've given me everything

except that

Have i ever mentioned how I much I fucking hate time?