Wednesday, May 27, 2015

the light (throwback).

the light
April 18, 2012 at 9:09pm

[you're always the first to say

the light you seek isn't there anymore.

your friends are paces away,

but they might as well just

be faces

in the dark.]

"it's getting late," she says, painting a face on a vacant stare glaring back at her from her bedroom mirror.

she frames her favorite parts and leaves the rest, alone, to the imagination.

she wanders the line her mind has drawn between her window and the door; one to the hall and one, ten stories to the street below. she lingers at the window, wondering, warmed. is there any other mode of egress?

she bears her heels down into the carpet, into her own footprints she knows would take her somewhere if she could ever leave her room.

she watches colors trace her hands, her strands of hair, as she turns in place.

"the way the glass is cut," she says.

and the lines she can retrace on her floor, on her face.

"the way the glass can cut," she says.

she lies across her rumpled sheets, drifting into deeper thought in the crystalline light of fusion crawling prismatically through the air, dreaming of solar radiation; of altitudes, and hypoxia.

asleep again,

and her dreams are always the same,

 in them,

she steels herself against rushing air,

in them, she is always falling.

when most people dream of falling,

they never hit the ground.

she does.

awake again, and late, and she's braced to feel the cool night air on her painted face. she crosses again to her portal

to the world, and leans out to breathe it in.

"just to feel the night," she says.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

distance takes two to measure.

[Please be careful out there, I know
We don't always know the exact way back home.]

I'm at odds with a spirit I harbor sometimes
when I cut the lights and the night sky is the only thing to guide us away,
or toward anything we might seek in the dim light of the fading summer.
I need a break sometimes to let you guide me,
somewhere far and detached from here,
in the deafness of canyons, in the silence of summer valleys,
in the glare of the stadium lights or,
 in the reflection of my pleading face in your tears,
a night out after so many just lying awake with your ghost.
A night of solace after the phantoms and the wraiths of your affection.

I know it sounds strange, but I'd rather be alone than
to see this argument through to the very bitter end.
My story can end,
My campaign can drive to a stop,
fragmented and decayed
buried, championless.

I'm at odds with distance and locales, plains and rough-sided hills,
There's a wandering ghost inside that longs and yearns to get out,
But to come right back home.
And it pines for this place before it knows any other
might matter.

It can drag me from one jagged edge of the nation
to the other,
It can grip and guide me end to end,
But you can't satisfy a wanderlust without bridging all that distance,
Not in this city, not in this life,
(Don't you start, oh don't you start.)

My town and the towns it touches
are big enough that you could caress them
for a decade and still get lost on the long and winding highways;
 you can still navigationally regret that left turn you made down a one way, or
almost always find yourself in a place you haven't yet seen, if you try hard enough.

I'm just driving, I'm just wandering,
thinking, knowing
that I'm just living recklessly and following everyone else's smooth procession
through what some may call a life.

I'm looking into the images of those familiar eyes and
 they don't move,
they don't share,
they look right past me,
but into what?

You may have gotten farther,
ou may have gone further if you'd never even left at all.

The trouble is, when you've absorbed the spirit of a place for a decade,
 and I have,
some of the novelty wears off,
some of the sparkle of something different
and new is lost
in the back of your mind.
It's your daily routine -
you wash your face,
brush your teeth,
adjust your tie
or blouse
 in the mirror,
check your stubble
or your mascara -
its like
painting the door
on an empty house.

all the things,
all the roads you know
and the landmarks you unconsciously identify
to get to the next place, they're really
 sort of meaningless
until you've left and come back again.

You feel a little spark of excitement,
the way you think your dog must feel when
you've had him with you on a long road trip,
and he's standing up and alert when you're
 taking your freeway exit - your skin sort of bristles
ith some preternatural electricity from within.

when you're home again - in the city -


those same distant eyes,
they look around,
they look right ahead,
right past you and me,
into what?

where lies the motivation for moving forward with honesty?
i'm looking around for a lifeline

Friday, May 8, 2015

captive and castaway.

It's not easy.
We all falter, but in our own ways,
We're all okay.
From day to day, we embrace and
dance and intertwine over all the
cracks everyone notices but no one
bothers to mention.
Our boundless, mute thoughts
push quiet limbs into fluid motion over
everything we've come to accept about
broken faith and promises,
scattered in shredded heaps
on the bedroom floor.

We've bartered ignorance for
the Hope we once had.

Nagging, violent, bitch hope,
all buried now beneath a wealth of
mattress fires;
Branding scars into those of us who
Still pray at night for truth
instead of salvation.

We are both captive and castaway,

(The truth hurts.)

Friday, May 1, 2015

Colour, shape, and form.

Tonight, I am colour, shape, and form. I'm begging for truth from incandescent hues.
I'm a million different facets of a heavy, ethereal gem, Lying awake in bed under a heavy blanket
Of longing, but also of brilliance.

Nightingale tune is urging its way through the cracks in my window and it finds me so sullenly dreaming.

Tonight, I am the uncomposed. Tonight, I am the unwritten, unsung rhapsody of a history of aimless troubadours, bards and vagrant minstrels.

I am the young boy, and I am the violin.

I am February's shredded paper heart, and I am distance.

Tonight, I am the center of my very own nothingness.

Tonight, I am fleeting and temporal.

I am love, and I am loss.

Tonight, I am the kept.

Tonight, I am every lover's secret, bound in scarlet ribbon and tucked safely under a rapidly vacated wardrobe, sealed in wax, and kissed.

Tonight, I am lace, and I am cold steel.

Because, you see?
Tonight, I'm sorting it all out,
Sifting through the sands and keeping the heaviest parts, but

What more did I expect to find?

Than to be stranded here with a heavy heart,
On my own little island of sand.

the quiet (throwback 09)

...the quiet...
April 19, 2009 at 10:22pm

[We are woven into the earth,
a seamless portrait of all the
collected echelons of history,
and memory. ]

...the quiet...

We are few quiet bones and breath, wrought with heartstrings and reverberating with utterances of a time not unlike ours, only before anyone ever admitted to be a child of a love that never tells.

"They tell me it's just a myth," she says, a long finger alternatively tempting the rims of separate glasses of iced tea and peach schnapps. She had a blue corduroy jacket draped over the back of her chair. I remained speechless. Her eyes, blue, but not unlike the fluorescent white of light. This night, the gravity of everything had tinted them slightly grey.

When we spoke, we spoke in practiced turns. We sang a funeral procession of verbs and predicates into the smoky air, swirling with motes of silent breath that once desired to be words. We only broke the silence to let anyone else that might be listening know that we were still in the room, somewhere.

The air crackled with the density of silence, the sheer weight of clarity birthing our new thoughts. Our new, bristling clarion.

And my eyes, my mind, my heart. They trailed over collarbones and jawlines, folds, curls and tresses of hair, glossy but lost in the color of the pale light, followed arms to fingers, to glass, back up to teeth and quiet lips.

We were alone. Alone under a million beams of moonlight. Under a million beautiful reflected faces of the sun, come to witness us in our surrender. To the quiet, the warmth of the silence in us both. The only place we could think out everything we'd never tell one another.

Everything we'd always felt.

She steepled her fingers over an ever-emptier glass, inhaled a breath so subtly as to speak, but the words. We both knew the words would never cross her lips. I passed a hand over the table, running my fingers along its edge, the honest things weaving a spell across the tattered, fraying ends.

In the night, the faintly lighted place, we were ghosts. Picture-reel effigies. Silent, colorless bodies. But the movement meant everything. Ever moving. Ever breathing. Together. In the calm. The rhythmic sounds of us, these husks housing hearts of ours.

Maybe, the sound was my own. Or maybe, the sound was two.

There's no way of knowing, under the starless sky. Children of a love that never tells.

In this, our silence.