January 2012
1 post
November 2011
3 posts
Without even making a sound, you are my background...
badz maru!!! xoxo
i just want you to know that i love you and im glad im here! deep down i know i dont ever wanna leave being here but i know it will be the best for both of us when i actually do! hurry up and come home! me and kitty are making sweet potato casserole just for you!!!
And curvature downward, arch of swooping flight (feathered Goddess gifted towards sea), never to land but to speak in muted francophone leaflings, nested and gone, further downward, falling, falling.
August 2011
5 posts
Strangers that whisper good nite to each other, unknowing of what dreams shall await them both. Perhaps there exists a realm wherein we haven’t to seek for it is sought and shaped into our reality, our dreams. Perhaps there is a balance between us sentient, dreaming beings, the idealized contours of sculpted marble hands. Perhaps, yes, perhaps, we will awake to a reality far closer to...
Remembering is an involuntary act of forgetting.
And we learned that these roads lead nowhere. With the concrete, specificity of an intent, the driving force of uncertainty. With days that belonged to night, and mornings that woke only in our dreams. We departed from this life, taking our belongings in our grandfather’s suitcases and the smell of thriftstore dressing rooms. We longed for something beyond the border, beyond the horizon that...
File me under afterthoughts, fill me in with charcoal stains.
June 2011
1 post
they bought a ticket for each other. runaway train, runaway train. they made a mixed CD to celebrate their release from their own lives’: a dismissal that would bring them together as one. they would play the songs over and over to themselves, even when they were apart, each with their separate ear phones and separate speakers, separate spaces that acoustically resembled their future in...
May 2011
1 post
In the vast expanse of future's recourse, the...
March 2011
2 posts
In impossibilities i entrust, the gathering willows of our nightly dreams, decadent and unadorned, yet seeping through and within the incompetence of a single lie. yet we seek to believe what has already been believed by another, and found to be the very inadequacy of all of our combined regrets. time is a factor of change and analogy, a token mistokened and taken from our very hands. we lie...
Dear transmigration of half-hearted intentions,
follow me not, but so closely and unrefined, yet I speak in vowels unpronounced in foreign silence, the withering droplets of morrow’s song.
November 2010
3 posts
By now she would be on the road. There are certain future events that unfold into the present, and, we, knowing that they will happen, still respond with the unpredictability of a human heart. We feel like we understand other people so well when we have not a singular idea who we ourselves really are. In other people’s minds we are infinitely less complex, rounded around the edges,...
And without her this space was a conceptual contradiction, over-abstracted blueprints that defied that gravitational certainty of reality’s light.
Forgetting was a vertical streak running down the morning windows behind closed venetian blinds. The static noise of a near-silent rain, dreams disrupted by thunderstorms.
October 2010
4 posts
Destiny was spelled out underneath our feet, the...
7 tags
Palindromes of sighs.
Limitations framed in cubic feet. It suddenly felt unnatural, the entire experience, colors and shapes ending into gallery white space. The geometry of calculated chaos, the unknown inner-dimensions of everything we had ever felt, adolescence loomed behind us like a forgotten basket, carrying all of our dreams.
It was almost cold outside. I walked onto the patio, my bare feet feeling...
Sometimes when I can’t cry, I put eye drops in my eyes and feel them run down my cheek.
July 2010
2 posts
Sunlight on wilted flower petals, and ants circumambulating their shadows. There is a paradox in every breathe, my daily offering of carbon monoxide. Take what you will, for this is all I have. The fragmentation of reincarnated selves, the recognition of reflection, embedded in petals, palms, prayers and penniless passengers to trips into our dreams. Wake no more, yet seek. Send forth for...
Light waves tossed among hand-drawn outlines of moons, mirrored. In complexity erased by stranger’s hands, holding harmony betweeen palms, pressed like flowers in unread novels.
June 2010
16 posts
Before the sea we are powerless, jellyfish jaws unable to speak in the language of what we can see, what we have seen, soaring above and beyond, between and in between… everything. We walk out into waving arms, the memory of embrace combined into a single space, a form, founded in sound and significance, the relationships of all of our neglects. Need is a construct, a convenience, a...
The silent ways in which we say yes to the world, sometimes no, sometimes both. We allow ourselves contradiction as long as it doesn’t interfere with our conscience, with our lies. We nod into silence with closed eyes, hoping that when we open them we will find the answer, a symbolic yet visible thread of meaning dangling before our eyes.
I am: mental typewriter typing out your name.
Question mark. Follow us, follow every word we speak. Follow every breathe, and then mark us with your presence.
Folded in self, on beds made for lovers to leave, the sound of our neighbors’ air conditioner, like far away sighs of tired buildings. We balk at the shape of loss, of asymmetric, disproportionate hearts that beat even in sleep. We wander towards the edge of dreams, where reality might bleed into what we can never conceive, never in our wake. Reality is discoloured by the lack of trust,...
Let’s rename all the constellations after all the children we will never have.
In the ecstatic moment of SIMPLY BEING ALIVE, I mapped every raindrop before it hit the ground, I could see the constellations they formed in mid-air, the different speeds from which gravity forced them to fall, to fall closer to us, to me, to every living being that needed this rain, this moment, this life.
And in that comatose state: my mind, unchanging light green waves on a small screen, the beeping noise of my undying heart, no dreams or visions of an after-life within my arms reach, the only thing I knew was that I loved you.
I want to look at reality through infant eyes, infant eyes that remembers so vividly, so painfully, the memory of it’s past incarnation.
Break my heart and I will write you a poem. But stay here, and love me, and I will love you, and there will be no need for poetry.
The shutters of cameras, like blinking eyelids, momentarily blind us from the frameless world that we live within. Are the visual vignettes of memory stored like photographs in our minds?
We unfold ourselves like retail merchandise, rows and rows of t-shirts and jeans, the familiarity tucked so carefully under each thread, stranger’s hands that realign our broken hearts.
To hereby stand and still, to avoid remembrance of memory’s fingertips, pointing to eyes and ears of lovers, hearing and seeing through the forgotten self. This self to protest, to proceed in declarations null and quiet, whisper widowed words, follow me home, follow me home.
And still it beckons, through glaring summer heat, tripartite divisions in a future yet untold. A crucifix with broken arm, crossing streets uncrossed and crossed out, again, crayola streaks from childhood rainbows in black and white memories of a Polaroid paradox.
May 2010
7 posts
Equidistance from hands, trusting, quiet. Signs point away and turn back, pointing through decisions made in advance. We neglect rationality’s bonds, encased in glass containers and coffee mugs, transparent with hindsight’s unblinking gaze, unable to seek tomorrow’s light. We are living in constancy, in movement, named the same yet ever-changing in it’s force, it’s...
Thank god they did not have antidepressants in Shakesperean times. For Romeo would be for nothing if he was not depressed. What is life without tragedy? What is love without death?
I will give you all I have. I will give you the most beautiful lie.
I want either to stay awake or go to sleep forever. But I don’t want to do both. Is that really asking too much?
The trilateral divisions fold into themselves and almost touch. Touch is the physiological confirmation of being, the memory embedded within layers and layers of skin, geologically compressed organs that beat only in the presence of our lover’s hands. In anatomical congruity we find an unprecedented form of fascination, fingers that seem to replicate in slightly altered measurements. ...
At the end we turn back. Circumambulating air, turning our backs on street signs and trifurcated crossroads that lead to futures we are but not yet ready to face.
emotive shapes that defy the hands of poetry. we are encased in selves bolted diagonal with the locks and keys of every burglarized apartment room. and our childhood homes that we sneak back into, quietly so our parents won’t notice, so we don’t awaken them from the delicate denial that they have cultivated oh-so-carefully over the passing years.
April 2010
9 posts
Upwards vertical glance light living sand soaring geometric organic essence.
To still self summon send forth faction finite finesse.
And withered wallow with, why not? Not for nothings noticed.
“I could have held her for a thousand years until the skeleton itself rubbed away...”
– Jeanette Winterson
My ears are jealous that my earrings outnumber my ears. They don’t make me hear any better at all. In fact, I hear less, I hear nothing, just silence.
Scary thought: the underlying content of trashy romance novels and that of classic literature and well-respected contemporary novelists is basically the same. What sets them apart is their use of language, and the ways in which we portray our singular reality.
I wish I could just read a story without peering through the experiences of myself. Though the narrative is different the pain is the same. The love is the same, always.