we mark ourselves with pen and ink

2009-09-29T09:15:00.002-06:00

we will set this world on fire.
not just papers, and eyes and hearts.
i mean, the desert and all of the oceans
and every tree in between.
every stupid mini-van and picket fence,
every landmark, spanning the turn of centuries and capitalism.
every wide-eyed terrorist -
wedding ring in pocket, both hands on the bar,
ignorance and arrogance - a hazy shield.
you all look the same to me, a sea
of disastrous proportions, distorted eyes
that roll into their sockets, as the blue
flickers against the couch for hours at a time,
spending your time pushing crying children around
and biding time in drive-thrus for two hours a week.
this, all of this.
this zombie culture, intentional mummification -
this is not my life.

you. me. the last two in this sea,
with shining eyes and closed fists.
open them to me.

we will sweep through and leave
the feeling of ghosts in the collapsing lungs
of cities they thought they knew.
this is not a dream of mine, this
is not a synapsical misstep -
this is my version of the rules.
i do not forfeit.

25 july 2009. 1227p mst. slc, ut.

2009-08-01T16:30:00.001-06:00

you know i wanted
nothing more
than for this to work out.
wait
nevermind
the person you were
five months ago
knew that.
you, you now,
this new improved -
purse carrying, high heeled
i need a polka dot dress
to make her love me -
you
might not know that.
this new you
knows how to shape shift
and what's so sick
so awful to me
is that i knew that you
that other you
we'd discussed her
at length
when we'd sneak
into my mom's apartment
at 830 at night
me taking a shower
with the door open
and somehow feeling
like my life could
really go like this.
i think normal
people call it happy.
you told me all
your deep dark
flaws and all the secrets
you kept from every
other girl that's had your
breath on her neck -
you told me we
were different.
that side of you
didn't have to make
an appearance
cuz i made you so
comfortable
that you were so safe
that for once you
were
whatever it is you
"really" are.
and listen to me,
i feel like i'm in 4th grade
writing some simple
report on "how shit works"
except the difference is
that hindsight is never
20/20
it's somehow always sharper
and for those
moments
you know
you were my all
and now, i am just some
shitty
friend?
to you,
that doesn't even
deserve the decency
of closure.
does it ever cross your mind
that i don't want to hear
how she made you sad?
that i don't care how
nice she looks in suit?
that i'd much rather teeter
through life without
you calling me
as she sings you happy birthday?
that she's cute and sweet
and you're moving to texas
to be closer to her family.
but don't ever forget
that i told you so.
just like you told me so -
right after kicking me
out of your car, your life,
whatever.
i'm happy for you.
i'm happy you get to finally
be who you really are.
i'm happy you have found
someone that makes you feel
like you will never be enough.
i'm happy that as soon as i have 400$
and a bed of my own,
you will realise exactly what you missed.
and i am happy, right in
this moment, these words -
i think that one day
i will send you a book,
from wherever i happen to
have gone
and it will be all the
words you've never read.
and i will be our generation's
michelle and i will have
a smiling picture of my girl and i
(she will write things too
and maybe we will change the world)
with our happy hanging plants
that we forget to water
in our happy teal living room
with owls hanging on the wall.
and i will have my sparrow tattoos
laughing at you from under my shirt
(that i didn't have her pick out)
i'll sign your copy and circle the parts
you should've listened to before
and maybe, maybe just so you know
what it feels like -
i'll call you up and
ask you how you are.
i will tell you all
the things that you refuse
to hear.
and yes, i know all about
bitter pleasantries and
less than subtle sarcasm
and that little hitch in
your voice
as you tell me i'm a trophy wife
(which, ps, i will never forgive)
and i wish you well,
getting your degree and
living with you parents
and no, no i don't feel sorry for you.
i hope camille treats you like
the gold she wishes you would wear.

maybe this is the future.

23 july 2009. 1128a mst. slc, ut. words to be spoken, not read.

2009-08-01T16:29:00.004-06:00

i can't
can't get over this
constant, half-assed
melodrama
of mother's
spitting in their
daughter's faces
saying it's time
to grow up, move out
lose her, love Him.
fathers, too proud
to hug their sons
have to save face,
save yourself.
be lifted.
when did family
become about heaven?
when did love
get limits?
boundaries,
unspoken, unbroken
un
clean.
and me -

you don't have to listen
to me -
i was blessed, not from god,
but (in) the (sanity) that is
my mother's mind
that says women
will always own this earth
that goddesses walk
with us every day
in the form of nurses
and teachers and writers
and hookers and her.
and me -
i was blessed to not know
firsthand
the pain behind my own eyes
but i have seen my best
friends lay down at the alter
of sacrifice
to fit the mold their parents
made for them
when they were only hours old
He has sent us this precious gift,
and we will make sure
he has no mind of his own.

these words are for anthony,
who was 14 years old
when his dad caught his first kiss
and hung it in the air besides
his packed bags,
full of ballet shoes and
n'sync posters
then threw it out the door right
after his only son.
these words are for michael,
who married judy and
cut hair and his wrists on the side.
as long as mom was at the wedding,
as long as she had a daughter-in-law
it's all the same in the eyes of god.
these words are for anna,
stocking her whole tiny life
into her tiny, shitty car
cuz her dad found a love poem

(titled "for beth with the blue eyes")
and a bag of weed, in her room
in his house, in god's house.
in this good, christian family's house
in the heart of this good, christian nation
where children are schooled
in disillusionment.

these words, these words
they're gone
up and left like the eyes
i'm mentioning
like the souls i'm shoving
in your face
marked with a headstone
proclaiming
"god took him too soon"
by which i mean
god left him
too soon.
son.
those needles, they'll do more
than mark you
and don't you know anything
about safe sex?
oh, wait. that's right.
this is a good christian nation -
not until you're married,
but in your case, you never will be,
son.
we don't like your kind here -
your dirty blonde face in a swarming
crowd on a street or a highway
or a truck stop,
trying to make some cash
for gas, a cigarette, a sandwich.
for a pen and some paper
to write more poems
for beth, whose blue eyes
still miss you, since you
stopped coming
around.

how many of our kids
need to be kicked to the street
for us to enjoy our dinners,
our patent leather shoes,
our sunday wine.
how many little faces
need to be shunned
into believing their minds
are wrong.
that god made them
perfect, as long as
they obey
and deny and deny and
pray.

when "family" is defined

on CNN as something that doesn't
exist, bigotry finds its place.
happiness is hard
enough to reach
without the hand of
god resting on
your shoulder
and your daddy's
back turned.

when will these words
start speaking a revolution.
when will destruction
makes its way into the light.
where is creation, without
the -ism.
we're searching,
come find us.

throwback; 22 april 2009. 240p mst. beans, slc, ut.

2009-08-01T16:22:00.001-06:00

i've tried so hard to
buy my way into your life;
every button-up, sale or not,
was my honest effort
to make you stay.
here's christmas, brought
to you by two paychecks
and three weeks of tips.
i wanted you to have
everything you didn't know
you ever wanted, until
it was already in your hands.
sitting on the floor,
creating a fire hazard
in order to decide
which book you
had to have cuz it
reflected me the most.
which mattered more -
in my mind -
someone else already
did the work - this is
me, in alternate tongues and
with a copyright.
here i am, well, not me -
sort of her, but mostly me
in this poem about
dirty streets and not knowing
where you actually live.
i wanted you to know me
better without actually having
to open my mouth.
i guess this river runs
as deep as my pockets.
i wanted you to be happy,
to get it. really.
get it.
some things can not be bought,
but apparently can be sold.

i will keep this sweater
as a token of my affection.
and your face
in the back of my heart.

throwback; 16 april 2009. 1133a mst. slc, ut.

2009-08-01T16:21:00.000-06:00

i want to smoke cigarettes
forever,
or maybe die -
move to france,
just so i can ask for cigarettes
in french, which is really
just an accent.

vicious cycle.
we can sit in cafes,
pretend to be cultured,
when really we're
just falsely imprisoning
ourselves in dark
galleries full of red wine.

scratching words
into marble statues
and screaming fountain
jumps, silk dress stained,
knees torn.

this farce of real life,
turned on its head
and we'll show them
what we really mean.

we can run off to paris,
"backpack,"
by which i mean just "pack"
and book a hotel room.
we love not camping.

just like you love
not loving.
and usually,
i don't write poems

like this.

throwback; 16 january 2009. cahoots, slc, ut.

2009-08-01T16:19:00.000-06:00

as much as i want it to be,
none of this shit is a joke.
coincidence. accident.
for all the dead-ends
i've turned down,
hoping for a right direction,
all of it was purposeful.
all of it was meant.
maybe all the outcomes
were unplanned, like
a pregnancy or first cigrarette,
(2 very different things, i know)
but the process was there,
the "best" intentions.
maybe it won't "really" happen.
maybe i won't like it.
maybe, maybe...
maybe the squinting into moonlight,
boxed wine, my own reflection,
maybe that was my chance.
the thoughts of "what am i doing,
who am i now?"
came after.
(you)
all of this has brought me here -
eating a microwave vegan burrito,
in the office of the job (one of two)
that pays me 7$ an hour
to sell lube or lattes;
my phone's dead and i
have strange dreams
about babies, orange
convertibles and girls that
hated me the second
they got off.

all of this for my choices.
and here i am,
trying to drag some
poor girl's bones
along with me in
this ride of catastrophe.

although, i guess,
in my defense,
there's something to be
said
about diving willingly.
falling. willingly.

all of this
comes after.

throwback; 10 may 2008. 535p pst. some coffee shop, PDX.

2009-05-01T10:49:00.002-06:00

because i don't know
when or how i'll
see you
again
and because i
don't know
what or where
you think -
i wanted to
give you something
from this new city.
from this new heart.

something raw
and red
for you to see.

it's not much,
and it is broken -
but it is clean
and it is all i have.

"thank you."

xo the heart
on my sleeve.

throwback; 10 may 2008. 240p pst. powell's, PDX.

2009-05-01T10:48:00.001-06:00

you can only really love
a bottle or a girl, never
both at the same time,
i always sort of feel
that it is her,
not me.
and you sort of unspokenly
choose
the second you
fall off my wagon
and trail behind hers',
on that running,
wavering leap
to the back.
she'll never love you back,
you know.
or at least not like
i have. could have.
she makes you
owe her,
like some annoying
friend that'll never
let you forget that
time she gave you
a ride, bought you
smokes or held your hair,
when you and your - girl
were in a fight.
you never owed me,
i gave freely and by
choice.
i guess that made
you free to leave
or something.
either way you did.
i get it, though.
she's pretty tempting,
can probably make
you laugh more and
look how many
friends you have
now.

i figured i'd just
let you know,
though -
she's sort of unstable
and kind of a bitch.
i heard she's
thinking of cheating
on you.

i'm thinking of
letting her.
crash
at my place.

throwback; 10 may 2008. 140p pst. powell's books, PDX.

2009-05-01T10:45:00.000-06:00

i am working up
to almost, not
quite
getting over you.
i'm in your city,
your new city -
not LA, not LB -
just your dreams.
the core of your
art and the woman
you fell in love with,
promised not to leave.
(after me.)

it feels strange
to be writing at
a table, in a bookstore
where you've been.
it feel strange, even
to breathe the same
city air.

since i got here,
i've been half-grateful
that i don't know your
address.
so i can't leave
this book of poems
i bought you
on your doorstep -
without the pleasantries
and wanting to kiss you.
it's sort of pathetic
how dumb i allow
myself
to be for
you.

i'm really hoping
you're not as
beautiful as you
used to be.
but i know you are.

actually, fuck that.
you're probably even
prettier - your mouth
is probably somehow
more perfect and
you probably smell nicer.
and probably -
i will cry the whole
18 hours back home.

remember how our
fingers used to
fit together (after
we finally took them
out)
we slept together
without ever sleeping
ironic how most
things never make
sense.

all day, i just wanted
to make you breakfast
and buy you presents,
without ever eating or
overdrawing my account.
you wanted me to
shake, to kiss you,
to not ask questions.
you wanted me to
love
you, but not
scare you.
to hate you
in the end.

i can never place
myself low enough
to expect nothing,
so i throw myself
far enough to
want it all.

i keep looking
out the window
and expecting to
watch you
walk past.
whenever it is
that i see you
again,
i only hope
that you're
happy.

throwback; 27 march 2008. 643p mst. salt lake city, utah.

2009-05-01T10:35:00.001-06:00

i walked you to your car
late that night,
cigarette in hand -
while you watched me
as if i was some sort
of disintegrating map
or tragic mistake.
half of me wanted
to kiss you.
to plague your
stupid smile with
my stupid lips.
and chase your fake
sincerity with my tongue.
the other half wanted
to tell you plainly -
sweetly-
to fuck off.
i chose the first.

i mean,
it was your apartment,
bed, box
of tangerines, purple
strap-on.

"see ya later."
as you hurried off
to wherever it was
you promised to hurry
back from.

by now, i've suspended
you in my mind.
you float through me,
barely changing position
at all.
i've framed you
in the one night
you may have loved me.
you got what you
wanted,
didn't you?
trace your name
down my spine

only once.

are we done?

2008-04-07T11:45:00.002-06:00

there is so much
we stopped ourselves
from saying
because to mention
the depth
was to solidify
our sadness

i wish i could've
stopped loving you
the second i stepped
out of your car
like you wanted me to
and went about my life
without thoughts of you
picketing my brain

but
my heart doesn't
work like that
it is restless
and it is fierce
when it knows
what it needs
to know

i knew

part of me feels
like i've always known
part of me wants
to forget

most of me
simply holds
that strand of hope
tenuous,
futile, maybe
thin

but i still know
that no one
has ever touched
you
like that
thought you
that beautiful
genuinely reveled
in your
thought process,
creativity
talent
heart

i drove with you
to the end of
both our lines
we both
stepped out
of that car

we both
continue to look
back at

"us"

and i know
i know
we both
hope

untitled.

2008-04-01T22:21:00.001-06:00

remember that time
(now)
that i broke my foot
on the way to the job
that pays me minimum wage
and tips me
off
to the world beyond you?

that time you hinted
that you could love her
and i knew that it
would be
so easy
for her to slip
between the sheets
of my bed
and my blanket
that matched
so perfectly
with the walls
of my life
then

the time i realised
that you drink
and laugh
and find your
footing
on the edges
of women
that know nothing
about you

and i drink
and cry
into my pbr
surrounded by women
who know so much
about subversion
and survival

and from across the lawn
they look at me
and ask who
they're gonna have
to kill
for making me
look so sad

and i smile
and look at them
and say no one,
"just some girl"
and we laugh, then
about how funny
the world is
how intricate
our hearts are
and how girls
can break you
even after you're
broken

the shocks
can come back
even after months
and other mouths
and the bricks
that fly from your tongue
can still shatter
the shards
of my body
while they're strewn
on the ground

these pages fly
windblown and
heaving
through the thick air
dark with hazy
memories,
regrets i never
thought i'd see through

my heart
printed in so many codes
scattered far from
even my best
efforts at cracking

so much of us
is lost
between those pages
of unwritten history

10 april 2007; portfolio: independent reading piece.

2008-03-27T17:16:00.003-06:00

okay, as a preface to this one - we had to create an additional chapter to a book that we'd picked and read for an independent reading project. we had to capture the characteres, situations and style of writing the author uses in order for the chapter to seem to fit seamlessly into the book. my book was called The God of Small Things and it is by Arundhati Roy. i recommend everyone in the world read this book at some point in their lives.

The garden had not yet been forgotten about in the haste (and then stagnancy) of old age. This was before the bright blossoms were choked by weeds, the soft underbrush of trampled flowers harbouring fugitive pill bugs and centipedes. Estha and Rahel, Fugitives in their own sense that day, sat under Baby Kochamma's prized jackfruit tree, their stolen goods clanking in hastily-made cheesecloth hobosacks. The tree was blooming, it was late April and the twins knew the risk of sitting under the heavy fruits. Baby Kochamma had screamed at them since they had found and crawled under the cooling cloak of shade almost seven years ago. They scrunched down, their limbs twisted like pretzels (no salt), with their metalcheesecloth sacks between their goosepimpled legs. Agent E. Pelvis and Agent Stick Insect were at it again.

Velutha had already sanded and shaped the boat, bringing it out of its soggy, rotten mold and closer to the shining sea (river-)faring vessel Estha and Rahel had hoped for. After uncovering it from under the years of fallen jackfruit leaves and picking confused, bumbling beetles from its crevices, the twins had stared at their find for days before deciding what to do with it. The only possible water on which to sail their treasure was the murky, quickslick river where their mother watched them with hawkeyes as they only sat on its banks. But on the other side, as Velutha told them, was a house with meaning. The History House - full of ancestors and whispers. Warnings, Lies and Love.

Although Rahel and Estha had not yet grasped the weight of the house, with its sagging roof and paintchipped wall windows, they sensed the importance of their decision. The History House was the reason they were huddling in the garden. It was the reason they'd gathered their raincoats and boots and old toys and two-egg twin blankets and stuffed them in their traveling bags at the back of the closet. For when it was Time. It was also the reason they'd stolen tin cups and utensils and even small cooking pots from their Mammachi's pickling factory. They were building an escape.

The metalclank noise in their sacks jolted them back to their mission. The disrupted earth underneath them was already (temporary) home to a deck of cards, two fuzzy tennis balls and a small bag of raisins and peanuts. The new roommates were two sets of utensils and a few tinyshiny pickling jars. Rahel opened the sacks as Estha pawwed at the dirt to find a corner of their already buried treasures. Baby Kochamma would be coming out to the garden soon to weed and water and touch and talk to the plants she had obsessively tended for years. Estha spotted the red and white checkerboard of the playing cards and began furiously digging to widen the hole. The front door creaked and the weight of the air shifted with it. It sat on their skin and prickled their armfuzz. Their hearts beat a too loud, too fast twin rhythm that they were sure could be heard from across the yard. They froze.

In the split second it took to understand the incredible trouble they could be in, Rahel and Estha had, at the same time (as two-egg twins often do), thrown both of their hands in the dirt and began piling their contraband into its shallow grave. They raced to cover the void with dirt, pat it down and replace the damp leaves and twigs. The clatter of metal on metal on plastic on hands attracted a presence. Baby Kochamma stood above Rahel and Estha with her usual scowl, but with her hands on her hips, signaling an UNusual fury. They'd just given her another reason to mutter under her breath about their mother and her nuisance children. They'd offered her a true reason to reject them, right there in a silver cooking pot.

She touched Estha and he flinched. She grabbed his shoulder and hoisted him to his feet, Rahel with her other hand. Walking sternly, eyes fixed forward, trampling her beloved Kotuveli flowers, Baby Kochamma shoved them through the door of the house and into the kitchen chairs. She called frantically for their mother. The two secret agents sat slumped in their seats, their shoulders throbbing and heads whirling. Rahel felt a choke in her throat and tears sliding paths down her cheeks. She didn't know when she'd started crying, but she knew that her aunt would no doubt laugh at her for it. Their mother appeared, framed in the doorway of the kitchen. Baby Kochamma sprang from her own kitchen chair, wildly waving her jello arms. She wanted to know what kind of children Ammu was raising, why they didn't do as they were told and stay out of where they shouldn't be. Why couldn't they be Good and proper like Chako's daughter? Their cousin was well-behaved, spoke perfect English and carried a pocketbook - she was British. Finally, the all-too-necessary, but better-left-unspoken question: Why couldn't they just live with Him? The mention of their father made Estha and Rahel's stomachs curl into simultaneous, tight knots. They grew especially quiet and still, even made their hearts calm to the faintest thump-thumps.

Ammu stood fixedly, her features and the curves and dips of her body set, hardened like stones. So still that not even tiny pebbles or shards could fall off. Unbreathing. She turned to her children and motioned for them to stand by her. She kneeled to their level, whispered, then turned and walked out. They followed, trailing her closely to their bedroom. Rahel shut the door soundlessly behind them, closing out the mumbles, then shouting of Baby Kochamma; shutting out her angry eyes. Ammu, weary from the constant (unfounded) complaints, sat on the edge of their bed and sighed. At once, toppling over each other's words, Rahel and Estha began to explain.

She held her hand up to silence them. The only noise in the room was muffled kitchen cabinets slamming, muttering, Rahel's jagged breathing. Baby Kochamma had not gone outside to see what they'd been up to; she didn't see their stolen goods. She simply wanted them to be perfect children, shrunken adults that knew their place and didn't dare disobey. They were lucky. Their mother looked at them one at a time - not as a pair, a single being - as most people did and they sometimes found themselves doing. She asked them to get their pajamas on, to rest. To keep to Themselves that night and not to come out of their room. She would bring them dinner and check in on them. She would personally escort them to the bathroom, if they needed. She would handle Baby Kochamma. She would handle everything.

Ammu slipped out the door and left Rahel and Estha alone with their guilt and Fear and anger. She left them alone with their rejection and their plans and their dirty, sandyhands. They got undressed, slipping into the others plain red or blue summer pajamas, as they often did when they needed Closeness. They wore each other, the cotton and elastic representing their two-egg wholeness when Others tried to pull them apart. Rahel climbed into bed first, near the wall; her bony legs curled into her. Estha scrunched down under the blankets next to her, leaning on her hair. She usually hated when he did this, it restricted the tossingturning way she slept. But she didn't mind this time - it meant he was close. The sun was still shining outside, they could hear birds and the sound of their mother's voice calmly trying to save them.

They awoke as one, jumpy and disoriented. The moon had replaced the sun in the rays that shone on their blanket and the cricketsong was permeating the stillness of the night. They heard no more voices. Estha crept out of bed and tiptoed to the door, turning the knob as little as possible and pushing. The door eased open into the darkened, sleeping house. He motioned for Rahel to follow. Squinting through black, they peered outside and decided it was safe enough to walk into the kitchen. If anyone was up, they would claim thirst, get some lemonade and go back. No one was. They house looked deserted, the back door locked and the curtains drawn. They knew it was Time.

Thankfully, their slight bodies made little noise on the creaky floorboards; they made it out the back door and into the garden without trouble. From the direction of the train tracks, they could hear curiously triumphant gun shots; the Communist party had marched that day. It scared and excited them, in a dangerous/harmless, outlaw kind of way. They found, in the dark, their recovered boat and the ground where their supplies lay. Estha took the boat and Rahel threw their provisions onto its floor. They picked it up and walked in step to the river.

At the bank, there was only hushed movement in the water. No rushing waves, no child's laughter, no light. Agent E. Pelvis and Agent Stick Insect were on a mission. Tonight was their only chance; tomorrow was something they decided not to think about. Tomorrow the Fear would return, as the sun made its way across the sky, shedding light on all their wrongs and broken promises. Estha set the boat at the edge of the water, holding it steady for Rahel. He put one foot in and gave the ground a small push before climbing in and settling into the boat's hollow belly. The water held their boat safely, pushing it further and further away from their old lives. They were headed for the History House, for alarmingly real Warnings, Lies and Love. With the celebration guns in the distance, they were escaping.

10 april 2007; portfolio: memoir piece.

2008-03-27T16:59:00.003-06:00

It had rained the night before - the warm, not-yet-winter rain of October. The rain that always fell near halloween and forced us inside, drinking orange kool-aid in costume, instead of outside, filling our stained, kiddie pillowcases with candy. You could smell the storm in the air and it made everything in the house damp. My unicorn statues slipped and fell all over my dresser whenever I bumped into it. I wasn't careless, I was little. I was pure energy, with springs in my feet. The pearl porcelain one with the pink mane lost her horn in one of the mishaps that day. I took the broken pieces and shoved them into my neon minnie mouse bag; I had to show Grandma, so she could buy me a new one. She'd probably be as sad as I was. I was packing. I was four and three quarters (as I made known to everyone...) and I was packing to leave the only place I'd ever known as "home" forever.

My mom had come into my bedroom a few weeks earlier, sat down on my bed and, with shaking hands, informed me that we were "going to Grandma's" for a little bit. She told me that dad couldn't know, because it was just a "girl's trip" and she didn't want him to feel bad about not coming. I was excited. I loved New York and I loved seeing my grandma and grandpa, who spoiled me with candy and cookies and toys and clothes and trips to anywhere I wanted. Maybe we'd go to see the circus again, in "The City", with its elephants and sequins and cotton candy smells. Maybe Grandma would let me sleep in her bed with her, because I'd be cold after my ice cream and she didn't like me to shiver alone. She knew that happened a lot at "home." Hopefully, Grandpa Al would let me comb (what was left of) his hair and make his little greypuff look like Elvis's. I loved going to Grandma's and lost my tiny mind whenever it was time to return to Colorado. This time I'd never have to leave again.

He was at work that day; he left early, while my mom was still asleep. He touched me goodbye, but I guess in some ways, a kiss would've been worse - the false sincerity and "innocence" of it. I pretended to sleep, as usual, although that day was harder than most. I wanted to scream in his face that I was leaving for Grandma's and I wouldn't be around for who even knows how long. But I didn't. I kept my breath even and my eyes still. I didn't try to push his hand away in fakesleepy movements. He didn't notice the bags piled just inside my open closet door. I never said goodbye back.

Morning came. The rooster in the back yard let us know that the sun was awake and we should be, too. My two allotted bags were packed. I had to choose, out of all my stuffed animals, who mattered enough to come to Grandma's with me. It was a tough decision for an almost-five year old. My unicorn and her broken, golden horn was tucked into an inside pocket and I had only two changes of clothes. My mom was acting strange when we met in the living room that morning. She was purposeful, set in her actions. She only had one bag. She didn't bring any of her toys - her mint-condition 70's punk vinyls, her assortment of lipsticks, her favourite dress. She had only jeans, a few sweatshirts and Lunchables stowed in her bag.

Suddenly, Jody was there in her husband's pick-up truck, she was knocking and then opening our screen door; her face looked tear-streaked and her eyes were hazy. I was scared, but my mom said it was okay and Jody was just going to take us to the train station. In an instant, it seemed, our bags were in the back and I was buckled into the middlefront seat of the truck. We headed out on a long stretch of blank road, with the promise of a shinymetal train ahead. We saw a badger on the way, he was crushed on the side of the road and there were crows pecking in his blood. I hoped I never had to come back.

The ride seemed longer than it was because of my small mind and the audible silence in the truck. Jody, my mom's only friend in Colorado, sniffling; my mother staring out the window and avoiding looking my way. I got bored and took my earrings out, hoping to get my mom to help clip them back in. I dropped one in the space between seats and couldn't find it by myself. There is a piece of me, still, in that last ride.

The station was busy and the blaring intercom bothered me. I just wanted to be at Grandma's already; we'd never taken an Amtrak to New York, only flown twice on air-conditioned, earpopping planes. I didn't understand that this was our only option. Jody stepped out of the car, she kissed me goodbye (the goodkind), said "I love you, Tiffylala," and got back in the truck. She told my mom to "send a postcard" and sped off with tears in her eyes. I like to think they'd said their real goodbyes days before. She didn't know (or maybe she did...) that she'd saved our lives that day.

My mom already had our tickets in her hand. She'd told me to lie and say I was only three and "don't talk too much" - I'd give myself away and they'd make her pay extra money she didn't have. I listened and made myself Small. I was good at that.

Our train came, we stepped on and the doors whooshed closed behind us. I'd never been on a train before; the wood paneled walls, chrome handrails and red, fakeleather seats fascinated me. I asked for my Minnie Mouse bag from under the seat and secretly tucked the glinting unicorn horn into my hand. I didn't care if my hand got cut, I needed something to hold onto. I was tired, so my mom asked for a trainpillow and trainblanket. She settled me into a seat, my head below the window. I never looked out even once. I was returning Home.

i cannot find the heart i gave to you.

2008-03-22T23:48:00.000-06:00

that day you picked me up
from the airport
and i could already tell you hated me
even though i was a good kisser

i remember exactly what you wore
i was wondering
do you remember, too

you had that stupid grin
on your face
pink bangs and a faux-patriotic tee shirt
your favourite basketball boxers
the chain of your wallet
jangling against your legs

i rushed around like
a little girl
gathering my bags
that i'd packed
for "indefinitely"

you took me to meet
your friend at a bar -
he got my name wrong
and hated white people

you kissed me outside
while drunk, 35 year old
frat boys whistled
and tried to buy us beer
you kissed me inside
bit my neck, grazed my chest
and beat me at air hockey

we went for donuts after
it was like one am
and i got powdered sugar all over
my lips
and laughed
my stupid little girl laugh
as i wiped it off

i could still tell you hated me
your friend trying to crack jokes,
tension
the ice in your voice.

it was fine, though
once we got to his place
he gave us his bed,
his one condition being that
we don't fuck in it

that's gross, obviously -
we'd never.
giggle
giggle
cough

i remember how you said
you wanted to be shameless.
the song, not the trait

see how close i can get to it
without giving in

you gave in
i felt like i was doing
everything wrong
but i wanted you to like me
to realise i was not a mistake

you held me while we slept
you, completely exhausted
me, awake half the time -
heavy heart,
beating out the terms
of this regret,
pumping my body
full of the tears
i refused to cry
over you.

i'd save them
for christmas
alone
alone
alone

you think i don't know.

2008-03-21T02:59:00.001-06:00

i've worked so hard
to break myself
into smaller,
easier to manage
pieces.
for you.
bite-size, perfect fit -
but i think i've
woken from that
dream of fitting
into your eyes -
my light,
just bright enough
to reach you,
but dim enough
that you're never blinded.
this is what
purgatory must be.

19 march 2008. 1107pm mst. salt lake city, utah.

2008-03-21T02:51:00.001-06:00

sometimes i feel like i lost myself,
when i lost you.

these veins,
they seep bloody pleasantries -
in the form of words i've never spoken;
letters i've written only in my head.

i wanted so much to feel -
like that time was mine.
and your's. and ours.
not pieces of each other,
just us.

we took our time -
refusing to say the things
we never thought we'd feel.
but time is
flee
ting
and maybe we took
too much.
left ourselves with empty hands.

the smile etched into my face,
whenever you were there,
faded to a tiny beam of light -
in my eyes.

you walked like you owned me.
i wanted you to.
i'd waited for that mumbled french
to tumble from my lips for days.
... and i hope everything's gonna be alright.
it will, you told me.
it always is.

second chances are rare,
i wait patiently for mine.
my heart is still curled in a corner
of your mind, waiting for its cue.

i stayed up late for weeks,
writing words that you'd never read.
explaining things you'd never want to hear.
i scare my own hands sometimes,
with the fire i've burned for myself.

you were made of books in my hand.
the words - mixed, jumbled masses
of consciousness i could never seem
to decipher.

sometimes i want nothing more,
than to see you -
between all the lines
i read through.

i guess what i'm trying to say is -
i miss you.

12 march 2008. 550pm mst. salt lake city, utah.

2008-03-21T02:48:00.005-06:00

in your backseat,
with only streetlights lighting the path,
i find your hands
and we become each others'
friday night mistake.

i thought i'd caught
a glimpse earlier
in the night,
but it turns out -
you don't keep your
heart under your sleeves.

we are at very different places
in life.
i kind of hope you understand.

9 march 2008. 1009pm mst. salt lake city, utah.

2008-03-21T02:46:00.002-06:00

if there were a map
of my body,
sketched out in greys,
black, white -
brain, ribs, fingernails;
details unfolding
in monochrome -
there would be
a tiny, red "x"
where my heart
should be/at.
it would say,
"you are here."

28 february 2008. 113am est. long island, new york. this isn't even anything.

2008-03-21T02:45:00.001-06:00

i want to move to england.
and then spend every weekend in france,
drinking wine on balconies with candles
and smoking out of those long cigarette holders
and tying my scarves in intricate knots
and sitting on the sidewalk of cafes
with a pen and a book and some coffee.

this eternal
wait.
wait.
jump.

i need to stop.

27 january 2008. 1146pm est. long island, new york.

2008-03-21T02:44:00.003-06:00

i have memories to go on.
sharp, lucid memories.
brightly lit.
littered.

reality is beginning to feel
like drowning.

my mind skips
from emotion to experience.
words, touch, smell.
sound.
and jumps from heart to heart.

i remember.
i always, always remember.

"your smile is the manhattan skyline,
and i don't want to cry anymore,
no, i don't want to - die anymore."

i see things sometimes,
like visions.
but hazy, unclear
versions of what was said,
done.
how i got there.
here.
back again.
coming back?
probably not.

all things go, all things go.

"floaters in my eyes,
wake up in the hotel room.
cigarettes and lies,
i am a child; it's too soon."

i read words that have been
drained of their sincerity
at this point.

i need to stop.

i hear your voice in my head,
my throat.
seeping through your eyes,
your white teeth, fingertips.

in this life, there are few things
to hold onto.
for whatever reason,
i've subconsciously chosen
to hold all the wrong things.

24 february 2008. 237pm est. long island, new york.

2008-03-21T02:44:00.002-06:00

in the blue, we turn our
darkest tricks.
we carry our wings with us,
tucked between
our spines and eyes.
our shoulders carry more
than the weight of feathers
and beads of rain.
we carry more than
the world, it seems.
we are left to bear
the memory of each other.

now the streets will never
be as wide,
the trees will seem shorter.
the world has become flat,
too simple, somehow less fair.
without your freckles -
my sky has grown new stars.

you were made of
books in my hand.
the words - mixed, jumbled.
sometimes i want nothing more,
than to see you -
between all the lines
i read through.

19 january 2008. 1230pm cst. in air above texas, to new york.

2008-03-21T02:37:00.000-06:00

my heart wants too much.
scattered pieces of my mind and soul
are strewn along coastlines and
land-locked, flat plains.
some peaks, valleys.
sharp changes in elevation.
/elation.

futile thoughts graze my mind,
like bees.
incessant humming,
sometimes stings; delicate.

"i watch the patchwork farms,
slow fade into the ocean's arms..."

back to the atlantic, for days,
two weeks, 'til april.

i don't know anymore.

i have all this will and no
conceivable outlet.
just thoughts, some ink,
pressed trees with printed lines.
endless lines.

sometimes it feels like i'm living
within my subconscious;
some sort of backwards dreamworld.
that none of my life exists,
and i'm living between the lines of reality.
somehow i escaped the path
of waking life and, instead,
am manifesting my experiences
and doubts and fleeting moments
through someone else's body,
with my own eyes.

i've been thinking of titles for the potential,
hypothetical book(s?) i may or may not
ever have the patience to write.
i need to follow things through, eventually.
being directionless and feeling crazy
all the time is becoming tedious.
i want some sort of written account
of my life, so there is tangibility
to my experiences.
ludicity.
so i don't feel the overwhelming
distortion that has become my mind
forever.

i want people to hear my words
reflected back at them in their own voices.
i want them to know they're not alone
in their obscurity.
that obscurity has its own place
among the chaos of this society.
i want to prove everyone that's pushed me,
right.
mostly, i want to prove myself wrong.

i want people to know me, disagree with me,
fall in love with me, feel each word.
i want to affect thought processes.
at the very least, i want create thoughts.

what the fuck am i so afraid of.

113p (cst) / 213p (est)

we're above the clouds now;
they look like snow and the sky is bright blue,
fade to dark, fade to black.
this "world" is so infinite.
the sky looks seperated -
that horizon thing that i'm so obsessed with.
it's more beautiful at night,
but still fucking incredible in daylight.
i want to put laura veirs or gina young on,
but, as if my thoughts weren't enough,
i'm reading sawyer's texts from three weeks ago.
i'll cry.

i started crying in the car, like a fool.
i always end up caring too much.
and then going.

timing really is everything.

my handwriting changes a lot,
it freaks me out.
i want ideas for some kind of short story
to send to anywhere.
i should just take from my own life.
i wonder how many people i'll hurt
if i ever get published.

i want to feel myself for once.

10 january 2008. 513pm cst. austin, texas.

2008-03-21T02:24:00.003-06:00

i'm probably ruining my body
with this diet of cigarettes, coffee and longing.
my eyes burn from the month old
makeup caked onto my lashes
and the incessant stream of smoke
that finds its way into my face.

i sit in starbuck's daily,
with a pen and my observance.

a woman picked up my scrap of paper today.
i wonder if her mind danced around my question...

"who designed beauty?"

if she discussed with with her
husband/boyfriend/gay...
i wonder if she'll ask herself
that question tonight, before bed,
brushing her teeth in the mirror...
or next week, getting ready for work.
maybe she'll recall it the next time
she sees an add for guess or vodka.
the next time she sees a celebrity
torn apart in the tabloids,
the next time she's in victoria's secret.

or maybe, she put it out of her mind
as quickly as it came in.
we are sometimes so afraid to face
ourselves.
as a culture or as an individual.

i've watched hordes of preteen girls sway
their narrow, 70$ jean-clad hips through this shop all day.
abercrombie pants, hollister tee shirt,
5.00$ frappucino, ugg boots, french tips.
1996 birthday, no period, baby bras. double a.

i feel so sorry for these girls.
the moulds that have been poured for them -
by the media, their peers, the constant barrage
of "grow up fast!" messages, hannah montana -
are getting increasingly harder to break from.
so hard that they may never acknowledge
the existence of their cramped boxes.
they don't even realise they're suffocating,
so there's no other known option.

there were two girls doing their homework
at the table next to mine,
as i sat reading "bitch" and occasionally
scribbling notes to myself in my book.
at around 545, one of the girls packed her things
to go.
the other - a tall, lithe, dark-haired girl
with glasses like my own -
stayed.
she'd been staring at me and my reading material
for most of the time,
when she wasn't happily yelling into her cell phone
or laughing with her friend over some
middle school inside joke.
i caught her eye more than once
while i was outside, ruining my lungs.
she finally got up and sort of hovered
around my table for what seemed like minutes.

i'm always hyper aware of someone's presence
when it gets that close.

i looked up at her and smiled.
i can be inviting when i choose to be.
which is often. i'm nice.
she asked what the magazine was.
i guess the word "bitch" in neon green is eyecatching.
i told her it was about feminism.

"what's that?"

my heart sunk a little.
she's old enough to know,
it's just that no one's ever exposed her to such a concept.
i tried to come up with a concise definition.
told her that it's about women,
our place in society, our experiences.
our differences, uniqueness, similarities.
i told her she should look into it,
since she's a girl and it's important
for girls to know what the deal is.

she stared at me for a minute.
sort of blank, sort of processing.

"my mom would never let me read something
with a bad word."

i told her that if she could get on the internet,
she should. and look it up.

she said okay and went back
to her table, with her sixth grade math homework
and her hot pink messenger bag,
emblazoned with nautical stars and the words
"ROCK STAR!"
written in rhinestones.

i wish i wasn't losing hope for girls
after my generation.

there are times when i think of myself
as existing within the context of this society,
as a whole.

usually, i do not.

i don't consider myself to be "on the fringe,"
because i know i'm not.
but, i tend to surround myself with like-minds,
share ideas with like-minds
and take small steps in swaying strangers
to like-minded concepts.

of course, i'm open to anything
that anyone else has to say, and i never
impede on others' beliefs,
unless they're blatantly harmful to others.

my mind doesn't exist
in the cultural faux-pas
that is deemed "normal."

i fuck girls, help strangers and
leave pieces of my thoughts in public bathrooms,
soaking up water behind the sink.
i involve myself with so much
that wouldn't be considered "normal,"
yet, i still participate in societal intakes
like starbuck's, make-up and ipods.
and catch myself in plate glass windows,
thinking how imperfect i am.

i think it's hard to escape completely
the generalities that create our society.
does that make me a bad person?
a weak one, perhaps.
maybe just wholly confused.
conscious, but confused.

feminism is such an interestingly
diverse and paradoxical idea.
there is the definition of what a
"feminist" is, as understood
by feminists.
(female/male)
the definition, as understood
by non-feminists.
(female/male)
and smaller, more intricate definitions
within both categories.
(humans)

within both categories,
what it comes down to, is that
even self-proclaimed feminists,
who are fighting with the feminist movement,
alongside other feminists,
don't agree on any concrete definitions
of their own label.
not to say that a general idea of
what constitutes "feminism"
is unknown, it is.

it's just that, as with all human constructs,
there are and always will be shifting concepts
and generally accepted, but malleable,
"truths."

it's tedious how thoroughly
we attempt to define ourselves with
preconceived titles.
instead of simply creating connections
with people of similar minds
and existing at times within
and at times outside of those connections,
we make our boxes,
hang our "no ______ allowed" signs
at the entrance to our hearts
and shield our eyes
to dim our consciousness.

not all of "us"
(read: "humankind") -
just a seemingly vast majority.

and the feminist/queerfem cultures
are no different.
as much as we'd like to tell ourselves we are.
and have everyone believe we are.
whatever lets you sleep, right?

we judge each other
and are subject to judgement.
maybe less, but it's still there.

why?

there are still (sub-)cultural impositions
and standards of what is "right"
and what is "wrong."
there is still things left unspoken
for fear of backlash/reaction.

why?

we're all working towards a common goal;
the second you decide you are
a feminist and wear it like a sign on your back,
you are on board for all that title entails.
however, you step out of place -
you admit your eating disorder,
you homeschool your kids,
(thus, releasing you from the workforce)
you work for a man of power -
and you are thrown by your own kind,
onto your own.
or at the very least, given shit.
for your decisions. as a woman.

although, as with anything,
ideas formed in the synapses
of the human brain are intrinsically bias.
perhaps, it stems from that.

we all want our own eyes
to be the ones that everyone
sees through.

8 january 2008. 1am/1237pm cst. austin, texas.

2008-03-21T02:23:00.001-06:00

i remember you best
in your lackadaisical hypocrisy
with your nails digging so many crescents
into my palm, thigh, spine.
and your eyes spinning
clouds beneath my feet...
___________________________________
this is how memory works:
sauntering through the maze of your hair,
the dips and angles of yours hips,
the valley formed between your lips,
as you slipped your teeth
against mine.

"call me ambivalent, but it's more like
fiending."

this is how history works:
you mark your recent past with
an arm around her waist,
fingers running circles in her hair,
my eyes caught in the balance.

this cryptic, digital longshot is replaced
by touch and soundwaves that cross rooms,
not miles.
they shatter on their way to your ears.
i speak in dead languages,
touch your skin in morse code.

electric currents fight their way
through my skin;
mine or yours - i'm never sure.
whose body produces this power
is yet to be discovered.
probably mine.
always mine.

i feel it as your eyes bore holes in my skull
and watch as my thoughts seep through
the blue, iris-sized holes.
i feel it when you sleep three feet from me.
i feel it while your hand
lazily grips the steering wheel /
cigarette / doorknob.
i feel it in your smile.
and the rarity that is your/my
fingers touching my/your
arm/leg/back/mind.

i need a cigarette.
this smoke in my lungs burns
long after i practice my flick.
maybe oxygen is becoming toxic
within my cells and veins.
air is turning to water
and i'm drowning from the inside
out.

small, cold hands. big, gaping heart.
intense, sunrise eyes.
all open.
closed mouth.

my lips allow themselves to search you
in the dark.
i'm considering a "missing persons" report,
because you don't turn up.
no matter what slight light source
or brimming intuition i use.
so good, so far.

i value fleeting closeness far more
than necessary.
/healthy.
healthy necessity.

i stare too much through hazy eyes.
smoke and coffee, my frantic escapes.

"clarity" is not the right word,
but it's the first that comes to mind.

8 january 2008. 1014am cst. austin, texas.

2008-03-21T02:23:00.000-06:00

i think i found some sort of v(o)ice. i like it.

her mumbled "hey, what's up?"
made my chest want to cave in.
it's already like seeing a ghost.

i spent most of the day writing jumbled
masses of thoughts at starbuck's.
and people-watching. always observing.

"god, it's such a good feeling to be the center of someones truth.
you know, that place where the two of you are talking,
nothing or nobody else exists,
and you both know all your secrets,
the truths to so many things that other people only know lies to.

maybe thats why people are attracted to/don't leave liars.
because even if they're lying to you,
you still feel comforted because you let yourself,
just for a moment,
believe that you know what nobody else does.
because that uniqueness is supposed to be...special."
-aisha banse.

i think we all have this clever fascination with truth.
the meaning behind tones and gestures and words.
thoughts, actions, inaction, breaks.
i think it thrills us to search for what we inherently
already know.
i think it thrills us to come to a conclusion,
a closure.
a solid, binding idea.
i think so many of those truths we seek,
are never, ever what the seem.

we tell each other so many unspoken lies,
through clenched teeth.
backs turned.

8 january 2008. 114am cst. austin, texas.

2008-03-21T02:22:00.000-06:00

i remember our last night together,
i, alone, the floor embracing my bones,
you, together, your heavy breathing,
a thin wall and folding doors,
away from my ears.

i remember our last night together,
your whispered "lay with me,"
the only comfort i'd felt in days.

maybe not last, i am here for another eight days.
maybe last, i feel the sparks have singed us,
too badly/well.
well-badly.

i look for speed,
in beating, reckless rhythms.

i look for hearts,
behind closed doors.

i search every possible crevice
for a key or malleable metal to open them.

i come up blank.

"sometimes, not being able
to touch
is as intersting as
being able
to touch."
-andy goldsworthy.

it's not, really.
it makes everything more drawn out,
yet, more fleeting.

i am not looking forward to
the silence at the end of this longing.
or to putting a period at the end of that silence.

i should stop rushing ties at people,
and just let my chest rest for once,
without heaving, ripping,
or weaving beads of hope into my veins.

so far, so good.
so good, so far.

why is this the only train of thought
that i possess.

i'd like to think that i'm adjustable,
adaptable.
all i am is easy.
easy to bend, mould, tear.
take, keep, breathe, know,
burn.

my arms behind my head -
and my heart in your mouth,
along with my lips and fingers.
keep them there,
i don't need them anymore.

until i do.

what's next?
that constant fucking mantra
spins through my head
like some sort of twisted take
on stability.

what's next?
i always ask myself.
what will tomorrow be?
what will the next fourteen minutes bring?
what will you be thinking after this?

will you be thinking?
will you be feeling me be(in)side you,
after i'm gone?
long gone? short gone?
what am i/will you be missing?
me.

you're two feet/six inches/one mile away,
and ruining my life.
with your head on your couchpillow /
hand on the keyboard /
eyes gazing through paint fumes.
you're existing within your realm of
simple existence.
and it's slowly shattering my mind.

the intensity i brought has dulled.
flames flicker. they go out.
only grey smoke/black wick is left.

disillusionment dissolves.

remember the time you said you were so full,
you felt your chest was about to explode?
oh - hi - oh. an.
dallas.
so good, so far.

you barely give me a second glance at this point.

words are like violence,
split second thought and messy consequences.
yellow tape, flashing lights.
high-pitched.

and then, case closed.

i am so tired of closing cases.

7 january 2008. 831pm cst. austin, texas.

2008-03-21T02:21:00.000-06:00

i'm better at being an intangible entity,
rather than actually existing...
within the context of a real interaction.
i can pull people in with words,
not actions.

i can speak through timezones and
radio waves,
but face to face i lose it.

it's really, really fucking lame.

maybe i create these situations
for myself.
maybe i'm drawn to chaos
because of my obsession
with ordering it and
saving
everyone.

there are perfect moments,
words with meaning,
real understanding.

(see: your hands on my neck in a crowded, drunken room.)
(see: you lips on my lips in a stolen, poorly lit stairwell.)

then, inevitably,
there is fracture.

(see: me, alone, while you fuck her in your bed.)
(see: your hesitance to even touch me.)

i don't know what to do.

everything in my life feels stolen.
first it was words, then glances,
then kisses and your hands on
the small of my back.

now, it's an apartment,
a couch, a cat, some laughter.
still glances, no lips.

i touch your hair sometimes.
there's electricity though my fingers,
when you let me.

it's getting continually harder
to hide my stumbling falters.

i never end up good enough.

words fall out of
place
and end up strewn along
the edges of this unswept
carpet.

my mind collects them,
stores them.
they seep.

my last misguided arrow -
has finally landed.
and it is so, so far off mark.
bulls/hit.

i find that i cannot turn my mind off,
and am left physically exhausted,
without even opening my mouth.

6 january 2008. 719pm cst. austin, texas.

2008-03-21T02:19:00.000-06:00

i subsist of food that i cannot afford,
within a stolen apartment,
in a state i know nothing about.

this is my life.

i really wanted to kiss her,
when she came back from dallas.

i still do.

i sort of always do.

it's dumb.
but, maybe not.
but, mostly yes.
maybe just right now.

i feel like i'm running out of time.

i never know what to do with myself.
i just feel like i'm drifting and doing the wrong
things at the wrong times.
or maybe the right things at all the wrong times.

nothing feels right anymore.
that tends to happen.

everything feels right for a few days,
and then i lose everything.
again.
more.

you are the perfect catalyst,
in this fucked up fairytale of flight.

i've lately been feeling like breaking down,
constantly.
but i don't, for whatever reason.
i'm not quite sure what that reason is,
because any reasonable person
(reasonable is a flighty word)
would be rambling and sobbing and
careening off the road or path or whatever
it is we travel along in life.

i think that people just say things to me sometimes.
half-heartedly or whole-heartedly,
nothing ever comes of what i've been told.
create all these plans and promises
with no intention behind them.

i'm so, so sick of that.

i feel like i have a chance,
and then any and all of those chances
are slowly dragged
and/or/and/or/or
quickly shoved away from me.

there was two,
and three,
then two.
now one.

singularity is a difficult concept,
especially after such seemingly strong
connections.
although, if you think about it,
connections are just ties -
and ties can be tenuous.

i think human connection is
so multi-faceted and there's so many
options available to
strengthen them or weaken them
and it all depends on -
month / day / week /
name / date / time /
hours / minutes / state of // mind.

it scares me.

tick. tick.
i am so over the bullshit.
boom.

i don't know what else to write right now,
i feel like crying.

laura veirs is that feeling of infinte.

the nightwind whips smoke and words from my mouth.
i am not okay.

18 november 2007 quatre

2008-03-21T02:18:00.003-06:00

i don't want your money,
your sympathy, lenity
char ity.
your change ain't right
for me.
the only change i want to see
is your mind
as you size me up,
look me down;
cast your eyes over
my stride and expect
my knees open mouth
bowed head
in return -
i won't shun myself
for you and i will
make do
with what i've got.
cuz creation is my strong point,
and "what i've got" turns into
what i had -
my future tense is yet
unseen.
i accept my indecisive,
hard to grasp, analytical
lyrical stance.
this life is all i've got;
a continuous, flowing
paradox of breath and beats.
this mind is all i have
to give
and completion comes from
within,
so don't give me your pity,
stupidity, take-me or
leave-me -
leave-me,
cuz i will not bend
for you.

© tas.

18 november 2007 trois

2008-03-21T02:17:00.001-06:00

i have seen us happen -
grow, expand, contract
and dance
like wildfire through parched
earth.

i have seen us happen -
undefinable, exemplary
and lost...
no stars to guide us now,
no compass to consult.

i have seen us happen -
blossom from patient, complacent beings
to creatures of aggressive,
ticking time-bomb minds
and hearts.

i have seen us happen -
walking, running, flying
through sky, like weightless
petals, touching the tips of souls
and quickly drawing back,
returning into ourselves
to meddle within our own thoughts,
to pacify our own shadow.

i have seen us happen -
climbing, leaping from boxes
that no longer contain us, cradle us.
padded and comfortable
now feels constricting, unbearable.
lifeless.

i have seen us.
those who refuse rendering.

© tas.

18 november 2007 deux

2008-03-21T02:16:00.001-06:00

i think, by now,
i can safely say that
i have survived long enough
and hard enough
to know that.
i own.
myself.
these bones and wild eyes
and small hands
and big heart -
they're mine.
i may share them
with strangers, friends...
you -
in passing.
the morning after -
they are still my own.
to curse and feel and know
it is me who i reckon with.
only me.

© tas.

18 november 2007 une

2008-03-21T01:53:00.005-06:00

i want words that speak
a revolution
and hearts that beat
in time with
waves.
the normalcy, necessity
of head-up, feet first
revelations and dreams
don't interest me -
i look to reality
for my affirmations, actions
reactions, conclusions...
your comings and goings
leave me stranded
within myself
on this island of
dark melancholy, black ink.
birds flock here, my heart
grows wings, feathers,
tiny clawed feet.
grasping for your electricity
with unprecedented longing,
they wander and waver
through days and skies of emptiness.
they soar with the height of stars,
invisible and translucent
in the brightness,
waiting...
they call to me,
whispering, shrieking
words of revolution.
this is
awakening.

© tas.

7 november 2007

2008-03-21T01:44:00.001-06:00

i wish i didn't care so much about people that've left me.
i still want to feel part of their lives,
even though i know i'm not.
and honestly would not WANT to be,
because i do not agree with or
appreciate the people they've allowed themselves to become.

i am not high and mighty, we all have flaws.
but when there are 180 degree personality shifts
and the person changes so drastically,
i realise that the friendship/relationship/connection
cannot work anymore.

it happens to everyone at some point in life.

karma and eventuality are fast runners,

it just depends on how much of a head start you've had.

6 october 2006.

2008-03-21T01:42:00.001-06:00

we are headed
for silent silent streets,
where unmarked soles
have tread
and soulless machines
have carried bustling strangers;
white coat, blue hat - faceless.
we are headed for redemption -
sovereignty, necessity,
open books and palms that
clasp at dirty clouds.
shifting towards rain,
incessant and pounding,
we create models of
porcelain with our fingers
and hold the fragile image -
a still frame of life in
translucent colour.
vibrancy, here, is replaced with
mute, breathless lips and shaking hands
that hold wordless cue cards;
what next?
as the porcelain falters, sways -
slips.
fractured on silent streets.
no truth is ever proven.