look closely, be cautious

The Lacklustre Prince Dulling

2011-01-30T13:01:00.000-08:00

Grazing through a field of family forgot
his mummy fed him scorn and pride
and left him there to rot

Without a kingdom to begot,
a throne of self-entitled shame,
and no one but his Lady Fortune
oh, Miss Fortune was her name

Locked away up in his tower
refusing to come down
he was safe within his head
and well guarded by his crown

Prince Dulling, on his hands and knees
ate shillings from the floor
by which, he swore his people would
adore their new king even more

For if he jingled as he walked
and clanked around the hips
they might not hear those silly words
that stumbled from his pretty lips

They called him mad, though he was sure
his frugal practice made him wiser
for when he needed legal aid
he'd be both bank and his advisor

A Face Like Yehuda's

2011-01-28T21:32:00.000-08:00

It really is something to see a face like Yehuda's, whose appeal, like so many of his kind, reaches beyond the realm of physical attraction. For the soul of a face like this is special, in that it is ever-expanding, boiling up and out of the eyes, and becoming something like a great fountain of youth.

This particular face is said to want, more so than any other, and carries with it an enormous thirst for life. It has that twinkle you'll see in the eye of every odd stranger out; one that locks you in a lengthy gaze, during which, you find yourself wandering the void of human perplexity. There is a grace that moves beneath the skin of this face like a current, an ease with which, these strangers approach life.

I remember him smiling at me knowingly, "Don't pretend it doesn't matter to you. Of all professions, a designer should understand the importance of practicing aesthetics."

A pretty face is the perfect packaging to the product we all crave: the soul. In fact, the face is merely an interface, with which we interact to experience the being behind it. This other worldly energy we all are so drawn to though, cannot be attributed solely to one's bone structure.

It is a presence that they carry, or that follows them. Essentially, it is a spirit, magnified almost, and growing like a black hole, consuming what it can until it cannot.

This is a face like Yehuda's.

2010-11-18T20:56:00.000-08:00

the worst of us is truest

our shortcomings propel us

the loathsome find the love they don't deserve

and the innocent die first

this world is on its head, but I don't mind

can you find the filling?

2010-09-26T18:42:00.000-07:00

by nature, words are evanescent

intangible and fleeting

so I sometimes ponder the morality

of tethering them to a page

lately,

I've been trying to understand

my relationship with words

what it means to write them down

from a to b, my mind to mouth

something in translation must be lost

I like to think it's

something divine

but if the best is missing

if these words have lost their meaning

are they not

like some empty Oreo,

futile?

I took a walk tonight

for the first time

without the intent

to alter my perception

the silence was unsettling

words were difficult enough

in theory, inside

let alone trying to

speak aloud

they attacked me

for not being around

for ignoring them

they swarmed my mind

and fought toward my tongue

they knew I had no smoke

to stop them now

though, with a cunning plan

I managed to

to cull the incessant savaging

I began to sing

I sang "I can sing this song so blue

that you will cry in spite of you. . ."

my mouth and mind occupied

by someone else's words

written to a sad,

someone else's rhythm

I was safe

from the stillness of night

with a mouthful of distraction

from sobriety

so I suppose I'll settle

for two chocolate halves

if I cannot find the filling

speak no evil

2010-08-09T18:45:00.001-07:00

It's been so long since I'd the urge to do it

I've forgotten where to go

when so suddenly these

weeks of silence overflow

But where are words to go?

(John Cleese): In the Box!

shut up John Cleese, I'm trying to be poetic.

Where does it all come from?

2010-05-10T19:14:00.000-07:00

I haven't been writing, only editing aging posts, with no intention of actually posting. I sometimes think there is a build, and then a crescendo, or beer-head, and everything spills over, and into this white box.

My thoughts come out in bursts, characterized by short spurts of clicks and pops of keys. My fingers swoop over lines and squiggles I've come to understand, like something I don't have a poetic analogy for. But still, I find it amusing. Between machine gun duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duhs, I'm thinking. Most times it isn't of what's next.

where I live, but not so literally

* * *

I stare off too often, at places far away, in the sky and ground that don't exist. I stare at people who aren't there, undressing or kneeling in prayer; people mumbling things I know that I can hear, but never remember. These words that spill from faces I don't know are like the ones in dreams; the text you strain to read, some unimaginable truth, which slips away before we take it with us to the surface, awake. It settles by the lids of our eyes, to meet us on another night in another dream, maybe. But still, I remember the beat.

your life is my pastime

I told you I don't finish stuff often

Sometimes I think that where I am, when my eyes are open, these kinds of words run backwards, or not at all. But still, a beat is a beat, by which we dance regardless of its direction. The words of books in dreams always mean more than what they seem, when what they seem are nothing in the light of day, awake; it is the feeling of certainty that satisfies the solar plexus, trickles up toward the tongue, vibrating in the teeth. You hear the pitter patter and the rat tat tatter, and you know you're in the presence of something, but you couldn't say exactly what.

* * *

I miss you more than you think

2010-04-20T16:21:00.000-07:00

So often I find myself wishing

you never became such a cunt

Because what you are now,

is harder to swallow

And I know that you're still human

because you walk and breathe, like me

But you try, with a bitch stick and some Prada glasses

to hide it

I know they're real,

the price tag says so

but you aren't anymore

And maybe it was I never really knew you

maybe we were never friends

Honestly, I can't remember anymore

but like so much of my past

you're nothing more than the bitter aftermath

of what, at some point tasted sweet

So now you understand

why I can't help but spit

a comment, or something

2010-04-09T01:46:00.000-07:00

this rant started as a comment

and became something more

more than thirty days of silence, anyway

so it found its way here instead

were it not for this schedule

concepts of time might be

entirely lost to me

for you see, even now

I've no idea what day it might be

well, is

it might be any of the seven

I suppose it some sort of training

for the inevitable

or just the gradual onset of

either way, I don't mind

forgetting yesterday

Were I to imagine my soul

to have hands of some sort,

and assuming those hands had fingers,

surely they would know

the texture of warm cynicism,

soft, then fluid

falling to my feet

I imagine it hard

and requiring something like heat,

an agent of cause,

to be melted and done away with

many a times, I've forgotten where I was

and have opened my eyes

to see where I am

you can never be lost, you know

though the world may lose you

for all that is, is you

and where it is, is you

what's sad is you can't help it

not run or tiptoe

past the peas and carrots

not hide behind the gravy

I'm sorry, but I've forgotten where I was

That said, whatever it may have been,

congratulations on your publication (:

I can think of no one more deserving, nor whose words

hold more relevance than yours

and I wish I could think of a more suitable word

than relevance

like frost

or spit

or candlelight and little soldiers on a screen,

marching side by side

like Mickey Mouse in black and white

oh dear,

I'm sure my measly twenty followers

have all heard of Hannah Miet

(I can't help but use her full name;

something like how you can't help but say

Morgan Freeman, and not just Morgan)

But for those of you who haven't, or who,

by some spin of Fortune's hypothetical wheel,

have found yourself here,

well, do yourself a favour..

where was I?

Zombies and Saints

2010-03-10T19:57:00.000-08:00

"C'mon people, we're going for the big one-oh this year! Gotta' get this on paper for January." You hear the wish wash of the printing-press, the buzz of people and the click clacking of fingers against keys, while ink dressed as poetry spits from the printer. "Let's go, people!"

The notion echoes against your insides, pounding at your heart and scratching at your eyes.

It's all you can do to curl into a ball and weep for those people. Wail for that line up of cardboard portraits. Portraits of a happier time.

Solemn faces tell you, "he looks so peaceful now". You say, yeah. You think, because he's dead. Dry hands caress your own and they tell you they don't know you. You, you know the five people to your left and the one who lays ahead of you, pale and motionless.

"Pale", he says, "like a canvas."

"You gotta' get it just right, you know. You gotta' make sure everybody's happy." He doesn't look up from his work. Brushing and smudging he says, "you never know what you're trying to paint." Applying Morning Peach, shade 19 with the tip of his pinky, he smiles, "you never know what you're trying to accomplish. Everybody, "he says, "everybody knew this guy in some way, not the same as the next. And everybody," he says, "everybody has to remember what they want to remember. It's got to be just right, you know." Now, he plucks and he plumps; the right hue for his canvas' Armani suit, just the right shade to match it's heroin addict-cheekbones.

"He's finally at peace," she says. "He can't suffer any more," she says. "It's no shock, really. It was only a matter of time." This woman, she dabs at her scaly eyes, careful not to smudge her Fire Red, shade 1 eyeshadow. Behind her tears, you can hear a shuffling. In the distance, a woman preparing a meal.

She moves from the fridge to her stovetop and back again, picking up and putting down. Moving things around, nothing ever goes into the pot. This woman, she opens a box and she takes. She moves about, chopping and hacking at things, nothing ever goes into the pot. Her fiery eyes darting to places she doesn't know, places she's never been. And she's judging, judging all the while. But nothing ever goes into that pot. The shuffling gets louder, coaxing you from the stove, through the door and down the hall. The room, a shadow-puppet theatre. It offers nothing but the silhouette of a sofa against the dim, open window, its curtains blowing. The shuffling is a man, painted fresh and blinking. His hands are gone, disappeared into the depths of what you can only assume is a bag. You hear the cling of metal against metal. This man, he leaves in a cloud of smoke, black and unrealistic.

Behind the smoke, his face, grimacing and evil. His face, it taunts her with it's memories. It was only a matter of time, she says. finally. The Bastard.

"You know that here at Arcor, we ship over 4 billion candies in just one week. Well, we do." You don't believe him with his new age hairstyle. You can't trust him in those fall Manolos for men. He sells you truths and words and you can't help but buy them. Because you can't keep him from speaking, and you don't fancy being deaf. "Did you know our largest consumer market is funeral homes? Yup, he says, that's a fact. And you can take that one to the bank," he wails. Above your eyes, you can see him slapping his knee and you think, you can't sell me two cliches at once. But now you're interested. Funeral homes, eh. You can't help your morbid obsession.

The patterns, they work together and it's all you can do to see faces of anger in the floor. You look up, avoiding the box ahead, always. You avoid your left, for all you see are tears; your right, when all you hear is smiling. Now you've found yourself in check. It isn't the tears or the reminiscing, it's never these things that tear you down. It's nothing has ever made you more nervous. Not timid nervous, not shaky nervous, but angry nervous; infuriated nervous. And all you see are scales and all you taste is ill intent.

This lady, she's hardly a lady. She throws a punch as strong as any other man; she never raises a fist, never lifts a finger. Her face is solid, motionless and calm. She doesn't see the box in front of her, but her eyes, they stare right at it. Her hands, crossed between her legs; her shoulders, slouched for comforts sake. She unwraps a candy and the wrapper, she puts it in her purse. Her purse, it's full of wrappers; wrappers with candy and wrappers without candy, it's endless with shiny gold and silver. The space is illuminated by spots. Circles of white, radiant with specks of bright red.

Behind her face, she thinks of sadder times and it's all she can do to retract, to tighten and contract. Behind her face, you smell the overwhelming sense of hygiene.

Everything is sterile while she waits, tapping her fingers and eyeing the circle of chairs, filled with asses. She nods her head and participates in the occasional happenings of casual conversation. A lady comes out in white, sporting a single, latex glove. She says, "he's calling your name." She says, "would you like to come and see him." Tapping her fingers, she looks from the nurse to the man beside her. Her eyes say I'm not coming in. Her lips, they tell him "I'm here for you." It's all she can do to be here. He's her husband and his brother is crazy, it can't be helped. She hates him, his brother, for all of this, for being related to her at all. She shouts, "he got everything he ever wanted". She swings, "they never gave a shit about you." She loved him, her punching bag. But she couldn't live with sadder times.

Behind her face, his voice taunts her, chanting her name monotonously. His eyes, obstructed by another image; an older, blonder image. And so she laughs with him, The Child.

"You know, if you ever watch zombie movies, you learn that only live people blink. It's the only thing that they do different. Besides the cannibalism," he says. You haven't seen him do much since you walked into the room. He seizures around and everything he sees, he touches. He fiddles and he utters things people never care to hear. He says, "ever since I was a kid, he says, I was always sort o' comfortable around dead folk. You know, they could get up and start running around, but I knew they'd never be able to catch me." You watch him nervously. Nervous nervous. You can't help but reach out to stop his shaking, still you refrain from touching the stranger. Every so often he'll receive a command, passing a scalpel or tube of lipstick.

Sitting there, waiting, like any moment he'll wake up. Waiting because you have to make sure he isn't coming back. You look at their faces and it's like he isn't already dead. Like they're still waiting, you say, for him to die. This waiting though, it's harder; harder than knowing he's dead. Off guard, you say, off guard is a good feeling.

"Some people," he says," some people will always see him smiling. They think back and they say, he was always happy, always smiling. Some people," he says, "they need to see a happy face or everything is wrong." He combs through a mat of black hair, still alive and growing. He slicks it back, hiding the scar. "You know," he nods, "if they knew him, thought he was a good man, they've got to see a happy face." He waves his hand, brandishing a small black brush. "It's like an art," he says. From head to toe and back, making preparations, smudging and brushing he says, "but some people, some people don't want to see him happy." He says, "some people, well, it's all they can do to live with sadder times."

You feel more alive sitting next to a dead man and it's all you can do to go for a walk. Making your way through crowds of green, their eyes hiss and scrape at your skin, more so than the scales on their cheeks. You decide to find a room with less truth. Here, you bask in the silence; a different kind of silence. Not that which weeps or muddies the soul, nor behind which, you can hear the sharpening of spears. This silence, it says hush. It says sleep and wake up at a better time. And it's all you can do to never wake up.

This little girl, she sits there, solemn. She weeps when her mother weeps and laughs when her mother laughs; when it's okay to laugh. She can't help but hide her hands, stuffed between her legs. She can't help but smile at her memories but it's all she can do to hate this house, to hate that little box in front of her. She never did know its content. Never danced its first dance, never hid her life from him. Never, because she didn't have to. Never, because he wasn't there. She doesn't know how to feel. She doesn't know, so she asks her mother.

Beneath her confusion, the jingle of a happy holiday.

The steady hum of excitement dances through the house, down the halls and round your ears. So loud, you can't hear the dog barking. Hiding the window, a christmas tree shines bright with warning, lush with disappointment. Excitement, because he's coming; disappointment, because she knows he never will. You can see his face behind her eyes, pale, his eyes blinking. She holds her mother and you hear barking. Behind his lies is him, cold on the sofa, spoons and needles dance around his head, like sugar plum fairies to a sweet dream. The bubble above his lazy eyes is clouded with green and teeth and she cries. She cries because she knows he never will.

Beneath her confusion, his face comes and goes, fading to nothing and bringing with it love and affection. Beneath her confusion, it's all she can do to love him, The Father.

Inside the house, you never know if he's home, blinking. You never know if he isn't. The bars on the windows and windows of doors, the ever-shifting locks, they clank when you look at them. As if to say, go; as if to say, we don't want you here. The silence is outlined by candles, each light glowing past the pious face of an evil man and up onto the ceiling. The looming faces of godly men, the favourites of angels and warriors of good, they don't blink. Instead, their eyes stay ever open, staring at your soul until it's all you can do to look away.

"Zombies, he says, zombies are just history; lasting memories of people." His eyes jerk frantically from left to right, scanning his surroundings. "And people," he says, "well people are just stories. And these stories and histories and memories, they all live forever. Every one of them, walking forever; dead, but alive." He fiddles with a brush, tossing it into the air nervously, catching it nervously. "Zombies, he says, stories that never die. And they never blink."

"We're all trying to die and live forever," he pulls on his cigar, squinting and sizing you up. "You either do something great, or you take a chunk out of granny." He mumbles a cloud of smoke. "We're all trying to make zombies of ourselves." Striking another match, he relights his fix. "Because it's easier to eat people," he says, "than to be a good person." He shouts, "overdose." Waving his hand, "no question about it." His badge is polished, the pinnacle of his career, the meaning of life. He pulls his coat behind his hips and you can see his firearm, more proud than his manhood. "Overdose," he says, "no question about it."

Sitting there with his arms folded, it's all you can do to paint a target on his face. He's thick, his eyes shallow. The corners of his mouth point toward his chin while his bottom lip reaches for his nose. His face, it says, I'm mourning, and it's all you can do to believe him. Every five minutes he sits up, he sits down. He shakes and he squeezes and every opportunity he gets, he wails. Every opportunity he gets, he embraces. He grabs hold as if to say, I'll never let go; as if to say, you're my brother now.

Behind his sorrow, the truth. Behind his sorrow, you hear the laughter of a young man.

First, it's all you can see is green, then red, then blue. First, it's all you can hear is the revving of an engine, then sirens, then laughter. Two bikes fly past you, loud and illegal and behind them two cars dressed in black sport sirens. The two boys fly, weightless and free and it's all they can do to buzz with laughter, with excitement and fear. Soon the sirens are loud, louder than anything. The boys separate, one riding free, the other dragging behind him a tail of blue and red. Laughing, he makes for the trees. Laughing, he makes for a cliff, waiting to swallow without chewing. Before anything, before his laughter, before the trees, before his tires hit the ground, he smiles. And it's all he can do to close his eyes, to open them and close them again. At the bottom of the drop, he meets his brother, grinning proudly at their victory. Together, the only sound is the revving of their engines.

Beneath the engines, his laughter echoes. Behind the red and blue, his smile is bright with happier times, and it's all you can do to smile back; The Brother.

His room, it's small and cluttered. His bed, a giant shelf, covered in crap. Pictures of innocence hang amongst pictures of corruption. On every surface, crap to cover it. Little cars and knickknacks and lighters. At the foot of his bed, as if to say find me, a small figure raises his holy hands in praise.

"It's easy," he says. "Like stealing from the elderly. All you gotta' do is grab. Grab and run." This man in his sponsored windbreaker, this man in his cowboy boots and muddied soul, it's all you can do to stare. The red and blue nylon, a sign that says you don't belong. And the whistle of his jacket, the fabric rubbing against itself, each one is a reminder of his presence. His presence, a reminder of sadder times. "The hard part is getting in," he says, "but once you're past that, it's pretty much smooth sailing." He rubs his nose and sniffs and it sounds of sadder times. Still, you can see his skin, smooth. You can hear the mourning in his voice. He says, "Brother. He prays, I came to see you."

Behind his rough exterior, a friend. Behind his boots and nylon jacket, a reason.

Like him, but blinking. Pale, his eyes scream for more, for a second chance, for me instead of him. Around his head, the same fairies, needles and spoons. Around his head, the same teeth and green. Beside him, an empty chair taunts him with his loss. He can't cry. He feels too good. He feels good because it's easier than tears, but he can't help the teeth and green, the needles and fairies. Good, because it's all he can do to feel, and good is easier than not.

Behind the teeth and needles, he blinks. Behind the nylon, red and blue, he loves; The Companion.

After everything, the dying and the crying, all you're left with are pockets full of funeral candy. Dozens of Butterscotch rocks and dark chocolate mints melting in your pants. Golden wrappers striped green shift and crinkle as you walk; faint reminders of what was. Now the days have turned to weeks, the crying to fond memories and your collection of sweets has thinned.

Walking down the isle, it's all you can do to look ahead, to avoid your left, your right. The crowd follows your hand, dressed in white. They weep for your eyes and your face, and it's all you can do to learn to pluck the strings. Because they never weep for your soul. You hear the harp whine and you know you've got them now. Your hand feels warm and full of life, resting on a grave. Here, the room is silent for the ending of a story. Here, a story sees the beginning of an end. Because he isn't a saint, and because he isn't a zombie, this is how a story dies. White robes and red sashes, gauntlets of gold, of body and blood, they spit your name. They tell you where you've been, who you are and where you'll go, and you spit back. Spit, because it's easy. Spit, because it's all you have.

Mr. Darcy, you make me blush

2010-02-09T18:08:00.001-08:00

You say that I am nothing, not more than a globule of particles, and that one day this grouping will dissipate, and I will fall apart to nothing

I fancy myself a moment, with eyes tight to better my sense of nothing, as a something without hands, or even the words with which I dance, a sort of something without anything, and I wonder where I might go as a thought alone

You say it is amusing, that should I ever lose myself, I would fret over where to go, and not something of more consequence. You say, anyway, that I will never be a thought alone

I smile, that you imagine me troubled, suppose me useless in the case of my being nothing, and take comfort in your protective nature, then consider what might be of more consequence to you than where, but do not inquire still. Instead, I ask if you would humor me, "Pray, tell me where I might go, should you ever be some sort of nothing, so that perhaps I may meet you there?"

You claim it unlikely, waving your open palm across the sky, with grace in place of evidence, that you will ever be a thought alone, "my where is never still, therefore an answer set in words is something very much impossible"

"It is better this way, " I manage to catch my own smile without your taking notice, "as an answer set in words entails far less labour than that in stone, " and content with my own wit, ask for a second time, so as to be sure your focus has not slipped, "where?"

This second inquiry brings to you such a wave of delight, as I suspect your intentions were to raise anticipation, and perhaps leave me curious as to your mysteries, that your face, your mouth so wide as to show every tooth, betrays the romance in your eyes.

When I return your smile, you take my hand,

"You are my where, and as I will always be, even as a sort of bodiless nothing, by your side, you will never be a thought alone"

bits and pieces

2010-02-01T10:36:00.001-08:00

i dreamt that the penguin had great aim

at a party on a boat of some sort

and we made friends, but they died

because the penguin had great aim

he threw ice like an angry pro

from a big, flashy board on the wall

like a game

and the targets sat in seats

like a game-show audience

i made sure we wouldn't get hit

but we passed the bar without getting drinks

too many times

at one point, we found our ways to the deck

and pudgy was there

but not roxy

i dreamt that izzie fell overboard

and the penguin got her back

because she belonged to him

she came in from the wild waters

with frosted fur

pudgy was fine

and roxy still wasn't there

i remember walking a staircase,

often or just once

with great weight in our stride

i remember getting home

to a different place

but it was just as comforting

the rest is blurry

walking the precipice

2010-01-26T09:13:00.000-08:00

It is healthy to suggest balance, no lean to one side. This is a rational approach to the exploration of the self; experiencing a middle ground, the best of both worlds.

On a more personal note, should you choose to lean, risk slipping, sliding down the teeter end of the totter, you will be made stronger. You will learn to bend your knees, keep your balance; spend days awake, nights awake, until you may walk the precipice.

And think, what a great new world it will be, to see it on it's side

approx. 6300 nights

2010-01-25T19:15:00.000-08:00

Remnants of what was, burning images and odors and sensations,

long forgotten amongst what is, and what might be

it's what we label memories, and justify as experience
Yes, tomorrow is a new day

but only if I fall asleep

if only the season could change such a thing

2010-01-19T07:08:00.000-08:00

the winter's dry, and dreary; she's cold and full of
death

but
somehow, when the summer dawns, I'll instantly forget
the mounds of snow, the body count, the anger in
these walls

because outside,
beneath the sun, I'll smile, and forget it all

running blind

2010-01-18T18:32:00.001-08:00

my words are lazy and unreliable, my eyes heavy

I can't trust my tongue

and even in the fog
these thoughts refuse to slow
running blindly, they collide

scratching and peeling

2010-01-06T22:08:00.000-08:00

we scratch at the surface

with words and tears and smiles

and wish it was so easy

as to cut deep into our gut

and watch in front of us, our soul

pool at our feet

we wish not to be alone

to have someone

to want to cut as well

this is the dream of lovers

and the catalyst of fighters

to have someone

who wants to cut you back

turn yourself, your insides out

2010-01-05T23:01:00.000-08:00

where we keep our monsters

and our monstrous thoughts

our pennies and

the truth about the war

a well from which

we never offer,

only ever drink the water

this is on the inside

but inside out am I

and so I watch these monsters walk

peace amongst the war

an eager crawl becomes a walk

2010-01-04T23:24:00.000-08:00

"From around the age of six, I had the habit of sketching from life. I became an artist, and from fifty on began producing works that won some reputation, but nothing I did before the age of seventy was worthy of attention. At seventy-three, I began to grasp the structures of birds and beasts, insects and fish, and of the way plants grow. If I go on trying, I will surely understand them still better by the time I am eighty-six, so that by ninety I will have penetrated to their essential nature. At one hundred, I may well have a positively divine understanding of them, while at one hundred and thirty, forty, or more I will have reached the stage where every dot and every stroke I paint will be alive" - Katsushika Hokusai

Now, I cannot give you anything of value

for life beyond this remains beyond me

so I cry, as I am no more than

a child playing with words

and crawl toward the years ahead

an eager crawl turns to a walk,

which soon becomes a run

and eventually I'm sprinting

now I ask you, what will happen

when I've left my breath behind

and I find that I would rather know of nothing

maybe in my head, maybe

2010-01-02T19:53:00.000-08:00

we'll meet under the mattress, you and i, not in love
you'll tell me that you need me, that i'm not supposed to be here
and i'll believe you, but only if you take me with you

we'll meet under the mattress, you and i

to draw plans of revolution, for another planet

not that here is lost, not a cause

just a place i'm not supposed to be

what i feel is like a butterfly in someone else's stomach like i've waited a whole lifetime, only longer, maybe two
and the worst part is, i don't know for what

i could see the way you look at me, in my head
like the way i'd look at you, if i'd ever seen your face
but it's nothing like love, the way i need you

you are nothing, not a man

though, perhaps you were, once

i could paint a picture, if i'd ever seen your face

we met once, not in person, in a dream i think

i was laying down, at least

i remember, you came in on a breath,

and right then, i could have lived forever

but you wouldn't let me say your name

sansvous

2009-12-29T13:37:00.000-08:00

we're only ever talking to ourselves, about ourselves

only ever comparing

when all we ever know is

what happens in front of us

what tragedy or love plays out

before our eyes,

or nose, or ears,

our tongue or teeth

the explosion looped

on my television screen

it wasn't fatal because I didn't die

but this is my screen,

I mean

these are my eyes,

what I witness must be mine

my name, my people, my life,

my favourite socks

all mine

the same way yours are yours

but I couldn't know that

how might we exist without each other

being alone, I mean

with no one to legitimize our tears

no one to say, he's crying, he's sad

I mean,

we're here, together the way we are

to prove that we're still here

still breathing

still existing

How might I survive

without you there to poke at my neck

to feel my pulse and tell me I'm still breathing

tell me I'm still crying, I'm still sad

alive

not a window to fog at your breath

not an echo to prove you made a sound,

or the radio to make you feel

like someone is still home

alive

I need someone, if anyone

to step back with me

I need someone, if anyone

to answer me

with why

with what will you do next

so that I might answer

I don't know

you tell me

I need someone, if anyone

to have a conversation with

If not someone,

then let me be alone

let me live without the need

to know that I'm still breathing

If not someone,

then let me trust that I'm still here

and that I can breathe without you

you've gotta' love it

2009-12-28T15:29:00.000-08:00

William Shatner

speaks

like poetry

he went digging

2009-12-27T00:18:00.000-08:00

we work through our barriers, not to move forward

but to continue inward

like some unstoppable force, we push

as deep as we can go

with pain, with joy,

with love and with hate

we tear apart whatever lies in the way

of the center of our universe

we grind our teeth against the infrastructure

of life, of self

to break away the pieces

to find out

what nothing looks like,

a dusty hardwood floor, swept clean

even so, what can be under these floorboards?

2009-12-21T01:03:00.001-08:00

I wanted to disorient myself,

without drugs, without alcohol

I wanted to wake up with no idea where I was,

I wanted that feeling

of being somewhere you aren't supposed to be,

somewhere, outside your comfort zone

a sudden shock to remind me I'm still breathing

a state of panic to give me something to fix

something to worry about,

get my hands all nice and dirty

and to forget that there is nothing

but still, I wanted to be comfortable,

still, I wanted to be safe

I wanted to cheat and lie about it

so I quit sleeping,

awake at all costs

and one night, I see him

so I know it's time,

because I see him

I walk downstairs

and sit in the shower

Here, I fall asleep

to wake up in the morning

and wonder where I am

autumn passes, and still, you're too afraid to jump

or fall, depending on how you see it

right now, I'm only waiting for the frost

To pass the time,

I make up a story, in my head

I make it up because I want the feeling

of following a sign

Because I want the feeling

of being taken,

being lead somewhere important,

to discover something important

and be a part of anything

so I quit breathing

until my eyes get heavy

more so with thought than with fatigue

and I wonder...

[I don't know it,

but my head is bruised

against the floor]

finally, I start to wander

to find myself a rabbit,

or a hare, if I can't find one

I can't be too picky

when I find him, I run

fast,

hard,

without

stopping

in his direction

until he runs from me, afraid

where he runs, this is where I go

to be lead somewhere important

to discover something important

so long as I believe my story

2009-12-20T09:40:00.000-08:00

Run your tongue in circles, to the ground and at the skies, for in the nonsense we reveal the most notorious of lies.

spit

2009-12-15T20:30:00.000-08:00

Alone, the monster sings for whoever wants to listen

spit

2009-12-15T20:26:00.001-08:00

Never hesitant to step on the spider, never thought once to ask for its name

spit

velvet

2009-11-23T18:19:00.000-08:00

People like him, they call them artist.

People like him, they call them genius;

they call them great.

But take it away.

Take away those perfect cheekbones.

Take away those pretty, blue eyes.

Maybe add a beard, maybe.

Now they call him crazy.

They call him homeless and dirty and awkward.

People, they see boxes. They see stocks and they see investments.

People like these people, they prefer the velvet of an empty box.

And even then, they refuse to feel.

birthed by halo, twisted by spit

2009-11-15T20:40:00.000-08:00

and he said, your heart, why is it so black

to which she responded, because, it matches my shoes

Mind to Mouth

Halo by spit

asleep beneath the earth

2009-11-13T07:15:00.000-08:00

The white noise swelling within his head,

his chest begins to shake

the pressure builds until it's all he can do to scream

in ecstasy, in terror

the voice, he can feel it, guttural and demon-like

immediately, his own hand grips his throat

and though he cannot speak, he longs to hear the words his lips will fight to say

this will not his own, he struggles to give it a name

a tremble in his chest, a long exhale and all is gone

silence

he knew it was here

he knew it had found him

finally

we all play our roles

2009-11-06T09:41:00.000-08:00

He is the curiosity and the satisfaction

that killed the cat and brought him back

only to reenact it

a clever name for a clever peace

2009-11-03T07:14:00.001-08:00

"You may now exchange . . . sign . . . peace . . ." his broken English trailed off into a nasally mumble. I look up from inspecting my cuticles to catch hundreds of seniors, heads jerking, eyes searching frantically for another hand to shake. Between the excitement and smiles the ancient fanatics couldn't seem to hold back, it felt like some sort of game; a game not even the oldest and wisest of us could resist. "Peace be with you," - handshake. The whispers began to swell and soon the entire church was crowded with false implication. But surely, just as soon as it began, it had slowed to a stop. The decorated room fell back into its silent contemplation, and the smiles on the faces of the people, the young and the old, faded with their words, already forgotten.

but you can't help but write it down

2009-11-02T17:02:00.000-08:00

you told me to watch my pompous

well, yours just ran away

scuff

2009-11-02T07:03:00.000-08:00

Straining himself to remember the days when he was free of scuff marks, when the walls were freshly primed and the flyleaf free of anonymous ramblings; when every page had been as he was, blank and unwritten. These were the days in which he could ponder without fear, for he could not speak. And it was the spoken word that would quickly become his downfall. Oh, how he bowed to it, so vigilant in his desire to please. Trapped, like a rat within a maze, he would grasp for years, never successful in his aims. Until, one day, he would secure his first; his efforts realised. For every unspoken wonderment, a new means of conveyance. Only he was wrong. There would be no flourishing, no spectaculars as he'd expected. For every question, and with them every answer will all have gone. Because after years of chasing his own tail, running in circles, striving to communicate, he'll have forgotten what it was like to be a canvas, untouched. But no matter, now a master of the art, he would apply his own colours. And paint he did, a true artist. The things he could do with them, the endless possibilities, all of which he found within the circles he'd created. And round and round he went, speaking nonsense the world had never known. How quickly he became fascinated with what had enslaved him so.