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please

2009-12-17T09:52:04Z

i want to lay with you; we'll spread across our infinite lifetimes together. i want to steal the heavens and blanket you beneath stars. i'll kiss the cosmos and bless each one, holy as every vibrating atom of your collective existence. i want to show you the universes we'll travel, when we are born to dreamscape over and over... lick the sand from your eyes when we wake. i would nourish you with the blood of my heart and the breath of my soul if you will have me. i want to learn the secret of your contented and smirking silence. i want this dull ache of servitude to subside. i want to feel whole again, unlike a severed limb. please... please stop elusively tormenting me. please... please, whisper to me... remind me again that i am not so foolishly chasing your ghost, your shadow. i need to feel your subtle presence reverberating inside me, humming beautiful melodies to my heart. please, please help me find you once again. please be there, give me a reason to breathe again.

anew

2009-12-05T08:26:21Z

word by word you peel me open, unstitching my sutures, and shining into the old wounds, a new life.

i want to follow the infinite trails of divinity through your hands and capture the scent of your neck. i can almost taste the sweetness of your open kiss, and i am mesmerized. i'm inspired to prose upon the small of your back; i bow to the sacred space between your eyes. let me worship upon your soft ears, a thousand gentle prints of my eager lips. they will step quietly around your nape, move swiftly across your shoulder, and find their way back around to your glowing heart.

i'm enslaved by this ideal; this heart has no eyes. it has crushed the cage of old hauntings and is ready to sing and bathe in the light of ecstatic fantasy.

a new woman

2009-12-03T21:01:40Z

Why one writes is a question I can easily answer, having so often asked it myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me—the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own like a climate, a country, an atmosphere where I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That I believe is reason of every work of art. We also write to heighten our awareness of life. We write to lure, enchant, and to console others. We write to serenade. We write to taste life twice, once in the moment and once in retrospection. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak to others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled or restricted or lonely. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it.

–Anaïs Nin, “A New Woman”

compensation

2009-11-15T08:59:57Z

for each ecstatic instant
we must an an anguish pay
in keen and quivering ratio
to the ecstasy.

for each beloved hour
sharp pittances of years,
bitter contested farthings
and coffers heaped with tears.
- emily dickinson -

there was an ever-growing void she filled with the hearts of men, but this creature has grown weary of the strangers scavenging her carcass. she has spent her life poaching these organs, prodding and dissecting to learn, to understand and to live ecstatically on the blissful cloud of rapture.

o eros, thou hast struck me with thy needled arrow!

as a little blood trickles out, the plunger catches, and thrusts euphoria in. her veins drink this poison deeply. "it's bliss," her cracked lips whisper, "the only way to live," she sighs. her heart is a factory stamping, pushing, pumping through her sternum, and her pupils are black holes, squealing back like car tires, screaming into her skull. she lays back and spreads her legs wide for death to spill out.

only way to live.

she smiles and greets each new guest to le boudoir de la petite mort with red lips and a hungry smile. she claws their backs, scratching for the precious gems caged within their ribs. she aches for their rhythm. she sings for liquid gold. and when she kicks them out, she burns a little corner of her beating heart with a long, steel brander, to cauterize the wound that re-opens with each affair.

and with this small pile of ashes, she learns to fill the void by eating the dust, tongue choking on the taste of what has become. with each bitter, sober swallow, she relives each rendezvous, each selfishly stolen heart, and bids her monster, this beautiful addiction, adieu.

destroy and create

2009-11-06T22:45:38Z

"when i look down into this fucked-out cunt of a whore i feel the whole world beneath me, a world tottering and crumbling, a world used up and polished like a leper's skull. if there were a man who dared to say all that he thought of this world there would not be left him a square foot of ground to stand on... if now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world... if any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, i think then the world would to smash, that it would be blown to smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the pieces, the atoms, the indestructible elements that have gone to make up the world.

in the four hundred years since the last devouring soul appeared, the last man to know the meaning of ecstasy, there has been a constant and steady decline of man in art, in thought, in action. the world is pooped out: there isn't a dry fart left. ...if anyone knew what it meant to read the riddle of that thing which today is called a "crack" or a "hole," if anyone had the least feeling of mystery about the phenomena which are labeled "obscene," this world would crack asunder. it is the obscene horror, the dry, fucked-out-aspect of things which makes this crazy civilization look like a crater. it is this great yawning gulf of nothingness which the creative spirits and mothers of the race carry between their legs. when a hungry, desperate spirit appears and makes the guinea pigs squeal it is because he knows where to put the live wire of sex, because he knows that beneath the hard carapace of indifference there is concealed the ugly gash, the wound that never heals. and he puts the live wire right between the legs; he hits below the belt, scorches the very gizzards. it is no use putting on rubber gloves; all that can be coolly and intellectually handled belongs to the carapace and a man who is intent on creation always dives beneath, to the open wound, to the festering obscene horror. he hitches his dynamo to the tenderest parts; if only blood and pus gush forth, it is something. the dry, fucked-out crater is obscene. more obscene than anything is inertia. if there is only a gaping wound left then it must gush forth though it produce nothing but toads and bats and homunculi."

- henry miller / tropic of cancer -

eyes down

2009-11-06T00:38:14Z

it kills me a little, each time a tear sheds its way loose for you, and i realize that i am a walking wound, waiting for my limbs to find me again. it was so long ago, and i worked good and hard to bury the thought of you, the scent of you, the mere idea of you. but you were always here, in me, reflecting back at me, testing me, teasing me. my muse, my heart, my passion.

what am i supposed to do now, with this rotten heart? where do i go now?

i'm on my knees, begging for this endless black hole to swallow me up or let me go. the indecision is wearing me down. please, please, please... just give me peace.

beast

2009-10-31T01:41:37Z

the tribe gathered around the conflagration that had suddenly ignited at the center of their camp. there, floating above the burning coals, was a gloriously immolating woman. her fingers wrapped gently around a staff of snakes, and her orange hair billowed in the roaring wind of flames. they had to shield their eyes from the star of fire, blazing in their midst, but slowly, each walked up to the woman, and, upon their weary little heads, she blessed them with tongues of fire.
they knelt before her, in the parched, cracked earth, their hands together in a ceremonious prayer, sweat gathering at their brow. she stepped down from her homemade pedestal, and opened each one by one, with the crack of lightning. the serpents uncoiled from her staff, and recoiled within each body, which now, lay spread flat upon the hot ground, relinquishing control to the state of being.

she looked up to the night sky, into the heaven full of stars, and called each one by name. and they, beckoning to her request, bowed their heads, and joined the holy fire, dancing within each new serpent'd being.

the tribes people, now rubbing sand from their eyes, slowly see the weight they've each been shouldering. they join body upon body and coil into one, sticky, breathing organism, orgasming and dampening the crusted soil below. hips meet tongue, meet tooth, meet blood and spirit, dripping into the porous, awakening land. they give home life, as they lose themselves inside the light.

near dawn, one by one, the bodies start to uncoil from the singular being, and they breathe heavily as the snakes within, unravel and leave their temples. they rejoin their master upon the long and unforgiving staff as she steps through the fire and beyond, leaving the tribes people weightlessly free from the burdens of becoming... leaving them with the freedom of being.

engulfed

2009-10-27T08:44:42Z

i tangle with my shadow, wrapped inside his skin, smoking sinful secrets into the ear of that voyeuristic eavesdropper. his eyes dance across my skin, and like fire, they trail blaze across my back, my arms, my legs, my hips, leaving scorch marks, showing where they've been. what have you seen here, lover? what have you conquered today? this secret keeper wants to ashen that burned map you twirl with your fingertips.

he breathes heavily and frenetically when he explores; he moves feverishly fast as if, at any moment he might be caught. my shadow engulfs me like a yawning predator upon its prey: he comes with full intention to hunt and devour. he covets a place inside me that he cannot reach with the foolish tools he's brought, but his persistence is naught for trying. wide and black-eyed, my shadow stretches angrily over me, all around and inside me, and penetrates me with a darkness that i already am. he grips me and together, we writhe away from light, and drown in a black ocean of disdained devotion to this singular, echoing moment.

black then white

2009-09-11T06:47:28Z

...
Feed my will to feel this moment urging me to cross the line.
Reaching out to embrace the random.
Reaching out to embrace whatever may come.

I embrace my desire to
feel the rhythm, to feel connected
enough to step aside and weep like a widow
to feel inspired, to fathom the power,
to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain,
to swing on the spiral
of our divinity and still be a human.

With my feet upon the ground I lose myself
between the sounds and open wide to suck it in,
I feel it move across my skin.
I'm reaching up and reaching out,
I'm reaching for the random or what ever will bewilder me.
And following our will and wind we may just go where no one's been.
We'll ride the spiral to the end and may just go where no one's been.

Spiral out. Keep going...

burn

2009-08-15T00:33:19Z

"like two mutes they moved through the dark forest, sometimes on soft moss upholstery, sometimes on hard root ribs. sometimes the sky shone like through sparse high treetops; at other times the darkness was complete. branches slapped his face; brambles held him back. everywhere she knew her way and found a passage; she seldom stopped, seldom hesitated. after a long time they arrived in a clearing of solitary pines that stood far apart. the pale night sky opened wide before them. the forest had come to an end; a meadow valley welcomed them with a sweet smell of hay. they waded through a small, soundless creek. out here in the open the silence was still greater than in the forest: no rustling bushes, no startled night beast, no crackling twigs.

lise stopped in front of a big haystack.

"we'll stay here," she said.

they sat down in the hay, taking deep breaths at first and enjoying the rest; they were both a little tired. they lay back, listening to the silence, feeling their foreheads dry and their faces gradually cool off. goldmund crouched, pleasantly tired. playfully he bent his knees and stretched them straight again, took deep breaths of the night air and the smell of hay, and thought neither backward nor forward. slowly he let himself be drawn and enticed by the scent and warmth of the woman beside him, replied here and there to her caressing hands and felt joy when she began to burn and pushed herself closer and closer to him. no, here neither words nor thoughts were needed. clearly he felt all that was important and beautiful, the youthful strength, the simple, healthy beauty of the female body, felt it grow warm, felt its desire; he also felt clearly that, this time, she wished to be loved differently from the first time, that she did not want to guide and teach him this time, but wanted to wait for his attack, for his greed. quietly he let the streams flow through him; happily he felt the boundless fire grow, felt it alive in both of them, turning their little lair into the vital, breathing center of all the quiet night.

he bent over lise's face and began to kiss her lips in the darkness. suddenly he saw her eyes and forehead shine with a gentle light. he looked in surprise, watched the glow grow brighter, more intense. then he knew and turned his head: the moon was rising over the edge of the long black stretch of forest. he watched the white gentle light miraculously inundate her forehead, her cheeks, slide over her round, limpid throat. softly, delighted, he said: "how beautiful you are!"

she smiled as though a present had been made her. he sat up; gently he pulled the gown off her shoulders, helped her out of it, peeled her until shoulders and breasts shone in the cool light of the moon. completely enraptured, he followed the delicate shadows with eyes and lips, looking and kissing; she held still as though under a spell, with eyes cast down and a solemn expression as though, even to her, her beauty was being discovered and revealed for the first time."

-narcissus and goldmund / hermann hesse

blossoms

2009-08-08T05:43:29Z

can we stay here forever? in this bed, i only have my words, and i kiss these gifts to you. this is my bread, and i will to nourish your heart as you nourish my soul. here, i could forever study the map of your skin, and find insight in the tides of your eyes. this toe tangoed foreplay only leads us to chant wisdom to the gratefully dying universe.

daylight trickles in through slotted curtains, and still we lay on our altar to worship the corporeal. what are these fingers, but my only mortal way to find you? and this mouth, my only mortal way to whisper these idlings to your dreamy ear?

we stay steadfast in our duvetted refugee, as kindred spirits soaring over a world of reveries. if i jump into the sea below, will you follow me? we can swim through the smiling cherry blossoms and winking stars. i promise to hold your hand, so you will always find me beside you, amidst the soft, pelting petals.

i am fated to the pull of this unspiraling divinity, let gravity take witness to my fall into ascension. body around body, we are exploding billion year old twin stars being reborn to the night sky.

here we lay, your head in my lap, atop this soporific transportation to god, blinking the wake into our misty eyes. i stroke your temples and draw out the blossoms entangled in your locks. i ask, can we stay here forever? and you respond with a quartet of cherry blossom kisses upon my humbled, parted lips.

jaws

2009-05-18T21:49:00Z

rolling eyes and creaking jawbones. sinking teeth and foaming spit. i hunger for the corner where your mind meets the ground. i want to hide in this space and taste a little flesh, drink a little blood. oil me up, i'm ready to ride this silvered wolf through the moonlit blanketed forest.

hips tilt back, then forward, cracking like a whip in thunder clouds. bright, so bright, flashing through trees and snapping branches underfoot. i finger and claw this armored back as we ignite into the night. i want to go deaf to the sound of the wind screaming by. my breath sticks to the back of my throat, and it coats in ecstasy.

bloodied tears and mud, streak, dry and flake on this war painted face. my pupils dilate wide full moon saucers, and i cry as we go deeper and deeper into the trees, ripping through the trail. nowhere to go but forth. noway to pace but in haste. we are aged by numbers, but wild at heart and we must keep galloping past the minutes, beating them toward the yawning, ever growing Shadow ahead.

spun

2009-05-16T05:28:46Z

response.
'it's funny- it's taken me several months of meditation and thought to come to this image. i've been working on carving my body into what it is today, and though it's been a long, physically and emotionally painful road, i still find shame in my figure. so the image is really a struggle with my self-image and the stillness in the acceptance i've found through my journey.

about a month ago, i actually thought to myself- "what has my body ever done to me to deserve such hatred?" and it just clicked- peace/acceptance amidst the darkness.

i am starting to accept and relish myself, the way i am... and seeing myself in different lights. but as biggie says, "everyday is a struggle."'

memories

2009-04-09T22:10:22Z

i try to take time, every once in awhile, to wander through the halls of these infinite shelves. they're deep and bright and the sun seeks comfort within the nooks and crannies between and within the jars that sit on these shelves. theres is no visible ceiling, just light, just warmth. the glass glistens and sparkles, the rows and rows glow golden, and the shelves exudes warmth and comfort. i'll meander down the aisles, feeling the jars, letting my fingertips dig in the spaces between them. maybe one day i'll find something other than dust on the wood.

eventually a certain jar will attract me. i lift it, careful to cradle the bottom and secure the top. then, i sit down on the cool concrete floor, and gingerly put the jar down with a small clink. what's in store for today?

the top screws off. this one smells moist inside. i close my eyes. i breathe in coconut and lime verbena. i can feel the bubbles prickling my skin as they pop under the weight of the pelting shower water. it's warm. summer. his hands graze my slick skin. fingers against my cheek, tracing my neck, over my shoulders, across my waist, and down, down, down. there's the heat of breath against my neck, and the sting of a wanton mouth. there is the sound of our storm drowning out melodies somewhere far, far away.

and i slip, slip, slip into the mist that fogs my eyes.

this was the summer of nothing. the summer of no inhibitions. the summer of endless time that undulated like the wind across the ocean. i spent it cognizant of my senses and the impact of my existence. every moment, in hindsite, is painfully lucent. i am human, yet a mere spec of existence in the stratosphere of life.

i still ache for the moments in these jars that i've shelved unlabeled. sometimes a song or a scent will bring me back here to dig through the archives. maybe this time i can find something new from the days of laying and dazing, in and out of reveries and lovers. i miss the growing pains from the days of Lost. i miss wandering and discovering, or rediscovering parts of myself.

i've grown into a contented state of being. a harmonious buzz, i tempt to fall to the wayside. there's always something new to learn, something new to feel, but some days, i just want to rest on these laurels and hug the jars close and relive the days when everything was virginous.

ssdd

2009-03-04T08:43:54Z

same shit, different day
but when you look at the little picture, it really isn't.
tomorrow is the only tomorrow in my life. at this moment, i will be twenty six years, two months, six days, nineteen hours, four minutes and thirty two seconds, thirty three seconds, thirty four seconds... old. it took me thirty three seconds to write that; thirty three seconds i'll never be in again. that half of a minute is a unique half minute in the history of my life. every second that ticks by, is one second more i've experienced, one second less to see, one second passed into a memory i'll probably never bother to relive or acknowledge. we mostly forget the half minutes, the eight hours, and forty days that breeze through our twenty, thirty, eighty years. the older we get, the faster time runs by. the years seem shorter, because they are shorter relative to the numbers of years you've piled up and up and up. when you are five, a year is one fifth of your lifetime and seems like the most important time of your life because so much happens in such vivid veracity that your mind might as well melt at the thought of trying to recall it all. it's new and thrilling, and you share every exciting event in generous detail with whomever will listen. when you are twenty six, it is only one twenty sixth of your life and you file most of it all under: unimportant. dinner is dinner and it doesn't matter who you saw or what you did because it didn't feel new and it probably wasn't. it really doesn't matter how the year went by as long as it went by without a hitch. memories are fuzzier, and more subjective, and your heart definitely doesn't palpitate at the idea of starting a new project unless you are going to be making some serious cash. the days run on into nights like a fragment of a sentence with no comma to breathe or think or be until you die and see that sweet period.

relief. a breath, finally.

but maybe, perhaps, perchance, you could... i could... live the little picture, bigger. tomorrow is the only tomorrow in my life. the meals i have, even if they're cooked in the same way with the same ingredients will be chemically different. i shall chew my food thoroughly and will remember to taste it before swallowing. my face will look different to me and to others because i will be twenty six years, two months, and seven days old. i will be grateful for the deepening lines in my cheeks that settle when i smile. i will have different thoughts and ways of thinking and will meditate on them. i will take my steps a little differently than i did today, than i did yesterday, than i did the day before that, and that, and that... tomorrow i resolve to see the same people differently and i will honor their presence in my life.

tomorrow, i resolve see my same self differently and be gracious for the years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds i have and have had and will have until i reach that

period.

the great dance of death

2009-01-15T18:27:33Z

"We fear death, we shudder at life's instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do."
narcissus and goldmund, hermann hesse

death

2008-10-14T04:39:06Z

everyday i live and breathe and walk this earth, is another day i brace myself for the day it will end. it is beautiful, sometimes.

i knew a kid who got hit by a car last year. he was skateboarding down the street. his friends took him to the hospital because he was hurt. the kind and educated doctor took care of him, and they released him. they gave him various pills to take to make his broken head feel better. he took them and went to sleep a dreamless sleep
but woke midnight to unexplainable pains and corporal confusion so his parents took him back to the ~~kind and educated~~ weary and much mistaken doctors to explain the pain and to set the corpse straight.

he went into a dreamless sleep there, and never woke up.

i started to wonder last night, as i feigned my own little death, what he was thinking in the last moments before mr. grim appeared. it's not the suddenness of his passing that made me lament my own ungrateful mortality; it was the thoughts that must have passed through his crackled mind that shake me. how frightened he must have been, to lose control of his body. a panic, in a flurry like a feather caught in the wind, he was suddenly released, to fall and expire.

just like that, like a cough or a hiccup... a staccato-ed whimper.

what will i think when i die? will it be sudden? will i know? will i be ready to step into the unknown? is it just blackness or is there something beyond the now?

it ultimately doesn't matter how much you believe, in whatever you believe in after you die; i believe you'll always die with a mix of excitement and utter fright. your beliefs just help you deal with dying, now.

but why bother with the beliefs of "what if" when what we do know is: we all die, someday, and all days, "someday" for someone is today?

so i greet each day knowing that death is waiting to turn my life into a shadowed memory. it makes me smile more. it makes me grateful for the person i am, and want to become. it makes me appreciate the small things that most people forget:

i am aware of my toes and the taste of my saliva... i feel healthy and breathing feels good... everything looks beautiful, smells beautiful, and really IS beautiful because

everything is part of my life and part of this infinite cycle of life and death. it's all ephemeral. that fact used to depress me, but now i let it all wash over and through me, baptizing me in its radiance before diving into oblivion. i am spiritually and evolutionarily pliable. it's too easy to get stuck and angry and upset if you don't let the things that are, just be.

someday i will bid adieu to the world, but before that happens i want to make sure to bow to the deities of my life. i want to acknowledge them, and thank them for making my life exactly how it is- from every stone i've tread upon to every flower that has nourished my body... from each grain and wave in the salty sea to the dry cold breath of a windy sky... the beings i've warred with, the ones i've loved and those i've seen in between... the animals that've clothed me, the trees that've sheltered me... the lost, the found, the artists and the entertainers... i love them all... i am grateful... for even you.

dust

2008-09-21T09:37:50Z

i'm shaking all over in cold sweat. i would tell you what time it was, but we threw away our clocks when we crashed ashore. from what i can tell, time either 1: doesn't exist, 2: is irrelevant, and or 3: is at a complete and utter standstill.
the urge to piss is overwhelming, but the dust is eating away at my intestines and i cannot bring myself to get up.
if i sweat enough, i'll forgo pissing.
it's dark- maybe it's 3am, maybe its 4am, maybe its the end of the world, i couldn't tell, but i can tell you this- i'm laying in a cave feeling like the last living sane soul.
my visions blurred. i think i passed out for a few minutes? or hours? or days?
there's a cannibalistic thumpa thumpa outside my cave, but it's too far to reach, kinda like tantalus.
or kinda like plato. or maybe i'm in atlantis. i've lost all conception of spatial elements. i think i'm looking up. or maybe i'm facing down? there are stars above, but below also glows.
there's a thumpa thumpa in my head and i think i want to sleep. i need to sleep, i think, but all i have are these kaleidoscope vibrations in my skull and these psychotic bedtime stories throwing their sandy dissonance at me.
there's a storm brewing outside. i hear the crackling of thunder and see the gods blowing bowel quaking dust up like a bocce tournament.
i can hear them screaming in their maniac ways with their mouths open to catch the fairy dust and the wandering rain. vagabonds, skeletons and gypsies, all of them dancing the storm in.
where ARE they? a hundred feet, a mile, a light year away?
i couldn't tell, but i can tell you this- they're storming a dance this way.
it's overwhelming, all of this. i'm shaking in cold sweat and i can't stop.
they want me in their madness. i can feel it engulfing me like fire and i'm shaking with increased terror.
i can see their fingertips tickling me from a hundred miles away, a day away, a lifetime away. they're reaching through past lives and afterlives to finger me, to taste my sticky mind.
i'm pulling my hair out by its white bulbous roots and howard hughes-ing my urges... shaking my head and convulsing, biting my frothy tongue and praying for the sun to prey the vampires that prey after me.
they're at my cave door with burning torches and raised fists and a white rabbit bursts into my cave and grabs my arm.
it all turns red and gold and before i know it, i'm storming the dance this day. my feet stomp the ground like god's hands on a stretched leather drum, beating life into the earth... can you hear my prayers for madness? our madness. our madness is one madness. my right hand is holding a raccoon tail, and the left is around an octopus tentacle and we are welcoming the storm, circling a bonfire and screeching in flamed tongues.
there's a burning thumpa thumpa in my heart, and the pain is increasingly more beautiful, and the kalidescopes are intensely encompassing. my psychotic bedtime stories hug me quickly in their warm sand as i embrace the last known grain of sanity and kiss it goodbye.

asanas

2008-09-12T17:45:14Z

last night, mid-vinyasa, debussy poured through the speakers and i thought, how appropriate...
to finally bid you adieu, quiet my mind... stretch my soul...
goodbye, goodbye.

mid-pranamasana, i could feel my heart beat against my hands... and oh, how i felt alive.

myths

2008-07-27T00:32:21Z

"when i behold upon the night's star'd face, huge cloudy symbols of high romance, and fear that i may never live to trace their shadows with the magic hand of chance..."

we used to live in the most beautiful world of words, an entrapment between a to z, a constant reverberation of dreams
dreams
dream.

i still see you peeking through the "k" and "e" in the word "keys," of the simple poetry i read, reminding me to never forget you and us and the romance we lived in without a mundane or mediocre distraction.

i want to throw my book against the wall in utter frustration. i cry at every turned page, and spit fire because i can never swallow words the way i used to; i cannot love these words without loving you and it just reopens old scars. i spill blood with every chapter because this is how much i love to read.

you and i were never meant for this world. at times, i wish i could cast this body aside to be engulfed by the sun again. to feel the flames lick my face and warm my body. the visceral passion. but o icarus, we never really had wings and were torn from the wind to drown in the tide.

kundalini

2008-07-17T17:01:57Z

in her, like every.body, lies an animal. dormant, sleeping, panting gently through dreams of waking life.

she rises at the gentle nudge of nostalgia.
    she rises at the memories of
      the touch of his fingertips over her hips like rivers on sleepy hills
      the sound of her violin sobbing into her ear and weeping through her eyes
      the vision of a sun rising in her amber pyre eyes and
        setting in the depths of her pelagic heart.

today and forever, she seals her fate to the feeling of that earth shaking burning, and keeps sleeping soundly through waking life. she turns her head to and fro to have the fog dance around her ears and play in the shadows of her long, dark hair. shes mummified her fingertips, stuffed cotton in her throat, and bid adieu to the dangers of the carnal.

but on solemn nights like these when strings beat through her veins and flames sear through her eyes, she waltzes on an open floor under the stars with her ghost partner. the wind sweeps her across the infinite, slick wooden floors. they creek and sing beneath the click of her heels. she spins and the tail of her dress billows around her ghost and she laughs.
    she laughs.
      she laughs.

latex_core @ 2008-05-30T11:40:00

2008-05-30T18:43:06Z

“The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes. If you foolishly ignore beauty, you will soon find yourself without it. Your life will be impoverished. But if you invest in beauty, it will remain with you all the days of your life.”
f.l.wright

nesting

2008-05-02T00:51:06Z

i've had this itch, this familial itch, this need to be settled down and out of the whole world of scene and dirty bars and loud music and random scantily clad women and men. i'll leave behind the random nights in the desert with escaped breaths of lust and fire. i want the sound of these heavy feathers clipped and threaded. i want daylight and sunshine, and the feeling of rhythm in my chest. i want a home with a manicured lawn and a pristine pool. i want to enjoy vacations in a world that caters to sock-sandaled, camera toting, fanny-packed tourists.

i find myself spending more time with families. i find myself sauntering in the land of imagination. in their homes, i relish the smell of comfort... the feeling of footprints in well worn floors... the history and the future whispered into peeling wall paint. i find myself collecting objects in a desperate attempt to infuse this comfort into my home. many plants have suffered my wrath. i match my silverware to my corningware, and buy wine glasses despite my intolerance to alcohol. i keep books and recipes and think of things to serve at a dinner party, or at sunday supper. but still, it's just a collection: piles and piles of stuff collecting dust and surrounding me. mountains of things collapsing in on themselves and leaving me in my own man made nest.

god

2008-03-28T22:37:13Z

this is where we go to pray.
a rock band appears and plays a ten minute ballad, heralding some questionably hypocritical lyrics. the ~~audience~~ congregation, sways to and fro filled with christ's love, filled with faith. i look around and see a boy behind me. he is not more than 8 years of age, and his arms soar to the ceiling, his eyes are shut and tearing with spirituality. as much as i want to think, "this is a beautiful thing, faith," i can't help but wonder if he even knows what these words, dangerously floating in the air, even mean.
the pastor comes out in designer denim and a festively green shirt. he's tanned and fit. his smile sparkles with the glow of a thousand fairies, on fire. gone are the days of pulpit familiarity. where is my austere priest with the wobbly hunchback matching jowl?
immediately he opens into a tirade about his god. his powerful god. his deserving god. and we, the meek sheep to be lucky to praise this mighty awesome god. he cites the bible, he tells stories. he's funny the way a stand up comedian slash salesman is funny.
he smiles when he insinuates that we humans are less than good and he warms us with his speaks about his own follies.
he asks us to give up an hour for god. says we should be happy to give it to him, should be happy to give our lives for him. sacrifice. and don't forget to donate. sacrifice.

all i can think about is how i want to lay in wild grass- my nose in the dirt, inhaling deeply the earthen scent of wet minerals and the color green. seeing sapphire skies and savoring every single second sitting beneath the sun. rolling down hills and rubbing my elbows and knees to brown and red, jumping in a crystalline lake, dancing with poppies in the ever
so
slight
breeze.
looking into the eyes of another human that understands the tiniest details of life, and the immense beauty that it holds.
from a single cell to the universe, this is creation and evolution at its ripest. life and death.

i miss you between heartbeats. i kneel beneath your blanket of stars. i pray to your abject beauty. i sacrifice myself completely, and i worship my every moment here being part of you, part of life.

welcome back.

2008-01-12T01:19:37Z

how far would you go to understand... fully understand... the word, "nationalism"?

i feel that
we have lost the desire to see the happenings around us, being bombarded with the bright-light, colorful-shiny-hypnotic-easy-instantaneous-gratuitous-fast-food, fast life, fast death.
no, media and life and the big stockholders with the fat checks, striped suits and toxic cigars aren't to blame. no, they are just doing their jobs. tap pen tap, sit, decide and yes, tap pen tap brit will launch a thousand chips to sale.

we are fully responsible for our destinies,
if we would just educate ourselves about our past as a race.

this is all happening now. life is now. our future depends on our present inaction.

america, land of the free. free to consume and be lazy. free of culture and etiquette. free of responsibility as a nation. how did the majority of the nation's mindset develop into this?

we've been eating opiates of ignorance in our warm blankets of apathy. we're secure on this side of the fence. leave the thinking up to the thinkers. leave the working up to ... those guys. it doesn't matter, what's happening in the world... or even what's happening to us. if it doesn't affect me, it doesn't matter. leave me alone. with my bucket of fried cheesecake bites.

and then with our sleepy eyes, we blink away the injustices as well as the beauty of our daily lives. we swallow the emotions of love and hate in order to assimilate into working society. we live in the middle, comatose out of fear of actually having to think and work.

to understand your nation is to understand your culture. to understand your culture is to understand your humanity. to understand your humanity is to live life without the somnific temptation of lethargy.

so how far would you go to understand... fully understand... the word, "nationalism"?