The roads here, like our crisscrossing emotions, have never been tamed.
20090430
20090429
20090428
20090427
afternoon
felt like august only
it was april. you shed
your clothes like
a good tease, one layer
at a time. summer
sweat on your skin.
all we had was time
to give each other,
these few hours
in a room full of
the sun's glare,
and nothing else
mattered.
it was april. you shed
your clothes like
a good tease, one layer
at a time. summer
sweat on your skin.
all we had was time
to give each other,
these few hours
in a room full of
the sun's glare,
and nothing else
mattered.
.these.bristly.legs.
These bristly mosquito legs, finally shaved free of your bloodsucking buzz, always around my ears.
20090425
.fans.aplenty.
All these fans, we're just pushing hot air around us. And you can hear the spinning coming from the ceilings, the windows, the whirlpool where your heart should be. You can hear the windmills making the wind, hoping to attract themselves a little chivalry.
All this hot air rushing around us, gushing out the windows, and hopefully taking with them the stale emotions, still lingering, like a flirtatious glance.
All this hot air rushing around us, gushing out the windows, and hopefully taking with them the stale emotions, still lingering, like a flirtatious glance.
20090424
.dr.light.needs.right.to.win.again.
20090423
.always.hungry.
If I could swallow the world, I would keep it in my gut. I would lock it all down, a collapsing star shaking off its last lights like iridescent sweat.
And then I would vomit it all back up, everything dissolved into unprocessed acidic bile. I will pick through the bits for small chunks of you, and I will read gastrointestinal fortunes as if they were tea leaves in your grandmother's cup.
I will consume my past with ravenous hypotheticals. I will loosen a notch of my nostalgic future, the belt of expectations that ties it all down.
And all the time, I am hungry. I am full. Unsatiated.
And then I would vomit it all back up, everything dissolved into unprocessed acidic bile. I will pick through the bits for small chunks of you, and I will read gastrointestinal fortunes as if they were tea leaves in your grandmother's cup.
I will consume my past with ravenous hypotheticals. I will loosen a notch of my nostalgic future, the belt of expectations that ties it all down.
And all the time, I am hungry. I am full. Unsatiated.
Your Room and Everything In It*
stay home today--I want you
in your most natural state.
and let me undo all the hard work
your clothes perform.
this can be a secret,
our chaos marked by
the unmade bed and a song
that keeps skipping.
when your mouth moves over me
my skin burns for you.
I wanted you closer, I
don't know how else to tell you.
*I kinda stole this title from Jon Chopan's piece, "This Room and Everything In It."
in your most natural state.
and let me undo all the hard work
your clothes perform.
this can be a secret,
our chaos marked by
the unmade bed and a song
that keeps skipping.
when your mouth moves over me
my skin burns for you.
I wanted you closer, I
don't know how else to tell you.
*I kinda stole this title from Jon Chopan's piece, "This Room and Everything In It."
20090422
.knight's.tour.
why do we purchase one-way tickets back home?
an errant knight's tour come back around
jumping over black and white squares
blending all together into familiar grey sidewalk slabs
an errant knight's tour come back around
jumping over black and white squares
blending all together into familiar grey sidewalk slabs
Remaining Separate from What One Loves Deeply*
Don't believe me
if I'm cold, far
as the moon from you.
I wanted your love
but I'd only ruin it.
*line from Louise Gluck's poem, "Telemachus' Guilt."
if I'm cold, far
as the moon from you.
I wanted your love
but I'd only ruin it.
*line from Louise Gluck's poem, "Telemachus' Guilt."
20090421
.topless.bridemaids.
One of these days, I will marry you, and we will ride your scooter into the sunset.
20090420
.constellations.
I used to see the stars all the time. Or at the very least, on a regular basis. And I don't just mean spotting a few every night; I'm talking about seeing all the stars. Every last pinprick hole in the night dome. As if we were all being suspended upside down in celestial sieve, waiting for bits of heaven to trickle in.
There was less light pollution over there. Light still remembered to say its goodbyes and disperse come evening, retiring for the night. Nowadays, it lingers around into the still hours of the night, like the smokey haze of teenage smokers. Your eyes can't really help but cough.
Alcohol was illegal, so most of the parents would distill their own wine in their closets at home. When it was finally ready, they would get all the families together and head for the dunes, the vast sandy skin that covered the Arabian peninsula. It was a great chance to try out their homebrews, which I understand were always rather foul. Some of the adults had simply snuck beers back in from Bahrain. We didn't really care. It was a great chance to get away from any remnants of life. The closest structure was a radio tower miles away.
And invariably, after the adults set up camp, the rest of teenagers would set off to establish our own sub-camp, usually a ten minute walk away, and generally over a dune. In our isolation, we were neither children or adults, and our self-imposed exile was maybe a stab at self-determination, punctuated by our brief return to the main camp for food and lighter fluid.
And that was really one of the other great things about being out in the desert: creating our own bonfire. We could get by without the rules of thumbs and the watchful eye of Smokey the Bear, because after all, we weren't going to burn down the desert, eh?
Our flames stabbed upwards, as if the light were trying to force itself back into the sky. And as fires burned after the sun sank beneath the sands, we would lie down on a blanket or towel, four of us astride, and stare upwards at the stars. I used to be able to point out far more constellations, even creating a few of our own.
Once in a while, someone would get up and feed the fire more palm fronds and newspapers, as if in the darkness of the extinguished sun, we were burning up the world, and everyone reportable in it, to keep ourselves warm.
There was less light pollution over there. Light still remembered to say its goodbyes and disperse come evening, retiring for the night. Nowadays, it lingers around into the still hours of the night, like the smokey haze of teenage smokers. Your eyes can't really help but cough.
Alcohol was illegal, so most of the parents would distill their own wine in their closets at home. When it was finally ready, they would get all the families together and head for the dunes, the vast sandy skin that covered the Arabian peninsula. It was a great chance to try out their homebrews, which I understand were always rather foul. Some of the adults had simply snuck beers back in from Bahrain. We didn't really care. It was a great chance to get away from any remnants of life. The closest structure was a radio tower miles away.
And invariably, after the adults set up camp, the rest of teenagers would set off to establish our own sub-camp, usually a ten minute walk away, and generally over a dune. In our isolation, we were neither children or adults, and our self-imposed exile was maybe a stab at self-determination, punctuated by our brief return to the main camp for food and lighter fluid.
And that was really one of the other great things about being out in the desert: creating our own bonfire. We could get by without the rules of thumbs and the watchful eye of Smokey the Bear, because after all, we weren't going to burn down the desert, eh?
Our flames stabbed upwards, as if the light were trying to force itself back into the sky. And as fires burned after the sun sank beneath the sands, we would lie down on a blanket or towel, four of us astride, and stare upwards at the stars. I used to be able to point out far more constellations, even creating a few of our own.
Once in a while, someone would get up and feed the fire more palm fronds and newspapers, as if in the darkness of the extinguished sun, we were burning up the world, and everyone reportable in it, to keep ourselves warm.
constellation love poem*
i trace you, freckle
to freckle, connect
each scar with my
fingertip.
my nightsky,
always above me.
*thank you, Mike's post, for the title
to freckle, connect
each scar with my
fingertip.
my nightsky,
always above me.
*thank you, Mike's post, for the title
20090419
.with.balls.
I spent a good part of my shift at work today ogling cyclocross bikes that I want to buy. One time, a coworker of mine gave an excellent description of what a cyclocross bike is: a road bike with balls. Maybe all those picky customers that demand fast, but comfortable, bikes that can be taken off the road had some effect on bike production after all.
In any case, it really would just be a matter of switching out tires: throw some slick 700 x 23s on those wheels instead of the knobby 32s and I've got myself a road bike, albeit a slightly heavier one, with a shifted-down gearing range.
Life should be so easy.
I could switch out some shoes and step outside.
I could win a race. I could be a me with some balls.
In any case, it really would just be a matter of switching out tires: throw some slick 700 x 23s on those wheels instead of the knobby 32s and I've got myself a road bike, albeit a slightly heavier one, with a shifted-down gearing range.
Life should be so easy.
I could switch out some shoes and step outside.
I could win a race. I could be a me with some balls.
the rain
the rain started slow. i kept the window
open, listening to the water hit
the sidewalk. sounded like
pebbles plinking down, manic.
we were fighting again
so all my bitterness
turned the rain into a prophesy.
look: this is why
we wouldn't last.
your love is a dark cloud.
and all that wind is just
me, howling.
it seemed better to leave you than
to stay long enough for you to disappoint me.
how could you not?
I could feel the rain,
it started in my bones.
open, listening to the water hit
the sidewalk. sounded like
pebbles plinking down, manic.
we were fighting again
so all my bitterness
turned the rain into a prophesy.
look: this is why
we wouldn't last.
your love is a dark cloud.
and all that wind is just
me, howling.
it seemed better to leave you than
to stay long enough for you to disappoint me.
how could you not?
I could feel the rain,
it started in my bones.
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