inkless,but alright,still.

2012-01-01T21:41:00.000-08:00

they tell me i am bone.

my dry hair takes in as much

as the metal fillings in their teeth.

they tell me these things

like i need to know these things,

as if a charge to the veins;

like my blood needs current to spew.

my gums are rusty,

i have nails like dust.

the water in my eyes creaks down

like a thirsty worm.

they only touch me with oily fingertips,

even when i insist

that my heart grows with the world.

these limbs sleep rough,

but my heart blows through my ear.

i tell them i am not bone.

my dry hair takes in as much

as dreams and dreaming.

i tell them my heart works

in bursts.

i catch the air with iron hands.
my tongue can taste the morning glare.
i drink only to your smell.

2011-12-27T22:58:00.000-08:00

red ink awaking running down
there are pools now, blotting
there is a bare back now painted
and lips some feet with some soft something
free
well all will all anything however when
the strings now break to bend
the water i caught used to scratch me/
soft something some finger tips
a brain missing
god
god?
but god, maybe i know
how warm his palms can be,
when my mouth pleads dry/

a simple lazy (holiday) poem

2011-11-22T14:50:00.000-08:00

on a good day like this
people walk out of their homes
they cross avenues
and cars stop for them.
it's a good thing to see the teeth
of people behind the wheel
when they smile
and are not yelling.
the horizon seems close enough
the ocean is a wall
scaling far above my head
these cars drive towards it
without fearing they would run into the wall
and drown.
there is no being worried
when the sun stretches lengthily
painting the city brighter
drying up pain.
warmth creeps across my face
crawling down the tip of my nose
to roll down my cheeks
and rinse my hair with heat.
the wheels of the bus turn
with the laziness of a holiday
the bus driver shakes her knees
quick as a holiday jingle
telling an angry old racist onboard
to try whining in the sun.

2011-11-12T03:49:00.000-08:00

with weak knees

catching fruits

summer ran on

a roll of film

criss-crossing carpets

catching your foot/

2011-11-10T20:57:00.000-08:00

he sang heart pounding

my ears licking clean around every vowel sound

my knees slowly catching fire

my stomach cutting in

he turned up the dial on the box

my teeth catching the metal in my mouth

he sang heart pounding quicker

he rolled off his tongue the speed of his brain

he strummed a lot of blood in eight minutes

my toes and heels getting drier

he blew circles through the constant sound

my sticky nose getting harder

he laughed at being better off than dead

2011-10-15T15:17:00.000-07:00

facing front lately towards where the water spills after the shift in the curve/
the world ends and begins, on the tilt of that line where i would run if i had only the strength
to set aside my time, from the independent freedom of existence, that idea treasuring chronology like a way of life and choking nimble decisions from being executed and birthed/
there is the lightness, present when believed in and manifested when forgotten,
seeping underneath the old soles of shoes that have trudged and trekked over shadowy heat, skipped over the greenness of being for the wayward purpose of constructing a brand new televised representation of a foul, trivial and condescending species of happiness/
i chased such funny schemes with the purpose of sailing a boatful of secrets off the nearest shore on to the waters, where the flimsy cargo will bob and float, away and farther away until gravity possesses it enough to keep it dry even though i see it sink past the distant line/
dropping off the face of the earth as the face of the earth as i narrowly know it by,
i face front lately like i faced in this same direction for long days a spread of long days ago/
there is no shame, in sitting in a cloud of dust left over from periods of moldy lessons
taught in a classroom of bare bones and weak flesh, where all eyes that i remember stayed dripping to the floor upon careful shoes that stayed on because every one of us learnt it prematurely in ourselves the importance of being afraid/
what is there to feel trepidation for, now that i have lately felt a fullness of?
the hollowed out middle of my spine has enough liquid in these current times to give shape to a firmer new life/
in which ease is the breath of the earth and contempt finds its way squirreling to evolve into forgiveness, as a full bloom of a smile on the face, traced deeply in dark ink that tears or oceans can never wash away, happiness carved in detail as intricate as the webbing on my heart/
i throb with it as long as it stays ferocious and obsessed with its private tempo, but when it decides to smooth itself down to the state of polished stone, i cannot fight the feeling or the thought, that this clean calmness is how the original cycle makes itself to be/
as blue or green or purple, brown and yellow gold as your eyes flesh out in the flutter of night, there is no lusher love capable of embraces as tight as the ones given in the hardest rush in the midst of the quickest steps away, in a stolen slice of time most precious/
outside of consciousness or pleasures, without hearing the trill of beauty in the trees, beyond all else that the minute minds of mankind could ever construct, that simplistic passing touch, a clenching of shy muscles that enable bursts of joy so sacred, that time as i know it as time to be, forsakes it in place of the attention granted to a passing germ/
but who keeps tabs anyway, when the universe is plainly what it already exists itself as being, unruffled at endless length, understanding of the restlessness of the diminishing traces of the poor impermanence who strive all day to experience the paradisiacal components of a dream/
the dream of the mightiest and most compromising kind, which lay distantly in the direction of where i face front, lately.

2011-09-19T00:51:00.000-07:00

closer or farther away, the ocean undulates; still.

only we float away/cannot be staying
still - goodbye,
slow cold waters.

2011-09-15T00:25:00.000-07:00

there was a home once, a home sweet and spread out wide, was once a home, once, a time when it was one and all a home, and once was one and once was all, home was all there was, sweetly and spread out wide, once, and we were home when it was once as then, one and all

2011-09-08T18:55:00.000-07:00

your potency thick as
the hips of
a well-adjusted woman;
hair lush
as tongue.
when you learnt to
wave those little
fingers, we learnt the
curious softness of
your bones -
they fold,
like cloth.
your mouth
fantastical tasting
like skin, or
a spread of cold cream;
and eyes gauged
all the way out
far beyond hope
or beauty.
so existing
and lovely,
magickal rare.

2011-09-06T00:57:00.000-07:00

low business of missing/
runaround in the dark,
slow finger pushing back
the wrong small smile/
all is light, with frothy air,
red eyes besides breakfast.../
wee happiness
in exasperation's exhale,
and quick glimmer
in one lost eye/
lush brushing
before wandering out/
leaving sleep;
the deeper love
sinking in./

2011-09-04T06:33:00.000-07:00

there was a compelling bitterness

on your tongue,

strange and black

soft, slow and wetly maddening,

a sharpness in the dark

every once in a while

when your heart has left the building,

to wander the simple grid streets

on blustery nights,

full of alien chagrin.

i felt your heart once

beating with a soldier's vexations,

i felt your heart once

filled with wonders and lusts

and shaped with such boisterousness,

i felt it melt once

to smear over relativism and truth

in pursuit of denial,

i felt it play along

with youth,

then alone with a scowl

in a pullover shroud.

what is a loss,

what could be a dream,

the length of your back to

mine

i measured and remember well,

if only to tell anyone at all

how beautiful your silence was

as you lay in shallow sleep,

so still

did you keep

the curl of your lashes,

yet so quick they flew

when love still hovered.

upon waking to leave -

and i cannot help recalling -

waking to a loneliness

you thought of as stale serenity,

the stretching fingers of sunlight

tapped cautiously

on my dreariness

thick on such cold mornings,

unexhaustive in faithful reminder

that happiness

true-blue and forever

was internal and ever-present,

and cheerfully too

eight blocks away

a brimming source of all things

inspiring of love

of the most challenging

liberation.

breath in,

breath deep,

be free;

freedom right around that narrow twist

right there, just right about there,

after i stop feeling

in unaccountable licks,

the foreign taste i marveled in

the skin of your teeth.

2011-09-04T04:39:00.000-07:00

your hair glowing, fine
in swirls around the
dip of sloping
collarbones,
falling careless across
the cracked back
of an old sofa,
straying from thin pins
to frolic in the tired
breeze and snatch
old sunlight that stream
in through a slim gap
of the window,
radiating love
in a simple
golden hue,
shining quietly with
an irrelevance
fresh from your
yoga heart,
playing with stolen
glances from behind corners
and forgotten books,
strumming the bronze
color of your bright patient
eyes,
pulling myriad attention
back to the shining example
of gentleness;
sweet low humming
seeping through hardwood
and strangers' skins,
spreading thin across the
lull of late afternoon
like a warmed bowl
of young honey,
pricking spines and lingering
in memories of faces
nameless to your being
empoweredly alive,
a true caress rivaling
the nudge of old
mother nature/

2011-08-22T15:26:00.000-07:00

stirring to tall floods in a dream

and the fires that fly/

toes curling me back to sleeping

and your crumpling eye.

2011-08-08T22:40:00.001-07:00

pain, a re-entry.

2011-07-31T13:08:00.000-07:00

so you were born, as was i;
catapulted into the stream
like keen spittle,
pulled forward in the rush.

fate seemed so fast
and familiar,
you were drowning as a young child
without the touch of wetness.

the currents throbbed forward,
a sly water noose caught
around your throat;
this was how you were born.

the other boys that swam against
your legs
as you kicked away from your birth,
are all walking now.

the fish that had let you
latch on to their tails;
their scales now glitter beneath
the wide bright blue.

did you feel the flooding
in your nerves,
the water in your heart,
as you were shoved into another existence?

2011-07-19T01:26:00.000-07:00

sit up, bent, the angle graceful, being coquettish for a quiet fifteen minutes;
thighs pressed down and together, knees grazing, the front of her feet arching,
she had smaller hands, heel of her palms parked steady on the lip of her seat;
eyes maybe open, half closed, nonetheless, glazing, a breath caught in formation -
her mind leaps past the whir, the fan blows, her hair sticks across her face -
there is a space, without sound, without air, or silence, or comprehension,
a white flash shoots through bloodstreams, captivating eternity, frozen in the chest;
pound, her heart slams into bone, ribs throbbing, a rising warmth in the throat,
sit up, still, her chest spreads out, the expansion too progressive, no reality worth its salt would recognize,
so cool now, her body helps her, shards of ice travel down skinny veins,
where is her mind, enraptured, thus now discarded into greatness, greatness not belonging in the clasp of man;
energies collected, now exploding, crackling underneath her skin, escaping beneath,
inward, into, towards, deepening, a tremendous lurch forward -
she begins to live, a true and humble chasm, proudly and ecstatic,
so excited! -
or, lesser, and simply, somewhat sadly,
a mere heart, weakening, with the impishness of a savage?

2011-07-12T18:06:00.000-07:00

what are they like, fresh dawn light gently curdled and dropped, falling smooth through the air, wet.

2011-06-30T14:23:00.000-07:00

my friend,
smoke your spatial cigarette
suck that shit deep
and blow that shit hard
into the faces of rushing dogs
that yelp above the din
and paw deep into the earth
catching the trains and wanting
these doggone pains for as long as ever.
roll smooth that shit, man
roll that shit good
and share some of your best spit.
to a timeless hell you curse the dogs
because my friend,
you are one existentialist son of a bitch
with deep lungs
who sleeps deep
and finds no end to the smoking
the sucking and puffing
into the faces of racing dogs,
your spatial cigarette lights on for as long lasts
the snap of one eternity.

2011-06-30T14:09:00.000-07:00

it is really quite funny how she says 'i could cut you' and the ten or so people that stand with puffy chests in a bent circular arrangement in her modest living room would break out in unified chuckling, none of them remembering - especially the ladies in their chain-store floral skirts - that to be less of an amateur at being faux posh, they should be lifting a hand to their mouth with lightly dramatic flair to hide the spinach bits stuck to their gums in between off-white teeth; surely, before they all waddled out into the rainy outdoors for this awkward soiree, that they looked up on the internet on the do's and don'ts of the life they aspire to lead, and ladies of this life should ideally shrink back from the platter of appetizers with spinach and supermarket feta as clearly illustrated in the manual, but these damn impersonators and dreamers, what do they know about the elitist etiquette they trounced in their awaken fervor and hurry back to assemble within the plush comfort of their youth - she thought through all these quick notions, with a pinch more nerviness than words could accommodate, in the moments immediately before and after the emptiness of her mind when she said 'i could cut you' for she sucked in all the willingness her guts had accumulated for a good two years or so and invested them in those four words that were tender as her warm flesh heating up by minute degrees, she uttered a portion of her restlessness in the quiet utterance that was slightly above a verbal pipsqueak mistake that could be easily swept away in situational management by an anxious passing breeze but alas no, they all heard her and proceeded to chuckle in the glimmer of her fairy-light home as she stands in the middle of the room wondering how on earth she happened to be here at this specific point in time, and why she placed herself on the coordinates her feet faithfully roots upon instead of trotting to the corner where the light does not catch, and the dimensional eccentricities of the city could bustle on by as she revels in the quietude of an exile by choice and fatigue, 'i could cut you' she blurted with an angry exhaustion in the glaze of her eyes, as the slender-necked glasses swiftly stole her glance while they could to emptily reflect the degeneration of her wits and the deepening blood color of her lips that now purse and pucker to hold back her stump of tongue.

2011-06-29T13:07:00.000-07:00

speaking of sparseness, speaking of necessity, through the polite teeth-gritting and the wind whipping past the curl of ears, the aerial view of a life you know spread wide below like an old, perfumed quilt, smelling deeply of the person you wish you do not know, and you think of the velvet jolt of the trace of that shadowy fantasy, making it run faster as your body acclimates to the burn slowing down to a smooth glide around the relaxed pond of your intellect; the smoke lifts up your soul, to lift up your fingers, lifting up a cacophony of enthusiasm and fear, rage and boredom, lilting up to the dry air some unique manifestation of your trying quietude, this smoke-like apparition heaving and shifting to carry you above the placidity of data and death, with the faint allure of your mama's breath as you remembered before the red curtains fell and she waltzed away in her queen's corset beyond the salty film of your young eyes, and she had taken you within her heart not an hour before, to let slip a loose peck on your brow and brush an absentminded token of affection on your soft head; a collective amount of hours now of a life spent tweaking the claustrophobia of reality, to be somewhat a creator in the one absolution of loneliness, the monochromatic joys in the freedom of none, where there is the tangible choice of stealing off in the covers of night under the swoop of deep ocean wings.

2011-06-18T10:51:00.000-07:00

the honey pot sits still and open looking out at the low rolling waters, to roll around a few honeyed fingertips in the dry sand sitting wide on the great highway lanes closed to traffic, the smaller sandy dunes that build and vanish themselves cyclically like the casual cyclists in their skinny trousers on skinny wheels to and fro in the fashion of mild pestilence, there is no means of disliking the stretch of yellow beyond the next strip of technicolor houses, like a long spread of butter dragged on and on by a lazy giant hand that forgot that man tires easily in body and heart and mind, the hand that hides the art somewhere beneath some kind of slow burden that lays splayed always in front of you but too far away to see, the pounding bloodiness of bad morning coffee drives the pragmatic into the quandary of the fantastic ...

TO WHICH, boils down the arguments of everyday moral itchiness, boiling down to the need for a shit space with the whirring background noise of some old ventilation fan, to mask the sound of well, your tired shitting.

2011-05-26T15:33:00.000-07:00

they click with their tongues to match the communication between house lizards, because in the thick of night one can never be too cautious about maintaining the secret of one's human existence, especially when huddled underneath the oppressive floorboards of a proud, dynamic, and illusory culture.

the women colored their nails the shades of rust and strain, while the men patted into the softness of their brains a foolhardy will to go down with creaky panache, their hoarse voices drowning out the rude laughter of custom.

through the heavy dust that thicken their small ration of air, sooty fingers twirl with a shocking grace, limber wrists sway in conveying sad, silent messages to complement the unfeeling tongue-clicking that carefully bounce from one cold wall to another with dry assertion.

house lizards, the landlords think in their sweet-smelling beds, they never stop praying. house lizards, they never stop trying to manifest a second horizon.

2011-05-06T18:44:00.000-07:00

a portion of your tape is recorded over,

and i cannot bring myself to say now

hey

a portion of your tape is recorder over,

my friend,

this joke is not over

and this joke is now laughing at me.

my courtesy is slithery

my friend, it slides away

to sit in a curl in the crevices

that run down your hands,
that you use to scratch all earth

with their dryness.

and so this tape, you see

is not your kind-hearted will preserved,

it is not the fledgling hope you nudge

back to a weary living,

and wrap with cheer

to emulate some kind of love;

a portion of your tape is recorded over,

and i cannot tell you how

it makes me squirm,

with the secret fascination

i invest in the ruinous film
which you project,
my friend,

through the stains of your fingertip whorls.

hey
look up at to see
your truths bleed through
the sunlight into
a smoky old kitchen window

in a stranger's home,
to pool in the hollows
of my eyes.

2011-04-16T17:40:00.000-07:00

peace is in the fog-veil that passes by ushered by long winds; around the throats of little black birds that leap out of beach brambles. peace beneath the wide wings of the gliding gull, and in the rod of a lone man fishing at the water's teeth. peace travels in the gritty sand flying into his eyes as he stands facing shards of sun crowning the top of each wave-crest; in the lingering kiss between two sad young women standing above the weekend traffic that swoop smooth down the great highway. peace resonates through the pavement and concrete, swelling up in the center of hills and spreads through grass and carpeting; upon the warm head of passers-by, on the tips of their ruddy cold nose, in the lengthy curve of each quiet smile.

2011-04-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

the slivers of your heart are soft, wet
from the many years plunged
beneath the skins of men you know
in your life to be not quite there.

the slivers of your heart, cut
through the raw of another man's
mother,
splitting her stringy veins open
expecting a deluge of emotions
but the hollow channels are as dry
as a common elbow.

your heart is soft, prime
in age with the fresh gloss of young
fire,
with small chambers filled with
the coagulate of your will
thick as paste.

the slivers of your heart are soft, wet
from slippery trips into experience
yet they cut open eyes,
like a confetti of shrapnel.

2011-04-07T16:51:00.000-07:00

a box of heat
a parallel universe,
a little world
with carpeted earth

ten fangs that sing deeply
ten hips that sink freely

the wet sand throws far
down the long and narrow,
curve at the end of the roads
curve like a tail
a small silver swish
around the bend
around the hills.

hug the thinning air for me
breathe in the salty dream.

the first sixth waves crash on
the concrete
the first thirteenth waves wet her shoes
the first twenty-fifth waves glide back from whence
they came

it gets hot fast,
the round shiny blade in the sky
gleams higher
and the dogs flop
slower
the flowers hang tired.

a box of heat
is still waiting,
in a little world
in the basement.

2011-03-05T02:50:00.000-08:00

she had baby lips,
and baby fat.
she had her lower teeth showing,
they were the pearl color of her lace panties
that peeked shyly into our frame of thought.
she was a vision at once muddled and clear,
a crafted mess of liquid hair
that slithered cold and wild
around the pristine face that she wore
unruffled, and glowed perfect.

goddamn, she was a flower in ice,
a dream pressed under glass,
a tall serve of smooth cream.
she had the nerve!
to be so beautiful.

she had the pinched nose
that i ate up in sleep.

she had an arm over her head
to touch the rest of me,
the spirit she fed on
from out of our open mouths
was the energy with which she
wet the corners of my tightened breaths,
she loosed the many coils
that bunched stealthily in darkness,
and she took away
into a beam,
that crashed through the night.

she swayed into sweetened fire,
on skin and bone heels.

3/4/2011

2011-03-05T01:42:00.000-08:00

it was so small in your hand, it laid so small in a tight curl, like a ball of ribbon, a ball of soft, slippery lusts, with one end that peeked out as a little tail, or a little tongue, forked and gentle, a little dangerous plaything that rolled slowly across your upturned palm, a little satiny snatch that you rolled down to veins that snake deeper into your wrists, that you flicked up into the midmorning sun where it disappeared for a fleeting second, into the finger of a ray that long stretched through the spotless air to pause in a little circle behind you, on the brick wall inches away from the back of your head, above your left shoulder blade, and the soft, dark tufts of hair that turned warmer with the quick day, it was smooth and small, it parked quietly back into the supple ridges of your hand, nestled precariously in your flesh after it cleaved the clean, damp air, pulled back by a stubbornness, from the freedom of the cold into human fear, back into the comforts of your many grazed fingers, slender rare, the famished company of nobody much else, except the occasional quiver that cleared past the iron bars in your throat, that wrestled the plenty wonders of your heart.

2011-02-18T23:06:00.000-08:00

a morning time blear, the wetness rolls in like a slow grey creeping wave flushing, like a wide sweeping finger down the cracks and humps of the rough city floor, and the cold was a cold that crept past the hard prayers wept deeply into the grain of front doors,

the same morning blood pooled in a quiet teaspoonful between two large chips of teeth; a river sucked out and gargled, tongue coated and cooled, a pleasing amount of life swallowed with the same warm waters that run swift behind burned ears,

. . .

2011-02-07T15:41:00.000-08:00

think that, storyteller;

a smooth, charming braiding of

your hair into theirs,

a little weaving wind,

ribboning in curls behind your ears

and a spreading heap on the floor,

a carpeting fluff with nonsensical bore

which sucks slow

at the tired traveler.

worry worn about the neck,

fox fur phenomenon catching on

like your post-hipster fire,

and those strong long fingers

tangle on the straggle

of his dirty brown stare.

so you want to be a storyteller

clapping your boots over park grass,

and cement stains;

prolong the drag of shared

silk-cut cigarettes

and lowbrow hugs thrown about

freely in the foggy streets

between character bikes, sea brisked feet.

you come back home, feeling lovely.

what story, storyteller,

what sorry story do you remember

at the bottom side of every

wet circle?

do you let sink into

those softly drawn eyes

the premises of a bunch of lives,

or do you come back to be

a storyteller,

to grow foamy teeth

to be loved and lovely,

the lonely only

for your dear demanded

friends and family.

2011-01-28T01:54:00.000-08:00

it was that time again that quick coincidence and i jumped at the chance i fell for the urge i made a wish i almost prayed it is too true what they say about how forgiven things never shake away

2011-01-06T03:54:00.000-08:00

slow, deathly stories, darling.

we write them again, like we
believe them bestsellers.

2011-01-06T03:04:00.000-08:00

a thousand little fluttering things

on two thousand powdery wings;

there was the throb,

a throb that pounded away on the inside of a stranger dream - you know, one of those lucid episodes that grope and scrape for a gentle vein to tug and snap as soon as you convulse yourself to consciousness - and pushed the doughy barricade of the waking state into a shape socially correct.

in the darkness of the house,

i twist my wrist around to snatch

sly visiting spirits

from beneath the musky sheets

that drown arches,

many shallow arches.

five twenty-eight,

time is stuttering.

five twenty-eight,

the mind shakes in fits.

five twenty-eight.

five twenty-eight,

car sounds rouse us awake.

time to rev up the ankles and run,

my cozy, hostile friend,

before your existence matters enough to

irritate

the blankness of one quick morning, that would rather leave you in a cloud of formulated lost love that hides the effective pause of

low-lipped, crisp-tipped, slow-sipped evening praises.

2010-12-27T23:22:00.000-08:00

stutters that stop, and a dark blank prop mistaken for healing. a couple of phone calls, third time's the charm, quiet vents steaming. stone tank top and the cold, gusty smog rolling low. fleshly smells remembrance terrible, let flow, let flow. removed far, pulled stringy side to side and back, to front. varnish spills on carpeting, knocking one mirth, blunt. plush, oh the rush, of blood into the face! wake to one flimsy morning, to your back's grace.

2010-12-24T23:12:00.000-08:00

roll out the majesty, smelling

something forgotten

like a home kind of musty;

bring the self down

lower than ribs and knees.

2010-12-24T14:30:00.000-08:00

shattered glass in trees,
leaves smashed and dropped berries,
rushing through the cracks from millions of miles away,
sunlight that ends in fingers
deep in my coffee,

stretching across the table to lay one on a thigh,

the air ten o clock early.

buttery thick behind the counter,
foam on sweet sticky lips,
flakes and grit under fingernails
that scratch down the early heat

on a placid, muffled somethingday,

when bakers bake,
i eke out a play.

2010-12-16T19:25:00.000-08:00

soft to the touch once, the slight spring

back to how you were

before the lay of a finger,

but night is now settling down,

one more night to you

makes no difference, there is no difference

in the death of a bloom,

a deadhead still in form

crisply, intact neatly,

separated from the rest of you

and those handful of dying friends

that you jostled with,

when you were on your way

to death's door too,

when you were positively

blooming, trapped in between states,

confused by the water

pooling at the bottom of a dirty

makeshift vase,

confused by the hands that

touched you inappropriately, and

the noses that brushed against

your young silky head,

leaving behind a trail of

grime that you absorbed to

invisibility, because you are nothing more

to them

than you are to me,

now or however far back then,

a remnant for posterity

and polite thanks

to a lover whose trek out in the hard howling

darkness left me

with quieting thoughts,

and a wonder
that flailed,
proud and free.

2010-12-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

the freeways are bigger here.
broader, badder.
longer, better.

much better.
smooth, going on forever.

if i still held your spirit,
we could race down quiet strips
at night.
make the motor whir
under the hood of your
baby car.

if you are here,
we could again cackle
and crack each other's
knuckles.
my foot on your foot
on the gas pedal.

there are no frequent orange lights here,
though . . .

(is that a fair enough reason
for us to stop living
our love?)

the glow of orange lights,
never ending orange lights
that bathe your face badly
as we fly onto concrete,

was how i loved
your love.

it was exactly how
i loved
the world.

2010-12-13T23:17:00.000-08:00

what sorrow it is that
the biggest turmoil
these flurried days
is the cheap fear
of hard prayer.

2010-12-11T11:13:00.000-08:00

with a rasp like that
who is to say, that your romance
is childlike?
with a rasp like that
nobody even remembers your
teeth,
and you have pretty bad
teeth.
i read somewhere that you
were almost dead
twenty or so
years ago.
i also read someplace that
you are someone's
godhead;
apparently, they really do
appreciate you
very, very much
in many other spaces.

i wonder, wonderfully
if your tongue will feel dry
- as your voice rings dry
through walls
on streets
in bodies -
on hotly showered skin.

she only has
a first name,
she is only one name
to the world.
and the world that you have
captured,
immobilized, frozen
then thawed,
wants searingly to be
a One Name now,
wants to sit calm beside you
and not flinch
nor flutter,
when you reach out for your guitar.

with a rasp that almost killed
you,
the coarse undertones
that kills everybody else,
why are you staying put
so far away
in an isolated part of
the world?
do you know just how desperate
some shrinking, wasted
unfulfilled souls
are, dying to wash in the wake
of the songs
that you sing?
and sing
far too well.

pushing a hand through
heavy curls, and
showing bad, bad
teeth,
singing hard enough
to put men
to sleep.

11/5/10

2010-11-05T18:39:00.000-07:00

i spread slow, lately.

over pieces of stale urgency,

and slices of time

tasting slightly musky.

spreading slowly

with my old butter knife,

watermarked and

blunt-tipped,

stinking of residual fat,

traces of fear.

it is a terribly cloying state

of being,

to sink in.

2010-10-27T01:07:00.000-07:00

i cannot love a pain not worth my smallest grief.

a quick. lesson

2010-10-25T13:10:00.000-07:00

a muddle of blue
sheets our robust
cotton
sea;
warm and deep
and
heavy,
with trapped air
curling heat. . .
soaked,
with skin.

dry sheen.
dry because, outside.
we sneer
gummy ones,
same wry.

blue cotton foam
froth soft now.

tomorrow,
backs lay down
on shards;
the sharp
boiling
angry
sea,

prickly cotton. . .
burning tufts
burning down,
the ragged
throw,
sweat
stained hollows. . .

odor of dreams. . .
burnt
low,
into the old floor
carpeting.

divine rage
against the
clean
dreams,
of shortchanged
mortal
ambition.

(a little mortal love
taught alarming lessons;
hefty lessons.)

2010-10-04T08:27:00.000-07:00

the one of many times we have to let go, because it is true what they say, about self respect.

2010-09-25T19:15:00.000-07:00

they call you

hot scars

brown muscle in

hot cars

gleam like teeth in

hot bars.

you look like that dude

in that movie.

2010-09-25T08:34:00.001-07:00

DOING BRAVE THINGS AGAIN. WINNNNN.

2010-09-24T22:52:00.000-07:00

the music is soft; idealized smooth, painful waiting music, and the lights in the room are a yellow that glow kindly. stepping into her room, the weakness seizes your throat, fogs your eyes, then slips leaden down your heart. you slowly turn your life into a dream, until the damp smell of your shirt pours forth into the hazy space a narrow dimension of realness that traps your mind and makes you think slices of raw thought. a jerk of the neck, rude and involuntary, and the dangerous fuzziness settles inside and around you again, your queries fade away like ghosts, leaving no prints on your conscience. how slyly the rancidity of sweat reminds you of who you are and the plane on which you belong. it pinches at your nerves, you who are incredibly unsettled by the physical sensations of twitching, because it feels like god is reminding you to make sensible choices and you do not need reminding for anything from anyone, not even the universe of the universe. you never could belong here, this is not a place for well-meaning naivete. the smoke whirls in soft circles around their four ears, and the flesh of her cheeks catches fire and burn. the air thickens quick to catch them in place, hold her falling arm in space at an odd angle. you breathe hard, a cyclone thudding against the spongy walls of your lungs, waiting for a reason to flee to overcome the numbness in your thin ankles. her ascribed world is wet and timeless, and your simple precautions beg for movement to feel alive.

2010-09-24T00:11:00.000-07:00

everything written now will be severely lacking. no thorough expansion, honest explanation, stable structure, logical reason, chronological arrangement, deep examination, et cetera. the stifling is needed to brood on frustration; the anger birthed is essential!

the cultivation of anger is too important in achieving this dream, to be thinking instead, of human niceties.

the importance of protecting many hearts. portioned truths protect, and so i heavily protect, in sly.

there is no room for publicity for the ongoing process.

i would have no lover, friend.

2010-09-23T23:52:00.000-07:00

was it a night for morals? was it really a night of responsibility, a better late than never show of maturity absent, vengefully, on my part during a previous meeting, that date and day when we both had different reasons for agreeing but ended up swathed together in the center of your room with a little more than just comedies on your computer, a handful of randomly chosen songs, and the free inspired strumming of your guitar? i remember thinking in your house, that i will never see it again, and so i stared hard at the walls and thought well of the colors, i inquired on the overall structure that was amazingly poor victorian, and i actually took a picture. when we were out in the back, you picked out those small, powerfully fragrant white flowers because i talked too much; and i took another picture of the waterfall of purple that spilled down the front of your neighbor's house because i knew those blooms will always secretly remind me of you and the cold spring evening when i found myself tested, happy, and brave.

like how it typically is, we left the temporary cooperative excursions to move on forward in our separate ways. but, say i had not snuffed out the bravery in favor of saving face and another man's heart, i imagine that this very night, i would not be here writing out a strange catharsis. i would get to see your face, yet never touch it, and smile shyly on the inside at your marvelous wit.

the many shades of brown eyes, starting with mine.

if there are no feelings to protect, there would be a ridiculous amount of words to add.

2010-08-29T14:35:00.000-07:00

i wish you would write more when you are not sad, angry, and drunk. i know there is a love in there, somewhere. or, i wish i had not delved and read, at all.

horror scope.

2010-08-24T00:55:00.000-07:00

the blood of animals, hoofed and neighing and stinging and segmented, course and commingle with the blood of two-footed man. natural desires, the lusts of the heart tempted and stirred, are pursued with a coyness unparalleled, this coyness without death. a quiet satisfaction most selfish and blameless because it is in the blood. where now, does one go? the deepest ends of hypocrisy flank both sides of a stubborn, inflexible faith. where now, does one go, if not nowhere, the safest place thus far.

maybe the truth lies no farther than in the scattering of stars; how the many bloods flood the far winking stars.

oh the task at hand then, to forge a life far more ordinary.

liberty, 1.

2010-08-13T11:10:00.000-07:00

joy unabashed does have its matronly bridle too; a contentment not idle and solid but a species of gratitude in resigning the gifts bestowed with the dedication of quick-running ink, and tending to them with heart settled, mind comprehending of the cyclic organic patterns, and the final endeavor - testing the mettle of pulsating wants - to step into our designated place in the usual turn of events, understanding that happiness truly lies in the big words telling of the lofty humility in being tamed by the elusive means of self-control. there is no different plan for anybody else; all our blueprints are templates of one same. we fight for a different interpretation, each one struggling to prove that life exhorts the individual spirit, straining against given grain to hardily discern the simplicities and commonness of cause collective because our cheaply gilded souls and dreams, plasticized and pompous by the new age, are now raging finicky; easily whetted, pleasured in the momentary and difficultly peaced.

we affectionately call this weakening desire, liberty. we know no calm in the chase for this modern happiness.

cont.

2010-08-11T11:24:00.000-07:00

the powerful press of your hands into the earth leaves little to the imagination.

you can do anything you ever will desire. there is a stubborn gleam you own in the bones of your difficult father. curiosities of the universe tickle you in a place where no other man believes to tangibly exist. there are no wars in the space of your existence. everything that falls falls accordingly a wide-eyed surprise.

the powerful press of your hands into the sky sets hearts beating at comfortable speeds.

but how now, your private liberty?

2010-07-26T13:25:00.000-07:00

when love hits you in the face

with a zealously creamed citrus pie,

you embrace the tangy mess

knowing that love served up the truest flavor

in its oldest jest.

simply a bad lament.

2010-07-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

if i put on your starched white suit,
will you bless it enough for me?
to write in it half as ridiculously
as you do every other weekend,
in the swelter of your city,
much removed from sea.

enamored with the thought of your school
quaking at the school of your thought.

my miserable mind thinks of the misogynistic face
of a poor writer's blemished fate,
ponders on the cut of your pen
the curve of your marvelous hand,
and the crisp white suit you cock around in.

bad writer! nothing more than a broken scribe.

growth, or something like it.

2010-07-07T10:17:00.000-07:00

it is almost safe to say that,
i no longer want to think of what
you've put me through;
i no longer want to shove you
in front of a speeding bus.
is this called growth?
meh,
but something of the like.

to new perspectives, an open heart, a new pad, personal space, jovial folks, more patience, more books, more education, fresh experiences, new photographs, memories yet to be made, free laughter, intense love, a deeper understanding, a happier spirit, flowing inspiration, dead grudges, genuine trust, less suspicion, increased respect, good weather, endless gratitude, irreplaceable friends, new friends to be made, future scraped limbs, clean water, scrumptious food, remarkable writers, smooth coffee, hot kisses, full recognition of the lavish blessings bestowed; a beautiful way of life.

to generous life, to recognizing how essential the removal of any and all negative attachments to you from the past is to the process of moving forward towards the gift of peace.

dirt off my shoulder!

yet i know i met you for a reason; for you to fuck my mind hard enough to drive home the importance of employing this one lesson.

dirt off my shoulder!

2010-07-07T08:16:00.000-07:00

six weeks of trying to write in the language of my blood, and i have nothing at all;

no wonder i've always felt lost.

2010-07-02T04:14:00.000-07:00

time to just calm the fuck down, without the poetry.

2010-06-25T00:52:00.000-07:00

not even five minutes. not for even five minutes of one's time. it's almost four in the afternoon, and it's already night.

2010-06-24T20:56:00.001-07:00

learning to breathe and float all over again, for the very first time.

mortality.

2010-06-22T11:22:00.000-07:00

i wonder when i will personally be able to comprehend the fact of death itself as easily and wholly as i comprehend the fact that death is but a necessary segment of life.

rest in peace, family and friends who have passed on, in their old years, and young.

i will always love you all.

burning trees.

2010-06-21T05:01:00.000-07:00

trees are burning, we say
trees are burning, we agree

under frothy breath

eyes heavy lidded,

lipstick stains on temples and chests

smelling like three, four, or more

other men, women;

strange painted,

bauble-draped children.

tires spin fast,

steel grows hotter, and slices through

the musk of cologne, the rank of spirits on bad breath

the humid quiet of one fuzzy tropical night.
blank minds bursting with
stagnant agitation,

on a long blank freeway.

the stars have tired of us

and have left for other skies.

they shoot us no love

this one sweltering night,

so we make do

without their necessary magic.

because we have cried enough,

we have been angry enough

and drunk enough
and sober enough

and starved enough

and sad enough
never grateful enough

and hollow enough,

we have wailed and begged

waited and prayed and cursed and bargained

and spat and bled and
broken ourselves

we have loathed ourselves
enough

- we think.

but no, truly no.
we are only desperate and lazy.

we have done jack shit, really.

we are just impatient people

hobbling towards a finished book
and mismatched pools of audience,
clawing for a taste to be
within a couple of hundred pages,
a little lusted after, wanted,
slightly loved.

gutter hopes are all worldly hopes
for the desperate and lazy.

but what we have accomplished:

we have crawled towards

one too many doors

on our knees,

with damaged hearts and torn brains

slurred tongues

black tears streaking down,

clear tears streaking down

our scarred faces,

we have banged fists on tables and heads

raged at the empty night air and our

empty selves

hurt the conscious and the subconscious,
emptied the store of cobwebbed passages
rehearsed and rewrote over the past weeks and months,
never getting them close to being
the battered feelings they were supposed to be.

they have not turned out lilting and heavy
as of late,
they have not even been weighed down by
the smoke of each following letter
of each dispossessed word.

lines breathless, without temperature and frame,
that wax and wane to no one.

we demanded through wet, ugly sobs the return of

difficult inspiration,

pleaded for a waft of it
whimpered while we waited
on sticky kitchen floors and rough bitumen,
chewing the ends of unlit cigarettes
while we dreamt of its glory and bawdy humor
with eyes propped open
by boredom, and a quickly dissipating
faith.

we cut little fingers knocking over too many slices of lime,
and the salt that settled on the razor-thin wounds
fell from the rims of shotglasses gripped slippery
in the expressive hands of cloudy-minded people
who told us,
that they loved us
a lot,
and lambasted us for having worried faces
under lasers, flashing lights;
people who clutched us too tightly too soon
and could not fathom why
we had weakly twirling in our hands
not fragile stemmed glasses but
faulty pens
and wretched pieces of paper.

beyond the doors, we ambled aimlessly

knowing that our ration of runny hope

has spilled on to the earth

towards the murk of the old strait

to be eaten by little brown fish

to choke on ship spills,

floating oil, accumulated plastic filth.

a lifetime ago i had swam in these toxic waters
i had let my hair float on them
allowed the poison to cling to my face,
dragged my shiny ankles to the shore
and wrote my life under the harsh, old sun.

my life came out flowing like a rich vein
in those muddy, troubling days.

now, we shoot along grey roads
this one chosen night

weaving among broken white lines

chasing the next orange glow

of endless streetlights,

waiting for genius to catch up.

your foot like a block of cement

on the gas pedal,
our throats red from the burn of screaming mindlessly,
thighs slapped raw with each sighting of
white-hot lightning
that cracks all the way down to
the edge of the earth.

we pursue the crazy volts of electricity
with bloodshot eyes,
and stupid lost grins that show teeth.
we laugh terrible laughs
at each clap of thunder.

we run away because we are proud

and afraid,

even of the truth we say we crave;

genius could not have abandoned us

at our simple tender age,
it has to be laying low somewhere in the present or past
laying dormant until it sees us in pain,
twiddling our thumbs
fidgeting sharp objects
breaking our hearts
breaking other hearts
destroying our reality,
until we are blind,
groping, bitter and void
messily hating other men.

only then would genius slink out
and absorb into our worn psyches,
patch the spaces of our tattered beliefs,
to allow enfeebled minds to sing
and work weary, dazed fingers
into a frenzy.
always a sanity too late
for comfort.

preposterous,

our hearts exclaim.
this damning game is
dangerous.

(nothing would be more wasteful
if the truth always has been
that genius is the same patient god
waiting for the soup in our individual bowls,
for each of our greedy,
tumultuous galaxies,
to just calm the fuck down, finally.)

the stars may tire of us

and they have tired of us,

but we are still not buying
such a calming truth
for a few sparks of sparse light
to glitter overhead
and transform this picture
perfect;

a couple of stubborn, dying youngsters
driving a night away
the night they would probably crown
The Night Of Their Lives the morning after,
stars blinking on, smiling
on them as they almost fly off into the mouth
of a loud, screeching disaster
them feeling on top of the world
as if they owned the feelings of every sleeping soul
down in the valley,
as if they could collect every light snore and
nightmare
and compile these nighttime pickings
into a great, heavy, original volume
that would make them remembered as
cutting edge contributors to the shifting world
of literature
or whatever really that do not remind them
of their private truths,
their paltry worth.

trees are burning, we splutter
not knowing how sacred or profane
we mean that sentence to be,
not knowing anything at all
only agreeing upon it
as we zoom down the wide, swallowing road
waiting for genius to catch up with
your gleaming, speeding machine
and explain things.

chasing our endless orange-tinged dreams
and lightning streaks
in the heat of a still night
with thick blood slowly pumping,
the suffering is strangely familiar.

alas, there is such a reality as waking up
the next morning.

* * *

some ultimate joys do not want us to be happy.
it really is that easy. we should really stop trying.
in due time, we will start burning more trees, and things.

2010-06-10T07:39:00.001-07:00

oh kitteh, stop being such a cat.

2010-06-02T06:07:00.000-07:00

all this crying is too much crying and it's making me sad.
and welcome mats, we step on them on our way in, and
out. there seems to be a reason why they don't read the
same both ways; they merely wipe off the grit from in
between our stays. all this crying is too much crying and
it's making me sad. oh, all the houses that must be had,
first.

2010-06-01T05:32:00.000-07:00

i miss monkeying around,
all the animal sounds,
one chubby turtle.

2010-05-30T00:36:00.000-07:00

i want to stop caring.

there, i've said it.

2010-05-28T04:19:00.000-07:00

thousands of watery miles away, these backdoor nightmares still latch on to my sleep. i open my eyes yet again with the powder of the most powerful fear stinging my mind's eye, and my heart leaps high above past my sore, scratchy throat to dive down flailing over the edge of an invisible plateau. gravity pulling a hope and dream, the biggest hope and the most heartfelt dream, downward with unflinching surety. these nightmares, they play out the same uncertainty louder, clearer, more undeniable each time. what if they who come uncourted prove one terrible day that they are the truth, and that they have been patiently trying to push past my slumber all this time, to inject my consciousness with the facts of their premonition? what do i do then, besides crumple and rise again, and repeat the cycle with other precious men? these nightmares drain me, and there is no balm strong enough as of now to soothe the tiredness that pulsates weakly in my flesh, the throbbing strain of keeping my eyes open. i cannot even bring myself to crawl under the covers, let alone eke out an honest smile. my skin burns, my tears are confused, and the hands of the clocks around me struggle to remain on the move. if i am not my own prophet, allow me to dig my own grave at this early age, and line the earth with pages detailing the wrinkles and mirth of your sweet, charming faces. this is what it feels like to be ill, and to be afraid.

layover tap tap.

2010-05-25T22:35:00.000-07:00

hello. i type this out tap tap tap tap tap in changi airport, sipping on a grande iced skinny hazelnut latte of the starbucks kind because i am not shameless enough to just secure a seat here and get on the interweb while i wait for my flight, which leaves for home in about three hours' time. what poor coffee i painfully sip itsy bitsy bits of sips, an instant reminder of how long i have swapped their beverages for the legit kind in the charming non-chain coffeeshops that quietly dot the streets of san francisco. also a strange self-conscious feeling starts to form a film over the dark of my eyes, how the properness the primness the automatic standardized self-blending sense of order seems so thick and invisible in the airport air. i feel familiar and and and but the accommodating flavor is not the quirky warmth i have gotten accustomed to, the strange homelessness which does not merely welcome you me one and all but also breathes you in with its gravity and clever and calm allure, so lovely love loverly a loveliness gentle, and secure. i tap tap tap tap and i thank the goodness of all things for brief conversations with lone gentlemen with rich, lilting accents, off to other corners of the earth on other planes with other people and different colored luggage and irises. i am one flight away from home, and i am happy for the sweltering all-year wondrous equatorial summer, but there are still things that hang in the imbalance of of my thought. wonder, wonder dreaming dreams, of heavy construct thoroughly ill. this coffee is drunk quarterly, and it sweats cold beads drip drip drip on to the wooden table drip drip drenching the round cup foot. hello. i greet a peculiar, temporary start.

***

much earlier, i had barely gotten anywhere only somewhere and just somewhere was not enough, and i already glimpsed a privately terrible propensity which left me with eyes glazed and heart blanked, mind left to dissipate to a place, a lost space, in between nowhere and curdling pain. mountaintops and valleys, bliss and abyss. how deep is too deep? how much blood is bloody? the terrible symptoms of wanting to scratch out a writer's skin, having and demanding too many feelings, there is no surprise that death is right around the next few bends. i wrote on a clean page, that page had on it declared two dates, from when i was caught in the limbo between ports, hovering below dark space above sheets of ocean. that page still largely cream and clear, because some varieties of spirit death evoke all emotions in the being, but choke on the eternal internal vomit rather than fan the flames of distress that are simply raging to be spat out.

a loverly extraction.

2010-05-18T16:00:00.000-07:00

i see you, another stranger, sketching me out, another stranger. i wonder, what it would take for any one of us to finally rise up from our respective tables and take the awkwardly simple walk to one another, and exchange, at last, a couple of effortless hellos. here i am writing about you, yet another achingly familiar unfamiliar person, and i wonder all over again, why all of you seem so free, unkempt, and so assuredly beautiful. is it the city, is it the people of the city? there is definitely something quietly unbridled in the air today, like every other day, here in this little corner on earth, and for this precise nameless reason, i cannot be grateful enough. i cannot wait to head back home, but i feel even more eager to return to the warm eccentricities of this comfortable oddball place, where i can full-heartedly believe in all there is to believe in. a spot of reality so humble and fantastical, it is superior to a dream and charitable enough to allow for the discrepancies and limits of the human condition. ah to breathe in this faith! in a city so accommodating of the many romanticisms of similar, hopeful kinds.

2010-05-15T22:18:00.000-07:00

the branches thin and sharp that claw against the falling sky

scratch the fires lit up behind the many pardons

that float upwards from the bedrooms

of men and women who lay

flat on the bones of

their backs

too

ashamed to

come to terms with

the nature of their passing

and the spirit in which they remain

open-eyed and warmly-clothed and trampling

on the littlest vital desires of each terrified convulsing heart.

2010-05-15T19:49:00.000-07:00

everything that is tied can be untied, and tied again and untied again. subtly unfolding thoughts like these make me want to untie myself and leave, because quietly gifted times like these make it clear that what lies ahead is still wet, pale, and smeared. conditioned pessimism contributes nothing, but then again, why should it contribute anything at all. maybe this is how it has always been, from an impartial point of view. being directly involved, should i not remain partial and dismiss the mental negativity that have crept out of this ennui out of supposed respect for the current construct of morality? with a cold heart such as my own, stepping away, or better still, running away, could only be the most natural manner in which to ensure an alternate form of survival. unsuspecting moments like these, i still cannot decide whether i should be grateful or simply, shallowly, painfully digress.

hey stranger*,

2010-05-11T12:50:00.000-07:00

you will never read this, but i am writing this to you anyway. it is 12.22pm now on a breathtaking tuesday afternoon, warm and bright, and we are here in this bookstore, having coffee and being occupied. you are sitting three tables away in front of me, in the row to my left, and we are facing each other. i hear you make cordial small talk with the old gentleman and his wife next to you, and i look up, and i see how clean your face looks, how casually you have your long blond hair pulled back. a shade of blond that assures me that it is your natural color, without the whims of highlights and the burden of artificiality. an effortless gradation of paleness. i see you sketching on your notepad, and besides two cups of coffee, it is all there is on your table. you have on a grey sweater and jeans folded up at the cuffs, and on your feet are brown moccasins. your slouchy black beg sits faithfully under the table.

you keep looking up, you keep looking at me.

i head over to the counter to get something to eat, and i walk past you, and i slyly glance at what you are doing.

the old gentleman and his wife are leaving now, and they exchange more pleasantries with you, and i hear your conversation loud and clear. they lean over and examine your work, much less slyly, and they ooh and they aah and they ask you questions. i find out that you go to art school, and i am not surprised. i find out that you grew up here, and i am not surprised. i find out that you are drawing me, and i am surprised this time the second time around, the first time being after seeing your sketch when i was on the way to select breakfast from behind the glass display.

"i think she has a clue." you say out loud, with a smile on your face and in your voice as the old couple leave, and i feel you looking straight at me, but i cannot bring myself to look up. you look and look some more, you wait, and all i do is shrink on the inside.

now you switch seats, and i have a view of your back, small and narrow, like how all female backs are. tapering downwards beneath the thin fabric of your outfit, your back, the back of a perfect stranger, your head cocked slightly, pale hair falling down past the nape of your neck. you are sketching out another strange person now, whichever one they might be.

i hope you are completely done with me. i hope you did not stop halfway. can i choose to believe that you are kind that way? the timbre of your voice suggests that you are, so does the manner in which you observe your subjects. can i see with my own eyes how you see me? will it be too awkward to ask? will you be leaving soon?

you are exquisite with that pencil, and i think your name starts with a J. i like the way your silver hoop earrings peek out of your hair.

katak-katak di bawah tempurung.

2010-05-09T04:33:00.000-07:00

all this ugly chatter, flapping lips and long tongues of young adults who think that they know everything when they know absolutely nothing. people, a culture, really, who are mortified by the very thought of overcoming hurdles and bumps in the road. folks who choose to take the easy way out, because they would rather escape messes then deal with them. these people, who think they are tough stuff, who think that they are superior beings in a superior nation, who have no concrete life experiences under their belts to back up their arguments. these young men and women, who love you when you think the way they do, but do not try to comprehend you when you set yourself on a different mental wavelength. people who do not embrace the true sense of acceptance, and barely tolerate variations of the norm, their norm, their sad, unexciting, degrading, pompous norm. so-called friends who tell you to give up, to quit being generous, to spread yourself around because this is the prime time to do so. these barely-adults, who really do not know what cultural differences mean, and the dissimilarity in thoughts, perspectives, emotions, actions, and sense of normalcy that are birthed from that. these folks, they do not know how to handle, and if they continue to lead lives clouded by the easy comfort of staying within the borders of their home country, by consciously or unconsciously choosing to be ignorant out of fear or out of blind pride, they will never know how to.

transplantation is a good thing, i cannot complain. adjusting takes time, even for the best of us. it all boils down to whether or not you choose to make your experiences worthwhile, and i find no reason why i should waste mine. settling down alone away from home, a plane ride or a car ride, or even a bike ride away, is not easy. there are various degrees of hardship felt unequally by each individual, and i believe that there must be a mutual respect for that, and a mutual understanding of the differences in the types of hardships that is felt. does it bruise your ego that your difficulties are trivial - not irrelevant, but trivial - as compared to mine? wait, hold on, do you even take into fair account what it is like to walk in my shoes? a transplantation that involves an entire day's worth of airplane air, an entire culture, an entire way of life, an entirely new social construct, an entire revamping of schedule and food and activities and spirituality and ultimately, self?

and you think that i am crazy.

you, who think along the lines of familiarity and hedonism, of happiness that does not involve burdens, joys that are hardly rooted in truths of reality, you think you are better than me, you actually feel powerful enough to pass such skewed judgments upon me?

being neither here nor there, not one of them but not completely one of my own, and my own is oceans, almost a world apart, from yours. i will not proclaim that what i have and what i am used to are better than what you own, because that would just place me on your playing field, and i refuse to reduce myself to make my point. so many people who know the truths of here and there, valid through personal experiences, the best form of proof one can possibly ask for, have warned me, warned us hopeful youths.

you will be made to feel like you are, and perhaps never will be, up to par.

you might have to work unnecessarily hard to earn respect.

you will feel alone walking amongst all those people.

as strong as you are, there will be times when you feel far too alone.

there is truly no place like home, but do not limit yourself to the confines of your home, go forth, see the world, gather knowledge, experience. enrich yourself, meet people, respect them, accept them, love them. learn from them what is good, observe and take note. be aware of what to avoid, grow as human being. and when all is said and done, know in your heart that

there is no place like home.

and these young hardly-ladies and not so gentle men are too cozy and too confident in their home, that they easily discount what they cannot identify with. people who do not even try, not interested in expanding their horizons. they who believe that theirs is the ultimate yardstick in many aspects of life, without first inquiring about other alternatives. oh sure, some claim to be knowledgeable, open-minded, they say that they have your best interest at heart, they tell you that they are looking out for you. all these claims made, without research, without taking the time to view the situation - the world, even, on a larger scale - from a different perspective. they query on the less ideal in life, zero in and harp on that for almost forever. people who do not seem to place as much importance on positivity as they do negativity. folks who, for reasons unfathomable to me, raise their bottles to despair, celebrate it by losing themselves, and telling you to lose yourself and let go of your beliefs. because investing in a strange person, interest, what have you, is bad for you. too much hassle. because she is too different.

she is crazy!

and when i say different, i mean different. not varieties of your same old overexploited commercialized material. everyone knows that already, it is getting old, the world is getting bored with that load of shit. wake up, differences are not bad, they are just unlike you. who made you the ultimate benchmark again?

yes i speak on behalf of the rest of the globe. speaking a general truth, but a truth nonetheless. we laugh at your ways. they are not funny, just very, very, very pathetic. do you see what you are doing to yourselves? killing yourselves off emotionally, i see you young men and women hell bent on satisfying the most base of urges, the light has gone from your eyes, your soul has so early on been flung out with the winds. you say you live for the moment, you fully embody it. what you folks are doing can hardly be called living. you are surviving, and you choose to employ one of the poorest methods to do so.

i am not better than you, i am not lesser than you. i am not the same as you. do not judge me based solely on your local system because the readings will be the furthest thing from accurate. you doing that is what turns this tragedy into a vicious cycle. you opine that i am all sorts of wrong, that adds to the insecurity, piles on to the uncertainties already present from the exhaustive process of fitting in, and fitting in well. i mean, do you even know what it is like to go through all that i have gone through and continue to go through? such thoughts do not enter your minds. while you think that i am weird, we - yes, we - feel that your type is all sorts of wrong, and then some. i am in no power to do anything or start something because i am in this alone, and you people have each other. this does not mean that i keep completely silent. this does not mean that you win, not at all. this means that for your own betterment, you should probably start learning new things, to help yourselves. i have outlets where i express these grievances, i am not worried. there are those among you who are gems, that i will wholeheartedly acknowledge. and these people are beautiful indeed, among the most beautiful people i have ever known. but yes, back to you, i know your ways, i know that i know. do not think that i am a fool, that would to be fool yourselves.

and you do not forgive or forget easily, do you? even those unacquainted with you. oh, how hard hearted. i have known quite a few who have an elephant's memory when it comes to not allowing for second chances. i suppose the norm here is that most relationships are based firmly, sometimes sadly enough solely, on first impressions. of course, such people are present in every culture out there, but never have i ever been made to face so much of this philosophy, at any point in my life. i could strive to be the sterling example of your idea of 'the right type', improve on my part because i know that that too is highly necessary, but i have doubts, and fat reasons to doubt, that it would be pointless.

you would still think he is crazy.

i would advise you young men and women to step outside, see the world. when you finally grasp what it is like out there, get back to me. i will not turn down genuine apologies. just be mindful out there. if you bring with you the same attitude and airs, oh boy, you will feel a set of pains like none other. i am just saying.

* yes i am riled, furious, upset, frustrated. i feel deservedly so. culture shock in one of its many species caught up with me finally, and it is perhaps one of the rudest awakenings of its kind. i guess it was about time. san francisco could never be absolutely perfect. she is almost there. still, a sort of home, away from home.

like a cream cheese cupcake.

2010-05-04T14:56:00.000-07:00

what a wondrous realization, when the head snaps stiffly back into position after hanging so low, to know now after all has been said and done, that while making the trek through the cloying grey swathe of recycled dolor between two opposing extremities, everything remains tightly woven and that there has never been a gap available for fear, and that the head hung so low only to ease the strain of passing time, to pay detailed attention to the pieces of bright, stained paper which now stand cut and folded in a corner, huddled together, all their different bends and tucks set tight into place during a stretch of loneliness and longing;

they serve as an eclectic reminder of the astounding immensity of a heart and a home far removed from the common sphere of modern tragicomedy, and the magnificence of a desire burning not of mere fire, but of a steely hope and wordless knowledge that after all is said, done, and won, nobody can be imbecilic enough to say,

man, i feel real damn sorry fer ya.

rrready?

2010-05-03T01:28:00.000-07:00

it is not often that the beating of hot water the hot hissing sharp beating of hot water makes one shiver teeth all a-clatter the stinging rivulets that slide down in curves hundreds of tiny venomous rivulets sliding down their burning paths on skin so cold so cold and tired that the taps remain unadjusted for an hour.

what are these shallow carvings on my face that are different from the carvings on shoulders breasts ribs and hips and feet no difference at all except that they taste different and my face is on fire only an alternate harsher fire much quieter than the flames spreading into the dirty water that flood my soles now truly cold.

it is monday, this is get-go.

2010-04-27T14:19:00.001-07:00

hey, i just wanted to tell you
that the new petals
the white petals
yes the small ones
they have started to curl.
they curl inwards at
the ends
quite uniformly
they curl.
the flower is tighter now
and as a result
the bright purple heart
dotted with orange powder
is the only thing that catches
your eye.
it pops out
the powder stains some petals
and i can't get them out
even with rough thumbpads
even with fingernails.
the leaves have collected
close to the stem
all of them.
the flower looks like
it is going into seizure
a quiet seizure
its heart bulging and begging
for limpness.
hey, i just wanted to tell you
how the impending death
of this flower
its petals white
its center bright
how its shriveling up
pulls out thoughts of you.
this little has-been bloom
curiously dying
at its own steady pace
it curls knowingly
with the weight of your
clean heart
stammering.

in wait.

2010-04-22T15:53:00.000-07:00

cabs planes doors sober minds. the birth of some things death of some others. for them to leave all of them the gnarly ones all you motherfucking leeches all you sick sad little stupid crazy things all writhing and disgusting on the floor. for true sensibility and soft hands. time cannot lag any slower my head cannot lurch to a more stationary halt goddammit you call them brothers sisters friends sharing blood the hell. for detachment but that will be a long spiky while.

2010-04-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

it's never too early to say goodbye.
you will learn,
that this is how i time my life.

2010-04-21T20:39:00.000-07:00

(edited 2x)

and life spurts out all shy at first all hesitant and then it is raring to go and it goes oh i tell you it goes and goes it goes high up and far and it goes further up farther and farther this life spewing out so excitedly and desperately it releases itself with a vigor so very powerful and wonderful to see. a touching moment a narrow slice of time when life explodes so joyful and intense a beautiful display of catharsis at its strongest purest most carnal most believable and honest form reminding us of our mortality and subsequent immortality oh this life that comes out of waiting no longer crouching in anticipation of its many spectacular shows the ecstasy it possesses and the blood that it drains. and life slowly becomes tender and patient as it rejoices quietly it recollects special opportunities made and given under the sun so tremendously generous and rains down on thick damp loam squirming fresh rich and filthy

2010-04-17T00:25:00.000-07:00

an excess of light - can you place blame

on an excess of

100% natural, fat-free, migraine-inducing

happiness?

maybe the colors in this room, yes

maybe the colors are making me

sick.

these loud colors, all

different and

strange,

they hurt my itty bitty brain.

they befuddle the one awry weary, feeling, organ

right now that is tucked tight

stuck inside of me.

these selfish popular colors yellow orange green reds pop!

pop bloody purple pop pop bloody turquoise POP popping every

single

fucking

nerve

in my eye,

my right eye throbs POPS! now

with pressure unfunnily pressing out from

within.

these bold colors,
they paint the fires,

the iron walls of hell

tails of hoofed evil,

in these jewel tones.

do i easily blame the heat?

amplified by today's
standoffish sun

so proudly basking,

ignorant of the pains

the endless complaints

of terrible people

like me.

the warmth masks the cold air
cuts through the steel

lending a sickly, saccharine quality,

sticky, lazy,

blooming odor of skin.

the kind of smell that dries up your tongue

and sinks into plastic
and leather.

your thighs don't glisten, sex feels dirty,

bodily scents float into the walls

spunk stains the floor of your mouth,

the ridges of my teeth.

the sheets crumple

it's a mess we don't want to deal with,

not now.

it's a mess we don't want to feel,

not ever.

thinning papers and

these young mishapped feet,

bones protruding, odd nails rough,

the skin thick.

layers of cotton hang

dead like men

thin like my papers.

this is not detachment - i refuse detachment!

i will not experience it, not in my angry

youth!

give me my papers!

it was wrong

i know it and

i am not touched

- and so what!

there can be no change,

not while these goddamn rays drum

their fingers

on my skull!

so what!
give me my papers,

i refuse to tell myself

soothing words,

each syllable broken -

i tweaked myself to be wrongly designed

but i am not a liar!

- not to myself.
they are MY papers.

the smell of familiarity, perhaps i am not used

to it in long, large doses
the furniture, books, beds, cotton

steaming to a rankness in this bubbling

gold weather -

it is almost summer

and the heavy nothingness that settles,

100% natural, fat-free, rubs away emotions

completely

seeps slow and certain into the last crevices

of what is left of my heart,

into the many cracks in my bones

tears in my flesh.

i boil in this weather

the weather of my dreams

i boil down to a simmer,

i simmer down to a waste

stinking up the premises.

laying flat, mindless

exploring a commanding

ennui,
realizing a sore truth

which leaps from the bruised

throat.

looking everywhere for an excuse

anything,

anything but this knowledge!

anything but this

menacing, sweltering,

melting morsel of truth,

a truth that fritters away

human connection
and undermines beautiful stories,
an entire history.
slicing open my mouth,
saying that there is nothing -
this nothing is my truth
and nothing is my love,
i am weighed down in enlightenment.
my cavity has no echo,
it is momentary and hard
searing hotly, stretching.
it is almost summer
and the season terrifies me
and i need to get out,
to cast off nothing.

a cluster.

2010-04-10T00:35:00.000-07:00

their heads droop heavy, they turn thin and dark. they curl, every flat surface bend inwards, every curve tighter, smaller, shyer. their stains turn brown with old age, they lose the hard vigor that youth grants. they crumble when brushed, and break when held. they die in their death, they keep dying as they remain. they remain because i love them in their decay, because i am too young to choose to send them elsewhere. i am too hopeless to put them aside, too stubborn to replace them. they absorb the sleepy glow of light, unmoving and silent, so dear, the driest things in the room. if they are truly dead, whatever that means, then i do not know what death is, if it even exists.

lacking The, past.

2010-04-09T16:05:00.000-07:00

rooftop man running wind snapping at his heels.

slices of air sharp and thin like sturdy metal sheets slicing through

skin bone all sorts of matter muscle. individual hair.

leaping over air inky and dense and unclean.

arch of ace vaulter running down his back rooftop man curves

midair in between rigid spineless buildings.

above peculiar smudges of earth and pavements snaking along

endlessly cold. shadows of empty window panes.

rooftop man whipping in old wind empty widow pains.

smooth liquid night flows into his eyes black into black.
city spreads out to bottoms of hills carpeting flowers million blades
of grass. crushing ants beneath her one slug foot drowning
spirits in sinister petroleum ooze.
electricity weakly crackles with dregs of his wine
collecting in hollows of steady feet. rough and ashen.
rooftop man faceless always nameless scratching twilight stillness
with perpetual movement swift unfeeling.
treacherous oceans die down inside. constant physical action
propelling life. bleak and pointing to distant hills disappearing.
aiming for pointlessness.

reality of eternity strange and savage.
rooftop man leaves sympathies cascading behind curls of ears.

no light on earth nor above. perfect visual vacuum.

he marks on old wind sickly yellow stains.

2010-04-08T01:32:00.000-07:00

soon it will be a full day, and yet i still hold back from displaying any symptoms of my, your, cathartic heartbreak. i am still in awe at how many of your layers have quietly peeled away over these last months, i cherish to the fullest now your honest longings, those that i never, ever knew existed. i cannot stop thinking of this revelation. i do not know exactly, in what manner i should arrange my thoughts and emotions, my actions, but deciding on that can wait; thank you so much for the opportunity, i feel the difference in your words, they make me want to make the one stubborn decision i have been putting off almost close to forever. where others have tried and fallen flat on their faces, your single effort courts change. look now, at how powerful you are. how beautiful you are. things will no longer be the same.

stop motion.

2010-04-05T21:57:00.000-07:00

this fly, this fly that buzzes and searches and circles, always circles in his stupendous circles, these circles, his repetitive soothing obnoxious grating smooth circular motion, just moving through the air, cutting the simplicity of a wet spring day, cutting the meaning and underlying - secret? - importance of his functioning game and the environment and the philosophies of giants and the little swaying daisies, white petaled yellow hearted, thin stalked and shivering in the breezes gliding from the vast spectacular oceans across the trees and roads and parking lots and restaurants and homeless men and their mutts, this fly, this fly that sees a thousand similar things all distorted and repeated, all too achingly familiar, he turns on the motors of his wings to lift himself up and move in the ways of the world the rhythm of expectation this odd idea of normalcy and calm, his circles grow exponentially, he sees the dew and the pea, glittering with the sun, crystals in the raw azure skies, skies that rub you cold and dry, sharp with the wit of god and his many faces all blotched smudged strange and definite and alluring mysterious blunt quiet and lustful and eager, maybe always maybe mostly sometimes maybe caring intelligent straight understandable, always elusive always a breath full of air and the flicker of flame at the end of many delusional, many emphatic, many unapologetic matches

little suns.

2010-03-26T00:04:00.000-07:00

a million little suns

they burst

seconds from one

another.

some explode

simultaneously,

some boil

continuously.

boiling furiously through

juice - dusky
pungent exotic

dusty water.

what there was.

2010-03-19T00:59:00.000-07:00

before the white waters the white crashing waters that pound bodies and stone down to the silky smoothness of their bone before the vast space and so-called gross disgrace that bleed gently into your cultural lace the fetters of your loam before the teasing spring the astonishing everything the self pushes exceedingly to stroke and roam before the hellish curl the frenzied clawing of windburn whirl large circles around tangles of wool blend unfurled and whipping cold as sea foam before the white waters the white crashing waters was before the start was before the heart was ironed out and fingered and figured out and touched what on earth was there?

2010-03-09T18:07:00.000-08:00

love.

your higher form of

i truly don't deserve

brosandi.

2010-03-08T00:17:00.000-08:00

i lay here soft and sprawled and quiet like a moth, listening in on the vivacious chirps that surround me, feigning lukewarm small smiles in response to the howls of laughter that erupt every now and again, faintly, mindlessly bobbing my head to the beat of dirty music blaring from someone else's speakers. they are the white noise i need to reorganize my thoughts at the end of the day, and i am always grateful for their constant presence, because nothing scares the shit out of me more than finding myself in silent tranquility, being more alone than being alone. i would unquestioningly, gladly sacrifice the strange concept called privacy to be caught in this whirlwind of goings-on; the fear of coming back home to no one is perhaps the only insecurity that i refuse to do away with. i lay here soft and sprawled and quiet, and i click my tongue gently, absentmindedly, like how i would like to think moths do, and i gather my gratitudes and grievances, i go through them, file them, store them, all while the flurry of activity that surrounds me pick up its pace. and as i am in the midst of checking off boxes on my mental list, i suddenly find that i urgently miss eyes that particular honest chocolate color, and the distinct scent of wood and earth and heart, the grasp of intelligent hands, and most exquisitely, the terrible explicitness of the burning feel of teeth. i place that collective right at the top of the pile of personal gratitudes, and i now can drift off to sleep fuzzy-hearted and peaced and desiring; the white noise continues to throb, electrify, choke and overwhelm the warm indoor air, and i love how i am lost, wholly unperturbed.

bay weather.

2010-02-26T13:51:00.000-08:00

and so i sit here inside this room, inside myself, feeling the cold of my feet and rubbing the big toe of my left foot in jerky circles around my right ankle, marveling at how effectively numbing low temperatures can be, and how awkwardly arranged my limbs are. i have my face painted, my skin scented. the urge to disregard any and all discomfort and start moving, thinking myself so very spoilt to be this perturbed by fat drops of rain and the nameless gust of wind. the wind, it scratches my windows, it thumps against doors with the desperation of a jilted lover or the idiocy of a drunkard. amusing, sad, pathetic, aggravating; how in these prime, lonely conditions, i cannot properly think, my heart does not sense a thing.

2010-02-01T21:09:00.000-08:00

what is this clammy weight of air? oh, space.

gilded and cold.

2010-01-26T14:06:00.000-08:00

pitter patter, pitter patter, drumming into hair and skull, cotton, leather, woolly knits, drumming into swiftly moving rivers of gentle and grizzly men and ladies. them drowning and enthusiastic, scoops of them face-painted, scoops of them honest and clean and dragging their hunched backs alongside wet cars. them, shaking off drops of dirty water before doors. one of them, she has on the sweetest tailored boots, she has that devastating attraction, that purple pullover full of chaos and wrong colors, funny hair - chopped and damp and straying, she has an outstanding mouth. he leans to one side, he is one row too far away, he in his frayed old pants and terrible hair, crimped terribly, bleached terribly. he has heavy black shoes, old too, he points them to the right, he folds his legs. he tries discreetness but he needs practice. he wants to clamp over her smart, thin, beautiful mouth with his loud, burly one. he wants her strange atmosphere, and we can smell his desire over the tinkering of piano keys, under the velvet tones of that liquid saxophone. pitter patter, pitter patter. the red haired man with the hole in his chin and bigger holes in his ears recognizes the rising steam to his left side, and the falling rain jails him inside the room as much as he feels the requirement to flee, to free his collared neck and save another man's heart. we look straight ahead, watch the engaging gentleman in his brown shirt striped appropriately middle age, him with deep, intelligent dents on the sides of the speckled bridge of his nose. we observe each others' heads, make mental notes and develop juvenile interest. we observe him quipping, the almost lover, and we appreciate his words - not his own self, not yet - we let out a smear of laughter. she surveys the room in several wide sweeps through her unpopular glasses, she voices out in her infectious chirp. somewhere back there, not too far back, one of them has her blonde roots showing, offsetting the chemical blue. the rainwater in her hair is probably streaking away, eating away, foreign substances. that could explain the pale streams scattered and pooled around her face, but that could just be the way she intends it. michael jackson reclines in a traditional triangle, michael jackson and a strange bubbles, stare out at us, gaudy and unsettling and almost gold. flat set on the board, they demand reaction, stimulate geek discussion. we are confused by the king, and his obscene lips, his black-lined eyes, glazed over. nevertheless, we could stay inside that space, us clustered together in the white space inside the cookie-cutter construction of four off-white walls, and actually have an enjoyable time. maybe not so much for me, because as per habit, it is prime time for primitive sounds and primal action. the clock teases, the man in the brown shirt striped appropriately middle age teases, and i wonder if the pitter patter has stopped, for i feel like taking a walk back home. michael jackson and bubbles and grotesque adoration/abomination and hardy, odd feelings, will follow me, back home. pitter patter, pitter patter, slowly slowing down, rewinding.

is this a beautiful one?

trample and halt.

2010-01-25T14:12:00.000-08:00

i wonder if i feel this scarring of flesh differently, if i am right to do so. i can only wish that i am no longer delusional, and that this strange pain actually runs deeper through me. i hope that it will quietly, surely burrow its way into the heart of my bones, and strengthen me, because the unpredictable bobbing of maybes is aggravating, in a sad, fragmented way, and my frame by itself is brittle and hollow, thus a little bit of saving will go quite a distance. there is no room or reason present in this narrow wedge of time i call now to justify any sort of discontentment and sorrow. i want this space to be flooded in ethereal light, i want the slightest touch to ignite mad fire, i want to truly own your special brand of knowledge, i want my present state to be the entirety of truth. everyone can rope in theoretical deductions, but after all these cuts and more than my fair share of bruises, i have come to the conclusion that perhaps, i want to slam on the brakes now, and if i do hurtle out of my seat at breakneck speed, so be it. it is etched in my throbbing brain today, no more putting on blinkers, no more weaving, no more storming through. i have a long line of traffic lights in front of me, and they all flash red. that angry, passionate, strong, certain color, teaching me lessons.

2010-01-05T04:37:00.000-08:00

bright in the kitchen

and frozen

feet and

the tank is going and we should

sleep

empty glasses

shell of can

and microwave smells at

four A.M.

hoods are up and silence

maintained

and task at hand

and some eye strain

i steal glances

at your

throat and you

breathe in fruit and nut

and coffee

i drink my cup

and blearily feel

love

for the quiet one before

opening lines.

2010-01-01T07:55:00.000-08:00

i cannot remember why i stopped reading you. maybe it was because you were in two places at once, and keeping up was far too taxing.

so, i suppose i took the easy way out and severed myself from your gifts and your mind, and consequently i lost the empty touch - that spine-tingling, belly-warming, tear-inducing fits - which, once upon a time, filled me up, filled you up, to the brim. all-nighters we pulled, when our sad, filthy conversations were had. our disastrous takes on each other's lives, and our seeking of amateur counsel from one another, and the strange harmony we birthed from our personal tragedies, that were really next to senseless.

or maybe, i stopped reading you not out of my own choice, but by circumstance, which made me have to make a choice - like spluttering out a betrayal with a gun to my head - although it would be one that i would make not out of choice, out of will. which essentially, would not put me at fault. which would make me the victim to the situation, which would make the entire deal tremendously sad, with the conclusion being, i was reverting back to being a hopeless romantic.

when we still had those hours, i straightaway recognized that they were immense, and i went to class looking haggard and barely functioning on caffeine, and spiritually rejuvenated, mentally liberated, and anxiously awaiting another complex session to be conducted in our godless space.

today, just before the guests started trickling in, i unthinkingly tapped on a few letters which led me to you again, and i decided to stay a while, and read.

you remain the same, you remain that beautiful entangled person one or three years ago, that hilarious hated man surviving under covers and seeking love and peace in a plethora of madness. i absorbed your melancholy forged in favorite foreign words, and i felt a sweep of shame across my face, because i knew that, whatever the reason behind me no longer reading your mind, i have done a most terrible deed.

i wrote half this post before i stepped outside the room to smile and hug and introduce myself to people, and am right now writing the other half in the quietness of morning, of the first day of the year 2010, looking out at the faint outlines of houses as sun rays lazily brush the top of their roofs. everybody is fast asleep, and i am only a little tired, and i am refreshed somewhat by a long, introspective shower, and i am madly in love with the serenity that presides over this place. i thought that my feelings from fifteen hours ago would subside or evolve, but they have not.

remembering actual conversations, and actual emotions, and actual predicaments from time past is a magical way to start the new year, because although you and i are almost in need of salvation, we draw strength from a stranger well, and we have no complaints about the extra thorns in our feet, and the extra distance we have to cover, because we are safely aware of each other's lack of heart and the secret ink we obtain to nourish our veins.

it is 2010 today, and i choose to be touched by the sadness in your bones, to remind me that maybe, i could have a token of happiness to keep as my own. you are outrageous and beautiful, and i love your tragicomedy, i love it with a fire and a roar.

***

and i hope to know if it is worth being this carefully hidden, if it is worth telling you and showing you just the bright side of our truth. i have an honest desire to teach you, but my heart is funny, and it wants to rest now.

entitled.

2009-12-28T16:13:00.000-08:00

i would like to tag a reason to the sheet of sky outside because it looks so familiar, i irritatingly feel that everything looks familiar when awash in this heart throbbing light of sickly pastel yellow. the yellow we get out of a cheap box of wax crayons - yes, that pathetic color, like it is dying even before use, it is already wasting away and frustrating and spiritually retarded before utilization - that sad color of an alcoholic's skin, stretched and spread out, dappled with immobile gray clouds. and the quiet murmur of temporary contentment rolls into itself, balling up inside the cavity of my bones, only because the air around me feels crisp and tired, longing for a siesta but not selfish enough to follow through, because there are people in the streets who still need visual assistance, because they are incredibly limited and poor inside, fragile like ghosts, or art critics. maybe i should get up, get myself those sickly flowers, purge myself of my horrid excitements, i could probably slip away behind the cold weather. i tag myself for shaking this much, for the slow-churning delay and the peace that entails underneath the afternoon's somber shade. a pallid hue clings onto life in many shapes and forms, merging with them and creating sleep, right down to the footprints of various design, a little meddling of the structural and genetic kind. the sober one slumbers because he does not know better, and the evening sky lulls him, and he lazily succumbs. the portrait of a familiar wave of emotion i tear away from my mind's eye, for i need no reference to it anymore, for it is now integrated into the fabric of my retina, and sewn in the linings of my skeleton and many shadows. meaning that tonight, i barely need to bleed myself dry.

souffle heat.

2009-12-04T15:19:00.000-08:00

summer freckles, ornate eyes.

torn lips, enthusiastic hips.

flouncy dress, naked feet.

girl with the cut cheek.

vanilla smell, ginger hair.
summer heat, fruit concentrate.

thinning books, steamy looks.

weathered skin, how have you been.

no season for porcelain.

the deathbed objective.

2009-11-24T00:51:00.000-08:00

maybe you were right when you said that i could be in a top-secret limbo. i spoke too soon, too soon i think, and now i shoot up the words you owned, i shoot them up my narrow veins, the veins that snake down my withered wrists. i earnestly believe that i am in a good place, basking in a happy space, that i am willing to make changes, capable of rearranging the emotional trinkets i have strewn about in many levels and phases. i have dreams, i have ideals, i have these funny hopes that scream back at me, they tell me that they are in essence, hopeless; i look into mirrors and blank computer screens, into my crazy eyes. i stare at them staring back at me, and i quietly drive my own self crazy. i become this crazy shadow to the physical and spiritual truths of my being, because my thoughts, desires for sensibility and balance, and harmony and trust, these and other tricky things, make me a complete fool, through and through, and through and through. i inject your slap of reality into my being. i feel the throbbing pain of it tweaking my original stubbornly female design. my heart is once again, stupid and weak and frustratingly insecure. these - the affirmations, the symptoms, which kick-start the most dramatic of personal tragedies - parasitic sorrows.

maybe you were right when you told me half of the things you said. i still crane my neck to receive the miracles of stars in the night. i still feel the same, even without your grace. nevertheless, i maintain acknowledgement that there can only be one tenderness that pours into my mold in that subtle way, one sandpapery voice that is able to say, all the right and wonderful things. a single imperfection of the universe, so artfully drawn and gambled to live. i have torched down many pictures, but i save the ones that are more than mere painted-on polaroid grimaces and grins. i do not forget much; and in regards to this, i do not, i cannot forget anything.

and so, you know, i will wait, because in this volatile moment, the portion that is the rest of my life seems to depend on it.

***

this is why that song, unceremoniously tinkered with, suddenly means so much to me. because now,

off in the night while i live it up, you're off to sleep.

because you remain the beautiful one, the wise and patient, the sleeping and correct one. you hold on to the last snatch of peace. and now we have me, prying open bottle caps and minds and scabs off wounds and my own heart, and losing each of these things at the end of each night. my skin is cold now, my teeth thin, not because of the bay wind, but because of my idiocy and compunction.

tonight, tomorrow, and each following day, i need to be proven wrong. i will pay no mind to logic stretched by time, to doubts birthed by distance, to despair brought upon me by my own set of cowardly beliefs. prove me too wrong, absolutely wrong, and i will drop to my knees, and i will be grateful, i will be pleased.

qwerty gawddddamn.

2009-11-19T22:25:00.000-08:00

it hammers at your sight. it stammers when you speak. on one hand, the disruption is very much welcomed; a sign, indeed, of a blossoming truth. on the other hand, oh, the frequent pauses it causes! so many, tiny, mighty, pauses. hiccups of the tongue, train of thought in dire need of fresh oil, the toe-curling numbness.

hello hey, little miss something else and under!

get yo bleedin' act together!

bleargh. what does one do. hopeless devotees, bumbling fools.

i has a stupid in muh brain. an itty bitty stupid, thank you, thank you.

universes fool.

2009-11-18T02:05:00.000-08:00

once again, in too deep,

thinking myself to sleep; breaking the rhythm,

losing the beat.

scrubbing these lips;

fuck my dissipating heat!

once again,

taking things apart,

pretending to be,

a hotshot heart mechanic.

180 degrees spun over;

full speed ahead, a hurricane, son.

another young crazy, son.

autopsy number

five hundred and seventy three,

fuck mastering this machinery.

footwork in the fog presents:

2009-11-15T21:55:00.000-08:00

call them nights to remember, call them nostalgic, call them poetry in space, or ecstasy, or unadulterated luxury, or hand-painted. or call them moments of oblivion, selfish living, call them hedonistic, call them plain stupid, or blatant ignorance on my part. i jumble up my options tonight, not because i am fully capable, but because i cannot help myself from being a fragmented being. shards of thoughts, ideas, memories, and emotions litter this private earth, and i walk on them carefully, and my soles bleed carefully, in well-chosen tenderness. a departure from monotony, the bleak cycle of routine; entering the tunnel of youthful explorations and experiences, of mistakes, constant alterations, and above and beyond pain. i step outside for a breather, and i hop, skip, and then i run in the opposite direction, away from all that is offered on a gleaming tray, in steamy warmth. i could have taken my glories before the big escape, but they would not be translated in the same safe fashion, so why bother. why bother. hurtling towards a black gravitational future, a little twitch here, a slight flinch there. i recollect whatever preserved episodes at the back of my eyes, as the winds slash across my chest and pierce my bones. and i have this song, and visions of you and your bright tomorrows, and the orange glow of streetlights accompanying my terribly underdeveloped versions of joy. i hear the static, but nothing is going to stop me. i will soon rampage through, with fervor and a dream, i will break down the glass pillars, me in my many tiny pieces. tonight, i feebly begin.