Sunday, December 27, 2009
and release again.
Your only good is in loving,
and so loving, you must keep.
Oh heart, you must struggle
and keep your weary eyes awake;
you serve no one in your sleep,
and in sleeping, no pleasures take.
Dare I put my heart to sleep?
Lay its weary head to rest
upon its throne, and silent, keep
a vigilant watch, that none might test
the chambers in which
my hopes retreat?
Are dreams the guardians of my heart,
or captors fierce, to stay me alone--
Do I vanquish love, and to my imaginings, hide
in worlds of flight and fancy, as life
half-lives me by, a minor shadow
to my hooded, dreaming eye?
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
thinks more of itself
and more of those shoes
and less of now
this ocean city
sits on the beach
in a magazine
last night's taste
with fruit intoxication
this breezy city
over thin snake canyons
in sunglasses and
there's no room for sunblock
unless you're over 30
and then you better look 20
otherwise, this frenzy city
will overlook you
unless you go to
the black hole bars
and sidewinder streets
to buy or sell
this front of the line city
doesn't look too close
at its cracking streets
and earthquake dramas
and red carpet beggars
dazzling lightshow cameras
propped up behind glass
the creeping black soot
the crawling asphalt dreamers
and smoker's cough
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I am shameless, drunken in love with you,
though I pretend this love is something false;
but I've never known such a breathless make
as the mist you cast on my poor, sweet self.
I've never known such a shivering truth,
nor a harsher lie, that some worthy act
might come of this, and the world might grant me
just one wish, that neither our hearts defy.
I don't know your love, nor dare I to ask
for curtains fall, and there are years between –
but I would save my hope, and save my dreams
for only dreams are what love asks of me.
It is in that glow when I look at you –
so dream I shall, of love that would be true.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
I am someone different than before.
I don't know her yet,
but she is wise,
and I already like her.
I think she can do
what I've always
wanted to do.
She is stronger.
She realizes that explanations
are not as important as actions;
there is no truth in a world
built on contradiction. The state
of this universe is ignorance; enlightenment
is unity in controversy; pure understanding
will never be attained in physical form,
and that is not the goal. The point is not
pure detachment, but rather pure
involvement for the betterment of this world.
That is why we are here.
She will lead me to that goal;
so she already is.
I do not think that you are undeserving of love.
I will never look at you and criticize your faults,
nor will I ever love you any less because of them.
I do not believe that you are beyond suffering,
nor do I believe that your cruelties are your own,
nor will I ever believe that you are less than me
nor will I ever judge you for a lack of faith.
I will never pretend to listen to you, while you speak
your heart to me; I will thank you and bow, knowing
you have trusted and seen in me all that I want to give;
if I may, then let me fail a thousand times for you to succeed.
I will never falter, I will never waver in my belief
in you, nor in the path that brought us together;
I will value every brief second we spend, even in passing,
even if I did not make you smile, even if
I did not touch your heart. I will gladly suffer
your pain with you, and burden the greater
if I could, and forgive you for any doubt, and
when you leave, I will bless your feet that
you may walk on water, that you may not
falter nor tire, and that your road will lead you
only to fulfillment, satisfaction, and peace.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
where the wild winds pull;
over the tilts and truths of this threshold.
So I gaze beyond
for a star's second;
looking in, wondering
how our feet can carry us into silence;
across the blackened floorboards
and back, deep into some sinking room
where I sense firelight. Surely,
I have been here before.
with the snow;
she knows the softer ways
when time was a mother,
but I traveled here over
hills and heartlands, learned
languages and traded love
for some rocks– and never once regretted
the back roads or the unknowns;
so she nodded with my shadow.
The darkness wavers, hovering between
gold and night; I am the streetlights
and the drifting snow; a simple creature,
I only know the silence beyond that top step,
a craving for what is fiercely blind,
my own darkened door wide open.
You have the look about you
of autumn; something fiercely gold,
soft-spoken and fallen. Do you sleep?
Do you close your eyes anymore?
The sound of snow clouds
drifting low from the sky,
ready to drop to the ground.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Just fuck. Sometimes I feel so fucked that I want to scream at something, a wall or a floor, or someone who'll understand... I'm so fucked, I'm not ready for this, I mean I am... or at least, I keep telling myself I am, but the honest truth is that I'm terrified. I'm a terrified child, alone, a little girl who just wants to hide in a corner. How do I go back? How do I get out of this? I am so blindsided right now that I can only think up to a week in the future, otherwise I start panicking. The panic doesn't come from the idea of not being able to keep the house, or not being financially stable... it comes from the realization that from now on, this is it. I'm on my own. There's no turning back; if I decide I don't like life on my own, I can't come home again for a few years to get my shit together... no, I have about three months to go from a completely dependent child to a full-fledged, functioning adult who can provide for herself, and a house, and a car... and sooner or later go back to school... I know I can do it, I know I'll survive... but it just seems so overwhelming. It's just me. Just little old me.
Friday, September 11, 2009
left nor right, she stumbles there alone and
needs a place to lay down, but no rest comes
on a road of no moss, just broken bones
that line the pathway, and old, splintered teeth;
she tried not to look, but his hand was so cold
when she touched it, she remembered his grip
she would hold, as they walked, as they searched
for the road that she wanted; well now here
it is, though it's nothing like glory, a bit
more than she asked, and his warm hand is gone.
Is there no place she can rest? how does one
finish a story, or replace all those pages
with no chance left of love...
She has nothing to write for, no meaning transcribed
on this bone-laden road, undisguised.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
they keep saying a word
but that means
and I have parents
In all of my imaginings of God,
I cannot imagine Heaven.
Nor can I imagine grace.
Nor can I imagine wholeness, or home;
And often I wonder
was it somehow planned this way,
How do I live through
one more day--
I can't; but the body can, they say...
I am dying a new kind of death.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
we'll claim it is the wind
anything, only that the sky
is free; I can afford to keep it,
too high for me.
as though anything can be kept
Friday, September 4, 2009
in your care, but only for a few years
because you see, I need her to be like me
in all of her ways. Many of your ways
were my own, and so I kept you, and trusted
you would teach her how to think, how to be kind
in the face of hate, how to hold herself proudly
when she is humiliated, how to bow herself humble
when she knows her betters, and how to sit, and listen,
and learn. But there are parts of her that still
must grow, and I have many parents and teachers lined
up for her in the future, people who will also take
good care of her, and will allow her to bloom
and receive all parts and facets of me, that she might
fulfill the task she has taken on herself. It is she who asked,
and I simply give what she asks for; she asked for help,
I gave her help; she asked for hope, I gave her hope; she asked
for love, and I give her love, and I see that the love I give her
she gives the world, as a whole fruit, as a generous heart.
So I am sorry, I know you have loved her dear
and that she is your child as much as she is mine; but you are all
my children, and I allow you each life to only have a few, that you
might know what to value, and why I value you,
and why we must value each other.
and a bag of flowers, wrapped in twine,
sitting in the sunlight, growing
until we grow to mud.
Seems that we have only a little sky
and a patch of grass to cushion our feet,
and then we are forever encased and veiled,
packaged and displayed in long, silent hallways,
bordered with flowers trapped in vases.
Flowers grown in boxes,
buried in boxes,
seen behind glass
or under roofs; how many flowers die
to grow inside this place,
and give it the illusion of life?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
embraced once more by night's sweet breath
of remembrance, here I stand again
and prepare myself a seat with death.
I wait upon the white-washed stone;
he is an old friend, long acquainted
yet seldom seen, he's hovered here and faded
to the back of my book, but now has deemed
a visit due; I suppose he knocked
and I heard him, though my ears were tuned
to other things, like my father's laugh
as he fell in love; 'twas just too good to last.
I sit here with my childhood friend
in silence, no words to break this place--
I bow to death, my long-missed muse,
here come to prod this hand awake.
And for what purpose shed my tears?
My heart's been hammered to the mold
and yet found lacking, as my years
are lacking still of wisdom's grace,
though I have walked this withered road
twice, no lines have graced my face;
badges of courage in a world
where beauty replaces chivalry,
and age has become a disgrace.
I would remind you now, I have not age
to offer, though my lessons are well learned--
I shall sit here, silent, listening clear
to gain the years your heart long earned.
a penance' worth, if one might be so kind
to give me leave to speak my heart, you'll find
a moment's worth is all I need
to float me on the harshest ocean, sometimes
just one whisper can lift me along
to the future's bow, driven by forward motion
in the heart of change; I am lost, surrendered,
and trapped, my heart a road in winter,
fallen, false standing, adrift in snow
to see the stars, a desperate distant glow,
hidden, dimmed, their light misty now
and drifting, so I beg for love--
just a second's worth, for my heart can take no more
than a simple dose, enough to clear my voice
and hold me close; I've been afraid before.
This dread winter has already marked its years,
and they shall never be restored.
Monday, August 31, 2009
my homeland, the beautiful.
Lost is the steady
of my hands.
I am smothered, adrift
on this violent black sea--
so easily unmade of me.
We are worlds bent backwards,
made of unknowable oceans--
I've been shattered, refracted
and thrown by the notion
that perhaps hope is nothing,
like a curse from this sea--
I am cracked,
I am flawed,
I am free.
we are shards of ourselves,
splintered wood, contradictions,
and the illusion
I am well practiced;
with a laughing smile, straining
I had only one genuine summer
and now I am back
I'll do cartwheels and flips;
make rainbows and bridges
all for the sake of hiding.
I am a hole.
I am a hell
I have always known.
I thought maybe
if I valued every second, every memory,
if I said thank you every day
and prayed and bowed
to all this world gave me,
I thought maybe
love would keep you
for me, thought maybe
I could grow old with you
and knowing only half of myself
would be okay, like maybe
if I could cling tight enough,
prove that I take nothing for granted,
that I value love above all else
and I would never waste it, and share it freely
life, or good karma, or something
would stop this. You know, maybe
if I racked up enough points
I could cheat, avoid life, avoid another hole
because that's all I am
which I have tried to climb from
since a child -- dear god, was I ever a child?
I will always be terrified--
I am cropped of myself, stolen
and drained, sold
as a porcelain doll, empty
so I am, so I will never know,
so I will always be
Friday, August 21, 2009
until all that has meaning
descends into non-meaning
and I am left
and the knowledge
That the final answer to life
lies in darkness
an eternity of silence.
So we are.
That everything here
was meant to end.
and death alone,
prevails. It is
life's only master.
That all I value,
what it means to be
a person, to be
What it means to be
or spiteful, uncaring
We are left
to tell us
that what we have made of this world
what we are.
I will be god.
I will be a doormat
if it means
that truth might be
I will die
I will be
I will be
Let me die,
and by nothing,
I shall serve.
I shall bow.
I shall be all.
I shall be
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Between every grain of sand
the watcher sits,
counting many things
and carefully dividing them into
creating of itself
a thing unnamed, a division
of one into many.
that it may create, and as its creation
makes of itself a precious thing,
a thing so valued
for one day, it shall end.
The watcher made an ocean
to teach us of a wave.
It made many collections,
circles, spirals, stars,
things of no number
to remind us that we all are countless,
and we all are counted,
and we all
are the counters
Shall I make of myself a fool for love?
Drown myself in it, a child spoiled by my years--
or shall I chase it own, a fox after the morning dove,
or relent, have it tame my will, instill such fears
as loneliness, or disregarded dreams--
I shall cleave myself of love! Fling it to the ground, retreat
to way of solitude, they themselves asleep, adream--
and I myself awake -- and in so waking, seem
in love of all, yet I am in love with none,
my heart promised to this world long ago,
and so, as promised, gone.
Love is not my master, yet neither am I tamed
by its pleasure, or the scarring of its flame.
The ocean, running into the sky
solid, like a land of lead;
I must shut out all the voices,
can't they leave me to the wind?
liberate my ear, as my ear, to listening, lends--
I would steal another minute,
one more wave to breach my soul,
give me silence, sense of purpose,
let me listen to that pull--
the rhythmic rushing of the future,
tangled currents of the past;
perhaps I'll be the ocean's lover
and be buried in the sand.
It was this ocean that taught me how to pray;
now I bend and bow to every wave.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
that you are.
Like a thousand suns
in my chest.
Like a thousand voices
in my ear.
Like a thousand lips
to my heart.
Like a thousand eyes
through my soul.
I shall express
only the deepest
Give me the burdens
of your song.
I shall play.
I shall play.
I shall play.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
that all rocks
are skeleton proteins
that somehow form our heart.
But if the world were trying
to tell us that we were
nothing but rocks,
I would ask
does a rock cry--
and does a rock
does a rock
hold its breath
in the dark,
does a rock
to water flowers,
does a rock rely
on its mother,
does a rock
copy its father,
does a rock
in the dirt
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
I would never spend you,
I would never waste you
on trinkets, or throw you
to a beggar's cup.
I would keep you close to me at all times
and wear you proudly,
knowing that you are all that stands
between me and nothing; knowing
that this is a richness that the wealthy
could never feel. And if we were
forced apart, it would only be on
my life alone, and even then, I might
die first before trading you, because
you are worth so much more to me
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
That's all we learn are shoulds.
They teach us writing by teaching us what came before, what might come next, and what we should do now. They teach us writing like it is a forgotten thing. Like it has no future. Writing is dead.
What do they know? Do they know tomorrow? Next year? Next century? Of course not; tomorrow is for us to decide, not those boxed-in thinkers that cling to old structures because at least, in that realm, they have some modicum of authority. Authority in any given subject is an illusion, because that subject is constantly progressing and changing. The contradiction, then, is that to remain an authority, one must never become one in the first place... one must continue to change, revise, and progress. Move with the times, shape what comes next. One must never think they have reached their summit: all is perception, and most importantly, how you perceive yourself. To reach your summit is to stop and stagnate. That should not be the goal of any artist. Mastery is a lie.
Never fulfill your dreams, and if you do, promise me you will dream again.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
of the memories of autumn --
of that time between times,
of that road between roads.
Where life settles like dust
and is ofttimes forgotten;
those soft, silver nights,
those days, calm and slow.
It is here we belong
in the memories of autumn,
between our winters and summers,
between our silvers and golds;
and as always, we find
that those paths we've forgotten
keep the secrets we've buried,
and build the lives that we hold.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
It's in silence,
It's in rain
and dying things.
It's in whispers
and rose petals,
the blooming dawn,
the fading eaves.
This is where it rests,
and this is where it keeps.
The deepest forests of your soul
is the world in which it sleeps.
It's the voice that says tomorrow,
the wind that says today,
and the heart that breathes forever,
I am Here,
and Here I'll stay.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Nor is it the truth we've found,
This is not the Hell we fear,
Nor the Garden grown unbound.
This is not the deepest wound,
Nor is this our final mirth --
This is not our place of death,
Our hallowed lands,
Our reborn Earth.
This is not the ground we walk,
It bears no answer,
It finds no key --
Hardly, it's a swaying bridge
That ties your fragile heart to me.
This is not what Life has planned,
This is not what fate has sewn;
This is simply what we do --
We love when loved,
And love alone.