Now That You're Not Looking

My love for you is hidden in

every shirt you own,

every movement of your lips.

Now I know what you sound like when you’re angry.

Now I am looking straight at you,

your smell isn’t sticking.  

Show me my place

                               carefully.

Here, I won’t touch you. 

But the glass is already shattered,

so let us not sigh over it.

My favorite smells are covered

with sunlight. 

What do you taste like?

I could still be yours for 2 hours.

wait.

And we climbed a mountain,

lied under night’s blanket.

I need to ask you,

will your chest be warm again?

you're dear to me.

Shall we get intimate again?









I think so, I think so.

technology is wrong

In another life, I think I would have seduced Johnny Depp. I think I would’ve been a rock star, The Tubes world tour. Holy shit, I would have been friends with Kevin Bacon. I wouldn’t have known you.  I wouldn’t have told you, with my eyes, why we must stay on earth. Erase it all. Is that what you want?  I want to know the new you, but the new you does not want to know me. What a shame. I forgive you, just like you have taught me. 

And I looked for that answer in everyone. In the movies, music, eyes of strangers, words, quotes, books, everything. But, I have yet to look for the answer in myself. What is the solution? The solution, above all, is to forgive. He doesn’t love you? Forgive. You messed up? Forgive. Forgive. Forgive. And through all this forgiveness, love will be found. But do not mistake love for images. Love is not a picture, nor a word, nor a set of rules. Love is, at least what I have found and believe it to be, seeing yourself in another and recognizing the parts of them that are not you by adapting them. I thought that was the message of Fahrenheit 451, with the mirror factory and all. Not so we can see ourselves, but so others can see themselves in us. I used to think writing is what made people immortal. That only the writers would live forever. But I was wrong. What makes people immortal is loving each other. We can all be immortal. We can hide ourselves in one another. 

I wonder if you remember this exists.

winter.

little confusions

what hurts and what is right?
                  you are here, fully equipped
                  with fireplace and candles.
At night, I try to make my mattress full
with your presence by
tossing and turning and filling it with sea water.
I try to pull real, sophisticated imagery out of your lips
but, we prepare breakfast in a different set of circumstances.
Before this, my room is bright and you, in turn, are glowing with us.
I want to know what you think as you send me to space.
The moon, vases breaking.
Leave your mark on my neck
and other places.

hope.

magnetic poetry

Super 8

I've seen the beauty  of evasiveness.

That pure lack of intensified delight. 

Always leaving our tongues

leading us to something half dark,

half human, with all the push and pull left in tact.

And maybe this time you fade to black; 

the soft grain consumes my field of vision or I look to my left for just one second. 

Maybe this time the black will give the deepest pleasure: the severing of the stomach or a cut to an ocean view. 

Mass media.

Heartbeats crowded Boston

and they mistook it for a bombing. 

Two killed, or was it three?

No, two found purpose,

sending their heartbeats ablaze,

magnified by the crowd. 

Now you won’t glaze over any more massacres. 

They all became red pins on a map. 

On their knees, they built landfills of rushed guilt. 

Today, hundreds were sorry

because their heartbeats caused an explosion,

People crowded Boston

and war raged on. 

For S, with love.

She had a pleasure in stealing flowers and catching fish just to return them to water. It was those moments that also had her blood pumping harder, making itself present. In these moments, she was left with the confirmation that she was a body. Her presence undeniable, she could touch the hearts of others like herself and only hope to bring the same realization to them that she so frequently discovered. But, as most things do, the moments would pass. Her body would go back to equilibrium and wait for another taste. 

In the spring time, she found poppies sprouting from her wrists. But every time she wept to water them, they would begin to wilt. So she made a bouquet of orange every night, giving her house the color it lack and the fulness it could not do without. The neighbors would look in amazement at the flowered house; the poppies bursting through windows and consuming the lawn. People began to walk up and ask

                                        Can we pick some?

and she would say 

                                         Yes, yes. 

In the winter, the poppies left as all living things must do. But, the people kept talking, telling stories of the girl who had brought color to the loneliest of days. In fact that her house, draped in orange glory, made headlines. So her scars never stopped sowing seeds and her tears never brought floods. 

Magnetic.

For breeze may flower a genius. 

Always worrying, we see man,

god or glass-

brilliant in night. 

too involved.

I am concerned that everything has measures. Our touches are quarter notes and our kisses are slurs, blending melodically. I can never decide if I should feel fortunate for looking at simple gestures and objects romantically. Half of me wants to think I am doing simplicity a grand gesture. The other half is the reality of a morning after a good night’s rest. I’d like to meet an artist who sleeps well at night, one day. I wonder what their hands would look like. 

eyelids.

some pictures with quotes. going to Oregon tomorrow. ∆ 

Ideas.

Sometimes, the night air feels fluid. Eyes flicker rhythmically. With every glance, a song begins. The orchestra warms up. I look at him, scrutinizingly. A single note.  His scent. Boom. He’s behind me. Ba. He reaches for the cup next to me. Boom. Wink. Ba. People laugh. Boom. I stand aside, curiously. Ba. I look up at him. Boom. Wink. And it goes on, in that catchy fashion, as if everyone in the room is well aware of their synchronized actions. We almost got in a crash on our way home. I studied his face for a good 6 minutes. In the street, we kissed. He traced my mouth. How could I have left? We saw some cat cross in the road. A black cat, with unbending limbs and a bridge for a back. In each shadow it crossed, the cat disappeared. “It’s a ghost,” I wanted to say. He had to carry me to my door. 

~

And what I can pull from this is: Don’t try to hide yourself in others; It never works. Try to freeze time and you’ll never know the word Goodbye. Don’t you dare try to hide in dreams, either. It really never does work. In the end, postcards will flood living rooms for you. Everyone will wonder why you look off so frequently. To the sky or the ground. To each face. Once you hide, dearest, you are stuck. It is in the fine print. You will think you held time, but it is more elusive than that; don’t underestimate it. Don’t hide, don’t hide. They key is to be clever. Be present, and time won’t blow on your neck. Be present, and you won’t need shattered clocks. 

*Find me on  HitRecord too. I am trying to get my writing out there, big world. 

And

I kissed you and thought of Walt Whitman poems and how the moments we want each other most are perfectly synced in a firework display. 

(photo from tumblr) 

Conversations with A Boy I've Never Met (III)

me: I need to leave. To Africa or to India or to Germany. I need need to leave. 

him: To England, to Whales. You never will. 

me: No. I won't. I want to shoot every clock that exists. I don't want to breath or count seconds or days or moments. Everyone's dead. I woke up and had no sense of time. I don't want love. I want sadness. I want to drown in an ocean.. I want someone important to get shot. I want an endless sea surrounding me. I want to never sleep again. Never eat. I want a world without speaking, only movement. I want every shade of sadness. I want to run until I throw up. I want to show everyone what my blood looks like. I want to write and write and read. I don't want to sit in a classroom and nod anymore. I want knowledge. I want to learn.

Him: What makes you feel like this? Since when? 

After Last Night

I tried to bring back purity by 

drowning myself with

tangerines and lavender 

but they came up as 

us and I

My body has been on a funeral march 

since my birth. 

You are a king,

I am a slave. 

Let us find a path. 

(II)

I ran four miles. I made sure to count. 

I felt sorry for myself

then for you

then everyone after that. 

All the virgins, the very apple.

Every truck in America. 

move back. 

I apologize to every ant I kill,

to every flaw.

To every speck. 

When You Aren't Looking

My love for you depends on what shirt you are wearing. 

And the placement of your lips when you aren’t talking.

I wonder what you sound like when you are angry. 

My love for you depends on if I am looking up at you. 

And if I am able to smell you. 

Show me my place. 

Draw a line through my hands, dammit. 

Here. I won’t touch you. 

I will make sure a glass door is installed. 

No, a steel door. 

With a lock. 

My favorite smells are pine, mint gum, and your neck. 

You taste like flesh mixed with a sun warmed forest and old coffee. 

I could put my lips to the hairs on your chin for 2 hours straight.

wait. 

Let’s climb a mountain. 

And then lay under a blanket of 1 am. 

I need to ask you. 

When will I stop building spider webs, 

just to dissolve them like spun sugar?