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.

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. 

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. 

Beginnings

Recently, I have been thinking about where I want to go with my creative abilities and photography skills. I feel as though I am waiting for the perfect shot, and won't settle for less. I took a picture of my bed, because it is simple. I need to realize everything has the potential to be the "perfect shot" and that I need to go through many pictures to find it. Everything is just waiting to happen; just light the flame.

Bad film.

Fishing

Everyone is looking for happiness,
like its the gold rush.
Claiming their spots on the lines of his palms.
Or setting up camp in post card scenery.
But I took interest in the sea.
Diving into moods that wash over me
with no instant reward.
Once you strike gold,
where is your depth?
You're a canal
and I am an abyss.