weeeeeeeks.

Simply stopping will never make you feel complete. You’ll always ask for a moment to catch up, until you’re years and years behind. At what point are you going to realize there is no former you to return to? You aren’t restarting, you are rebuilding. Keep rebuilding. Readjust you’re life every morning, letting the things that went wrong yesterday sink like sediment down to your feet, acting like a pendulum that swings you out of bed, and you’re off. Spend many minutes staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what you think of God. You don’t need to rest, you need to move on, keep moving until it fits just right and all the feelings you crave are just a shift of gears. Gears clicking and the reminder to hold onto this, hold on. But, oh God, how do we hold on? When something is so beautiful, a moment, how do we handle it? I feel like a parent who doesn’t know what to do with a crying baby. So much beauty, but what then? What more can we do but cry, but feel? Oh, hold on, but pass on. Not a man for sex and love, but a man to turn to and say, “this! this is beautiful,” and have them think, “yes, yes it is!” And he cries and the tears hit your face and the sun hits your face and you know that God is in all of us and that warmth is learning to look into someone’s eyes and know there is something there and it isn’t just you. Don’t stop; rebuild and share. 

a quick prayer.

“Kintsugi”

You found how to fill like gold to hold

together the cracks of my broken body,

an art form that requires destruction

of the formal self

followed by the acceptance of others

in order to create

completion.

Now in the land of

whites of their eyes

I hope I translate well.

For even though Asian pastures that

we’ve never touched

can pin us with exactness,

in farmhouse we have made our home,

and I have set my vase upon hope.  

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. 

winter.

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. 

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? 

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? 

Lucifer

If everything beautiful must be set free,
can I just make you ugly enough that the
window will not take you from me?
And perhaps that deems me cold.
But I would let myself freeze 17 times over,
just to keep your body
touchable.
You, me and
sunlight drenched sheets.
Turning brighter with each morning:
you dissolve.

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.

Conversations with a Boy I've Never Met (II)

Are you happy? Proud? Anything? Do you wake up thinking of someone? Does your hair stick to your face as you scratch your inner leg? Is there a burning desire to turn around still left inside your stomach? Do you ever have thoughts that hit you like a man hits a rabbit on a road? Do they strike you in a pleasant way; are you moved? Is there guilt in your exhale? Is there caution in your hands? Are nights your daytime? Is daytime your playground? Do you pick at your nails just to slow things down? Do you forget to look up? Just once? Does your heart skip beats? Do your hips find a rhythm? Does your car go fast? Can you show me? Will it hurt? Do you ever stop and think, even for a millisecond, or half:

Am I happy, proud, anything? 

Storage Space

I want to curl up 
near the crook of your secrets
Kiss your brain
Hold your liveliness in between my fingers
Read your eyes
like a novel
and your heart beat
like a symphony 


I am sure I can put all my efforts
into constellations
but who has the time to look anymore?
So I can turn them into 
fireflies and keep them in your
back pocket so the hope in my eyes
will illuminate your wardrobe
and disperse throughout your body
without me. 


-"the bee"