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. 

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.

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. 

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? 

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.

Pardon?

Each person has a steady equilibrium.
When we veer, we either adapt or we come back.
I have adapted.
I have.
And memories,
They are ghosts. They don't exist outside.
This is life.
This.
And I am living, but
I can't see through the smoke;
can't breathe with this stuck in my lungs
forever. And I won't tell,
He won't tell
It didn't happen.
I was dreaming.
As far as we know,
nothing really has happened.
It keeps jump cutting.