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.  

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. 

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. 

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? 

A long time ago..

I keep wanting to write letters to the people I love. For some reason I think writing letters will sufficiently get all the little ideas that are really just warmth on my skin all collected and able to enter the physical world. So dear you, here is tomorrow. Here is to living on. Here is to Saturday. Here is to you. Congratulations, you captured a bird. No, the bird flew to you. The bird gave up it’s wings for its new found curiosity. Look at me. I haven’t smiled like this in far too long. I want to tell you so much. Everything. I’d grow old with you. I’ve known you for barely 3 months. I like human beings. Too much. It’s my fatal flaw. I want to wake up to them. Sleep with them. Drink with them. 

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.

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.

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"