The Discrepancy Between

to run the risk of being

deci

mat

ed

by the tip of your finger

means more

to

me

than all the sanctuary

i could find

within

another's

gaze.

Baking a Nail File Into a Contraband Cake

somewhere between

gallant and pusillanimous

lies a field

which stretches from

here to pluto,

unfathomably gargantuan

and irrefutably macabre.

it bewitches and it devours.

there was a time prior

to its contemptuous existence

in which lovers could

lay contentedly within their

respective paramour's embrace,

the most pressing matters

a fracas over

a cloud's perceived visage.

but as the ozone layer inflated(or

perhaps one could argue

its deflation),this obverse

inflated,

forever hungering for

the bravery of a

suitor's

soul.

escape. flee.

love cannot be savored

if

one is bound

by fear.

A Plea to Happiness

perhaps

(and this is

quite the request,

i realize)

but perhaps

just

once,

you could stay.

not for a fleeting ticktock,

or an infinitesimal fleck(like

the skinflake snowflake

falling passed my

energy-saver bulb),

but for maybe

months.

years?, if it's

not too

much trouble.

you make me feel genuine.

you make me feel real.

you make me feel

something other than the

darkness-by-osmosis

that seems

to suck me up like water.

but if you have other things

to do and

other places to see,

i understand.

i move at a snail's pace.

i won't be

very far.

My Day Begins and Ends at 5am

letters and combinations

always seem to disappoint

when trying to explain to you

the entropic actuality inside of

this fleshtone vessel. the quiet

hum of the cold air spewing

from that contraption is the

only cadence to the rushing,

crimson rivers in my ears. we

breathe this steady pattern of

inhale and exhale, of gather and

release, until i realize that i am

keeping time with you and that

this

is the only way i can manage to

explain the frenzy. more than a

culmination of cells and atoms

and follicles and blood, more than

these jobs we tire of and this

heat we create, more than the

words we whisper and the nothings

we slur with our tongues, we are

more than what we are perceived

to be and what we convince ourselves

we are not. i have no other, clever way

of telling you that i now understand

that i have lived, endured, breathed

if only for

these moments with you.

Catch Up

I have returned from Missouri, with daily entries still written, posted below. The trip was wonderful and the flights, both to and from, were quick and painless (I passed out while still on the runway).

11 august 2010

if i lived here,

i'd be home by now.

how we fight and kill

and slaughter to defend our

tiny, infinitesimal section of this

hardened rock.

from a mile above,

it all seems pretty folly,

realizing that what we own

is not what we are,

and all of these things

are anything

but

permanent.

but we continue to kill

and we continue to fight,

unwilling to let go of one of the

only things that makes us

feel like we're bigger than

mortal and more residual

than gods.

but we'll cease to exist.

we'll leave it all behind,

with only the dwindling and idling

memories we have spent a lifetime

creating

remaining.

---------------------------------------------------------

11 august 2010 (post 2)

home is a state of mind,

not a place.

i realized this long ago,

feeling at home in hotel rooms

that smelled faintly of smoke

from twenty years prior,

because my family was with me.

the section of the living room

rug where i always fell asleep

felt more like home than

my bed.

this place doesn't feel like home.

because it is missing you.

and, my darling,

you are light

and you are warmth.

you are home.

---------------------------------------------------------

12 august 2010

i wonder how it'd feel to

be suspended - in time, in space,

in life.

there are moments when

it is more than enticing,

when there wouldn't even be

an ounce of hesitation if i

would but be offered this chance.

then a part of me realizes

the downfall to this idea,

to this state of existence.

peace would be abundant,

i'm sure of it,

but so would apathy.

after all, how can one feel

anything when there is

no reason to feel?

never moving forward

and never moving back.

never moving anywhere.

purpose would be just a memory,

the kind that always lingers

in the back of the mind,

until it becomes the vague outline

of what once was.

perhaps this state of suspension

would be no good after all.

perhaps we have no choice

but to continue to move and

to continue to breathe and

to continue to die and be born.

always destined for heartache,

always destined for loss and grief,

always destined for love and

joy and celebration,

always destined for something.

---------------------------------------------------------

13 august 2010

every baby will grow up

someday.

everyone on this earth was once

microscopic, tucked away inside the

womb of some woman somewhere,

destined for what seemed an eternity

of captivity and hibernation(for what

could you really know of time?)

then, released into the world,

(hopefully with welcoming arms and

opened hearts)

breathed her first breath

of this newly discovered world.

then came a life summed up in a

series of moments:

the first day of school,

the first crush(that will break her heart;

it is inevitable),

the first failed test,

new schools,

new friends,

the first love(who, most likely, will be

suspiciously similar to that first crush

from so many years ago)

and so on, for what seems like forever,

until each moment becomes a memory,

until each memory becomes a story,

passed on and passed down,

until the cycle starts again.

---------------------------------------------------------

15 august 2010 (scribbled after a dream)

he stands in your front yard or when you least expect him. you shake your head and try to wake yourself because surely, this must be a dream. he tells you there is no point. he's real. he's there to stay, to guide you to all of the happiness that have you been seeking. but you must do what he says, this clairvoyant stranger. you tell him that you were going to see a friend and he politely responds that you are not. he explains that your friend is sleeping, having hurt his back, and you will see him tomorrow. instead, he sends you driving down long highways until you always crash, but manage to stay alive. he sends you to a film festival and tells you to buy a year-long membership (because apparently these things exist and you've got a lot to learn).

in the daylight, he looks old and frail. he carries an oxygen tank and his fine, white hair flutters with the lightest of breezes.

but he is still your sage. you must do as he tells you. he will make you a better person. a happier person. he will bring you to everything you want.

---------------------------------------------------------

16 august 2010

they say that distance

and abs(over-whelming)ence

makes the heart grow fonder.

i suppose that i must be extremely

fond of you(though i

did not need much encouragement

to be begin with).

this foreign bed

becomes vaster and more daunting

than the Sahara,

with even less inhabitants.

how i wander,

how i seek you out,

how every inch of me yearns for you.

but you are nowhere to be found

in this strange land.

you are eons away,

resting your head where mine should be,

curled amidst blankets and pillows

that should be my body.

but, my dear, my heart has grown

fonder(i thought it impossible),

suspending visions and memories of you

to keep it warm and keep it safe.

i do not worry, as i wander in

search of you.

i know i will find your arms again.

i know i will find you.

Vulnerability is Something I Continue to Fear

your hands are

perfect.

big and slender,

strong and agile,

nimble and gentle.

they can embrace mine

and

they can memorize my skin,

and

they do so exquisitely.

it is why i will sometimes

find myself touching them with

my fingertips,

staring at these magnificent creations,

wondering how such supremacy

could be contained in

a set of digits and opposable thumbs.

i admire them for their strength,

and fear them(my god, how

i can tremble)for their power.

please, be careful.

all that i could possibly give

you

rests with them.

they are perfect

to tear me in two,

should their owner advise;

it wouldn't take much, you know.

a simple flick of the wrist

in a well-placed location,

and you would devastate me.

but please, let them find me

in the darkness.

i will risk my heart and life

at the mercy of your hands,

perfection, ten-fold.

One Last Story

"They're coming," he whispered through pursed lips. I could see the tension in his jaw, the bone and muscle flexing underneath his thin, pale skin.

Nodding, I followed his line of sight into the darkness. But all I could see was velvet black out there; the moon could not even illuminate it for us, no matter how hard it tried. We were on our own.

Leaning against the door frame, my fingers curled around the handle of the wooden door. It would soon become our only protection between life and certain (painful) death. My knuckles turned white as my grip tightened and my anxiety increased. From above my shoulder, I felt his breath trickle against my neck and then heard his footsteps in the opposite direction. He was right. It would do no good to simply stand here and wait for the inevitable.

We needed to fight.

Reincarnation Haunts

i believe that

these nighttime hallucinations

are

the memories of a lifetime

once lived.

there is proof.

there are seas of faces

which are known to me,

endeared to me,

loved by me

in this strange, strange

world

that i do

not

recognize(or remember)

upon waking,

yet i am not alarmed

at their existences.

there are places i have never seen

that may have never been

that may never be,

yet i call them home.

fragments of lives

i've long forgotten

or lives that have

yet to pass,

coming alive

and dancing

breathing

being

while

i am

asleep.

They Are Like Waves, Coming to Swallow Me Whole

from underneath the familiar tornado

of twisting cotton and turning

stitching and some kind of man-made

insulation, i struggle and fight to stay

alive, when all i really want to know is

why you're not here, twisting and

turning with me.

Who Do You Think You Are Fooling?

an umbrella to

protect

from the crashing waves,

seventy feet high,

threatening with looming destruction.

there have been more foolish

constructs

that people have made in order

to keep themselves safe,

the most foolish of which

is the cold, indifferent

exoskeleton flesh

people try so hard to

conform to

when inside,

they are screaming

they are pleading

they are begging

that they only want

to

be

loved.

When it Comes to Desert Islands, Your Brain is the Worst One of All

Cavernous is the only word I can think to describe it. It holds things. It stores them. Sometimes, when nature interferes, the things that are stored are lost or misplaced or forgotten. The more you pile things in, the further back the older things go into the abyss. It is only as big as it can be; you can't stretch rock, you know. It just doesn't work like that.

One may wander into this cavern, though it isn't something I would recommend. And if I did, there would be some kind of Surgeon General's Warning before it. Or a disclaimer of sorts. Just so I can make sure that, if one was to trip over clutter or seemingly useless things - which is almost guaranteed to happen - that person could not sue the owner of said cavern. Because there was a warning. Because that person should really look where she or he is walking so as to avoid tripping. And that extends to all parts of life, really. Watch one's feet.

Cavernous. Another -ous word to describe it would be dangerous. There are random projectiles that fly about without warning and without any kind of purpose. They may be originally attached to the point of focus, but then a piece will break off and roll to something completely different, and that something completely different will go off shooting to another part of the cavern, causing something else to move, and it will continue as such until one is merely clumped like kitty litter into a ball on the floor, covering one's neck from moving parts. You don't want to rip the jugular. I hear that's pretty much fatal.

Yes, I would call it cavernous. I would call it dangerous. I would also call it a prison.

I cannot escape it.

I cannot leave it.

I find that most of my time is spent here, even when on the brink of sleep. It somehow swallows me whole when I am not looking.

If only I could manage to turn out the light.

My Greatest Wish For You

oh, my beautiful love,

show me the radiance(i

know it exists)that

once shone

in your eyes.

serenade me(the

most dulcet melody

i will have

ever

heard)with

your laughter.

steal my breath

with the grace of

your smile(my god,

it has me on my

knees).

to know of your happiness

is to know of my own

and

to know of the world's,

for that's what you are to me,

sweet darling,

and i can ask

for no more.

Not Just a Haunting in Connecticut

& no matter how i try,

something always ling(haunting haunting)ers.

ghosts are prevalent in this

ivory-and-entrails cage:

the faint wailing of

memories long

long

suppr(in order to

survive)essed;

the fading sobs of

who she used

to be(she can

never

go back);

the rushed

and worried

breathing of

who she will come

to be(unknown);

the shattering echos

of a heart once

untouched(once

pristine),

now disfigured;

these unsettled and wandering

spirits are plentiful.

constantly swirling

and constantly fighting,

grappling over who will be

victorious.

there is no calm

to be found

here.

only resigned

acceptance.

The Embrace

follicle flames
cas
ca
ding
down wool and flesh,
tickle the roots,
tickle that external(thick but not impenetrable)epidermis;
but there is no laughter here.
there are no sounds
fated to spread joy
as the(non-existent)waves crash upon
your oratory drum.

but what creates this
hang
ing
stagnation?

perhaps a rough breakage of
of epidermal layers(now lost)as
his footing deceived him
and unwillingly proved
grav
ity;

or perhaps the
un(is it ever accepted?)timely passing
of his childhood memories,
now
laid in the ground with his
once oldest(and dearest)friend;

further still,
perhaps it is the overwhelming(it
bubbles
and froths
and downright oozes)vulnerability
that he has tried to escape
yet strangely enjoys
from this auburn-locked form,
her body encompassing him as
her heart encompasses him;

or, perhaps it is the realization
that his pride in autonomy
has all but crumbled at the simple fact
that
he can no longer be alone
and he can no longer go back
and he can no longer be who he was
because he has let himself fall
and he has let himself feel
and he has let himself know,

but the damnedest thing of it all
is not that she knows him
and it is not that she understands him
and it is not that he allowed all of this to happen,

but it's the fact that he's still alive
and the fact that she revived him
and the fact that she saved him
and, to his
greatest
surprise,

when he thought
himself
dead,

he has fallen
in
love.

Based on the above painting by Edvard Munch, more commonly known for "Scream."

From Behind the Epidermal Road Map

Don't look at me that way. I see the disgust you try so hard to shove under the proverbial rug in your eyes. But that rug is as gossamer as netting. I can see right through it. I can see right through you.

You think I was always this way. You think that my bones have always creaked and my life was always lonely. I had friends once, you know. Dorothy, Mildred, Gertrude, Penelope, all of them. We grew up together, living in the same brownstone back before Brooklyn was the home of tattooed kids who graffiti walls and break into homes. Before the age of so called "communication" that you read from an eye-strangling screen, we would meet at the corner and walk to get penny candies from the general store (if you were lucky, your mother gave you a nickel). I had friends once.

Dorothy, well, she just about lost her mind after Fred was killed in the war. She didn't know what to do with herself; he was her life. I always told her that she had to find her own purpose for living, that living entirely for someone else was suicide. She never listened to me, though. She was always the defiant one. We eventually lost touch. The last I heard, she was living out her days in some insane asylum upstate. I randomly caught wind that she had died a few years back, but never had any sort of confirmation from her family. They never liked me much.

Mildred killed herself after her second child died. She had miscarried the first one, seven months into it. She was going to name it Henry if it was a boy and Rebecca if it was a girl (this was before the age of taking the obligation out of loving your child, no matter what the gender). When she finally carried a child to term, she found him (his name was James) floating face-down in a pool when he was four. It was too much for her. Her husband found her hanging three feet from the ceiling.

Gertrude died the way we all want to die: peacefully, in her sleep. She wasn't sick or in pain or suffering. She had lived a good life. Escaped most heartache and trouble - though no one can escape it all. But she was happy. She brightened everyone's life with her stories and with her presence. Everyone was almost grateful when she passed - not because she was gone, but because we knew it seemed only right for her to go as calmly as she lived.

And Penelope .. No one's heard from her in years. I don't think she's died, but I've no real way of looking it up. I don't know how these electronic things work these days, and I don't talk to the grandkids who could help me figure it out. My assumption is that I would've heard something about a service or a wake if she had finally kicked the bucket. Since I haven't, I figure she hasn't, either.

No, I wasn't always this way. I loved the way you do - how I adored my Jimmy, but that's a story for another time. I laughed at the same jokes you laugh at. I cry at the same things that break your heart. I raised two children, both of whom have moved away and onto bigger, better things than I. The world had a place for me once.

Once.