some mouths are better left shut

one loses the right to lament
the daily ongoings of life
and the bigger happenings of existence
if that same one makes no attempt
at grasping the reins or wheel
or steering-device of his or her
metaphorical vehicle
in order to find that which will truly
bring
happiness.

euler's number falters in comparison

when eyes close
and ghosted fingers
trace over goose-bumped skin,

when unconscious
states coax heavy lids
and whispers swirl,

when forms collide
and diaphragms strike in
rhythm with each other,

when fingers divide and conquer
delicate strands of hair,
brushed back from peering globes,

there is no other,
both in truth and in idea,
whose fingers touch,
and whose voice beguiles,
and whose skin delights,

quite like yours,
oh, half to my half
and piece to my piece.

it has always been you.

it will always

be you.

and suddenly i am galvanized into fear

self-confidence offended,

reassurance dissolved.

your tongue, your eyes,

your hands,

chisels to the stone

upon which i've come to

rely.

hundreds of thousands

of minutes spent

building,

protecting,

guarding,

undone in a matter of

moments,

the contact of lips,

the brushing of skin.

you have undone

all that

i have worked so hard

to temper.

A Reflection on the Remaining Fragments of a Recovering Psyche

i. how?

this exoskeleton has grown so rigid,

so impossibly stubborn that it can not be maneuvered!

suffocation(and therefore death;

it

typically,naturally follows)is imminent.

we've no choice now

but to wait

for the darkness.

ii. and then?

cracking,along the spine.

wallpaperskin begins to peel,to curl

away from the soft pink underneath.

a wiggling finger,a vibrating toe.

darkness has not yet

won.

iii. something like?

rejuvenation. rekindling.

arduous symphonies sing of the

rediscovered tombs

from days past,

glorify the freedom felt and

understood from

sarcophagi which were too small for

the most compact of

bodies.

iv. but after?

a touch. a kiss. a flittering

of lashes against

dewey skin.

like enzymes and substrates,

locking and keying,

exhausted bodies collapse

onto one another,

fueled and masked by the

laborious breathing

of lungs and diaphragm

grappling desperately for oxygen.

v. and all for?

a moment.

that moment.

unification, completeness.

press closer, harder,

but to no avail,

for even "together"

is never quite

close enough

for me.

The Language's Last Stand

I have run out of things to say. I constantly search for the proper way to tell you all of these things, these swelling things that sit so deeply in my chest, but the end of every journey is the same. My tongue goes numb, paralyzed by the overwhelming ardor that radiates, practically poisons all of its surrounding neighbors. I am reduced to my most primitive state, grunting or "mm"-ing in a last, desperate attempt at making you understand.

I know that I am a jumble of letters, of words, of failed attempts at relaying what's inside of me. Tangled and interwoven, I have come to accept that there is simply no hope at making me orderly again. Thoughts interrupt other thoughts. Feelings dissect other feelings. I am surrounded by the seemingly hollow cross-sections of pieces belonging to a larger whole that I can no longer locate.

You make my skin want to break free from my body, wanting to leap and run and feel the wind through all of its pores. You make me want to sit in the sunlight, cocooned in the whispered secrets of the breeze. You make me want to drown in the ecstasy that is Life, leaving no joy unknown and no love untouched.

Oh, but how can I say these things to you?

How could I possibly find the words, the ways to manifest and create a concrete thing out of nothing more than the stuff that kissing-in-the-rains are made of?

I echo the sonnets and odes and words far more poetic than these in my reverberating chorus:

I

I love

I love you

Oh, how I love you so.

His Last(?) Train Ride

the fluorescent yellow combined

with the constant swaying of the tracks

make it difficult to memorize

anything,

let alone decipher each

verticalhorizontaldiagonal line

that comes together to create

something called

"a sentence."

but he's run out of time.

it is his final journey

in this aluminum-and-steel sarcophagus.

success is promising,

failure is threatening.

he doesn't have room

for ambiguity.

words slither out of his lips

like a letterchain-snake,

falling silently to the muddied

ground, whooshing to

nothing more

than a whisper

as they collide.

the voice of a god beckons

through the wordgrater o'erhead.

packed and put away,

he commends himself,

tests himself,

prepares himself,

stands,

and exits.

Answering the Unanswerable

the prospect of

articulation seems

impossible

when confronted with

an inquiry

no lexicon

could ever hope to

expound.

A Reflection on the Brief History of Us

how many others

have touched the lips of a

lover,

waiting for(expecting)it

all

to

combust?

how many others

have pressed their head to

his chest,

listening for the

(inevitable?)cracking

in

his

heart?

how many others

have had heavy,

overwhelmed lids at

the feeling

of love that

swells

and

billows

from places never

to have existed

before?

how many others

have pressed their fingertips

to their lover's

skin,

electricity and

numbness

the communication between

tingling

appendages?

won't you

let me always be the

other

in your pair?;

hearts or diamonds

or spades or clubs,

whatever suit

you'd prefer.

tug on my hem,

tug on my sleeve,

wrap me up in

everything

you are(intoxicating),

and

please,

don't ever

let me go.

Grains of Sand Are Inaccurate Measurements of Time

i don't know

about the

befores,

and i can't know

about the

afters.

all i have are the

nows(this now,and

that now,and how nows).

but every now

feels like a hundred nows

for every now

that i have with you

is enough.

Hauntings Are Not Reserved For the Dead

i am fairly

certain

that if you were to

r e a c h(stretch,stretch)

out for me,

your hands would pass

right thro(in and out)ugh

me;

i am an illusion.

i am the lingering remnants

of who and what i

used to be.

i have faded and weathered,

like the photograph that

sits on your

cob-webbed window

sill,

bleached by the

sun's

too-powerful strike,

my corners curled

and my edges worn,

my structure broken

and my chemicals diluted.

i am

nothing more than

some vague silhouette of

a girl

who once existed

in a once-beautiful world.

i am nothing

more

than

a ghost.

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.

The Clock Says 4:27

every minute without you in it is a minute far

too long for my liking. i think about all of the

minutes i have lived without you, and i realize that

i have trouble remembering them all. they all

were born and died, as all things are, but they seem

insignificant when i think of you. because why on

earth would i want to remember a time when you

didn't exist? that's just crazy - and all around foolish.

you were and are still one of my favorite minutes

that i have had the pleasure of living through

and experiencing. you are time itself and all

of its wonder. you are happiness. you are love.

The Woman At the Berry Picking Fields

She doesn't mean it when she yells at him. She really doesn't. But she finds that her voice escapes her throat with more force than she meant to use, hitting his tiny, precious face with a current strong enough to make him cry. His lip begins to quiver. Her hands work frantically to try and salvage what she can from the grassy patches below her. Immediately, a tide of regret pulls her under. She can see the heat of his contained despair rising in his cheeks, threatening to explode.

But even though she feels the regret and she feels the guilt, she will not soothe him. He needs to learn. He should know better than to touch things he is not meant to. And so she stands, brushing the strands of dead grass from her knees, and pats him on the head the way she would pat an unfamiliar dog. She tells him to stop crying; they're in public, and no one wants to cause a scene.

The Worst Color of All is Green

the only connection to the

outside world, while I'm held

captive in this forsaken cube

of capitalism and greed, is

through panes of glass. i can

feel the sun warming my skin,

but you might as well

stick some fluorescent tubes up

there and turn on a heat lamp.

we'd never be able to tell the

difference. besides, there's just

so much to see along these

strategic shelves, lined up and

formulated for your very viewing

pleasure. like mindless drones,

all of them, they gravitate

as though there's some invisible

arm reaching out, pulling

them close like a long-lost

lover. it promises so much

happiness. it promises verdant

fields and halcyon seas. it

promises whatever you want it

to promise. it doesn't care.

"use me." "take me." "love me,

and i will love you in return."

and we listen. we suppress the

memories of our mother never hugging

us and the emptiness we feel inside

as we're scorned and rejected by

another unrequited love. we distract

ourselves with these plastic and

metal substitutions of life, hoping

- perhaps even praying - that

we will be saved. but it's

impossible. there's no salvation

from the monster within. you

can't be saved from yourself.

She Was Always Such a Simple Woman

This technology thing is new to her. When she was this kid's age, telephones weren't in every apartment and every household. There was no such thing as a cell phone, and if someone had said it, people probably would have thought it was some kind of disease that only men in white lab coats with very powerful microscopes could diagnose.

She lived though eras that these kids read about in history books. She lived through the riots of the 50's (she remembered the black and white news footage of the ruins of Detroit, smoldering and glowing on her 12-inch television screen). She lived through segregation and its final days. She lived through the Free Love movement of the 60's when LSD and marijuana were just like taking a Tylenol. She was at Columbia University when the protests began, even though she was just an innocent bystander, mesmerized by the long hair and tie dye. She lived through the end of the Vietnam War and how mistreated the veterans were who came back to the country they so unwillingly fought for. She lived through the age of the disco and Studio 54. She saw the rise and fall of the Saturday Night Fevers and Stayin' Alives. She begrudgingly welcomed in the age of brightly colored lipstick, side ponytails, and bad, electronic music. She refused to accept the age of flannel and grunge.

And now, she finds herself in the 21st century, holding onto a device that she still can't comprehend, that responds to her body when she touches it. She can't resolve the gaps in her brain from when she was small to this very moment in time. All she knows is that her husband had somehow figured it out enough to leave her a quiet, unnoticeable note on this crazy, new gadget that told her he loved her. And she wishes, in this moment, that she could have told him that she loved him when he was still alive, and she's making a promise to herself that she's going to tell her son - her precious baby boy - that she loves him each and every day. And she's going to figure out how to use a video camera and she's going to figure out how to make a voice memo so that, come the day when her son is sitting down to tell his daughter about the parents who raised and loved him so, she will be able to see them and she will be able to hear them.

The thing of it is, is that she doesn't want to be remembered for great things. She knows that she hasn't done anything great in her life thus far, at least nothing worth noting. She's another face on another body, taking up space and breathing in this air.

But, aside from it all,

she just wants to be remembered.

In the Lingering Ripples of the Fourth of July

stillness.

only the rushing of the

unseen waves(or is it the

blood

in my ears?)and the

de

layed

thunders of

far-away explosions lighting

the darkness around

us.

our meandering gazes

along the horizon

catch sight of

these brilliant,

radiant

microcosms in

dozens of

far, far aways.

but i am not concerned with

the eyes enraptured

with

their own frenzied(man-made)light

ning.

even with the distractions

overhead and to my right and

to my left and behind,

i focus on him.

his features are faint in the

soft, quiet glow of the

orb above us,

but i have memorized them by

now.

i hear his breathing as it

matches the tide.

i feel his hands as they

pull me closer.

i smell his scent as it

mixes with the salt on the breeze.

i feel him there.

i feel me there.

i cannot contain the ardor

that bubbles inside of me,

and the only way it

knows

to manifest itself is in the

murmured sound

that comes from my stomach

and has no description.

he responds with his own

mumble, questioning

the intonation i

could not

control.

but how

on earth

can i speak

when he has

stolen

my very breath

away?

I Wonder if This is What Michaelangelo Thought As He Painted the Sistine Chapel

I am in the business of creation.

I create visuals using magazines, ink, glue, and sometimes words. I create alternate universes with the stroke of a brush. I create the remnants of a memory - now faded and most likely different from the reality that once existed - with the entertaining viscosity of rubber cement and a few newspaper clippings.

I create feelings that you've never felt before. I create feelings that you buried deep inside when you were small. I create moments of confusion in how I place objects around a blank canvas (I'll give you a hint: most of the time, it's haphazard. I've never been one for planning). I create disgust with the still-sticky spray adhesive that seeped out from underneath a photo that you accidentally get on your finger as you brush it against the canvas (you really shouldn't touch).

I create fantasy worlds with the vocabulary I've learned over time. Colors become fruit and black becomes green. Still, somehow, things seem to make sense - in one way or another. It is the only place in which the non-sensical can be logical. In fact, when things are too straight-forward, you complicate things with what must be hidden symbolism or a cleverly disguised metaphor.

I create a representation of myself, naked and exposed, for all of your eyes to penetrate. You see through me. You rip me apart and take pieces as your own. You criticize every inch of my goosebumped skin, telling me how I can be different and how I should be changed. This figurative body is not to your liking, and you demand that I should act accordingly.

Until I am no longer in the business of creation.

I am in the business of conformity.

Reaping the Answer (Part 2)

It started when the homeless man reached out his hand to me. Being a naturally good-intentioned citizen, I reached my hand back in an effort to help him stand.

A flash of light.

A sear of pain.

And then .. nothing.

Blinking my eyes a few times, I tried to gather my senses again. A strange feeling of existence combined with a perpetual purgatory draped over me. To this day, I still can't quite explain it. I suddenly heard the sobs and wails of millions of people that I could not see. Every teardrop crashed on my skin like acid, burning me alive and making me wish for death .. Only, as I would soon realize, I was only wishing for myself.

The homeless man, with a gentle, amber light glowing from the inside of his chest, peered at me through the calmest eyes I have ever seen. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw Enlightenment. His voice rippled the stagnant air surrounding us, but I wasn't disturbed by it; his tone matched his gaze.

"Thank you." I stared at him blankly, unsure of why this strange being was showing me gratitude, but could not will myself to talk. "For freeing me," he further explained. Again, I blinked. "For over a thousand years, I have been guiding newly-formed souls to their earned destinations. I have been listening to the despair of their loved ones, left behind, night and day. I have earned my own place in Paradise. He thought it time," he whispered, pointing upwards with his eyes. With a serene smile, he began to fade. "Now, it is your turn."

"T-t-turn to do what?" I managed to mutter. The stranger's smile curled into the faintest of smirks.

"To guide. To continue the cycle that all mortals fear, but all must succumb to. No one is above it. No one can escape it. You are finally a necessary part of this world," he said quietly. I clenched my jaw at his last sentence; how could he have known? My eyes must have given me away for he reached out his hand again and, placing it on my shoulder, he murmured, "Thank you," before fading away completely. Even with him gone, I felt his fingers lingering on my body.

"I suppose you're wondering what's happened?" I heard a voice thunder from behind me. "I will reveal it all to you, in time. But, for now, you have a job to do."