Things to use
- Daylight
- Appropriation
- Too much of almost everything
What to give
- Balance
- Stateliness
- A good amount of dissociation
What to take
- Hammers
- Hearts
- A long time to make up my mind
- And a longer time to lose yours
11.22.2012
Witch House
11.11.2012
An open letter to you
(you know who you are.)
The trace of flesh
that joins limbs to the most tender bridge
what bends and is supple
is weakness’ sister, kin or mother
that skin,
under each nail,
has the most pretentious vulnerability
when punctured
the patient will experience a will to live,
blood-lust,
and the facility to with-stand further torture.
A Farce,
of course,
to bend and become willing
when nothing but
the delight in falling
completely and utterly without a trace,
becomes consuming
and almost
(almost)
the only way worth living.
becomes consuming
and almost
(almost)
the only way worth living.
10.07.2012
7.26.2012
My last year with you.
I.
Lines run richly holding the explanation of this year and
the burden of one decision (only to regret its beginning)
These are the patterns that sew themselves to us
That explain our lives as X, Y, &c.
Your years of struggling
my indifference,
These are what make us: us
These are the fathers in which we confide,
in which we grow
worthless.
II.
Depression is not glamours
tired, weak hands not desirous.
The things we want, that we can't seem to get
for ourselves: limitless.
A never ending siege.
A never ending surge.
And for what? For words?
For the illusion of death?
For the fear of confrontation?
III.
For years of suppression you still are a frail young thing.
(I know your secret.)
For decades of care you sure are a weak little one.
(I know.)
For ages of dread you still hang on the arm of stoicism.
(I know it.)
For sometime now you've been going astray,
going nowhere, going long, getting old.
(Letting that black shadow keep you alive.)
IV.
It only took one word
And then
It was all over.
I still hate you and I probably always will.
But you never saw it coming
And I'll never tell
(that secret).
Lines run richly holding the explanation of this year and
the burden of one decision (only to regret its beginning)
These are the patterns that sew themselves to us
That explain our lives as X, Y, &c.
Your years of struggling
my indifference,
These are what make us: us
These are the fathers in which we confide,
in which we grow
worthless.
II.
Depression is not glamours
tired, weak hands not desirous.
The things we want, that we can't seem to get
for ourselves: limitless.
A never ending siege.
A never ending surge.
And for what? For words?
For the illusion of death?
For the fear of confrontation?
III.
For years of suppression you still are a frail young thing.
(I know your secret.)
For decades of care you sure are a weak little one.
(I know.)
For ages of dread you still hang on the arm of stoicism.
(I know it.)
For sometime now you've been going astray,
going nowhere, going long, getting old.
(Letting that black shadow keep you alive.)
IV.
It only took one word
And then
It was all over.
I still hate you and I probably always will.
But you never saw it coming
And I'll never tell
(that secret).
1.01.2012
2012
My uncle just sent me this picture of my one-of-a-kind Grandma, Donna.
She was a gem. RIP GD. Miss you on this first day of 2012.
8.24.2011
Rationalists, like Spinoza.
Sunday mornings: hot coffee and a muffin from the Eastside bakery. The table is decoupaged with cut-out images by some famous fifteenth century painter. I’m in yellow, with my brown leather satchel, holding onto a ceramic mug about the size of a Coke bottle. Sammy’s hand is in my free one—although it isn’t free anymore.
There’s a dog in the ally, facing the window we look out of. He looks like a swimer, but I suspect he’s really no good at what he’s made for. He sits and waits for the girl with dyed red hair to order her Chai, or whatever.
I watch him pant and wag his tail with calm adore.
She pays no attention.
He isn’t even hers.
Sammy and I sit here, as usual, in silence. The stool he’s chosen is closer to the floor then mine.
And when he looks up from the illustrations and takes a small corner of the blueberry muffin, I always expect our eye contact to be more intimate.
But I guess his kind of intimacy is more or less in the silence.
We’ve known each other for a little over two year now and still it kills me when he begs with out using words. Those marbley eyes-- patient yet indifferent-- ask only for acquiescence, but I'm not into giving in anymore.
I'm done.
He can have the muffin.
There’s a dog in the ally, facing the window we look out of. He looks like a swimer, but I suspect he’s really no good at what he’s made for. He sits and waits for the girl with dyed red hair to order her Chai, or whatever.
I watch him pant and wag his tail with calm adore.
She pays no attention.
He isn’t even hers.
Sammy and I sit here, as usual, in silence. The stool he’s chosen is closer to the floor then mine.
And when he looks up from the illustrations and takes a small corner of the blueberry muffin, I always expect our eye contact to be more intimate.
But I guess his kind of intimacy is more or less in the silence.
We’ve known each other for a little over two year now and still it kills me when he begs with out using words. Those marbley eyes-- patient yet indifferent-- ask only for acquiescence, but I'm not into giving in anymore.
I'm done.
He can have the muffin.
7.12.2010
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