translation can be tricky sometimes, i think.
how do we know that what we mean gets
processed "just so" in another's mind?
not even from one language to another,
it can be complicated even from one
eye movement to another. but if "it"
is really all about me, in the end, then
why does it matter if you understand why
i write the words that i write, in this
particular order, at this particular time
(11:53:58 EST) for any particular reason?
what if i don't even know my own reason, and
therefore couldn't try to translate it
into your comprehension, even if i wanted to?
in the end, if it was really all about "me" in my world
and "you" in yours, i wouldn't need to be asking
these questions, now would i.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
99-real life
we're all involved in this: you know, the art
of making things. searching for meaning. what do you mean
it's not there? everything must have a meaning,
for why else would we assign phonetic sounds to little
symbols which we use to create mental representations of
items we meet in the real world? does that mean that
inside of the brain isn't the real world? can synaptic
transference constitute communication like when i tell you
i love you? perhaps the transfer of neural information is like that,
and sometimes when you can't remember something or focus
on a particular topic, it means that the neurons that
Should Be communicating are in a fight; aren't talking to each other
right now. or maybe the inside of the mind is like a trifocal glasses lens,
and you have to find the sweet spot to get the message
through the synaptic cleft. like i said, everything must have a meaning.
of making things. searching for meaning. what do you mean
it's not there? everything must have a meaning,
for why else would we assign phonetic sounds to little
symbols which we use to create mental representations of
items we meet in the real world? does that mean that
inside of the brain isn't the real world? can synaptic
transference constitute communication like when i tell you
i love you? perhaps the transfer of neural information is like that,
and sometimes when you can't remember something or focus
on a particular topic, it means that the neurons that
Should Be communicating are in a fight; aren't talking to each other
right now. or maybe the inside of the mind is like a trifocal glasses lens,
and you have to find the sweet spot to get the message
through the synaptic cleft. like i said, everything must have a meaning.
98-interlaced
was it the dress
or
the music that made this
one night the way i was?
the way it was?
the way you were?
soft notes fluttering down
slowly grazing the skin,
the slightest of touches,
nuzzling into corners, folds.
beats trickling down the back,
tapping harmonies of colors and sounds
into each skin cell. how can one be
separate from the other? how can two
senses not be intertwined, interlaced,
the feel of silk upon skin creates its own
reverberation.
97-declension
i like to create my own scenes of potential,
at random,
when they strike me. when you ask
me to cut up the vegetables
for dinner, or
your foot brushes mine when we're
asleep, or when we're walking
through aisles of (nouns-declining
through their inflections)
whatever. i like to see the
potential (capable of becoming,
becoming what?) in this, this
moment. can't you see it there?
just behind the lampshade?
reflected in the mirror
(remember, your brain turns it
upside-down for you, so you can make
sense
of the world)
at random,
when they strike me. when you ask
me to cut up the vegetables
for dinner, or
your foot brushes mine when we're
asleep, or when we're walking
through aisles of (nouns-declining
through their inflections)
whatever. i like to see the
potential (capable of becoming,
becoming what?) in this, this
moment. can't you see it there?
just behind the lampshade?
reflected in the mirror
(remember, your brain turns it
upside-down for you, so you can make
sense
of the world)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
96-really
i don't think it's stalking, really,
especially since i completely don't care;
really, i'm happy now, i have all my ducks in a row
-school-job-exercise-boyfriend-family-all lined up
to my liking. it's not stalking, really,
but sometimes i still notice when your name comes up
(like that street we passed in ohio-stark white
emblazoned on green, lit brightly in the headlights)
or when i saw you that one time, at the party, with
that other girl. i wouldn't say it's stalking, really,
since i was with him, just as happy as you, but i
still felt a dull twisting in my spine (really, i have
no right to still feel this, i shouldn't still feel this,
but come on, you can't expect me to wish happiness
upon you, the happiness i know)
especially since i completely don't care;
really, i'm happy now, i have all my ducks in a row
-school-job-exercise-boyfriend-family-all lined up
to my liking. it's not stalking, really,
but sometimes i still notice when your name comes up
(like that street we passed in ohio-stark white
emblazoned on green, lit brightly in the headlights)
or when i saw you that one time, at the party, with
that other girl. i wouldn't say it's stalking, really,
since i was with him, just as happy as you, but i
still felt a dull twisting in my spine (really, i have
no right to still feel this, i shouldn't still feel this,
but come on, you can't expect me to wish happiness
upon you, the happiness i know)
95-or was it fog?
the night air still clings to me, a cloak
of mist pulling me back into memory.
the low bustle of cicadas in the trees,
dust hanging in the air,
(or was it fog?)
no, it was the condensation of my
breath as i bitterly exhaled into
the biting wind, snow nipping at my
heels as i dug them in that much
harder. or was it raining? and my heels
being pulled to and fro by puddles
deep with reflection? dwelling
in the depths of memories can be
pointless, you see, as new memories
work retroactively to cloud the older
ones even more.
of mist pulling me back into memory.
the low bustle of cicadas in the trees,
dust hanging in the air,
(or was it fog?)
no, it was the condensation of my
breath as i bitterly exhaled into
the biting wind, snow nipping at my
heels as i dug them in that much
harder. or was it raining? and my heels
being pulled to and fro by puddles
deep with reflection? dwelling
in the depths of memories can be
pointless, you see, as new memories
work retroactively to cloud the older
ones even more.
94-moon
I remember the time I heard someone tell me about
their little brother thinking that when they drive,
the world is moving past them, instead of the car
moving past the world. I smiled to myself on the rest
of the way home, thinking about my own childhood ideas;
the moon was my friend who followed me home in the car,
to make sure I made it home safe and sound.
I thought of the moon as a little puppy dog, on a
reallyreallyreallyreally long leash, stretching all
the way up to the stars around his neck, and he would
be there, trotting along at night, as our car
hummed along the highway, providing us with a safe
dull light, all the way home.
their little brother thinking that when they drive,
the world is moving past them, instead of the car
moving past the world. I smiled to myself on the rest
of the way home, thinking about my own childhood ideas;
the moon was my friend who followed me home in the car,
to make sure I made it home safe and sound.
I thought of the moon as a little puppy dog, on a
reallyreallyreallyreally long leash, stretching all
the way up to the stars around his neck, and he would
be there, trotting along at night, as our car
hummed along the highway, providing us with a safe
dull light, all the way home.
Monday, August 23, 2010
93- viewfinder videos
days before it felt as if i was watching my life
through the window of a camera;
hitting play and rewind at will to will you
back here, back in the chair next to me,
willing your voice to work its way into my ear.
just like before. the stroll past an old building
led to viewfinder videos of me running
up to the door and into your arms, or of me stealing
one last look up to your window late at night.
but now the camera can stay shut, that chair
is actually inhabited by your body, corporeal. again.
through the window of a camera;
hitting play and rewind at will to will you
back here, back in the chair next to me,
willing your voice to work its way into my ear.
just like before. the stroll past an old building
led to viewfinder videos of me running
up to the door and into your arms, or of me stealing
one last look up to your window late at night.
but now the camera can stay shut, that chair
is actually inhabited by your body, corporeal. again.
92- its paces
keep the car running, i can't stay
here for much longer. fingers itching out an
impatient hum, drumming the still air.
some people move to keep things whole, too
much of a responsibility for me. i move to
keep moving, to stop thinking, to stop dwelling
on any given problem. the moment a moment hangs
in the air a little too long, a pause, the brain starts
doing its paces in my skull, back and forth and back and
it doesn't stop unless i'm moving. keep the car running.
here for much longer. fingers itching out an
impatient hum, drumming the still air.
some people move to keep things whole, too
much of a responsibility for me. i move to
keep moving, to stop thinking, to stop dwelling
on any given problem. the moment a moment hangs
in the air a little too long, a pause, the brain starts
doing its paces in my skull, back and forth and back and
it doesn't stop unless i'm moving. keep the car running.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
91- exerpt
this is based on an untrue story, a falsity, a habit
of imagination. rather than facts (that is, hard cold information stored
deep in a database) this uses synaptic connections that have
yet to be pruned (as they are maladaptive thoughts, that
only cause problems). every little action gets put through
this wringer of mine, of my brain, each touch (or lack thereof) or
word or breath gets put into the "what-if" machine: what-if you pulled
your pinky away because my hands get too clammy, and you don't
love that any more? what-if you didn't kiss me goodnight because
you're sick of doing that every night? what-if we fall out of love?
what-if i can never stop running through these horrible situations?
what-if these are my downfall? what-ifwhat-ifwhat-ifwhat-ifwhat
then reality starts in again, and i smell your skin as i kiss
your shoulder and realize that the machine has clicked on, and i
throw it out the window of my subconscious. you are here, present,
i am yours and you are mine and that's what is real.
of imagination. rather than facts (that is, hard cold information stored
deep in a database) this uses synaptic connections that have
yet to be pruned (as they are maladaptive thoughts, that
only cause problems). every little action gets put through
this wringer of mine, of my brain, each touch (or lack thereof) or
word or breath gets put into the "what-if" machine: what-if you pulled
your pinky away because my hands get too clammy, and you don't
love that any more? what-if you didn't kiss me goodnight because
you're sick of doing that every night? what-if we fall out of love?
what-if i can never stop running through these horrible situations?
what-if these are my downfall? what-ifwhat-ifwhat-ifwhat-ifwhat
then reality starts in again, and i smell your skin as i kiss
your shoulder and realize that the machine has clicked on, and i
throw it out the window of my subconscious. you are here, present,
i am yours and you are mine and that's what is real.
90- (silent)
poetry::
leaves rustling (wind shifts.)
grass whispering (footsteps fall heavy.)
dew clinging (a fog hovers.)
prose::
elaboration (each detail in excess.)
enunciation (specific, precise wording.)
narration (guiding through the pathway.)
music::
swell (emotions building, higher and higher.)
rest (take a breath.)
beat (repeat, again and again.)
89-illumination
so, what did i see? there between the branches, under
rocks wedged together, vines all
tangled hither and thither, bugs
itching at my legs, wind rustling my hair out of its
tight confines. so what did i see? with the sun above
my head glistening down, clouds
sparse but pleasant, present. i
saw all those things but none at all. they were there
in my view. so what did i see? i could see only one
other, only needed to see one,
climbing through with reckless
abandon of a child's heart, and
felt only that this was right, despite the stinging of
the sunburn and the nettles and the branches. that is
what i saw.
88-actually
actually, it's interesting, isn't it; how two people
performing the exact same actions
feel
completely different emotions and consequences and reasons
and.
one stretches a leg out of fatigue, and feels relief, while
the one beside stretches a leg just to feel anything, any
slight
tingle of sensation. just going through the motions in case
they can elucidate the same response. it never works
though.
performing the exact same actions
feel
completely different emotions and consequences and reasons
and.
one stretches a leg out of fatigue, and feels relief, while
the one beside stretches a leg just to feel anything, any
slight
tingle of sensation. just going through the motions in case
they can elucidate the same response. it never works
though.
Monday, August 16, 2010
87- just because
scene I. a cloud hangs lowly in the distance
just for the ambiance
setting the stage for the players of our scene
no, not quite right, the air quality needs to be a bit more
hazy,
this isn't right, where are the helpers, the stagehands?
i'm working here, people, i can't do this by myself.
come on, pull those clouds by the wisps and direct them
stage left, the wind can't do it fast enough.
scene II.
rain slowly putters its soft feet on
the rooftop, mulling over the ideas in its head. it
cant recall its directions, did the liner notes say
fall slowly
or was it more of a
lazily drift to the right
kind of thing, to give the illusion that this wasn't planned,
wasn't prearranged.
how could it be, there's no reason for rain to be falling now,
you know? things are going too well for there to be
a downpour just because.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
86-open, close
he spoke of opening and closing. he spoke of many things, things that my mind couldn't wrap itself around, couldn't fathom. the immensity of each word expanded into the cavern my brain is housed in, bouncing off the stalagmites and stalactites, echoing again and again into infinity, reflecting each letter off of the brilliance of the stars. he spoke of opening and closing, and i imagined my mind opening, closing. is there a time when we can learn the most, the best, fully? does the mind work like an eye, blinking open, shut, over and over ad infinitum, or is it all seeing, always peering into the wide library of the unknown, processing each detail and adding it to the collection, opening and closing each book to add a new entry.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
85-conversation
it's crazy how each muscle fiber
can tell a story, each tensing and
relaxation a microexpression of its own;
we can have entire conversations through
our faces, body movements,
without ever uttering a sound.
sometimes the wires get cris crossed
across the chiasm, and the perception of
the signals gets muddled. missed signals,
unread facial tics, misunderstood flutters
of eyelashes and half smiles.
can tell a story, each tensing and
relaxation a microexpression of its own;
we can have entire conversations through
our faces, body movements,
without ever uttering a sound.
sometimes the wires get cris crossed
across the chiasm, and the perception of
the signals gets muddled. missed signals,
unread facial tics, misunderstood flutters
of eyelashes and half smiles.
Friday, August 13, 2010
84- "show, don't tell"
"show, don't tell," is the mantra all
creative writing teachers have passed on to me.
do not use your words as words, use them
as brushstrokes in a painting,
cues in a script for a play, a tv show, a movie,
images in a picture snapped at 3 pm on a
Thursday afternoon, the golden sunlight
just hitting the dust in the air to create
a beam of illumination. but sometimes the words
we say, their enunciated syllables pulsing through
the eardrum, sometimes those can be
just enough. those can be as powerful as the
pictures they paint, each letter holding
a brush of a different color.
creative writing teachers have passed on to me.
do not use your words as words, use them
as brushstrokes in a painting,
cues in a script for a play, a tv show, a movie,
images in a picture snapped at 3 pm on a
Thursday afternoon, the golden sunlight
just hitting the dust in the air to create
a beam of illumination. but sometimes the words
we say, their enunciated syllables pulsing through
the eardrum, sometimes those can be
just enough. those can be as powerful as the
pictures they paint, each letter holding
a brush of a different color.
83- dance, dispose, discharge
isn't it always this way;
dance, dispose, discharge.
we play these games between each
other, always moving our feet to avoid
a quiet collision, or at least
trying to. sometimes there's a little
incident, and we must
take care of the problem, dispose of the
unwanted words, thoughts.
then discharge them into the abyss above,
stars begging us to find the right
paths, the right words to say,
steps to take, things to think.
dance, dispose, discharge.
we play these games between each
other, always moving our feet to avoid
a quiet collision, or at least
trying to. sometimes there's a little
incident, and we must
take care of the problem, dispose of the
unwanted words, thoughts.
then discharge them into the abyss above,
stars begging us to find the right
paths, the right words to say,
steps to take, things to think.
82- pie
monotony isn't just one layer: repetition
day after day
upon day.
there are layers, you know?
reasons why it's
pie, again,
for the 37th day in a row: why?
because the flavors are a
blanket, wrapping me up
in safe comfort.
just for one part of the day i want
to feel enveloped,
so what if i go through
a pie a week.
day after day
upon day.
there are layers, you know?
reasons why it's
pie, again,
for the 37th day in a row: why?
because the flavors are a
blanket, wrapping me up
in safe comfort.
just for one part of the day i want
to feel enveloped,
so what if i go through
a pie a week.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
81- tenho saudades tuas
there are some things that just don't carry the same
weight
when translated across borders
tenho saudades tuas i sigh into my pillow
wait
for you to call back to me across this bridge
i miss you doesn't quite cover it enough, it isn't
right.
there are certain activities that leave me with an emptiness
that only feeling you here could fill, and they are so common and daily
that this saudade is becoming too much; all together
too much of myself is devoted to it.
weight
when translated across borders
tenho saudades tuas i sigh into my pillow
wait
for you to call back to me across this bridge
i miss you doesn't quite cover it enough, it isn't
right.
there are certain activities that leave me with an emptiness
that only feeling you here could fill, and they are so common and daily
that this saudade is becoming too much; all together
too much of myself is devoted to it.
Monday, August 9, 2010
80-blind date
to be here, to have,
i stand corrected. i lied when
i said i hadn't been on a blind date,
and you did too. nights spent miles
apart, separated by a distance that our
eyes can't push through.
those nights we lay alone
in the darkness, phones pressed against
ears straining to know the one
on the other end is listening, too.
i stand corrected. i lied when
i said i hadn't been on a blind date,
and you did too. nights spent miles
apart, separated by a distance that our
eyes can't push through.
those nights we lay alone
in the darkness, phones pressed against
ears straining to know the one
on the other end is listening, too.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
79- million little pieces
the drum of the plane's wings overhead
made her heart pound. this wasn't just another
histrionic fit; the plane wouldn't crash nosefirst
into the paved runway, it's feet would
gently press into the ground and carry its passengers
delivering them like a baby swathed in cloth.
not catastrophizing again.
not again. the grass flickered beneath her
feet, a shimmer of film on the ground.
this would be the one time that things would
occur just as planned; the balloon would drift upward,
bursting into a million little pieces of sunlight,
and he would step through the haze.
made her heart pound. this wasn't just another
histrionic fit; the plane wouldn't crash nosefirst
into the paved runway, it's feet would
gently press into the ground and carry its passengers
delivering them like a baby swathed in cloth.
not catastrophizing again.
not again. the grass flickered beneath her
feet, a shimmer of film on the ground.
this would be the one time that things would
occur just as planned; the balloon would drift upward,
bursting into a million little pieces of sunlight,
and he would step through the haze.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
78- concentrated.
can't you see beyond the
comfort of the cushions? it's not just
concrete; the leather of the couch is
corrupt. without the feeling of your weight
combined with the blossoms of air molecules;
carbon and oxygen all desiring to be against,
caressing your skin like the seat beneath you,
chaos rages in the heart of hearts of the beast you rest on.
careful, this isn't quite as the words make it seem:
control but yourself and the messenger will never
care to make it through.
comfort of the cushions? it's not just
concrete; the leather of the couch is
corrupt. without the feeling of your weight
combined with the blossoms of air molecules;
carbon and oxygen all desiring to be against,
caressing your skin like the seat beneath you,
chaos rages in the heart of hearts of the beast you rest on.
careful, this isn't quite as the words make it seem:
control but yourself and the messenger will never
care to make it through.
Friday, August 6, 2010
77-daisy chain
not another day; sunlight flickers, flicks
above beyond through the window, the leaves.
not another day, the table sighs in my ear,
can't you see this is not where you belong here;
doldrums, seas, not. yes, i say yes
yes i do not desire this rope tied about
my pinky toe, the tiny string of ironclad chains.
arriving here is not what i was destined for,
pausing, replays. moments. yes i say, Yes
i belong in a field, daisys flowing through my veins
inching their way home; blooms, bloom.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
76-circuitous
where are we going--from what
to what? this whole shebang seems
to be circuitous and puzzling. is that
a sign up above? below? underneath? can
we even detect it or will it be something
hinting in our unconscious, below all the
other meanings, reasons why, because.
the rainbow is above us, can that be
a message hidden in the droplets hanging
between the air? what does it mean, why does it
mean? i can only hope that it leads me away to another
awareness beyond what is right infront of me,
something shimmering and glistening, full of
promise and wonder and love, all too distant to
be a portal right now.
to what? this whole shebang seems
to be circuitous and puzzling. is that
a sign up above? below? underneath? can
we even detect it or will it be something
hinting in our unconscious, below all the
other meanings, reasons why, because.
the rainbow is above us, can that be
a message hidden in the droplets hanging
between the air? what does it mean, why does it
mean? i can only hope that it leads me away to another
awareness beyond what is right infront of me,
something shimmering and glistening, full of
promise and wonder and love, all too distant to
be a portal right now.
75-the periphery
what about the horse? things slip by
me in the periphery. the rods and cones
ache for some sort of stimulus, a burst of
color, some delineation to mark a change;
some disturbance in the monotony beyond
what is; isn't. they burn holes in the
retina desiring a change, but the motion
of time flying by isn't enough to
activate their strained desires.
me in the periphery. the rods and cones
ache for some sort of stimulus, a burst of
color, some delineation to mark a change;
some disturbance in the monotony beyond
what is; isn't. they burn holes in the
retina desiring a change, but the motion
of time flying by isn't enough to
activate their strained desires.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
74- phantom sound
places in this fake empire it feels
as though others can will things into
compliance; fruition; oblivion; while
meanwhile i just float through. the tides
that don't bind gently push and pull,
making suggestions that i cannot
distinguish, cannot decide between.
the littlest things matter the most;
shall i listen to the shins or perhaps
the arcade fire, which will aid my will in
finally being listened to? will the string
finally be plucked in midair?
as though others can will things into
compliance; fruition; oblivion; while
meanwhile i just float through. the tides
that don't bind gently push and pull,
making suggestions that i cannot
distinguish, cannot decide between.
the littlest things matter the most;
shall i listen to the shins or perhaps
the arcade fire, which will aid my will in
finally being listened to? will the string
finally be plucked in midair?
Monday, August 2, 2010
73-ephemeral
it's times like these when
i sense it the most, the emptiness of
the spaces between my fingers.
the clouds above are so perfectly
shaped, haloed by an exuberance
of brilliant blue, and my fingers
instinctively want to wrap themselves
between yours and squeeze, just to know
you're here, permanent, unlike the
ephemeral sensation of hearing the soft
rush of the clouds inching along.
i sense it the most, the emptiness of
the spaces between my fingers.
the clouds above are so perfectly
shaped, haloed by an exuberance
of brilliant blue, and my fingers
instinctively want to wrap themselves
between yours and squeeze, just to know
you're here, permanent, unlike the
ephemeral sensation of hearing the soft
rush of the clouds inching along.
72-syncopation
sometimes i feel as if i'm slightly misaligned
with the rest of the universe
its beat a bit ahead of me creating
a syncopated rhythm of missteps
just a beat behind where i should be
i think, (one) left foot right corner
(two) right heel kicks up
(three) breath exhaled and (four) eyelashes
flutter quickly then again only
this time slightly different
adjusting for situations my brain
races to keep up but sometimes,
i can't keep my toes tapping in time.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
71-shift
it hasn't rained in weeks here, no
bitter reflective pools to
bury my eyes deep in their
holds. a modicum of selfinspection
the ripples extend from the plane+
enter my body shifting all
the atoms around inside me
to just over. am i now another me?
if the puddle shifts as well as i,
aren't i exactly the same?
Friday, July 30, 2010
70-a stigmatism
it turns out i'm cross eyed- no, really
an astigmatism is the two planes
of vision forming a cross on the lens, instead
of symmetry. so it turns things in a
new way, if i'm not careful and
remember to put on my glasses.
but sometimes, the asymmetry can create
a new brilliance, a new beauty contrary
to the accepted beauty in symmetric faces.
no, i rather like it when the walls
don't slant quite right, my pictures
hanging never lying on the same tangents.
homeyness, a chaos of happiness, tiny imperfect
pixels creating the images i cherish,
blurry memories i keep on replay.
an astigmatism is the two planes
of vision forming a cross on the lens, instead
of symmetry. so it turns things in a
new way, if i'm not careful and
remember to put on my glasses.
but sometimes, the asymmetry can create
a new brilliance, a new beauty contrary
to the accepted beauty in symmetric faces.
no, i rather like it when the walls
don't slant quite right, my pictures
hanging never lying on the same tangents.
homeyness, a chaos of happiness, tiny imperfect
pixels creating the images i cherish,
blurry memories i keep on replay.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
69-permanence
there's a difference in the lasting
power of substances; red blood burrowing
down hushed marble is lasting, cells
pushing through the permeable membrane
breathing them in. the lingering feeling
of your fingertips on my buzzing
skin is fleeting, sensory receptors
momentarily aroused, then returning to
homeostasis, base point.
and so and now i'm sorry i missed you,
my mind was racing through memories
etched in diamond caves, of you and i
sharing different heartbeats in one night,
kept awake by their staccato rhythm pressing
from your skin to mine, vice versa.
power of substances; red blood burrowing
down hushed marble is lasting, cells
pushing through the permeable membrane
breathing them in. the lingering feeling
of your fingertips on my buzzing
skin is fleeting, sensory receptors
momentarily aroused, then returning to
homeostasis, base point.
and so and now i'm sorry i missed you,
my mind was racing through memories
etched in diamond caves, of you and i
sharing different heartbeats in one night,
kept awake by their staccato rhythm pressing
from your skin to mine, vice versa.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
68-not what you see
believe not what you
see, rather what you can im
agine when you in
hale and exhale whilst
dreaming. no more open doors,
surrounded by emp
ty air, no promise
held in its movement. instead
only breath passed be
tween, together shar
ing the desire to just,
be. at last, again.
see, rather what you can im
agine when you in
hale and exhale whilst
dreaming. no more open doors,
surrounded by emp
ty air, no promise
held in its movement. instead
only breath passed be
tween, together shar
ing the desire to just,
be. at last, again.
67-no one does it like you
it's true, you are the
food to me, but not the kind i eat
to be sated. no, it's a strangest
sensation when i want to
completely use you up;
every single molecule, but stretching
each atom out over its entire
lifetime of possibilities;
i can't settle for a half-life less
than an unimaginable unit of time.
but still, delayed gratification is
a daily struggle for me, and anything involving
making a decision is out. so i'll be content
to wait here for you to decide for me,
use me up.
food to me, but not the kind i eat
to be sated. no, it's a strangest
sensation when i want to
completely use you up;
every single molecule, but stretching
each atom out over its entire
lifetime of possibilities;
i can't settle for a half-life less
than an unimaginable unit of time.
but still, delayed gratification is
a daily struggle for me, and anything involving
making a decision is out. so i'll be content
to wait here for you to decide for me,
use me up.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
66-leftrightleftright
without any other visual
cues, a point source
of light will appear to move in a
completely blackened room.
solely because of the body's
natural
uncontrollable
motions. a nervous tic,
momentary shudders (that's when someone
walks over your grave, my 5
year old self whispers to me),
tiny movements of a pinky.
each little shift, minute
adjustment
moves the light.
how far? who knows, who cares,
really, because it's
all just an illusion.
cues, a point source
of light will appear to move in a
completely blackened room.
solely because of the body's
natural
uncontrollable
motions. a nervous tic,
momentary shudders (that's when someone
walks over your grave, my 5
year old self whispers to me),
tiny movements of a pinky.
each little shift, minute
adjustment
moves the light.
how far? who knows, who cares,
really, because it's
all just an illusion.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
65-if
if i could film my life as it happens and then
go back
sometimes i wonder if i'd like to take it
into the dark room and make copy edits.
cut frames that had cut me whilst happening,
like the times spent crying over things
that were never
meant to be, should never have been
wanted. making a
smooth, cohesive, narrative
(in the eyes of the audience, of course).
along with that, perhaps i'd like to make
montages of the happiest moments,
extended looks at the times
i felt
most loved, most cherished, happiest,
(of course those were with you)
but then i really think about it,
usually late at night when
words start
to sound funny as i deconstruct them in my head,
and i realize that my life is in fact
a cohesive narrative,
i just can't see the story arc from
within the story.
go back
sometimes i wonder if i'd like to take it
into the dark room and make copy edits.
cut frames that had cut me whilst happening,
like the times spent crying over things
that were never
meant to be, should never have been
wanted. making a
smooth, cohesive, narrative
(in the eyes of the audience, of course).
along with that, perhaps i'd like to make
montages of the happiest moments,
extended looks at the times
i felt
most loved, most cherished, happiest,
(of course those were with you)
but then i really think about it,
usually late at night when
words start
to sound funny as i deconstruct them in my head,
and i realize that my life is in fact
a cohesive narrative,
i just can't see the story arc from
within the story.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
64-attribution
when things happen to me
sometimes it feels as if you are
still here. when i am in the kitchen
and the song changes on the
ipod, i think it is you picking it
and it has more weight, less wait
than if i think it's the electrical impulses
and not your hand.
when the blanket shifts against my calves
i picture you shifting like always,
instead of attributing it to the fan
which it is. i forget for
a moment in time that this apart
ness is still happening, still current,
an open sore that the tiniest of occurrences
can wound me again, the smallest change
will remind me once again that
you are not here.
63-motion parallax
motion parallax, they call it when
the objects closer to you (in a moving vehicle)
move faster than the ones that are farther
away. the mountains in the distance
take eternities to pass while the
tree just there flies by. what about
the towns just past the mountains?
and just past those? how fast
are those moving in time, slower
than an ant but faster
than the continents drifting?
and what about you, my home,
a thousand miles away. do you
move at all? is the distance
between us slowly shrinking? or
is it just my brain processing
the information clouding my
vision from my heart?
the objects closer to you (in a moving vehicle)
move faster than the ones that are farther
away. the mountains in the distance
take eternities to pass while the
tree just there flies by. what about
the towns just past the mountains?
and just past those? how fast
are those moving in time, slower
than an ant but faster
than the continents drifting?
and what about you, my home,
a thousand miles away. do you
move at all? is the distance
between us slowly shrinking? or
is it just my brain processing
the information clouding my
vision from my heart?
Thursday, July 22, 2010
62- . what if
what if time really is fluid
, something that shifts just to conform
to the shape of its container
, in this case our minds
. what if instead we could let it
trickle out, and flow any which
way it wanted
. the molecules
disassociating into something else
. how would our bodies react? our fingers
,would they still reach out and pluck
a leaf from a stem or would
the leaf be springing to reach our
extended palms
. could we rewind
? pause and replay each of the
most precious moments
, those that have become
a little hazier around the edges
? and then reach out and
feel the soft peach fuzz of memory
, push it into alignment?
, something that shifts just to conform
to the shape of its container
, in this case our minds
. what if instead we could let it
trickle out, and flow any which
way it wanted
. the molecules
disassociating into something else
. how would our bodies react? our fingers
,would they still reach out and pluck
a leaf from a stem or would
the leaf be springing to reach our
extended palms
. could we rewind
? pause and replay each of the
most precious moments
, those that have become
a little hazier around the edges
? and then reach out and
feel the soft peach fuzz of memory
, push it into alignment?
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
61-slip up
sometimes if i slip up it
overtakes me and catches me by
surprise:: one minute i'll be
perfectly fine, walking through
an emptier campus in the breeze
when it shifts:: and i swear i can
feel you beside me fingers
interlaced, my shoulder leaning
into your frame. here, solid.
my breath sticks in my throat
here, solid.
overtakes me and catches me by
surprise:: one minute i'll be
perfectly fine, walking through
an emptier campus in the breeze
when it shifts:: and i swear i can
feel you beside me fingers
interlaced, my shoulder leaning
into your frame. here, solid.
my breath sticks in my throat
here, solid.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
60- celebrations
what i remember most about my birthday
this year is confusing. on the one hand, i can
recall perfectly the empty feeling as i
spoke with a drunken friend, who pointedly
asked why i was going home, instead of going
upstairs to see what you were doing. i didn't
have the right, then, so i made the trek home
in the one blizzard of this year, stubbornly pulling
in each biting breath of freezing air, only to
find solace in the bed of my best friend,
finding free food and snuggling into her
shoulder, the outside air condensing into
tears pulling the edge of my lashes down.
but my birthday was the last of the epic birthday
week, which is also recalled in perfect crystallized
memory; captured on camera by another trying
to capture what would be, could be. to convince
me to go for it girl, i deserved it. surrounded
by all my closest friends, sharing laughs and
the bill. still, i remember most clearly the
smell of your skin brushing past my cheek as
the click of the camera went off in the distance.
this year is confusing. on the one hand, i can
recall perfectly the empty feeling as i
spoke with a drunken friend, who pointedly
asked why i was going home, instead of going
upstairs to see what you were doing. i didn't
have the right, then, so i made the trek home
in the one blizzard of this year, stubbornly pulling
in each biting breath of freezing air, only to
find solace in the bed of my best friend,
finding free food and snuggling into her
shoulder, the outside air condensing into
tears pulling the edge of my lashes down.
but my birthday was the last of the epic birthday
week, which is also recalled in perfect crystallized
memory; captured on camera by another trying
to capture what would be, could be. to convince
me to go for it girl, i deserved it. surrounded
by all my closest friends, sharing laughs and
the bill. still, i remember most clearly the
smell of your skin brushing past my cheek as
the click of the camera went off in the distance.
59-chime
sometimes i have dreams that make
me wish they were my reality; so simplistic
and whole they make my body ache for
the realism. the door swings open;
"honey, i'm home!" and instead of a
chime of music playing (see, that would
be too unreal, too much) i hear your
music playing from the other room, and
tiny paws over wood floors to come
nuzzle my legs. a real home. but instead,
i wake up to my big empty room,
and walk out to silence.
me wish they were my reality; so simplistic
and whole they make my body ache for
the realism. the door swings open;
"honey, i'm home!" and instead of a
chime of music playing (see, that would
be too unreal, too much) i hear your
music playing from the other room, and
tiny paws over wood floors to come
nuzzle my legs. a real home. but instead,
i wake up to my big empty room,
and walk out to silence.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
58-whisker
the idea never used to appeal
to me; binding oneself to another in
the eye of the lord and the state, from
neither of which i seek approval.
why, if everyone knows it's true?
but now it's a little kitten
following me home from work (because i
stopped to give it a quick pet) a quick
look back each step sees it's tiny
tail flickering, each whisker a new
idea of possibility, of a little reason why
i could consider it. reminded again each
day at work, new colors shapes designs
seating plating dancing arrangements.
a little lost kitten, i'm telling you,
can't we just adopt it and make it
our own?
to me; binding oneself to another in
the eye of the lord and the state, from
neither of which i seek approval.
why, if everyone knows it's true?
but now it's a little kitten
following me home from work (because i
stopped to give it a quick pet) a quick
look back each step sees it's tiny
tail flickering, each whisker a new
idea of possibility, of a little reason why
i could consider it. reminded again each
day at work, new colors shapes designs
seating plating dancing arrangements.
a little lost kitten, i'm telling you,
can't we just adopt it and make it
our own?
Saturday, July 17, 2010
57-replanning
i should know by now, i mean i
go to a school where the architects practically
live in a cocoon of their building;
planning, sketching, replanning, etc.,
they're just a means to an ends, a method
of problem solving to cut the distance
between two points.a means
to an ends where the end is falling
down and hitting the water which isn't
a fluid anymore, is now concrete and
not going to cushion your fall
no, a way to get from point
a to point b, a passageway meant to
safely hold the cars in its proverbial
arms metal beams that
rust and creak and can break apart
after all these years, traveling back
and forth i still press the accelerator down
just a bit harder each time.
go to a school where the architects practically
live in a cocoon of their building;
planning, sketching, replanning, etc.,
they're just a means to an ends, a method
of problem solving to cut the distance
between two points.a means
to an ends where the end is falling
down and hitting the water which isn't
a fluid anymore, is now concrete and
not going to cushion your fall
no, a way to get from point
a to point b, a passageway meant to
safely hold the cars in its proverbial
arms metal beams that
rust and creak and can break apart
after all these years, traveling back
and forth i still press the accelerator down
just a bit harder each time.
Friday, July 16, 2010
56-facts for visitors
Swaths of fabric, contextualizing her body, her folds. Rising, falling with each breath, each shimmer a void. Bending down to my notebook and beginning to write, the ink bleeding into the page, giving life. I wonder: If the words I am writing, believing, overlap and become one, woudl the blackness be the same? Would the words have meaning, purpose, desire? Each letter a penumbra in the multitude of existence on the page. Each word written; made of the same ink, the same atoms, the same. Then, the power of language is decode this sameness, the purpose to decipher. Isn't it? If language is a construct, then who's to say what you're reading is what I mean? A transcendental equation in its finist: you can't know what I mean without reading my words, but my words are created by my language, thoughts. If a could be the same as q then how would you know what quail meant? Equivalent? I think not. A sparkle hits my eye, reflection of the self in the emptiness. Knowledge, at last.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
55- holy the bop apocalypse
i have your dreams and your teeth marks
(what is a body but a toy?)
and yet you will weep and know why.
Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven
these fragments i have shored against my ruin.
(burning burning burning burning)
(what peaches and what penumbras)
petals on a wet, black bough
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection
to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night
out of the sheer lust of adventure--
(Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!)
misremembered who i am
wasn't i there?
(my mother is a fish.)
now i am become death, the destroyer of worlds
now we are all sons of bitches
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
54-colloquialisms
higher and higher and higher the view
becomes unobstructed by the
haze of our earthly blanket.
as each layer of atoms is removed
from my eyes the sight does not
get clearer, any less fuzzy
the meaning will not reveal itself
to my calling. am i not addressing it
formally enough? are my colloquialisms
turning it off, making it cast
me into its shadow only to pull me
further into the darkness of
unadmitted knowledge. maybe i've
been up here too long, and
it's already revealed itself.
becomes unobstructed by the
haze of our earthly blanket.
as each layer of atoms is removed
from my eyes the sight does not
get clearer, any less fuzzy
the meaning will not reveal itself
to my calling. am i not addressing it
formally enough? are my colloquialisms
turning it off, making it cast
me into its shadow only to pull me
further into the darkness of
unadmitted knowledge. maybe i've
been up here too long, and
it's already revealed itself.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
53-concentric
it seems as if every motion i make
isn't guided by a hand from above or
even within, a meandering walk about
what i desire, need, care for
concentric circles seem to be forming
arc upon arc not the most direct
the straightest path inward
(the least risky one, sure to keep
my most precious items safe)
seems to be pointing in one direction
only, and yet my heavy-hearted feet
are tied to this ground by responsibilities
both heavy and unwanted,
the one desire truly known
(and paid attention to)
at the center of these maddening patterns
is just beyond my reach
isn't guided by a hand from above or
even within, a meandering walk about
what i desire, need, care for
concentric circles seem to be forming
arc upon arc not the most direct
the straightest path inward
(the least risky one, sure to keep
my most precious items safe)
seems to be pointing in one direction
only, and yet my heavy-hearted feet
are tied to this ground by responsibilities
both heavy and unwanted,
the one desire truly known
(and paid attention to)
at the center of these maddening patterns
is just beyond my reach
Monday, July 12, 2010
52-great moments in cinema
'shoot all the bluejays you want,
if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin
to kill a mockingbird.' the words
on the page painted a picture so clear
a man upstanding, bravest man though hating
war, hating even more injustice. the man
on the page seemed a good man, but nothing
compared to the man on the screen;
handsome, eyes shaded by heavy brows of
confidence, nose just set squarely in a
face symmetric. a voice controlling a courtroom
and a family, a voice like none other passing
down wisdom beyond the age.
if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin
to kill a mockingbird.' the words
on the page painted a picture so clear
a man upstanding, bravest man though hating
war, hating even more injustice. the man
on the page seemed a good man, but nothing
compared to the man on the screen;
handsome, eyes shaded by heavy brows of
confidence, nose just set squarely in a
face symmetric. a voice controlling a courtroom
and a family, a voice like none other passing
down wisdom beyond the age.
51-something
at times the smallest of somethings
reveal themselves to me as codes waiting
to be broken down; messages from you
hidden inside the glass bottle encasing
a system of zeroes and ones; a fractal
bursting into patterns of lights
that seem to be missing; something;
again the shift and the message
starts anew, a new obstacle in the
system of breaking down.
reveal themselves to me as codes waiting
to be broken down; messages from you
hidden inside the glass bottle encasing
a system of zeroes and ones; a fractal
bursting into patterns of lights
that seem to be missing; something;
again the shift and the message
starts anew, a new obstacle in the
system of breaking down.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
50-hole
'maybe this time' the tiny voice whispers
shivers down my cochleal curve reaching
through my sp rt, inner hairs
standing on tter enunciated
vibrating n the inbetween.
'how could ?' another whines
from within is passed
'how could he pty? so alone?'
'why?' wound up, each message reaches
the homunculus inside and settles, gets absorbed.
49-things that accumulate
the motions of things that accumulate
speak volumes as their muscles
contract and relax, shift
to accommodate. a look, fingers
grazing, breath quickened,
a hurried goodbye. it's good enough
for now just to remember, (but not
for long) as memories are subjective
colored by what we want now, looking
back for hidden clues, secret
messages passed through pinkies
just touching.
speak volumes as their muscles
contract and relax, shift
to accommodate. a look, fingers
grazing, breath quickened,
a hurried goodbye. it's good enough
for now just to remember, (but not
for long) as memories are subjective
colored by what we want now, looking
back for hidden clues, secret
messages passed through pinkies
just touching.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
48-it overtakes me
the act of changing location
sounds so permeable, fluid. as if
i could inhale and be underground waiting
for my train. exhale and be
staring above me at behemoths of architecture
reflecting my own shining face
back at me. sometimes i feel
that way, but now each movement seems
languid and tired, as if my muscles
are straining from the weight
of all the lives i am not living;
pulling each cell backwards as it
tries and tries again to keep
its momentum.
sounds so permeable, fluid. as if
i could inhale and be underground waiting
for my train. exhale and be
staring above me at behemoths of architecture
reflecting my own shining face
back at me. sometimes i feel
that way, but now each movement seems
languid and tired, as if my muscles
are straining from the weight
of all the lives i am not living;
pulling each cell backwards as it
tries and tries again to keep
its momentum.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
47- condensate
the burning ones strained to pull
upwards on the sapling's branch--
leaves unaffected, gravity's
breath too heavy on each cell to
feel the ache of combustion
--they beat their tiny wings
trying to create uplift beyond the
words that burnt brightly against
the forest green and
mahogany brown--but the ties to
this world kept them anchored
in the babbling ambling condensate
upwards on the sapling's branch--
leaves unaffected, gravity's
breath too heavy on each cell to
feel the ache of combustion
--they beat their tiny wings
trying to create uplift beyond the
words that burnt brightly against
the forest green and
mahogany brown--but the ties to
this world kept them anchored
in the babbling ambling condensate
46- poses
the classical body is
transcendental; poses once thought
un-natural come on a whim and can
be held for time periods unknown
to clocks, holding steady for the
camera clicking behind your iris,
iridescent. curtains of
the blackest lashes, aching to break
from their epidermal sockets of
stillness. the body knows this
staying is ephemeral in the eyes
of the cosmos, knows to keep
muscles from flinching out of formation,
just a little longer.
transcendental; poses once thought
un-natural come on a whim and can
be held for time periods unknown
to clocks, holding steady for the
camera clicking behind your iris,
iridescent. curtains of
the blackest lashes, aching to break
from their epidermal sockets of
stillness. the body knows this
staying is ephemeral in the eyes
of the cosmos, knows to keep
muscles from flinching out of formation,
just a little longer.
45-surface merry changing
the rays reached beyond the surface
of the water anew perspective
glints just past the corner of
my visual field eyes
fixed upwards floating on a
permeable surface
the unsympathetic merry
go round of clouds ever changing
rotating about the sphere
of existence i am forced to question
probe and make decisions about
but for now not quite
as the water grazes my skin
a caress of meditation
and the breeze shifts
of the water anew perspective
glints just past the corner of
my visual field eyes
fixed upwards floating on a
permeable surface
the unsympathetic merry
go round of clouds ever changing
rotating about the sphere
of existence i am forced to question
probe and make decisions about
but for now not quite
as the water grazes my skin
a caress of meditation
and the breeze shifts
Monday, July 5, 2010
44- star spangled
the fourth of julys past have held
hotdogs and hamburgers in buns, greasy
potato chips next to coleslaw,
soda cans dripping in exhaustion
while eyes strain in the dimming light
for spangles in the sky. bursting with
beads and sequins of exuberance
dancing just for my pleasure.
the first spent away from my
family, not gathered on a lawn blanket
beneath the stars, or listening
from a distance in our porch, had
spangles of a different sort in store,
held hands and faces, explorations
for new and exciting cuisine,
overindulgence of all senses, all necessary
and sufficient and then some. each
touch, each moment a new memory
bursting into existence.
hotdogs and hamburgers in buns, greasy
potato chips next to coleslaw,
soda cans dripping in exhaustion
while eyes strain in the dimming light
for spangles in the sky. bursting with
beads and sequins of exuberance
dancing just for my pleasure.
the first spent away from my
family, not gathered on a lawn blanket
beneath the stars, or listening
from a distance in our porch, had
spangles of a different sort in store,
held hands and faces, explorations
for new and exciting cuisine,
overindulgence of all senses, all necessary
and sufficient and then some. each
touch, each moment a new memory
bursting into existence.
43- home is where the heart
even now, i can hear them calling me
emotions voices speaking to the
rhythm of your heart beat
pulling my head my body towards them
when i concentrate i can feel
you here next to me embracing
fingertips slowly spelling their messages
on my skin breath hinting their
meaning your face is my home
and home is where the heart
belongs desires to be
will remain
with you
emotions voices speaking to the
rhythm of your heart beat
pulling my head my body towards them
when i concentrate i can feel
you here next to me embracing
fingertips slowly spelling their messages
on my skin breath hinting their
meaning your face is my home
and home is where the heart
belongs desires to be
will remain
with you
Saturday, July 3, 2010
pause
Going on a mini-vacation, won't have laptop, will take back up Tuesday (possibly Monday night) and make up for time lost.
Friday, July 2, 2010
42- turn right
the path is unmovable un
changeable. false. turn left.
where are we going? these trees
don't look familiar,
the ground too flat to be home. turn
right. turn right. now.
the path is changing before
my eyes, before i can get
directions, know where we're
going, where we'll
end up. keep following this road,
it will take you to where
home is, where your heart lies
tucked away safely.
changeable. false. turn left.
where are we going? these trees
don't look familiar,
the ground too flat to be home. turn
right. turn right. now.
the path is changing before
my eyes, before i can get
directions, know where we're
going, where we'll
end up. keep following this road,
it will take you to where
home is, where your heart lies
tucked away safely.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
41-water
the human body is mostly water
they say, a commonly
known fact. we are all partly the same
water molecules filling each
of us almost to the brim.
we are each so easily
shaped by outside forces
and inner desires- just as
water strives to fill whatever
container it is in, to move
over any obstacle in its path.
the reflection glimmers in my
eye as the water changes from blue
to purple, purple to red, red
to black. i wonder what color
the water molecules are
inside me, at that moment.
they say, a commonly
known fact. we are all partly the same
water molecules filling each
of us almost to the brim.
we are each so easily
shaped by outside forces
and inner desires- just as
water strives to fill whatever
container it is in, to move
over any obstacle in its path.
the reflection glimmers in my
eye as the water changes from blue
to purple, purple to red, red
to black. i wonder what color
the water molecules are
inside me, at that moment.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
40-no distance to lose
the sound of a smile gets
lost in the web of
signals transmitted over
a thousand miles. your
mouth just beyond mine
is another story,
no distance to lose
the message held in each
compression of air.
soft smoothing of
skin on skin as lips
pull upward. hair not so
silently rustling against
another. silence, wind running
through the leaves, before your
smile is pressed against mine.
lost in the web of
signals transmitted over
a thousand miles. your
mouth just beyond mine
is another story,
no distance to lose
the message held in each
compression of air.
soft smoothing of
skin on skin as lips
pull upward. hair not so
silently rustling against
another. silence, wind running
through the leaves, before your
smile is pressed against mine.
39- crystalize
if i could only bend and
twist into something immovable,
permanent. muscles crystallizing
atom by atom into marble.
forever moving, contorting my
body aching for the
knowledge of what was known
before. how does no one wonder
what it was Galatea desired,
arcing her back in ecstatic
pursuit
twist into something immovable,
permanent. muscles crystallizing
atom by atom into marble.
forever moving, contorting my
body aching for the
knowledge of what was known
before. how does no one wonder
what it was Galatea desired,
arcing her back in ecstatic
pursuit
Monday, June 28, 2010
38- a real physical feeling
fingers trace from an anatomy
book. mons pubis so
tenderly grazed, the body learns a new
reaction. back arches, pulse
quickens, raw inhale.
cleft of venus never before
pursed with another's hand, the body
so innate with desire knows
before the mind can comprehend a
next move. an out of body
experience within each cell, nerves
passing unheard messages
to tell the brain react, desire,
touch, be touch, love, be loved.
book. mons pubis so
tenderly grazed, the body learns a new
reaction. back arches, pulse
quickens, raw inhale.
cleft of venus never before
pursed with another's hand, the body
so innate with desire knows
before the mind can comprehend a
next move. an out of body
experience within each cell, nerves
passing unheard messages
to tell the brain react, desire,
touch, be touch, love, be loved.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
37- structural elements of my own
no longer a planar map of the space
my body inhibits exhibits
the cavern of my chest an expressive cathedral not
tethered to the control existing in the synapse
support beams of ribs shift with every
inhalation exhalation each breath
beneath the cathedral a lake of organs
each undulation a ripple of process
the skull a shell protecting
the nebulousness of thought emotion knowledge
the skin an exhibition showing off the architecture
structural elements of my own formation
each motion miraculous meticulously
crafted by the hand of god
for my god is the logic of the scientific process
of information of physics mathematics chemistry biology
belief in a higher sense of sentiency
believing based on facts and figures
proof of existence not
proof by existence
my body inhibits exhibits
the cavern of my chest an expressive cathedral not
tethered to the control existing in the synapse
support beams of ribs shift with every
inhalation exhalation each breath
beneath the cathedral a lake of organs
each undulation a ripple of process
the skull a shell protecting
the nebulousness of thought emotion knowledge
the skin an exhibition showing off the architecture
structural elements of my own formation
each motion miraculous meticulously
crafted by the hand of god
for my god is the logic of the scientific process
of information of physics mathematics chemistry biology
belief in a higher sense of sentiency
believing based on facts and figures
proof of existence not
proof by existence
Saturday, June 26, 2010
36- unspokenunheard
you're not listening (to the words
that come out of my mouth) but
the words left unspokenunheard
that are said (between
the beats, rests of breath)
in earnest. yes, they're
true ofcourse but
the truth (which lies
in the inbetweens
the heartbeats of phrase)
leaves an echo.
that come out of my mouth) but
the words left unspokenunheard
that are said (between
the beats, rests of breath)
in earnest. yes, they're
true ofcourse but
the truth (which lies
in the inbetweens
the heartbeats of phrase)
leaves an echo.
Friday, June 25, 2010
35-pulse
the pulse beats as
each layer of self
becomes undone unbecoming
of a lady as
inch upon inch appears
glowing in the stark
blackness of the room
shoes become feet socks into
ankles until nothing remains
but the original
copy all layers removed
the pulse remains
beating
each layer of self
becomes undone unbecoming
of a lady as
inch upon inch appears
glowing in the stark
blackness of the room
shoes become feet socks into
ankles until nothing remains
but the original
copy all layers removed
the pulse remains
beating
Thursday, June 24, 2010
34- hands
my hands? --yes, your hands. look
at them.
why? they have always been they
will always remain constant. --look
at them when you
realize you're dreaming.
dreaming? but
i flipped the light switch and
they light turned off. right
away. --but your hands, they aren't
right, look at them.
they look as they always have. small,
rings on, little lines crossing
creating tiny pathways and maps.
--but where do the maps tell
you to go?
at them.
why? they have always been they
will always remain constant. --look
at them when you
realize you're dreaming.
dreaming? but
i flipped the light switch and
they light turned off. right
away. --but your hands, they aren't
right, look at them.
they look as they always have. small,
rings on, little lines crossing
creating tiny pathways and maps.
--but where do the maps tell
you to go?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
33- them
the light will keep them away,
a mantra for young children and those
still a little afraid of the dark.
them, the unknowns, the shapes creepy-
crawling along hallways, lurking
just outside of shower curtains,
behind the wall of clothes in closets.
the light will keep them away,
repeated again as the light switch
is flipped, above the depths of stairways
leading to their domain, the crawl spaces
below.
a mantra for young children and those
still a little afraid of the dark.
them, the unknowns, the shapes creepy-
crawling along hallways, lurking
just outside of shower curtains,
behind the wall of clothes in closets.
the light will keep them away,
repeated again as the light switch
is flipped, above the depths of stairways
leading to their domain, the crawl spaces
below.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
32-like and because
the tips of my fingers just
grazing the beginning of feeling.
something undefinable, just
outside the haze of comprehension.
the hallways are empty, still,
like and because of the missing
piece in my heart. each detail
slowly turns this place
into my home, but it's too
still, undefined. a location
in time and space, but not
home, now, always.
grazing the beginning of feeling.
something undefinable, just
outside the haze of comprehension.
the hallways are empty, still,
like and because of the missing
piece in my heart. each detail
slowly turns this place
into my home, but it's too
still, undefined. a location
in time and space, but not
home, now, always.
Monday, June 21, 2010
31- heartbeat count
the minutes add up and up
everything counts, i hum, as my
brain buzzes with electricity
preventing the sleep my feet crave.
the minutes add up and up as the bug
once again bumps
his antennae into the shiny
halo of light crowning above.
the minutes add up and up as the water
foams and froths in the gorge below
my fire escape, just beyond.
the minutes wind down and down
in the clock beating to the seconds
determined by my heartbeat,
a paradox of time.
everything counts, i hum, as my
brain buzzes with electricity
preventing the sleep my feet crave.
the minutes add up and up as the bug
once again bumps
his antennae into the shiny
halo of light crowning above.
the minutes add up and up as the water
foams and froths in the gorge below
my fire escape, just beyond.
the minutes wind down and down
in the clock beating to the seconds
determined by my heartbeat,
a paradox of time.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
30- father's day
my favorite picture of you is not
faded, lines blurring in the shadows
of the past in the present.
the picture of a picture of
innocence, pure adoration and
admiration in a gaze.
mermaid shoes and blunt cut
bangs, standing on a red
adobe porch in the heat.
lines purely defined, etched
into permanence.
faded, lines blurring in the shadows
of the past in the present.
the picture of a picture of
innocence, pure adoration and
admiration in a gaze.
mermaid shoes and blunt cut
bangs, standing on a red
adobe porch in the heat.
lines purely defined, etched
into permanence.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
29- actors
"cinema is life," you say to me,
a quote from Godard. your intonation
is light, fleeting, but the thought sticks
to me like a burr on the hem of my jeans.
this could all be a film, then,
playing on the bigscreen in someone
else's movie theater. their hands
reaching into a tub of whatever
their version of popcorn is, eager
to crunch down on the snack as
our lives play out before their
eyes. it's not fair, i think
drifting to sleep. actors get
scripts, know the scene that
they're expected to play next.
a quote from Godard. your intonation
is light, fleeting, but the thought sticks
to me like a burr on the hem of my jeans.
this could all be a film, then,
playing on the bigscreen in someone
else's movie theater. their hands
reaching into a tub of whatever
their version of popcorn is, eager
to crunch down on the snack as
our lives play out before their
eyes. it's not fair, i think
drifting to sleep. actors get
scripts, know the scene that
they're expected to play next.
Friday, June 18, 2010
28- fingertips
the picture floating in a sea
of others, ones you can see only
by rifling through a box dusty
in inches, beneath boxes of
leather, jewels, buried treasures.
hidden moments, scenes of surprised
emotion, glimpses into what makes
us most us. the thought passes
that we will be the last to
pass our fingertips over the soft
corners, smell the scent of
decaying ink.
of others, ones you can see only
by rifling through a box dusty
in inches, beneath boxes of
leather, jewels, buried treasures.
hidden moments, scenes of surprised
emotion, glimpses into what makes
us most us. the thought passes
that we will be the last to
pass our fingertips over the soft
corners, smell the scent of
decaying ink.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
27-medium of expression
we are so much of ourselves in
writing; the ordering of letters on the page
into words, phrases, sentences. the private
becomes public through the pressing
of keys, indentation of pen into paper.
so much truth and trust given to
the recipient of one's writing,
one's self. "i miss you" is a state
of constant being. "send me a pic?"
a request to be close, physical
once again despite a distance. by expressing
these thoughts, desires, sentiments,
we are giving ourselves over to the
medium of expression as well as
to the eyes that receive.
writing; the ordering of letters on the page
into words, phrases, sentences. the private
becomes public through the pressing
of keys, indentation of pen into paper.
so much truth and trust given to
the recipient of one's writing,
one's self. "i miss you" is a state
of constant being. "send me a pic?"
a request to be close, physical
once again despite a distance. by expressing
these thoughts, desires, sentiments,
we are giving ourselves over to the
medium of expression as well as
to the eyes that receive.
26- creating a certain order
therapy. the act of caring
for someone, treatment especially
of body, mind, behavior. creating
a newer natural order
inside, outside. a favorite
type of mine isn't
prescribed,
not penciled in once
a week fortyfive minutes
a time.
it's spontaneous,
alive, breathing,
moving, loving.
for someone, treatment especially
of body, mind, behavior. creating
a newer natural order
inside, outside. a favorite
type of mine isn't
prescribed,
not penciled in once
a week fortyfive minutes
a time.
it's spontaneous,
alive, breathing,
moving, loving.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
25- before desire
there are satellites
surrounding
us on all sides
all directions
extending
you wish to learn
communicate
between the systems
of knowledge
reaching
a wish of mine
before
now i just desire
the sound
surrounding
us on all sides
all directions
extending
you wish to learn
communicate
between the systems
of knowledge
reaching
a wish of mine
before
now i just desire
the sound
Monday, June 14, 2010
24- a prior list of fears
the rain pounded like heartbreak above the bed
coming through the cracks in the fire escape
outside the window. the phone buzzed next to her ear,
something new and exciting, she assumed. she opened
the message with eyes fighting the delirium
of the sleepies pulling down her lashes. forcing them
upward, she concentrated her gaze at the screen
blazing brighter than the aurora in the blackness
encompassing the bed, an embrace of light pouring outward.
coming through the cracks in the fire escape
outside the window. the phone buzzed next to her ear,
something new and exciting, she assumed. she opened
the message with eyes fighting the delirium
of the sleepies pulling down her lashes. forcing them
upward, she concentrated her gaze at the screen
blazing brighter than the aurora in the blackness
encompassing the bed, an embrace of light pouring outward.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
23- sorry.
he watched as she walked away and
in the reflection on the car door she
saw him standing there head cocked
at the slightest of angles
he thought to himself that she must
have meant what she said but
couldn't wrap his mind around reconciling
the two sentences "i was still hoping
this could work out i really was"
"i'm sorry" because at that angle
the world tipped ten degrees those
two statements could not be statements
either true or false
one must be both
in the reflection on the car door she
saw him standing there head cocked
at the slightest of angles
he thought to himself that she must
have meant what she said but
couldn't wrap his mind around reconciling
the two sentences "i was still hoping
this could work out i really was"
"i'm sorry" because at that angle
the world tipped ten degrees those
two statements could not be statements
either true or false
one must be both
Saturday, June 12, 2010
22-what has been seen
beneath the crystallized surface lies
another reality. truth? or maybe another
misconstrued knowledge or sense of the
true situation. or maybe another
lie altogether. if you had never
looked below, though, your face wouldn't
have had to take that shape. form that
expression. blissful in the cocoon
of your previous knowledge.
another reality. truth? or maybe another
misconstrued knowledge or sense of the
true situation. or maybe another
lie altogether. if you had never
looked below, though, your face wouldn't
have had to take that shape. form that
expression. blissful in the cocoon
of your previous knowledge.
Friday, June 11, 2010
21- the passageway
the leaves on the trees seem to bend
towards the earth
embracing those coming through
the passage between
an enclosure of branches
embracing those below
arcing
aching
to be enclosed by anothers
arms
towards the earth
embracing those coming through
the passage between
an enclosure of branches
embracing those below
arcing
aching
to be enclosed by anothers
arms
Thursday, June 10, 2010
20- systems of scansion
the word itself is nothing formidable
three syllables: for-ev-er. a cretic in
metrical feet, and yet the images it creates
can be both daunting and incredible.
stretching out from this particular moment
to one that we can't even imagine, an infinity
away: for-ev-er. the possibilities of what can
occur start to form a lazy blur in my mind.
a sea of blues, greens, skin tones, places
people things. one image of a future forever away
comes forward from the obscurity, then scurries
back to the haze. did you see it? can you remind
me of the specifics, or was it as i remember;
a moment captured far in for-ev-er of
you (macron) and me (breve).
three syllables: for-ev-er. a cretic in
metrical feet, and yet the images it creates
can be both daunting and incredible.
stretching out from this particular moment
to one that we can't even imagine, an infinity
away: for-ev-er. the possibilities of what can
occur start to form a lazy blur in my mind.
a sea of blues, greens, skin tones, places
people things. one image of a future forever away
comes forward from the obscurity, then scurries
back to the haze. did you see it? can you remind
me of the specifics, or was it as i remember;
a moment captured far in for-ev-er of
you (macron) and me (breve).
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
19- the repetition is lost
the words float over the crowds unnoticed.
thank you. thank you. thank
you. sitting among the multitudes your face is
part of a larger mosaic. eyes glued to the floor,
a tissue clutched in your hand. each word
uttered by the speaker, you turn the tissue
over. the repetition is lost on me. it can't
be you who she is thanking, if you don't even
hear the words. but how can she be thanking
me, listening so intently to each
syllable, if i am not even there?
thank you. thank you. thank
you. sitting among the multitudes your face is
part of a larger mosaic. eyes glued to the floor,
a tissue clutched in your hand. each word
uttered by the speaker, you turn the tissue
over. the repetition is lost on me. it can't
be you who she is thanking, if you don't even
hear the words. but how can she be thanking
me, listening so intently to each
syllable, if i am not even there?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
18- something pretty
if we immersed ourselves
really became minuscule on the
atomic scale would the things we
define as pretty still
hold that same value
would their quarks be more
attractive more colorful
(red green blue)
their flavors
(up down charm strange top bottom)
more well defined than
the quarks that make up something
we'd call ugly
really became minuscule on the
atomic scale would the things we
define as pretty still
hold that same value
would their quarks be more
attractive more colorful
(red green blue)
their flavors
(up down charm strange top bottom)
more well defined than
the quarks that make up something
we'd call ugly
Monday, June 7, 2010
17- two windows.
a young child sat facing
two windows, one an outlook into
a perfect world--range of trees
and clouds floating by. the other,
equally an outlook but not into
perfection--rather destruction,
combustion, extinction. the young
child did not know the difference,
and so kept looking back and
forth between--the clouds moving as
quickly as the images on the screen.
two windows, one an outlook into
a perfect world--range of trees
and clouds floating by. the other,
equally an outlook but not into
perfection--rather destruction,
combustion, extinction. the young
child did not know the difference,
and so kept looking back and
forth between--the clouds moving as
quickly as the images on the screen.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
16- but now I avoid railings.
stairways always held an element
of mystique, for as a child they are
impassable, insurmountable behemoths
leading to another world that was only
for the adults
who didn't even realize the
magic they were using to elevate
themselves through the passageway
to the higher plane
of mystique, for as a child they are
impassable, insurmountable behemoths
leading to another world that was only
for the adults
who didn't even realize the
magic they were using to elevate
themselves through the passageway
to the higher plane
Saturday, June 5, 2010
15- the technology of voices
the voice on the message really isn't
a voice, per se, but rather a
complex set of codes, changing
electronic signals into something
we want to hear. not a series of ones and
zeros, not a pattern of beep boop beep but
the vibration of vocal chords
that we recognize.
a voice, per se, but rather a
complex set of codes, changing
electronic signals into something
we want to hear. not a series of ones and
zeros, not a pattern of beep boop beep but
the vibration of vocal chords
that we recognize.
Friday, June 4, 2010
14- something definitive
we seem to be collectors, my dear, of moments
great moments in cinema, you tell me. i laugh
because i wouldn't know they're great without you
informing me of that fact. after watching, we
always talk about the latest addition,
you pressing me to make decisions about what
i thought about the film, me not wanting to
say anything definitive, certain. i liked it, i say,
it was good, while you are able to pull entire
scenes from the backstores of your memory. something
definitive i won't tell you is that sometimes i'm
not really watching the movie, instead, i collect
my own great moments of us, of being here now with you,
things i replay in my mind, my own private cinema.
great moments in cinema, you tell me. i laugh
because i wouldn't know they're great without you
informing me of that fact. after watching, we
always talk about the latest addition,
you pressing me to make decisions about what
i thought about the film, me not wanting to
say anything definitive, certain. i liked it, i say,
it was good, while you are able to pull entire
scenes from the backstores of your memory. something
definitive i won't tell you is that sometimes i'm
not really watching the movie, instead, i collect
my own great moments of us, of being here now with you,
things i replay in my mind, my own private cinema.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
13-
silence is never really just
that. a heartbeat creates the memory
of one not your own, the sensation
of yours pumping beneath my cheek
then continues on, the sound
of your breath, nose pressed to
my hair, rustling. the soft vibration
of skin moving against skin.
that. a heartbeat creates the memory
of one not your own, the sensation
of yours pumping beneath my cheek
then continues on, the sound
of your breath, nose pressed to
my hair, rustling. the soft vibration
of skin moving against skin.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
12- successor function
one way we define numbers is through
the union of sets; the {empty set} and its
{successor}. n+1 = n U {n}. a body is a number
then, a cell and its successor and its successor,
repeating more times than stars in the galaxy.
two bodies together is a new number
undefined until the union is created,
a body and its successor,
its partner
the union of sets; the {empty set} and its
{successor}. n+1 = n U {n}. a body is a number
then, a cell and its successor and its successor,
repeating more times than stars in the galaxy.
two bodies together is a new number
undefined until the union is created,
a body and its successor,
its partner
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
11- commonality
it's said that lines are meant
to converge into one point, somewhere
in the distance of space. an origin,
of sorts. what if it's possible that
all entities on earth are meant for
the same? maybe not at the same time,
century, even. what if there's a single
commonality, a place that everyone passes
through, at least once in their short
lifetime, in the cosmic sense.
to converge into one point, somewhere
in the distance of space. an origin,
of sorts. what if it's possible that
all entities on earth are meant for
the same? maybe not at the same time,
century, even. what if there's a single
commonality, a place that everyone passes
through, at least once in their short
lifetime, in the cosmic sense.
Monday, May 31, 2010
10- this is not your home
a tiny hole between the shingles
a shelter made its own
the cat's tail flicks quickly
against the window pane
bird, it says, this is not
your home
as the cloud beckons from above
a shelter made its own
the cat's tail flicks quickly
against the window pane
bird, it says, this is not
your home
as the cloud beckons from above
Sunday, May 30, 2010
09- preposition
Can there be a relationship of
abstractions and window beds? The theme
of the day is sanity. If we can
feel it with our hands,
the wind between our fingers
how can it be anything without a
height and width? A name, a face, an
element. Then what is a silhouette?
It is there, in the sidelight,but can
you wrap it in a robe, pour it
in a glass, put a border around it?
The finger beat instructions upon the
puzzle pieces. Why the fear of
opening the message machine?
abstractions and window beds? The theme
of the day is sanity. If we can
feel it with our hands,
the wind between our fingers
how can it be anything without a
height and width? A name, a face, an
element. Then what is a silhouette?
It is there, in the sidelight,but can
you wrap it in a robe, pour it
in a glass, put a border around it?
The finger beat instructions upon the
puzzle pieces. Why the fear of
opening the message machine?
Saturday, May 29, 2010
08-the storyline between
"i had a dream about
you last night but
i can't really remember most
of it"
i pause to imagine the storyline
between
what could we have been doing? me
there in your brain while
really i was in my own bed
dreaming of you
and i, those perfect nights
where our naked skin mirrored
our naked speech baring
the unsheltered thoughts to
one another
"but i was sad to wake up
without you"
you last night but
i can't really remember most
of it"
i pause to imagine the storyline
between
what could we have been doing? me
there in your brain while
really i was in my own bed
dreaming of you
and i, those perfect nights
where our naked skin mirrored
our naked speech baring
the unsheltered thoughts to
one another
"but i was sad to wake up
without you"
Friday, May 28, 2010
07-slumber
"a cat nap" you called it
as you slipped back under
the covers
your cavern for the rest
of the day
in the sunlight,
my kittens nose twitches
tail flips
foot shakes
perhaps she is dreaming of
another self
roaming the world as clouds
pass swiftly overhead
i couldn't know, but each
flick of a paw reminds
me of your slumber
shoulder twitching
beneath an invisible touch
as you slipped back under
the covers
your cavern for the rest
of the day
in the sunlight,
my kittens nose twitches
tail flips
foot shakes
perhaps she is dreaming of
another self
roaming the world as clouds
pass swiftly overhead
i couldn't know, but each
flick of a paw reminds
me of your slumber
shoulder twitching
beneath an invisible touch
Thursday, May 27, 2010
06- in tune
the car buzzed with excitement
waiting, in the rain, for your
return.
i felt each vibration
along with my heartbeat
(or was
my heart that was becoming
in tune with the hum
of the engine?)
the windshield wipers flashed
crossing my vision
suddenly, i felt
drawn to the memory of the night
i thought i lost you
in the crowd
an unfamiliar place with people too
large for the space
containing them
i felt
diminished
then, again, the wipers flash
and i'm back in the car
waiting
waiting, in the rain, for your
return.
i felt each vibration
along with my heartbeat
(or was
my heart that was becoming
in tune with the hum
of the engine?)
the windshield wipers flashed
crossing my vision
suddenly, i felt
drawn to the memory of the night
i thought i lost you
in the crowd
an unfamiliar place with people too
large for the space
containing them
i felt
diminished
then, again, the wipers flash
and i'm back in the car
waiting
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
05-disconnect
the movie continues on despite
our present disconnect
what was that you said? that
wasn't you, it was the movie speaking.
like i said,
disconnect.
but it made so much
sense, what was said, that
i didn't suspect for a moment
it was not
your voice
pressed against my ear
with my head in your shoulder
a curtain of hair
i couldn't have seen the lips
moving on the screen.
our present disconnect
what was that you said? that
wasn't you, it was the movie speaking.
like i said,
disconnect.
but it made so much
sense, what was said, that
i didn't suspect for a moment
it was not
your voice
pressed against my ear
with my head in your shoulder
a curtain of hair
i couldn't have seen the lips
moving on the screen.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
04- a constant.
"they say that doing
the same thing over and
over expecting different results
is the definition of madness" you say
to me quietly, eying sideways
the open book in my lap.
only the outside action
is the same to me, love,
inside the words are churning, stewing,
never constant
with one meaning
or effect on me and my own.
the same thing over and
over expecting different results
is the definition of madness" you say
to me quietly, eying sideways
the open book in my lap.
only the outside action
is the same to me, love,
inside the words are churning, stewing,
never constant
with one meaning
or effect on me and my own.
Monday, May 24, 2010
03-onwards and upwards
hours upon hours the stare
becomes monotonous
the single white line guide
knows the destination
my humble machine lumbers on
carrying me
onward
becomes monotonous
the single white line guide
knows the destination
my humble machine lumbers on
carrying me
onward
Sunday, May 23, 2010
02- my your face
in my heavylidded dreamstate
beneath windows open, curtains flowing
languid in the humid breeze
your face was mine.
i felt myself speak, blink, swallow but
they were your lips, eyes, throat
i could feel the wind, my wind
here, without you
but the feeling was distinct
and foreign upon your skin.
beneath windows open, curtains flowing
languid in the humid breeze
your face was mine.
i felt myself speak, blink, swallow but
they were your lips, eyes, throat
i could feel the wind, my wind
here, without you
but the feeling was distinct
and foreign upon your skin.
01- a tangle.
as you exhale through pursed
lips the tiniest burst of air, snowflakes flow upward
through time,
the reel unraveled.
pulling us backward through paths
already created, footsteps in the snow
appearing, disappearing.
leading us back inside, a tangle
of limbs creating warmth between
us, between
the sheets.
gazing out, for a moment, at the wonder
of time flowing back.
lips the tiniest burst of air, snowflakes flow upward
through time,
the reel unraveled.
pulling us backward through paths
already created, footsteps in the snow
appearing, disappearing.
leading us back inside, a tangle
of limbs creating warmth between
us, between
the sheets.
gazing out, for a moment, at the wonder
of time flowing back.
Bio
My name is Kendra Bartell, I’m currently finishing up my sophomore year at Cornell University. I recently switched to an English major, concentrating in poetry and poetics, so this is an exciting project for me to join. This is my first year doing the 100 Days project, but I’ve been very close to the action both years, as Stephen and Susan E. are my parents! I’m going to be writing a poem a day for the 100 days this year. I don’t want to limit myself to one set form or style, but I plan to experiment with many of the poetic forms I haven’t had a chance to write in before. I’m looking forward to seeing what everyone comes up with, and how the work evolves each day from John’s original video.
Let the wild rumpus start!
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