100- 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100101 01101110 01100100

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.

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.

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)

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)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?