i am an immovable object
the world is...very profound.
i think therefore i am.
i wonder about a lot of things.
i am under appreciated in my time.
and what then of the roses?
there is starry slightnesses all around.
why? does it matter?
just know that it is and
therefore you are, therefore
i am...very profound.
i am an immovable object.
that is so and this is so.
i break down into immovable parts like scales on a fish,
fleshy exhale, posing, puffed up, as catatonic water droplets are known to do.
catatonic water droplets sent to sleep by a fledgling gravity.
gravity that we all sleep into.
(i wonder why the hell it stinks in here)
my legs are warm from where the sun muscled over my being,
muscled over, thought over,
carried over the carriage of a broken hearted God's collar bone.
yes, even gods get broken hearts.
no one is above love.
not even an immovable object.
love is a force times a trillion to the power of four headed bulls racing through the throat of a dragon. do you know your mythical measurements?
you have to be present to understand this....is not for understanding.
i have a fleece, fleeting, golden apple toting golden fleece folded mind.
it whips up images that can only be described as truffles of cocoa brilliance.
it's amazing what i can draft in a golden holy place
in the shade of some enlightened brain stem.
but that's primitive--my rambling brain stem,
that's primitive--the clouds, the storm, the cerebral congestion, consecration, copulation
that's primitive--the cloud calling cowlicks that i espouse and the orgasmic dew i spew onto the page.
i rambling child,
i undisciplined artist,
i crazy draw outside the lines, deranged, uncontained being.
i primitive, i cocoa truffle, i golden fleece folded mind, i under appreciated girl.
i immovable object!
am i an immovable object?
i fit inside a bar of soap and i lather the world in perfumed happiness
so that we can be cleaned, squeaky and shiny
and able to accept that we are simply little flecks moving around (yes moving!) in a sneeze just starting to flair up.
none of this matters.
we all fall apart in the end.
none of us are immovable objects.
all of us are objects,
all of us are love,
all of us are clouds,
all of us are m&ms.
and when we lose our hard candy shell and realize we're all nuggets of delightful cocoa on the inside, we can apologize for everything we've done to hurt ourselves,
to hurt one another.
but m&ms don't have mouths and if they did they'd be drawn on the candy shell and
if we lost our shells then what can we do?
be silent
and know we were right and wrong all along.
right and wrong.
loved and under appreciated.
often at the same time.
but we were never, ever immovable objects.
and that's what makes it all worth anything.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
i see the fire from here
i see the smoke from the top of this hill. i'm hanging off the side of the cell phone tower. hanging from sentences spoken and silences, few, but sharp silences, and a sensation that this was a mistake. i watch the smoke billow from a fire i could have prevented. but i'm no smokey. i'm lonely.
buzz, buzz, buzz, dive into the fire. trembling lip and lock jaw. what are you going to do now? what are you going to say? how do you cover your nakedness when you can't move anything but your eyes? blink, blink, blink, the fire is on fire. and it's licking at your bones. but it's warm see and you've longed for this warmth even if it's coming from fear. what is affection but fear? fear that you don't have enough of this so you gravitate to that.
the night time is thick and you want to ask questions. you want to get close but you don't know why. and inside you feel like a bruised melon that has just been balled. scooped out; you were overripe with too much trying. push, push, push back into the fire. you can't escape it. you're drawn. how does it go? the moth to the...? no, no, the human heart to the smack and slap of a cool mind. a cool mind, a too cool mind but in your delusion you mistake the smoke coming from the dry ice for steam, for heat, for a warm, blood pumping place. but this isn't the case see?
you must learn that this is not to be tolerated. this buzz, buzz, buzz, this push, push, push, this cast, cast, cast will hurt you. step away from the illusion. build your own fire and nurture your chest, nurture it like the finest possession you'll ever have. because it is, because it's yours. because it's the only hope for future happiness. don't burn it up in bad associations. leap, leap, leap back into yourself with reckless abandon and start loving from there.
buzz, buzz, buzz, dive into the fire. trembling lip and lock jaw. what are you going to do now? what are you going to say? how do you cover your nakedness when you can't move anything but your eyes? blink, blink, blink, the fire is on fire. and it's licking at your bones. but it's warm see and you've longed for this warmth even if it's coming from fear. what is affection but fear? fear that you don't have enough of this so you gravitate to that.
the night time is thick and you want to ask questions. you want to get close but you don't know why. and inside you feel like a bruised melon that has just been balled. scooped out; you were overripe with too much trying. push, push, push back into the fire. you can't escape it. you're drawn. how does it go? the moth to the...? no, no, the human heart to the smack and slap of a cool mind. a cool mind, a too cool mind but in your delusion you mistake the smoke coming from the dry ice for steam, for heat, for a warm, blood pumping place. but this isn't the case see?
you must learn that this is not to be tolerated. this buzz, buzz, buzz, this push, push, push, this cast, cast, cast will hurt you. step away from the illusion. build your own fire and nurture your chest, nurture it like the finest possession you'll ever have. because it is, because it's yours. because it's the only hope for future happiness. don't burn it up in bad associations. leap, leap, leap back into yourself with reckless abandon and start loving from there.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
where art goes
it came in a small box, fed ex. it is gone now. it didn't take long to sweep it from my life.
art evokes emotion. art is created and destroyed. what is sentimentality? if it evoked emotion, if it made me fear, made me cautious, made me curious, then didn't it do it's part? wasn't it born art? didn't it die art?
it was light not even a pound. it was dark and heavy more than a ton, metaphorically. what's more important the actuality or the metaphor? the substance or the symbol?
art evokes emotion. art is created and destroyed. what is sentimentality? if it evoked emotion, if it made me fear, made me cautious, made me curious, then didn't it do it's part? wasn't it born art? didn't it die art?
it was light not even a pound. it was dark and heavy more than a ton, metaphorically. what's more important the actuality or the metaphor? the substance or the symbol?
9 am on a saturday
9 am on a saturday.
the day begins as it would.
a rubble mountain of Cherrios
a small ceramic bowl
the last of the soy milk drizzled on top.
plunging spoon
goes in and out
like a kingfisher plumbs the sea.
my eyes are closed.
my stomach has been hungry since 3:30.
the day begins as it would.
a rubble mountain of Cherrios
a small ceramic bowl
the last of the soy milk drizzled on top.
plunging spoon
goes in and out
like a kingfisher plumbs the sea.
my eyes are closed.
my stomach has been hungry since 3:30.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
the gangsters in my head
"leave behind a trail of crumbs and hungry people will come". that's what Jimmy the Bonnet always says. "Bonnet" because he kept everything under wraps and "Jimmy" because his real name was Earl and everyone knew that Earl was no name for a gangster. Jimmy likes to make the seemingly small and insignificant into something meaningful. perhaps he is so obsessed with symbols and meaning because he, himself, isn't real. he is, however, real enough to me, real enough to a kid who just spilt a large sum of crumbs from a crushed up granola bar on her desk, a kid who worries that worst than perhaps the Feds or other gangsters coming after you, there were ants to worry about. "ants like moles" Jimmy would say with a smile pulling a small flask of whisky out from under his red, swollen and pock marked nose. but there are no "real" gangsters in this kids life, in my life, no gangsters save the ones enlivened by symbol and metaphor. and those are just the kind of gangsters i prefer anyway. ones whose smoke i can feel and whose hot breath i can almost taste, almost, but don't have to. i can enjoy the pleasantry of the image as an image. the perfect image without side affects: smell, heat, sound, unpredictability. the gangsters in my head are not mean. they are simply take no crap from anybody kind of guys. they like their whiskey and they like their smokes and they like to dress sharp. and for some odd reason they like me. a scrawny white kid in my mind wearing a baggy white t-shirt so thin my peach skin pokes through rendering the entire fabric a little rosy. and i'm sitting at an old fashioned type writer. why a typewriter? why not? and my shirt has skinny navy stripes on it. and i'm still me. my face is the same. only now i'm in some attic or other high place posing for a picture before my typewriter. Jimmy the Bonnet has his hand on my knee like an adoring father and several of the other "boys" (though all are large and hefty and hardly boys at all but men) are gathered around me. they all have cigarettes drooping from their lips. Jimmy and I are the only ones smiling. something tells me this must be how the mind copes. come up with your own imaginary possy when a real one doesn't exist. no one would mess with this scrawny kid if they knew the company she held. my mind grows giddy and bright. i smile again. the light flashes and the still frame is permanent in my mind. just me and the guys. me and the gangsters in my head.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
sense of cinnamon
the smell of cinnamon cookies, however false they are in actuality, gives me the sense that i'm at your bedside waiting. but the scent of a memory is just that, a scent, a scant sense of something that existed in a time i'm not sure actually existed. and you, well, you, with tubes coming out of your nose and a bald head, you never looked like this before. i can't say if i'm dreaming or if i'm remembering or if i'm predicting. is it possible for past lives to bleed into the current one? is it possible to leap ahead in time?
cinnamon scented candle and we are dancing together alone. some poor rendition of a waltz. our tongues and lips dyed purple from the red wine your parents gave us as a gift. they live in napa valley. you've been drinking wine since you were twelve but you revel in my pixie drunk, all silly drunk and seizing one of your toes beneath mine for a moment. the wrestling of weights of masses we meld into one another.
i see you so clearly sometimes. hair colored cinnamon. just one image. the fine soft wisps of your hair pushing against your closed eyes. the contented curl of your lips sliding along the quiver of soulful violin's serenade. face softer than the white white sheets beneath you. you are beautiful. and when i see you, i know i am destined for a great love.
cinnamon sticks as big as trees. a black bench in the wintertime, night slowly descending from the sky like snow. it's quiet. you pull the glove from my hand and the glove from yours. summer in the quiet of winter.
i'm on a bus. i see you for the first time reading a book. i imagine everything that would come after. i imagine us translating clouds, telling stories, reading each other to sleep, sharing bowls of oatmeal, heavy with butter and outlined in fissures of cinnamon.
i am walking alone through a big empty field that looks like a sheet of paper, all white. i mark it for the first time. pines begin to fill in the edges and guide me home. the snow is deep but i don't find it difficult to walk, in fact, i would guess i were floating if it weren't for the depressions i find behind me. i seem to be walking forever. i have been walking for an eternity. but i feel no fatigue. i only dream of seeing you in our little cabin on the hill making cinnamon cookies.
when i kiss you it tastes like cinnamon. you smile and my lips feel your teeth. freckles are scrunched up on your nose and you laugh. you tickle my sides and i hold you tighter.
cinnamon scented candle and we are dancing together alone. some poor rendition of a waltz. our tongues and lips dyed purple from the red wine your parents gave us as a gift. they live in napa valley. you've been drinking wine since you were twelve but you revel in my pixie drunk, all silly drunk and seizing one of your toes beneath mine for a moment. the wrestling of weights of masses we meld into one another.
i see you so clearly sometimes. hair colored cinnamon. just one image. the fine soft wisps of your hair pushing against your closed eyes. the contented curl of your lips sliding along the quiver of soulful violin's serenade. face softer than the white white sheets beneath you. you are beautiful. and when i see you, i know i am destined for a great love.
cinnamon sticks as big as trees. a black bench in the wintertime, night slowly descending from the sky like snow. it's quiet. you pull the glove from my hand and the glove from yours. summer in the quiet of winter.
i'm on a bus. i see you for the first time reading a book. i imagine everything that would come after. i imagine us translating clouds, telling stories, reading each other to sleep, sharing bowls of oatmeal, heavy with butter and outlined in fissures of cinnamon.
i am walking alone through a big empty field that looks like a sheet of paper, all white. i mark it for the first time. pines begin to fill in the edges and guide me home. the snow is deep but i don't find it difficult to walk, in fact, i would guess i were floating if it weren't for the depressions i find behind me. i seem to be walking forever. i have been walking for an eternity. but i feel no fatigue. i only dream of seeing you in our little cabin on the hill making cinnamon cookies.
when i kiss you it tastes like cinnamon. you smile and my lips feel your teeth. freckles are scrunched up on your nose and you laugh. you tickle my sides and i hold you tighter.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
re-connecting
the light illuminates the house of majesty within me.
tinkering tea cups with royal blue etching of roses,
blue without breath like faces gone to heaven.
roses laid in snow in a forest somewhere so wild it hasn't been named after an explorer,
it is uncharted. no map.
simple growing up of trees like youth you forgot in some slummed out city.
slummed out and slung out like drugs on a corner between the adult video store and the boys and girls club of america.
they had good intentions.
listening to cars rumble down the road in great haste
want to get someplace.
but nothing lasts forever so who cares if your late.
worried that the population will be decreased tonight.
someone taking flight out of a dodge strata,
into the stratosphere you launched out the windshield
because you were too cool for a safety belt because you were too free
and you thought because you were in a dodge that you could,
in fact,
dodge the pendulum that you yourself sent rocking
when you scooped up and threw back those thoughts of unspeakable glory of absolute omnipotence. now we are one less here.
and i'm watching light filter through a small glass of clear liquid.
could it be water?
it stings my nose a little and hangs on my tongue all heavy and
full of desire to be exactly what it is.
you are an animal and so am i.
together we make a kingdom.
do you remember?
when i loved you with the majesty of myself, with the god of myself,
let you sleep in the room of the ever rising sun?
oh don't let me linger on love like a scared student driver lingering at a stop sign,
look left
then right
then left
then right and see if you can see disaster before it comes.
perhaps it's easier to let someone else drive.
remember when i used to blow through stop signs?
remember when i launched myself over the tracks while a speeding train almost severed my corpus callosum?
no matter.
i never really thought with more than half my brain anyway.
when i loved you. i was ruled by an entirely different muscle. it's animal is it not? love.
all heart beats and finger pads and lips and the light illuminating the iris of your green eyes,
your green eyes,
light making it impossible for gems to ever be great again.
who would have known that roses grew next to pines and in the wintertime no less.
these blue, blue roses etched.
i dance to the beat until i feel that my fingers have gotten lost
and tangled up like tongues in mouths in dark closets
with sweat and your mother's sweaters.
feeling like ray charles just seeing the music as it unfolds.
words are such beautiful things.
who couldn't love words?
there is no better high than the sex of words in your mind
and closing your eyes and jamming on the keyboard of some trusted laptop
in a room where you sit naked and let the words come all over you because that's what words do,
they take you over,
they love you and hold you and transport you to new lands,
lands so rich where you can eat as many danishes as you want and never get fat.
this is for you my friend!
the spewing of sound and words taking me back to that moment
freshman year in college when you felt alone
but then you tapped into something greater than yourself.
let the words fucking love you!
let language fucking love you!
let the light illuminate the house of majesty within you.
in you. in you.
when you free yourself and close your eyes and let it all go, you're amazed to find how beautiful you truly are,
you without the garments of expectation and acceptability and social normalcy.
you are ideal, a fucking god.
blue, blue roses with two bees you come back to the imagined.
to the animal of you and me. the love i gave you.
the gift of the yarn in total isolation.
what waters hold forth your solitude. solitude.
this is beyond me, these are dolls in Buffalo skins,
warmed by the fires of little houses on the prairie.
to tap into the freely fluctuating mind.
to listen to the sound of fingers on keys like pebbles dropped into a river
and know that you are great,
you are great and have more wieght than gold.
remember, not long ago, you were a soft creature
and you are a soft creature still.
beautiful little blue bird.
beautiful little blue bird with a blue rose in your mouth.
you've come back to me. you've come back. i'm back. oh i've missed this. i've missed my words. i've missed...mist
tinkering tea cups with royal blue etching of roses,
blue without breath like faces gone to heaven.
roses laid in snow in a forest somewhere so wild it hasn't been named after an explorer,
it is uncharted. no map.
simple growing up of trees like youth you forgot in some slummed out city.
slummed out and slung out like drugs on a corner between the adult video store and the boys and girls club of america.
they had good intentions.
listening to cars rumble down the road in great haste
want to get someplace.
but nothing lasts forever so who cares if your late.
worried that the population will be decreased tonight.
someone taking flight out of a dodge strata,
into the stratosphere you launched out the windshield
because you were too cool for a safety belt because you were too free
and you thought because you were in a dodge that you could,
in fact,
dodge the pendulum that you yourself sent rocking
when you scooped up and threw back those thoughts of unspeakable glory of absolute omnipotence. now we are one less here.
and i'm watching light filter through a small glass of clear liquid.
could it be water?
it stings my nose a little and hangs on my tongue all heavy and
full of desire to be exactly what it is.
you are an animal and so am i.
together we make a kingdom.
do you remember?
when i loved you with the majesty of myself, with the god of myself,
let you sleep in the room of the ever rising sun?
oh don't let me linger on love like a scared student driver lingering at a stop sign,
look left
then right
then left
then right and see if you can see disaster before it comes.
perhaps it's easier to let someone else drive.
remember when i used to blow through stop signs?
remember when i launched myself over the tracks while a speeding train almost severed my corpus callosum?
no matter.
i never really thought with more than half my brain anyway.
when i loved you. i was ruled by an entirely different muscle. it's animal is it not? love.
all heart beats and finger pads and lips and the light illuminating the iris of your green eyes,
your green eyes,
light making it impossible for gems to ever be great again.
who would have known that roses grew next to pines and in the wintertime no less.
these blue, blue roses etched.
i dance to the beat until i feel that my fingers have gotten lost
and tangled up like tongues in mouths in dark closets
with sweat and your mother's sweaters.
feeling like ray charles just seeing the music as it unfolds.
words are such beautiful things.
who couldn't love words?
there is no better high than the sex of words in your mind
and closing your eyes and jamming on the keyboard of some trusted laptop
in a room where you sit naked and let the words come all over you because that's what words do,
they take you over,
they love you and hold you and transport you to new lands,
lands so rich where you can eat as many danishes as you want and never get fat.
this is for you my friend!
the spewing of sound and words taking me back to that moment
freshman year in college when you felt alone
but then you tapped into something greater than yourself.
let the words fucking love you!
let language fucking love you!
let the light illuminate the house of majesty within you.
in you. in you.
when you free yourself and close your eyes and let it all go, you're amazed to find how beautiful you truly are,
you without the garments of expectation and acceptability and social normalcy.
you are ideal, a fucking god.
blue, blue roses with two bees you come back to the imagined.
to the animal of you and me. the love i gave you.
the gift of the yarn in total isolation.
what waters hold forth your solitude. solitude.
this is beyond me, these are dolls in Buffalo skins,
warmed by the fires of little houses on the prairie.
to tap into the freely fluctuating mind.
to listen to the sound of fingers on keys like pebbles dropped into a river
and know that you are great,
you are great and have more wieght than gold.
remember, not long ago, you were a soft creature
and you are a soft creature still.
beautiful little blue bird.
beautiful little blue bird with a blue rose in your mouth.
you've come back to me. you've come back. i'm back. oh i've missed this. i've missed my words. i've missed...mist
Friday, July 1, 2011
lines for days
04/23
--sometimes you have to quiet the artist to give yourself some peace
--just annie dillard, mary oliver and me having coffee in the grass marveling at the weeds and the casting of shadows across the bare backs of pill bugs blind as moles. my life would be poetry and life questioning/life affirming essays. me and two women i'd never met but liked instantly, who love the natural world as much as i do and chose as their prayer the written word. what a world that would be!
05/01
--every reflective surface is a camera.
05/17
--there is no quiet greater than this.
--i leave my book open to the sky. maybe inspiration with drop down into it.
--headlong into the fog, driving into the white heart of the moon.
06/02
--clouds like suggestions, pauses, petite sighs lingering about the necks of mountains all flustered from an Eastern sun.
06/06
--burger bun lips
--the light illuminates the house of majesty within me.
06/08
--we shed the road like a snake does his skin.
06/16
--the sky has a hole in it. is it big enough to swallow me? to swallow a swallow as a friend once put it? the light proves to be an enemy, to worry about being seen--illumination--when i want only to gaze out from my underwater cave, to shrink in the darkness and marvel at the light, singularly without any witnesses to my meditations.
--the lava landscape is a delicious tiramisu; it's multitude of layers all set in fog or delineated by it.
--i am overwhelmed at the steady disintegration of the moon. will it go extinct?
06/20
--i was so deep in my thoughts and in my writing that when i looked up from the page i was astonished to discover the world was still there.
06/23
--oh the miracle of breathing!
06/24
--we are strange, we people types, we watching sorts.
--i am intimate loneliness
--and again the wonder
--an old moon picks things out of his ears and a young man sits in front of me. i blow an ant from my knuckle.
06/28
--a foggy morning makes it difficult to breathe. it's as if the world is holding it's breath and i'm a trapped molecule hung up in the bronchial of some master plan whose exhalation is long overdue.
--sometimes you have to quiet the artist to give yourself some peace
--just annie dillard, mary oliver and me having coffee in the grass marveling at the weeds and the casting of shadows across the bare backs of pill bugs blind as moles. my life would be poetry and life questioning/life affirming essays. me and two women i'd never met but liked instantly, who love the natural world as much as i do and chose as their prayer the written word. what a world that would be!
05/01
--every reflective surface is a camera.
05/17
--there is no quiet greater than this.
--i leave my book open to the sky. maybe inspiration with drop down into it.
--headlong into the fog, driving into the white heart of the moon.
06/02
--clouds like suggestions, pauses, petite sighs lingering about the necks of mountains all flustered from an Eastern sun.
06/06
--burger bun lips
--the light illuminates the house of majesty within me.
06/08
--we shed the road like a snake does his skin.
06/16
--the sky has a hole in it. is it big enough to swallow me? to swallow a swallow as a friend once put it? the light proves to be an enemy, to worry about being seen--illumination--when i want only to gaze out from my underwater cave, to shrink in the darkness and marvel at the light, singularly without any witnesses to my meditations.
--the lava landscape is a delicious tiramisu; it's multitude of layers all set in fog or delineated by it.
--i am overwhelmed at the steady disintegration of the moon. will it go extinct?
06/20
--i was so deep in my thoughts and in my writing that when i looked up from the page i was astonished to discover the world was still there.
06/23
--oh the miracle of breathing!
06/24
--we are strange, we people types, we watching sorts.
--i am intimate loneliness
--and again the wonder
--an old moon picks things out of his ears and a young man sits in front of me. i blow an ant from my knuckle.
06/28
--a foggy morning makes it difficult to breathe. it's as if the world is holding it's breath and i'm a trapped molecule hung up in the bronchial of some master plan whose exhalation is long overdue.
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