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Wednesday, July 9th, 2003
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| Time: | 2:32 am. |
| Music: | flaming lips. |
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Featherpennies
Yes, perhaps I should write a little
Find that pen I lost a few months ago,
The one that would stick under my nails and hang
From any tide of thought like a forgotten luminary.
Write a little,
No matter whether it be on empty canvases
That border my slave walls and vomit
With unparalleled color on this horizontal slant of time,
Or along the edge of a napkin,
The one I stole from the heaven’s market.
I’ve kept it in the chest pocket for centuries.
Perhaps I should just scribble memory's syllables
Until it becomes a Roman empire.
Though, I could merely smoke glass,
Inhale a green field until its dust hallucinates a new sun.
Within there I can write epics about ink and feathers,
And how they climbed classicism’s walls
Awaiting the unforeseen poet pumping inside my veins.
Possibly, it may be easier to just cut off my fingers
And separate the private handle on words.
I could send each on a raft to every corner of the galaxy
Or together down the stream behind my house.
There is no difference.
No, I should let go of my bottom lip and just write a little
And tell the world how this moment is like every other.
This is nothing but a ruin of time parted by hesitancy’s whispers
When my hands were found shackled behind the stupor of a restless night
And my mouth caught the glimpse of light before the novella of dark.
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Everything
everything is fleeting
Except when the shoes overflow with water
When one lace is Love
And the other is Death
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Wednesday, June 25th, 2003
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A bus station is where a bus stops.
A train station is where a train stops.
On my desk I have a work station...
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You see, the roundness of a lip
Resides at the curve of every dead end
And the brush-tip of fingers
Can erase the panorama of a star’s demise
Yes, when I close my eyes
Angels kiss my forehead
And open wide an embrace
While I scream out with my fists
“Lies!”
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| Time: | 1:18 pm. |
| Music: | belle and sebastian - the boy done wrong again. |
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(inspired by the riveting morning combinations of ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) pather and translucid)
For self is a sea boundless and measureless.
Say not, "I have found the truth," but rather, "I have found a truth."
Say not, "I have found the path of the soul." Say rather, "I have met the soul walking upon my path."
For the soul walks upon all paths.
The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.
The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.
-Kahil Gibran
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I cannot give you the time, sir. Understand, my head is wrapped around my watch thrice and all I can see is the words dropping from your lips like lent balls.
What’s that, you desire another ride on the merry-go-round between my legs?
I do apologize, the horses have lost their saddles.
You know, honeybunny, I once measured the world with the drop of a man’s pants--but then I realized how often even the insects fly around nude while crunching on each other’s hearts. Therefore, you must know, I walk only along the minute-hand with a stiff spider and a staff of silkworms.
No, I’ve not fucked the Great Wall. However, I have twisted the twigs I found between murder’s breaths so tightly that I’ve created a perpendicular world with the cocking of tweaked melodies that line the baseboards. After all, aren’t all walls great if they remember to always brace themselves for Mr. Eternity’s hot rod?
Well I don’t freakin’ know, slick willy. How many times have you been able to cream corner yourself into the factory line of liberals? Personally, I’d rather read a caulk-her-clockwise-spaniel story about how the bird met the bee and decided to shit all over it.
Please stop talking, I already have traces of blood left on my mute step-sister’s hands.
What? Freedom? You don’t have freedom. You’ve already been sucked into the black hole of me and spit back out again beside the stack of six fingered carpetbaggers. If you’d like, I can give you the ten hundred number to pi. I’d suggest you call and request a refill on tongue-whores. And then, eventually (somewhere along the fall of the soul in the photograph) you’ll be able to remember how I tasted while you watch me from a distance until the passive attitude of this stranger over here slams the door in my face.
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Wednesday, May 21st, 2003
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| Time: | 10:57 am. |
| Music: | Pixies - Where Is My Mind?. |
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"There is more money being spent on breast implants and Viagra than on Alzheimer's research. This means that by 2020, there should be a large elderly population with perky boobs and huge erections and absolutely no recollection of what to do with them."
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forty five years ago today
the existence of every flower bowed
and the pathway to her endless life was revealed
forty five years ago today
the earth trembled and split into halves
each arm carrying her into the fulfillment of tomorrows
forty five years ago today
she began to create us between ebb and flow
and still she stands, embracing
all that this world may ever know of love
happy birthday, mom
i miss you and i love you
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| Time: | 1:27 am. |
| Music: | jeff buckley - the way young lovers do. |
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An Unsent Reflection to Kahil Gibran
I am a stranger in this world...I am a poet who composes what life proses,
and who proses what life composes. ~Kahil Gibran
And therein this world foreign the internal beat of breath,
Exiles are created for words,
Destined to the veins of mother's leaves,
Left skimming the surfaces of a lake she sails.
They shaped me under the orange blossoms of her hair,
Twists of branches grounded a lifetime’s era.
The union of their fingerprints,
Reverberated lucidities from clasped hands.
I learned to sleep with the sun,
Closed eyes grabbed at its tales of stolen stars.
Rain was a reminder of pain,
Soiling itself into silhouettes.
And every glimpse of feather upon wind
Whispered a location of open doors.
Still, fire infuses a loyalty to dream.
Golden streets of yesterday’s love beg presence
As if memory’s need is to create a city in the flicker of bliss.
Even when, it is the indigo flame of a forgotten avenue,
That speaks the true radiance of silent victories.
Having been trained to create
From the hallelujah of nature,
I’ve found evolution can be swallowed whole
If one listens closely to the moon.
For everything is a melody of faith.
As the mind hops over moments like river-rocks,
I can outdraw the mirrored song of any destiny.
It’s nothing less than a chameleonic gardenscape—
An arbor of a father, ornamented
By climbing ivies of a mother.
All randomly pierced with the color of God
Then framed, with barks of unfolded paths
That splinter discovering flesh.
Now grown I realize,
How the world elates itself into spins
When its habitués force open their eyes between gray
To see the veiled faces of shade
Adorning thoughts of rapture.
A fresh scent of citrus,
Can write a collective biography of one day.
The spitfire of stars--is an appetizer for tomorrow.
And oh how the twerp of a bird crafts an unmarked poem,
Balancing itself on the wire of air to fingertips
Until we hear the next word.
Once new to this world—
Knowledge of the unseen
Bled itself into arteries like an exhausted tide from Titan.
Religion wilted, and I found even the spirit of a lily
Can write itself into the Book of Life.
Once new, but old when I was born again.
And now, at the bank of every river's bend yet to be seen,
I’ll find myself in desperate pieces
Lurking between shadows, waving arms
Like prideful war flags whirling to surrender’s white.
A stranger to this world I may be,
But I was raised on an eagle’s wing that hovered above it.
The prints of my steps were hunted naked
Before life dropped me to its dust.
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Tuesday, April 15th, 2003
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| Time: | 4:57 pm. |
| Music: | Jeff Buckley - Opened Once. |
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( Placed Home )
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| Time: | 12:45 am. |
| Music: | damien jurado - saturday. |
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i've been placing dogwood petals among a fluid of flames
each, a cupped counterpart of a threaded quilt instilled in me
it folds between veins and sinews in the same rhythm of a storm-blanketed sky
and i've been staring into the indigo base of this fire
believing to fall in love at every flicker when my mind snaps at the thought of yours
i would become a nameless wind to extend this light
if the sound of an acoustic sunrise to your voice beckoned me
or if the hand of a small child would turn itself just enough
to show the world how starfish were born in the glory of a child's imagination
i could withstand the joker's snare when i bow to the bells of love
if someone would tell me how the watchtower is only a myth of perception
or that the restlessness of a soul infatuated with the moon
is merely the point in life when blinders must peel from the crevices of flesh forlorn
i've been extending hands outward to invisible lands flooded with screams
each, a certain destiny that stains the throat with daggers of adoration
they burst at the seams, these palms scratching at the glass of your face unknown
when i realize i'm dreaming life into a wilted flower
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Thursday, April 3rd, 2003
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i have, for very obvious reasons, been quite silent about my opinion to this tragedy blanketing the news 24/7. though, tonight, a special catalyst got my motor running as he posted this and i replied.
in fact, this may be the only time i dare indulge in correspondence to the matter. which is not out of selfishness or denial, but because pessimism and/or optimism won't change a thing at this point. we can not move backwards because disagreement desires us to. it has started, it is happening.
we must deal with it.
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Thursday, March 13th, 2003
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Julia Ann Hobbs Thill
May 17, 1958 - March 13, 2003
I have no ability of thought or words now, this is just for those of you who have sent compassion and love in this battle she has now overcome. She lives forever.
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Nothing more could happen, right? Nothing more could send this poor thing into a shameless agony of minutes passing like needles interrupting her skull.
After physical therapy on Wednesday, I returned to work for a rough 45 minutes or so, when I received an IM from my sister to return home. Why for, because she had gone to the doctor today and he had told her she may never regain her strength, she may be in a wheelchair her whole life, and we haven't even sent the cancer away or into any sort of remission. So, my parents have been in much prayer and thought about the situation, and they've decided to stop treatments. She no more wants these drugs alienating her body, she no more wants to feel so weak and horrible and not of herself. As a daughter, I have no choice but to support her. I simply want to see her and my family out of the pain we all endure day-by-day. I simply want them to know how much I appreciate all they do, when I could be seen as the "lucky one" that doesn't live here. I feel guilty about that, but at the same time, I feel like there has to be one of us still grounded for the others to lean on, perhaps I should explain that somehow to them. Someday. It is her body, not ours, it is her decision, not ours. I can't say much more about it at this point in time.
But Wednesday was just beginning. I had a headache all day, meandering on the pain of a migraine. After returning home to have the family discussion on this decision, my migraine worsened...and worsened...and worsened. I was at the point of uncontrollable tears and screams, the pain more piercing and strong than anything I've ever felt before. (I just had to interrupt this post to take a Vicoden, the hint of pain is returning as we speak). Eventually my parents felt enough helplessness to call 911. My dad was worried it was something much more complicated than a migraine, perhaps bleeding in my brain, or a blood clot- which I was thinking as well. The next couple hours were somewhat of a blur, they arrived to take me to the most local hospital after asking questions upon questions of my recent car accident and history of headaches. Upon arriving, my youngest sister in tears riding in the front seat of the ambulance - which I was told was siren and flashing light-bound) and my parents following with other sister, I was placed into a dark room with a lame excuse for a bed for quite some time before I even saw a doctor, pain still enduring strong, no one could give me anything until he saw me first. He insisted on a ct scan first, then perhaps a spinal tap to make sure there wasn't any bleeding or other cause for this pain. After the scan, they did give me a shot of Demerol to my hip. After about fifteen minutes or so I was out of it and placed into a different room with a better bed, with vital sign machines hooked up to me in all places. The test came back clear, but he still insisted on the spinal tap to be positive, since this was, in fact, the worst pain I'd ever felt. That procedure in itself was excruciating, I cringe to think of that needle meandering about my spine...I could feel its every move. I finally made it home with Dad (he had taken the rest of the family back home after we knew it would be a while before I could be released) at around 6am. I was there for 7 hours and I recall about 2 of them. The doctor requested that I see a neurologist within the next two days. I've missed work yesterday and today. I am too see my regular doctor today, then have him recommend a neurologist and give me some pills to last the weekend through.
I also dont have a car, or money, or positive outlook on anything right now.
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Sunsets of Absence
If I could show you this sky
This breast of earth, strewn about a virgin’s valley
I wouldn’t interrupt her horizon with pictorial flash
And if I could show you these colors
Those that hum before the flatline of sunset
I wouldn’t place faith in windswept palettes
I lived alone long before I separated these shades
Now, I draw it in like a tenant of moment
Gunsmoke stilled and wrapped in vanilla
I would deny myself this vision
This breath of heaven’s incense before sleep
Rather, I’d send you into its folds of fleshed clouds
Turning love into a valediction
The lonely pair of sight and self, would break into a shattered mirror of days passed
With falling glass tuning itself to nature by the resonance of prayer
And my upward glances would become its ovation
While its undeclared parables, write themselves into my diary
This must be when the earth hesitates to evolve
If I could show you this sky
How it’s something familiar, a dream fallen to forgotten gods
I would hold you above the weight of ancient forests
While divisions of eras beg you close your eyes
Until you felt this field of apparition flowing from vein to memory
Its spine is weaker than yours, drowning itself into the shades of Athena
The shadow-twists between trees are like the structure of your eyes
Accented by the clarity of morality with the last dove hovering above your crown
Your arms are an echo of its flesh-colored sails
Sent out into an acoustic harmony of invisible sea
The stretch of your fingers are a lofty invite to the moon
A beckoning, like star- painted piano notes on the tinroof of time
And the heat of your lips extends into a reminiscence
With the last hint of a crimson sun surrendering to the lovers of night
I would give my last exhale
To tell you how this sky has always been you
Before I knew you existed
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| Time: | 3:44 pm. |
| Music: | flaming lips - when YER twenty two. |
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Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs;
he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter.
~F.Nietzsche
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Tuesday, February 18th, 2003
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every night i call and tell her i love her and to say goodnight. she answers with hushed tones i can barely make out. but somewhere within the mumbling of struggled lungs, lingers the first time i remember her saying that she loved me when i was a child; it rings in my ears like piano notes from heaven.
that is where a prayer begins.
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Saturday, February 15th, 2003
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I’d like to strip this red down to the beginning, to the first
Snow that fell from the hands of a god still unfamiliar. And when
I arrive, I’ll dance into the eyes of ice that rest under flaming stars.
I’ll skim the circumference of snow made angels; those which
Murmur harmony under sneezes of wind. My hair
Will become the blood of a field, undiscovered by foot
Yet dangling in the dreams of lifehunters and orphaned nature.
I should etch myself into an invisible hibernation, where the only sting
I feel, is the threshold of spring tasting the yawn of flesh. And when
I awake, I will be reborn and challenged to fight any soldier of silence
I’ll argue with songbirds until my voice reaches another octave of existence.
It is then that I will become the photograph echoing eternity through
The rattle of my veins, as my chin turns upward—begging for some promise.
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Friday, February 14th, 2003
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| Time: | 3:42 pm. |
| Music: | nobody does it better (cover)- radiohead. |
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Artistas de la Noche
steady
as if it were numbed
a likeness
of still-watered palettes
draped
over new moon canvases
pink flesh
scorched by a madman's flame
an embodiment of his outlying palm
like a silk tattoo
born
yet tattered
by leopard manifestations,
the quid pro quo
of venetian blind ceilings
rhythmic timid sighs
shred naked
sheets
into the hysteria of passion
destined
to be fused in contour
as limbs
become windswept forests
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