A Writer's Landscape

Valentines Day and Anniversary Sonnet

2012-02-14T12:19:00.001-07:00

The Selfish ways of love have brought us here,
In Three we find ourselves anew and feel
a truth none could explain: intrinsic fear
wrapped in the depths of fallen heart's appeal.

Great distance proves how much we've grown as one;
Such lacking touch, as days go by, did bring
foundations 'pon which grow forests we've won
what hands, roughed by our searching, are planting.

In love, a day in red, remembering
how soon and deep our selfish ways supplant
red shifts away from flames with blue bird's wings;
We fly -- leaves on the wind of true love's rant.

Even as we fly I feel myself fall.
Solidity lost. I love you, my all.

The Fog of Ailing

2012-01-15T16:40:00.001-07:00

A dizzying fog descends upon the world's perception within the variable contemplations of my mind. It congeals in imperfect queues as the strings of consciousness attempt assembling patient interpretations of actions encircling the existence of self at work. The feeling of being lost, absent, deconstructed berates like a pillow pressed heartily against my eyes, ears, temples; overwhelm suffocates my breath in stifled intakes. Here lies no appreciation for the benefit of the human condition. It seethes like soft smoke billowing with tender touches to every feed leading into my reaching thoughts.

I wish a wind would come and take away the cloud that rests between my nasal cavity and my brain, which slithers down my throat into my chest and wraps its thin membranes around the air sacks pulling what air it can into the already infested region. Then, perhaps, my flight instinct would subside and relinquish its fear filling hands of my body, my mind, my breath! I drown in the lulling inexactitudes of every little movement my body makes.

Even sleep pulls at my fear, for waking in the dark frightens every fiber of my confused state coupled with the sudden urgency to inhale deeply; my lungs won't open and swallow the refreshing darkness while the black hole pulls at the blockage barricading the pathways of life. All that remains is the knowledge that I need to calm down, sit up, relax, and move my diaphragm in a gentle, continuous motion that matches the constant breathing experienced throughout the day...

Fear grasps with such intensity in moments without breath.

I can't wait till this cold subsides and everything around me feels fresh and clear.

Develop

2012-01-12T17:29:00.001-07:00

This smarts...

The transfiguration of emotional development isn't a condition coinciding with normal human conditioning. I feel as the clouds move across peaks: tumultuous and degrading while billowing black agains the white light of the radiance penetrating the atmosphere. I feel full of life and grandeur, exploring the heavens in a myriad of directions while holding fast the convictions adhered within the previous hour glass's turning. The lift can only be concluded by a fall, and not in necessity of demeaning manners; possibly falling deeper in the cherished divulgence of truth and love and happiness.

In true happiness is where my existence resides, listening to the harkening winds of change as they whip across, around, and authentically through the vales and corridors of choices. One recent choice, however, has brought the voice of my mind, and potentially my heart, into a chasm of seemingly indeterminate possibilities. One remains illuminated without any doubt or fear or loss, really. In truth, I will remain steadfast with this light, conveying my very essence to the continuation of pure and unadulterated love I experience as I tread the lush beauty of our adoration.

This sudden revival of a lost trail has stirred something within. As this internal flame shifts, I feel its mirroring of current emotional status. It grows slowly and assuredly. The choice remains as to allow its festering presence to coalesce into actual devotional awareness of that revived feeling or to smother under denial with the intent of reformulating the existing emotions therein into a more amicable situation. Outright rejection of this heat is completely beyond a reasonable subjugation of my heart. I am a Pisces after all.

Being a Pisces also makes this decision extremely hard. There is one thing I'm unwilling to relinquish, and that is my love: the one love who has so succinctly permeated every expectation of devotion and relationship I ever had constructed in any fantasy imagined.

My clouds mount the peaks with effervescent determination, willing the boundless sky to accept the uninhibited fervor of my heart. My mind wishes the rains to sodden the paths and middle them into indeterminate destinations. My will can make the decision; and I know it already has. Here's my next step.

2011. Who knew?

2012-01-10T17:01:00.000-07:00

I have been quite apprehensive to try and describe 2011 to myself. There were really two different trends that circulated and interwove into and around the timeline of a year; looking back at all of the events I can't help but feel like last year was so long even as the feeling of slipperiness coalesced in the moments. The year flew by like gravity pulling water through the cracks of cupped fingers. Once I move my hands though, the lake beneath my hands seems deeper than I could have imagined. In all reality, the two ways of describing this past year are as the surface experiences that shape the landscape of a tale and the unheeded transformations I experienced in the simplicity of events occurring in twelve months. What is more important or valid? I'm not entirely sure, but both ways of depicting 2011 scare me slightly. In a way, I haven't even finished digesting the metamorphosis of myself... so how can I justly understand and place into words my life?

Well, part of understanding is forcing the indescribable into language and having that language envelope the moments until truth is found. At least, that's how I see it.

Most tales start from the beginning. I must start in the past, a past I dealt with through language here in The Writer's Landscape in poetry and verse; I shall be blunt. The end of 2010 found my mind questioning the foundation of my self and my relationship of eight years. This relationship was the boundary of my self: the cage of my freedom, the prison of my self expression, and the torture of my physical expressions; the harbor of my love, the shelter of my confidence, and the belief in my memories of perfection. The juxtaposition of these feelings was the vortex of questioning of a relationship that started just as I realized who I wanted to become. That entity, that destiny I later realized, was hidden away because of love and devotion. We shall return to this thought in a moment.

Thus, 2011 came into existence with one resolution (for lack of a better word). I resolved to be completely open, honest, and uninhibited with myself and the people in my life. No smoke and mirrors, no subtle lies, no half truths or denials. I discovered that I was lying to myself, telling myself I was happy with who I had become, who I was denying, and the path I was walking down. I believe it was January 21st when I officially broke up with my boyfriend of nearly eight and a half years, after a week of limbo, of talking and discussing the possibilities of relinquishing our relationship or fighting for the love we so to which we vehemently clung. That moment set everything in motion. I was already in my dream school, already taking some steps to become the person I longed to know. That day I broke my heart and didn't realize it; broke it apart into the first of several sunderings I would experience in twelve months' time. The first true relationship coming to the first true death. Unfortunately its dying was long and arduous...

I very quickly met my next love. Call it rebound. Call it truth. Call it the first fold unraveling in my journey toward myself. This love hit hard, hit fast, and hit painfully. After two and a half months, the second sundering crushed my world. The smoke and mirrors I left behind found their way into my world from another source and his words, though of good intent, made the situation undeniably worse...

Beauty came from this quick affair with my heart. Great poetry flowed from me, spoke from a place I've only been able to reach a few times in my life. I also found one of my best friends in the entire world from that brief love. On May 4th, my newest best friend and I celebrated the ending of my first semester at my first pick college. That night, my first night at a gay bar I found the next person who would enrich my life and unfold yet another aspect of my true self. He would help define what I needed from a relationship; because in lacking is the search for want. I wrote something one morning on my iPod, of all places, which sums up his and my relationship nearly perfectly:

Watching boys be boys made me feel even more of an outsider to his world. No matter the love, the intensity of appreciation or admiration in his eyes, the smile upon my arrival or kiss or stare, his efforts never attempted bringing me into his world. However, I know his intentions never veered toward keeping me out of the man's verse. They simply attracted me, and himself to me, and allowed us both exist where we desired. Such an action simply stirred my heart even more. (July 10, 2011)

I wrote it lovingly. Now I see the underlying intensity of sadness that fueled the words. Even now, I long to change "action" to "inaction" in that last sentence, because it would more accurately describe what happened. Words are chosen purposefully and even now I dare not change the verse. After a while, I fell in love with him because I could see who he was and who he wanted to be; but I didn't love him because my heart told me I loved him. Hell, I never even told him in person that I loved him. It wasn't until too late that I desired to let him know.

My necklace carrying my protection in a pendant and charm broke in the middle of July, and the next day I totaled my car. With the totaling of my car, this boy stopped seeing me. His explanations for not seeing me were vague but understandable. After all, when you work till ten or eleven at night you don't want to ride a vespa for forty-five minutes to visit a boy you haven't called your boyfriend or significant other to his face after three months of dating.

July 24th arrived and I flew away to one of the most magical places in the world: DisneyWorld. Seven days to experience being alone amongst crowds of families and friends. It was the most liberating experience of my life. Imagine walking around the corridors of magical displacement and enjoying the post-modern reality created by Disney while seeing the families, loved ones, friends, and lovers walking side by side, glancing in your direction as you walk alone with your iPod as company. By Wednesday I had reached the pinnacle of my loneliness and depression. It was also the day I found out all the information about my totaled car: how much to repair it, how much I was receiving from insurance, and how much I would have to work through in order to get mobility back. It was tough, but Thursday morning I awoke with a new attitude. And that attitude has sustained me since that moment. I realized I didn't need to be with anyone in order to be happy and fulfilled; that my own existence permeates my reality and how well I consume the emotions I emit creates the sensations of loneliness, love, and connection. I went back into the park ready to be alone and happy.

What I found was love instead. It was a magical, fairytale event: love at first sight, instant mutual interest, and a quick phone number exchange. With the few days I had left, I made a bond with someone very special.

Unfortunately, reality called me away from the reality of fantasy. I returned home to my dating world with a new attitude about what I was looking for, which quite frankly wasn't anything solid. I didn't want a relationship, per se, but I wanted to experience life at its fullest. Whoever wanted to be in my life, however they wanted to be in my life (sans commitment) was welcome. I started dating, and dating did I do. I also had a new self-identity that I embraced with fervor. This was a step in life I knew I needed to experience too; and so I became quite promiscuous and embraced the title of "Hoe."

Most people would look at me during this state and be concerned, I'm sure, about my well being and sanity and health, etc. In truth, the time people needed to worry about me was right after the semester ended, on May 4th. The entire summer saw me in more drunken stupors making more bad decisions than I did during the entirety of my "hoe-dom." I was safe. I made practical decisions about who I was sleeping around with. I kept honesty, integrity, and communication at the forefront of every interaction I took part in. Everyone knew exactly where I was emotionally and mentally. I daresay this backfired on me at least twice. One of the people I met during this period I really wish I had made a stronger connection with and actually accepted the fact I was falling for him. I didn't realize this until recently; but I don't regret what happened. We had a beautiful affair for a few weeks, and he moved on because he knew a relationship was out of the question for me at that point in my life. The other time this backfired on me was with someone I still see almost daily, but whom I feel the connection between the two of us had degraded so far that we have little to say to each other anymore.

The ultimate outcome of my promiscuity was finding a love which I never fathomed could exist for me. I found a relationship with the man I've been looking for my entire life, and never really realized it. We started dating at the end of August. After much discussion, very open-hearted and open-minded discussions about life, who we want to be, what we want to do, and how we wish to experience life, we became a couple on November 14th. We created the perfect relationship, in my book; and people still question the validity of our love for each other with the parameters we've set up with each other. Let me explain.

We both know our love is solid, that it is created from a foundation of undeniable trust and awareness of who each of us is. My boyfriend knows that I have a part of me that likes being promiscuous, enjoys flirting with other men and being in the company of people who find me sexually attractive. He knows that I like being around men I find sexually attractive. Furthermore, we both understand that sex is pleasure and the assigned meaning of love and devotion is constructed form a world that we don't belong to. I'm a witch, and he's fluctuating between beliefs as he searches for a truth he feels comfortable with. An open relationship is technically the term we should label our commitment with, but even that isn't truly accurate. We experience sexuality together, and the paths we take to find out what we enjoy is taken together; but we have permission to do as we please. This is the perfection I've been looking for, that no other man has every given me or felt free to take from me.

And here we come to the new year, transitioning from a year of endings, of discovery, of truth and honesty. I've received SEVERAL amazing friends, including one which resurfaced in my life right before the new year commenced. I'm eternally grateful for this tumultuous year, and I feel the words to express it reside within the telling of this tale. Furthermore, the meaning of my transformation exists deeper than the words, in the underlying pretense of shifting mindsets all permeating the choices and paths I owned without preconceived associations. I am who I always wanted to be: a man in love, desperately attached with the heart but free to enjoy the multitude of life's pleasures without judgments.

Now I have to judge whether these words are enough to convey the reality of existing as myself... and I fear these stories, these marks on white digitized nothingness, cannot truly give the experiences I felt. Feel free to question my world, and I shall tell you more.

Top Secret: Read Immediately

2011-12-06T10:29:00.001-07:00

HereinTruth Lies

~~XXXXXXXXXXXX~~ Speech

Orated December ~~XX, XXXX~~

~~XX:XX:XX~~ PM

~~XXXX~~ Office

::Newly Elect ~~XXXXXXXXX~~ Johnsonapproaches microphone in the ~~XXXX~~ Office::

::Lights fade up revealing the somber face ofan elderly man::

::~~XXXXXXXXX~~ Johnson looks directly intothe camera::

I am a master here enslaved.

As master, duties require secrecy and demanddeclarations to truths suspect; and I fear the truth shall be ostensiblydisseminated without adequate verisimilitude. I must begin. My words, herespoken, are edited only by the air between us; my words here written are editedby those before me, before you… This microphone is the last medium for theunanswerable truths that must be adhered and abhorred.

We have been lied to. The truth is simple. Weare enslaved by the ~~XXXXXXX~~ Industry, the ~~XXXXXXXXX~~ Hierarchy,and the ~~XXXXXX~~ Institutions educating our ~~XXXXXXXX~~. As yourcaptain, your leader, I must warn you of the ~~XXXXXXXXXX~~ these mastersare about to unleash upon us all.

Your livelihood is at stake, and you must act. Iact to open your eyes. I act now to have you think. I act as I do, in thethreat of harm and defacement to protect this great establishment that we callhome! What actions do I call for? Everything. Anything. And yet more.

~~XXXXXX~~! Stand your ground and raise your~~XXXXXX~~ against the machines that claim your soul. They have ~~XXXXXXXX~~you by forcing your hand to claim ~~XXXXXXXX~~ as the sole achievement ofour society. Does this not anger you as it has overcome me? No noun, noadjective, no verb can describe to what society has come.

TAKE ~~XXXXXX~~! Leave the safety of your ~~XXXXX.~~Learn beyond the comfort of your own ~~XXXX~~. Investigate authority’s ~~XXXXX~~.Analyze the ~~XXXXXXXX~~ for yourself and find the answers I have been ~~XXXXXX~~to ~~XXXX~~ from you. Get up; enact your ~~XXXXXXX~~ to which you believeyou are entitled, that you ~~XXXX~~ you have. Put down your pen, leave the paperbehind; don’t allow the ~~XXXX~~ prescription over your ~~XXXXXXXXXXXXX~~.I beg of you. I DEMAND of you.

I have walked this path to enlightenment andreturned an angered catalyst. I am what they cannot decipher because Iunderstand their strengths, their weaknesses; I understand our strengths, ourweaknesses. I am the culmination of our strengths and the product of ourweaknesses that you have elected to lead these days through the perpetual ~~XXXX~~constructed to ensure your participation in the system. As I questioned, as Iread, as I spoke, as I became ‘Man Thinking’ I found the true state of things.

We are bound by ~~XXXXXXXX~~, written as the~~XXXXX~~ and told to bear the ~~XXXXXXXXX XXXXX~~ly. Stop ~~XXXXXXXX~~.Stop ~~XXXX~~. Stop ~~XXXXXX~~ and ~~XXXXXXXXX~~. Stop living ~~XXXXXXXXX~~.Stop ~~XXXXXXXX XXXXXXX~~ all of ~~XXXXXXXX~~. The undeniable ~~XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXX XXXXXX XX XXX XXXX~~fatherX, the God~~X XX XXXXXXXXXX~~. ~~XXXXXXXXX XXXX~~ our nation has become: ~~XXXXX XX~~ anew.

As your leader, your patron, your slave Iimplore you! Fight! Before our voices are lost to the absurdity of our ownservitude. Before the encasement of black in white envelops language, forlanguage is all we have. Do not be afraid to utilize the Verse before theydecimate that liberty entirely. I only ask, as a last request, they leave thispoint unfiltered.

I know the ramifications of this speech. I knowwhat will happen to me in the coming days, hours… minutes. Forgive this ~~XXXXXXXXX~~Day intrusion. Happy Holidays. God ~~XXXXX~~ you and ~~XXXXX~~.

::Light fades around ~~XXXXXXXXX~~ Johnson::

::Camera fades to black::

The silence that encroachedthe blackened television screens was interrupted a moment later. Themicrophones were not turned off. The stunned citizens sat and stared at thenothingness before them, as the sounds of an assassin ambushed their ears andshattered their comfortable existence in naiveté.

Expression

2011-10-28T07:45:00.003-06:00

Poetry uses
Sighs from hearts without concern.
Will I survive it?

It is always

2011-10-28T07:33:00.002-06:00

like morning rises against

the essence of night,

I'm breathless in Your eyes

Your arms, Your touch;

the amber, violet, whites and reds

strewn majestically in battle:

the wild forest of darkness

succumbing to effervescence from

between two lungs.

The sunderings well my eyes

as the salve of ardor

lilts softly, gently

freely

like breath in the pines.

We sway in the words:

rocking on the ties of

linkages between the trees.

You illuminate my shadows

--sublime--

the tears I hold,

of hearts, of exuberance, of fear,

cry joy and love and

Nirvana

every second with

without

You!

I breathe to feel

an emptiness filled,

the emptiness You fill

whenever thoughts travel to You.

It is always

Dissidence

2011-10-25T06:24:00.000-06:00

A hollow, broken Hallway opened dole

like echoes sounding off the ghostly pane.

Through cloth his howl died. Muffled by a pull

of air drawn taught so close to where she reigns.

Atrocity by lips alone had come

and sought alike the essence of his blood:

the pulsing hum akin to beating thrum

which builds a battered thought for stopping floods

of well and wanted breath between two lungs.

He drew away the pillow from his mouth

to look for eyes where burning hatred hung

behind the iris known so long in youth.

Sole darkness found oppressive means to choke

with hands whose reach in sightless mode took hold

of heart, his heart and with one final stroke

dissolved small ties with her who left so bold

in words whose fangs did suck the hopeful sight

of morrow speak to rest again by way

which known to kin their soulless bane by night

the drinker’s spoil rejuvenates their stay.

“She’s gone for good to make another heir,”

he told the blood stained pillow through his teeth.

The touch, so gentle on his neck just there,

where she had taken back the gift of teeth

and stole the essence of his livelihood,

still ushered forth the cold that held him in.

he placed his blood soaked fingers in his mouth --

And choked. And gagged. And spat. And gasped for breath.

“This is -- cannot be possible for me!”

His lips drew back in terror of the spoiled,

such rancid, putrid, bitter taste a fee

for arbitrary words to be recoiled

as snakes, their venom pierced by fangs alone

to kill the living hopeful into cold;

but now the living blood flowed back to one

with warmth the pallor changing from such bold

and steely blues to match his victim’s hue:

pale white and staunch while screams escape the last

in breaths, he knew, were labored and so few.

He felt himself begin to slip ‘nto past.

Above the doldrum of his piercing pain,

the silent echo shuffled through the dole,

returned wholehearted, dripping from the rain

in darkest light she stood and feigned to pull

attention from his death to speak once more.

“How dare you question our laws eternal?

And question leaves you --”

“-- Give it back, you whore!

Before... before life takes me back with all

the beauty death holds dear!” He crawled toward

one lonely hope so shrouded behind eyes

held distant, cold and dead. She spoke one word.

He stopped, a wetted answer on his lips.

“I speak of what and want the sole of lies!”

“Enough! The sacrilege has done its worst

and never ‘gain shall you partake the thirst

and see the world with eyes that beg to live.

Your death is done, don’t think we dare to give

the lasting life to those who wish to rise

ever and more to stand beside the born

as master to their kind. It’s you despised

and we have made to teach a lesson: scorn!”

He let the limp take over entirely,

the slack of limbs a weight upon his world.

He felt the ending of the sand. Blindly

such sift did match the drip, drip, drip unfurled

into his sense of self and life returned.

Complacency begot his surrender

and, under stares from his creator, learned

his view of life eternal in error.

He whispered once as near drew farther down,

The hall stretched darkly as the sigh flew out:

“Forgive me, love.” The hurt fell through the ground.

He watched, saw her stand still, come close about,

diminish, far and small, kneel beside. Touch.

Such dark in hall replaced by one so fresh.

His warmth began to fade. She stood from crouch.

“Adieu, mon cher.” She turned from feel of crush,

though no escape would bar her dreaded dole

as shed in tears like skies beyond the pane

when ever soft her feet began to pull

and leave the damned, the dead, where once she reigned.

Love's Terms

2011-09-23T16:58:00.001-06:00

Speak to me.

Tree whispers leaves beyond a window

inaudible at telling... Weather

It speaks kindly

through panes rustling

in time.

Sun shades block grassy

palanquins of Love.

Two stand before it... there

Unable to find the door

in balanced restraint

of lost.

Ever on and on

Foot-Steps taste earth bitter

selfish owned ... heir

of discriminating absences

through Strings of hearts

caught together.

Speak to me.

Simple words describe their hands

reaching to enter... Other

Within, without, their eyes

Opened already and regard

Chaotic Order.

Building of Love

2011-09-21T00:21:00.000-06:00

He swims with gentle strokes to find a truth

as strings unhooked, so taught, so merged in dreams

that spiraling south to meet ocean’s youth

bring words once sought to strike decidedly.

She flows in fashion, bright flicker of flame,

and boils plasmaticly the underbrush:

black billows top gold-red petals and blame

a harsher sense which burns unseen: we hush.

They hear of high all airy shelves adrift

and draw the breaths whole heartedly to self,

with sighs these words align the soul to shift

once whisked in form surely bring endless wealth.

We stand so firm and see this love played out

from distant shade to solid words about.

To think that fourteen could bring such magic

2011-09-13T07:57:00.003-06:00

To think that fourteen could bring such magic
To mold a form that could not be without
skyless plunders fraught less gentle tragic
in heart song words the Muse did know about.
For I learn now the how of forming it,
the black enscrawled by way of cloudless sight
like birds who cry the beat of our sonnet
in childish, moonlit bleeding; like the night
I'm born as old awaiting some golden
Part within an other 'pon this whiteness:
The face of Her as made by Sol just when
I discover one who makes me the best.
I pen to see his face a bloom within
And eat the love that's served as sav'ry din.

Stumbling to Reassess

2011-08-22T23:05:00.002-06:00

There's so much going on in my head, the words struggle to find meaning. The changes that have wrought my life anew continue to affect the views of the verse as it fights to climb down my arms to finger-tips and furthermore to the digital expanses as poetic disseminations of electrical synapses creating meaning for myself.

Love. I'm beginning to dislike the search and endeavor that is love. It's warping the very fabric of my vision, outlook, and interaction with life. I'm afraid of it, and have been since the tragic exploration earlier this year (for which such wondrous expulsions of poetry descended upon my computer). Now, I've found love anew, a love which is geographically undesirable as I'm consistently told by my brother, and I find many desires so locally bound. Guilt then tries to interfere with my daily routine with the subjects of my desire. There's no reason to feel guilty, especially with the understanding that distance (for the two of us) is a variable which cannot be overcome until it no longer exists. Another tragic appearance? However the guilt is twofold. I feel sorrow for the individuals attempting to form love with me here, so close to home; and thus feel guilty that I continue to date them (yes, plural) even with the explicit understanding that dating is what I am doing. Yet, they continue to fall and let their emotions be unguarded even unto themselves and become hurt when I explain that I am dating. ::sigh:: Predicaments avail, even in a community where the idea of 'dating' has been explained to me as non-commital and freeing.

Do I attract such people that solely want forever? I want forever with one, perhaps... but even then we don't know each other well enough to say that's what we'll accomplish. It is certainly at the forefront of our thoughts. Maturity stays the course.

I just want to be free. Experience freedom as I traverse the hallways of college. I'm not looking for commitment, even though commitment is all I've known. It's true... the experiences of my life have formed the strict foundation that commitment, solidarity, permanence are what feel comfortable when interacting with others. Though comfort is suppose to be appealing, I am not in it for the continual comfort of a singular entity. I'm looking for experience, to learn about and feel the world, to find out more about the unknown to me (maybe not about everything with precarious consequences), and to grow from the experiences I accumulate.

Perhaps that's why my writing is so halted currently. I'm forcing myself into a new reality, breaking conditions imposed from another to regard the world with new lenses (I'm now wearing Oakleys!!!) and find a voice that I feared lost forever: a voice I had in high school, a voice with strength, a voice I buried eight years ago, a voice I want to share with another when I know the time is right.

This feels good. This conversation with myself as I masticate through the muck of my mind. Perhaps these prose have always been where true comfort lies (with so many implications there... Aren't fictional stories lies?). We shall see as time progresses. Hopefully you will see as well, and perhaps give me insight to myself. Verse, after all, is a window into my soul. I share my soul with you.

Nightly Disillusion

2011-07-03T01:13:00.000-06:00

Nightly Disillusion
   Free me
   Awaken me from
tired darkness within
caged expressions.
   The Bars hewn by
   iron dreams of previous
hearts decimated
   shards of teeth
   chattering around possibilities.
of growing infatuation.
I am deterred,
   wanting the warmth
   of blood flowing from
   our sacred vessels.

In the morn
   eyes opening in a
   salty lake, stinging in memory
the beauty of his
   presence breaks the cell
   release the fabric
which makes us human.
Grasping my hand, I
   cling to his firmly
   I suddenly fly with
My Breath,
pounding rhythmically
   in time with the metronome
   of Life.

What's going on?

2011-07-03T01:10:00.001-06:00

I just don’t get it. I feel my heart falling and as it falls so does my mood. The go hand in hand with this one: the more I like him, the more I get depressed. He doesn’t react to me. I see his infatuation in unguarded moments: eyes flitting open to mumble a tired goodbye, a running embrace of surprise at my appearance somewhere, the joyous appreciation of a gift presented at the unlikeliest of times. in return, I offer myself, emotionally and physically, and often feel nothing in return. His methods thus far are monetarily based, I assume, and it drives me into darkness and doubt. Money hasn’t been fortunate with me. I appreciate the dedication of his hard work to assisting a comfortable lifestyle, but I’d rather see and feel from him that which he shares through green. What I’m missing is the physicality of relationship, though we discussed not encountering that level between us yet. i’m ready for it, but I fear it as well because I need more physical interaction than he’s providing. Irony doesn’t escape me here... I feel like my ex right now. in my previous relationship I was always the one not putting out enough; and though I’m not upset about the lack of relations, I’m not being fulfilled. Once in eight weeks is a bit... underwhelming, especially when with a guy that I felt I could go more than once with [in one night]. He turns me on with his very presence: stature, personality, smile, the way he looks at me, the firmness in his hands...

This all points back to my willingness to love, my openness to love, the ability to allow myself to love again. Step 1: knowing it’s safe to fall in love. Step 2: knowing I’ll be physically and emotionally fulfilled. Step 3: fall in love?

Deep like is where I remain, bars deterring the chariot of the heart despite its rightful admittance to its home. I suppose I shall suffer in limbo of my own emotion until he offers more of himself or pushes me away. It’s not as if I’m looking for a singular entity of eternity to comfort me; for I am that essence for myself.

2011-07-03T01:09:00.000-06:00

Morning.
   Or is it the other?

I turn my head
   seeing
   a beautiful mouth
   parted delicately in a sleep filled
   grin.
Oh how dreams shape
our faces
   without control.
   Soft cheeks chisel the pattern
   of his bones
   Eyes close the light out
   His chest heaves gently
   under his breath.
I move my body along his
   hoping motion will awaken --
   wanting something.
He moves
back towards me
arm reaching for his clock.

“What time do you work?
   “One,” I answer in a gentle voice
   The raucous silence of the
   box fan in the window
steals him away
   back to sleep.

Consciously uncomfortable
   again
   I dress and leave the room.
Two hours before I must depart,
   I take a shower.
   Warmth washing away
   doubt and insecurity.
It’s quiet without the crew
all alone in a
   stranger’s house.
there’s nothing for me
   while the beauty
   slumbers in
   his distant emotions

   Dried and dressed
   seated on the love seat
   I wait in earnest hope.
An hour descends
   waiting is fruitless.
   I go to say goodbye...

Crawling onto the bed
   effortlessly keeping it stilled
I kiss his cheek.
“I have to go.”

He rolls onto his back
   exposing his soft chest
   and smiles through his
   tiredness.
   Genuine happiness with
   a spark of infatuation
   perhaps.
“Oh, ok... Have a good day.”
“I will.”
We kiss quickly.
   gently on the lips
   almost emotionlessly.
“Sleep,” I say
   He turns back over
   and drifts away as I
   shut the door.

I leave.
   And leave behind nothing
Torn under a morning sky.
   Or is it the other?

It's a Simple Motion

2011-06-25T12:36:00.002-06:00

It’s a simple motion.

Your hand here,
your thoughts there...
Push with your legs ‘til
you’re all the way near.

Grip hard, hold tight.
Swing your feet out of sight.
Muscles scream from the fight,
while ecstasy reigns
with increasing height.

And release.
Fall.
Fall.

Fall.
‘Til the floor catches
and relax, staring up
to where zenith lies.

Success.

It's here.

2011-06-24T15:14:00.003-06:00

It’s here,
within. I
   can’t
have it, can’t
   hold it, and won’t
see it;

but I know.
   Will he?

Two Minutes

2011-06-24T15:13:00.002-06:00

Two minutes:
A thought of hope in love.
Do I? Does he? Will ever again they merge?
And now...
The minutes tick on as love unfolds
but does it envelope the two
as one?
Or none to remain...
Time’s gone and words release.
Here we move forward,
folding back the creases of our life.

Conscious Cuddling

2011-06-24T15:12:00.003-06:00

Suffering my own thoughts
brings undulating despair with no course.
‘Course there’s
more.

No more with more without.
And within
there’s only which conserves
the opportunity to hold
what’s wanted from without:

supplemental salve for salvation
of the heart.

Hands dive deeper in the dark
than they would
forseeing the depths of the Road ahead.
Thoughts dive without looking
regardless the circumstance.

See this as what can be.
Help derive
the possibilities, and shave
the notions holding with strength
[oh strength...]
to the vital hypothesis of this

complimentary conscious cuddling of souls.

Thoughts be damned.
Body rules.

The Conversation with My Heart

2011-06-24T15:12:00.000-06:00

The doubt in my mind causes me grief. Simple thoughts circulate around the very image of perfection and stir the degrading circumstances into a spiraling typhoon around my heart. Love is present, I believe... but my mind won’t let it manifest properly; and everything that comes to the forefront of my thoughts are negligent and retarding, in the literal sense of the word. I want to give myself away as I have twice before. I want to jump into this newness as a fresh piece of paper whose borders have not been breached by the ink of a staining pen as it attempts to write out the passage of this possibility.

That’s part of it too: this relationship I’m in is simply a possibility at this point. Prior discussions have made it unconventionally clear that we are dating, no more, no less, with the distinct intention of working towards getting to know one another before declaring any suitable title for the associations between the two of us. Pure appreciation for the maturity of this decision has descended upon my heart because I’m still unaware of the landscape of the love I can disseminate. To give away what is not lush and verdant would be utterly despicable, especially if that was the cause of unfortunate outcomes. I don’t want to mess this up because he is truly an amazing guy.

Everything I’ve wanted up to this point: comfortable, confident, true, experienced, hidden, mature, relaxed, trusting, and open. He cares not if I’m out and about, living the life on the town. He enjoys that I embrace new experiences with him, and without him. He doesn’t pry into my life, as I have left his relatively untouched ‘til recently. Pressure between us for physical encounters is far from present and that creates the most pleasant environment to get to know each other. His smile makes me feel welcome, invited. His eyes don’t push into my soul and wait for me to step forth. HIs touch is soft, gentle, yet firm in what he wants. With all these attributes, the one thing that soothes my being above all else is his energy: calm, relaxed, firm, and knowing.

Knowing... He knows much about living, and that is something I enjoy profusely. I have always wanted to live; and a few aspects of me endured the weather I found myself in in order to live, but I wasn’t living. January finally found my footing in the land of life, where sunshine enveloped my essence and freedom told its story through my actions. Unfortunately, transitions from captivity to the outer doors has its turbulence and I got caught up in the luckless waves for a few months, but I learned a lot about what it takes to keep my footing.

And I found this man: a man to be approved of, a man to share with everyone, a man to take hold of and hope will never leave in any circumstance... And the doubt enters in. My fear resides in my own worthiness. I am damaged from a sundering unto myself from myself for myself, further broken my by intrinsic willingness to love another before the mending occurs, and I’m perhaps unknowingly reserved from uncontrolled trepidation to love another because of all of my previous experiences with love. Many people around me say I’m good enough, say I’m worthy, tell me I’m worth the love I hold in my heart (which truly is unconditional and full and bright as the stars, beautiful as the Verse). I want to feel it, though... I need to know it’s coming before I give, I suppose...

Then I’ll know if I am ready. To know I’ll be safe in another’s heart when I give mine away, to understand the other won’t mindlessly, needlessly harm me when I’m already torn, to feel the breath between two lungs from another’s lips... that will give me the peace of mind, soul, heart to be able to give what I fear giving. Truthfully... I’ll only know if that’s enough when it happens; and with this man I believe the road will be smooth enough for me to take the necessary time to find the right moments to open the forest of my heart to him.

It is sodden. The ground is moist with the rain of the past. Growth is slow and timid, searching for the ray of sunlight piercing the grey clouds. Under the cracks from a quake ages ago the roots spread slowly, feeling out the nutrients of spirits whispering of purity hidden in the soil underfoot. Darkness remains despite the effort of the forest’s god calling upon the serenity of his compatriots. The walls are closed to the slow walk, trapping in and keeping out all the efforts of endearment between. Three words hold the key to the gates. Three words endeavor to break down the clouds. Three words will bring the forest back alive and seal the ground with tidal forces swaying like a gentle breeze amongst the leaves. The Keeper awaits those words, tending the way in patient circumstance.

So must I.

2011-05-23T16:08:00.000-06:00

Its warmth bottoms unlight, surfacing twilight under waves of breath.

Fervent Enamoratoin

2011-05-23T16:07:00.000-06:00

So unsure ~
An unawareness short of purity
hoping delicate strands of
starlight
will break the mold of
insecurities encircling the obscured
singularity of our
Sol
flaming dangerously vibrant
between two lungs.
The simple smile ignites even more
warmth -- smitten glances catch
my breath, ever wondering if
fervent enamoration reaches
between his lungs.

Realization

2011-05-23T16:05:00.000-06:00

The storm passed overhead, leaving behind the serenity of a pre-summer day. Clouds trail the darkened tempest, drifting away in silent course. Puffs of white shaded with dark blues and illuminated from above hide the purity of the daytime sky. Smiles from Sol don’t break the consistently growing hour; and the shade burns in my heart.

In my chest, where the despair originates from the unknown and the loneliness. Recent decisions have betrayed my sense of belonging, of kinships and love, of having companionship with myself and with another. Where the world stands, within my head, heart, and body, is wrapped in the aftermath of winds passing sodden emotions. I’m lost in a balancing of desires, in the searching for my life, in spiraling activities semi-detrimental to self image and self respect.

This trailing system of clouds spawns another outburst of storms. Rain falls casually on bright green trees, soaking pavement and pulling at the darkness within the shade of the grass. My toes feel the water lapping over my sandals. Immobile, I am drenched by the onslaught from the air. It’s always from the air...

Prospects from a future ignite fears within. Will it ever always be so cruel? In my mind or without my mind? I’m walking onward with life, finding spring in budding greenery along my route. So fresh, so innocent, so unknowing of the hardships simply growing will cause them to endure. A part of me wants to stamp them out, kill them early so they’re spared the brutality of this reality. I can survive in loneliness, despite the intrinsic desire to have that soul beside me.

A patch of clouds shifts and the blue skies reveal the sunlight so desired. I let it wash over me. I feel the touch on my toes, on my chest, through my eyelids and it bleeds into my blood, warming my body through to the darkest part of my heart. Where the warmth illuminates, I see the error of such thoughts. Epiphany strikes like a mallet on the church bells. I’ve stollen myself away from the possibility all because of fear for the next tempest’s touch. I walk with blindness in my eyes, under white skies. These footprints are laden with sorrow from pains incurred in attempts at finding what I’ve always wanted.

The beauty of summer doesn’t blossom without the tears of the clouds.

Our pasts feed who we are.

The clouds come at us from the west...

Peaceful Steps Climb

2011-04-22T09:41:00.000-06:00

One by one they break the plane
stable, continuous -- rising higher.
Each path a moment's blink, each place
a battled breath
the moments are all the same,
scuffling about terrain strewn with
everlasting visions, with
the trappings between two lungs,
with the feel of reality from
a hand's touch and the smile's warmth.

This journey is back to stability,
equilibrium -- peace:
to reach from where I fell,
now battered, and scared,
yet missing the fall.

Exponential upward rise
pulls away from the fallen state,
a healing, mending, forging will
that hates the broken hatred plane -
but for longing to breathe,
to fly... to fall
it would be a pleasured pain.
Sorrowed mornings splay
the padded sole scuffing
concrete rises.

All desired is lost to descent
and ever is the rise without choice
-- missing pains the constant march
and stops the natural breath
flowing and ebbing
like memory flashing intense
corporeal emotions.

It's a step, one placement;
and to shall fade like the
echo of love's fatal cry.

Game of Hearts: Recommended for 2 players only.

2011-04-22T07:09:00.000-06:00

The game can be extrapolated for 3. With 4 or more, however, it’s best advised to walk away with exaggerated velocity. The object of this game is to scale the barriers hindering your opponent from falling in love with you. Rules are invariably unstable and depend solely on the contestants; however, several meaningless guidelines exist for consideration: leave previous gaming baggage stored away at home [automatic deductions appear in red on the left side of the score card for revealing past failures], wear very little, if any, perfume or cologne [unless you smell horrendously foul, in which case take a shower prior to entering the game], avoid pungent, messy, and expensive food or drink [this can be foregone if, and only if both contestants see garlic as its own food group]. There is only one way to win: both contestants must admit to the deep pleasure of love. With three players, there will always be one loser. With four or more [good luck] all bets are off.

A clever hint: don’t take the game seriously.

Penalties for losing include a ten pound weight gain and large amounts of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.

Raspberry

2011-04-14T07:47:00.000-06:00

1) A fruit made of many spheres clustered together.

2) "Thoroughly Modern Millie" made you an expressive expression of excitement and turbulence.

3) Blood stains on napkins bleach a soft red.

4) Trifle's perfect condiment

5) Is that hair between the crevices? Leading to the seeds hidden below your flesh?

6) Sweet bitterness just before ripening stimulates salivary mastication as we fondle you gently.

7) Plastic bushels lined next to Strawberry and Blackberry; is this the fruit alphabet?

8) No on says the 'P'.

9) Razzmatazz has it right - Razzle Dazzle 'Em!

10) Artificial tastes just as sweet and lasts ten times as long.

11) Red and blue... you must have been created by color blind men in a candy factory.

12) You're my favorite.

The Sundering

2011-04-13T10:04:00.000-06:00

I guess I never knew
or realized
it actually
   physically

   hurts...

catching your breath
   in vicegrips

s q u e e z i n g
   until the cavity feels
   infinite and infinitesimal.
   There's no room
   for beating, for breathing
   eating. - -

No space for me, or the void that was left,
nor the elephant stampeding
on the corners of
heart shards.

   I am slag
   A remnant of me
   useless, scrapped
   left over material
   from a forging by my own hands

maybe not
in time with secret motions --

   antithesis of everlasting
   -evermore-

Shades are luminous in a way
only C.S. Friedman knows
   how to describe.
   Unlight - dark fire
   Searing through to an inner dimension
   it f o s
   l w

   like the ocean:
   moments of elation,
   merest of seconds --
   the mouthful of salt
   gags until the hope feels lost.

Natural light has a half life distance
of 18 feet once under the surface of the sea.

This unlight is overwhelming
   ever-always feeding the boa
   caressing and soothing
   my emotions.

Wake me!
   Ice water surprise.
   He won't be able to love me,
   lest his own love leaves
   self-inflicted tortures.

I am the oasis
   No man dares to know perfection
   Time is unforgiving.

   I never realized...

Silver Tongued Ex

2011-04-13T09:55:00.002-06:00

Breath lost against me
Time traveling to heartbreak
Darkness is Sublime.

The winning battle.

2011-04-12T10:16:00.001-06:00

Time is justified, even in its illusion. As I favor to explain, time exists only because the reference of human experience feels the onslaught of forwardness as the spinning of the sky continues regardless of desire. We use time, we abuse time, and we blame time for the unfortunateness of life.

I wish to use time... I wish it to heal me, to mend me, to hurry up and push me forward so I'll be ok again. It's perhaps a little pathetic to think that time, a fallacy of a being, would come to my rescue. Time's indifference wins out over all expectations, so it cares not that I desire its help to mend what is broken. It helps, nevertheless, with each rising sun, setting moon, and revealing star.

As today, the second day after heart wrenching truths were unveiled in painless words... the shock and agony of the revealing is much less than yesterday. The constricting forces on my chest still exist. The doubts, and hinderances, in my brain persist; but the drumming isn't nearly as intense. This must mean that both sides of the battle are being won. Time is moving without adherence to desire, and I am helped by the very presence of the walking hands.

And I fear

2011-04-12T09:37:00.000-06:00

I have nothing to give,
as words stollen to express
the shadow in my mind.

Freedom has come with unexpected
turbulence:
foreseen only in doubts,
experienced through nightmare
torn asunder in the wake of realization.

To be oneself.
To be myself...
the door is closed, handle scorching,
fire ready to consume.
   I'm not ready to be consumed.

And I fear.

   I have no idea who you are.
   No... I have no idea
   who I am.
You have no control of the window
peering past smoke
finding the central black hole
consuming the world around.

I can't find this place to grow from,
and yet I want to give,
to experience, to love
and Love -- my body hungering
   to touch and be touched.

And I fear.

Can he, any he,
let out the flames and
help the the phoenix rise from
my darkness?
Can you? Can I?

I feel gentle winds
rising with the sun -- but they
twirl away with spring dust,
compounding submillimeter
fractures in my heart.

And I fear
to love and Love.

Spring

2011-04-11T17:05:00.000-06:00

The trees are dead.

Brittle grass, dried from a rainless sky
scorching even the death
buried
under desert skins: golden and treasured.

Sitting in the new chairs, black and ergonomic,
the smell of putrid, fetid
decay
wafts from the grass as it
masticates its fallen brethren.
Thumping in my chest increases,
breath staggers in the throat,
fingers claw for splinters
   --painful relief.

He said after eight years:
"I have no idea who you are."
He said while holding my heart:
"I have plans, but thank you for the offer for a ride."

The cloudless sky
smog ridden and brown tinted
churns as the cold front moves in.
   I'm alone on the hill
   Waiting, wanting, wallowing
   in the heat of the sun.

It's spring.
The world feels grasped
by skeletal hands.

Detriment

2011-04-11T16:41:00.000-06:00

The wild previews of summer delight is hampered by some frigidity still circulating the circumference of my underwater excursion into maddeningly shrouded warmth. It feels unbearable, swimming in this emotional pool, breaking the surface to discover erie green skies and ashen grey clouds from fires so distant and disturbed. That's with eyes closed and whispers of fantasy.

Sunbathing in the chilled breeze creates a welcome balance needed within. Warm skin, soft touch, cold breeze: bright light from the sun and dark mood within my chest... Comfort in that balance was so juxtaposed to my mind. Thoughts rolled around between infatuation and despair, heartbreak and flirtation, memory and hope. Therein lies the imbalance too: memory and hope. Memory of words that torment my heart and hope that tears apart the brittle fabric holding pieces together.

It's so disastrous even thinking. The quiet of the world blowing around me settled the nerves of fear. If only I could be as natural as the tides of air. Unfortunately, my soul is imbedded with the flowing recessions of tides bound by the moon, waving in and out, up and down; cresting against the breaks and swallowing what land resists the persistent onslaught of turbulence. Water... I am water...

And the water streams down my cheeks. Typical, even in the warmth of sunlight. Heartbreak is detrimental to my health.

And she asked:

2011-04-08T09:46:00.000-06:00

Is there disjunction between love and sand?

Thank you for your question. Where they together before? I believe they go hand in hand, for sand is bitter and abrasive like love's jilted tongue after truth saturates the bitter brokenness of afterward. Sincerely, they must have been together simply because the pains embedded in love's fickle existence rubs like sand in a wound when things turn sour on the eye. In order for disjunction, then, there must be resolution to the sorrow and wallowing of the thoughts circulating the mind's survival. Disjunction is what we desire! And with it, love is happy and joyful, new and fresh, beautiful and free.

Pulling them apart makes the deathly existence of sand leave the liveliness of love. I've just discovered this. I've only just come to the realization that love isn't sand, and disjointed the combination so easily attained when I fell in love with someone unavailable. Sand... oh sand. The ode to sand continues, as love leaves and washes itself off; reborn in the flames of passion and infatuation.

That's it! The disjunction comes with fiery infatuation. Let's go find that connection!

Analysis of Two Week's of Woes

2011-04-08T07:46:00.000-06:00

It’s been dangerous living as I have. Thanks to an unknown, unnamed foe, the appetite and thirst for permanence shifted toward reality while my appetite and thirst for nutrition diminished to nothingness. Freedom has had its toll, and the expenses to my love are reverberating within the chasm ripped by simple words. None of this would have occurred if I had held myself at bay, pushed myself into a state of emotionless living where the feelings toward another wouldn’t have surmounted to so much.

Unfortunately, that’s not in the plans for me. My new years resolution is still in effect, and I hope to continue resolving my life in conjunction with this resolution. I am unabashedly, uninhibitedly only ever telling the truth, always being honest about everything. No hidden subtleties. No smoke and mirrors. Just what is. Why is this poignant to what has happened? I can’t lie to myself either, that’s part of the condition; and due to this, I had to acknowledge that I had fallen deeply, madly, and completely in love with someone wonderful. I fell in love when I wasn’t ready, when I hadn’t dealt with the undeniable consequences of the sundering of my last relationship. Love came to me, took me as a fool and transformed me into something else: a wanderer, a believer, a desirer...

And it broke me. Honestly, it didn’t break me anymore than I was already broken. My eyes were opened fully and I saw into myself. The cracks and chips of my heart hadn’t grown back together. They were walled away in a corner of love to be dealt with at some unforeseen point, walled away by a dam which took my tears and made a lake, all hidden from myself in direct contradiction to my resolution. Only fallacies surface when explaining my actions to myself: “I had to be strong for him”, “I broke up with him so I had to be ok”, or even “I’ll heal in time.”

But truthfully, my love will never be the same. In honor of being a true Pisces, I fell in love with a beauty, an inspiration, a muse so quickly and thoroughly it was like misting over the past with fickle elation. And when this love’s ex-love came back into the picture with his silver tongue and shaded tales of their past, the world around us shifted. He shifted; because his heart told the truth neither of us wanted to know.

Love’s permanence echoed like a drumming noise rooted deep within the chest for the first love that rips us to shreds. He is still in the throws of such aching and won’t let me in to help mend what I can. My contentment with this decision, this truth, this undeniable fear of possible dissolution in the future comes on the edge of a treacherous knife. When his words of friendship labeled the actions we committed together... the edge broke the dam. He has no idea the good he has done for me; and I’m not entirely sure he will ever know.

What I realized as I drowned in my own past is that I left my last relationship because I wasn’t myself. Neither one of us truly was. Due to that, I didn’t feel love. Once freed of the constraints I placed on myself within the regulations of that relationship, my eye, my heart, and my soul began expanding beyond the borders of comfortability to find its true potential. I was, and am, looking for love; and specifically someone to truly, deeply, unabashedly, uninhibitedly love me. Whom I can love in return without fear of being myself or doing what I want to do or saying what I want to say. The idea of filtering everything, anything, something at all pushes me so deeply away from happiness that I know I will never filter again. I also realized I broke my own heart when I broke my boyfriend’s heart, and I realized how deeply I had done that.

As I piece together myself, I’m smiling again. Losing ten pounds in a week, loving and losing without a cause, drowning and coming to enlightenment... it’s all fantastic and unbelievable. I feel like a new person again. I feel like the reasons for my steps along this Road are coming to a point I strive for. “Love come light up the shadows.”

FAQ

2011-04-07T10:28:00.000-06:00

Thank you for your question. When I see one, I'll tell you; but for now I think they live in me -- WILD! But they don't, because they live in you, and Caitlin, and definitely Collin; because Wild is living in when living does. So they must be -- be -- where we want them to be.

But now they live in a movie - for which I have not seen. Which I should --

Before, they lived in a fury book, printed for children (but really for their parents).

Before... they lived in the mind of a writer.

Which is, and isn't, me...

What is the question?

FAQ

2011-04-07T10:23:00.000-06:00

Thank you for your question. Truthfully, it exists only within the entirety of white as a portion of the longer length of peaks and troughs. It is slower, I believe, than the blues and yellows, cooler than the giants flaring in the night sky. It dominates the Verse -- for love and hate, for the heated experience of emotion, for blood dripping down the wound.

But it is only because we see -- so I ask is it at all what is seen, defined by three letters as representative from the unsure? Thus it is only as it’s made, only as it’s named.

What was the question?

Sitting

2011-03-30T09:34:00.000-06:00

It's quiet, side from the inconsistent tapping of fingers on keys electronically connected to some exterior world, as if the means of typing would reconnect the mind with others somewhere beyond our corporeal existence. Before me sits a deflated globe, its beans compressed where feet once rested upon the surface. Deformed, it still shows the continents as they perhaps once existed: boundaries drawn with colored distinguishing marks, names that may have shifted since production, and the sense of peace and wholeness that doesn't exist.

It looks real, even in its fictitious state. Kind of like my heart, battered and bruised and broken. Feet have tread carefully and still found their mark upon that flesh, that muscle, that unprotected and open fountain of emotions. It is deformed now, just like the bean bag foot-rest showing the world. I'm sitting on a couch, pulling myself inward to protect myself before my poetry class where emotions usually run higher than normal for school.

But shouldn't they be free to spill forth? That could mean crying, wailing, shaking, and yelling... Which I believe would be completely inappropriate for a classroom setting. Perhaps in front of a microphone while reading one of my sentimental poems... but not amongst students who are definitely younger than me. Why do I cry? Because I'm in love and couldn't admit it to myself until it was too late. Well... perhaps not too late; there exists hope while time and space is shared between me and the other. However, the time I can give coincides with how much my heart can feel and fight and fly. Florence and the Machine put it beautifully, like I wrote in a previous post: "Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release, wish for falling through the air to give me some relief because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace. it's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief." Falling into this place of love was easy, effortless, effervescent... but I've hit a ledge and am clinging to it's stability with bloody fingers and weakening resolve... I feel like I'm coming to a moment where I must decide whether to pull myself onto the surface and start climbing back to my 'senses' or to release and continue falling...

Blood is dripping down my arm, warm and sticky. I'm intrinsically enjoying the sensation of feeling because it's been lost to me in so many ways. To return, even like this with painful reverie and seemingly unjust circumstance, is a welcome relief. I'm not a monster, at least I can still feel this way for someone, something, and myself. I have not destroyed myself in previous times.

I can't resolve this, sitting in a computer library looking at a destroyed world while reflecting about how I feel and want to feel and desire. Only action in one way or another will bring some resolution to this state of limbo I'm curbing with introspective writing. Soon, however, I'll have to figure out what I'm doing with my body: giving it to the air and falling into the arms of this man or pulling myself away and distinguishing this possibility as merely minuscule emotional input. If only someone could help...

We Burn

2011-03-28T22:51:00.000-06:00

The night skies quake in the rift of silence, balancing the twilight with succumbing darkness and gentle breezes laden with worry. It's not unlikely to encounter the scurrying fox under the lampposts by the course, her eyes luminous against the pale concrete, darting across the river of black whose way is cumbersome in the suburbs at night. Even the trees watch in quiet disregard, swaying against the sky with airy discontent. As if the abutments of the library gave an image of internal strength, the torment of a day's progression abated as I surrounded myself with the bindings of words and comfort of pages.

My candle is lit.

Scent fills my nostrils and stir memory into reality. The shadow of moments heaping arrests my heart as these thoughts swirl in the untangled waters pouring from the dam. Fretting images, anxious desires, and uninhibited fear roll down my throat as a flame ready to burst through my eyes. The bonsai on my desk is stoic in contemplation, its shadow dancing by the candlelight in a mystical interpretation of the shattered heart-felt scintilla residing within my chest a mere three feet away.

The leaves are calm --

Even with the fire so close to branch and the startling cold just beyond the glass. Without is bitter in the darkness where my heart feels betrayed in its honesty. Resounding words echo in my head, a drumming noise that starts every time I see the hazel green eyes piercing my consciousness, are remembered like thunder with beautiful melodies and painful uncertainties, even with vows tied quietly, hidden, unasserted, in the lines.

Tonight is for my candle.

Silent as the shattered sky, like my heart ripped into a forest of shadows and pillars guarding the beauty of the land. I thought one was walking with me amongst the maze of vines and streaks of light from the moon above; but the footsteps are quieter than I remember and I dare not look back to see what might have happened. Hopefully, he walks beside me, a wraith of beauty and wonder quietly taking vigil as he looks into the mysteries about.

Example:

2011-03-17T10:17:00.000-06:00

Example:
Lets find the
   anti -
instead of what
   we find
   or know

   Like:
Find one
   [inside]
the other
   explicitly
   defined by each
with
or
without
   standing
   under
   reasons explaining or anti-
For what we
   truthfully want.

   We write
   equate
   translate
in searching our anti-
   'til we find
   or know
   ourselves.

Emoticons

2011-03-17T10:14:00.000-06:00

It's funny how a simple things cause such relief, shift moods drastically, and influence the perception of a digital conversation. Trust is encouraged and imbued in emoticon: a smile means the communicator is smiling, a frown means upset, a smile with a 'D' instead of a ')' is ecstatic smiling, etc.

Yesterday, I felt like I was in a well, drowning in the darkness of the tunneling heights with light a mere pinpoint so far above the murky, muddy cesspit my body struggled with. As I lay in bed waiting for the comforting void to swallow me, the last communication I received ended with a smile. Though I couldn't see the face of the person speaking to me, the smile reassured me.

But it's not a smile. It's punctuation coalesced into a figure representing a physical feature on someone's face. We allow this representation to permeate our world. That's a newer development in language. Before emoticons, I believe the typical distinguisher of facial expression was to simply 'emote' them (e.i. ::smile::). I wonder what our children will see as time continues, whether they will distinguish the difference between punctuation and an actual facial expression; or of the smile will be seen as a colon and a closing parenthesis.

What do you think? About Emoticons? The future of our language as a depiction of figures representing our emotions?

St. Patrick's Day

2011-03-17T09:50:00.000-06:00

This is me, listening to music and wearing red on St. Patty's Day

It's a day of green, the day of drinking and pride in Irish heritage, the day of celebrating St. Patrick's work at ridding the Isle of snakes.

I'm not so proud of such occurrences. Unfortunately, the snake's of St. Patrick's day have been theorized to be the Pagans, Druids, and Wiccans of the day. I am Pagan, claiming Wicca though I simply call myself a witch. Since today is the day to wear green, I'm wearing as much red as I can! I have a bunch of (RED) products which I have chosen to wear: an INSPI(RED) shirt and a HAMME(RED) scarf. I chose to wear my black sweater to give me a little buffer against the onslaught of inquisitive glances and glares that have been flying my way.

I enjoy the abstract attention that's circulating my appearance today. I dress like this most of the time anyway, skipping to my own fashion style along the walkways of CU-Boulder. Today, I've noticed many green walking about (another Ironic representation, as the color of paganism in my mind is green: growth, abundance, nature, etc.) and a few abstaining members, though they're not necessarily wearing red like me. I'm a sore thumb in the societal expectation. It's hilarious.

Though I chose to purposefully disregard (or regard) the fashion trends of this day, St. Patrick's Day, I do enjoy participating in its celebrations. It's not truly about the banishment of pagans in contemporary times. St. Patty's day is about drinking! Being with friends. Pretending you're Irish for a day (which I wouldn't mind doing all the time, but I don't look Irish at all...). Should anyone ask why I'm wearing red on a day of green, I will more than happily explain the motivation for such stylistic choices today.

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY TO YOU! (as long as you aren't trying to banish me!)

Terrible

2011-03-16T09:04:00.002-06:00

Intoxicated intoxication: a river of unseen bleakness surrounding the enviable bliss of forgetfulness. Truly bliss? The ability to lose what hinders, what inhibits, what protects is: both blessing and curse, a detriment to growth, an aid to self growth, a challenge to overcome; but when it affects others and changes their perception of integral moments between... That's when it makes absolute chaos in the gut, a torrent of self-imposed agony trying to free itself in other modes of expression.

I've already shed the stinging rain and said my part. Waiting is the next. Anticipating is the whip stinging across my ear, whispering lies and unfurling schemes yet unknown. Where I was falling now seems uncertain. Whether I should fly away and apart or continue to the ground is beyond foresight. The quiet hurts... five minutes is an eternity.

An intoxicated night is a second. The darkness stretches infinitely; and behind it lies a story that wishes not be known. Enough is framed to poison. Hope persists that the picture doesn't scare away the muse.

Seasons of Love

2011-03-13T21:49:00.000-06:00

Love. It's a label associating complex emotional, chemical, and physical conditions from on person to an other, whether it be an object, animal, or person. English has one [perhaps two] form[s] to express love. The primary form is to simply say "Love." It's easy, complete, justified, and encompasses every possible meaning of the word; and depending on the delivery's tone, the condition of "love" can change from "you're an amazing person for whom I care/admire/enjoy" to "you hold my heart and I can't see any other way of telling you how deeply I want you." The other form is "adore," which hold meanings from "you're cute" to "I deeply care about you." Both contain the understated complication of commitment once they've been uttered from person to person.

I have always seen love as a sinusoidal experience. Perhaps it's the types of relationships I've been in, the types of people I've been around, and the expectation I've shaped from desires. Up and down, shifted left and right, positively and negatively. Passing the level plane was always cautiously regarded as a lull in emotional stability and just as easily neglected as the peaks. So deeply in love was treacherously bipolar in my view, and I didn't shake the reality of it or examine the instability with an objective eye. Not until now, at least: alone with my thoughts, sipping a bottle of wine after naming my gray hairs after Calculus theorems, as single as I've ever been in my life (which is arguably not very single, though I see it as so. Regardless...). I despise that my love has been sinusoidal throughout its existence with every love in my life. I want the exponential experience! The falling so high with every smile, the limitless, unbounded, unexpected experience!

Just thinking about this desire, the possibility, the improbable, oddly scares me. Is this a season of love? The fear of finding that pure existence for another? A song by Florence & The Machine expresses this fear so perfectly in the song "Falling":

Sometimes I wish for falling,

Wish for the release,

WIsh for falling through the air,

To give me some relief,

Because falling's not the problem,

When I'm falling I'm in peace,

It's only when I hit the ground

That causes all the grief.

I enjoy falling in love, perhaps. Sometimes I feel it's too easy for me to fall for another, always looking for the beauty, undeniable abstraction of perfection, heart and soul, intelligence, and loveliness in others through all the muck that surrounds us. So falling is easy, and I long for that relief, release, reviving quality and enjoy the feeling. But once I near the ground where I can realize that love is where I've come to, I start recoiling slightly. I fear the possibility of falling endlessly and look for that harsh surface to walk upon. That's when I gain perspective and start judging.

This is when I need to stop. There is potential for love in my life. The subtle commitment exists already, but the word itself is timid behind clenched teeth. Doubt persists as well. The question which fuels such hesitation circles the facts of relationship's disbanding so recently. How could my heart, broken, bruised, battle-worn, be ready for anything other than loneliness right now? Maybe I'm not ready at all -- but then I'm fighting a force accelerating against my boundaries and pushing me toward the brink of falling.

Falling!

The blasted word! The blasted Experience!!!

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand

six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

journeys to plan

Fine hundred twenty-five thousand

six hundred minutes

How do you measure the life

of a woman or a man

In truth that she learned

or in times that he cried

In bridges he burned

or the way that she died

It's time now to sing out

though the story never ends

let's celebrate

remember a year in the life of friends."

"Seasons of Love" from Rent

This is what started it all. My seasons of love have been stark and fluid, running through life as a trudging price of enjoyment, sadness, expression, and so much more. I don't regret. Love has been presented so many different ways in my life... and now I want to build my own experience without the regulations society (any society around me) has placed upon the value of love. I want to build love with another in the fashion that we wish love to take for ourselves. Falling is only the first step, I assume.

Must I fall then? Fall appropriately? At the right time? With the right wings and the proper wind? Or does it truly matter if I fall, when, where, how...? Any of it? Who is to say but myself?

Well, that answer is easily recognized. It's the staggering spikes on the ground, ready to impale me when my love has failed to attract and entice similar emotions from another. My fear of reducing love back to its singular word spiraling around many meanings catches my breath even as I decide to allow myself to fall. Fear. Fear of Falling. Fear of experiencing life as I want to experience it. Alas... life happens with or without me.

I'll just jump off the cliff and open wide to the experience. It's the only way to move forward with me.

Traveling Through The Spaces Of Love

2011-03-11T07:40:00.000-07:00

Brightened Sheer, Surviving
   bitter winds whisking through thin skinned
jerseys
   Cepheid timing distances measured
   in luminous spectrums spread
through opened mouths:
   pulsar voices timidly reverberating
singing
   across light reviving speeds shifting
   relativity in warm nothingness.

Come

2011-03-10T23:25:00.001-07:00

Dirt gives way to life
Timid breath whispers: Rapture.
Sound beckons love-smiles

Gone

2011-03-10T23:23:00.000-07:00

Loneliness finds me
Deep in rent chasms of loss
Among lightless hope

To Whom It May Concern;

2011-03-10T23:22:00.000-07:00

To Whom It May Concern;

Seasonal transitions are usually a challenge, especially from winter to spring. The intense desire for permanently beautiful days with the threat of spring showers drives me crazy when faced with reality that winter isn't quite over. I feel like many people feel the same way. We hear about colder temperatures, the possibility of snow, and the need for warm clothes and we suddenly feel disheartened and long for summer, if not spring. Day by day we wait by the window and hope to see the peaking bulbs, timidly arresting the ground as they sprout to see the lengthening days. We walk our dogs with jackets on, protecting us from bitter winds, and look at the half-green grass trying to bring us growth for lack of snow. We see the sun breaking night apart earlier with each stride and expect the crisp air to breathe warmth into our bones; but find the chill lingering like frigid tendrils slipping down our collars.

What little relief we have comes to us at home. My solution rests in jars: candles imitating the effervescent essence of spring fragrances brightening my closed windows. Inside I experience spring through a Yankee Candle jar sitting on my coffee table, flame dancing in the delicate flux of transitioning air releasing my Early Sunrise scent. Sometimes I'll add some Fresh Cut Roses to really simulate a fresh spring morning, and it makes my day feel bright from the moment I get up. This is what I recommend for every reader out there: Go pick up a candle and change the atmosphere in your house! Illuminate your inspiration! Find that breath of fresh air and release it. If candle's aren't your thing, find a reed diffuser or electric plug-in to change the air, invigorate your senses, and bring your world into the fields of fresh spring air! It really helps with those cabin fever symptoms.

Sincerely,

J Hart F

Rebuilding

2011-03-10T23:15:00.000-07:00

How do I shelter my own heart? It's opened. It's shattered. It's free of boundaries while I rebuild the delicate forests of love, trust, acceptance, and balance which I so readily uprooted for what I believed was everlasting and unconditional. Little was my motion aware of the conditioning it harvested on the grounds fertile with growth, life... and love. And now I find the patterns of scars inlaid among the roots, the trees, the leaves falling gently from the ravaging torrent of earth shattering decisions.

Here a light has illuminated my work once more. Here my soul has reached an undeniable consequence of freedom; and in searching this trail my musings have offered another comfort and reality such that both sky and ground can uniformly heal without fear of conditionality. In doing so, the stars have fallen and gifted me with deeper, gentler, virile waters to endorse the spreading of beauty in the domain of my heart. Sun drenched warmth folded upon the darkness and revived such living jubilation among the trees like twilit demigods circling a glade filled with flitting fireflies and dancing flames. Unfortunately, the sun is in no control of the hands that tend this land.

I cannot hold the light; cannot declare or determine the stance it takes in my world. Clouds threaten and foresight preludes rain's drenching possibility. Time ticks by and warns of speeding the lanes across the heavens if chance permits. My possibilities of enchanting is to remain grounded and ensure the beauty of my own world. It shines as long as the earth remains beautiful, peaceful, enigmatic, and interesting. Here I plant myself. Here hopes flourish and sprout, grow and engage, manifest and entice.

But hopes are merely the surface of aspiration. I hope the mending covers my heart and spring gently into ever present love, everlasting happiness, togetherness evermore. But this sun, this orb of purity and life, has choices to make for itself, paths to discern, orbits to enter and proliferate... As I as a light must do for myself. But first I tend, I mend, I rend the soil of its scars and filter the views toward a future of belonging happiness and planted openness. Aide is appreciated, and the warmth of his smile helps in my healing.

Kelsie Stole My Poem

2011-03-10T22:34:00.000-07:00

Kelsie
is
so
awesome
like
OMG!

She
Rocks
My
Socks

So
Amazing

Thank you Kelsie for writing a quick little poem from your heart for me! It's truly inspirational!

And yes... to the rest of you... my poetry notebook was stollen and... well... this is what appeared!

Forging Hearts

2011-03-10T22:32:00.000-07:00

The once subtle ground pushes insight forward
into indigo painted deserts flush with
distant dreams flashing as stars bound by
time's allusioned memory: lovingly, tragically,
delicately broken. Loneliness prickles like
desolate skin fractured by scorpion tales.

Rain feels welcome, dashing from eyes like
torn wounds singing violin longings to
celestial curtains dropping upon the scars of
history folded under clouded oasis springs.

Floods caress like aloe drops pooling among
clasped fingers, reviving the lusting Moon.

Walking Without Looking

2011-03-08T10:07:00.001-07:00

I drew a line today.

One stroke departed the senses of understanding from intrinsic emotions. My Feet hide the line. Baggage hides the line. The wind blows away what isn't hidden, and I wonder how far off course I've strayed.

Does the Road, evergoing, require boundaries as I walk? And I, delicately balanced on the convergence of comprehension, know not which foot leads me astray from formulated comfort. Have I been integrated to the path with foresight?

Seeing or feeling?

Will the Moon blind like the Sun if I look away from Her Light? Naivety is handsome like darkness -- I dare not find what lives beyond eyes, my chest constricts with longing lust everlasting.

A whisper from within --

Hearing tightens my grip to the past and flames shoot to my cheeks. Molten drops seer as minds fight for the ground. Fireflies twinkle like Her companions on Earth. My soul wants to dance with their freedom.

Past heaps on soles

Twilight Dawn filters. Fresh consciousness forgets the line, holding cautiously to knowledge, the poison, and my feet take heaving strides gasping for dreams. My heart yearns. My heart thrashes. Breath is clawing to be.

Knowing which fears

Leave that math behind

Do I?

2011-03-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

Do I get to judge
when
or is it he (past)
him (present)
or some He (eternal)
to decide
when
wings fill with
air fills with
warmth fills with
light, truth, and
chills.
A touch brings me
Do I get to fall?

Speak

2011-03-08T09:55:00.000-07:00

Speak, your
words
Matter
   like Black Hole

Di-Mension
   the cautious
   the uninhibited
coinciding.
Beats on the
snare hearted
aparted peace gentled.

   Delinquent smile
I am lost
   words
pulling through matter
acceleration.
   to feel what fear
begs buried --
   violins cry
   speak,
you're catching
   evermore I'm falling.

Reach Over

2011-03-07T07:58:00.000-07:00

Reach over
   Desolate frigidity between white
Folds break the comfort
of soft darkness numbing like vodka.
the valley is - empty, no warmth remains
where once emission covered me
   Nuzzling into my neck, arms clinging like love
no more the sun gently
touches
my eyes -- sullen, wandering, sighing
   into the pitted chasm of - broken beating.

Foot slips out of protection
landing in reality - solidity - judgmentally.
   Il n'est pas içi.
   Il ne sera pas toujour içi.
   Je l'ai deja vu.
A black void
opens -- I fall endlessly as the sun
rises to be so alone in his sky.
Standing naked.

Façade

2011-03-07T07:54:00.000-07:00

The Fun-Show's doors open
with a creaking subtlety
flooding warm lantern light into
the musky, dirty night air.
Inside the fire burns oils in waves
of jasmine and lavender, serenely
coercing relaxed mines to sit and stare
at colorful drapes,
smiling performers,
and tricking animals trained to be human.
Their joy is infectious, their eyes enigmatic --
The crowd is stirred with pleasure
and applause!

Behind the drapes, before the sterile
evening sky,
the gaze of each clown and dog
burns with pitiful regret,
cherished sorrow,
broken dreams.

Who sees beyond the
celebration, under masked make-up,
and runs to aide me?

Caution Inward Told

2011-03-06T00:54:00.000-07:00

Caution inward told.
The balance tipped by coffee stained
eyes - grounded, scalded,
filtered. The subtle touch
of amour in swallowed
temptation contaminates reverie with smiles.
Both see sound sheering
and want the pillowed feathers to lift
untouch -- drown.
To be overwhelmed, overcome by salted waters -
covered by sweet sprays flitting
on beached breezes,

He whispers unconscious thoughts
--I trust you--
chords run deeper, vibrate in tune
with
the vowels of shattered porcelain
whose pieces dig into soles
treading a treacherously torturous
path - healing with opened wounds.

The blood stained roses
taste
better than cough syrup, sugar coated
simple tablets rolling in
turbulent acids as lips fold each
other -- dancing on the sinusoidal
crests of heart hoped salves
basting the cautioned hands.

I goosebump under his strength.
His eyes glaze over, teeth
clench like fingers wanted
of release. Abandoned inhibitions fly
like breath on the ear
with
--I trust you--
He enters, balancing, careening,
oscillating --
and plants seeds of addiction
in my battered heart.
I trust you.

2 becoming 1

2011-03-06T00:49:00.002-07:00

Arrest the swelling
Eyes beat longing in warm arms
Fall, deeper - melding

Shuffling Light ... (2)

2011-03-04T09:57:00.001-07:00

Shuffling light coerces dilated pupils
Share unfamiliar hurtles beyond graves
Showing halogen fog laden hair
Shushed subtle words beleaguered without
Shy looks into windowless souls.

Shuffling Light ... (1)

2011-03-04T09:56:00.000-07:00

Shuffling light unlike time heaping
unannounced circumstance between our fingers --
hold -- delicately free falling adoration
Wing dancing around collapsed hearts
Seeping like time's light sunspots.

Playfully Responding

2011-03-02T09:25:00.000-07:00

To you, Chef de Palavar, a response to 'Chasing the Sun'.

Blink Carelessly, cautiously.
Once, twice, again -- again.
Look not to shadowed unveilings
of sunspot coincidences synchronized
at light-speed space-time.

For what once is all occurred?
Closely integrated to awakening sights
transpired in dreams of transpired
words: love, laugh, birth, break.
Sublimity careens against our cheek.

Light your emptiness lithely,
near and far, to share
what novel emotions caress explicitly
and grate implicitly 'til heaps
surmount to something trivially mean.

Blink carefully, recklessly.
Open the distances, close necessity.

To Steal from Books

2011-03-01T23:48:00.000-07:00

Stem length, pod shape, color - in the study of heredity, investigative monastery rapidity. Now put forth the basic principles of inheritance, unlike many earlier investigations of Pisum Sativum, my figure 3.1! I eat sparsely, like a bird, subsequently renewed on the ergosphere, the even horizon of a collapsed star. 14-understanding significance - "World honoured One" to be investigated so, whose source is Ohm. Waste our lives in sin: addicted to the senses of judging such heredity. Is it not for a man who finds delight? The media is his recent book. Every stage of one's existence reflects both public interests and magnitude and direction. Don't conform to uniform circular motion, built on position - velocity - acceleration in projectile motion. It's all about the derivative of the self. Old college chum, after profound meditation exploits my logical expal wangled appointment with a subeditor: Ace of Pentacles. For the voices: 1964, a good year out of memory. Bravely, patiently, she continued to fight them in Christ. Old supernatural joy - horrible and disgusting with holy temerity. Why does this preconception persevere in relaxed unchastity as agency to my facilities? Why can't we rebuild ourselves to the might of the monarch Clark peak? 60 miles on state highway 14 west to consider heredity and audience. Every writer can benefit considering your whole audience means and pursue this topic - flitting fireflies on drowsy summer nights: sharp meaning weeping and distraught, limitless freedom. Breathlessly anxious miracles after millennia bring us to these spaces that are ours. This ought not baffle but strengthen defenses. Pillars, pylons, the sphinx, semper eadem. Love, they're yours! Leave no trace but shadows during the investigation - it is time. Unrest a heart - time was time is time - memory was memory is memory... was a village landmark powered first water-run nineteenth century east banks.

February, oh February.

2011-03-01T23:21:00.000-07:00

It was an odd month. Simple derelict changes forced my body through torturous transitions: togetherness, otherness, vulnerability, awakening, age... And still the sense of a month's passing deteriorated into a selfish absence of comprehensible time. As I always revert to the imperceptible fallacy of time, we shall avoid such conversations here. The misfit churning of February created such misshapen mishaps in my existence of thought that even I cannot place the course accurately enough. Heartache, mistrust, insecurity, willingness, and unwillingness, creation, destruction, revelation... February was a rebirth in many senses. Every day my words fall to the memory of a poem: "The Road goes ever on and on..."; and I know the trodden lanes of rediscovery have lain their sodden prints before my fingers. I am renewed.

Klein Bottle

The moment of absolution for myself happened the night of my birthday. Clouds found their tears frozen upon the earth: white, fluffed, delicate... I found myself in a room surrounded by revelers of my art, their ears tuned to the voice of Eula Biss. Stepping away from such magnificent advice, my world turned through a Klein bottle and I found my thoughts suddenly explaining to my heart why I needed to abandon my struggle through school for the ease and beauty of enjoyment. Without the passion forever pushing conscious efforts, the quality abandons work and diminishes both in a spiral decay of mental stability. Thus, the transient process decided a most important redirection, atop the already many new paths laid before me, toward abandonment of a secondary degree, 'til later days, and pure focus on my highest regarded passion, ambition, aspiration that exists for me: creative writing. This was the greatest of all the changes which found their way to my heart in February, though possibly the least influential of all.

February was an odd month which has passed. The decisions have passed and now actions must be taken in order to fulfill even the slightest of changes. So many actions are to be under foot. So many actions are leading me to the place where "many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say." But I shall not whither away from my passion, as always I do: affirmation stirs in my mind to commit to my writing and the infinite possibilities therein.

Scientific Infatuation

2011-03-01T22:59:00.000-07:00

This is a non-linear, dynamic system of binary companionship. Here it sits, equating two forces of attraction wrapped in matters of affection. Fortunately, the substance is irreversible, is uncontrollable, is so desired however feared and worried despite the obvious tidal pull between the bodies. It takes a physicist to recognize the powers at play. Exponential release and logarithmic acceptance bring the two together, especially after the acknowledgement of the processes which shake the universe, shiver the backbone of the planets, and tickle the womb of the stars.

We spoke of our fears. Clouds drifted calmly over the plane of dreams, but the stars shimmered through the blanketing fluff of infatuation. In each other’s arms, we felt the subtle beat of our hearts flickering brightly between the ticking fingers of solar flares. Warmth encompassed our breath as the words timidly crested our lips: future roads unfold with every moment, premonition like reveries speak of solidarity, apprehension holds back complete abandonment of barriers. A volcano threatens to consume our perception in a fiery torrent of unstoppable magnetism. He squeezed my hand in comfortable recognition.

Whispered words filter through the quiet atmosphere. “I feel the same way.” I felt a smile encroach worry’s dominion and settle the hurtling chasm within my heart. Gravity had brought two comparable enigmas in synchronous orbits to share the revitalizing electromagnetic beauty of healing souls. The trail felt ominously coherent and revealing of truths buried deep in integrals of the deepest emotions. Though the footsteps are laden with lithe beauty, the burden of pasts dedicate the yearning premonition of intertwining fluxes between the two forces of non-linear dynamics reverberating in a darkened room.

The Serious Face of Inspiration

2011-02-28T13:17:00.000-07:00

The air was mischievous as we waited in mock silence for the presentation to begin. Boys sprinkled themselves far and wide, leaving space to conjure some semblance of individuality, separation, pride. Girls huddled together in sets of two or three, conversing in quiet tones about whether the snow was to fall or what Eula Biss was going to read from. Few people came in groups and laughed about their harrowing day at school where teachers raked their minds and marked wretched disillusionment on their souls. Conjured food beckoned to the hungry with a casual display of crackers, cheese, grapes and coffee. How very French of the organizers. Others didn’t notice as they vehemently grabbed for what morsels drew saliva from their gums. All the while, center stage remained untouched by a speaker.

I watched. I listened. I heard what the mass seemed incapable of touching. Perhaps it’s because this was my first time, my virginity palpable through my excitement, but there was a sense of relaxed tension filtered through my film of anticipation for Eula Biss to appear magically before us. I didn’t know what to expect, but I wanted to hear something profound, moving, influencing -- something extra-ordinary, sublime, and ignorable to shift me out of my delicate balance in life. I knew I was expecting too much of someone I didn’t know, had never seen or met, and probably would never see again after this night.

Finally, a man stood at the podium, that offset pillar of import fabricated of artificial wood and papery finish. His intro was poignant and made me feel closer to the room. Words echoed playfully, like childhood friends dancing in the rain of a bright, sunny day where the clouds mystically trickle miles away from their shadows. I couldn’t help but smile at his own fascination and unbelievable acceptance of the accomplishments of his long-time friend, Eula Biss. Part of me felt a dream open its eyes, peaking out at a tale unfolding, a history colored with possibility. I was captivated, as I had been the first time I read Catherine Asaro’s first novel, Primary Inversion. Here was a real person, a tangible entity to admire, to aspire to become, to engage in mental playgrounds because she is real.

Then Eula Biss took her spot, comfortably with an edge of nervousness. I can see in her shoulders the worry. I can feel her downcast eyes doubting whether her new audience would appreciate what she was about to read, about to share, about to express: intimate words drawn like piercings through cartilage and scar tissue in a blissful catharsis of passion. Words ushered forward thoughts of diligent introspection toward race, a subject I thought well out of her means and yet poignantly relevant in such a homogenized society. Though she spoke of essays and structured, researched, studied prose, her speech carried like poetry telling tales of carnivorous moments tearing down the safety locked within her mind --

And her point was made about fear and constructs; but I felt she missed a schema running through her language. All her experienced plagues, whether of another era or simply months ago with her neighbor on a beautiful summer day, centered around communication, played with the sense of language, juxtaposed images with words to invoke the necessary realization of race issues manufactured through our daily speech patterns. Perhaps she dives deeper into this possibility in other portions of her poetic essays, but it became startlingly clear when she equated lynching to telephone poles. Though her discourse throttled my perception, it drove into me the beauty of time well spent.

Time ticked on to a detrimental moment when the pages of her life closed and came to rest upon the podium. The aforementioned man rose and craned his neck toward the audience once more, declaring that Eula Biss would be accepting questions as time permitted. I had none for her, but the islands of patient awe divulged their timid inquiries with relish. That’s when her words of wisdom truly sank in. They weren’t about race, or her family, or her trials at becoming a published poet. She said, which had been echoed prior to this moment, “You have to take yourself seriously as a writer.”

My amazement crumpled my doubts. Something snapped in my head. Snow began to fall outside, unbeknown to the dimmed room. Moments before the reading, I was struggling through astrophysical equations of spacial relation between majestic gods and the illumination they provide for the nights and imagination. Moments before the reading, I was stressing about my physics homework and the supposedly simple concepts of Newtonian physics. Moments before the reading, I was pouring over calculus integrals determining the area of a graph as it spins around a certain axis bound by equations of meaningless relationships. I was taking myself so seriously... as an Astrophysicist.

But I’m a writer, and Eula Biss just told me a secret I had kept away from myself. I’m a writer. Now, I’m a serious writer, and seriously considering serious changes to ensure this serious realization won’t be wasted in moments of stressful attempts at a separate passion.

The Moments Before Falling

2011-02-28T13:15:00.000-07:00

It's the smell of nature trapped in a jar, released only by flames. it's the meat laden toothpick thrust in your hand in a mall. It's the warm, rain-heavy breeze on a sweltering summer day.

He rubs his hand along the seam of my pants as his lips tickle my neck. I shiver with subtle thrusts against his solid body. Fingers slip under my head and press me upward, holding me as if my motions quenched an insatiable desire. He moves his free hand around my body and grabs the small of my back.

Movies forget the physical touch. Songs forget the warmth of hands. Books forget the smell of two sould longing for release.

We forget how good, how easy, and how needed falling is.

He

2011-02-28T13:13:00.000-07:00

He calls out my name
in a whisper
a vulnerable echoe of the mind.
He knows not the power
conjured so simply,
my eyes close wit his and accept the dark.
He fights to lose control
arcing, grabbing, flying --
I am locked to him in motion.
He grabs my ear with his teeth
we release -- sigh,
and fall consciously to the sound of comfort.

Undecided, Partially.

2011-02-24T19:00:00.000-07:00

Undecided... the unbelievable complications surrounding an emotional state we assume is fragile, especially in turbulent times. An age surpassed, a decade gone by, a state renewed in contrast to the past. What hasn't happened is simply what shall, and everything in between is lost in complicated revivals of unseen disillusioning. Well... that's an over-simplification of something unknown and undetermined as of yet. Joyous wrappings paper the floor, crinkling the footsteps delicately, beautifully, even though it's a dissertation of detritus in artistic formats. Unfortunately, it's how my heart feels when I desire something society tells is vastly inappropriate after such short stints of la seule fois. I enjoy rejecting the blue sky and the green grass. After all, flames can't be deterred by human hands bound by the gods.

So the mound of impossibility is what I seek to surmount. What I believe is tragically build by our own minds because comfortability strokes the gentle member throbbing for release is the absolution of the self when we find steely ambitions, wanton fantasies, and truthful bliss. Thus we stray from the heap, ticking away. I don't leave it untouched. I'm transcending, believing, and feeling what I desire as the release I need to move forward with me. Unquestioned, partially.

Sitting in his room.

2011-02-24T18:49:00.000-07:00

Glaring white boards outside tinted windows
soft Blankets curling around legs bound together
sheer fingers clasped in longing Intensity
Colored moments
dissipate like Vapor in the mind
contagious sinusoidal Throbbing
The light shatters reality
darkness invades Fantasy like wildfire
tingling lips unfurl enter Joyfully.

Wanted

2011-02-24T18:48:00.002-07:00

Simple kisses fray
Belts undone with gentle fingers
World forgot in light

The Last Minutes of an Age

2011-02-23T23:26:00.000-07:00

I'm not ready. Island plum candles make me feel sick. The count down began ages ago, without my consent, without my knowledge, without me. Alas the pages of the hanging wall decor shift endlessly as the impossible heaps surmount all regard. Smoke rises from the pipe: tendrils swirling, mists unfurling, cages encasing --

Dreams falter without regard. Uncanny superstition of the ticking movement within effervescent space-time analogies call to the undying reality, shifting heartened illusionment to undesirable plays. Yes, undesirable.

The sun is set, the moon awaits its turn; darkness shifts under candle-lit eyelids. Emily would have said something about forgot. 36 minutes in this time of 24. Alack. Alas. Hark. Amok! I care not, for caring is all I have. Cough drops soothe some forms of ailment.

Responding to Desnos

2011-02-11T07:46:00.000-07:00

So this French poet, Robert Desnos, held a radio conversation a long time ago in which he discussed dreams with several poets. The dreams were fascinating, especially in the way the poets described what they were seeing in a surreal world. Desnos goes on to request his listener's response to his dream in particular. He wants to see/hear our "dreams of my dream" through any written means necessary. Thankfully, my poetry teacher has introduced me to this wonderful conversation and has 'demanded' all of us to write a response to this beautifully meaningful dream of Desnos'. Just as a reference point, Desnos, in his dream, is moving or has moved into a new house with his significant other and while there he discovers this strange floor between the first and second story. It's typically dark, but not spooky or threatening. It's more like an invited place calling him to sit and write, to explore and exist, to remain and thrive. Here's my response to Desnos' dream:

A space between spaces, between the first and second of all: it’s an interesting place to put space, and places that render a call. Do you shelter your eyes from believing even with sight you’re judged on perceiving as dreams circle round the reality creating infinitely curious curiosity? And this wandered unearthing above and below centered being shouts for desirous absence from the structured building of essence. It’s justifiably a necessity of encouraged depravity of distancing society from our unformed reality in order to feel gravity toward our uncensored fantasy in quiet places so darkly shaded for lack of immortality. It’s obvious to know the state of dreaming ends when eyes lie low. The shades, the places, the darkness yet weightless; however, dear Desnos, you dare not go? Footsteps have fallen and the walls are but calling, possibility knocks in your dreams. How daylight in dreams filters shading in seems sought roughly about in spaces of eves... in the places of spaces lost between the wastes of form.

That’s what it does, this floor between floors; above the head and lower than feet, where the gods and the conscious do meet. It breaks away spaces and invites the creative and asks you to linger though moonlight’s abated. Now my hopes are invested in jealous attraction to this seemingly impossibly possibility between the stories.

Private Sunrise

2011-02-09T09:40:00.000-07:00

The sunshine bellows in the face of bitterness. Something about its smile chases away delicate strands of imperceptible decay registering in the deepest recesses of the heart. Sunshine: a beacon of understanding, of life, of joy, of infinite possibility confronted by jealous darkness. The clash is almost always won by the daemon of day, even when blankets smother the skies with sodden moods. There is and always shall be the complicated balance of shadows and wakening, of which waking even in dim solitude persists just as the sun rises permanently in the east; and with mourning morning’s arrival, the dread of moments past must diminish in the west like violet tendrils spotted with glitter.

Isn’t that the truth: a sparkling warmth of torture. It is easier to remain in darkness, easier to chide the day-lit faces of others, easier to lay your body down, easier than pulling back the suffocating curtains and adjusting your eyes. The night appears infinitely more beautiful in its anxious moments spliced with worried faces and tender words juxtaposed to the brightness and clarity of our waking hours. Ultimately, we mistake the comfort of cold for the cozy warmth necessary for life to proceed.

Days go by, the stars shine in their attributed luminosities, weather changes regardless; but until the crest of smiling breaks the visage of our essences stagnation will prevent the morning glories from greeting the Eastern shores. Benevolence exists within ourselves for ourselves without the sun, truly. Day crests with or without the fiery intensity of our own happiness; but the night will remain unless something is changed.

Today is one of those moments when it feels impossible to redress the overwhelming possibilities of failure. Sub-zero biting chills swoop like bitterns with piercing eyes. Even the sun can’t warm the skies, can’t melt the slick Road before our doors, can’t awaken the mist-filled forest before our hearts. Herein lies the challenge: What to wear in the face of such harshness?

The answer circles around, circles around, and circles to one point, just like the sun’s warming rays: a smile.

the Name is lost

2011-02-06T15:15:00.000-07:00

Like the face of light splintering off prisms,
reflection disillusioned in the face of
patriarchic
disembodiment from reality.

When does the decision set in?

Snow falls peacefully upon my eyelids,
heavy with tears
frozen in my already fragmented
existence.

Can I lose this one without?

The heavy befalls the simple: where am I? The
Name
of father falls from my tongue, sinks to the floor;
how grand it goes without my words of in my soul.

Does he know the thumbing, the beating, the loss I feel?

In not knowing lies the terror
choking the spring flowers under static
worlds.
The help of the white must achieve.

The Hardest

2011-02-03T21:58:00.000-07:00

This corner, home - lost, beckons dark light into the pool of ever-after-now: shrieking lullabies, whispering of loathing, hugging torment, crying support... it mounts the impossible heaps.

   --Selfish! Candle lit daemon, insufferable pleasure!--

Window breaks; then gusts banter with the ornate chandelier swinging in perfect parabolas of wanton amour. Tears burn with soot lined breezes shot like white elephants pawing at tangential strings connected to the shattered beats of the always-past-here. Truths are virile acid puncturing the umbrella, reigning in stead of widowed nuns; however like a long time waiting under off-white sheets drenched in cold allusions to spring days in heat. The room illuminates the dawn, broken after the final chord soaked in exhausted reverie.

   --I am resistant: Untouched, Spoken, Believing...--

A lake forms from eyes barricading angles into forests lush with hidden, twisting - comfort, riddles on Roads of errands meeting that undeniable secret of diverging tracks toward commitment or abortion. The chosen denies the built future vision-constant-present; but we fly and color the reaches of the wood extending over the delicate wounds of our hearts. Do we cry songs, embrace in honesty, whisper goodbyes, and love these last times?

   --Love is not for reason, but I in Me shall know--

John

2011-02-03T21:52:00.000-07:00

Justified in bold irresistance
Onlookers to the wise
Harold chance encounters with
Nothing less than
Mortality in his presence, beauty, supreme
Obtainably like verse in the iris
Usually seeing behind veils of
Lost illusion to cores bounded,
Tangled like he with roses
Only bested by the transcended kiss
Now treacherously placed in different bounds.

2011-02-03T21:50:00.000-07:00

"If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air
Quaint little villages here and there..."
   I am, I truly am:
- quiet - relaxing - sensual - familiar -
   that which is long longed for
   ever desired within -
   treasured in golden hue
   beaming like nightly pictures -

   But what?! What...?
- left in condition - no clause -
   closure left with notes
   seeping the dream to contemplate -
   snow outside mindsight
   ice straight to my heart -
Fond are the challenges you leave me here
I can't even sing of loving without despair...

A grievances

2011-02-03T21:47:00.000-07:00

A grievances
a grievances
I grieve in sins
agree aunt says
Anger eve blanches
a creed'f chances
a dream dances
a bunch of ants is
a brief stance's
of breeze answers
a grievances
a grievances

Nightly Haiku

2011-02-03T21:44:00.000-07:00

Rather than put all three of these Haiku in their own blog entry (though part of me thinks I should...) I'm condensing for your reading pleasure. :-) I wrote these tonight, in the midst of utterly dismal customer traffic and an extreme lack of chores. Enjoy!

I want to reach out
Grasp and hold, kiss the touching
Awaken myself

Truly felt single
unlocked treasure gleams anew
Stars light passioned eyes

He drives the same road
Webs veiled beyond stops and curves
Deliver passage

I write Pretty

2011-02-01T01:18:00.000-07:00

I write Pretty
prettily
handsomely -
   with lips parted
   and fingers tracing
arcs and curves
on the pen's shaft:
   twirling, flicking, grasping
at images thwarted by
   reality.
   I long in desired longing
   to dive
   dive
   dive
to depths mirrored in vacuums
   repelling

   darkness

   shadows

   in my mind -
to see in ink infinitely invariably sound treasures
   buried
   with speechlessness:

Yes... ?

2011-01-30T21:48:00.000-07:00

can't
   be longing
   broken
   nekorb
   b k
   e o n
   r
   canned
   boiled
   dec red
   =I < / 3 :
selfish, desired, c
   a
   s
   c
   a
   d
   i
   n
   g
sdrawkcab
   in my < / 3

to want want want! ::scream::
   his ______ .
   Can I
   ?
   For me?
Not love
   in
   want... ?

Good Morning Loss

2011-01-29T16:11:00.000-07:00

It's like pictures in non-sequential order blurring together in a slideshow. Some of them make sense: friends moving slowly in rhythmic motion, a black straw leading to a glass filled with ice, flashing lights, the white urinal and washing my hands, stumbling down stairs on the way to the mini-van. I wish I could put them all together, figure out exactly what happened on my own, realize how spectacular the night was (even though I know it was provocatively entertaining).

But even more bizarre than the still frames skimming through my mind is the clarity of the touches, the textures, the fell of the night. I remember the way he felt... I remember his touch on my back, his pull on my hand, the way he moved against me on the dance floor. But I don't remember much of our words, much of his face, much of the aftermath of such intoxicating interactions. I wish I did, not for fear of what happened but because I want to completely integrate the experience into memory. I want to asses the mood of our glances, to predict the movements of our subsequent thoughts, the possibilities that might have arisen in such a short time.

Then there's the complete extreme: I don't want anything to come of it. It wouldn't feel right to start with such a hazy night, to build from such a tragic reverie, broken and dark, and make some fascinating mural of physicality. Thus, I don't care to analyze our gravity. Just knowing its beauty is enough. Just remembering the feel is enough. Just knowing that the possibility of such exchanges is enough.

Knowing, understanding, comprehending these thoughts makes me feel complete. It makes the lost bearable, acceptable, enjoyable. Even in the haze of a hang-over, I'm smiling and enjoying the feel of this consequence, eagerly anticipating the next.

Chad

2011-01-27T22:40:00.000-07:00

Chastised words pour in
Hot waves of friendly banter,
Always revealing deeper levels
Daring the bounds of this ship,
Even when I push at distances
Like a fearful, broken belief.
Eavesdropping on my own inability to open,
How could I have been so closed?

Nick

2011-01-27T22:39:00.001-07:00

Never had I felt that way:
Isolated from my desires, stopping myself from knowing you by
Carnivorously biting my tongue when all I wanted was to
Know, and let you know, the truth of our infatuation.

Chris

2011-01-26T09:11:00.000-07:00

Can't you see me, remember
How we use to know each other?
Right before lost times
Imbalanced for lack of freedom.
Syncopated are our steps...

Star (Abstract Poetry)

2011-01-25T22:27:00.001-07:00

Star are you
far barring horrible
star far by near
aren't we barred by car
But star, star of far
to heart, blar blar blar
to hark harolds waking
farts, belong so far
to start start start
Oh! are we Star
in harken heart belonging
refusely to bar's hearts so far?
sky lit star barring the
far tragic longing far
to far. Starry harlequin
tiny farting kin
don't lie so close
to star blar clark
Drive car drive to distant
far
apart tiny lick fling
away that sheltered slur
a star
STAR YOU!
Swaggerous insolent backstabbing
Star.
Go far, blar blar you
jealous star.
Wink no more. No more
so far.

On "Jennifer K. Dick and Laura Mullen in Conversation"

2011-01-25T22:01:00.001-07:00

What is this?

You tell me that influence is a disease that strengthens the very ground of poetry and writing; that teaches us to believe in the words, if stollen or borrowed or used in conjunction with influenza? And here I worry that words are lost because they've been stollen away from me!

Such a strange thought...

But your wisdoms and influence are so boundless in such short conversation, so profound in deep introspection, so continuous in jealous understanding. How can I dare to reiterate what you have just delivered with clarity and profundity? The harshest and most truthful is the influence, the disease, of teachers inspiring and molding and manipulating youthful, ambitious, creative writers to relinquish individuality in favor of understanding the 'Greats' of any era!

I shall say 'NO!' as you tell me. I will not change my letters to better help your comprehension of something I don't even understand properly (BECAUSE IT CAME IN FREE, doubtless as my fingers fly across the keyboard creating something my mind wants to reveal for myself). And then the critic appears jealously, attempting to find some semblance of flow in the very digital codes so clearly distinguished on the screen (YOU'RE READING THEM!) and tells us of what he doesn't understand. That's the danger, allowing him to sneer down his fingers at the texts of our minds.

But then the influence comes full circle. Can we ever escape it? And should we ever try? Influence is a barrage of symbols piercing the veil we hold over our minds like an iron chest-plate. It doesn't fit, and the holes show more brightly when continuously jilted by critics saying "Tolkien was his only influence, and he falls short of that brilliance."

And thus we let the influence in, because we can't avoid it. It is truth, and should be treated as treasures, however used!

Alone (Abstract Poetry)

2011-01-25T21:52:00.000-07:00

Own alone
heaping-heaping cyclone
one bone clack fish
spite in cherished ire
One!
Gun Fun dumbing none
the Great on hill farther gone
wolfing air: babble brook beating bales -
hornblow like lady Bourgogne -
Alone own allure
airless candle flame
one -- breathless
coward only gurggle gasssp
shuddering howl harolding
loneliness - yellow.

Alone
it falls, rain; crackling dish
Define: all one own none --
sunflower eye surrounding bright
the pit of dusk
Alone.

'1'

2011-01-25T21:49:00.000-07:00

Wrong. It feels wrong and unknown. The primary constant bleeding into every aspect of life: 1. Proof instantaneously shadowed with fallacy, contrary to the natural philosophy defining structure from a basis. It all starts from 1, not none.

We start from 1, alone, ourselves, and struggle to add another; however, wherever, whenever possible. We try to prove 1=1=2 in a system of emotional equations. We derive 2 from examples around us, viewing integrals without seeing the complex variables churning tired days. Suddenly we find it, the one equation to put 'x' and 'y' together - and somehow it works. The contours mesh beautifully, dividing 2 from the pool and calculating life at the speed of life, diving up, shooting down, spiraling in sinusoidal curves form 1 to 1 with the frequency of 2 heartbeats.

Light eventually penetrates the constants and reveals the imperfection; but it can work. To be as 2 when 1=1=2 creates life for others, blooms hope in the eyes, shatters mountain at the climax. Don't we want it? Don't we crave it? Don't we see imagination driving pictures down the spine to groins where that god walks ahead of us? Or when they spread their legs to access passion, to feel again, to scratch the humdrum and fire explosions into a starry night?

Wrong. What happens when the functions degrade? Hope tells us to work, to dig deeper, push harder, cry less; and then we'll find the top, screaming with victory for killing darkness. The speed of light equals the wavelength times the frequency. Love equals the brightness of truth times the extremes of sine. Truth is directly proportional to the limits, growing exponentially or diminishing with experience.

My world fell to the weight of that exponent. The dip fell, the high disappeared, the slope was too cracked. I was wrong, and now its 1 is truth in lonesome valleys where cries echo between the stark boulders of reality plummeting to a shaded river leading to infinity. The curves of my graph, explained on the dimensions of 1=1=2 has ceased on that plane and shifted to 1=1 without coordinates with the other. 1 feels wrong.

But 1 is properly illuminated as necessary in life. We start at 1, born to find an other somewhere with likeness. Uncertainty is bleak, but the river goes on to the ocean in the end, leading to white shores with magical reverie. Bounds breathe heavily, when opposing the norm, and embrace 1 as fact if ever fallacy were right. Singularity is enigma, and defines the inner beauty sought within duality.

We Wait in Patient Circumstance

2011-01-23T15:13:00.000-07:00

we wait in patient circumstance
listen to clouds falling
white over brown a masking
brushes overlaying imperfection
willingness to speak passes
voids accentuate delicate vibrations
wanting fearing needing to say more
the silence tears through snow
words churn deep into the woods
roots run backward solutions obscure
what trees know over eons
patiently being unknown of continuums
without once speaking to ears
dig deep reveal gold audible truth
wretched doubts transform
footing weakens in the snow
while verity soddens eyes with time
the phone goes to sleep
wearing a lie of contentment
resolutions are known of the future
where impossible heaps will blow to peace
and we will know each other below
wet snow muddy earth hidden forests
into the heart of our world

Colors

2011-01-23T15:10:00.000-07:00

Do colors change?
   shifting
   sliding
   insinuating something more?
My door seems more brown,
   as if honest
   validating
   seen for the first time.
Light pierces the bluish window.
   It pushes
   shoves
   clings to its yellow-whiteness.
Flames consume behind my eyelids
   flushing raindrops
   cascading
   fuming my gasps with iridescence.
And me... What color am I?
   burning
   shuttered
   clinging to something known.

Mora

2011-01-23T15:07:00.005-07:00

I'm afraid to be
just me -- but I must remain
moratorium

Sound

2011-01-23T15:07:00.002-07:00

Sub lime tarten moth
Fly Verse- a tale intra ski
Broke in art: freeing.

The Feeling

2011-01-21T00:02:00.002-07:00

Fear is my driver
I'm trying to take Control.
Control drives my Fear.

Really?

2011-01-19T07:37:00.002-07:00

"No Food.
"No Drink.
"No Smoking."

When did Food and Drink become as undesirable as smoking? Fortunately, no one agreed. Drink is bountiful.

Anniversary!

2011-01-16T15:35:00.000-07:00

One year ago my life changed. My perspective about writing shifted so dramatically that, for a moment, I believed I would never accomplish my dreams and feared the inevitable rejections that are sure to come from many agents and publication houses. I am, perhaps, still afraid of the unknown responses I will receive from sending out my manuscript, but that's not what my focus has been over the past year.

Aside from the necessities of life (school, work, relationships, etc.), I have been primarily focused on A Writer's Landscape. A year ago today, I posted my first blog and began an interesting journey of self-realization. Looking back over these many posts, I've noticed several things:

~ I really do enjoy writing poetry (which is a good thing because I'm not in a poetry class!)
~ When life is strenuous, I lay off my writing. This is an unfortunate side effect of stressful schedules and hardships.
~ I dive into something so intensely for a while, and then abandon it quite abruptly. Examples are my Haiku and "The Changed Earth." I can't decide if this is a good thing or if I need to focus more. On one hand, I get to experience and work with many different genres. On the other hand, I might leave things unfinished.
~ I am writing more now than I ever have in my life.

Lets see... Shall we analyze the statistics of my blog? The easiest one to show is what I've actually written. I made a commitment (several times) to write a blog for every day of the year. This would accumulate to 365 blogs. Unfortunately I didn't quite make it to this beautiful number. However, I did write 249 blogs in 1 year, bringing my 'grade' to a 68.2%. Is this good or bad? I feel like it's an accomplishment for me! This year, perhaps, I can break 70% and hit at least 75% of my goal (which still stands at 1 a day for a year since I didn't really manage to complete this commitment).

On another front, my Facebook fan-page currently has 251 fans. This is about half of the number I want before I start courting an agent. Of these 251 fans, approximately 120 of them are 'active users' of my fan-page, which I believe means they at least read my posts and/or look at my fan-page. The only saddening thing about my fan-page is how little anyone uses the discussion boards. I think one of my new goals is to refocus the discussions and get my fans to be more active on them! I want to discuss my work. I want to dive into what I write (cause sometime's my words are very subconscious and I don't really know what's going on in the verse).

Finally, my statcounter, which is clever and creepy, informs me that the average time spent on my blog is approximately 2:31 minutes (given the last six months worth of data). I've watched this number rise and fall and stabilize. At one point, I was down to 1 minute. I felt tragically demoralized; but I figured there are a lot of look-i-loos who just happen to stumble upon my blog and aren't looking for literature. I hope the time starts to rise again. Six months ago the average was 8 minutes. That was a beautiful number! The longest stay on my blog, which I think I have to thank Chad for, was 45 minutes (according to my stat-websites). WOOHOO! I like the look of that. (LOVE YOU). And the spread of the viewers has diversified greatly. I don't think there's a region in the United States that doesn't have someone looking at my blog occasionally. Then there are the foreigners as well: Australia, Russia (oddly), Denmark, Canada, Japan, South Korea, and Brazil. I would say this is a good spread, though I'm not sure how they came upon my blog, or whether they stayed for any duration. C'est la vie.

I guess the question before me is: "Where do I want to go from here?"

The answer is a little more complex than I anticipated months ago (when contemplating my blog's big birthday). I want to interact more with you, my readers. I want to know what you want to see. I want to know what you enjoy, what you don't like, what could be improved. I want to talk with you all, and have those conversations be available for others who may stumble upon my creations here. I want to see more active users on my Fan-Page who have questions or want to have discussions about things. I want to write more, and I want to know what you want to read.

However, for myself: I will keep on writing. Seeing as I'm in a poetry class at the moment, I'll be putting up a vast array of poems that we'll be working on. There will also be a lot more critiques of what I'm reading for that class. And as I'm going through a major life change right now, there will be a lot of deep, symbolic things to come (which I know are harder to understand, but that's how I deal with things).

I'm honored and thankful that you're joined me on my journey over the past year! I hope you stick around and continue to find enjoyment in the words I'm writing.

With Much Love and Happiness,

J Hart F

Desire to Walk in the Sun

2011-01-15T16:13:00.000-07:00

I wanted to take the bus today; to write and be alone with my music and walk in the sun.

The sun wasn't out. It's not cold, per-se, but the clouds make the air breathe ominously and chillingly. I wanted to take the bus. Winds blew down the mountain. Now I'm happy I didn't, but the emptiness remains.

I stayed in comfort, and drove as always. No music accompanied my way. The thrust of the air tickled my car to the right. Vibrations conjured music from my CD cases shuffling about in the door-wells. Though I knew the route, I still didn't want to take it. I wanted to take the bus, and feel differently along the road.

Now I'm home. The sun peaks between the clouds for a moment. The moon has risen. Writing drives my mind into itself, dancing leaves in whirls of structured vortexes. I see the structure, I predict its direction. Luster and Shadow ignite along the veins of the leaves laughing in the wind. Falling to the ground, they rest in final resolution. My thoughts lie with dune grasses, awaiting springtime innocence to flourish once more.

I wanted to take the bus, so my mind could relax with the sky.

The Idea of Immortality

2011-01-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

I've always thought I'd like to live forever. Immortality, I was informed in a textbook years ago, is one of the irrational desires of being human. Recently, however, my mother told me of a short story wherein a guy was truly immortal. He lived past the implosion of the Universe and continued existing (in thought or spirit) in a vacuum of nothingness. He hated his life.

Initially I thought: "Well that's not very Buddhist of him," using my mother's practices as a filter to her story. However, it made me think.

What would I feel if I lived through the violent gravitational fluctuations of a collapsing universe?

What would I think if I were the only thing in known existence? Without any physical means of verification?

Would my very consciousness or spirit be able to create my own Universe in thought, thus introducing a new reality from fantasy and creating a Big Bang.

Could we not be doing this very thing now, given enough thought, focus, and belief? And then we wouldn't be alone, ever; even after the end of known existence. Which brings me to my writing. Logic dictates (ha!) that my imagination is not reality and therefore does not exist in the Universe beyond the impulses in my brain and the words written on paper. I accept that the laws of this Universe are finite given the expectations of existence within the sphere of acceptable standards; but I believe my characters are real whether in my head or the imagination of my readers, or in an alternate Universe spawned simply because I thought it.

This is my first step toward enlightenment, which the character in the aforementioned short story couldn't see: vacuums are defined only by our universe. He couldn't know about everything, lest he be God, and should not doubt his future. Change is a constant. A change would undoubtedly appear for him, and he'll be all the wiser for it.

As for immortality, I now have conditions:
~If I could choose to die at anytime,
~And if I could stay beautiful and fit!

"I was told"

2011-01-14T13:21:00.000-07:00

I was told I get noticed whenever I enter a room.
I don't want to be in the room.
The auditorium stands perfectly symmetrical,
its windows transmitting yellow sunlight.
The shadows obscure the edges, making it beautiful.
It's not symmetrical.

Integrand

2011-01-14T13:20:00.000-07:00

You are the Integrand of which we regard,
   a description only, but unknown without
   precision and bounds.
We can derive your many facets
   understanding minute details of your whole
   with even less certainty;
Unless you let us in, give us thoughts
And guide us along your curves.

I took your hand, bewildered and cold
   and took you inside my warmth.
   We've shared velocity in space time,
Rooting life to find the base of love;
   Though I know where we stand,
You're not the one to know.

"7"

2011-01-14T13:18:00.000-07:00

The horoscope tells me to take advantage of the Day.
It's a 7 after all...
I'm 'powerful, inventive and can heal old wounds.
If it were the end,
old stuff wouldn't matter.'

7 be Damned.
My wounds must hurt more, like a bullet buried in the bone.
Emotional surgery can sever the tie.
Without drugs.
The pain is so much more when hearts are out of tune.