Tuesday, July 17, 2012
::Vulnerability::
The heart is wise in it's delicacy. It's knows the moment it begins beating that one day it will stop. With this knowledge, it becomes the body's strongest muscle. It makes us pump and vibrate forward. It is our life center. It is our love center. It is the candy beneath our sugar coated rib cages. As the center of our emotional body, it fills us with idealizations that we push towards like the flow of blood beneath that it leads as well. Pumping. Pumping. Pumping up roses; coming up still born. We are children of the atom, the ID, the father, son, and holy of holy. We are children of lust and locomotion, of the mistake, mistook, and misinformed. We are singular units that flow in the sea of WE. All is illusion and desperation beneath the eyes. We lose our place. We lose our minds. We lose our virtues for what is empty and untrue. I worship you, oh idol of ideals. I cross myself over and over an bear the burdens of all my missteps.
As a child true and yet sensitive I am not above lust and locomotion. My wheels turn hard with desires. The desire to hold, to be held, to belong to, with, and for. There is a cost you see. A cost for someone like me. I pay by waiting. I pay for my desires by giving up my dreams. By falling off the rails hoping to not get too far ahead of the things I love because the road ahead may be brilliant and necessary but it's also lonely. I've never been lonely, but I have also never traveled very far ahead of everyone else. I keep safe. I keep safe and learn to quiet the urges inside my chest. I make the pounding something else. The flapping of wings, a nerves tight ticking, just the body counting it's breaths,or steps, or blinks.
I make the choice to stay stationary. To stay with you. You are all I want. I have decided that. I have chosen that. You are all I want to see, no matter what I make my life, it's you I want in it. This I know. It beats heavy inside my chest. It makes me anxious and afraid. I choose you...another outside myself. The only other I want to keep, and somewhere echoing in the canyon of my chest I hear the chant. I hear heart's spirit singing out to me. It's a warning...a warning sung sweetly. So delicate the heart can be in it's wisdom. It's hear tapping on my shoulder to spread the awareness and I begin to fall.
This demon in me that craves my life...that feels suffocated by everything I keep and do and am stands at attention. It crosses the street daring life to happen. Willing it to come out and push me forward. And I begin to rotate outwardly. Beyond my body I see the universe of connections. Planets and satellites of life surround me in heavyweight. The cycling forward and out, the beginning of some remapped war begins. The war for me. The war inside my chest. It echoes...it echoes...it echoes.
It sings: I can't belong to you. I can't belong to you. I can't be yours. I'm anything but your kind. It sings. A welling springs up to my eyes. I wonder if it's just this moment now. This moment now that causes this lack of definition. Is it my intuition buzzing or am I projecting my fears into space? I have love, but can I keep it. I have someone, but are they here when I'm alone. In this dense space where I have chosen them...am I keeping them alive or spinning them out? The heart knows how to pump and push and live for today because today is all it has. This urgency, this finite arena, this subtle chest's fragility is both the organ and a treasure.
Buried deep within it sings...it sings...it sings our blood into orbit. Propels our lives forward into our chosen spaces. The caged bird lives and sings and finds a way to adapt, but unhinged is my certainty. I am seeking. Seeking the urgency to appreciate this today. Any today. To be wise in my own delicacy and find away to pump and push myself out of all this. To understand the significance to all that this is. This life, these choices, this love. We are all desperate. Made so by our creators and our creations. We are desperately looking for ourselves, our other half, our tribe, our spirits. We are children lost on the wheel. The wheel is the world and we spin our stories as life urgently.
I want to know the fullness beneath all this. All that this is. This life, these choices, this love. I am a seeker. Seeking with urgency the strength to live with my own delicacy in the sea of WE.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
::To Bursting::
They say the world will end in fire. A ball of divine rage will fall and burn us all down. The big bad wolf says he'll blow my house down and he's happy to do it with a smile. Disasters can be polite. They can hold you close and make promises while they keep their fingers crossed in their pockets. They can love you today, promise tomorrow, and then let the whole world around you burst into fire and politely forget to pull you out of the blaze. I've always been burning. It's always been burning here. A wire runs through my hothouse flower. I never feel warm enough.
The body heats under pressure. It's pressed between the pages of tenderness and curiosity. Tenderness writes the line between closeness and lies. An unspoken tightrope of tension stalks the moments between every kiss, every silence, every proclamation. The shadow of a smile says I'm hiding something. The admittance of the only and absolute makes me think you like to play. I don't like disasters no matter how polite they are on your doorstep.
They take their hats off and wipe their feet so well mannered before they lay themselves out on your bed long enough for you to want them to be yours. I can't always tell the difference between a disaster, a dream, or a definite. They all attract me the same way. They all dare me to jump into them. And I do.
I jump when things are that perfect temperature between what feels right, seems wrong, and can't be discerned no matter how close it happens to lay. If I were Eve I would have taken the apple easily. I would have left Adam for the snake and never looked back. If I were Red Riding Hood I'd have given the wolf my basket and invited him to feast on my insides because I have a fascination with anything I can be tempted by.
I dream of a love that can keep me safe. Create a warmth that envelops me and feels honest and real. Real enough for me to truly see it as it lays itself out in offering. I hate the fall, but have a tendency to choose the apple. I hate the bite back, but have found myself drawn to the sharpest of teeth. I am aware. I am my own snake. Always watching, always waiting to tempt myself onto the tightrope. My fear is my poison and my antidote.
I know how to love but never learned to trust. I like the myth that builds beneath the skin, between the sheets, under the touch. I let myself fall under the pressurized words and fingers of my disaster, my dream, and my definite. I spread the coolness, I seduce the wandering heart, I create this chain. This chain that binds you to me. My grip on all things is tenuous. Always ready to slip away if the fingers become teeth, and the dream bursts into fire and politely forgets to pull me out. I love uneasily though I keep my own tenderness steady. I play the hands I'm good at, and manipulate the weak parts when I have to. All of this to avoid damage, but it is too late. We're swimming now. We're swimming in our own fires we don't care to put out.
This is how love begins. We're always burning and bare. Afraid to commit, to be close, to believe and yet we can't resist. We want a taste of that apple, we want to feel the that we are on the edge of disaster at any moment and give into it as it lays itself out before us. Disaster buried beneath a body, a body that rises and rides itself on top of us. We want to burn. Burn out our dreams, our fears, the voices in our heads that say he's hiding something, he's not for you, this can't be real. And we do. We open the door. We marvel at how politely he strides into our lives. Marvel at how it feels like the space he takes up in your bed was made for him.
I look down from the tightrope as the net burns away. I know I'm going to jump. The hissing fear is calls me to tension. My body spins the hoops and reasons why the thin rope of separation is the only way to stay safe. I hear and see all the reasons why I might be a fool. A fool alone. A fool. I know I'm going to jump..and I do.
The body heats under pressure. It's pressed between the pages of tenderness and curiosity. Tenderness writes the line between closeness and lies. An unspoken tightrope of tension stalks the moments between every kiss, every silence, every proclamation. The shadow of a smile says I'm hiding something. The admittance of the only and absolute makes me think you like to play. I don't like disasters no matter how polite they are on your doorstep.
They take their hats off and wipe their feet so well mannered before they lay themselves out on your bed long enough for you to want them to be yours. I can't always tell the difference between a disaster, a dream, or a definite. They all attract me the same way. They all dare me to jump into them. And I do.
I jump when things are that perfect temperature between what feels right, seems wrong, and can't be discerned no matter how close it happens to lay. If I were Eve I would have taken the apple easily. I would have left Adam for the snake and never looked back. If I were Red Riding Hood I'd have given the wolf my basket and invited him to feast on my insides because I have a fascination with anything I can be tempted by.
I dream of a love that can keep me safe. Create a warmth that envelops me and feels honest and real. Real enough for me to truly see it as it lays itself out in offering. I hate the fall, but have a tendency to choose the apple. I hate the bite back, but have found myself drawn to the sharpest of teeth. I am aware. I am my own snake. Always watching, always waiting to tempt myself onto the tightrope. My fear is my poison and my antidote.
I know how to love but never learned to trust. I like the myth that builds beneath the skin, between the sheets, under the touch. I let myself fall under the pressurized words and fingers of my disaster, my dream, and my definite. I spread the coolness, I seduce the wandering heart, I create this chain. This chain that binds you to me. My grip on all things is tenuous. Always ready to slip away if the fingers become teeth, and the dream bursts into fire and politely forgets to pull me out. I love uneasily though I keep my own tenderness steady. I play the hands I'm good at, and manipulate the weak parts when I have to. All of this to avoid damage, but it is too late. We're swimming now. We're swimming in our own fires we don't care to put out.
This is how love begins. We're always burning and bare. Afraid to commit, to be close, to believe and yet we can't resist. We want a taste of that apple, we want to feel the that we are on the edge of disaster at any moment and give into it as it lays itself out before us. Disaster buried beneath a body, a body that rises and rides itself on top of us. We want to burn. Burn out our dreams, our fears, the voices in our heads that say he's hiding something, he's not for you, this can't be real. And we do. We open the door. We marvel at how politely he strides into our lives. Marvel at how it feels like the space he takes up in your bed was made for him.
I look down from the tightrope as the net burns away. I know I'm going to jump. The hissing fear is calls me to tension. My body spins the hoops and reasons why the thin rope of separation is the only way to stay safe. I hear and see all the reasons why I might be a fool. A fool alone. A fool. I know I'm going to jump..and I do.
Monday, January 23, 2012
::The Thirty Third::
We all need space. We move through it. We find ways to fill it up, to take it away, to make it known. We are full of space. Between our fingers and teeth. Between our eyes and deeper within. We are from the world of the infinite. The world beyond dreams and illusions. We pulse, we prophetize, we procrastinate. Meeting the divine isn't easy in the real world. We get glimmers and impressions, but the full scope of it is elusive.
I live in a world of dreams. As the great illusionist I like to play tricks. Now you see me, now you don't. Now you feel me, now you won't. I like to hover. I keep my real parts afloat slightly above my body, far enough to be out of reach and out of context. I wake up asleep. I choose to drown my senses in smoke and haze because I hate hardness. I hate rages and fires and filth. I hate the tar pits of the world because you can't just wade through them. You have to pass by and you have to sink and you have to work your way out with more than just charm, wit, and the gift of appeal.
I've begun sinking. The dream world grows heavy and flashes. There is this drumming and crack. This rolling becomes my thunder, and bangs loudly in the din. My heart always so close to forgetting the rest of me. My heart always so close to love. It beats deeply hoping to cover all my senses in blood and fire. The rage of the heart is poetic and proud. It works unsteadily in me. I am just a few degrees cooler than normal, so I can brush off the tremors and keep my sights from unwinding. There is always something else between us. Us being the eternal object of my affections. A face that changes, a body that fuses differently, a man today, a man for now, a man for the moment.
There comes that moment where we aren't men anymore. We are lines to be drawn. We are silence unspoken. We are apart together and we wear our lies like kisses. We make deep impressions, we fill our voids with ourselves. We can be so many things and yet any moment we can burn down to nothing. The heart shakes it's walls and thumps out it's declarations of blood and fire. It says that this is everything. That this has to mean everything. I find my coolness even in the lover's volcano. I can feel the heat and find comfort. I don't burn. I don't rage. I can't make an everything out of a man.
I know it's me. The underlying secret of it all is me. I lose my ideals early. I feel the empty space that can't be touched. That no man or moment has had the length of arm or emotion to embrace. This vacant space has turned on it's neon sign, but no one is allowed inside. I know it's me. I rest my loving self in the comfort of ideas and the ideas of happiness with another. I pull the curtain back. My vision sharp and reptilian. The snake in me clings to the dragon. The dragon divine gives me glimmers and sensations and visions of the infinite space within and without. It's remote yes, but it's boundless.
A lick of the dragon's tail fills me with dreams and movement. It strikes that perfect pitch beyond and beneath me all at once. It's a silent push toward. It also is the truth about me. The kiss of a moment, on lips inviting and real fills me with dreams yes, and dread. I can curl up and lick and taste the future of an us and a we and a together. I can plan. I can calculate. I can want so much that my good parts just flood out like a fountain. Like a gift. Like a mistake.
If I give and love and create an available personage what will it be worth? A surplus of kisses to mask the distance? An open heart to within the visions of betrayals unseen ? I know it's me. I tend to race. I give up as much as I give out. Perhaps I know the truth about men. Perhaps I know how to catalog a moment honestly. Perhaps I'm all wrong in all ways. My dream world hangs heavy. It's weighed down now when it used to float above. There is no smoke. There is no fire. There is the coolness of myself. My skin sparkles with salt and hard on my chest is the weight of the dragon. The truth about me strikes out like a map. The topography of mistakes I make gets colored at the edge. This territory of endings and beginnings and never endings continues to create itself.
This sadness is living. It is the washing out of all that was and all that will never be. I am the great magician. I alchemize my tears and blood and instability into a future. A future alone or with a man. A future that tastes of dreams and becoming. The dream world falls like tears and rain and sinks itself into view. It is all I can see. It is the truth about me. It is all I can see. This coolness, this need, this magic is me. It is my truth on fire.
I live in a world of dreams. As the great illusionist I like to play tricks. Now you see me, now you don't. Now you feel me, now you won't. I like to hover. I keep my real parts afloat slightly above my body, far enough to be out of reach and out of context. I wake up asleep. I choose to drown my senses in smoke and haze because I hate hardness. I hate rages and fires and filth. I hate the tar pits of the world because you can't just wade through them. You have to pass by and you have to sink and you have to work your way out with more than just charm, wit, and the gift of appeal.
I've begun sinking. The dream world grows heavy and flashes. There is this drumming and crack. This rolling becomes my thunder, and bangs loudly in the din. My heart always so close to forgetting the rest of me. My heart always so close to love. It beats deeply hoping to cover all my senses in blood and fire. The rage of the heart is poetic and proud. It works unsteadily in me. I am just a few degrees cooler than normal, so I can brush off the tremors and keep my sights from unwinding. There is always something else between us. Us being the eternal object of my affections. A face that changes, a body that fuses differently, a man today, a man for now, a man for the moment.
There comes that moment where we aren't men anymore. We are lines to be drawn. We are silence unspoken. We are apart together and we wear our lies like kisses. We make deep impressions, we fill our voids with ourselves. We can be so many things and yet any moment we can burn down to nothing. The heart shakes it's walls and thumps out it's declarations of blood and fire. It says that this is everything. That this has to mean everything. I find my coolness even in the lover's volcano. I can feel the heat and find comfort. I don't burn. I don't rage. I can't make an everything out of a man.
I know it's me. The underlying secret of it all is me. I lose my ideals early. I feel the empty space that can't be touched. That no man or moment has had the length of arm or emotion to embrace. This vacant space has turned on it's neon sign, but no one is allowed inside. I know it's me. I rest my loving self in the comfort of ideas and the ideas of happiness with another. I pull the curtain back. My vision sharp and reptilian. The snake in me clings to the dragon. The dragon divine gives me glimmers and sensations and visions of the infinite space within and without. It's remote yes, but it's boundless.
A lick of the dragon's tail fills me with dreams and movement. It strikes that perfect pitch beyond and beneath me all at once. It's a silent push toward. It also is the truth about me. The kiss of a moment, on lips inviting and real fills me with dreams yes, and dread. I can curl up and lick and taste the future of an us and a we and a together. I can plan. I can calculate. I can want so much that my good parts just flood out like a fountain. Like a gift. Like a mistake.
If I give and love and create an available personage what will it be worth? A surplus of kisses to mask the distance? An open heart to within the visions of betrayals unseen ? I know it's me. I tend to race. I give up as much as I give out. Perhaps I know the truth about men. Perhaps I know how to catalog a moment honestly. Perhaps I'm all wrong in all ways. My dream world hangs heavy. It's weighed down now when it used to float above. There is no smoke. There is no fire. There is the coolness of myself. My skin sparkles with salt and hard on my chest is the weight of the dragon. The truth about me strikes out like a map. The topography of mistakes I make gets colored at the edge. This territory of endings and beginnings and never endings continues to create itself.
This sadness is living. It is the washing out of all that was and all that will never be. I am the great magician. I alchemize my tears and blood and instability into a future. A future alone or with a man. A future that tastes of dreams and becoming. The dream world falls like tears and rain and sinks itself into view. It is all I can see. It is the truth about me. It is all I can see. This coolness, this need, this magic is me. It is my truth on fire.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
::Wrapping::
The shades of yesterday don't hold me tight. I wash my hair. I let the scabs on my face fall, and am undisturbed by much. There is an empty tinge to the looking back these days. Perhaps in winter I freeze my excess away. I let the world know things that will shut me out of it. I act silently. I say little and much all at the same time. I make myself the bad one for you to to cut off. I let you hate me because it will keep you away. I let you hate me because it's easier than thinking about what it is you do, are, and are about. There is a time for caring. There is a time to caress. There is a time to push everything else aside and just be the security blanket. I am hard and warm like crystal. I know what I have been to you.
I have a way of letting the world forget itself. Forget what it wants, what it was doing, what I mean to it. I have a way of giving myself up to create a comfort cave for others. As time and relationship and love all create this spiral of me I am still growing. Layer under layer under layer there is still more me. More ways to love, and relate. More ways to stick by as the time stretches itself out between us. Things can happen in the middle. Somewhere between the hours and the days I begin to chime. The alarm bells begin to ting.
The desire for sameness turns my head around. I can't be the same thing twice. I can express the same thought in the same way more than once. I can't be this creature that stops peeling the layers because there is so much more of me that needs to be let out. The skins of my past will constantly unfurl themselves. Opening themselves up to the new. New ways to love and relate. New ways to lose myself. New ways to see yesterday.
In life we are all betrayers. We pray and hope for longevity. We crave the steady job, a constant care, loves that don't die, friends that stay best forever. We crave the simplicity of forever. That all we know will always be there and be the same. That we have something just ours that signifies what we are worth in the world in a way that doesn't change. I get cold and harder edged. Forever isn't something I crave. I crave the knowing. The honest moment. The real. What's real is that all things change. What's real is that I made a choice one night. I chose to stop loving you the way I did. I don't need sameness, but fairness would be kind. As I pull out the layers and layers of me, of the past, of the truth it made things easier. It makes all this true. I can stop. I have stopped. I have washed you out of me.
The stains of what was our life will never sparkle, and they shouldn't. I try to hold the parts of you that are clear and perfect. I try to hold the parts of us that are truly love and transcendent. A new year hits things hard. I rinse my scabs everyday. I wear them out, unbandaged to feel the sting of the cold air. I've never been really good at holding on to many people. I am gifted at letting them make me the villain. I do what I can to let them hate me at the end, so they don't have to face my truths, my words, my judgement. I let them define the time to go, so I can slip away and forget. Forget everything that we were and are in the world. Forget the feelings, the history, the life of whatever we did, were doing, would ever possibly do.
I wrap myself up, in layer upon layer of me. It's an emotional hibernation of sorts. The comfort of my own coolness pleases me. My eyes turn wistful and inwardly dreamy. I'll cocoon myself inside myself and redraw my heartlines. I will be new again when the scabs all fall away. I'll have no memory of what mattered today because tomorrow there will be more. More time, more love, more ways to relate in the newness beneath these layers.
I have a way of letting the world forget itself. Forget what it wants, what it was doing, what I mean to it. I have a way of giving myself up to create a comfort cave for others. As time and relationship and love all create this spiral of me I am still growing. Layer under layer under layer there is still more me. More ways to love, and relate. More ways to stick by as the time stretches itself out between us. Things can happen in the middle. Somewhere between the hours and the days I begin to chime. The alarm bells begin to ting.
The desire for sameness turns my head around. I can't be the same thing twice. I can express the same thought in the same way more than once. I can't be this creature that stops peeling the layers because there is so much more of me that needs to be let out. The skins of my past will constantly unfurl themselves. Opening themselves up to the new. New ways to love and relate. New ways to lose myself. New ways to see yesterday.
In life we are all betrayers. We pray and hope for longevity. We crave the steady job, a constant care, loves that don't die, friends that stay best forever. We crave the simplicity of forever. That all we know will always be there and be the same. That we have something just ours that signifies what we are worth in the world in a way that doesn't change. I get cold and harder edged. Forever isn't something I crave. I crave the knowing. The honest moment. The real. What's real is that all things change. What's real is that I made a choice one night. I chose to stop loving you the way I did. I don't need sameness, but fairness would be kind. As I pull out the layers and layers of me, of the past, of the truth it made things easier. It makes all this true. I can stop. I have stopped. I have washed you out of me.
The stains of what was our life will never sparkle, and they shouldn't. I try to hold the parts of you that are clear and perfect. I try to hold the parts of us that are truly love and transcendent. A new year hits things hard. I rinse my scabs everyday. I wear them out, unbandaged to feel the sting of the cold air. I've never been really good at holding on to many people. I am gifted at letting them make me the villain. I do what I can to let them hate me at the end, so they don't have to face my truths, my words, my judgement. I let them define the time to go, so I can slip away and forget. Forget everything that we were and are in the world. Forget the feelings, the history, the life of whatever we did, were doing, would ever possibly do.
I wrap myself up, in layer upon layer of me. It's an emotional hibernation of sorts. The comfort of my own coolness pleases me. My eyes turn wistful and inwardly dreamy. I'll cocoon myself inside myself and redraw my heartlines. I will be new again when the scabs all fall away. I'll have no memory of what mattered today because tomorrow there will be more. More time, more love, more ways to relate in the newness beneath these layers.
Monday, December 5, 2011
::Tick and Tock::
Time is the maker. The days spill forward and we move out. There is this eternal tick and tock. It silently rattles at the tips of the fingers. It links around each toe and makes the eyes at once heavy and yet awake. I've never been good at keeping time. I've never been good at keeping things close to my chest. My fingers get cold at the tips.They tuck themselves into a set of pockets and with a shoulder lift they press in close to the body and are moved on. Lead forward by the toe connected foot, with the ankle turning sideways or plainly away from things that fail to stay warm. The passage of time is bewildering. I can feel the change, feel my motivations in some areas get stronger and others just fall away unimportant. I've never been quite sure what it is I am capable of. I am good at stretching myself out and testing things.
I test their solidity. I test their verve. Their resolve. I envelope around the faces and facts I find interesting or amusing. As a child I tinkered with the ideas and consciousness of others. I whispered temptations in their ear, dared them to jump fire ropes and lead them anywhere they'd seemed afraid to go. I feared others then. I feared the world around me. I found myself trapped in an arena of youth with very little to play with and very little that seemed in my control. I grew upwards as we all do. I stopped playing. I grew quiet. I disappeared. I left myself, my head, my own consciousness. I was haunted by shapes and shades with no will or resolve of my own. I became a survivalist. I spent my nights hunting realities that weren't real and weren't mine.
Time passes always ticking the nerves...I can't live in delusion so somehow I wake myself up. I find myself in a place of lack. I lack identity. I lack substance. I lack my own verve. I begin again. Plodding through shades and shadows of me I can't remember or don't recognize. I spend my days drowning and alone. I martyred myself then. Threw myself into demonstrating and giving and constancy in giving and spreading and being for others because I had no spirit for myself. I had no solid self to be. I become a mimic. I become a mime. I paint my face with the colors of others because it's easy to play pretend. It's easy to sleep alone when tranquilized. It's easy to bury yourself when your time in body is graven and empty.
Time becomes a tomb. Existing in pieces easily broken up by wild nights and drugs and dreams of things so simple that you can't be touched by truth. One day an alarm goes off. You wake up again. Somehow you're ready. Sometime when you weren't looking you filled yourself up and you breathe into yourself and feel you breathing. Feel you being, and at this point you know nothing is the same...but you play pretend some more because you aren't ready to get up. You frighten yourself. Your possibilities are frightening. So you let yourself be a slave to the experience of others to take the time away...to waste the time. You cover up your fullness and you get taken. You get taken advantage of. Someone comes with a soft sided glove to make you close your eyes. Then their iron fist breaks itself deep on your heart and takes your choices away.
As the chest piece caves itself in I wake up again. I abandon my body, my broken heart, my empty choices and the shattered mask I still can't put down. I cultivated nothing but my own aloneness. I learn how to avoid leaning on anyone. I learn how to give and withhold and love and be loved with my hand up dictating the arms length distance I always keep. I learn the beauty of tears and the pleasures of being hazy. I learn to wear a veil. I let the world see through to the surface because I know I need it. I need it to exist, but I can't love it fully. My heart becomes wrapped in steely tension lines. Cold and thorny and pressing into the flesh continually to remind me not to trust. Not to let go. Not to open up.
I become a bubble thing. Insulated by the pleasures of separation and the slight ability for genius on a reachable level to operate automatically in the world around and about me but never let it in. Never let it into my own. I don't know if it is time that made it. I don't know if I innately was always making this world so rich, and deep, and endless that I am sometimes scared to sleep because I think it will swallow me whole. That I won't come back. That I won't wake up and never have given myself the chance to cultivate something outside of my endlessness. If time is a reconciler it is quite tricksy.
The past is an easy map to maneuver because it's already happened. The future is so far removed that I barely think on it but the present unwraps itself everyday. Unfolding surprises we don't expect because we feel we are fully under our own control. Something happens. A click, a whistle, a tick and tock inside that punches holes in our stories and sticks pins through our patterns. We wake up again. I never felt lucky when this happens because there is always a loss. A loss of an identifier we became used to. The loss of a story we liked to live by. We lose a sense of what is absolute.
For me, sometimes those losses seem huge because I have given up my identity so many times that I hold what I know very close to me. I have a hard time keeping things close to my chest once there has been a turn around. Though this turn brings out my blueness and melancholic tendency I rattle at the bones and find a way to move forwards. Perhaps this is time as desire. Letting go of my old skins and dreams for newer realities and temperatures.
There is a fear here. Deep and wide and seemingly endless, like the world I've made at the core of me. I dig my hands deep in my pockets, I look upward and out and silently hope to myself to stay awake this time as I move forward. Afraid of others or afraid of me or afraid of the world as it were, but if I can keep my dreaming self even half awake I might just cultivate that reality I so desire to have. Something I can look back on whenever my time begins to run out and see it's full beauty and the endlessness beneath and to be pleased to know that it truly was all mine.
I test their solidity. I test their verve. Their resolve. I envelope around the faces and facts I find interesting or amusing. As a child I tinkered with the ideas and consciousness of others. I whispered temptations in their ear, dared them to jump fire ropes and lead them anywhere they'd seemed afraid to go. I feared others then. I feared the world around me. I found myself trapped in an arena of youth with very little to play with and very little that seemed in my control. I grew upwards as we all do. I stopped playing. I grew quiet. I disappeared. I left myself, my head, my own consciousness. I was haunted by shapes and shades with no will or resolve of my own. I became a survivalist. I spent my nights hunting realities that weren't real and weren't mine.
Time passes always ticking the nerves...I can't live in delusion so somehow I wake myself up. I find myself in a place of lack. I lack identity. I lack substance. I lack my own verve. I begin again. Plodding through shades and shadows of me I can't remember or don't recognize. I spend my days drowning and alone. I martyred myself then. Threw myself into demonstrating and giving and constancy in giving and spreading and being for others because I had no spirit for myself. I had no solid self to be. I become a mimic. I become a mime. I paint my face with the colors of others because it's easy to play pretend. It's easy to sleep alone when tranquilized. It's easy to bury yourself when your time in body is graven and empty.
Time becomes a tomb. Existing in pieces easily broken up by wild nights and drugs and dreams of things so simple that you can't be touched by truth. One day an alarm goes off. You wake up again. Somehow you're ready. Sometime when you weren't looking you filled yourself up and you breathe into yourself and feel you breathing. Feel you being, and at this point you know nothing is the same...but you play pretend some more because you aren't ready to get up. You frighten yourself. Your possibilities are frightening. So you let yourself be a slave to the experience of others to take the time away...to waste the time. You cover up your fullness and you get taken. You get taken advantage of. Someone comes with a soft sided glove to make you close your eyes. Then their iron fist breaks itself deep on your heart and takes your choices away.
As the chest piece caves itself in I wake up again. I abandon my body, my broken heart, my empty choices and the shattered mask I still can't put down. I cultivated nothing but my own aloneness. I learn how to avoid leaning on anyone. I learn how to give and withhold and love and be loved with my hand up dictating the arms length distance I always keep. I learn the beauty of tears and the pleasures of being hazy. I learn to wear a veil. I let the world see through to the surface because I know I need it. I need it to exist, but I can't love it fully. My heart becomes wrapped in steely tension lines. Cold and thorny and pressing into the flesh continually to remind me not to trust. Not to let go. Not to open up.
I become a bubble thing. Insulated by the pleasures of separation and the slight ability for genius on a reachable level to operate automatically in the world around and about me but never let it in. Never let it into my own. I don't know if it is time that made it. I don't know if I innately was always making this world so rich, and deep, and endless that I am sometimes scared to sleep because I think it will swallow me whole. That I won't come back. That I won't wake up and never have given myself the chance to cultivate something outside of my endlessness. If time is a reconciler it is quite tricksy.
The past is an easy map to maneuver because it's already happened. The future is so far removed that I barely think on it but the present unwraps itself everyday. Unfolding surprises we don't expect because we feel we are fully under our own control. Something happens. A click, a whistle, a tick and tock inside that punches holes in our stories and sticks pins through our patterns. We wake up again. I never felt lucky when this happens because there is always a loss. A loss of an identifier we became used to. The loss of a story we liked to live by. We lose a sense of what is absolute.
For me, sometimes those losses seem huge because I have given up my identity so many times that I hold what I know very close to me. I have a hard time keeping things close to my chest once there has been a turn around. Though this turn brings out my blueness and melancholic tendency I rattle at the bones and find a way to move forwards. Perhaps this is time as desire. Letting go of my old skins and dreams for newer realities and temperatures.
There is a fear here. Deep and wide and seemingly endless, like the world I've made at the core of me. I dig my hands deep in my pockets, I look upward and out and silently hope to myself to stay awake this time as I move forward. Afraid of others or afraid of me or afraid of the world as it were, but if I can keep my dreaming self even half awake I might just cultivate that reality I so desire to have. Something I can look back on whenever my time begins to run out and see it's full beauty and the endlessness beneath and to be pleased to know that it truly was all mine.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
::Sacraments in Blue::
A monumental occurrence a few weeks back is remembered tonight. Memory is where I begin to let all of it go. Life has a tendency to happen. Not the life we live everyday, but the musical life. The pacing of heart strings. The staccato of taking the steps towards something big. Something real and removed from the maudlin melodies of our everyday. I love to dance. I live for music and the musicality of moments, of life, of being. We all have our strengths. We all have our methods. We all have our fall back graces.
I have been told that I change the air where I go. I bring with me a natural ease of being, of voice, of openness. I am a free form bridge to whatever melody I happen to pick up and put my hands on. This day, it was you. Everything starts innocently enough doesn't it? A barrage of conversation to intrigue, to invite, to line up the possible, to lie about our intentions. Days speed steady and then I arrive.
You open the door to your home, your world, your heart without realizing it yet. I glaze over, to hide all this from myself. I never know if I'm interested in more than what makes me curious. The sound of the new and unfamiliar, the novelty of fresh company, of an unknown body of compositions still unplayed and unspoiled. Tonight, it was you and I was surprised. Your sounds matched mine beat by beat and note by note. The chords were struck heavy and hard. A natural ease spread between us like sugar powder falling on the folds of an irresistible cake. I do have a sweet tooth.
There is something very familiar about all this...but I brush it off and focus on the new. I have a particular way about me. I sit still, I speak evenly, I give very little but spread something deep into the air. It opens your your chest, relaxes, strokes, lays you open. A melody unregistered, not played intentionally, but it is there. It folds out under our words, the outstretching of our fingers, through the scales of our stories and the comfort that builds between our bodies. Tonight, it's us.
The hours race by. It's getting later and later and we are ready to sleep. The scent of blue roses haunts your room. A smell I am very familiar with from a magic I know very well. The smell and sound of smoke and breath and laughter soaks the spaces between your fingers with sadness. The sadness is my own. I let you kiss me. We roll around. I am not breaking any of my rules. We are lit up by a blue light shining out from the center of the bed. The bed becomes a temple. It seals the beginning of our composition. We are really here. We are really feeling something. I've really done it now.
Through your bodies pulses and pressings you are hot like cinders freezing in the blue. The sadness strikes me solidly. My skin flushes with goosebumps and anticipation as you release a sea of moist notes. They seal the end of things in the body, the beginning of things in the heart, that then begin the focus of your eyes on me. The scent of blue roses hangs itself heavy with silence and mood. You look at me now, with deepness. I betray myself with agreements. I only speak the truth. I am here. I am here with you now. There is always that place beneath that knows I am a creature hard to secure. I know it's there, and I think you do too.
I do love the way you feel. Your eyes. Your hands. Your kisses. All of this makes me comfortable because attractions I am good at. Desires are easy. They aren't fixed. I know how to charm, create a world of fire and mystery and curiosity. I try not to see where this is going. I try not to hear all our inner connections playing out for each other because there is so much more happening than either of us want or expect.
The magical blue knew before I did. I didn't for a second see this coming. The room's ablaze in blue. It is a testament to need. We lay bare and intertwined and together because that night it was only us. The light at the center of the room becomes a blanket and in it I let myself fall in a way I've never really let myself fall before. I close my eyes listening to a symphony of your snores. I sink into the calm and forget the sadness that hangs in the air. We lay bare, intertwined, and together in a room of blue. All these blue visions, blue dreams, and that blue light. We are centered and surrounded by it. We sleep inside the eye of the hurricane and whether we knew it then or not everything had been illuminated.
I have been told that I change the air where I go. I bring with me a natural ease of being, of voice, of openness. I am a free form bridge to whatever melody I happen to pick up and put my hands on. This day, it was you. Everything starts innocently enough doesn't it? A barrage of conversation to intrigue, to invite, to line up the possible, to lie about our intentions. Days speed steady and then I arrive.
You open the door to your home, your world, your heart without realizing it yet. I glaze over, to hide all this from myself. I never know if I'm interested in more than what makes me curious. The sound of the new and unfamiliar, the novelty of fresh company, of an unknown body of compositions still unplayed and unspoiled. Tonight, it was you and I was surprised. Your sounds matched mine beat by beat and note by note. The chords were struck heavy and hard. A natural ease spread between us like sugar powder falling on the folds of an irresistible cake. I do have a sweet tooth.
There is something very familiar about all this...but I brush it off and focus on the new. I have a particular way about me. I sit still, I speak evenly, I give very little but spread something deep into the air. It opens your your chest, relaxes, strokes, lays you open. A melody unregistered, not played intentionally, but it is there. It folds out under our words, the outstretching of our fingers, through the scales of our stories and the comfort that builds between our bodies. Tonight, it's us.
The hours race by. It's getting later and later and we are ready to sleep. The scent of blue roses haunts your room. A smell I am very familiar with from a magic I know very well. The smell and sound of smoke and breath and laughter soaks the spaces between your fingers with sadness. The sadness is my own. I let you kiss me. We roll around. I am not breaking any of my rules. We are lit up by a blue light shining out from the center of the bed. The bed becomes a temple. It seals the beginning of our composition. We are really here. We are really feeling something. I've really done it now.
Through your bodies pulses and pressings you are hot like cinders freezing in the blue. The sadness strikes me solidly. My skin flushes with goosebumps and anticipation as you release a sea of moist notes. They seal the end of things in the body, the beginning of things in the heart, that then begin the focus of your eyes on me. The scent of blue roses hangs itself heavy with silence and mood. You look at me now, with deepness. I betray myself with agreements. I only speak the truth. I am here. I am here with you now. There is always that place beneath that knows I am a creature hard to secure. I know it's there, and I think you do too.
I do love the way you feel. Your eyes. Your hands. Your kisses. All of this makes me comfortable because attractions I am good at. Desires are easy. They aren't fixed. I know how to charm, create a world of fire and mystery and curiosity. I try not to see where this is going. I try not to hear all our inner connections playing out for each other because there is so much more happening than either of us want or expect.
The magical blue knew before I did. I didn't for a second see this coming. The room's ablaze in blue. It is a testament to need. We lay bare and intertwined and together because that night it was only us. The light at the center of the room becomes a blanket and in it I let myself fall in a way I've never really let myself fall before. I close my eyes listening to a symphony of your snores. I sink into the calm and forget the sadness that hangs in the air. We lay bare, intertwined, and together in a room of blue. All these blue visions, blue dreams, and that blue light. We are centered and surrounded by it. We sleep inside the eye of the hurricane and whether we knew it then or not everything had been illuminated.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
::Hands::
The conditions of my conditioning lack focus. I am full of blurred lines and bottomless hope. I've never really gotten involved in anything. I have a talent for floating. I give the importance to others. I breathe when I am close and that breath gives the illusion of weight. I am a constant mover. I hover over many spaces at the same time ready at any moment to drop my hands. To fold at the table of life and of love because the illusion of freedom satisfies. Each breath becomes a dance. The bluff, the mask, the conversation, the dream.
I play with a full deck that tends to switch suits. The jokers are wild and I become flush with fools and foolishly I hold this hand steady. I give myself the room to be tempted to make the quick decision. I give myself the room to make the wrong choice. I give myself the permission to take the easy way out. I lick my lips and smile. Put on my bravest face and gingerly excuse myself from the table. I decide I don't like the game. The pace is too slow. The chatter of the other players grates the nerves or feels like an anchor of complications too heavy to chain myself to.
I've been known to champion the losing odds. To stay on ships faithfully when I know they are built to sink. I carry the foolish knack for wasting time, or losing time because I can lose myself so easily. If I breathe deeply enough I'll get lost in the sound and tempo of the air. I can watch the ocean and become it for awhile. I can turn away and pull you into me all at the same time. There are all these feelings. They flow like rivers burnt by the past. The mistakes that sunk deep and scarred, the things I chose instead, the things I can never forget, the armor I decorate fresh and fully everyday.
These feelings dance like my own shadow. The faint flicker of movement I try to hide myself in. Worlds of words and emptiness with so much promise. I paint myself in the colors of the flame. I pull the blue center out and blanket myself in it's center. As my pulse rushes the heat begins create something bigger. Something that isn't just mine anymore. I feel myself choosing. I hear myself say Yes! Yes I choose you...I can have you...Yes. The word echoes as I spark all over. The taste of skin soaked in fantasy spreads behind my eyes. I lay glazed in lacy moods and purity. The purity of the this me.
This me full of desires. This me that's wanting to be close. The one that wants something bigger that isn't just mine to choose. I shiver and shrink. My impulses can lead me into things I can't forget. There are things I can barely remember that become whispers on my frame. Lightly stinging the spaces between my fingers because I held the wrong cards so long they've sliced clean through. I can be my own trick. I move in dreams as currency, like breathing, they are my existence and my home. I seek out the real experience. I am attracted to it's flux and unsteadiness. I let it see me. I stand in front of it a smiling mirage. I am so light and uninvolved and delicate like the candles flame. I let it choose me.
Choices are made quickly. I wrap myself up in the experience. My body soaks in every word, breath, heartbeat until I am so deeply inside the shape of things I can almost get lost in it. I heat up with fever and the desire for more. It is here where I get nervous. I look around for that solitary space where I can see the idea of freedom at all times. I look for the window as things begin to flare up. I hastily throw it open and let all the cold air fill this shape with distance. I look for reasons to drop my hands, to disappear, to pull away.
The joker is wild. The wild card is unpredictable. The space to love gets clouded by you and me and everything else that has happened before we were anything. Before we were bodies in the same room, or conversations on the telephone line. I spend most of my life passing time with nothing and no one. I live with the shades and shadows of myself like branches on a tree. I can separate from each and every part at anytime and I let all this happens now. I twist and turn away because I want to burn. I want to get lost in the flames and forget all I have ever learned, all I have ever been and all these games I have overplayed.
I realize that yes, I can want you. Yes, you can be something. Yes, we can do this. I don't know how to drop my hands. I don't know how to handle the heat or let myself be fully involved. I don't know how to be in the space for loving and not try to make my own separate space at the same time. I am tired of all my company. The nothing and no ones I pass my time with. I have to pull myself out of the shade and just let something happen. Something bigger than myself can happen and it won't just be up to me choose. It won't just be mine...it will be something new. It will be OURS.
I play with a full deck that tends to switch suits. The jokers are wild and I become flush with fools and foolishly I hold this hand steady. I give myself the room to be tempted to make the quick decision. I give myself the room to make the wrong choice. I give myself the permission to take the easy way out. I lick my lips and smile. Put on my bravest face and gingerly excuse myself from the table. I decide I don't like the game. The pace is too slow. The chatter of the other players grates the nerves or feels like an anchor of complications too heavy to chain myself to.
I've been known to champion the losing odds. To stay on ships faithfully when I know they are built to sink. I carry the foolish knack for wasting time, or losing time because I can lose myself so easily. If I breathe deeply enough I'll get lost in the sound and tempo of the air. I can watch the ocean and become it for awhile. I can turn away and pull you into me all at the same time. There are all these feelings. They flow like rivers burnt by the past. The mistakes that sunk deep and scarred, the things I chose instead, the things I can never forget, the armor I decorate fresh and fully everyday.
These feelings dance like my own shadow. The faint flicker of movement I try to hide myself in. Worlds of words and emptiness with so much promise. I paint myself in the colors of the flame. I pull the blue center out and blanket myself in it's center. As my pulse rushes the heat begins create something bigger. Something that isn't just mine anymore. I feel myself choosing. I hear myself say Yes! Yes I choose you...I can have you...Yes. The word echoes as I spark all over. The taste of skin soaked in fantasy spreads behind my eyes. I lay glazed in lacy moods and purity. The purity of the this me.
This me full of desires. This me that's wanting to be close. The one that wants something bigger that isn't just mine to choose. I shiver and shrink. My impulses can lead me into things I can't forget. There are things I can barely remember that become whispers on my frame. Lightly stinging the spaces between my fingers because I held the wrong cards so long they've sliced clean through. I can be my own trick. I move in dreams as currency, like breathing, they are my existence and my home. I seek out the real experience. I am attracted to it's flux and unsteadiness. I let it see me. I stand in front of it a smiling mirage. I am so light and uninvolved and delicate like the candles flame. I let it choose me.
Choices are made quickly. I wrap myself up in the experience. My body soaks in every word, breath, heartbeat until I am so deeply inside the shape of things I can almost get lost in it. I heat up with fever and the desire for more. It is here where I get nervous. I look around for that solitary space where I can see the idea of freedom at all times. I look for the window as things begin to flare up. I hastily throw it open and let all the cold air fill this shape with distance. I look for reasons to drop my hands, to disappear, to pull away.
The joker is wild. The wild card is unpredictable. The space to love gets clouded by you and me and everything else that has happened before we were anything. Before we were bodies in the same room, or conversations on the telephone line. I spend most of my life passing time with nothing and no one. I live with the shades and shadows of myself like branches on a tree. I can separate from each and every part at anytime and I let all this happens now. I twist and turn away because I want to burn. I want to get lost in the flames and forget all I have ever learned, all I have ever been and all these games I have overplayed.
I realize that yes, I can want you. Yes, you can be something. Yes, we can do this. I don't know how to drop my hands. I don't know how to handle the heat or let myself be fully involved. I don't know how to be in the space for loving and not try to make my own separate space at the same time. I am tired of all my company. The nothing and no ones I pass my time with. I have to pull myself out of the shade and just let something happen. Something bigger than myself can happen and it won't just be up to me choose. It won't just be mine...it will be something new. It will be OURS.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
::S.O.S.::
We are all a body. Just one unit made of pieces and parts, contrasts and simplicity. One heart, one set of lungs, one brain, one design. Each part covers another. Each supports the whole or the sum of itself interdependently. We move ourselves, our real selves independent of our bodies. Our complexities float above our body. We associate the heart with love and feeling, loss and breakage. Our stomachs are where our cravings and hungers rumble. The instruments of our sex spurn us forward desirously but our bodies are simple. A simple untimed step can lead to paralysis. A twist in the wrong direction can pop a vertebrae. Following the wrong sorts of cravings can lead to heart, liver, or venereal disease. We are built like antiques. We can improve and white wash and restructure ourselves, but we are all built of the same bulk. The same bones hold the same joints that are covered in the same skin we keep for however long our lives will be.
I am in my body although I don't usually live in it. I float through the worlds beyond what holds me to the here and now. I am fragments encased in skin with nerves that tick and twitch. In my structure I try to make the right choices. Eat healthy, minimize my general risk, do what's right. I am both grand and slight in demeanor. My body lean, long limbed, fluid. I appear taller than I am. I hold attentions longer than most. I pull people towards me intimately. I live my real life in the interior world. I see bodies and bumps, but have my eyes fixed on the spaces beneath. I am intense. I am liquid. I am watching.
I coil and uncoil myself. Wrapping in and up around my heart's center. I try to make the right choices. Hold tightly, release, live and let live. I try to see the possible. I try to honor the now. I try to escape the body's pangs. I get smaller. I begin to shrink in my skin. I know choices must be made before this world disappears. This world created with silk and promise. The promise becomes a prison, the prison becomes a lie, and if I look really closely all I see are the bare bones that cover a shivering heart.
The body is a prison. It reflects no light. It can't stay warm on it's own. It isn't self sustaining. We live our real lives virtually unaware of our bodies unless they are failing us. If we don't see the shape we want to see in the mirror, if we are in pain, or miss the skin we had yesterday. We fall prey to it's limitations. We get tired, overstimulated, underdeveloped. We have hopes that we will endure. That today's troubles will melt away tomorrow if we rest. We hope that the ideals we set can be achieved with by doing what seems right.
Love becomes a prison. It isn't well lit. It can't manage to keep itself warm. It doesn't self sustain. It moves from the point of importance and becomes a process. A set of choices made based on the best of intentions: love purely, move forward, and just let it be become the proverbs written in the veins. The hands reach out and touch multitudes of skin cells, and bodies, and comfort foods a day. We look for this food, or fuel and deeper still we are looking for a jolt.
Something to deepen the breath and create the ease we crave in our bodies. That place to put all our good intentions while we process our pasts and our presents in the sea of movement and ignorance. I like the intimacies. I live for the unguarded moment. I am irrational. I can be attracted or repelled and that's where I begin. The silent movement of my body towards or away from an experience. I try to make the right choices. Follow your heart, be patient, be aware. I am a slave to the moment. I use my body as an instrument. I wrap my long limbs around what is appealing and let it take me further.
I make the choice to dream. I dream myself forward and backward on the wave of what is temporary yes. It's quick, it's intense, it's wonderful, and it's nothing. I betray my prisoner's heart for a dream. I watch my body get smaller and I don't like it. I want bigger things and fuller pleasures. This world made of silk and promise is drying up. It's light begins to dim, it grows cold, and it isn't made to self sustain. The angels sing to it now. They play their synths and trumpets but dare not make it rain.
Like Atlantis it's body becomes too heavy to stay afloat. It is overflowing with thought forms and the unresolved fragments of a world built on the best of intentions in a body too small to hold up the mass. It will sink. It will disappear. It won't be forgotten and one day it will be discovered again. The silken threads cleared away and columns standing tall on the right kind of foundation for a future complex. Maybe then we will have new bodies and we'll give the angels a reason to sing again. The synths and trumpets play out their funereal ballads. The songs wash over the land once know as Eden that must be left behind.
The ideal choices hurt no one. The best choices tend to lean to the right. The right choices can sometimes leave one totally empty, but in the space that's left behind we can fill ourselves again. Find new reasons to love. Find ourselves new foods and fuels and better cravings. Our bodies are simple but they are ours. Ours to sink or swim with and I want to start swimming again. I just want to swim.
.
I am in my body although I don't usually live in it. I float through the worlds beyond what holds me to the here and now. I am fragments encased in skin with nerves that tick and twitch. In my structure I try to make the right choices. Eat healthy, minimize my general risk, do what's right. I am both grand and slight in demeanor. My body lean, long limbed, fluid. I appear taller than I am. I hold attentions longer than most. I pull people towards me intimately. I live my real life in the interior world. I see bodies and bumps, but have my eyes fixed on the spaces beneath. I am intense. I am liquid. I am watching.
I coil and uncoil myself. Wrapping in and up around my heart's center. I try to make the right choices. Hold tightly, release, live and let live. I try to see the possible. I try to honor the now. I try to escape the body's pangs. I get smaller. I begin to shrink in my skin. I know choices must be made before this world disappears. This world created with silk and promise. The promise becomes a prison, the prison becomes a lie, and if I look really closely all I see are the bare bones that cover a shivering heart.
The body is a prison. It reflects no light. It can't stay warm on it's own. It isn't self sustaining. We live our real lives virtually unaware of our bodies unless they are failing us. If we don't see the shape we want to see in the mirror, if we are in pain, or miss the skin we had yesterday. We fall prey to it's limitations. We get tired, overstimulated, underdeveloped. We have hopes that we will endure. That today's troubles will melt away tomorrow if we rest. We hope that the ideals we set can be achieved with by doing what seems right.
Love becomes a prison. It isn't well lit. It can't manage to keep itself warm. It doesn't self sustain. It moves from the point of importance and becomes a process. A set of choices made based on the best of intentions: love purely, move forward, and just let it be become the proverbs written in the veins. The hands reach out and touch multitudes of skin cells, and bodies, and comfort foods a day. We look for this food, or fuel and deeper still we are looking for a jolt.
Something to deepen the breath and create the ease we crave in our bodies. That place to put all our good intentions while we process our pasts and our presents in the sea of movement and ignorance. I like the intimacies. I live for the unguarded moment. I am irrational. I can be attracted or repelled and that's where I begin. The silent movement of my body towards or away from an experience. I try to make the right choices. Follow your heart, be patient, be aware. I am a slave to the moment. I use my body as an instrument. I wrap my long limbs around what is appealing and let it take me further.
I make the choice to dream. I dream myself forward and backward on the wave of what is temporary yes. It's quick, it's intense, it's wonderful, and it's nothing. I betray my prisoner's heart for a dream. I watch my body get smaller and I don't like it. I want bigger things and fuller pleasures. This world made of silk and promise is drying up. It's light begins to dim, it grows cold, and it isn't made to self sustain. The angels sing to it now. They play their synths and trumpets but dare not make it rain.
Like Atlantis it's body becomes too heavy to stay afloat. It is overflowing with thought forms and the unresolved fragments of a world built on the best of intentions in a body too small to hold up the mass. It will sink. It will disappear. It won't be forgotten and one day it will be discovered again. The silken threads cleared away and columns standing tall on the right kind of foundation for a future complex. Maybe then we will have new bodies and we'll give the angels a reason to sing again. The synths and trumpets play out their funereal ballads. The songs wash over the land once know as Eden that must be left behind.
The ideal choices hurt no one. The best choices tend to lean to the right. The right choices can sometimes leave one totally empty, but in the space that's left behind we can fill ourselves again. Find new reasons to love. Find ourselves new foods and fuels and better cravings. Our bodies are simple but they are ours. Ours to sink or swim with and I want to start swimming again. I just want to swim.
.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
::Messages::
The flaring of signals does beam unintentionally. The body moves in unspoken language. It invites to hold while it makes a place that is safe and solid. A kiss involves an open mouth surrounding and enveloping anothers. Messages are sent across the lines the tongue draws from your mouth to the theirs. We move, we breathe, we hold then release and as love envelopes each and every pacing there still is one true thing steadily communicated: it's all an illusion.
We're here today, tomorrow, and next week. Opportunities to pull close are ever present as we pull away. I hold true and fast to my systemic beliefs. I live unfazed by the gamble. I hold true because I have one line of sight. One target alone that matters in my heart space. The messages are pumped through me with my blood. It keeps the spark even when the bombs are going off in my head, stomach, and telephone line. Is this what being a romantic is? The ability to sacrifice all logic for an ideal? I never knew I was this capable of ignoring so many things. That they wouldn't matter as they would have before. But there is one thing being sent through the airwaves: it's all temporary.
I'm here today, tomorrow, and next week. I hold myself out unselfishly because I have nothing to lose from where I am. This building allows shifts in the blueprint. There is still room for this in my plans. There is still space to carry on in my heart. The calender days turn one after the other. Each filled with newness and decision scripted onto the plan. I feel myself surround myself cocooning. If I focus on transformation and creating will everything be different? Will I wake up one day with new organs, new capacities for feeling, new flesh? Will there be an awakening in the world outside myself that clicks inside my new skin? I hear the steady buzz through the power line that says you are mine. We are here and together and building something magical. Static electricity crackles at my hairline whispering: it's all uncertain.
And it is...and you are...and our circumstances may be so, but my heart pumps different songs that my blood keeps singing. Forming this new flesh, new organ, new capacity involves trusting. Trusting in the things I feel, and am building. The unspoken languages held inside the body are my volumes and I read them over as the calender days turn today, tomorrow, and next week. Singular in focus and with one target in mind I beam myself out unselfishly in trust while the bombs go off in my head, stomach, and network line. I hold true to the ideal...romantically.
We're here today, tomorrow, and next week. Opportunities to pull close are ever present as we pull away. I hold true and fast to my systemic beliefs. I live unfazed by the gamble. I hold true because I have one line of sight. One target alone that matters in my heart space. The messages are pumped through me with my blood. It keeps the spark even when the bombs are going off in my head, stomach, and telephone line. Is this what being a romantic is? The ability to sacrifice all logic for an ideal? I never knew I was this capable of ignoring so many things. That they wouldn't matter as they would have before. But there is one thing being sent through the airwaves: it's all temporary.
I'm here today, tomorrow, and next week. I hold myself out unselfishly because I have nothing to lose from where I am. This building allows shifts in the blueprint. There is still room for this in my plans. There is still space to carry on in my heart. The calender days turn one after the other. Each filled with newness and decision scripted onto the plan. I feel myself surround myself cocooning. If I focus on transformation and creating will everything be different? Will I wake up one day with new organs, new capacities for feeling, new flesh? Will there be an awakening in the world outside myself that clicks inside my new skin? I hear the steady buzz through the power line that says you are mine. We are here and together and building something magical. Static electricity crackles at my hairline whispering: it's all uncertain.
And it is...and you are...and our circumstances may be so, but my heart pumps different songs that my blood keeps singing. Forming this new flesh, new organ, new capacity involves trusting. Trusting in the things I feel, and am building. The unspoken languages held inside the body are my volumes and I read them over as the calender days turn today, tomorrow, and next week. Singular in focus and with one target in mind I beam myself out unselfishly in trust while the bombs go off in my head, stomach, and network line. I hold true to the ideal...romantically.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
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