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.
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