Disarray is how we follow through
Disassociation of ions
oil and water
separate
separate
separate
get out now
before the structural integrity is lost
long gone,
all gone,
go away
stay away
when you're gone
you are so far gone
and I cannot stand to see you back-
but wait a minute
then you will see
it is not about the you,
the me.
A flimsy attempt at something like
the migration flight of so many senses
and insensible actions
I don't trust you
can't trust you
can't trust you
won't trust you
can you taste the fear?
no trust
no trust
no truth
I don't believe there is any thing better out there
as any better thing slips your mind
and you get lost in your grand design
Who are you when you are not with me?
deception, lies
misconception, cries
tell me
tell me
I want to know
and even if it is something different
each and every time
then the singular grain of truth is worth so much more
than a decades worth of lies.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
Introspective storm
Last night,
the rain drummed a lullaby
sending the world to sleep.
~
I will admit
that I did not desire
exit from this conscious world
and only relinquished my grasp therein
after an arduous journey
entangling myself
in something like dreams.
~
He says he is alive and well.
That they are treating him excellently.
But I notice the script,
hidden behind the newspaper,
that is verification for the date:
September 14, 2009.
They want something.
They are using him
as the salt in our wounds.
~
My dreams are innocent and frightening
I meet people with whom I have only ever spoken
and I know them as they are.
The weather is grey, rainy,
introspective.
We are in Boston
but it looks like Chicago,
and there are patrol boats in the river
that borders the college stadium,
almost like SeaWorld,
where we have gathered to watch the game
on two huge television sets.
I am with a friend who left in August,
and I see her,
without a difference discernible between then and now.
And I am so confused about why we are at a football game,
and why there are patrol boats,
white, zooming through the water,
soaking bystanders in their wake,
and Why there is woman's voice from above
calmly repeating
"Do not panic, this is only a test,
Please, continue to watch the game."
~
Upon awakening,
I pause for a moment before I comprehend the rain.
These droplets have fallen, relentless,
for hours,
barely brushing the consciousness
of the nightmared,
sleeping world.
the rain drummed a lullaby
sending the world to sleep.
~
I will admit
that I did not desire
exit from this conscious world
and only relinquished my grasp therein
after an arduous journey
entangling myself
in something like dreams.
~
He says he is alive and well.
That they are treating him excellently.
But I notice the script,
hidden behind the newspaper,
that is verification for the date:
September 14, 2009.
They want something.
They are using him
as the salt in our wounds.
~
My dreams are innocent and frightening
I meet people with whom I have only ever spoken
and I know them as they are.
The weather is grey, rainy,
introspective.
We are in Boston
but it looks like Chicago,
and there are patrol boats in the river
that borders the college stadium,
almost like SeaWorld,
where we have gathered to watch the game
on two huge television sets.
I am with a friend who left in August,
and I see her,
without a difference discernible between then and now.
And I am so confused about why we are at a football game,
and why there are patrol boats,
white, zooming through the water,
soaking bystanders in their wake,
and Why there is woman's voice from above
calmly repeating
"Do not panic, this is only a test,
Please, continue to watch the game."
~
Upon awakening,
I pause for a moment before I comprehend the rain.
These droplets have fallen, relentless,
for hours,
barely brushing the consciousness
of the nightmared,
sleeping world.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Rough draft
Rough draft
I’m going to be honest. This is not my real first chapter of the autobiography (Auto- self, bio-life, graphy-writing) that I have been assigned to write for English Class. I left that folder at school, over Rosh HaShanna. I regret that, on a certain level, as I had been looking forward to putting those words to type. But I will accept that, because I haven’t anything else to do, except for read and think thoughts that one might consider deep, or narrate my life in a soft voice in my head. So I sit. Laptop propped on my legs, fingers pounding out words that I think only seconds before, my speed barred only by my abysmal typing skills and my distractibility. My mother is reading over my shoulder, but I don’t really mind, only feel slightly invaded, disconcerted. The disconcertion may have more to do with the exhaustion I feel weighing down on me. Exhaustion, if you have never been (which is unlikely if you are over the age of twelve or so, and an American,) truly has weight. It is a blanket, tucked too tight. It is a pea soup fog that engulfs a city, as those called forth by religion and custom journey down to a river and cast their sins on to the waters. It is a rain that feels like a second skin. I want to shed it, follow my sins it to the river, go from 95% humidity to 100%. If I am part of it, I will not feel this haunting separation. I don’t feel right here, in this obvious display of wealth. The grounds are expansive. There is a bridge over the service road, a house of four brick wedding cake layers, terraces and fountains and staircases. I think it would be beautiful if water gushed down, turning these topiaries, bricks and concrete, into a waterfall, swamping the swimming pool, over flowing, reaching tendrils across the tennis courts, down the grounds, leeching slowly into the river. Everything flowing away. It will beautiful. Yes. Spectacular.
I’m going to be honest. This is not my real first chapter of the autobiography (Auto- self, bio-life, graphy-writing) that I have been assigned to write for English Class. I left that folder at school, over Rosh HaShanna. I regret that, on a certain level, as I had been looking forward to putting those words to type. But I will accept that, because I haven’t anything else to do, except for read and think thoughts that one might consider deep, or narrate my life in a soft voice in my head. So I sit. Laptop propped on my legs, fingers pounding out words that I think only seconds before, my speed barred only by my abysmal typing skills and my distractibility. My mother is reading over my shoulder, but I don’t really mind, only feel slightly invaded, disconcerted. The disconcertion may have more to do with the exhaustion I feel weighing down on me. Exhaustion, if you have never been (which is unlikely if you are over the age of twelve or so, and an American,) truly has weight. It is a blanket, tucked too tight. It is a pea soup fog that engulfs a city, as those called forth by religion and custom journey down to a river and cast their sins on to the waters. It is a rain that feels like a second skin. I want to shed it, follow my sins it to the river, go from 95% humidity to 100%. If I am part of it, I will not feel this haunting separation. I don’t feel right here, in this obvious display of wealth. The grounds are expansive. There is a bridge over the service road, a house of four brick wedding cake layers, terraces and fountains and staircases. I think it would be beautiful if water gushed down, turning these topiaries, bricks and concrete, into a waterfall, swamping the swimming pool, over flowing, reaching tendrils across the tennis courts, down the grounds, leeching slowly into the river. Everything flowing away. It will beautiful. Yes. Spectacular.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Heart
He is a vampire,
not in the bloodsucking,
traditional sense of the word,
a wizard
eating your Heart out,
this beautiful empty.
The splatterings of scarlet
shimmer blood,
rip your Heart out
you don't need a Heart to live,
that organ
pumping,
pumping
blood,
sending it out,
taking it in,
is one heart,
made of striated muscle
expanding and contracting until
the end
But a Heart,
A Heart
is something people
draw,
with question mark reflecting
question mark
Filled with compassion, sympathy,
misguided gorgeous Feeling
like Love
with question after question
as it is extracted from within you
and you witness it pulsing,
glowing in his hand
as the knife slices it thin,
transparent slivers
that melt,
cotton candy,
on his tongue
and elegantly,
slowly,
excruciating,
the feeling
leaves you,
and you float
up
up
up
helium filled balloon
until you reach the stars
not in the bloodsucking,
traditional sense of the word,
a wizard
eating your Heart out,
this beautiful empty.
The splatterings of scarlet
shimmer blood,
rip your Heart out
you don't need a Heart to live,
that organ
pumping,
pumping
blood,
sending it out,
taking it in,
is one heart,
made of striated muscle
expanding and contracting until
the end
But a Heart,
A Heart
is something people
draw,
with question mark reflecting
question mark
Filled with compassion, sympathy,
misguided gorgeous Feeling
like Love
with question after question
as it is extracted from within you
and you witness it pulsing,
glowing in his hand
as the knife slices it thin,
transparent slivers
that melt,
cotton candy,
on his tongue
and elegantly,
slowly,
excruciating,
the feeling
leaves you,
and you float
up
up
up
helium filled balloon
until you reach the stars
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Empty space
The way the music sends away the noise
and fills the space between the ears
in the same way every thought used to be the sole focus
of our command
I feel hollow without them
So I fill it
So I fill this space behind my heart
within my head
with all this wonderful nonsense
and angsty weights of gold
that I am only beginning to understand
We do whatever it is we may do to fill the void
and continue to refuse to understand
the empty
fill itfill itfill itfill it
dig it out
dig down
dig deep
don't let the silence take me down (take me down)
don't let these feelings echo out (echo out)
don't let me be all alone (all alone)
I can stand to be alone (be alone)
not to be empty, hollow,
emptied, hollowed.
And on mine own.
and fills the space between the ears
in the same way every thought used to be the sole focus
of our command
I feel hollow without them
So I fill it
So I fill this space behind my heart
within my head
with all this wonderful nonsense
and angsty weights of gold
that I am only beginning to understand
We do whatever it is we may do to fill the void
and continue to refuse to understand
the empty
fill itfill itfill itfill it
dig it out
dig down
dig deep
don't let the silence take me down (take me down)
don't let these feelings echo out (echo out)
don't let me be all alone (all alone)
I can stand to be alone (be alone)
not to be empty, hollow,
emptied, hollowed.
And on mine own.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
quick fix
remission doesn't last forever now,
stand together, now,
when things long gone make their returns
does it always bring you down?
I just watched as history repeated itself to me
laughing in its heartless manner
about how quickly the same story can be retold, can be retold
the beauty of it is, that, some of the characters,
they're different,
but have played these parts before
and it's enough to tear you apart
for someone-elses' happiness
as I am slowly learning
the depth and breadth of my own strength
and power
don't you let me forget it
I want to take you for granted
and I will
and I will
be bitter for a time,
cold and angry,
like ice on fire
and eventually melt,
falling to slumber,
and awakening in the morning,
cured.
stand together, now,
when things long gone make their returns
does it always bring you down?
I just watched as history repeated itself to me
laughing in its heartless manner
about how quickly the same story can be retold, can be retold
the beauty of it is, that, some of the characters,
they're different,
but have played these parts before
and it's enough to tear you apart
for someone-elses' happiness
as I am slowly learning
the depth and breadth of my own strength
and power
don't you let me forget it
I want to take you for granted
and I will
and I will
be bitter for a time,
cold and angry,
like ice on fire
and eventually melt,
falling to slumber,
and awakening in the morning,
cured.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Sending out and searching for
I am sending out and searching for
the things that went,
that went before,
looking for the words that mean
not exactly the same thing
when frightfully beginning to unveil
the truth that holds out, fraught and pale,
wishing in the whispered nights
of things gone wrong,
of lives gone right.
Ghostly messengers of our strife
spreading word of eternal life
to masses waiting at the helm
steering the world ship 'round and 'round,
as they send out,
and as they search for,
what ever went,
and went before.
the things that went,
that went before,
looking for the words that mean
not exactly the same thing
when frightfully beginning to unveil
the truth that holds out, fraught and pale,
wishing in the whispered nights
of things gone wrong,
of lives gone right.
Ghostly messengers of our strife
spreading word of eternal life
to masses waiting at the helm
steering the world ship 'round and 'round,
as they send out,
and as they search for,
what ever went,
and went before.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
