Posts published in “Year: 2005”

        i can’t force what isn’t there.
        you get hernias that way.

give your breath
       your stutter-lunged grasp of wind
                        to me.

these lips of yours play,
                         stuck on mine
                                     in motion moved from limb to pool to your
                                                                                   eyes,
                          your eyes, wide-shocked with mine behind, in tow–
                          what glimpse of you, this, your shiver-shake of hold,
                                                                                          gives–
                                                        how, slow, in rise,
                                                                       in
                                                              ten-folding
                                                                    of these
                                                                 sweats,
                                                                  i wish to give
                                                            you more in return of gifts—

bitten,
         lie amongst my arms and know me,
                                           your breath
                                           on drum
                                           laid silently
                                           ‘neath your skin:
                                           all i’ve come to be,
                                           yours,
                                           the comforting
                                           sigh repeated
                                
&n
bsp;          with lungs’
                                           quiet rise
                                           and short’n’d push–
how your throat
                      calls to me
                                     for lips’ security
                                                and i, a
                                                weaker
                                                guard in these,
                                                your
                                                eyes, your wrap, your fingers,
                                                find no use to stay from answering.
by close of finders, i’ve come to find
this calm in movement internalized,
this breeze of thought lapping at lips
to widen and to loosen them, full
within your knowledge of this universe,
Ours;

a knowing of your blush through nudge slown
to mapping draws in trick of nerve,
a play on tick’ to lick of pore;
and in this, our capsuled star let bake,
a drowning of one another grows in breathing, more,
                                            with give of you
                                             and of me take’.

the wolf, with
eyes raised:staring,
 guides the gift’d
                in glance of grave
                 as
                  devil of History;
      breaking light in eye of forest,
     mane bears but symbol
      in respect to Shadow’s fortune,
       Fate, the Following;
          yet Wolf, with
           throat raised:open,
            falls sense, in weight,
             to pit of torso,
              crowning ‘lids
               in cast of gold marred-faux;
               gift’d, let flush go fears of Follower;
                as oakened-oars on fall
                 Converse with trail of them in Thought;
                    yet Wolf, with
                     heart
                      in:claspe,
                  breaks the beating rhythm of
                   far-stationed voices, screaming,
                    fully catching twixt the ribs of skin;
                     creaking in unison, this hollowed bone,
                      the marker of the shredded breast
                       from other left ‘lone, treads not
                        in -testines’ collared coils,
                         ‘stead finding side by pearl’d tusks of crimson:yellow’d.

despite this knowledge now ingrained,
that the world will spin until it stops
not when you’re afflicted or strained,
i find it hard to process her
as anything other than
a meteor:
striking fancy until breaking through my atmosphere–
how can i force her ‘way when i can’t reach to her?
this silly game of revolutions revolving round the subject frightens me.
can she see this pull is greater than any push i’d ever throw?
can she feel these bands of rings round my throat
grown twisted, knotted, broken yet holding my gravity hostage–
will laughter or smile bring about a change of pace,
a fall of spin to welcome her
or will she fly by/pass me by without being brought close enough
to pull her in with gentle kindness, the natural gravity?
will she falter/fall to meet me here,
or is this planet:me too dead already?
she is sun.
she is this planet’s fixation/temptation/goddess/sickness
of thought.
she is smile in sky behind the glare of lengthened stare.
she is prickle of neck, of nose, of twitch and those
lousy
tremblings.
she is walker and path.
she is perfectly rounded.
she is fall to height unreachable without jumping first.
she is frantic dream unrehearsed for who could plan for marvelous misdirection?
she is rise of head to wonder why the seasons change but she remains
beyond the reach of time– a thought unmolded but sprawling forth
in gratitude of life.
she is brightness of day and mystery of night, the angel of shadow and of sight.
she is breath, unchurned in lungs for to keep her would be a travesty.
she is pull in full, unchained armor, welcoming.

i have not written a ‘good poem’, one that makes sense beyond the words read or spoken. the reason for not having written a ‘good poem’ is not the inability to do so, but merely the inconsistency of thought toward, and the amount of time spent on, any given piece. to say i am not a ‘good poet’ may be thrown into the mix, though i prefer to see the situation as my being ‘not willing to show the potential within’. i have not transformed into a poet, but merely slid into a poet’s skin of thought. i have not given any piece the time required to fully chrome the inside as well as the out, to fix any twists of thought that may linger through ‘nice words’ and the like jamming up the ignition.

the space of thought allotted toward writing is basically the same amount of time taken to type or scribble the work, if not less. no single idea or string of ideas has presented themselves before me, giving me the grace of thought enough to spill them onto paper or screen. well, that’s a lie. several ideas and views have struck me as being ‘unfit’ for writing, though will be shown when my own understanding of them is comfortable enough to do so. bah. there are times when one may ask the self, “why are you as you are?” the answer i have found that best suits this question is, “how else would you be?”

on slashdot, there’s an interesting article about rollable ‘paper’ displays, which are currently monochrome, but will eventually be color. could you imagine, sitting out on the porch with the morning paper (about the size of an 8×11 notebook, but as thick as the cover for stability) in your hand, your other adjusting your glasses. you say a command, or think a command, or tap the screen for a command to zoom in on, or readjust/rearrange, the articles. all of your local news would be on one side, while national alerts, your favorite comics, your bookmarks, would be on another, or arranged with fingertip-accuracy (basically google’s customized main page via stylus or fingertip). perhaps the display would be refractive/reflective/a camera and would tell where to go or what to zoom in on based on eye movement, facial smirks/frowns/giggles, and would adjust its programming accordingly.

perhaps this would be a contender of the mid-air display currently in development, but in a portable version that can be in a bracelet, a ring, or a watch, or your glasses.

imagine all of this, but affordable– just costing a monthly subscription, or free (depending on if you have wireless/a net connection.. if not, perhaps a monthly/yearly cell-phone like service that would keep your paper up to date for a nominal fee, equivalent to the price of a day or two’s paper news papers. of course, some could opt for once-daily updates, and be charged 30th of the price a normal subscriber would.. because imagine the cost of bandwidth for the pictures/videos/music/etc.. wait.. maybe just link this to your pc and go at it with 54a/b/c/g/i/x/y/z/am/fm/gps/whatever). how amazing.

the possibilities!

the
    hopper of grass
     finds
          solace
           in air
      though knows
       not where
        to be going or
         how long one may take
          in getting there.

while
  one
      may see
             understand
              comprehend
               feel
                know
                      the motion,
  an other
      may know
             feel
              comprehend
               understand
                see
                      the object;
   which
    may find
     both?

   perhaps
    one and[/or] other
     may spawn
      both
       through showing
                   teaching
                    allowing for
                     reaching toward
                      helping
                                another.

Look to thought as root of tree,
planted in consideration and clarity;
in branches, infinite, your spark may grow;
when, if fumbled/faltered, you lose what is known:
shift thought from thought to purpose, to reason,
to the natural:origin, from bare to blossomed season;
bring not your gaze to root, though fond,
but wander eyes ‘hind ‘lids to bond
of tree to ground to foot to chest to breeze,
and perhaps you, through tracking back,
find within you what you may need.

To Kathy:
    A thought is but a branch,
       upsprung from root
         of tree branched infinite[ly]–
                [don’t bother counting,
                  unless you
                   wish to]

    worry not if lost on
     branch you grow,
      for many branches
       spring from root–
        just remember
         to remember root
             and
             [return to reason.]

i am but a solar system
        with two suns,
               parallel
                        and crossing;
               six planets;
               thirty-one moons,
                              independently rotating
                              in unison;
               one belt,
                      holding tight
                       my views and reach;
               and a single thought,
                      revolving ’round all
                       until it escapes
                        or falls
                         in meteor,
                              perhaps
                               bringing shift of self
                                            or rise
                                                of dream
                                 or
                                  steps in
                                   trek
                                    to clarity.

so. booya. i’ve been a “writer” for roughly.. hm.. since middle school. fuck putting a time on that. i’ve progressed so far in personal understandings that to try and put them within a context of an extent of time is useless. you are the blink of an eye.

i will never seek being known.

a problem with being unknown
is the desire to show those unknowing
what you know.

how… peculiar the need for others’ approval/acceptance/..sustenance.

to proclaim your work is to accept its state, or to progress from its state, or to leave its state. i prefer to revolve around the work set forth until the yearn to change something, to alter or to augment, arises. humility is the thinker’s disguise.. of stupidity. why be labeled lackluster when you simply lack a sense of luster? the world will know you when you deserve to be known.

crash your fluid glance upon these words and know that, despite your role, you are nothing more than human, nothing less than what you take from what you’re told.

so much is written that shall never be read; forget what you know and figure ‘it’ out on your own.

they sit behind me, laughing, hanging on the breath of a floating piece of paper unseen but scribbled ‘pon, until a chance wind breaks the stream of subtlety into a thousand cackles casting their chains of change-of-self upon me. what waste to live within a process you did not create/you were not meant to follow.

capitalism will lead to both poverty and excess: which is worth aiming toward?

of course, in this lifetime, many see progression of wealth as one of few symbols of status worth achieving. can you honestly say you would work your entire life to be able to live? yes, if it were within the extremes of comfort and security.

i rarely discuss my dreams or aspirations. that’s not a character flaw, it’s a choice to ward off arrogance or the eventual naiveté which so often follows the dreamer. i look forward to being a writer/to giving others yet another view of what life may hold. i look forward to being a father, a husband, a caregiver. i look forward to being for someone else who Mom was for me. i look forward to teaching anything you wish to know until you can do so for others.

i’ll never really see those aspirations come to light. that’s the mindset i have to maintain in order to keep a sane outlook; in order to not fumble over goals, i shall remain unknown until the unknowing wish to know me.

i have this sinking feeling that i’ll go the way of dickens, or, better yet, the way of poe.

despite all, ideas will remain so long as you strengthen them with knowledge. you may paint a picture or compose a work or scribble a prose, but without a knowledge of the circumstances or the reasoning, the onlookers/listeners/readers may merely go “ah, how beautiful!” without a need to go beyond the first impression. in that sense, you must both offer them a “why?” and withhold from them a reason. perhaps that is why so many artists base upon the common; bring them close with what is close to them, yet show them something they may not have taken in before.

i am a writer. just as you are a reader. you may be using your eyes for the first time, as i may be using my hands for the first time, but despite both, we are who we set out to be until we no longer wish to be so. follow yourself in thought and, perchance, you may find who you are.