09292011

i live life

inside the blur

of perfect geometry

09272011

it’s been too long a time

since we walked these woods together

you said

and i thought

more than long and longer than time

and the trees reached out for us

remembering our presence

from that other time

back before time

pleading with us

do it once again

sleep in our shade

and wink at the sky

through the brown-green

dapple of our leaves

so we slept

my head on your stomach

your fingers in my hair

the smell of life and earth and heaven

kissing our skin so tenderly

and you said

look at the color of the sky

is it real, or is it touched by magic?

and i said

it’s real

and you said

when was the last time we did this?

and i said

last spring

and

why don’t we do this more often?

you said

and i thought

because if we did

the magic would flee

09262011

another unsent letter…

Dear O.,

I’ve something to confess. I caught myself reading something I shouldn’t have been reading. I caught myself reading your journal. I came into your classroom to cover for you, just for a few moments. I came in to watch your students while you ran down the hall. And my fingers couldn’t help but touch the open pages sitting on your desk, so white and naked, colored by the outpour of your thoughts.

And I read something that made me stop. I read this: This is my dream job. And this one sentence, among all others, was written with such flair! It was written with pride, and joy, and fullness of spirit. And my first thought was: I wish I could make that statement and mean it. But my second thought was: I soon will.

Following this was a sense of urgency, as if I had to do something immediately, right now. Something to remedy that first feeling—an antidote to the dissatisfaction. And that was when it registered in my head that, scary as it may be, and time-consuming as it may be, I have already made the right decision to pursue my true desire, so that I might also have my dream job.

I am leaving this place in a few days. I will be gone from this hall… these halls… forever. I will leave these halls for other halls, where someone will be standing at the door to welcome me, rather than the other way around. And believe me, I will never look back!

But… before I go, I just have to say… I apologize for desecrating your privacy. But, this is something you must understand. This desecration of your thoughts was an impetus for mine. Not that that was ever a good enough reason for me to read what was so profoundly yours. But then, you left the open pages, like a blossoming rose, right beneath my fingertips. And what could my fingers do but touch, and brush, and caress? Do you know what I mean? You probably never will. And you will probably never forgive me. But I will thank you forever. Because your joy was my momentary misery, before it turned itself upon its head and reminded me of my joy, as well.

Yours,

N.

09242011

outside the gates

that wall off this garden, you.

but, look—

i’ve still got my smile.

this is the smile

i once thought you bestowed.

and

now,

when i glimpse

my own reflection,

i recognize

its grace.

09202011

once

long ago

when i was a child

i watched through a half-closed door

a woman shed her shimmering hair

like she was shedding her skin

she sheared it off

one lock after the other

and tossed it with lyrical abandon

while her daughter

a girl with conservative curls

pled with her to stop stop stop!

but there was no stopping her

and poor child

unable to bear much more

switched her gaze to the wall

stared at her reflection

in an age-spotted mirror

and wept ever so bitterly

while her mother cackled grotesquely

my ears will never forget that sound

my eyes are branded forever

with the little girl’s tears

so black with longing

so choked with desire

so rabid with regret

but, today

as i remember this

so many years later

i ask myself

(because i must)

the meaning of

this memory

i ask myself

why this?

why now?

while fearing instinctively

that i will never understand

09192011

tonight...

while driving home

i hummed to “la notte”

and counted the stars.

oh, mystical divinity

too sacred for words!

09172011

this morning

i do not force myself

instead

i listen to my body

as it expresses itself

i sit by myself

in green grass

beneath living tree

mist kissing skin

and flesh

and soul

and i allow my body

to speak

to confess

to complain

i allow it its agonies

i allow it its revelries

this is a solitude

i must embrace

as long, as winding

as it may be

i do

because

there are

no elegant shortcuts

09152011

and what if

he never returns?

she said.

and if he does,

i said,

what will you do then?

09132011

tonight

thinking thoughts of writing

something about something

or something about nothing

i tell myself to pause

set my pen down with intention

close the journal upon my words

and decide quite staunchly

i will read the words of someone else

some nights

there is more nurture

more tenderness

more warmth

more care

in the thoughts born

inside the churning

of another’s marrow

09102011

if tonight

you offered me

the moon on a string of gold

and told me it was mine to keep

would i believe you?

should i?

09072011

another unsent letter…

Dear M.,

I see you after… how many years? I make it a point to look at your face. I look. I understand one thing: You are the incarnation of Desperation. You are the discarded lover gone mad. You are lonely. Alone. Feeding on long-lost memories. Holding my name between your parched lips. Murmuring it secretly, so it sounds like the squealing sands of a violent desert storm.

You can’t erase my absence. You can’t erase my presence.

It is not because you hate me that you wish to make me suffer; it is because you love me.

Right?

But, no. This is not love. This is Obsession. Consumption. Insanity.

I want to say, You are pathetic. I do not want to make the effort.

I recall how you loved listening to your own voice. I recall how no other voice but yours mattered. Now, there is no voice inside your throat. Your desperation has petrified all timbre.

I recall how you gazed at your own reflection, so lost in self-love. Was what others lavished on you not enough? But for you, nothing was ever enough. Yours was always the need for more.

I recall… it doesn’t matter.

As I close my eyes over these memories, a persistent question saturates my vision: What is a word for who YOU are?

I have no words. Or, rather. I have no energy to seek the words. Or perhaps… I have no desire to expend the energy.

One blink, and you are black tar inside my eyelids.

I discarded you, so long ago. And what I discard, I never recover.

Sincerely,

N.

09052011

tell me about the cinderella complex

you said

and you flipped over on your side

one arm between us

the other around the backside of my heart

your face up close to mine

so we were

nose against nose

lips against lips

teeth against teeth

and i had no breath

as i said to myself

it is me with you

it is my secret desire

something i can never tell

but a truth i know so well

it is the destruction of my fabricated self

the degradation of my false modesty

but i did not tell you this

nor did you wait for my response

instead, you said

you have such delicate ankles

such fragile bones

and how clenched you were!

how in battle with yourself!

and solid gold probed divided rose flesh

oh, to be impaled

so exquisitely!

so… inside!

and outside…

only the sound of crickets

09012011

there is a broken being out there

(who i can hardly call a man),

messed up and insecure,

who invents brothers,

who invents sisters,

who invents sons,

who invents daughters,

who invents lovers,

(and what they do to him,

and what he does to them),

who invents the entirety of his life

(and its nuances, in tow)

and who invents praise to himself,

while inventing, also, those who deliver it.

and all of this

for something that belongs to him

no more than he belongs to himself.

in a world filled with imagination,

there is always room for more,

yet,

one must ever keep one’s finger steady

on what’s real and what’s not.

and so…

i wrote it in a story before,

and i will say it here, once more:

“if you tell the same lie enough times, even you start to believe it.”

and here is where solitude begins.

and in the kingdom of solitude, madness reigns.