I know you said nothing. twice. again.
so much nothing. but then
I caught you shaking
I caught you
and you blamed the cold
but I know it was more like the heat
or the something
whatever that was.
I know this is what happened, but I've been losing sleep
my mind wanders
over the details that meld into blur and then fade.
In the morning with the snow falling
the ground is shining through my window
and my toes wiggle the blankets to anything closer to warm
I can smell the air seeping through the cracks of the house that whistles in the wind
and it smells familiar
and not like you.
what is your escape
your filthy little whimper
the wrapper beneath the pillow
the stain on your lips
what is your drug?
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
i hear a recording, low-poor quality (youtube gold). my fingers curl, my legs squirm, feet yearn to move, my head rolls, lolls, eyes fluttering closed i am there, all over again. the sound so full its you, pounding, thrashing until your ribs are the ones producing the beat ... beat ... beat ... all you do is pound out the bass, let it pour from your screaming mouth, the boy licks sweat from your neck, you are the dancer, the music, the throbbing writhing drug.
you, altered, alive, no future, no past. just movement. in this moment you are the drop, the pulsing reaction, you are as full as you can be. seeping through my cracks, its coming, the explosion, the afterwards, but just for now let me have ... one ... more ... yesssssss.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
my pupils, jet black,
engulfing the irises
take you in. suck you up.
what is your story
your pupils, jet black,
engulfing the irises
take me in. suck me up.
now, now you are mine.
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.
But happiness floats.
It doesn’t need you to hold it down.
It doesn’t need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records…
Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.
i am dedicating this to A.S.
i love you girl.
may we always be as carefree, loving and free as we were that day on the beach.
the organized chaos of this room is forcing me into lines, boxed shapes. the manufactured grain of the wood matches the flyeye speakers.
bands on my fingers, synthetic on my toes, structured, man-made.
the whorls of shadow, cast by my confusion don't fit in the drawers.
there are edges and middles and we make it, we create it, we place it there and expect it to be there upon our return and it is, because we are the makers. we are the water. the icebergs and this room is the ground, the mountains, aching for valleys to mediate the jagged edges, to promote the raw sexuality of the straining molecules. this is the room with the chemical paint finish. with the flat realities and legal identities. this is the room without glass portals, this is the room of our descent.
my memory knows something else. something farther away. where the whorls are lifted, memorized. in that place we impose labels, lines, but they are shaken. they are thin veils, sheer, flirty. useless. for when the dance starts, those veils fall, one-by-one, and we are left naked, exposed to our others. in the place we haven't created, we change nothing and it will always change. in this place birthmarks become continent maps. wineglasses are swimming pools for butterfly nannies, where nailpolish is a figment of the goats imagination. we are in the valleys, the left over sex-scent of carnal beginnings. we are inanimate. we are the intimate. we are there and that is us and without our veils we fly apart, our pieces finding niches. our glistening, is all the light and we are all that we can see, hear, we are the sensation of a lovers tongue, we are the tip of destruction and the definition of breathe.