there is always too much all
the time too much
but i manage to look like
i'm only ever sitting still
staring at the carpet
while i am shifting
constantly trying to lessen
the pain and understand all the
beauty i can feel in each moment
but there is too much all the time
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
rem
i wait for the trains to fall asleep.
miles away & they are my sleepytime sentinels.
i did not hear them the other night, when you sat on my porch in a husk of you & set your teeth against me, steel traps laid with velvet.
i did not hear them last week, when the past was in my bed without clothes asking for me by name, with slurs thick with lambency & the dawn of forevers ago.
i did not hear them when she dragged me across my apartment like a weatherproof stain, or when i crossed paths with her this afternoon, politeness in our voices, when the bruises have still not gone with the rain.
but i do hear them tonight, going somewhere else. leaving this town, leaving me, with my bracketed pauses & mis/motioned bedroom trapeze-ery.
moans that grow smaller at the city limits, the sure sign that i must go to dreams; away from the messy-meat of my daily, waking somniloquy.
miles away & they are my sleepytime sentinels.
i did not hear them the other night, when you sat on my porch in a husk of you & set your teeth against me, steel traps laid with velvet.
i did not hear them last week, when the past was in my bed without clothes asking for me by name, with slurs thick with lambency & the dawn of forevers ago.
i did not hear them when she dragged me across my apartment like a weatherproof stain, or when i crossed paths with her this afternoon, politeness in our voices, when the bruises have still not gone with the rain.
but i do hear them tonight, going somewhere else. leaving this town, leaving me, with my bracketed pauses & mis/motioned bedroom trapeze-ery.
moans that grow smaller at the city limits, the sure sign that i must go to dreams; away from the messy-meat of my daily, waking somniloquy.
weekend getaway
this sunday, charlie and i escaped brooklyn to beacon, ny to see the dia beacon museum and stay in a b&b. the museum was incredibly spacious with pieces unlike anything i have ever seen. the town is completely small with not much to do, but totally worth the visit for the museum and the stars.
Friday, January 23, 2009
wishes
i am jonesin for these amped up doc martins
i would kill for feathers on my feet.
found: 1460 Boots.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
i can make you cry and then laugh through your tears with
a few strummed chords played with shaky hands while my shaky voice
grasps for forgotten words between my own sighs of desperation
you can make me tremble and forget where i am and the way my
hands should press the strings against the steel (or even that i am
supposed to breathe) with just a laugh cutting through your tears
a few strummed chords played with shaky hands while my shaky voice
grasps for forgotten words between my own sighs of desperation
you can make me tremble and forget where i am and the way my
hands should press the strings against the steel (or even that i am
supposed to breathe) with just a laugh cutting through your tears
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
sonnet
i can see that my future is flowers growing -
they slow the wind and stop thick rain drops so that only
cool breezes and light mists will goosebump my flesh while her heart's beat
moves the tiny bones in my ears and the ribs in my chest.
my future is a wedding in a small garden,
early one june evening, where people whose wounds i've tended
will carry colored glasses that throws small segments of the
sun's spectrum straight into the blacks of our eyes.
my past is not past, though, i tis right here and it is
a machete- slicing open arteries,
tearing through ligaments and spilling synovial fluid-
hacking at my skeleton, crushing through the cancellous and
exposing my soft marrow to the cold, dry air
as what's left of me pulls itself toward those flowers. to that garden
they slow the wind and stop thick rain drops so that only
cool breezes and light mists will goosebump my flesh while her heart's beat
moves the tiny bones in my ears and the ribs in my chest.
my future is a wedding in a small garden,
early one june evening, where people whose wounds i've tended
will carry colored glasses that throws small segments of the
sun's spectrum straight into the blacks of our eyes.
my past is not past, though, i tis right here and it is
a machete- slicing open arteries,
tearing through ligaments and spilling synovial fluid-
hacking at my skeleton, crushing through the cancellous and
exposing my soft marrow to the cold, dry air
as what's left of me pulls itself toward those flowers. to that garden
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
we wear our scarves just like a noose
i play no pout lipped piano. though that wind, she still whispers at my window. little girl, little girl let me in. i have fallen for that trick before, wet-slacked and tingle-toed. my locks and hinges rusted well into spring.
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