Saturday, February 23, 2008
swing below the clouds with a refrigerator for a fist and blank canvas the migraine of the modern conscience with the weight of the stop and listen. you are what the world needs. it is a simple song if only you can hear it. you could learn to sing it if only you had the patience. i know you don't give a fuck about me, but i am part of your history mother fucker, and you are part of mine. you and me are family. we have to care. and that is the fact of this predicament we are all stuck in, boots glued down to the muck quick sand tight and startle-faced silenced. i am bleeding through my teeth for you. my kindness shows through my anger. i want to love you, if only you will let me. we are beastly creatures, this human race. fighting all the way through this brutal life, but there is beauty here. i promise you, the ugliness is worth it, for the moments that catch in your chest, that drape themselves over your shoulders, for the people who stop your heart like a bullet, hold your knees like gospel, breathe now, there is time, we can solve this all, there is a way, i don't know what it is, but it exists, i promise, i swear, i believe in us, and what we can do, there is a way, i know it.
Friday, February 22, 2008
there is a table. and four chairs. and some food. and people. the conversation is a series of strings going out from our chests and tying onto each other. there is light. and laughter. there are eyes. i can see the gaps between us. we are all cliffs, staring down, hoping nobody falls off our edges. there is a sky. and a moon. and the cold night on our skin. and there is warmth. i am not a prayer or a church. but i stand like both. i am learning.
there are silk flies in the air. my skin is a nightstand. sit beside me. these are kisses i want to put in my pocket. the kind that should be framed and put on the wall. your lips are like falling from a plane, the way my heart goes all butterfly. my palms want to rest on your body. my skin wants to feel your skin. i want to touch you.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
the rain is the shape of the inside of my wrist. i stand on the hood of my car next to the freeway in order to shake the sky open like a blanket so that music can learn how to dance with itself. my legs are rolltop desks and i am running. time is a cedar tree that i climb the way light bulbs climb moths. i have buried too many flowers. when the vases crack i feel my veins stretch and moan and i look for mountains to stand on top of and if there aren't any, i use buildings. they will do. some evenings i sit by the sea, while dogs move like cities and men and i feel twilight's dull ache in my chest, and when the color drains from the sky i think i might cry, but it is when i do not, that i know i am happy.
Monday, February 18, 2008
what is it we stand beneath? there is fire everywhere. and people crying behind curtains because we aren't supposed to feel anymore. there are men with guns who are pointing them at people. what is it we are doing here? tell me. there are people with emptiness like lakes inside their stomachs. whisper it slow. we are a mess of tears and love - of violence and death - of sleep and anger - wrench these doubts from my hands! i am curled on the floor like a dress. i am sick with this. i want to be able to love you even as you stab me, but this rage is a long sea unwilling to subside, and it has demands like the simplicity of honesty and the passion of love. do not ask of me the hard things. i am not ready for them. not yet. i have built a machinery of shadows and they live like horses inside my veins. i am happy, i want to shout, i am happy! but the language to say it in does not yet exist.
i caught myself writing nonsense on park benches again. i just thought people could use some moral support from the things they sit on. stuff like "you are a good person" or "keep up the good work, champ!"
i keep running into the other room to look in the mirror and make sure i'm still here. but sometimes i'm not. it's strange to look into a mirror and see nothing. i don't know what to think. winter is breaking its own back and there are armadillos curled up on the welcome mat, waiting for the desert to come plant a cactus between our shoulder blades.
butterflies sleep inside her collar bones. i have seen them dreaming. it looks like a sunset painting itself across her shoulders. she walks like the breath of the planet. her body is a flower bed.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
when they wallpaper your dreams with deranged deer and trap you unmoving inside your own body, blinking is like lifting a skyscraper. let the candle light come up slow. the words moved without our having to push them, or breathe life into them. they had a color, a shape. we grew libraries. we led a blind prophet to the liquor store. we walked inside saturday night like a hallway. there were horses nibbling your fingers. the city was made of watercolors. our footsteps held hands. the tea tasted like mint. i told you my name. we ate until the chairs turned upside down. there were so many questions. there are still more. and now that i know your lips taste like soft, i want to kiss them again.