Ten Thousand Notorious Specks Floating In My Head

The feather-light merriment sprinkled on your face like freckles transport me to coy winter evenings. Nights enveloped in star-eyed tinkering and bodies intertwined. The invitations to intimacy. The consuming lust. The urgency. The strange two sparks. The diamond glints of you and me…but this isn’t about moonstruck lovers. This is about saturated actuality and hellish body-waning strife. It’s about the permeable people who lend themselves to others. The workaholic husband. The smoke-addict mother. The tantrum-throwing child. The hopelessly boring student and endlessly fascinating artist. Some of us are geniuses. Some of us with top hats and low grins, soft cheekbones and narrow chins. Some of us are crazy. Some of us with stardust-skin and fairytale shimmers in our eyes. Still, we all of us shed our youthful layers, get selfish, and love in vast scales. For this reason I made a box of steel and hid it in my head. In the circle of inward thought, arbitrary murkiness, and light oblivion it appears to me. Every now and then it shows me things special and meaningful. It reveals to me the transmogrification of the human heart. In it, I find resonating thunderous love, waves of philosophical reflection, fiery ecstasy, creative acts, and extremes. Heavy with illumination, I see myself standing there by the nebulous and safe loops of past to present, hazy in between and half-cut with tainted air. I linger near the beckoning margins, ten thousand notorious specks floating in my head.

I feel a part of everywhere

When I implode creative energy and get dizzy in the park. When I lie on leather black and touch vivid streaks of daybreak. When I dance on marble floors and breathe scented air’s sultry allure. When I’m doubled over with the wrath of a cobra, or my bones turn soft. When mixed CD’s blaze the trail down your street and fashion laughter in the backyard. When I feel connected to cities, and the earth opens up and I fall in- I feel a part of everywhere. It’s a candid kiss on the cheek, a wrap-me-around-your-waist-and-never-let-me-go sensation. A musical choir of voices to greet a wintery morning. It’s rising past noon in a glow of yesterdays child’s play. A harmonica’s melody bouncing off the walls and into my chest like cosmic explosions. It’s the imprecise and going from young to old. Truthfully, it’s like the perfect cup of coffee and upon my soul, I feel a part of everywhere.

THE CAREFREE HOURS OF MY LIFE

couch parties, puppy hugs, less coffee, more water, harmless ghosts, the same familiar faces, perpetual life soundtracks, solitude at my disposal, mystery shows, hospital shows, regular dates with 6am, the oven (only at night), countless films, worn out novels, museums, fairs, baristas, bonding with blood, renouncing the city for a dozen better others, clever thrifty meals, endless days, running highs, parking lots after midnight, and the keepers of my soul.

I long to revisit the carefree summer version of myself.

Ramble, babble, gabble

I’m not entirely sure what this is. Simply put, it’s like there’s a train wreck inside of my head. I’ll let the motion of my fingers lead the direction though. My brain never knows where to begin or how to end. It mostly just splatters moods and flavors, emotions and words into empty spaces where everything wills itself into invisible clutter. Inevitably it all materializes into tangible junk in my room. Cerebral briggsy’s in my life. The problem is that I don’t sleep when I should and sleep when I shouldn’t. How do I maintain a simple clean canvas when I can’t even seem to maintain a simple clean mind? Thank you so much for melodic keys of all sorts though. It’s like tangible sound waves manifest into shapes wherever I breath. I go crazy sometimes, when I can’t find my earphones. Crazy in the sense that I loose all sensible reasoning and drop important deadlines and coffee dates in search for them. There really isn’t a day you’ll speak to me, I know it, when I don’t have coffee on my mind. Seriously, I’m that person. I’m also the person that loves silence when it’s flawless and right. Can I make out with it? Wrap myself around its serenity like no blanket ever fabricated? But fuck it when I don’t want it. It sneaks into my room uninvited and violent. You know, days spent lying on feathers and covered in cotton don’t make me shine quite as brightly as that perfect someone. Sometimes I glance up at the moon and feel absolutely nothing. And I forget to text people you know? I’ve got your number. But it makes no difference because the space bar on my phone refuses to stop being lazy and work. Why are people so dysfunctional? I cannot fathom. Truth be told I have inescapable tendencies. Tendencies like the old die-hard habit of placing my right or left hand in a loose fist under my chin when appreciating art or interpretive dancing. I don’t notice myself doing this, until I do. I only want to analyze strangers and pretend like I know them. I want to write about their life and cry or something. But I can never find the perfect pen, never. I won’t scribble things onto clean white handouts in fear of ruining them. But sometimes I do. Specifically when I doodle on napkins like it’s nobody’s business and then dispose of them when the smell of the ink grows foul next to my pillow. When I think about intimacy and words strung together in form of an honest apology, I visualize my insides trapped inside a glass case and out in display like abstract artwork ready to be deciphered and scrutinized. The thought of an honest apology may be admirably altruistic or genuinely pathetic. I don’t know, we live in a pretty indecisive era. Everyone’s a contradiction. Sometimes I doodle, and my eyes freakishly refuse to focus entirely for any immeasurable period of time. They abruptly shift elsewhere for split seconds. Like a twitch. And sometimes I feel like I had a better understanding of myself when I was 15, except that can’t be right. I have a childhood blanket the color blue with cloud designs. I bought it off a magazine when I was too young to know why I was ordering an overpriced blanket off a magazine for. Whatever. Sometimes I think stupid thoughts, like “my solitude has always belonged to you” or something trite like that. What is that? Also, I move to the rhythm of music and look good while doing it. Therefore, I’m talented. Can I put that on my resume?
What a pity you don’t understand. You’re hired, come on over and fix me. Make me normal and interesting.

The walls decided to put their clothes back on and shine for the air tonight.

There’s a place where I am going, the colors static blue and simple white. There’s high young shrills and a wall leading to a girl dressed in a juxtaposing mood. This room’s old quiet and changed, it will swallow your grief silent and whole.

Seasonal State of Mind

Remember when a corridor and four bare walls in private kept you together? When fifteen minute walks towards the sun led you to angels and plagues, to evenings by the woods and a glass menagerie? You were sleepless on air under the ceiling, under the sky, under the moon. Cotton blue and white twinkles spared you the complete darkness and emptiness. The consequence of sound kept you from solitude while a well-spoken poet drifted you into the land of words and stirred you to speak up. She granted inspiration as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing. What was the name of that face, and those friends you made you haven’t seen since? You miss them all, I know. You easily miss because that’s your way and in a place of constant change, spin, and new it hurts, I get it. New windows; long, tall, and wide. Different sights to see, moving pictures of life. Your reality on display. Are you looking? Lying on the carpet by an overstuffed animal next to friends you felt you were falling, with pleasure and ease even when you eventually fell asleep on your bed. Days with glasses of wine won over the hours locked behind doors. The thing is you never bumped into walls, you hugged them like people. Remember when you caught that tear with your finger? You didn’t know it was there. And when you realized your phone worked better than paper and it made you so sad you almost despaired? You looked forward to piercing blue eyes and warm husky voices. They were the reason for many things, where did they go? They lasted a while, and it was sweet. Unlike the pieces of paper, that spat open-ended questions in your direction, and it made you uncomfortable. How did you deal? Moments like that you couldn’t conjure up anything pithy to say. You felt like an idiot and you mentally unraveled in front of your peers, guts on display, your face a twitch and violent red. You carved paths of destruction those days you decided to ignore, and they were the saddest. Like not living. Livid tones and a panic rush, you knew then you’ve gotta sway yourself a little bit harder. Cups of coffee, healed all. Empty pizza boxes by the mattress and bags of treats made everything alright. Looking back is hard, like forgetting you lived. Faces blur into nothing, and names get lost in a space of things that don’t make it past the month. But you fall in love with strangers everyday. You wipe your mind clean, and the body still misses.
Be still.

Summer Blaze

Defined prominently by the long months blurred into short sensitive tempered weeks. The queen of hours wasted lies in bed, sprawled lazily across the mattress. Body pressed down against the sheets, beads of sweat rolling down her neck and down her back. August spent largely in light silks with bare feet on lukewarm carpets. Her eyes settle on too much skin and bottomless wary eyes. Every night seems fused with daybreak. Nestled on the couch, with the fan swishing above her head, she stares at the wooden paddles rotating like mad because she has the time. The arms wave at her, making her dizzy. Lose strands of hair wave back and get caught on her eyelashes. Time keeps its distance and slips into a taunting grin. How clever, how will she ever secure a hold on time’s wrist from so far away? Let it go.

Crumbs on her pillow, dust in her eye, her heart in her throat. Morning’s luster stirred up picnics in her head, lounging below the roaming bees and twitching leaves. And at sundown, when the soft purple hues in the sky are touched by bright red, nobody understands her then. She looks up at the scarlet sky as clouds wrap around the sun like cryptic lovers. There’s nothing so dazzling, so right, so perfect. Summer gave her a night in the arcade, her eggshell limbs carried her to the prizes while strange faces bore into her pupils. And the brightly lit lightbulbs tirelessly blinked at her till farewell relieved the flickering winks.

Sans vibrant sun rays, night walks induced the greatest marvels. On one such starless walk, fireworks lit up the night sky with flashes of rich colors, all so bold and dazzling. In the forefront, a man played the violin with fervor and grace, his face glowing like diamond skin. The soft wind in her hair, whispered life secrets into her ear and for a brief, never-ending second all the things right in the universe caressed her cheek. Its touch seemed to brush beneath her skin, peeling back layers of fear, swarming past her interior to the bones of her face. Such heavy splendor. Eyes alight, her mind unraveling. She stared slack-jawed in silence and pushed back the thick veils of unconsciousness. Only then can reality tether her to the top of the earth and she willingly obliged.

Summer carried her home in purring vehicles, past the buzzing towns and flashing lights with no trail to trace. She wrecked the waves and loved sailors lost at sea. Be like water she thought. But she wandered too far from home drawn by wicked rugged faces with twinkles in their eyes and syrupy sweet voices. Sweet breath down her skin, they hovered close and murmured in her ear velvet-soft promises like shattering glass. Three years she drifted back home with a headache in her chest. Calmer hours of darkness she spent probing deeper into the tangled layers of her memory, reminiscing on love that dwindled prior to it’s shot at life. Now bound like an anchor chained to the bed of the ocean, ice crystals form in the creases of her eyes, and melt in the summer blaze, falling down weightless to the ground.
“Don’t let yourself be lost,” I tell her.

6 am Traffic

In a haze of red and green lights, past the swift blur of onward motion, I settle on the the occassional yellow, soft white gleams and inhale the icy breath of dawn. Cool, clear, crisp invading my interior, slipping down my throat, my lungs. Sun rays reflecting off the moons surface dancing on my window sill. Outside the world purrs, nebulous and gentle. I focus on the melody; the beat, the vocals. I drift directly into the resonance, fearless and detached. The insatiable pull of song wins.

Where is rational thinking? Sheer reality? Nonexistent.

The morning star beams and I’m slipping through nitrogen and sunshine, floating freely. Cool, clear, blue. Pinch back any ounce of frustration. Get over the roar, the vibration, the pointless chatter. I try to focus. Push aside all malicious manifestations; uninvited, and undesired in my morning lullaby. My heart keeps pace with the drums. Deep breaths come and go and ah, there it is. I’m focused. The disarray put to bed. Skin tucked in, eyes filled with sapphire blue, I focus on the only meaningful sound. The only thing that makes sense.

The other side of reality

If I sit here long enough under centuries old pale white, will time forget me? Gentle tap on the marble tiled floor, slipping through the even cracks. Heavy sigh and a quick tilt of the head to the side. What morbid breath, and yellow gleams could hold all of me in a cage of what's real? Sweet escapes when gentle darkness sweeps me beneath fantasies grip. What blithe and sensual creatures play their charm against my skin, my skull! Sweet sensual light of gold blinds me. Blotches of colors, shapes and lights are all so inviting, so hypnotic. Spellbound and overwhelmed by curious desire. Childhood emotions revive, floating to the surface, grasping for air, for light. What pleasant surprise! The chime of wind and laughter washes over me in a crystal glass. Slim fingers grasp the cool base, flip it right side down and embrace a private personal globe of euphoria. Dust like glitter swirls around inside and out like sprinkling feather soft snow. Nothing but light and warm exuberant apparitions.

Can I stay here forever?

Think of a story

One that will speak to the mysterious fears of our nature and awaken thrilling horror. To curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart.

Sometimes I sit in a dimly lit room, reach deep into that hazy, obscure part of my brain, and realize how easily I fail to live my body in this world.

COOL IS YOUR MIND OPEN

Shifting focal points past midnight.

My favorite thoughts are paris in the evening and a new york window view.

Coffee as well (in the morning, afternoon, and past nightfall).

And if you ask for my opinion, to be frank and quite foolish, there isn’t much to say.

Every day of my life

All I want to do is photograph every single day, watch the sunset from rooftops and

drink ridiculous amounts of coffee.

I want to paint something beautiful, visit museums and stand on historical landmarks.

I want to be amazed by live music, read romantic novels and watch beautiful films.

Everyday of my life I want to dance and see oceans, architecture, and people.

I want to get on a bus that will take me places far away where I can breath an air that’s

different, cleaner, from anywhere I’ve been.

I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

Basically, I just want to crawl into your lap. Your arms around me, I don't mind. Brush your fingers through my hair, I don't care.

Basically, you make me want to cry. Because in your arms...I think I'd feel alright.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman

I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.

johnny flynn poetry

It was a busy year for death
She crept about the palace.
And we had poor defence
And she had little malice
A gentle touch put here -
A sad and curt embrace.
A wooden kiss enough
To put them in their place.
And where my father went
Is not now common knowledge;
The inventory was lent
To some old Cambridge college.
I had little faith then,
Nothing spoke to me.
When what you see is Gospel,
The Gospel isn't free.
And Krishna's conch is sunk,
The lotus not in bloom,
Solomon's song unsung
And prayers are called too soon.
So where my father went
Is wind against the Mountain
His love was all but spent
So mine is as a fountain.

All the fruit turn red,
Some of them are still green
But never will you see one
That's stuck and in between.
As all came from a garden
Where the wind has died down low
And there my father went
To help the green fruit grow.
He tends them with a smile,
His fingers stroke the leaves.
He'll never leave the garden,
It's all that I believe.

Having a Coke with You

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

-Frank O’Hara

subordinate feelings i cast aside

DOWN MY BACK

DOWN MY TRACK

DOWN MY BACK, DOWN MY TRACK.

Poetry in Motion

WAYWARD SOUL.

"Adventure is worthwhile in itself."- Amelia Earhart

+++

Underside of my mind

There's a fire, do you feel that too?

And I dreamt that my soul rose unexpectedly and looking back down at me, smiled reassuringly

I miss old parts of me connected to everything and everyone that made me feel something permanently there and unforgettable. I miss one day ago. I miss complete strangers and strange places. I miss old dreams. I miss you six weeks ago. I miss us months ago. I miss every year ago. And If I had you next to me, I'd miss you already.

I want to make a ray of sunshine and never leave home

Find my direction magnetically

When I worry that my attachment to this place will ossify my brain, that isolation might kill the desire in my gaze.

I see our time expand

in the air almost forcibly,
spreading thinner till it dissolves completely