I think about matter sometimes,

and its invisible barriers. The unnoticed, unthought of space it creates between human contact. So much distance and space.

When I tug at one thing in life,

I find it attached to the rest of the world. The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day stirs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my delight is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment. Because really, the world is too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love.

What I'm shooting for is a coffee luster Wednesday morning with books and breakfast, what I'm getting is Thursday night junk food empty apartment.

symmetrical white walls
cluttered shelves
the door is closed
the mouth is shut
the eyes are looking
the mind is running
the body is cunning
follow me
into water clusters
and lip-smacking sugar swirls
let's run the cunning down

The Ultimate Plot

Life's structured into never ending narratives, each with its own Aristotle-esque beginning, middle, and end. And we've all intrinsically just known it: beginning is the hardest part. Messy, daunting, disproportionately hazy and scary as hell. The in-between journey, however, is snug and familiar. Everybody likes to linger in the middle because the in-between easily means dwelling in comfortable patterns and second-nature habits. We like it best maybe because endings are scary as hell too.














































In life, experience is cut up into little narratives neatly divided, sliced and placed in their correspondingly chronological order. But no matter how many times you've gone through the pattern each beginning and ending never gets easier. Partly because every journey is an outlandish step forward that's entirely new. There's nothing more paradoxically intimidating and exciting as a blank canvas. There's an undeniable weight of responsibility to yourself, to navigate through the unknown and design a life that's desirable. But diving into whiteness like stretching light, blinding and insufferable, makes it difficult to not make mistakes; the canvas gets messy, tainted and rumpled. It's no wonder we change even while trying to keep the foundation of who we are intact. We get lost within the unyielding brushstrokes of our work, overlapping and blending, ultimately blurring definitive lines and boundaries until we're thickly layered into a beautifully complicated myriad of selves. Shifting, flowing, melting into each other, life takes up colorful shapes. And I can only lean enviously, with soggy desire, against neighboring boundaries of canvases curved, oval and cleaner than mine.

Spinning and tossing into infinite space like light too bright or silence too long- this is the nature of my multicolored, fluttering madness.

Pale evening,

I see your unique ivory smudges painted on the breeze

Your lonely veneer is placated, however, undefeated by flailing town traffic lights

Both silvery air and heavy silence

Seem to array themselves with your inauspicious lazy charm

Pale evening,

Your unyielding alabaster skin is creamy-white, like vanilla cake and apple blossoms

It penetrates the sky, pierces the sun

I feel your cryptic graze infiltrate my flesh and silky whispers whizzing past my ear

You’re all together a radiant dirty gray and a sweetish milky flush

You tantalize the moon with chalky dazed-eyed seduction

You beckon the sparkling dark black

Promptly followed by glinting, clinking celestial night bodies

They cannot refuse your numbing allure-

Your attractive, indestructible ashen gloom

Visual Imagistic Verses

Window Glass Murmur

Night time beckons,
(Or does it sneak?)
A bottomless languor,
Meanders beneath the covers.
You shake it off, work it off, breathe it off, live it off
Are you so tough?
And you try your best by the brightness
To transcend the walls
With all their white lightness

Night time beckons
(Or does it hover?)
Diamond images and coffe stains,
Elephant skin and window panes
Night time beckons
And a ripple imbues
You posses a lull-like varying luster
And your listless apathy
Can frenzy me into a hissing fluster
Night time beckons

(Or does it dissemble?)
The city appears to ooze a chatoyant felicity
For all that our demure contours leak fiercely
Beguiled and bemused
We seek calamity
Dulcet images and cheap champagne,
Opulent within and comely restrain

Night time beckons
(Or does it radiate?)
Pink glows and adolescent sparkles,
All the blackness and silence
Drizzle me in sprinkles
The night time softly beckons,
(Softly)

YOU WITH THE PERCEPTIBLE INTERMIXTURE NATURE

You want to be a diamond, a glossy you, a merely endless sight, an awe-shimmering smile night-sweeping sideways into idle stars. But you’re a perpetual presence, penetrating civil paintings. You’re an inauspicious frail oozing something. You’re a sort of material befitting iron, and quietly and frequently you’re wrung down down down ten tons down. You manifest politely, a blacksmith-y external polish. You’re an educated bear, baring flowers near my window-pane. Black or silver ashes, never gold. But you, you want to be exquisite. You can be exquisitely wrought in a summer-morning costume. Not a well-ordered, wooden head any longer. You’ve become sparkling black, not quite a white gloss. You’re a sharply over-exulting silvery sheen beneath my feet. You’re the drowsy pleasure one diligent, blazing morning. You dwell near smoke-blackened walls, and illuminate the gloom.

I readily, quite free-heartedly make your acquaintance, you with the perceptible intermixture nature.

Passionate glinting falsettos

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.