| a little late in liking rilke |
[30 May 2007|08:56pm] |
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Just the other day I realized that I had the best love, to which nothing could compare, Not even the sun rising in my palms was as beautiful. And somehow eventually my highest standard couldn’t even meet itself, And love was lost- like Daisy, like Allie, like your dick. Then I got so angry when I learned that lately he’s been reading my books, and All of a sudden he loves Letters to a Young Poet Rilke is mine. He’s supposed to be mine. You don’t even know what he’s saying. You were supposed to be mine. You were supposed to keep me, Even after the prose was dead, When I’d start to re-use lines from Old poems in hopes that maybe, just maybe, They’d mean something the second, And third, And fourth time around. Maybe if I had lived in Belmont, Or if I had been able to tell you what the fuck was wrong (Wait, I did.) If only I had written “Muzzle of Bees” and you were who it was about. I’m assuming you got my message on your machine I’m assuming you heard Gray Room and that it made you cry. Yeah well you should’ve been there. -Well I’ve been there before and I’ve still got you to keep me warm I’ve been warmer than warm. With the breeze blown through My head upon your knee Half of it’s you, half is me. I’m sorry I didn’t write it, I’m sorry He didn’t play Cold Water but she wasn’t there And never will be again because “Don’t you know I love You and I always have” was a lie And you lied and you’re not sorry and the awful thing is That I’m still sorry even though it’s your fault. I’m sorry it’s your fault. (one) Why can’t you be closer, why can’t I be older, why can’t I have a house in Canada? And (two) why can’t Sweden be closer? Why can’t Laura be whole? (one) Because had the tides turned that way, we never would have collided and capsized, Which means we never would have gone under in each other’s sails, In each other’s breath, And we never would have drowned together. To be honest I’m not sure which I would have preferred: never knowing you existed or drowning in love until we both died. (two) Because when people are whole they feel hollow. So yes, prose is dead, For the fifth time now. And yes, the only reason I want to see you is so I can have back everything you took from me And is that okay? I like it this way. After all, I’ve got a virgin for a fuckbuddy who’s cheating on me, An Egyptian with green eyes, and a Turkish love that hasn’t been born yet. No I’m not drowning, and no I don’t care. And I’ve still got your mother’s blanket to keep me warm because I’m still always cold. I still hate you but take no heed because there will always be a slice of me that’s yours. I will always die I will always die I will always die So you can remember me.
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| Written about a week and a half ago. |
[19 May 2007|10:36pm] |
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Thirty-five miles an hour Past an Asian family of four- Two toddlers playing with sticks, And two over aged parents who spent four hours in the immigration line and one hundred dollars on canvas bags, all for a commuter city (with no car), shitty housing, a job at a well-respected jewelry store, And a little bit of progress. Drink it down with a little saki and let us know what you think of our country: Dial 1-800-WE-SWEAR-WE-CARE. They climbed the scoliosis roadway and arrived at the Storm in fifteen minutes. Within the same time frame I had stepped on a catalyst, Locked my life in my car and chose a chipped green picnic table to lie down on as I waited for fear and love and the Birth of Venus to fly towards me in a wicker basket modeled after my veins. But Il Principe failed and realism won and women can’t be born from clam shells so why the fuck would you expect him to appear? The Asian family appeared walking along the rocks, speaking in Oriental verses that shamefully go unnoticed here. Still I could’ve sworn one of them screamed my name- “Give up! Give up! Give up! Give up!” No, wait. The photographers left the temple and it’s my turn now. I plead: Isn’t there anything you have to read in the shade of the trees? Rain check. Rain check. Checked the sky, checked the drops on my skin. Ah-ha, it’s raining all right. Checked the pages of my books and saw history running together. Parade rained on. Scarves ruined. The Muslim woman’s dyed scarf runs and the fuchsia drips over her modest shoulders like the insulin from the syringe that keeps her son alive. An attack ensues, but there’s no such thing as an emergency when you spend your evenings calling loved ones from a minaret. I cave And step on the catalyst. Two minutes later, the sun reestablishes control, But I’m already exiled. Eight-twenty PM and I’m pretending to forget that I was ever ousted, That I was ever shaking (God damnit I can’t stop shaking), that I ever cared about the way the branches entwine across the blue planes until you can barely tell there is a sky anymore. Those horror vacui bastards, when will they ever learn? Where are you? Where are you? Space is good, even pretty at times. You seem to be deep in thought. Wrong impression, sliced earlobe, shared Chapstick, Dead future. Unscrew the lid of overanalyzing and apprehension. Let it fizz a little, and enjoy. Feet barely touch, a whole forest between us. Cross divide. Insert embrace. Insert memory of Asian children and a mosquito bite Right here. Thump thump, thump thump. What’s this? What’s this? A slight caress? It’s the spine that breaks every time you lay on it, It’s the tongue that swells at the touch of your tongue, It’s his hands massaging your flesh every time he wants intimacy, His insistence on kissing you despite his chapped lips; The startled face when you realize he reads you like a book. It’s the two little boys holding each other’s hands as they run down the hill, The suspended gasping fear their old mother holds in her throat as they stumble down, down, down the hill. What’s this? My front door. Come inside and let your breath warm to a melted substance. Somehow we’re supposed to forget time and remember the feeling of each other’s touch, But your chin rests on my legs and your lips flake off. I wonder if this means I’m not allowed to hold you, Whether or not we’ve just found the end, Or if I’m supposed to make you fall for Fall River towards the end of summer. Did we just incise a bas-relief, or is this Alexander’s way of telling us that he just razed the fuck out of Persepolis and Darius is finally dead? Who will stop my nightmares? Who will blow out these flames that climb closer and closer to my voice box and scorch the strings of my free verse? Who will hold firm the good? It’s the thoughts that singe your cranium and lace your aorta. I look eastward and see a gliding silhouette in all her glory. The aged mother walks barefoot up my driveway and smiles at me a while before Laying a single grain of rice at my feet. Hold on my love. Hold on my love.
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[29 Apr 2007|09:51pm] |
high. embarrassed for being high. paranoid. terribly lonely, terribly excluded. deliciously high. delicious gold. delicious comfort. sleeplessness. wasteful. forbidden to bring a potted plant into the art museum. disappointed. inspired by chance. found.
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| who's in love with the world |
[23 Apr 2007|09:22pm] |
Dad, Wig, Judi-
Heyall. As you can see I just saw the world's largest Buddha...in the world. He resides along the 3-rivers delta at Leshan. Afterwords I went to Chengdu & ate some great Sichuan Food- which is like the Cajan food of China. So of course it reminds me of Cajun J & eat at Berk. with you guys. Can't wait to get back.
-Jerome.
Mai rui feng.
p.s. Send me sour patch kidz.
[printed on the postcard] The photo of leshan Buddha in 2003. And the leshan Buddha was founded during 713 and 803. The stature of the leshan Buddha is 71m.
He wrote all of the names of the places in Chinese writing as well. I'm not sure what is said in Chinese at the end. I think 'mai' either means love or sister. I fucking miss him more than anyone right now.
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| Here's to the boys who hardly know we're beautiful. |
[04 Apr 2007|09:23pm] |
I hadn't even planned on writing tonight.
Right now I should be packing, packing,
Packing for my great migration
to the Space Needle Mountains and the
Pacific Ocean caught in Victoria's eyelids.
I hadn't even planned on wr-
Well, I hadn't planned on a lot if things,
i.e. killing off the sparks between us-
aren't those usually blown into fire?
You know, pursued?
Eh, fuck 'em. There were never any sparks.
What sparks?
Exactly.
So what if they're erased,
so what if right now you're in
Ohio but didn't tell me.
I guess that means you still have the
blue whale, I guess that means I'm
supposed to cry now because I feel
forgotten. I guess it's what I deserve, for
not calling you when I drove past
Lorado's water nymphs and I cried
because I missed you like hell.
I guess two can play this game.
So what if I turned you down once, so
what if you're a better cook than I-
(France lost that day, I was so upset. but oh,
the key lime pie was good)
I'll see you in October and-
how about that ride home?
So what if I should have kissed you
after the Sigur Ros concert
underneath the marquee?
So what if we both know it's been there before,
(She just doesn't see)
I promise I'll kiss you when I get home.
And who told you I've never met him and that
he probably finds me too forward and too
talkative? Well you know what,
Anything goes in this town- I can't quite say it in
Catalan, but maybe Spanish will do:
Vive la vida y se hablan amor aqui.
Both the Pablos have dreams for me that
take place in the conches of
Gaudi's stomach.
So what if I don't know what they are yet:
Castile de Milas, Sagrada Familia, Battlo House,
Gothic Quarter (wait a minute- that's Moores, not Gaud-
Shh.
I'd rather be surprised.
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| sorry if this makes no sense to any of you who read this. i wrote this for me. |
[29 Mar 2007|11:22pm] |
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"Get your mind off winter time,
you ain't going nowhere." I’m not sure why I’m writing this to you, after we’ve just spent two hours talking about all of this and you’ll never be able to read this anyway, but I love you. My throat is killing me. After all, I’ve been choking for seven years on all these things I had wanted to say to you for so long. I miss the person you were before you even had the boys or me. Seems ridiculous, doesn’t it, that I love the person inside of you I never even knew? And yet so much of that person lives inside of me. Because of you, I devote myself whole-heartedly to the people I care about. Because you have waited hours upon hours for me to show up just so you could watch me read by your hissing radiator, I have loved the little things that people do. And I have not shown my thankfulness at all. But you must know that I am thankful. And I’m sorry I don’t come over much and that I ridicule you for smoking or that you wear funny socks. Tonight I noticed that you don’t really even smoke your cigarettes. You keep them tucked between your two fingers as the smoke whistles out of the room into the evening clouds, and the white and orange paper burns towards your wrist as embers and ashes fall into the sink. Just holding it is all you need. And that’s what we both need from each other. I’m sorry I tell you how unwelcoming your apartment is, because in all honesty, it has become one of my favorite places to go. Everything’s so peaceful there and I can concentrate on work or let my eyes focus on nothing or listen to the rain as it sighs on the Tudor windows in my bedroom. It has become a haven for me, a place that I keep beneath a heavy lid in my brain that I secretly and slowly open -so the lid won’t make too loud of a popping noise- and I breathe in the smell of the perfume you wear and the seaside-scented candles we got you for Christmas one year. While kept in my jar, I want so badly to share our special place with others- to invite them into our secret world where you make everything beautiful, as you paint your walls with your pride in your children’s artwork and the photographs that reflect the faces of your fifty close relatives. In my heart I know my friends would love it there, but still I am too apprehensive. (It took a lot of getting-over-things inwardly when the man I used to reside in love with wanted to climb the stairwell to 22 D and into my bed to read by my side and watch time go by.) What if they think the empty dining room creates coldness, no matter how much the off-white radiators or the soft glows of the old lamps give off warmth? What if they don’t like the negative space and they expect to see more of your beautiful life spread across the walls but they can’t see it because it’s something they have to search for? What if they never understand what this place means to me? If any of this were the case, it’d be my fault for failing to get across how much I love it here. I’d be the one to blame for keeping it beneath the lid, as I have the mentality that since they weren’t there in the beginning they won’t understand now. Why is that? It probably isn’t so. In fact, it definitely isn’t so- you said it yourself. Why is it that you realize that these people I love mean so much to me, and yet I still quiver and fear that they won’t understand? Why won’t I let them understand? What if-- I love that after writing about our little world, I suddenly move there. “There” becomes “here”, and I feel the breeze coming through the window screens. I love that if you read this, you’d be the only one who knew exactly what I was trying to say because you interpret me so well. I’m glad you’ve decided to stay, even if sometimes I think that you’d be much happier with Opa picking oranges from the tree on the side of his house. I wouldn’t be happier, but I think that you would. But I’m glad you insist that you’d rather stay here with me. I love you for reassuring me that we can both open the lid simultaneously and let our hearts sink into each other’s as we enjoy tea and gourmet pizza and the occasional spanakoepita. Thank you for holding my hand and promising me that we’ll stay close. Thank you for giving me life and thank you for staying in it, regardless of how much shit has gotten in the way. Thank you for calling me when I got home and whispering in you sweet voice, “We’ll stay close.”
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[24 Mar 2007|10:02am] |
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music |
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An Owl With Knees |
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“This is the birth that everyone’s always talking about.” Doesn’t it feel like time has stopped? Like right now, with the rain coming down, I would have no idea what time it was, if it Weren’t for this computer clock. You’re flat lining. And yet- you’re beautiful. Hope you found your vanilla pudding, and that you Didn’t see Casey again. I still drive past the gazebo and glance Slightly to my left. The candles are nothing but stringy Wicks now, but goddamnit they’re still lit, even with the space. What is space? When is summer? When does the mustard plant grow? I hope later this evening we meet in some Glow and maybe hold each other’s hands. Here’s for wanting the boys who can hardly tell we’re beautiful. Here’s to crying out of laughter. Here’s for holding out for the men we know we’re supposed to love. They’ll be around next year, right? And you, you’ll be around all years. True, I think of you and blush like a magnolia, but I do believe You and I will touch hands-to-faces again some day, Even if it won’t mean a thing to either of us. I never had a life to live. I am the cherry orchard. You know, I often dreamt that you and I laid in the Beach grass, reading Rilke in the dunes. Above- a Baroque sky. Below- Mesaccio’s bones. Marysue, you’re a queer one, but my god you’re darling. Please don’t be afraid of me. For a second there it Seemed like you almost held me but- No, I must have been dreaming. I seem to live in my dreams. The teal ocean in the movie theatre in Montreal was just so fitting a Place for us to kiss. Are you a sundial? Have I seen you before? No, you’re a steamroller. I’m the peace flags falling back to the earth. I’m still figuring out how to connect with you. It’d be so much easier if I knew your thoughts or You’d let me hold your hand. Let me hold your fucking hand. Swim with me through El Arco or Christina’s world. “Then he first felt delight in all his feathers and verily became swan in her lap.”
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| Oh kairos letter. Hm. Interesting. |
[18 Mar 2007|04:34pm] |
November 22, 2006
"Set my love in order, o thou who lovest me."
I will keep the keys to the Chapter House. I will re-read my leters over and over until I know that I am able to love these people fully- these people who set my love in order. I must remember they also set my entire world in order. And I know these very same people will when this letter is received later on. A great part of me hopes they will years later. How beautiful to think that in 2 years from now Eric's smile will still be the thing that floods my memory and my present state of mind. And Laura's cackle, and maggie's puppy face, and Caroline's bedroom, and talks with Ryan at Sitwells and phonecalls with Bruns. How am I to ever forget the beauty these people have given me? It won't be difficult. Fuck, what a lie, of course it will. But I will stamp these loves into my heart, because it does not matter where I am. As long as I have them, I will always be.
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| i'm not entirely sure what the hell this is. but here goes it. |
[05 Mar 2007|07:18pm] |
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music |
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mike greenstein trio |
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"I am honored to be your father."
Skip school. End up in the corner of a cold coffee house and hot chai and a bahtroom whose aqua walls you scribbled on first. (no one can read it anymore) Yesterday I drove down Telford Street to Blenheim- thought I was rowing in the sky above the castle. A car nearly hitme. Such places don't exist.
You don't cry as prettily as you think. Us ends now. This is it.
(I live more beautifully in my dreams, anyways)
Not even a second-thought phone call or a letter to say you screwed up. Well, you did. You screw. You drill your voice into the hole in my chest and brand tire tracks into my thighs. "I never noticed how strong your legs are."
Yeah, well you also probably never noticed how heavily I breathed or how perfect the nights looked or how miserable my sleep was after you kissed my forehead and pulled the blinds up so I could see the golden lights of your volvo as you drove down my driveway. You probably didn't notice my sleep in the front seat of your car that night.
Oh, and let's not forget the woman who spotted us holding each other in the street, exchanging a smile because she remembered the first time she felt that. Oh, you never noticed her?
Well then, let me ask- did you notice that I'm dying and that I'm perfectly okay with it? I've grown so numb after you stripped me of your favorite clothes of mine and I've accepted that you don't want our voices tethered together any longer. You're just dying to get the hell away. Perhaps you haven't noticed that I'm already gone. Yes, gone. Rotting away as viking ships often do and waiting to be taken to the Olson House or, if I end up in Baja, drifting through El Arco just off the shore. Either way, someone will find me and ask me if I feel any pain and I will reply, "Not that I've noticed."
Please, won't you untie me from your rope entwined with frayed words about how much you strive to make people happy and how you've found everything in me? Haven't you noticed I want to sink and freeze and be found months later by some celestial navigator who screams out "At last, I have found her!"
Don't you notice my eyes in the wind have closed shut and yet they still cry tears that hit your forehead and make you wince uncomfortably? And sometimes all I want is for you to cry with me and tell me how much of a coward you are for giving up on what you began. Haven't you figured out that you can't throw people away onto the rocks of Lake Michigan, no matter how much you say you're moving on? Haven't you noticed that I still linger on, with no desire to encompass you, but rather a want for you to still linger in my life? Don't you know that I will continue shivering until you place me in your kneecaps so that I can warm the ice for you like any friend would? Yes, I am shivering, haven't you noticed?
Haven't you noticed me standing in your doorway in my fucking underwear with nothing left to say?
yeah i'll read that later and ponder on its origins. i hate him- i don't want to be with him- i just want a place in his life kept especially for me.
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| come to think of it, i guess i'm still a wreck. |
[25 Feb 2007|12:14am] |
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“Well, it’s pouring down here.” Heart regurgitated onto Martin Luther King. I never expected for it to be that perfect. But it was. Your voice-- “Yeah, it’s terrible here, too.” In my head I wondered what the lake looked like. Frozen over, just like El Lago Raphael Beneath the star-moon shutters. “… Terrible here.” “Oh, I finally saw The English Patient.” (shit, fuck- should I have said that?) What did I think? Beautiful things. Dark green and folded, asleep in the Corner of your closet. (“Look darling, a blue whale! Did you see it? Just wait, it will come again.”) Before laying to rest,
I was hoping to show you Tummy Haha and the Elephant staircase- all that remains after the hurricane of ‘38 Wrote the death of the waterfront. And the way you said goodbye- softly (Insert my name here. Make it sound poetic, won’t you?) Surprised to find my heart still in my ribs. It’s because I’m better. Or maybe I’m just comatose. “Your winter snows, your gusty blow.” Prose is dead, but it has not given up on you. Hoped you would’ve remembered. I thought I said that “distance left gingerly”? Damn, I could've sworn…. There is still Everything More, lying in your room inside the box that tells you to breathe.
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| let's hope we get published |
[20 Feb 2007|05:33pm] |
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I fall asleep. The catcher breaks my nightmares that Often come on the wings of moths. Heavily breathing his voice into the basin Between my collar bones, I take flight. My eyes close And my heart opens to our Pumpkin stories, corner-folded and book-marked in our fleshless hands. We are not flesh, we are an open heart. I fall asleep. Yet eyes open and Remember the world- Journalists are killed, the birds collide. A wind-chill arctics me. Poets cower, even though There is much welding to be done. But there you are, Dream Catcher, Beneath the dirty streets, Walking in the garden where an iron sundial whispers, “May you be as true to each other as I am to the sun.” Though you cry in disbelief, I catch the words in my palms and Kiss your dry knuckles, smear the letters on your hand And the soleil on your face- I drink all the butterflies until you know.
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| Feb. 13th (A una Estatua de Proa- Naruda) |
[14 Feb 2007|12:03am] |
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Five nights ago my hands snapped off of my wrists at the same time a car rolled backwards off the edge of an ugly roof and crashed right into a blue jay’s borogrove-ish wings and burned away the feathers. On Sunday night I regurgitated my lungs because I felt there was no need for them anymore, now that there would be no dream catcher or breath box to capture my nightmares and supplant them with dreams that molded into the form of ships that anchored into the basin between my collarbones- your Almasy Bosphorus, as you liked to call it. For five nights I have glanced at this stupid telephone wondering if a red light would flash to let me know you still wanted this kept in a jar stored far away from all the upside down and inside-out buildings and movie theatres with broken light fixtures. At least, that’s what I wanted. I will not lie, you caught me off guard and dropped me from 7.81 stories into the dry gravel that I was never supposed to touch. Dreaming of you this morning woke me, and I opened my eyes with an ache in my forehead that promptly pounded and pounded at my skull with no other intention but to split it in two. I made sure I was twitching uncontrollably last night so that I could be a shipwreck today. (“te recogimos cansada navegante.”) After all, it was eight months ago that you laid your pretty head so close to my palms and asked, “so what do you think of us?” (it was at this point that I noticed the noon sun was burning a hole in each leaf of the magnolia trees as more seconds passed by) “Us sounds perfect” (a light shade kissed the petals and they drooped towards the fountain) Before I could lean in even closer to your glowing face your palm painted with two love lines was melted with mine beneath the burning star of daylight. (“Dulzura delicada que irỉa conquistando la luz con sus caderas.”) About eight months and 20 minutes ago we stood on the steps in front of my door, with the only light coming from the homes the fireflies made in the trees and from the windows that were stenciled out of endless skies solely for the purpose of the stars showing through, and you told me “don’t be afraid of anything.” (“la luz te recibiỏ temblando en los pouertos.”) Fool you were! I was already remiss of fears from the moment the netting of your palms clasped mine earlier that day. With that you grinned and locked your arms around my shoulder blades and kissed my lips with every pulse of circulation you had in you. It would be four months after this when we would be lying at the foot of your bed looking up at the clouds and you whisper, “do you remember our first kiss? It was so sunny.” And I chuckled. It was sunny for me, too, fuck if it was late at night. (“vive la vida.”) The night we slept in the polygonal room at Ryan’s I built a chapter house to store the scrolls of my memories and as we stayed the entire night locked in each other’s sleep I dreamt that we owned a house in Cuttyhunk right on the cliffs of Gayhead with a balcony that looked down on our catamaran dragged upon the shore, its stern barely bobbing in the shallow sea. So no wonder I awoke today with no lungs and my ribs broken, because you took away my seascape and drained my suprasternal notch from every safe place. Now outside has been ripped out of the earth and thrown into some foreign sky as the snow looks at me despairingly because it has nothing to be laid on. I close my eyes to be taken back to Cuttyhunk, embarcadero Cuttyhunk, and the white dunes by the ocean. (“Al final, a mis ojos estabas destinada.”) Only, today the mile marker sunk and there was a trail of gasps eight feet apart from each other leading up onto the shore. Today we picked up your form from the sand. (“Dejen caer lo que soy en la espuma.” )
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[10 Feb 2007|01:59pm] |
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Something I just wrote.
If you listen closely, you can hear it rust. My father’s eyes never looked bluer Than the day he told me I will be okay. Ted Hughes left. I’ve never felt warmer. Lakeshore- I sing- Eden Belleview And a sailboat still tied up to the cleat on the dock The wind never came to Loyola. I have eyes in the wind- they used to smile at you Through the stars that froze your lips until I came down From my celestial bliss to kiss you by the fountain and Bring you life. For eight months my hands were fucking frostbitten because I gave Everything to you. Adieu, Ted Hughes. My feet are still bare and lovely, and I will step on Lakeshore stones with someone else’s pockets in mind. The aquas will clink and brush Against a different cloth and I will think of you at first- But only as a montage- Blue pleats and a red door with green eyes on My nervous lips (fireflies’ reflections) Lanterns of “A Valediction Forbidding Mourning” and an Envelope enclosed with a compass that ended somewhere else. Faeries flying through my walls; full moons at 7:44. When you get your pilot’s license, if you’re not afraid to fly, We can still flicker to Greece and back to Iceland to Sleep beneath the verge. Can there ever be anyone else? Life tries. The treelight will try. Donne will try. In the distance, through the concrete cutouts You can still see the little girl in her yellow dress, Waving to us from her broken side-screened door. We sat on the precipice and felt fused. The slate rain washed the coral sun away Life is gray but I love the rivulets. You hate to get wet. I won your dream- Distance did not mar me. Rain never tires and neither will I Somewhere the Day sings “Que Sera” and A Landscape cries a melon sky. And you realize that you’ve never hated the lake so much, Now that you have no one To sing its song.
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[14 Sep 2006|08:36pm] |
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Creased Time
We weren’t always here,
Perched upon dry petals,
Which fall delicately into the folds
Of my linen and your skin. Complementary
And fusing, like man to woman
As we get lost in time.
Your skin feels like marble petals,
And mine is dry and brown, complementary
To your pastel cheeks, rouge like the womb
Of love- the heart. A timer who tries to lose track of time.
If we hadn’t both been here,
I’m sure my hands would have creased at their veins, alone, and folded.
I found you in blue, a lost, cold woman,
With the scent of stale petals
Dusted over time, this trivial time.
I’d give the world for you to realize that you are here
In my arms that fold
Abound you. No need for words. Unspoken. Complete.
Petals fold as sweet autumn waxes and transcends time to bring us together. Completed. And at last, here.
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