(no subject)

Some cobwebs dusted, fresh paint on the walls. I tend to spend too much time thinking, but that hasn't been the case recently.
Recently, I've been coasting, avoiding too much feeling.

Some things strike me, reading backwards: I wanted to write for myself, for family, for the selves we fail to be, fail to become and forget. For truth that, in that instant of experience, we recognised.

Humans fall into the trap of categorising their beliefs. Was looking over a relative's old papers today. Legal stuff being shredded. Personal property, rights to justice being churned by steel paper shredder teeth.

There are no recognised rights except those we fight for. The law is a screen of lies--this is what KY was saying that day--but is that really so different from life? Law just makes the deception that much starker.

Words after all are lies.

Paper plan(e)s whirl

Paper planes whirl. A cuckoo sounds. Sparrow-throat, the mime clocks. A running gag. Television set. Family time, becoming.
Numbness arrives, the day sets. Funnily enough, they say—a row of smiling heads, nodding, nodding, crinkle-tears only tell.

Noon-day, bird-day, an isle awash in spring-turning-summer. The whoops of the day-owl.
A grandmother’s house, my skin still crisp next to hers.
Three sets of hands, one supple, one drying, one with the pattern of years, flowering over the hand.

Things still, things not moving. Old furniture, old times. A quietness, some movement—the relatives downstairs eating, myself typing, here, alive.

constant reassembly

Finding this sweet spot is like learning syntax.

We iterate the process in hopes of finding the next

nearest common denominator,

each point of convergence at once a new division requiring a new

rallying call to arms; body, mind, and soul

set a teeter, a constant reassembly.

Like you, I rather like it that way.



writ in in the aftermath of

your fingers smooth against the nape of my neck;

a smile curled, like ferns

in the sea, pressing tight into

a careful heart-

beat; one tries not to yield.

the best part is that we do yield, easily, but not without some trickery.

of course, the other part of this is what comes next. This question that looms suddenly and confronts me with a blankness that I have no definition for. One moment I was looking at a puzzle and the next, I was told nothing was possible; the next, I get the sense that we are standing at the edge of something. something frightening.

people want to be individuals and want to belong, you said. do you? I asked. god, no, you said. and

after all--me now--can I imagine evenings of routine, getting used to waiting for you, seeing you?

with any relationship, one asks, why are you in it? becoming part of something larger than you, a couple, contains a universe of worlds and souls in it-it swallows up another's future and plots a singular path in a straight trajectory, forever bound, to one other.

that is, unless this union plays curveball.

juno with shades

black box ether

There is something sweet and slow

in the long arches between trysts and turns in the hay, your voice a deep resonance

against the vocal stretches of my monologue.

We have amplitudes that meet

on particular frequencies of the invisible blackbox

that connects us

to messenger, to Skype and Facebook and then to you,

through this syntax of phrases

coded algorithms and interative syntax,

stragithfoward and clear to the skilled, who

wander the meandering paths criss-crossing

these lines of code, software packages,

with ease.

No two conversations are alike, but the dialectic

and its rules you can duplicate

so that every new chat window you open

is a new world and an old
and each message you push out into the ether, speaks twice, Janus-faced
your history and mine.


Choosing words

I have been frustrated.
of late, the impressions have inked
indelible words I am looking
to see.

words are difficult to pick.

perhaps being able to pick is the first step.
it is a process.

from rocky vowels, pulled-apart syllables, passive aggression, active
verbs, added
at just the moment you/I admit

till then, all is inconstant, and I tip-
toe on quiet edges
around the rug, afraid to see
what’s beneath.



How you make me feel is a question I want to run from.
There is a holiness in the way we see ourselves. We wish to believe.
Pagan as you are, you do this too.

I live with a disquiet dissonance.
The broken spells of our hearts they give us no easy way to stop.
Excitement has ejected itself from its orbit of too many suns, each one
Greater than the other, each one colder,
Duller, each with only one end.

Hot flowers

Already the hot season. Sandstone, brick, mortar in the ground. A bricolage of surfaces--all rough, brittle, edged. Long shadows of grass fingers, bent over; light scatters one view across all sides.

99% of something is the almost whole, with that bit that allows a space into which the alien and unwanted enters, uninvited. The 99% is where, having dissolved one's self into the soup of the nation--the national dream, or the normal, unexplored, unquestioned dream--the average woman can strike her pose and maintain it like all the others on either side of her--gazing through the window at more images of herself, albeit mobile, moving: glamour that moves faster than the human being. The average in the non-reducible, death in life, the cheapness in the good. Just as goods serve their different functions, they are also only copies of copies, and there is nothing special about them, outside of their singular everyday-ness.

We like to believe ourselves special, but are we? Are we not average, or rather, on what basis do we draw the distribution curve, decide who meets its mark, and who falls in the highest and lowest 5%? Are we--and our relationships, our dreams, our goals, our jobs, studies, projects, hobbies, families--not all 99%?

Are some more special than others, or is it merely a matter of who says what--who verbalises, passes on the story?