as i type this, you're listening
but you can't hear the words
and when you sing
and when you breathe
i'd like you to know i listen.
every word,
every little whip
from your lip
s.
*
sometimes i can hear my sobs in my breaths.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Forests
They would be all sorts of natural – skin and blood and bones. It's all one and the same, and it's all real and there. Unabridged flesh, metal mouths.
It's like falling into place, but breaking some bones.
*
It's Forest, eleven-years-old, and Tops, just a couple months older.
Tops had big teeth and Forest made fun of her for it. He laughed and laughed, and she shied away from him.
*
Twelve was an odd year for the both of them. There was a lot of sitting, on all sorts of surfaces. Marble, tiles, baskets, gravel, cement, wood, chairs, rocks. Skies, suns, clouds, Saturn's rings, and all those celestial things. It was a dream. But they were just sitting.
*
And then came the years of the Great Separation – Forest and Tops grew and shrank and tripped and tripped and tripped in love, and fell so far away from each other. There was a lot of grasping and clutching and grabbing but sometimes their bodies were buttery.
Sometimes they were just butter, melting away under the heat of elsepeople's gazes.
*
And then Forest came back, and Tops let him in. And it was day after day after day of stories and words and so many words. Have you heards and have you watcheds, then let's go outs and are you guys frees. The geography of a line, and the silence of a car crash.
And then there was Piper.
*
Three consecutive numbers – the first was Forest, the second was Tops, and the third was the night. There was a lot of sitting, and a lot of swaying, and a lot of her make-up on his suit jacket. That was when the night was young.
When the night grew creased and even the stars were dull, Tops was alone with her thoughts. And when the sun came up, Tops was alone and her thoughts burst from her skull like a bullet through her brain. It painted her face with the colors of chaos.
*
Forest and Piper could be real good together. They ought to give it a try!
*
Tops was okay.
*
Sometimes she wasn't okay, but most of the time, she was okay. Tops was a skeletal wonder. Real strong spine.
*
It's strange how it all ends, really. Everyone is a princess except the one who wants the crown. And there are no speak nows, no see you tonights, no it was always just yous. It is just smiles that aren't on Tops's lips. Not lost smiles or misplaced grins. They are just not her smiles, and she can't own them.
Pity, though. She would've made a good princess. She would have been a natural princess. Natural as water and forests and volcanoes, but no one's ever going to see her try.
*
oh, poems in prose! why don't i cut this up in lines and show you the ribbons!
It's like falling into place, but breaking some bones.
*
It's Forest, eleven-years-old, and Tops, just a couple months older.
Tops had big teeth and Forest made fun of her for it. He laughed and laughed, and she shied away from him.
*
Twelve was an odd year for the both of them. There was a lot of sitting, on all sorts of surfaces. Marble, tiles, baskets, gravel, cement, wood, chairs, rocks. Skies, suns, clouds, Saturn's rings, and all those celestial things. It was a dream. But they were just sitting.
*
And then came the years of the Great Separation – Forest and Tops grew and shrank and tripped and tripped and tripped in love, and fell so far away from each other. There was a lot of grasping and clutching and grabbing but sometimes their bodies were buttery.
Sometimes they were just butter, melting away under the heat of elsepeople's gazes.
*
And then Forest came back, and Tops let him in. And it was day after day after day of stories and words and so many words. Have you heards and have you watcheds, then let's go outs and are you guys frees. The geography of a line, and the silence of a car crash.
And then there was Piper.
*
Three consecutive numbers – the first was Forest, the second was Tops, and the third was the night. There was a lot of sitting, and a lot of swaying, and a lot of her make-up on his suit jacket. That was when the night was young.
When the night grew creased and even the stars were dull, Tops was alone with her thoughts. And when the sun came up, Tops was alone and her thoughts burst from her skull like a bullet through her brain. It painted her face with the colors of chaos.
*
Forest and Piper could be real good together. They ought to give it a try!
*
Tops was okay.
*
Sometimes she wasn't okay, but most of the time, she was okay. Tops was a skeletal wonder. Real strong spine.
*
It's strange how it all ends, really. Everyone is a princess except the one who wants the crown. And there are no speak nows, no see you tonights, no it was always just yous. It is just smiles that aren't on Tops's lips. Not lost smiles or misplaced grins. They are just not her smiles, and she can't own them.
Pity, though. She would've made a good princess. She would have been a natural princess. Natural as water and forests and volcanoes, but no one's ever going to see her try.
*
oh, poems in prose! why don't i cut this up in lines and show you the ribbons!
Monday, January 31, 2011
i hope you forget
i hope you forget, in the long run, that i'd ever helped you with anything, because you'd never let me forget it, and you'd never leave my side. i know your type of loyalty – i know you're going to be here long enough for me to scratch myself out of my skin and yell from the top of my lungs for you to listen to me listen to me listen to me, you idiot, listen to what i can't say or understand or think of or watch me when i'm around you – just tell me, you bloody fool, just tell me please what this is, what this all is and just listen to how i shriek, how you tear me apart so viciously and heartlessly, just listen to what you do to me
and it isn't even because of your smile, or your anything – it's because of how i smile because of you, and it's all me from you that wrecks every nerve of my being. it's your arm when it's around me, not the safety or the comfort or the warmth – really, i don't know, i have no right to say "it is" or "it isn't," because you are such a trick of light, and you turn me into an ape traipsing between "this is it" and "this will never be it" –
you make me so stupid
you make me so blind
you make me so deaf
you make me so warm
i hope you forget how it was a song nobody knew or could even hear over the sound of a million whispercaresses floating in the air. i hope you forget the closeness – just a couple of feet – i hope you forget the way everyone looked that night, i hope you forget how you didn't say a word. i hope you forget about small eyes and big eyes and size and just everything, i hope you forget about things that pull you away from me sometimes (oh, yes, i know, how so very possessive, m – oh, you know it, you know i am)
do everything, do everything you feel like – and although i say so, don't ever forget a single thing. don't you dare do that for me. i'm afraid of being away from you, is all
(there, I just said it, i'm scared you'll forget about me – didn't you see that?)
and it isn't even because of your smile, or your anything – it's because of how i smile because of you, and it's all me from you that wrecks every nerve of my being. it's your arm when it's around me, not the safety or the comfort or the warmth – really, i don't know, i have no right to say "it is" or "it isn't," because you are such a trick of light, and you turn me into an ape traipsing between "this is it" and "this will never be it" –
you make me so stupid
you make me so blind
you make me so deaf
you make me so warm
i hope you forget how it was a song nobody knew or could even hear over the sound of a million whispercaresses floating in the air. i hope you forget the closeness – just a couple of feet – i hope you forget the way everyone looked that night, i hope you forget how you didn't say a word. i hope you forget about small eyes and big eyes and size and just everything, i hope you forget about things that pull you away from me sometimes (oh, yes, i know, how so very possessive, m – oh, you know it, you know i am)
do everything, do everything you feel like – and although i say so, don't ever forget a single thing. don't you dare do that for me. i'm afraid of being away from you, is all
(there, I just said it, i'm scared you'll forget about me – didn't you see that?)
Monday, January 17, 2011
Another Wrinkle in Time
he was, in all ways, carried by
the waves of time:
sailing on and on in his boat of skin;
he looked below,
and lo and behold,
creased blue ripples so akin
to the wrinkles his aged face brings
to the view of an average stranger.
it seems the clock had been malleable,
for time had stretched far and wide:
panic had gripped him, and its chiding had
struck him,
dumb and a little less than alive
a thunderstorm came, and the ocean was hideous
and rude, and cruel, and a lot more than vicious!
so his white hair grew paler
and his wrinkles sank deeper;
and he'd blown all the clock's hands backwards –
he cried,
"oh, time, confound you! wait just a little bit longer!"
and so the lightning gathered up all its power
and exploded into the morning
and painted the sky with vivacity and precision,
and seven different kinds of vibrance
and in all this beauty, he had not noticed
that his skin had raced to crumple
and his hair had rushed to whiten
and his fingers had ached to tremble
and that his soul was a little worn-out
and breaking along his body's cracks
but! his boat had come ashore
land and sand all by his lonesome, at last
and the castle of the alchemists once more,
just like how he'd dreamed in the past
he knocks with all the knocks his body can muster
and he finds the best of them, of all the alchemists
she asks,
"how can i help you, sir?"
and he says, all certain,
"Immortality, please."
and she nods, a sweet smile on her lips
– a flower, more than anything –
she asks,
"would you like peace with that?"
next is a flat kind of beeping,
like the calmest of tornadoes
and the quietest of hurricanes.
steady, steady, steady – right.
oh, god. it is the machinery that betrays him.
the waves of time:
sailing on and on in his boat of skin;
he looked below,
and lo and behold,
creased blue ripples so akin
to the wrinkles his aged face brings
to the view of an average stranger.
it seems the clock had been malleable,
for time had stretched far and wide:
panic had gripped him, and its chiding had
struck him,
dumb and a little less than alive
a thunderstorm came, and the ocean was hideous
and rude, and cruel, and a lot more than vicious!
so his white hair grew paler
and his wrinkles sank deeper;
and he'd blown all the clock's hands backwards –
he cried,
"oh, time, confound you! wait just a little bit longer!"
and so the lightning gathered up all its power
and exploded into the morning
and painted the sky with vivacity and precision,
and seven different kinds of vibrance
and in all this beauty, he had not noticed
that his skin had raced to crumple
and his hair had rushed to whiten
and his fingers had ached to tremble
and that his soul was a little worn-out
and breaking along his body's cracks
but! his boat had come ashore
land and sand all by his lonesome, at last
and the castle of the alchemists once more,
just like how he'd dreamed in the past
he knocks with all the knocks his body can muster
and he finds the best of them, of all the alchemists
she asks,
"how can i help you, sir?"
and he says, all certain,
"Immortality, please."
and she nods, a sweet smile on her lips
– a flower, more than anything –
she asks,
"would you like peace with that?"
next is a flat kind of beeping,
like the calmest of tornadoes
and the quietest of hurricanes.
steady, steady, steady – right.
oh, god. it is the machinery that betrays him.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
The Head Is a Library
"It's past midnight, doll," Two tells One, but One can't hear Two. It's always been that way, and it will probably always be that way. That deafness, that ignorance, that ice-cold-red-hot stare – it could go on for days, until lightning consumes the Earth with its ton-watt blinks. With its blind-look-mom-no-eyes! light.
"We should go to bed, yeah? Beautiful, are you listening?" Two says, peering into One's eyes – or attempting to. One had already returned his attention to his book, and ultimately to the universe his blackhole of a wordcrowd transported him to.
"D'you want tea, my sweet? Or coffee? Or time alone, or a foot massage? I'll give you anything, ange, you name it, you know I'll hand it right to you, dearest," Two says, all loving and desperate and sacrificing and loving – all sorts of loving, masses and masses of it.
One looks up from his book only to find Two (the very ardent, the very wide-eyed, the very passionate-not-quite-so-perfect, the very second-to-just-one-and-that's-you-dear, the very one-who-loves-you Two) smiling down at him. Always this scene, it's always this scene – the accidental stupid-face-grin, the adoration painted clearly on every inch of skin, the affection the longing the tenderness the warmth the want.
"Come here, you," One says, "on my lap, love."
And Two doth sit on One's lap, right where he'd patted, just where he'd wanted. Two gently, with all the care and precision in the world, as if it were some established sport, wraps her arms around his neck. "Would you like anything else, darling?" Two treats One preciously, delicately, with the softest of voices and the most careful of breaths. One is made of feathers, beautiful bird.
One puts his lips on Two's ear. Everything smells beautiful-sweet-perfect-but-not-for-long-maybe. He traces little circles on the small of Two's back. One sighs. "Oh, love, I wish your affections went to someone worthy of you. Look at you, the science of you. How you render me speechless."
"Oh, sweet, those are all the wrong words, that is everything I feel for you!"
"Your passion for me," One says tenderly. "Impossible and complete. You're a dream, love."
"That's you, dear – you're the dream, please believe me."
One and Two sit for all the small eternities that a handful of seconds contain. "Love, leave me," One whispers into Two's ear, his funny breath moving the locks of her hair in the vicinity. "Let me be with my books, and you with better company. Away, love, don't look back, and don't come back to me, or let your mind wonder to memories of me. You shan't waste because I do."
Two looks at One, long and hard, and not in the least bit blank. There's a determination, a small kind of this-is-for-you-my-sweet. Two finds her feet back on the solid ground, away and away and away from One's heat.
"Oh, love," One says softly.
"Away, dearest," Two says, "I'll be away."
And away she brings herself, far, far off – away from One's walls, and ceilings, and floorboards, and grass, his everything, and everything else, and One himself. She continues to walk, and she might walk the whole Earth, should that day ever decide to come.
As for One, he reads his book from where he left off. He never quite put it down.
"We should go to bed, yeah? Beautiful, are you listening?" Two says, peering into One's eyes – or attempting to. One had already returned his attention to his book, and ultimately to the universe his blackhole of a wordcrowd transported him to.
"D'you want tea, my sweet? Or coffee? Or time alone, or a foot massage? I'll give you anything, ange, you name it, you know I'll hand it right to you, dearest," Two says, all loving and desperate and sacrificing and loving – all sorts of loving, masses and masses of it.
One looks up from his book only to find Two (the very ardent, the very wide-eyed, the very passionate-not-quite-so-perfect, the very second-to-just-one-and-that's-you-dear, the very one-who-loves-you Two) smiling down at him. Always this scene, it's always this scene – the accidental stupid-face-grin, the adoration painted clearly on every inch of skin, the affection the longing the tenderness the warmth the want.
"Come here, you," One says, "on my lap, love."
And Two doth sit on One's lap, right where he'd patted, just where he'd wanted. Two gently, with all the care and precision in the world, as if it were some established sport, wraps her arms around his neck. "Would you like anything else, darling?" Two treats One preciously, delicately, with the softest of voices and the most careful of breaths. One is made of feathers, beautiful bird.
One puts his lips on Two's ear. Everything smells beautiful-sweet-perfect-but-not-for-long-maybe. He traces little circles on the small of Two's back. One sighs. "Oh, love, I wish your affections went to someone worthy of you. Look at you, the science of you. How you render me speechless."
"Oh, sweet, those are all the wrong words, that is everything I feel for you!"
"Your passion for me," One says tenderly. "Impossible and complete. You're a dream, love."
"That's you, dear – you're the dream, please believe me."
One and Two sit for all the small eternities that a handful of seconds contain. "Love, leave me," One whispers into Two's ear, his funny breath moving the locks of her hair in the vicinity. "Let me be with my books, and you with better company. Away, love, don't look back, and don't come back to me, or let your mind wonder to memories of me. You shan't waste because I do."
Two looks at One, long and hard, and not in the least bit blank. There's a determination, a small kind of this-is-for-you-my-sweet. Two finds her feet back on the solid ground, away and away and away from One's heat.
"Oh, love," One says softly.
"Away, dearest," Two says, "I'll be away."
And away she brings herself, far, far off – away from One's walls, and ceilings, and floorboards, and grass, his everything, and everything else, and One himself. She continues to walk, and she might walk the whole Earth, should that day ever decide to come.
As for One, he reads his book from where he left off. He never quite put it down.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)