mist

of drizzle
constant cloud of
sprinkling dew
dropping in
surrounding you
until a blanket of wet
you're soggy sodden damp unkempt


atop
dark chunks of grainy soil
soppy but wriggling with life
like if you ate it,
your stomach would be full
of buds and grubs and pollen
insect egg sacs
future

hope



**unfinished from the window seat/sill perch

here we go.

blast off. roarandrattle. jostled nonchalance. as everyone pretends not to feel. keep reading. keep being.

[ gathering remnants ]

grains of sand to be turned over and smoothed until they're something precious, appreciated, understood.

"And thou

shalt love the Lord they God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength: this is the first commandment.

And the second is like, namely this, thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.

There is none other commandment greater than these."

"Lay not up

for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal;

But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal;

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."

caught.

to avoid being/feeling frustrated/flustered, clarence willed himself into apathy. "just don't care. you. don't. care. it doesn't matter. nothing does," and he felt more free.

nirvana is not nothingness. it is the absence of somethingness. the lack of desire. without desire, there can be no disappointment. without disappointment, life at last is bliss. things cannot go wrong, if right does not exist.

my world

is one of soggy shades, blurred and bleeding round the edges.
soft tones and faded colors,
nothing too sharp
or even

distinct .

then pennies

flooded from above and we were trilled into tiny shivering slivers. "come closer!" she crushed me and laughed, "we're turning to gold!"





i haven't heard a thing since.

"i am

a flower," she said.
"and my face stretches straight for the Sun by instinct, or reflex, or ancient secret love. as involuntary as breathing, as natural as death."

come out

to the harbor at the dusk of day. pink whisps of leftover cloud will blow your heartache away. and if you are careful, if you watch closely, you can suck the last bit of sunkiss up with your eyes. and hold it inside. if you watch closely, if you stay careful, you can keep the last sunkiss, sip its warmth in the night.

clarence woke up

quick
without thought, without care. with one foot sliding down, with one hand moving up. hard wood floor, soft folding covers. smooth sheets, plump pillows. panels polished, quick, crisp, clean.

but one dustbunny hid. grey and matted, fuzzy and unassuming. in the far dark corner, under the bed.

if clarence had had time, if clarence could have seen it-- he would have cleaned it up, quickly without remorse. in one swift swoop, it would be safe within the waste basket and out of the dark.

but clarence woke up too quickly for that. he was letting his legs fall down and his arms slide up. his eyelids, lips, feet, fingerstips think for themselves. all members moving independently. operating on automation. animated mechanically. faucet, paste. soap, water, face. slippers, feet. cupboard, mug. kettle toast drink swallow. chew. eat. nothing tasted nothing wasted.



but one dustbunny hid shy and silent in the dark corner far under the bed.

what if

everything in the natural world is born of necessity?

even lunatics and scapegoats, martyrs, saviors, war? what if love doesn't exist outside its ideology. and acts of it are only thus because we desire its existence so much? so, we have to play it out, however imperfectly.

he has

a strange life. or many lives. and so it's unpleasant, sometimes, to remember. especially the pretty things. even pretty scenes are painted with a hungry nostalgia, tainted with pangs. of remorse, of regret.

his past looks like a painting streaked with too many contradicting colors. pockets of loveliness and compromise and growth are visible from up close. but if you step back, it's reminiscent of a three-year old's ball of playdoh. she didn't understand what you meant when you said, "Don't mix!" as you left the table. she simply saw the brilliance in each pot, the potential in every texture, and loved the feel of doh --squish-- dohing together.

in the end, it's quite ugly. mildewy brown. putrid. turned stale and tough from overuse. so then, the child pushes away and slides beneath the table where she can pinch lint off the carpet and arrange it in star and flower shapes. the playdoh is left on the shelf to harden, cracked and dry. shapeless and unloved.

forgotten,
forgiven,
spoiled.

[sometimes]

i think of myself,


and wish


i could vomit her out.