Tags: fifth season

blue

We were never good with titles ...

His mouth opens, it begins,
slowly at first - he has had
wild dreams of traveling; he thinks
the winters up north are too long,
the time between being away
from here has gotten colder; he has
contemplated moving closer --

more quickly, then, he says
he is seeing a new girl, a
nice girl, a content girl,
they're think in singular plurals,
they're thinking of settling down;
he orders another round.

This is our bi-annual ritual,
we meet at our downtown bar,
a hole in the wall filled
with rock 'n roll, veterns of
the punk scene, and us;
We order our usuals,
too honest for cocktails, too
cold for beer, just something
warm and familiar, whiskey
on the rocks;
We make small talk about his
trip from Schenectady:
the tolls were raised,
the price of gas has
nearly doubled since he started
taking this drive - was it four or
five years ago? You haven't changed
a bit kiddo, another round.

Then, as the whiskey warms
our bellies, our mouths,
the conversation snowballs, melts,
waterrushes: he wants to know
what would happen to me if
he never came back again, if
he married her and if
they built some small house
with some small fence in
a small town far away from
our bar, our small and large talk,
far away from me.

Conversation, confessions -
i learn these winter nights
that the warmth between bodies is a catalyst:
that friendship is actually a convention of pivoting, a transition from trust to intimacy,
from lust to love, or what appears to be them.

I watch my words, wary not to make promises,
I pull a scarf around my neck, I cover
remaining skin, though I am locked in a sweat
of understanding, a panic of realization,
I am his other.

The snow falls, Sid Vicious calls out for
another revolution, I turn to the bartender,
the night ends in its usual blur of
icicles, cabs, red and green lights. We both know
there is something inherently nostalgic about
what we put ourselves through each winter.

(I want to say)
I don't sleep with him
because I don't love him
(I love him too much).

-----------------------------------------

Feedback would be nice.
eve

(no subject)

surely i have paid the price for love
(what love?)
looking at my unfamiliar self in the mirror
(i ask myself) -
what i really want to do is
ask eve
about that apple
and what the serpent really did to her.

the story never made
all that much sense to me;
if adam really loved her
would his finger go to her
first,
is it just me or do
adam and the serpent resemble each other
just a little ?

so eve, about that apple,
did it taste just as good as adam's?
did you name yourself everywoman
in that instant, did you know
you'd birth a civilization of
sorry serpent men
and the women who crumble
underneath them?
(did anyone ever ask you
what you thought?)
- and please tell me, eve,
that the apple was
red delicious,
that you'd wouldn't go back
to paradise,
not for all the adams
and apples in the world -
i'll swallow my pride
as you did yours,
choke down these apples
and walk away from my home,
with man, his hissing
fingers leading.

---------------------------------------------------------

Very raw. Have a couple of tangents in my first draft that I cut out, can't really feel out where the focus is yet, I think, but would adore some feedback, as always. Also needs a title.

Love.
blue

(no subject)

i stood outside the UN
and cried
it was just before midnight
the flags were folded down,
ceremonially arranged in
their resting places,
the top of the Chrystler Building
jaggedly reflected itself in
the dark cubicle windows,
uniform if only for the careless
light breaching forth, disrupting
the flagpole's sleep;
but wouldn't you know
from where i was,
you couldn't see the Chrystler, you
just had to assume that the building
wasn't lying,
that the Chrystler really existed beyond
the other black buildings.

my heart is breaking
for reasons highly publicized
and widely unknown;
truths lifted and folded,
revered prophecies lasting
into the twenty-first century,
an undeclared war on the
state of each union -
the sanctity of space
at risk like the sanctity
of unorhodox marriages,
each to his own but
not like to like.

the broken red light preserved
the idle taxi's wandering
and the iron curtain gates
protecting this most holy of
international grounds clanked and
clinked not so subtley, not so securely,
and opened for a volkswagen,
Hitler's trust vehicle

and I wondered

what is a beetle doing at the UN
at midnight?

the security guard just nodded and i'm
thinking, i'm most at risk in my american complacency.

---------------------------------------------------------------

to be continued. broke that goddamn writers block. thank goddess (and angelo, thank you angelo!)
blue

(no subject)

You asked me what I saw through the shattered watercolour glass -
A burned strawhat, heated coals, the occasional sunrise, I replied.
You couldn't handle the disarmament of a dream,
as if leading me through the wrecked forest of a child's dream
would redeem our innocence, You swearing by moonlight that
there were no more wolves to fear. But moonlight fades fast
and your smile lost its truth, your hand lost mine and we walked onward,
alone.
This dream should be so telling, the queen and her cardmen or
did you think they were bushes? Candy corn fences -
something out of another fairytale where the ending is telling, wanted.
All the kings horses and all the kings men (yes, that is what they are,
knights on horses, full speed ahead!) couldn't put this puzzle together
again.
The secret of glass being, like a wave, the wind and love,
it only exists once in its present state, like our skin and selves.
And once broken or altered can never actually, truly be mended -
once shattered, always torn -
which is why a glass cut will remind you of a broken heart.
So when you ask me when I see through this broken glass,
I will tell you I see you, labouring under all illusions
of didactic warnings and happy endings. You by the fire,
altering, smoldering this, attempting to make it whole again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today I painted for the first time in months and my brushes are ick and I need some practice, but it felt marvelous. This piece is over one of the paintings I did today.
blue

(no subject)

I don't know if I posted this revision yet, but I'd like some new feedback, I think .. it's done? (if any art is ever done!)

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Wane

wane: the period of the decrease of the moon's illuminated visible surface; a defective edge of a board caused by remaining bark or a beveled end.

your half moon fingers
graze the edge of
this porcelain case:

we are fabled to be
made of marble, but
a darker purity
lies in our mold.

tiretracked,
the orchard lies
hidden, like some
forgotten menagerie.

glass apples,
glossed over
with an iridescent gaze:
the illusion of paradise.
a soft scent of apothecaries
the sweetest poisons
are coated over in
pitiful beauty.

your iron claw branch
reached through the strings,
plucked, arched, sanded down
these dimensions
to a single space existence.

flattened as if by stone,
the trees cower
beneath the weight of
their vial fruits -
the branches arch
unwillingly to the ground.

these fairytales,
your reasons compiling upon
these rubber grounds,
your finger to my heart, arching unwillingly,
an acute angle,
spilling enlightenment
over these roads,
nearly gnarled,
forgone by craft.

i will meet you
in these lost corners
when our china faces
bend the light in
some twisting of,
some dancing with
those unmasked, unspoken parables
tales of how we were,
how we could have been.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

merci!
blue

Sea-side, part II

exist only this once,
it was a moment:
framing our translucent selves,
like attempting to capture
the siren's song in a
shell --
the sea's breath, like
a child's
will only sing to you
a secret misplaced
or perhaps broken,
stolen, in any way
lost
when the coral's
pink skeleton
still danced upon the sand, -

so you become
like the sea,
locked by land,
forsaken by sentiment

while i linger,
a sky meeting
your horizon
in an endless line
of transparency,
fleeting,
framing
a curved spine.

---------------------------------------------------------

i am attached to that middle section and the sky/sea thing, but feel like there may be room for growth in both of these ... hmmm
blue

(no subject)

I have to take my CPE today ... the can-you-read-and-write-test that allows me to graduate school. And I'm supposed to be reading through the assigned reading for it .. but it's so poorly written that the first page made me slightly nauseous ... So I opted for writing. So here's a new and improved poem:

Wane

wane: the period of the decrease of the moon's illuminated visible surface; a defective edge of a board caused by remaining bark or a beveled end.



your half moon fingers
graze the edge of
this porcelain case:

we are fabled to be
made of marble, but
a darker purity
lies in our mold.

tiretracked,
the orchard lies
hidden, like some
forgotten menagerie.

glass apples,
glossed over
with an iridescent gaze:
the illusion of paradise.
a soft scent of apothecaries
the sweetest poisons
are coated over in
pitiful beauty.

your iron claw branch
reached through the strings,
plucked, arched, sanded down
these dimensions
to a single space existence.

flattened as if by stone,
the trees cower
beneath the weight of
their vial fruits -
the branches arch
unwillingly to the ground.

these fairytales,
your reasons compiling upon
these rubber grounds,
your finger to my heart,
arching unwillingly,
an acute angle,
spilling enlightenment
over these roads,
nearly gnarled,
forgone by craft.

i will meet you
in these lost corners
when our china faces
bend the light in
some twisting of,
some dancing with
those unmasked, unspoken parables
tales of how we were,
how we could have been.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

What do we think? I feel like I might have ruined it? I don't know!
blue

(no subject)

Inclusive and subtracting
leading the blind
only to become mute:
what good are your prophets now
when radioactive light
and acid rain
have cracker the great hope diamond;
bled through our televisions
to revise our sense of truth?

------------------------------------------------

Hmmm ... can't quite pin it, I think it has potential.
blue

(no subject)

Hollowed wholly
Humbled to lullabies,
Returning to when
love is a fable,
the phoenix's ashes.

i had given no word
and you spoke none in reply.
yet, through the bounties
of silence
lines were crossed,
power sparked
and died.

What lingers of a brilliant sun,
a holocaust's ashes,
relentless
the mockingbird cries
your last words
and the nightingale
echoes silence in reply.
this is a fable though,
nothing more.

Indiscreet and buried,
the fabled phoenix
sleeps.
blue

Wane

your half moon fingers
graze the edge of
this porcelin case -

we are fabled to be
made of marble, but
a darker purity
lies in our mold.

tiretracked,
the orchard lies
hidden, like some
forgotten menagarie.

i will meet you
in these lost corners
when our china faces
bend the light in
some twisting of,
some dancing with
those unmasked, unspoken parables
tales of how we were,
how we could have been.

----------------------------------------------------

i think i can really crack this one open and get something big ... thoughts?