spring

grey brown ground
stones and sticks
turning touching
yellow dots of life

calling the bee
hidden in a bulb
can you hear
the hum?
.

silent light

As Everything Turned To Ash

I knew that it would rain, as everything turned to ash, as I stepped out of my body and into the pain, as he told me it was cold out, and I found hope or hope of a job.

BluePrintReview #6 is up

daybreak fragments
of virtual reality
leading to open sonnet ends

& the fragrance of spring,
wrapped in a feather of thought
moved by a butterfly's wing

here the link to the new issue:
BluePrintReview #6

enjoy the words and the season~
D.
.

Vaguely Familiar...

He and I, are never going to be the same. I realized that last night. Sitting alone in the loungeroom, the only on light in the house, my little bubble in a world of darkness, I knew, we just weren’t.

I’m never going to get those hugs that went on for minutes again, where his shoulder was the place I could rest my head and I could feel a strange sort of subdued happiness fill me. At least them, I could feel him close by, at least then I could smell him. At least then, he was, for those brief seconds when I held him, mine.

I guess now, we’re like…strangers who’ve read about each other or something. We know about each other, but not each other. We sort of vaguely remember, like being back in the house you grew up in and only having faint memories of what used to be there and how it felt because too many years have passed and you were so young and you’ve been so long separated.

I can’t keep living half life, I can’t keep looking for meaning in things that don’t exist. I just can’t be in love with him any longer. I want to sever it all, and just feel like I can breathe again, like I own my heart to place it where I want, to leave the winter of a hundred years and experience the spring. All the snow round my heart could just melt away.

We don’t talk, not anymore. Maybe it’s time I just let this go. Maybe I should just give up ever seeing him smile at me, or hug me, or talk to me. Maybe, just maybe, if I take that all in as I do now, I can just cut the final tie, Hope, from my head and heart, and watch it all blow away. He, in my life, no longer exists.

And that’s that. I give up. Now, while I withdraw, I may cry, kick, scream, throw tantrums, ache for hours, lay awake for days on end, live under tables, stop eating completely, I may even actively seek him out, but you

YOU

(my friends)

will make me stop.

messenger

when the messenger
is the message

She Doesn't Know

How can she not. She's lived in this place her entire life. She doesn't want to know. She's never had to know. I'm going to stop asking for help from anyone. It only wastes minutes of my life and breath of my lungs.

Missing you.

Maybe it's always been like this, she said, giving up, tossing aside the wrapping paper and staring intently. Her hazel eyes were dark, like all the light was extinguished.
The long evening had rolled on.
Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the music, of the balloons, or the niggling sense that the banner which read 'Farewell' was too large and too happy. We never really knew why we argued, just that we did.
Why can't you care, she implored. How do you explain to someone that you do, that your heart is just broken, but you can only manage coldness to stop the total breakdown that will ensure once you close the bedroom door and weep into the pillows?
Why can't you care about me enough to ask me to stay?
What right do I have to ask that of you, I'd replied, shaking my head sadly.
She'd taken my hand while we sat on the balcony. The night sky was dark with little pinpricks of light. We'd found Orion's Belt like we used to do as children, and pointed out the Sourthern Cross. In the hemisphere, where I'm going, she said, I won't be able to see either. I nodded.
I stared intently at the photograph on the wall in her bedroom, the very picture I loved so dearly, which showed us as little girls, ringleted and frilly dressed, grinning companionably. Why did the three year old beside me decide to grow up and move on?
The next morning, I got up. I felt dizzy, sick, and I knew it wasn't the alcohol.
The pain of missing is a sickness in itself.

seducing the sun

silver and black
the hands of trees
reach for the blue
longing for their transition
to green
.

Just words

I have to vent because lately the game has changed and things seem different and there isn't much rum left so I might as well down the rest of that bottle. I can admit that I'm drunk and not screw things up. I can look at you with pursed lips and not even stumble when I'm drunker than you've ever been. I'm young, too.

The world is ending and fast. The world is dying and fast. We the writers are just sort of ignoring this in hopes that things will turn out all right, and perhaps they will. Perhaps they will.

But why should I make such a huge statement about things when all I'm really trying to say is that even though it shouldn't it bothers me that this girl doesn't want me as badly as I thought? Or perhaps she does but it is, in the end, as most things are, quite beside the point. God my head is killing me. I want to swear but Dorothee would delete this.

I do all the things they told us not to coming up. I smoke; drink coffee; drink; drugs; don't sleep much; etc. I do all these things, go to the lengths, and I know that I will never be satisfied. Sometimes I fear I'll have an embolism and that will be the end of me. But somewhere deep inside I know that's for suckers, that fear. I lose jobs and find them again. I listen to dirty music and think dirty thoughts. I jerk off when I feel like it and rarely keep my house as orderly as I would like to.

Sometimes I think that being creative is a sort of madness; and often I wonder if it really is a choice or not. Is it, this a-type torture I find myself constantly under, this self-imposed drive to succeed succeed succeed, something we are born with? I want to know but I probably never will. When the answers were being passed out my ashtray was shaking under an earth quake. I'd like to quit smoking but I don't want to. I'd like to quit all the things that are taking my life away, including working and living itself, but I don't want to. I just want to survive and listen to Billy Joel sing of Vienna. I just want to succeed.

Mostly these days what is driving me nuts is my complete lack of women in my life. It's not that I don't know how, it's not that I can't, it's just that I'm too damn lazy to go out and get what I want.

Yes, lately the game has changed and I don't know if I can change with it again.

As the light subsides

The need to express a dream,
a dream of gingkos, sultry jeans
and a black rum tee shirt. Alone
all day, even at the grocery store.
The wasps circling the ceiling, the
heat wasting the cats, drying the
floors and desires speedily. There's
a need to catch the feeling,
catch the words, like chasing
a lizard darting up the wall.
So many contradictions
so few expectations.
The prison with a high
open window to the world
The direction of sight, 180
degrees of separation
from the heart to the mind.
Twist the key, shut the door
take one more step back
when entering the trap laid
out with a jeweler's precision.
It's not as mysterious as it's
believed to be, it's just
complicated. Bitter,
antiquated.
Amputated.

This part is over, right?

This part is over, right? Right?

to the lengths...

Of all the past hickory beckonings, and so forth and beyond this, there is but one that stands out amongst; the massive wreck that was known as the human spirit, yes it was lost somewhere along the path today, throughout this measly planet we know as the world, and things were incorrect for a time due to this. Yes this is the late night caffiented rambling of a man in a southern red red red state but be that and be this as it may, we are not lost amongst this insanity that is the conservative pull over a state with so much liberal and democratic potential. This is simply the manner of stupidity that has of lately taken over the minds of the men and women, who are largely poor, paupers, in comparison to what they could be if things in governmental policy were geared in their direction, not in the direction of the interests that robbed these men and women of their days and weeks and lives, if this was the case then things would be better for all of them, and there'd be no denying this, and everything would work well enough that few would have complaints they could legitimately make agiainst the establishment, and peopel would mostly largely be happy with the way of things, even for a time with the way of the entire world, because they would no longer have any cause not to be, there'd be no reasoning, it wouldn't matter either way. Not that it would matter anyway. There is no necessity for it, so it does not exist; yet all of it could be yours in a hand basked if you so wished it so, it wouldn't matter otherwise, things would be fine otherwise, there'd be no problems with history of the present, the presentry even you might call it, and everything would be satisfied and satisfiable in the world, and there'd be goodness around. But this is of course not possible, because as I have written before, there is no visionary gift of truth or of the point, there is no necessity of it, therefore we never see the product, and we have no need to ever see the product, because everything would work well enough without us having seen it, so why therefore would they show it to and among us? It would be senseless. And so they do not and, as you have said before, so I ramble forth. Shamble forth. Am not even done doing so. And so I can continue without fear of reverie or reveries or shambling senseless proclivities among stands of faux pine and money grubbing hedgeries... things would be fine even among these, it would be imagined and therfore put into effect because the place would essentially come to be known by the name of Kingdom of the Imagination, and to the lengths it would go, and to the lengths...

this tiny gap

at the crossing, the lights all red. the rain falling. forming cirular patterns on the windshield, drop by drop the pools change, expand, thicken, come to a stand still. then they run down, the tiniest version of a river, turning the light green eventually. on the ground, they gather. the cars dash through them, their wheels surfing the street, turning to boats for a second, for as long as it takes to gather grip again.

later, it's her who is lying on the ground. on the second floor. in this room of yoga. the cars, the raindrops, now they are beyond the window. still there, but hazier. "the light is too loud," someone says. so someone tunes it down, while she listens to her breath. the gathering of air, the exhaling. and the gap before the next circle starts. this tiny gap. a word falls into it: Sanftmut.

she turns it in her mind, breathes into it, exhales it, translates it. Sanft-mut. Soft-mood. then, the gap again. and the true meaning of the word sinking in, like a drop of thought, like a zen song. Sanft-mut. Soft-courage. the rain drops heard it, too. see, it's easy as that, they whisper and float onwards, to the next floor, to the deeper levels.
.

Nicotine & Ink

Nicotine is spattered on the walls of this home and really there is nothing to it. Eviction notices are on the door but the rent money is in order, and really there is nothing to it. I wonder does it mean I am dedicated to one goal if I let many other things go for a time. I have done this before. I just wonder. I must succeed. I don't know. I crave the wrong things at the wrong moments--I want sex when the world is asleep, to write while I work, food when I'm not hungry, to clean when I want to write. Things get mixed up now and then. Life gets mixed up now and then. Anger does provoke more anger, as I've been told, and if I got angry about life then my prose would get angry at me, would rebel and the ink would stop flowing altogether and the pages wouldn't matter anymore. The pages wouldn't matter any more. A statement made in the assumption that the pages ever mattered in the first place. Recently my friend wrote a poem and it said, "And I said / words never counted / yet no longer do." And so they don't and so they never do and so they never will. It is in the face of this that we write on. It is in the face of this that we carry on, knowing all the while that whatever we do is a spit in the ocean, that whatever we do will make no impact on the world in the end, that whatever we do we are just hopeless wastes. Even if we make it to the top, which the talent shown here in this very venue says to me that some of us will. Well on that matter and on that note, I am one of those I believe who'll eventually succeed because I have a passion for life and a lust for writing.

Midnight was in her eyes when I told her things were different now. She saw my smirk and I told her that life had never changed, the world was just looking a little different but was still exactly the same as it had always been.

Foggy Day.

Presense

As much as I destroy there is that in me, which is immutable.
Whitman may laugh at this poor parody
Of words turned over from the soul’s memory
A vault frozen in the mind
Endlessly seeking to time its trance
Across all the imprints of a reflection
Merged, emblazoned on a soul possessed

A soul that breathes the dance of desire not desired
The lure of love not lusted
The magic of minds not mated
As much as I clasp every breath
I cannot capture all
Every wisp of my soul
Trembling in its frailty
Incredulous innocence slumbering
In disquieting peace that
Leaves every agony shattered
By glimpses of love so rare
That I weep through the coffin of my dead past
To gather this child soul
And resurrect it afresh
Create the reflection that reflects no more
For all that was and is
Is no more but You. Me. You. Just soul. Just. Me. You. Just one.

Posted this on the blog after reading the below post, somehow it matches what I felt here.

Just THE moment

And the other day, as I waited at home for my ride to collect me, I lay on my bed and looked out at the softening pink blue sky and I remembered "Just a Moment" and I knew, right then, what it all meant. In the rushing of the world, with nuclear threats from Iran, horrid human rights violations in Africa and North Korea, my parents and their silence, my bike fall, my work load, unfinished scripts, Presidential idiocy, war, famine, hatred, violence, destruction and death............................

With all that going on, I lay on my bed, looking out at the sky, seeing new life pushing through on the ends of the branches and I knew, I KNEW that the moment was mine, it was sublime, bliss even, as everything hushed, and I was nothing but love and the Universe all at once, a valley of stars and light, and everything was nothing and nothing was everything and I would never die because life and death are one in the same and it was and I AM. That's all that it meant. The I AM that is mentioned in the bible. I get it. I AM.

And I was. And still AM.

snowblue

sunday morning bird
traversing the snow blue line
of dawn turning day
.

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

It's just a feeling that comes about through no intentional means of the individual; it's often something that cannot be helped by the individiual himself or herself anyway, and so it doesn't actually matter often enough to be said so in that light of things this is. There's nothing particularly important about any of it, most of it just is and will be and stays to be and always has been and so forth and so on and so there it is, there is the goal and the gold in and of it all. Indeed.

mood boundary

the quiet day

This is the day of quiet when I write with my eyes closed on this blog called just a moment I'm not kidding I really do have my eyes closed and yet I still must write around 20 words per minute this scary to become so familiar with a mahcine with a keyboard and teh write path oh how I love it I say little prayers yes I speak little prayers to god I say bles me bless me huge oh lord please because now I am jobless because things dont always look so good and the Allman Brothers sing of soulshine and maybe I hsould writre like this more often and just get rid of the typos later I once wrote something blind drunk and it got published and once I got so involved in a novella that my friend walked into my house and i told him to get the fuck out of my story.