Going Abroad
Steps to traveling out of the country:
- Get a passport.
- Hope years of anarchist ravings spread across the interwebs hasn't landed you on a no fly list.
- Enjoy your trip!
Unraveled
I've always loved this bit from Sarah McLachlan's "Black & White"
unravel me
untie this chord
the very centre of our union
is caving in
I can't endure
I am the archive of our failure
I'm fascinated by the idea a function of our humanity may be as an archive, for ourselves, our lovers, our children, our community, and how best to make that archival function available and efficacious. Conversely, how that function can poison the well of self and society.
Receding - WIP
He had arms like the ocean,
Hers, like the shore;
Covered with the weight
of his adoration,
She would lose her breath,
Pressing hard to the shape
of his embrace.
Work
Do the work
of creating, building, sharing, giving.
You will get lost.
Do not get lost in yourself.
Not any more often than you must.
Lose yourself
in creating, building, sharing, giving.
Do the work.
Communion - WIP
In the comfort of words,
Welling from the cracks in him,
Trickling from the brokenness
Over thirsty tongue and parched lips.
In the peace of a listener
Tending wounds with tender ears
Bent to the rush and gurgle of grief.
Shh
It's not as though the world stopped
When she whispered
Softly, softly, softly
But his heart did.
About Ten Minutes
There was gold in the morning;
It reflected off the dew damp oak leaves
Outside the tiny bedroom window,
Colored the walls and the ceiling
Like an infant savant with finger paints;
Made everything glow
For ten minutes and 24 seconds.
He would hold her then,
Beneath the daisy print sheets,
While the Apollonian halo held them both,
And whisper in her ear
As his arms and hands,
His legs and hips,
While his body and being wrapped about her,
Found all the ways she fit to him;
As he would melt into her
Like warm gold
For ten minutes and 24 seconds.
Puzzled
She found him in a thousand pieces
Beneath the dim marquee:
It was a William Powell retrospective,
But she had come to see Myrna Loy.
It was his eyes which caught her:
Opalescent beneath the neon and moonlight.
It wasn't her intent to piece him back together,
Not from a thousand weary bits
On a dirty sidewalk
At one-thirty in the morning.
Still, she couldn't leave his eyes like that,
Glistening with grief
Next to a Skittles wrapper
And an oil stained popcorn box.
"I'll just dry them a bit,"
She assured herself,
"That's all."
She pieced together just a bit more:
The slope of his nose, a jaw line;
It was intermission,
She had time.
She got to his lips,
Full with passion unspent,
Shifting at her touch
Ever so slightly upwards.
She felt compelled then
To finish the rest.
Time spent pining for what is lost or what shall never be is time spent in the grave.
Headstones
They kept the company of spirits
For a quiet afternoon,
Wide oaken arms shielding them
From the prying sun
As they unwound the past
From perception;
Piecing together a new story
From the secret,
And the misremembered.
There were things inside them,
Things meant only for the other:
Things misplaced,
Lost,
Abandoned.
Excavating with trusting words
And gentle eyes,
They turned the aching earth
Disinterring a wonder and a life
From the company of spirits.