Sunday, July 31, 2011

this is my sunday morning

there is something so seductive about a moon that sees everything. shadowed by turrets and towers and church steeples of distant lands, i paint pictures inside my lids and color outside the lines

always always desiring to be in the company of tall structures gaping boulevards and narrow streets that have lifted and cradled so many that came before. with trust in the vignettes i sought out in pictures and on the television i want them to surround me, to prolong the visual whispers that tickle my eyes and give them breath.

everywhere i go my senses are taunted by scents and sounds and images, flashes of stories the plotlines of which i know not of. glimpses of the lives the faces might have pull me down tunnels of melancholy where i live vicariously through shadows of my own creation. when time comes to emerge again i tuck them away in a safe place where i can pluck them at any moment of my choosing

little frost covered shop windows and girls sitting together under a tree and european students with flyaway scarves along watersides or milling about in outdoor cafes and song lyrics that sting deep, make me want to freeze time and listen to that one line for an eternity, trying to replay a feeling that is not tied to any experience i've had, but one i seek every time my gaze becomes caught like a fish on a line. a love story that does not belong to me but one i find the memory of through looking. i want to be the people that i encounter, want to put on their face and try on their perspective. i want to look up at lights in windows with different eyes each time and see paris streets like someone who grew up within them.

i want to go everywhere, yet i'm happy here where the promise of all the seeing and living to come is fresh off the wind's lips and i still believe it. maybe the dream is better, maybe this place where i am and with these eyes that i see is exactly where i want to be. and i want to be nineteen forever, just like this, pain still dancing in my left hipbone as i knock the right on a counter top.

these words that haunt me, make my life beautiful

Friday, July 22, 2011

Because baby tells me it's a hundred degrees

The human body is so beautiful when swimming. I could feel it. I felt beautiful propelling my limbs through the liquid jello water. Like a mermaid with her head inching along the ever changing surface, tail sheathed in a curtain of blue. But I felt every muscle as my arms and legs elongated and contracted, so in my mind I became something like a frog.

The sparkling content of the pool was crazy magical and swimming in it even moreso. Who needs clear, cerulean futuristic computer screens and gadgets when there is water? Where I got to be a mermaid, a reptilian creature, and a ghost drifter, all at once.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

i am in love

with the sky, with water, with the way my arms glow when basking under both; with words, with light, with moody dark, with summer

Would you want to see the moon up close? If someone offered. To see if it glitters?

You catch your breath and hold it still in anticipation each time you walk outside. You are waiting for molten sky, because at first glance of it your mind will serenade you with long since broken in lyrics. You wished for songs you could carry in your pocket, and a genie somewhere responded to your request with an ipod. Now maybe someone somewhere can think up a way to tattoo songs on your body, stitch the music into your skin to patch up your wounds with melodies, bury them forever in your flesh so as to better soothe the soul that rattles noiselessly its commotion. The day screeches. Your mind tells you it's cars but you imagine creatures prowling under a harvest moon, a moon not unlike the one you swear hovered in yesterday's sky even though it's summer.

You venture onto the first page of a new book, but your mom wants you to listen to her talk instead. You comply, your starved eyes still transfixed on the page. With an audible sort of magic it fizzes, and you buckle backwards into the desire to soak up every word, backwards into the need to balance each syllable on your tongue as if getting poised to speak, but there is the deception. Your greed lets them melt there, to be absorbed by your being and nobody else's. You read in silence. People talk about passion like it's a good thing, but you see how it sows selfishness in he that possesses it. Passion is always lusty and ardent like a flame, even when burning in the most innocent of lanterns.

You walk, and the last of the sand your toes carried like treasure between them falls away. Sea salt clings to your strands, pulls them into distinct little crescents that hang from your head in content isolation. In the mirror, the resultant stringy hair jumping around your shoulders gives you the appearance of a child.

You tire, yet you don't want to stop, you are inspired. Want the spell to inundate you like a cup, overflow your center and pour out over your corners with the energy and the momentum of freedom. But you press pause on your fingers that fly wildly, put an end to the sweeping caresses that touch down on the keyboard before falling away as quickly as they had come.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Saturday, July 2, 2011


Running through the hallowed halls of the office after hours is exhilarating. Why is it that feet in motion are always heavy where running is commonplace, but light as whiffable chocolate when breaking the orderly behavior expected of them?