Omnibus: Sulking cumulatively apathetic conscience.

On the scales of my shoulders sit
the most haphazard, mountainous clouds.
And I pretend that every night
I weigh my worries to my wages
in libraic poundage til my arms
are too tired to feel
which side is heaviest because they might as well be
haphazard,
mountinous,


clouds.
Soon rather,
they slide back into the azimuth
looking to the mouth of a star,
a delta,
the eye of the world
to remind us of the proof
that everything we love
and everything we hate
will soon fade away with
every door slamming
exit from a storm.

I watch the sky more often now,
it is the reminder
to escort your worries


the truth that imbalance in humanity
will always be there, even if you open your eyes
because we can only see the world

Sexual Abreaction: Sketching Sleeplessness

My chin
is raw
from the earliest spit against
your half-day past clean shaven face all
masculine, instinctive, fundamentally passionate.

I studied the structure of your face while you slept, the force of your eyebrows, the set of your eyes, the pattern of your hair, and the systems and procedures in your body’s orchestrated movement through every breath.

I see in you, the faces of a hundred generations of searchers but yet a man giving way to happenstance and a hope that we’ve evolved a way to convey what we need, to tell with eyes only. To harness the obstinate beauty of a man walking strong like a street monarch marching in forward nobility, recalled by those who could not comprehend that love, aching behind him for eternity, like a thousand summers gone, like a symphony, languid and sad, their passions leveled by the enlightened moment of a final understanding that love that has slipped through their fingers like my hands through your hair: an abbreviation of all that has worked to invent you. And there inside you is love, a volatility in mercurial indefinance.

So give it to me.

Twenty one hours later, I still taste the beauty of your name in my mouth.

Diffusing Light: Dayrise As Devotional Closure

I have grown to enjoy the sun, maybe because it’s one of the only constants between us both. Even if we vowed our lives to combing the darkest places of the Earth and of our hearts, it wouldn't matter. There is no place on Earth where we will be unaffected by the interminable rise. And in that rise, we are offered life, but you just give it the blind treatment. I pray to see a primal sketch of this resolve, study it's movements, and learn the methods necessary to recreate the moments of opulent humanity – you know, the blinks of the eye that are made into movies. But you, like good weather, wouldn’t come or stay, no matter how much I needed you to.

Suddenly, through a sensitive squint, I see. Your eyes are not simple, objective organs to stare at. They are a spillway into your soul, telescoping a vitality equally vandalized as mine. And I see a certain proof. A proof that of our perceptions perceived as truth, proof that we are unbalanced. The unbalance is urgently genuflected and plainly, my happiness will never rise unless it does simultaneously with your own. My struggle is your struggle. What was done to me, was done by a human. What I did, I did to a human. Now, I know. You are human. Words have so long been my sword and shield, but here and now, I abandon them for your eye-contact, for the tremble in your voice, for the smell of a sweating anxiety in wanting closure ["Please, let this be over."], in wanting a setting ["Lightly, take cover."]. Tandem, we rise.

It’s light now. I find myself again. I can see ahead, I ask “Where was I?”



I hope daybreak gives you faith.

Valediction: Living By The Rules of The Primal

There are mornings I dive deep beneath my consciousness and hammer until solid at the things I will say when I catch you unguarded and surrendering without choice to my presence (as I surrendered to you). Hypothetically, this moment is ours. But, if I will simply approach you from behind (as you did to me), with my hands on your shoulders (as yours were on mine), and lean in to allow the light to reflect from my eyes. Cheek bones in slow contact, brushing you with terror (as yours brushed mine ["So close, but how?"]). Valediction. I have nothing to say, I only have to remind you that you were never up to me.

Quitclaim: Hands As Default Bilingualism

You will tend to him
The way you tend to lie
Always
A turnstile of compromise
Turn to him,
Turn to you
My turn to
change me unrecognizeably
the one you fucked inside out
My turn to
Acknowledge everyone before--
the participants of my jaded heart, they are
Apologetically their own for precursing a
disaster in already troubled regions
Telling a story of intuition,
Of heartbreak, of a long time coming

like the gestures
of human hands
Because I do not possess
a word that will ever
make a difference
In compelling the
human in you
to rise

Sunday, July 01, 2007

I would like to return, to that time when I was too small to know that the world that we're living in is breaking apart, continuously reforming, never to appear the same. All the time, all around us. The same way that natural disasters remind us our earth is broken without a safe place, you remind me there's no such thing as a solid emotion or a surety in intuition. When I drive past flooded fields, highways, parks, etcetera... the air through my windows numbs my arm cold, wet, but underneath, burning. And I arm my heart for the aria of love.

What flooded first? The river or that deep heat from my eyebrows to my cheek-bones. After the sun (and after reality) can burn it all away it's clean to see that the water was never a sky blue ocean. In fact, the only thing I saw in it in the first place was the sky. It was reflecting something else to want. Just looking in the wrong direction. The enigma in all of this was slipped neatly into the horizon, like the letters I sent you, slipped neatly in envelopes.

I wait all night for your horizon, and even as I do, I know you're not coming. I see heartbreak rise with the setting sun. All of this is nothing new; it's used, recycled and renamed. Same misguided affection, different history, similar feast on illusioned pretenses.

I'm bought and sold.

The Soldiering

There is a strange comfort in the point of your life when your face becomes so familiar, catching your reflection becomes a second nature vision of something you've slowly tended to for nineteen years, a unfinished masterpiece, your eyes play to a tune of things that you say you won't do but in a few years, you will.

As we are all constantly changing through a mode of generosity and reproach, forgiveness and forgetfullness I am trying my very best to remember the girl I owe a few very important things. I owe an argument, I owe a reparation, I owe a silent night of windows and rain and dinner with no conversation. I need it to become clear to me, how long I wait. How long I wait for the steady missing to drag me down into a well full of naysayers telling me that the salvation of our friendship is non-negotiable. I say to their nay that we must first acknowledge there are so many loose ends we must committ ourselves to loom together the salvation of eight years a friendship unraveled in one night by third party hands.

And then I remember that with or without you, my chest raises a heaving, breathing breath. With or without you, I hold my jaw a profile to paralell azimuth. With or without you, we both continue as the soldiering, sharing no difference from condemned men.

We could soldier either way.