Evasion

The world is too loud

sometimes.

I encase myself

in protective

plastic bubble,

am immune in

own-ness.

Dull life-thuds

surround me/bubble,

pound pound

plastic--

persistently punitive.

Sounds like:

questions asked

from human units—

bubble answers

for me,

forms collective

words

previously approved

by (at-the-moment,

non-present)

brain.

Cannot escape forever.

Such is sadness

and way

of being human.

Break bubble,

come clean,

awash myself

in (waiting?) world

again.

I do not know

if they

even know:

I have

been

fully

un-present.

I do not think these to be, yet I know them as such.

Desire

is different

than

yearning.

Please define.

Yearn.

Germanic base

(meaning “eager”),

|yərn|

intense feeling of

loss or lack or longing.

Desire.

Latin base,

(desiderate—“feel a keen desire for”)

|dəˈzī(ə)r|

strongly wish for or want.

Yet,

my bones ache forward,

desire dripping

as they

yearn towards

[ _____________________],

ask

for what

they cannot have.

In that way,

the words

are different.

And in that way,

they are the same:

co-mingled in soul flesh,

bonded together

by heart-ache

that gives me

jumbled promises,

kisses my cheek,

closes my

hands

in the door.

They have united

against

mutual enemy:

want.

But both

are

passions:

desire

surging like

red satin

aflame,

yearning

crying violet

tears

heavy upon

the dirt.

They are ripping me

a          p          a          r          t

in a

fire-work

display

of burgeoning

intensity.

“Dear god,

dear god--

please.” 

I want I want I want--

(that which,

for now,

is forbidden)

-- I want I want I want--

(but this does not

keep me

whole)

--I want!

Logical brain bit says:

“patience”

and

“in time”

and

“no promises”

and

stretches out endlessly as I roll it along the hill of doubts I have dug shamefully high.

I lick my lips.

They taste like

disatisfaction

and hollow

thoughts.

I spit it out.

It is much too bitter

to keep

for long.

Desire,

meet

yearning--

culminate in

angular poses of

pale skin

in mirror,

try to determine

what/who

I

want/want to be.

Lately

I wear black,

but know not

what I

mourn.

I am only

draped with

the

heavy

handed

knowledge

of my own

existence. 

There is a

certain

lingering

about the

winter air;

and

I can’t stop

thinking about

death.

It is in

every

corner,

singing

softly.

Imminent:

a shadow

at my grandmother’s

feet,

yawning closer

daily,

smells of

desolate

obliteration.

I am repulsed,

I am caught

(off-guard)

by curiosity.

At the museum,

an exhibit of

mummies

makes me weep:

shriveled flesh

and soulless

finger-tips

curl inwards

and away.

I am distracted,

I am distraught.

He talks to me,

but words buzz

heavy against

my breathing;

I concentrate

purely

on heart-beat.

I am,

I am.

Sometimes

the present

slips

too quick

into the past,

darkened

and void.

Please allow me to elaborate:

I measured loneliness tonight.

Counted it on my fingers,

clutched it to my heart.

Not sure if I’d numbered

correctly,

I turned—

only to remember:

no one else

there.

Melancholy

pervaded

the air,

dank

with the smell

of self-pity.

The phone rang,

but

I found myself

bewitched

by my

universe of one,

unable to

answer.

Loneliness

pushed

cold lips

to mine;

shivers

caressed

my shoulder blades,

made me

sick

with

seclusion.

Attempts to shrug

off

only brought

persistence;

I did not

want

such a faithful

lover.  

He gave me

lies

to swallow

like pills,

and I

tasted

on my tongue

the familiar

sour

mixed with

sorrow

as alone

licked

at my

elbows.

The empty
wormed into
my stomach,
gnawed
inwardly.

My heart
beat
too heavy,
echoed
into
night.

Delusion

swam

through

on silent thoughts,

told me

this was

all.

Hard when:

no truth

to feelings,

but

this

does not

negate

their

potent 

poison.

For Brother

"This is perfect for us,"

you say,

turning up the radio.

It blares

too confident

into the night,

daring me 

to match my own

with its 

boldness.

For just this moment,

I can.

Breathe deep,

feel it surge

through.

Infinity 

bathes us in

yellow street light

that zips

through car windows

onto my legs;

briefly

we are invincible

because of 

mutual

understanding. 

My tongue

tries to find

grateful thoughts

to express

meaning,

sanctify

moment,

cement

thought. 

But

words clunk

against my teeth,

leave me

open mouthed,

gasping.

You're singing now,

so I join.

Hollow

pop songs,

but singing them

with you

makes them

worth something.

Makes me

realize

what you 

mean

to me,

what

me

means 

to you.  

I will lose this feeling

too quickly.

This utter bliss

of

knowing you,

knowing my own,

fully,

deliciously

whole. 

Slide an

IV 

swiftly

into my veins.

Give it to me,

please. 

Never

stop. 

It tastes like

late night 

car rides,

loud pop,

bad harmonies,

and the familiar comfort

of you. 

Ritual

It is at night

when

the demons come

for me.

They prowl

about my bed,

waiting for

weakness

to ooze from my

bones.

Tongues

lap up

harsh fear

like dogs

at an altar

overflowing

with
blood.

I hear their

whispers rattle

deep

through my ribs,

shake the cage,

discontent.

They circle

my soul,

offering temptation,

telling of failure,

cackling a

cacophony

of

hallucinations. 

Deep

shadow eyes
stare into
own,

tell of past,
taunt
of failed
future.

I cannot 

bear

those
eyes.

Shadows

scurry onto

skin,

my eyes
pinch shut

with:

memories                   doubts                                    questions                          hauntings.

I fall through

the cracks

and

am lost.

The Communion of Us

It is simple,

this communion
of us:

the blood

flows forth,

the bread

breaks easy.

Our souls

settle contentedly,

swirl in thoughtfulness.

Intermingle.

For this brief moment,
transcendental.
 

The elements between us:

spiritual.

(in their own right)

Softly,

wine trickles

crimson

from cup,

stirs up dusty ground,

wets thirsty
desire.

Slowly,

bread crumbs

onto my tongue,

satisfies hunger

for congruent

understanding.

There is sincerity

in that gaze.

It pierces my face

with hallowed,

holy

wonder.

Feed it on my tongue,

touch it to my lips,

let me exist wholly

in 

sacramental

you.

It is here,
we find
blissful
communion. 

Hands (for M)

I watch her hands.

They flutter on thoughts,

flit through air,

land on everything,

on nothing.

She’s talking,

but words buzz,

disintegrate through filtered fingers.

Land:

on earring,

face.

Snatch:

at hair,

twist, turn, pull.

Roll: salt shaker,

pepper—clink!

Pale dashes that punctuate her sentences,

leave me grasping,

leave her gasping,

leave life open:

to interpretation.

I see deep meaning in those hands.

And as I walk home,

I notice the frosted grass

crunch

beneath my footsteps,

leaving slight imprints

of pressure and heat. 

Emptiness/Thoughts

I sit on the edge of the white plastic bathtub.

Naked feet dangle,

brush cold tile.

Vulnerability creeps closer,

soft skin tightens in disbelief,

stomach clenches in confusion.

Doubt trickles down my legs

like shampoo mixed with stories of past;

runs off into shower drain.

I question:

the deepness within me,

the stillness throughout.

How is it,

after these long years,

I still manage such emptiness?

Song

“There is music that haunts every soul,”

he tells me, hands shaking with intensity.

I am inclined to believe him,

for I have seen--

I have heard!

such a thing.

“It is muddled,”

he says,

“we’ve fucked it up.

But it’s there.”

I lean in;

we are on the verge of greatness

with thoughts such as these.

“Our creator sang it out,

it is in our very being;

we commune together,

make music through life.

We point back to him.”

A surge of marvel pulses through me.

My blood tingles—

there are notes in my veins;

he is singing my song.

It is the song of the artist:

of the understood,

the misunderstood.

Of those who see,

touch, taste, and feel

the delicious sensation—

an artist’s symphony,

a creative’s quartet.

I smile back at his passion,

for it swims around me in

contagious wonder.

It is good to be alive,

to feel such things as these.

I hear the continuing song,

join in glorious harmony,

vocal chords vibrating with warmth.

Baptismal

i sit in the middle of them all.

i can be one with them—

but right now, i am not.

right now, i am another,

poised in inspiration,

wetted with soul whispers

digging soft beneath my skin.

i have cried, i have read, i have seen:

that which they have not.

and in that, i am made anew,

canonized in the moment

while they turn in circles

of dusty past,

un-enlightened.

my walk is that of one baptized in the cleanse,

steps carrying acknowledgement of wonder,

lightened by motifs of clemency and knowing.

i pour coffee into the plastic cup.

the condensation beads inwardly,

i wipe it away.

they do not know,

they have not heard,

they cannot be one with me.

Mine is Mine

He reads my poetry.

When he tells me this,

my breath catches against my ribs.  

This is lovely;

this is too much to bear.

To think of:

his eyes digesting my thoughts,

gobbling them up,
stumbling through,

unknowing of soul-ache
resting rich inside.

He may dissect my words,

find his own existence,

translate mine into meaning for him:
 

to place his own

in shoes

too much ME

to fill

with otherness.

Or.

He may try to relate all back to me:

blind-feel on

sticky time-line

of my 21 years.

Whatever the case,

I hold them tight:

the secrets that lay quietly sleeping,

shuffled between commas,

slipped beneath words.

They do not come easy,
they do not come sweet.

So thumb through my thoughts,

double-layer on your own,

but mine is mine—

you will never fully know.

All is well

Pulsing light, forward being—

you were created for this,

this moment,

definition: of you.

Essence of self strains towards knowing;

comes away full,

belly satisfied with warmth.

Your steps: quick-silver,

dancing across wholeness,

propelling through all.

Fullness of soul catches you by surprise,

tosses you in the air,

giddy with relief,

with satisfaction,

with life.

Taste testing.

I tasted it again today.

The familiar You

paired with

cautious I.

But the flavors soured

quickly on my tongue,

stuck against my teeth.

I found I could not stomach it.

Three feet away,

hands clasped in thoughtfulness,

eyes wide with promise.

You shook slightly with sincerity.

The door opened:

to comfortability—

safety—

habit—

to Us.

I lost myself

in reveries

of the past.

But that was it;

there was no more.

Future dreams wisped

across my finger-tips,

adrift in knowing better.

A year ago,

I wished on every

11:11

for us.

A year later,

I know better

than to wish

for fairy-tale endings.

It is then.

how can I explain:

sometimes I leak happiness,

dripping sharp silver

like smudged joy foot-prints

on bleak gray world.

it is then:

my touch tingles with certainty,

serendipity sings,

the light bathes

all things purple,

and sudden smiles

come like soft snow.

it is then:

I am wrapped in self-expression,

unafraid, undaunted, undiluted!

no sudden moves, please--

you might scare it all away.

Writing Brokeness; Broken Writing

I sat down to write this afternoon.

To rid myself of ache

pulsing below soft skin

in veins volatile with

dreams and nightmares alike.

I could not.

Could not: wrap solid words

‘round hurt and desire,

Could not: push square

through circle,

(too brittle, breakable, real)

Could not: make paper

accept ink, accept word, accept thought,

accept me.  

There was hurt that rippled through--

pain settled deep

in gashes

long considered healed.

Weakness sunk

soft in my belly,

kept me from crying out;

my soul fluttered

anywhere but here.

I looked down,

saw what I’d become,

and wept.

Complications Arise

I stare at the ceiling because

--isn’t that where answers lie?

Your finger tracing my lips,

I lean into your body with

the effort it takes

to melt butter.

The blinking lights

(green/red)

on the smoke detector--

innocent.

Life swirls on,

ignorant of us.

Please define friendship.

I am losing it

amongst confusion

of emotions.

There is a tangle

of brain-wave 

hard

to keep

honest.

We are nothing,

could never be

anything,

but bodies hurt,

hearts ache,

emotions deceive,

lusts linger.

I do not want you

but in the simplest of ways

and even then,

friend,

no.

Because:

moments of desire

bring consequences,

bring unwanted thought,

bring heart-ache,

bring soul-ache,

bring pain.

Wasn’t life easier when—

friend + friend

not

you + I?

Do not complicate,

I ask of you--

of me--

of life.

But.

What is life

but moments of desire

wrapped confusedly

around bodies

searching

for meaning

searching

for soul-soothing

searching

for.