i was in bed, but got a sort of anxiety/panic attack when i thought about my thesis and all the work i had to do (mostly my thesis, though) so i got up and started writing after like an hour of fast heartbeats and word storming in my head. et voila.
Close Enough
There was once a lioness that longed to be blue. Not for her fur, her paws, her eyes and tongue to be dyed, but for her existence to transmogrify from animal to hue. She yearned with the ferocity that other lions reserved for their prey, so made a poor huntress, stretched thin on impossibility. (Strange how some are intrinsically intimate with unattainable desire, while others are so lackluster in their insect-chasing success). One day, a tornado blustered into the plain, and the lion pride fled; only the wistful lioness stood in its way. Scram, said the tornado, or it will be your end. So I will end, replied the lioness calmly, for I wish to become blue. You will not become blue; you will not be the sky, nor will you be water, nor a bluebell, nor a jay, nor anything remotely in that color, the tornado insisted. I do not want to be in that color, I want to be that color, the lioness clarified. Well, you will not be that color either, you will die, then you will be ashes that turn into dust, and you will be the grey of a dull eternity, predicted the tornado, and that is not a grey you want to become. Better to be unassuming, humble dust lifted in dreaming a futile dream, than a lioness, beautiful and golden, wasted on the unfeasible; a queen with her head and knees sealed to the ground, explained the lioness. Very well, I see your point; it’s an excellent point actually. May I add, that when you are ashes and dust and terribly grey, the wind will carry you around. Being a speck in the sky, you will be surrounded by blue, an ultimate, invading blue, and you may feel that you are part of that blue: seeing, smelling, tasting, being nothing else. Almost, added the tornado. Nearly, said the lioness, could be close enough; come on, now.
any feedback is, as always, greatly, muchly, terribly appreciated.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
tab·er·nac·le
–noun
1.
any place or house of worship, esp. one designed for a large congregation.
2.
(often initial capital letter
) the portable sanctuary in use by the Israelites from the time of their wandering in the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt to the building of the Temple in Jerusalem by Solomon. Ex. 25–27.
) the portable sanctuary in use by the Israelites from the time of their wandering in the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt to the building of the Temple in Jerusalem by Solomon. Ex. 25–27. 3.
Ecclesiastical. an ornamental receptacle for the reserved Eucharist, now generally found on the altar.
4.
a canopied niche or recess, as for an image or icon.
5.
a temporary dwelling or shelter, as a tent or hut.
6.
a dwelling place.
7.
the human body as the temporary abode of the soul.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
water, cardamom, cinnamon
Anyway,
I was just thinking about how we could
*
I mean, water is free isn’t it? Even if you’re not sure about
*
What I mean to say is, we could just grab a glass of water together and
*
I was just thinking, what will we lose if we got together and enjoyed some
*
You know, I’ve been feeling like maybe
*
You see, maybe we’re not that different just like
*
Well, I’ve always thought of you as a spice, something sweet, something
*
Actually, I don’t know many spices but
*
Yeah, so, you might remind me of
*
Hey, so, I had pumpkin pie the other day and I could really taste
*
I guess cinnamon is what it is, what you
*
No, I don’t usually get coffee but the other day I had a cinnamon
*
I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it before but
*
It’s strange, the other day I
*
I’ve been thinking, and in a personality quiz thing I might describe myself as
*
Have you ever heard of cardamom? It’s a spice and
*
Cardamom can be used in cooking, for sweet dishes, it’s really
*
Funny how similar two spices can be huh?
-----
please please please give me feedback on this one. perfectly honest and brutal feedback.
I was just thinking about how we could
*
I mean, water is free isn’t it? Even if you’re not sure about
*
What I mean to say is, we could just grab a glass of water together and
*
I was just thinking, what will we lose if we got together and enjoyed some
*
You know, I’ve been feeling like maybe
*
You see, maybe we’re not that different just like
*
Well, I’ve always thought of you as a spice, something sweet, something
*
Actually, I don’t know many spices but
*
Yeah, so, you might remind me of
*
Hey, so, I had pumpkin pie the other day and I could really taste
*
I guess cinnamon is what it is, what you
*
No, I don’t usually get coffee but the other day I had a cinnamon
*
I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it before but
*
It’s strange, the other day I
*
I’ve been thinking, and in a personality quiz thing I might describe myself as
*
Have you ever heard of cardamom? It’s a spice and
*
Cardamom can be used in cooking, for sweet dishes, it’s really
*
Funny how similar two spices can be huh?
-----
please please please give me feedback on this one. perfectly honest and brutal feedback.
beer, love, anger
3 Sonnets
I.
A devil that forces a mirror in your face,
burning titanium shackles locking you in place,
your eyelids have disappeared and you have to see
the familiar distort, in grotesque mimicry
of a beast, savage without reason. This is me
you realize, in the terminal stage of fury,
condemned portrait in the rage of Dorian Gray.
Then hatred invades, vicious strain of self-loathing
and disgust: what you have found, with torches flaming,
in the darkest retreat of soul is too ugly
to endure. How sick you feel, how small and lowly,
but the second ill does not cause the first to flee,
they weaken you together while you helplessly
watch that glass hell and yourself burning away.
II.
When I was younger, every boy I liked was perfect.
I saw one corner then one line, knew he was a square,
up in the air he went. But I never did suspect
that with me down here and he on a pedestal there,
our lines of sight could never possibly intersect.
Then of course, inevitably, the time would come where
I saw more angles that were not right, and would suspect
the inevitable: might he be a triangle?
The geometry of my affections then fall apart,
I wrench him off his mounting, he topples to the floor.
He is supine, I still standing, now I see the door
and move a step closer, but it’s no more than a start.
The wistful pedestal, the memory of four
right-angled equal lines, [can not yet leave my heart].
III.
I never used to like this frizzy froth,
bitter as a loss that stays on tongue when
swallowing is done. Taste recalls a moth
still perched, wings furled: dark, dusty, then
asleep, slowly, lightly laying self down.
But now I have come to find some pleasure
small, in this everyman’s brew, a crown
of good times with acrid tones of leisure.
The trick is tuning expectation low:
there will not be sweet, nor any fancy,
take off those heels, and barefooted go
into a keg of honest, cheap, hearty.
Wine is the candle to vodka’s fire,
beer the occasional cigarette desire.
I.
A devil that forces a mirror in your face,
burning titanium shackles locking you in place,
your eyelids have disappeared and you have to see
the familiar distort, in grotesque mimicry
of a beast, savage without reason. This is me
you realize, in the terminal stage of fury,
condemned portrait in the rage of Dorian Gray.
Then hatred invades, vicious strain of self-loathing
and disgust: what you have found, with torches flaming,
in the darkest retreat of soul is too ugly
to endure. How sick you feel, how small and lowly,
but the second ill does not cause the first to flee,
they weaken you together while you helplessly
watch that glass hell and yourself burning away.
II.
When I was younger, every boy I liked was perfect.
I saw one corner then one line, knew he was a square,
up in the air he went. But I never did suspect
that with me down here and he on a pedestal there,
our lines of sight could never possibly intersect.
Then of course, inevitably, the time would come where
I saw more angles that were not right, and would suspect
the inevitable: might he be a triangle?
The geometry of my affections then fall apart,
I wrench him off his mounting, he topples to the floor.
He is supine, I still standing, now I see the door
and move a step closer, but it’s no more than a start.
The wistful pedestal, the memory of four
right-angled equal lines, [can not yet leave my heart].
III.
I never used to like this frizzy froth,
bitter as a loss that stays on tongue when
swallowing is done. Taste recalls a moth
still perched, wings furled: dark, dusty, then
asleep, slowly, lightly laying self down.
But now I have come to find some pleasure
small, in this everyman’s brew, a crown
of good times with acrid tones of leisure.
The trick is tuning expectation low:
there will not be sweet, nor any fancy,
take off those heels, and barefooted go
into a keg of honest, cheap, hearty.
Wine is the candle to vodka’s fire,
beer the occasional cigarette desire.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
twilight, fox, zombie
Twilight zone
starts from around midnight just ‘til dawn,
when we are safely by ourselves
when time is a stowaway
the watch negligent (and neglected)
the darkness outside reveals
nothing of the hours
you lean a littlecloser
touching heads, arms, shoulders
silently agreed upon
as raindrops melt into ocean
*
we shrink the world
cut reali ties and set ourselves afloat
these four mundane walls
form our buoyant vessel
our fox burrow, rabbit hole
traveling out to sea
on the winds of goodwill:
there is nothing to think about here
no past
no subsequently,
only this long, elusive rising,
the horizon of a new land
*
there are pillow islands
and down muffled words slow
a flimsy, persistent bridge
shaking with drowsy
fossils unearthed restored slowly,
in warm arms of sympathy
two sardines in an ample can;
you choose contact over space
I think, or maybe I imagine,
within the confusion of a tangled quilt
your front grazing my back
your lips,my hair
*
birds tweet an alarm inversed -
the sky lightens, time to sleep.
*
when we wake there are only two friends in one bed
and something else
not quite alive
but never fully dead.
starts from around midnight just ‘til dawn,
when we are safely by ourselves
when time is a stowaway
the watch negligent (and neglected)
the darkness outside reveals
nothing of the hours
you lean a littlecloser
touching heads, arms, shoulders
silently agreed upon
as raindrops melt into ocean
*
we shrink the world
cut reali ties and set ourselves afloat
these four mundane walls
form our buoyant vessel
our fox burrow, rabbit hole
traveling out to sea
on the winds of goodwill:
there is nothing to think about here
no past
no subsequently,
only this long, elusive rising,
the horizon of a new land
*
there are pillow islands
and down muffled words slow
a flimsy, persistent bridge
shaking with drowsy
fossils unearthed restored slowly,
in warm arms of sympathy
two sardines in an ample can;
you choose contact over space
I think, or maybe I imagine,
within the confusion of a tangled quilt
your front grazing my back
your lips,my hair
*
birds tweet an alarm inversed -
the sky lightens, time to sleep.
*
when we wake there are only two friends in one bed
and something else
not quite alive
but never fully dead.
homelessness, honey, rope-ladder
The honey bear’s dilemma (almost an odyssey)
when it ran out of honey:
was it still a honey bear?
I.
yes,
absolutely
(he knew the prefix to his name was arbitrary,
being named after one’s diet is unfortunate.
still,) it was his name
like green, or ocean,
intrinsic possession.
(the enigma of an identity
is only as deep as one digs ;
he was gladly shovel-free.)
he decided to look for some;
as food the taste was pleasing,
nothing more.
*
the forest was wide
and his strength of paw
could easily procure some
breaking branches
crushing leaves
he walked the forest for hives of bees
and strangely, unnaturally,
finding none, he kept walking
as moon and sun
took their turns to retire
and he began to tire.
finally he saw some bees
and following them excitement-seized
he found their hives and
a group of other honey bears
he thought new friends !
he only found mistrust ugly
when he explained he had no honey.
no honey, no honey? they mocked
you really a honey bear then?
of course I am, I’ve looked and walked
and walked and looked
the soles of my paws are sore like red
and I am weary as a bed
(because beds you know, have no place to sleep)
please, will you share your honey?
there's plenty here, I won’t take much
my tongue just misses it’s sweet sticky touch.
you lazy bear, you lying piece of fur,
how dare you covet what is ours
I bet you haven’t even tried for hours
you call yourself a honey bear, I’m not so sure,
be gone now and don’t think twice
the second time, we won’t be nice.
the honey bear was stunned and left –
his head spinning like a top;
a cleft to his world dealt swift, indifferent.
was he less honey bear without honey?
was he impotent and lowly?
besides, they hadn’t even made the honey
why would they not share
the abundance that was there
chanced upon by being early?
he would show them!
be the early bear to some other hive
fill his belly ‘til it was fat and thrive
as a real honey bear affirmed by wealth
(despite his proud indignant thought
a battle had been lost unfought ;
a dent where certainty had been
a doubt in what no honey could mean
a shovel found unsought.)
*
no honey, still no honey,
steps were weak and lighter now
creasing leaves
bending branches
his curving back a perpetual bow
as he stumbled thoughts evolved,
turning metal developing edge,
a hundred shovels all involved
deepening the dent with his every stumble,
a honey bear falling fell below humble.
why can’t I find honey, what does this mean?
who is a honey bear when he is so lean
on honey ?
*
he found himself in a pit ;
a profoundly empty honey pot
where all he tasted was his own spit
where he imagined he would rot
while dreaming about rope-ladders
and kind paws
he was still wandering in the forest actually
but the tall walls he imagined around him
cast a shadow
and he consoled himself in the shade
*
sticky amber
functional as its demand
took on the value of gold
and he who no longer knew who he
was a pauper
II.
no,
it is now a bear(ly)
when it ran out of honey:
was it still a honey bear?
I.
yes,
absolutely
(he knew the prefix to his name was arbitrary,
being named after one’s diet is unfortunate.
still,) it was his name
like green, or ocean,
intrinsic possession.
(the enigma of an identity
is only as deep as one digs ;
he was gladly shovel-free.)
he decided to look for some;
as food the taste was pleasing,
nothing more.
*
the forest was wide
and his strength of paw
could easily procure some
breaking branches
crushing leaves
he walked the forest for hives of bees
and strangely, unnaturally,
finding none, he kept walking
as moon and sun
took their turns to retire
and he began to tire.
finally he saw some bees
and following them excitement-seized
he found their hives and
a group of other honey bears
he thought new friends !
he only found mistrust ugly
when he explained he had no honey.
no honey, no honey? they mocked
you really a honey bear then?
of course I am, I’ve looked and walked
and walked and looked
the soles of my paws are sore like red
and I am weary as a bed
(because beds you know, have no place to sleep)
please, will you share your honey?
there's plenty here, I won’t take much
my tongue just misses it’s sweet sticky touch.
you lazy bear, you lying piece of fur,
how dare you covet what is ours
I bet you haven’t even tried for hours
you call yourself a honey bear, I’m not so sure,
be gone now and don’t think twice
the second time, we won’t be nice.
the honey bear was stunned and left –
his head spinning like a top;
a cleft to his world dealt swift, indifferent.
was he less honey bear without honey?
was he impotent and lowly?
besides, they hadn’t even made the honey
why would they not share
the abundance that was there
chanced upon by being early?
he would show them!
be the early bear to some other hive
fill his belly ‘til it was fat and thrive
as a real honey bear affirmed by wealth
(despite his proud indignant thought
a battle had been lost unfought ;
a dent where certainty had been
a doubt in what no honey could mean
a shovel found unsought.)
*
no honey, still no honey,
steps were weak and lighter now
creasing leaves
bending branches
his curving back a perpetual bow
as he stumbled thoughts evolved,
turning metal developing edge,
a hundred shovels all involved
deepening the dent with his every stumble,
a honey bear falling fell below humble.
why can’t I find honey, what does this mean?
who is a honey bear when he is so lean
on honey ?
*
he found himself in a pit ;
a profoundly empty honey pot
where all he tasted was his own spit
where he imagined he would rot
while dreaming about rope-ladders
and kind paws
he was still wandering in the forest actually
but the tall walls he imagined around him
cast a shadow
and he consoled himself in the shade
*
sticky amber
functional as its demand
took on the value of gold
and he who no longer knew who he
was a pauper
II.
no,
it is now a bear(ly)
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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