Winter Haikus 3 am

half of me sleeping

and awaking to half gone:

Myself, incomplete.

<>

holes inbetween I

and I am therefore, I think 

not dust, but breathing.

<>

This is becoming

my effusive wetly tear

presently present..

<>

I call out to you

prefix languished by me

as snow upon snow.

9:03 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

there is no distance

between you and i; there are sheets, sun, and countless waters.

there are tiny curious turtles crossing busy streets, safely, slowly, but safely

searching for unknown puddles that could be ponds, might just be lakes to such small feet. 

but no distance, you are as close to me as I am to the pillow still faintly touched by you. 

in between us are deliriums of patience, wandering thoughts against flip flop stair smacks and a hundred coffees and mistaken texts corrected.

in between you and i... I find you like strawberries from Trader Joe's, always the tastiest thought of the hour or like the first cold taste of a watery morning against the driest mouth of the day.  sometimes i open a book and you slip out from the first word: upon, in, once, there, At.  

soon, so soon, it will be as simple as just opening my eyes...

6:36 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

in the morning, this is best read aloud

it is a little like swimming beneath a garden of stars,

turning like shadows of summer hair

against the turning white blankets of morning thoughts,

and like opening and closing fingers or flowers,

it is turning into blue from white,

the gardenias are singing, the hydrangeas are singing too

everything is turning towards something, turning away,

again and again, until everything is turned upside its wandering

self.  I am turning like a leaf in a puddle of motions, turning into

you and this... kiss me, i am turning into you... kiss me,

you are turning into this. 

the gardenias are singing, we are underneath their sounds,

which are the sounds of the winds turning invisible white

from blue, which is the sound of my simplicity.

it is a little like finding the ocean, for the first time,

or like an orange leaf amidst endless green.

turning  in the water,

turning as the rain,

turning in the sounds

turning as the blue bottomless perfumes

turning in the hydrangeas singing.

it is a little like this... turning into

this.

4:52 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

first chapter of my novel

I abscond and write from my dark, but blithe, corner of existence.  I have been young and old and old and young.  Entering life and creating my own abeyance, from which my eyes looked out towards a world passing and I have arisen from myriad dreams and found myself still here without them.  My imagination has been disappointed by my indolence, yet it still functions as it did before, lending its powers now to my preamble.

This is an awakening.  A calm before a deluge; these words are a benthic struggle for air and will float to the surface as they drown in human voices.  Speak them then and they might crawl inside you and breathe in your breaths and fall asleep in your stomach.  Smell them and you will smell a history of words.  The ineluctable modality of the senses will hunt you down and abrade you until you abnegate yourself to them.  Then they will become your life and will be everything. 

Only... there is an ineffable awareness in the bowels of my consciousness, where the candle of my senses has yet to enlighten.  Where no candle could illumine or light travel, it is from here where I abstract this creation.   Writing, now, as if from under the floorboards of my house, looking up at myself, through the cracks, wandering in circles by the windows. 

             I am awaiting some diaphanous event.  A rising of the Sun, which has set and been forgotten, too long has it hidden below an illusionary horizon.  The weather has gotten so cold and will get so much colder.   Too long have my eyes searched out the light and searched out the dark.   My sight watching the myriad flickering images upon my rods and cones and wasting no time being discriminate, letting the chemicals of the brain make sense of and turn right side up what has been seen upside down. 

You see: I am a revolutionary against action. I drink my green tea in the mornings and ululate in the privacy of my warm and cozy dwelling.  People pass by on the sidewalks, walking dogs, talking on phones, holding hands, sometimes skipping and sometimes putting their hands in their pockets, heads down, as they move on past my window pane.  My howls are filled with passionate silence.  They are inside and full of admiration for the world around me.  Sometimes they remind me of times before my revolution, when I could be seen being very active and yes, even loving from time to time. 

Now though, I am in a blissful state of stasis.  Truly an army of one and writing this as my great act of hypocrisy, for we all need great acts like this.  We need the hypocrites to shine so that our morals can be free to grow into large self-righteous belches.  This way we can express our disdain filled with ideal zest and vigorous moral superiority.  I will be your hypocrite then, we all must have purpose and this is just as important as any other; so I, as your current narrator, will be useful to you for a time. 

As I said before I am revolting against action, let me clarify this, by action I mean anything which is done not out of necessity and or passion.  I do take quite a liberty here in choosing such a vague and subjective definition, but these are my words, that I have borrowed from the well of our language and thus, I will use them so as to best express my point of view.  I will do my best however, to stick close to the lexicon on all other words save 'action.'   You can rest easy then, because I could sense you becoming restless with my liberal tossing of structure.  It need only be tossed once or twice here and I will do so at my leisure, but I will keep your interests in mind while I do.  I 'm not a barbarian, well, at least not much of one.  We live in a barbarous time and I am just as much a savage as the next poor soul and this is where my revolution begins, in barbarity.

I am a thief, come near me and I just may steal your dreams and make them my own or copy your expressions and use your words against you.  That is not below me, yet there are things beneath me as there are under you as well.  My nature is a peaceful one and overall a loving one and thus I posses a base and odious disposition.  Since my actions have no kill in them, lacking the tenacity to pave my way in the world.  The weakness of my will is the creation of my suffering.

                       Everybody suffers...

and I suffer because of preferred ignorance.  The knowledge I have acquired I have left in places I have passed.  I lost Nietzsche in Mexico while snorkeling with stingrays, smooth and jelly-like wings brushed against my feet while I breathed out the Twilight of the Idols.   Zarathustra spoke and I dropped him on a gravel road near Chichen-itza.  I am not worse because of it; what lives within me flourishes without and if you happen to walk in my forgotten steps, then be aware, you may have Rimbaud slip into your shoes and curl up under your toenails or Racine crawl up your inseam and bite you on your thigh.  There are secrets in the air under your shoes, whole histories in the scum between your back teeth, universes in the hairs growing out of your moles.  Clean them and they will not disappear, cover them and they will escape, forget them and you may be excused from their presence, for a while, they will return and their whispers will become the music by which your conscience speaks.  Forget that too and you will be left to the mercy of phrases floating in the dust through the air. 

"The voice of doG is blown about in trays which hold ashes."  I was told this once while waiting for laundry to dry and reading Joyce in a red sweater.  (I've become obtuse by being overtly acute.)  The woman who told me, kissed my hand gently before she left and left me one more bit of wisdom:  "knowledge will be the end of your ignorance."   She had an amethyst ring on her little finger and the skin on her lips was peeling off from dryness. I had never seen her before and have never seen her since.  Save now, in my mind's eye, while I recall slipping glimpses of actions before my revolt.  

EX TENEBRIS LUX.   The eightfold path is the way:  Right view, Right Intention, Right speech, Right action, Right livelihood, Right effort, Right mindfulness, Right concentration.   It is apparent I have become spiritual here, but this is to be expected, for to lose action is to gain spirit.  To gain spirit is to gain contemplation, thus to lose action is to gain contemplation. 

Let us not get lost here, for if you follow my words they may lead you to crooked paths, but the adventure will be ours and you will find drops of beauty raining along the way, for if you haven't imagined yet, this is written full of wet and bad weather.  Weather you may run to and away from, building isolation at times and unification at others.   I will snow you in with the dandruff from my fingers.  Skin flakes piled so high you'll need snowshoes to walk across what I leave for you.  They will be gifts of the tiny passions that well up without being lost to action; and since I am free, I can give you a future thought of the thought you began thinking, just now.  

This will be the winter of our discontent.  In peace, like poor Richard, we will hunch our backs and cry out to the nobodies while our gambit unfolds across our little worlds.  I pray for a muse of fire to help me in this endeavor.  

8:20 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

transatlanticism

this blue note in this warm shivering night blue sky.

this 9th street dancing slowly underneath

the unreal architecture of instinctual modality.

this ineluctable gravity, this...

"i need you so much closer"

a wandering thought above these thousand breaths

commingling in an atmospheric blithe, with two fresh

hopeful lips traveling beyond the blonde

towards a freckled summer cheek.

this is the birthplace of rain; these evaporating

senses are wholly kissing, it is safe beneath them, 

 we are safely entering this fragile season.

a hole in a sundress exposes this landscape

to the natural.  my touch is also her touch:

is her thigh, is my hand, is her hair, is my deep

torrent of embrace.

in a moment, my memory is erasing the first blue hours

of my day, three years gone like ashes loosed in the wind.

i am learning how to leave.  i am leaning out again.

my love was frozen, i am frozen by the things i cannot keep.

"so come on..." 

we walked hand in hand down the long broadway of night.

she was barefoot.  i ran into wet branches hanging lowly.

we kissed by the library, again i was overcome.

this is not what we expect when we awake.

this is not the sound of falling.

9:08 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Gwen

i have lost you more than found.

Tonight, I have searched under the underneath,

and you are not there, anymore.

Yet i still see you from the other night, with your gold shoes, and your head leaning back, pulling my mouth towards your mouth with your eyes. our last kiss, under four seasons lights. 

A full moon to end us abruptly. 

i have lost you more than found.   

9:15 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

a thought of painting

My art begins in water, in my blood, pumping through me before i notice it, like a shadow inside, full of dark secrets, below words or phrases and then comes to boil in my imagination, igniting my hands and brushes until the melting paint forms its own version of the extreme gratitude i have in being alive, finally when the smoke clears, what is left is but the dried ash of my burning patience...

11:27 PM - 1 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

music in twelve parts (glass in words)

A leviathan of loquaciousness, leveling language

and language leveling lethargy: little Lethe, little lethe

Laudanumian lavage, lave this hollow heart…

Lean leaning layer, leap over the lectern…

Liberation: little Lethe, little lethe.

Levitating leviathan of life, I'm lief

like ligroinian lighted hyperbole…

Lady lagniappe, at your leisure

ladies lassitude, language leveling lethargy…

Little Lethe, little lethe.

Lights, lights, lightning, lightening lights…

Loquacious leveling legatee…

Leviathan lingual lineage…

Little lethe,

Little Lethe,

last light left is

love.

3:07 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Under Her Breath

The unrecovered blossoms unblossoming,

and the sycamore leaf pressed against glassy

blue. The cavernous mess of white silk sheets,

and pink laced panties on a hardwood floor.

The lights don't work; the lights have lost

their evening speed.  Flick them again and again,

dark, dark, darkening wetly present…

I will forge in you an Atlantis.

I will taste syllables from you

like water.

7:07 PM - 4 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Night

I watch her disappear, not watch,

but feel her gone.

 Like a beautiful oasis, she glimmers beside me.

I have traveled so far,

And I am still thirsty for her.

I hold her hand and she crumbles in my imagination.

Until I=m holding onto nothing.  I watch

myself reaching through the air.  Searching

for her.  Will I find her again?  My heart grows

silence and waits for her arrival. 

4:31 PM - 4 Comments - 9 Kudos - Add Comment

oceans

In fluttering, minutely saddened sighs,

full of deep down torrents, bathed in crimson,

deeply embracing the languid blue.

Sand would slip through her fingers as she lifted her

palms to my cheeks. And sand would fall from my face

as her lips went back to wait for mine.

In whirling lacy jags, under the canopy of small flickering

summer stars, with the wind like waves in the air above. And

beside, like the hum from a million oboes, soft deep waves rushing towards.

The tip of my finger ran up the length of her leg like a drop

of water descending the stem of an iris. Barely touching her as her

soft hand glided up my back towards the soft blue above us.

In the distance, wind was blowing through an empty pink conch shell

In the distance, everything was becoming secret.

9:37 AM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

a little night music

blowing smoke rings and

watching them float through the air

then fade with the dark.

9:33 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

hendiadys

  aposiopesis...

 and the rain pulls velleity: my brush, blueorange gray grey.

I am painting away...

(storm and night)

4:55 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

red frame on a green wall

the blinking cursor is the purest expression of the void, standing alone between words past and future, it waits for you and me...

then we make our first mimic motion and the void is colored in our faint tracing letters.

The "unseen" series of paintings i'm working on is filled with secrets.  I will not post the paintings on myspace, no one will see them save the 10 people who buy them and set them free.  Even these people will only see them when they are shipped.  It is done this way as an expression of the void, the mystery will make the colors that much brighter when they arrive.  It is an experiment in the power of painting, will you participate? 

let me know if you want to be a part of this new series.  Until then...

12:35 AM - 0 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Unreal City

Polyphiloprogenitive,
(the black hole of the eye;
the crippled gravity of color.)

got to cantor right up to Godzilla's footprint,
(the tan afternoon horse wreathed by blue sea-girls floating one by one.
land reversed: dirt waves and grass whales perfuming their unseen swim
through the air.)

this gallop of breaths enchanted: I have seen trees turn to coral,
with a moments thought, and heard deep dive music in the fall of a leaf.

"ti volgio bene" she slipped in my ear
"mio tesoro" in the brave shadow deep, deep

within my loving color. the translation is asleep with me...

12:44 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment