a

A Grecian goddess,

fragile as the shimmering delicate glass

that makes up her pure and open face,

tumbling you into a wild force:

-- the unending gale of her passion.

She holds the world in her eye,

living on whims, wings, winds,

she stops for no one

and goes, with love.

It's hard not to love you. Even upon first meeting, I imagine. I say "I imagine" because I don't remember meeting you. One day, you were just there, and in a way I've learned is not usually yours, you stayed. And from that day, you have pulled me so far into your life that I can't help but wonder what might happen if the day ever comes you revert to your norm and leave.

You stand alone, a cut above us all. You don't live where we exist -- on earth. You have your world that we are not a part of -- I don't think we'll ever be privy to it. You like it better that way, I think.

You are a predictable maze, but you don't know your way around yet. And in your search, you leave us behind. You leave me behind and I feel insignificant.

That's just you, a snap of frenzied fervor and decision. You have a spirit like a storm that calms for nothing. You are a smooth burning flame, enticing the world as you walk by. And Oh, they would be blessed if you let them follow. With your quick unwavering judgement, you grant them existence or you don't. And in that moment, you turn away from them and never look back.

But in all this power, this incredible force, you are the most fragile being I know. You wear your heart and soul on your sleeves, your emotions spelled out so clearly in the sweet shape of your eyes. I worry that I might break you -- or open that crack, that slowly healing chasm in your heart further than you can handle. You are a glass figurine sitting on the edge of my shelf, and I tiptoe so as not to cause the Earthquake. But you won't ever let us get that close. You won't give us that control over you, your heart, not anymore.

You emit a sense of transience which hints that we are the ones to go soon. We won't be here for long, to you. We are your passing glances, your autumn leaves. We are subject to your whim and fancy and there is nothing we can do to fight it. Even to love you would not be enough. You would need to love us -- and you always seem so surprised to discover we mean anything to you at all.

I stare at you, figurine on my shelf, and wonder. When does the countdown begin? To the day you flutter off to manifest the world, your world, in which we do not exist? When, with your glistening wings, do you take off, leaving us on the empty branches of a cold winter, behind behind behind.

cognitive architecture

the twists and turns and lines and vines of our

corrugated minds;

the thoughts and feels and highs and whys and

you'll never know

-- or merely

the castles-in-clouds we dream up

up and above.

I really hate when I have a great idea that I lose before it gets to publication of some sort.

this page is torn

This page is torn.

What was once written

now taken,

put forth in the world to 

make its round, pass its message

show its worth.

Perhaps used to scribble a number

a stained wrinkly scrap that she'll

pull out the back pocket of

a recently washed pair of jeans.

She'll have forgotten it existed

until then,

and she'll toss it aside,

adding to the messy stack of crap on her desk.

When she's finally 

cleaning out and moving out

she'll find it again

and out of curiosity, dial

and pause,

waiting for the unexpected voice at the other end of the line.

Or maybe it's the scrap he quickly,

nervously,

palms sweatily, 

wrote out exactly

-- well almost exactly 

but not quite like that,

I mean,

he might not say it just that way

-- no, 

no exactly what he wanted to say to her,

only her, 

at their wedding toast

where he'll be delighted to stand

and speak, to explain

to the world

-- yes, the world

how and how much and how deep

his wit and intellect can reach

on one tiny piece of paper.

But the world wouldn't matter

at least not the one sitting around him

but only the world,

his world, 

that sat beside him

in glorious, pristine,

infallible white.

Or maybe this was destined for a lesser purpose --

a small saviour to wrap a 

discarded wad of gum

torn off the paper she always carries around

just for this reason 

because she's put her hand

on so many goddamn pieces of gum

stuck on the bottom of

some desk or table or chair

-- one offending piece still wet, true story

and therefore she will

never

stick her unwanted gum on

any

public surface, to avoid creating

more poor unsuspecting victims

like herself.

Or maybe, just maybe, 

it was merely ripped off in a moment

of necessity

to mark the pages of a book,

to remind, remember, rewind

to the time 

when those words made an impact,

and called for such

a remembrance

but you've already heard them

so they don't matter anymore. 

the last photo

Emerging from the throngs of the Covered Market, I turn my open face to the sun, smiling as I bite into the smooth perfect skin of a whole red tomato.

His lens turns on me as the sweet juice bursts out, dripping down my chin. My eyes are bright with laughter, my fingers reaching to wipe my mouth clean, like I could keep my decorum by cupping a bare hand around the splashes of life bursting forth from both the fruit and myself.

He was stepping back to get even the hem of my eyelet sundress into the frame when he slipped.

I developed the two-year-old roll of film at the local 1 hour place. Sitting in the dim bedroom, I quietly stick each photo, one by one, into a small album. My fingers linger on the last one, the one that caught my face at the edge of the frame as it transformed from a smile to a gasp, stuck somewhere in the middle of blank confusion, the scene in front of me, behind the camera slowly registering.

I close the album and write, in plain letters, 'HOME' on the cover before reaching up to place it at the end of the quite heavily laden bookshelf. I turn to watch him sleep, not a muscle budged nor a hair moved, since the moment his eyes closed as his head silently hit the pavement and my gasp pulled the last breath from my life.

microphones

I went to this writing society launch party that was set up as an open-mic reading night. Before I went up to read a couple pieces, I hashed out all my nervousness (so I thought -- it's amazing how regenerative nerves can be) into a piece that I wrote then and there, messily scrawled on the back of a writing pad. It started, "I hate microphones." I intended to put it here but I seem to have misplaced it and I don't know where to start looking. Maybe it was purely sewn into the evanescence of that moment and no longer needed to exist afterwards. Though I'm quite sure I folded it up and placed it safely in my coat pocket. Maybe it fell out. I wonder.

re: no subject

I spend too much time living inside my head, 

I think to myself.

play

"Why are you guys just sitting in silence?"

"We're not."

"Yes, you are. You're not talking."

"That's because the music is."

"Is what?"

"Talking."

"Music doesn't talk, it plays."

"Either way, it fills the verbal void in ways better than we ever could."

"these are but wild & whirling words"

I am the free laughing oceans

wild and whirling waves

sparkling shining shimmering

glinting in the melting of your eye

/

Pullpushed past direction

past intention

twisting tumbling turning

upside the inside of my soul

solely searching for the sunless sand

caressed by the tiptoeing giggle of my heart

/

Veiling strands of golden light 

dance through me in turn

step by step by step

sapphire pearls encompass me in the

immediate sweeping rush of accompanied solitude

never and always one.

/

I am the free laughing oceans

wild and whirling waves

sparkling shining shimmering

glinting in the melting of  your eye.