22 May 2010

new composition

tender, the tips of your fingers graze the curves of my jawline
and crawl, parallel with silent slides of sweat, down my neck and rest lightly
on my shoulders before

slipping under my shirt sleeves and softly undraping me,
as you compose the first notes of our new night's duet.

as my fists clench tightly, your hands' sordino strides along my skin meet
my collectively crippled limbs and you lay me down and lull me,
with tempts of tongue-touching-tongue and breaths-setting-over-curves,
into a let-loose-and-love-it mood
and the beat starts off slow.

your pulse throbs thicker than other undertones
and the tempo keeps steady while your lips, licked, sneak down, heavy and
tantalizing, teasing me slow and easy,
you and I, one in the same, l'istesso,
lock legs and press warm skin to warm skin and the rhythm picks up as

my palms sink into your back and
your fingers trace a damp-dotted-line of sweat beads to
the thin line of stitched seams separating you and me.

and again, our pace, allegro, grows quicker with each note played louder
forte, and with each beat hit firmer, and
the score, all parts showing, enlivens our music to a symphony con brio
as our bodies flow together in a heat-struck harmony
through the steam-ridden air encompassing us.

con moto, our pounding exhalations move closer to each other
until brilliantly,
the intervals become smallest,
breath, half-step,
breath, and again, half-step,
we breathe in unison and crash, as one, into our climactic rush
and we hold our strongest urge longer than needed,
fermata, and then let it go

and our breaths slow down, legato, smooth,
as you conduct this piece to descend to a rest with

one beat of silence,
quarter, and another beat,
silence, until we reach our grand pause and we both

suddenly, subito, our new night instructs our silence with an unsaid
"tacet," and we wait to play, again, our sordid song, dolce.

21 May 2010

Twenty Years of Solitude

“How much longer do we have?”

The same question, on a loop, slips from Gatsby’s every orifice as he waits for a more pleasing answer. And the responses have blended together, no matter who takes upon himself the responsibility to provide Gatsby some sort of temporary solution to his now nearly-twenty-year problem. But in his fixed state of legs languidly crossed and head slightly tilted, he sits in one secluded area of the barren wasteland that used to nurture and shelter him – until he turned seventeen.

The others – Agathos, Nick, and Holden – separate themselves from each other as Gatsby has done with himself; they all possess their own damp, dark areas to which they confine themselves nowadays, because, what else are they to do after living together, chafing one another’s “lives” with fractious remarks and attempts at fratricide? They are brothers, after all, and even brothers hate each other after being trapped in the presence of each other for unbearable lengths of time. And this time, in particular, has stolen their once-collective glow and replaced it with a wan look of “I’m scared but can’t show it.”

Faintly, their existence ceases to pursue vibrancy as days pass in a seemingly timeless mind-trap. The monotonous drips of comatose dreams from skull walls lull them into their own sort of vegetative persistence.

“It’s been a hundred years in this sonofabitch and I’m sick of it here,” and the complaints never halt to evade Holden’s lips and fill the fragile and limited cerebral air with vehement stupidity.

“Actually, it has been merely nineteen years and three hundred and sixty-four days,” Agathos rebukes, as his tolerance of repetitive gripe grows weary.

“For crissake, who gives a damn?”

“Apparently you do.”

“I never said that.”

“The intimation was all anyone needed.”

And the rebuttal continued until Nick finally got fed up with the others’ genuine disregard for the futility of such a quarrel.

“Would both of you just be quiet?” And Nick’s question echoed in the hollow cavern of a dormant thought-shell, crusted over and dust-covered for years upon years. But the truth is there is no easy way for a group of four denizens in a cave-like dwelling to completely avoid temperamental issues among themselves after being born into said abode from the imagination of a geriatric’s unconscious mind.

And it is only natural for each of them to feel the need to isolate himself from the others; Nick, Holden, and Gatsby do, however, ostracize Agathos more than each other because of his complete difference in belief and attitude toward their “life” as a whole.

In their nineteen years and three hundred and sixty-four days together, they have figured out that where they are is not right and that there is something beyond the barriers by which they are all encompassed. Nick, Holden, and Gatsby, though, have adapted to a joint belief that their entrapment is pure punishment from some ulterior force while Agathos believes in the power of words. And while he believes in the power of words, he also has gained the theory that there is even more power in dreams.

“A dream, you see, is a culmination of those alluring moments – the wonderful and the enticing, the horrid and the frightening moments – of the everyday that, through words and through the sentiment of the contact into which we come with our surroundings every second of every minute, enthrall our very beings,” Agathos claims with unaffected conviction.

Digression!” exclaims Holden, scornfully.

“No, actually. There is no digression whatsoever. In all of your uncertainty, Holden, of letting go of your innocence, remind yourself of where you are and what you’ve experienced, because there is no way of taking back what you’ve unconsciously given up without the slightest notice.”

“I agree with Holden,” says Gatsby with a bit of confidence.

“You do? Well it would only make sense that you do since you, like Holden, are stuck on a fine tight rope between your younger years and your potential maturity.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Agathos,” Nick contends with a bit of apprehension.

“And Nick, your fear, even in your heartiest endeavor to hide it, shines through your translucent cloak of whatever is engraved in your brain. Remind me, please, what that is again.”

“I’m scared… but I can’t show it.”

The once-collective glow was not merely replaced by a frightened look, but rather, fear entwined itself with the minds of the inhabitants in their light-lacking residence and tore them down to incapable dead weight.

“What scares you, Nick?” Agathos asks with a clear look of concern painted on his face.

“A lot of things scare me.”

“Name a few.”

“There are too many.”

“Name three, from the least scary to the most.”

“I’m scared of the dark.”


“And I’m afraid of dying.”

“That’s understandable.”

“And I’m afraid of myself.”

“Of course. But you see, Nick, why on Earth would you be afraid of something that doesn’t exist?”

And in the eye of a Wink, faintly, the dream had passed, as had twenty years of Rip Van Winkles life.

10 May 2010

Eight-sided Red Warning

Thick pretty smoke-stacks chafe the faces
of stand-alone city youngins
kneeling on side streets with their knees in mirky drain water
on the dirty asphalt, circling a dented stop sign.
And next to a sun-worn mural of Jack Kerouac, burning fumes
and sugar strips throw a film of
distortions on the eyes of the already-blind
censored minds of middle class America.

It's 1964 and the times have changed. The music just got good
and there's this thing called freedom.
That's the word on the street, and it used to only ring a bell
but recently there's a beat of a drum never
heard over these boxy radios, never seen on TV shows
and it's not left to anyone -- no moms, no teachers,
no dads, no kids, no beavers. 'Cause now,
that makes no sense.
And the only thing that works is a four-letter word --
B.E.A.T. -- and it spells out recovery in any light.

And people love the smell of unwatched life, even through
the choking smoke clouds intoxicating
the air with high hopes and fingers shot higher,
like a bird with new wings, flying over things
as crazy as kids praying to an eight-sided red warning
beat in 'cause someone wouldn't be stopped.

07 May 2010

no goodbyes

"this isn't goodbye"

and last night I hoped those words were truer
than anything you've ever allowed your lips to let go for my ears to
steal from others' reach

"don't forget me"
and in your eyes I saw those words
drop your heart on a string and around your face were sayings like
"things like that don't happen for us" and
I believe you

'cause every time your tongue curled and your mouth moved
to push out your soul in verbal execution
I heard nothing but the look in your mind
and you know
I believe you

and I believe the letters on that second-to-last page
because they came from you
and you've typed to me a thousand times
"I love you"
but the way your fingers gripped the pen and the obvious force
you put on the page means more to me
than silly uniform font faces
'cause in your written statements
I see your own face and it reminds me that

some days, you're all I need

so please don't let this be goodbye

06 May 2010

the sugar's gone

run down, they once stuck to your roof top
sopping wet of sugary coatings that used to taste sweet in my mind but are

dry now and flaking around the borders of crowned molds, gilded
and losing their shine behind
firmly locked soft gates, of an off-rose shade, that gently caressed
my unattached ear lobes that night in your car while you
slurred candied whispers above the incandescent small city,

with a view from a vacant parking lot.

too many times our silhouettes tangled together under shadows to
the same rhythm the background melodies hummed in the rush of
our second sentiment.
and the way your voice sounded -- velvety, in that desirable sort of way --

tamed any quick beats of mine and aligned in a spiral with
my dying uneasiness.

but the flavor of your tone sat unpleasant on my tongue,
so I noticed the sugar was gone

'cause your words hung dry in the friday evening air.

haz mat

I'm most
surprised when
your toxicity engulfs
me late in the night; it's pitch
black outside and lacking light in here
while your warm exhales suffer to survive in
the heat-lacking air that wraps us up with aromatic
and your most
recent installment
of should-wear-a-warning
love laments -- that you use to
shower me as the beginning of your
overpowering guises that, as I said earlier,
surprise me most in the darker hours of life -- reminds
me that the enticement of your existence is nothing other than
haz mat
that, as I have
learned, one needs a
license to possess and trans-
port, but as you have proven, there is
no requisite worth-proof to transpose the flow
of my quick cascading blood, rushing through my
palpitating veins, with that hazardous material you like
to call a love lament.

05 May 2010

That Time Between

Stationary sideway steadiness
drips into languid limbs
slipping down wrinkled blankets and tumbling
over soft edges along with subconscious unreadiness to
abandon full awareness and sink
into unsure weights of mind states.

Limp legs hint at lethargy in the way they lean into
sheets, feeling like heavy anchors pulling body down
to Earth after restless
release into the dusk-covered
room, under thick atmospheric waves like tides pulled
forward and into invisibility without full reflected light
to expose its decision
on its placement.

Distanced lid shuts and shudders
and re-openings shut out the
mid-grey air shifting over the listless contours of mellow skins,
twisting in meandering lines along with shallow breaths
in that time between that
can't be named.

Drifting in and out of stable clarity and testy teases of time leaps
drops a dizziness into the leisurely state of unawake and clouds
the already hazy craze
of undecided mindfulness.

Unfinished Painting

A few days to go and this picture's almost finished but I don't want to keep painting it. These brushes slide dry against the thick-coated canvas and the scratches of bristles on clumps of thick paint over stretched cloth aches in my ears when combined with the heavy iron ticks of the clocks on every wall. No timeless studios lacking the tools to continue. There's not enough of me left to keep up the pace with this stopwatch running out of digits to display that remind me, with burning red fluorescents, that tomorrow's their last day. And these muscles are tired lately in my face, so I'll glue a smile on. But eventually, like these last nine months, that too will fall and slip behind us on wet grass as they walk across the white wooden stage, right to left from our perspective, end to beginning from theirs.

And sometimes I wonder if I can put this piece in the trash and pretend it never started, so there can never be an end. But why throw away something I created without regret, but with the knowledge that one day I'd be finished? These layers of paint coat layers of paint coating layers of paint coating layers of life I covered with more memories that could never fully hide the older first thoughts and inklings of beginnings beneath this thick translucency. But I fancy this sort of thing. The swinging feet in an apprehensive audience, well-masked by crows' feet wrinkles and full-teeth grins, slow down to the pace of the heaving hearts of unready mothers and unwilling friends who can't let go of those sharp clean-cut boys and girls in white dresses. But one of these days, we have to let go and one of these days I have to finish this work of art. I thought it would be done 'cause tomorrow's their last day, but we've got one more year and I'm sure a few more layers upon layers of life won't hurt.

03 May 2010

I'm Holdin' On, Holden.

My night, under opaque wraps, collects my candid questions --
unkept before the walls crept back up on me and
crammed my thorough thoughts
into sufficient suffocation and disallowed my dislocation
from total cerebral closure --
and covers cognitive wonders with a dense fence-like stone cure.

The clean-cut cold sheets, tucked beneath the bed springs
spring my curiosity through layer after layer
of teeming tides of blockades and prohibition
but someone sits at the edge of the road, just before crack
drops to cliff and he catches my despair, tangled in the rye, and
before my inexperience allows me to cry,
he hurls my candid questions back my way and continues
my disallowance of detaching myself from purity.

But despite his baseball mitts, he can't catch my verbal fits
so I scream, "My wants can't be blocked forever and Holden,
I'm holding onto my life for the sake of avoiding strife with you but
celibacy of the mind can only lead to our true demise."

He looks me in the eyes, scared he'd been outdone,
so he tries to run but the cliff leaves him hanging and
I reach for his undemanding hand that swats my offer
with a backwards hat.
But his fear subsides in his recollection of his misinterpretation of
a silly old poem that led him to believe he could catch our innocence.
So wear your hat straight, Holden, 'cause in the rye,
you're not the groundskeeper, but keep your ground and
catch yourself before you fall off the cliff and lose yourself
in your selfless tantrums and your disregard for your need for wondering.

Let me break through my caul, 'cause it's burning of decay and
I've overstayed my welcome in this amniotic gate, devoid of vitality,
and I like my life in my own hands, so I'll tell you now:
I'm holdin' on, Holden. Get a grip and hold on, yourself.