i imagined myself as only skin & bones
not clutching any sort of earthly case
lifted up to God somehow

"do something pretty while you can
don't be a fool
reading the gospel to yourself
is fine"

we will color ourselves in with crayons
spending enough time in the sun
for the colors to melt and bleed
their definition of lovely won't stand a chance

i am so afraid of growing up
i want to be the little child you take by the hand
singing & walking
like nothing will ever cut anyone into pieces
and there is no such thing as a lesser evil

if it isn't now, then it never was.

the sky was so pretty, i opened the window to be that much nearer.

so i hope and wait and i hope and wait and i hope
that the mess i have grown and cared for
tended like a garden
cried alongside of (you were there, too, i remember)
will decide to cave in on itself
or, better yet
flowers will grow from underneath
pushing the soil until it sprays into my face
making me a mess
even worse when i cry
turning it to mud
on my eyes
i will see again
he has promised me that i would see

You are the only living person who has ever, without saying a word, caused me to wish desperately to change and become beautiful on the inside. Is that what love is?

and then there were two.

Ryster1878: but i don't think ideals are a good thing to base your relationship on
Ryster1878: perhaps goals and where you want to grow as a person

what it means to be lovely
is not necessarily what it means to grow up
peter pan and wendy
write book after book
but we are wrapped up in the beginnings
and not the current movements

the inconsistencies
are what make it worthwhile
anyway.

alive is something
rain twenty days
so i wont forget
that speck of sunshine
arms other than mine
are what matter the most
cuts and scrapes
to mark my presence
(i havent fled the scene)

hush and help.

we are alone, certainly
i cannot create words or pictures to erase what is attempting to eat us alive
but somehow we are granted the option of stepping together
i will dance with you tonight
the end is coming.
'what do you mean, what do you mean, my dear?'
we are unlucky fools who have been given a taste of grace
i am ready to go back for more
i am ready to go back
and forth into something we have both been writing
you are gorgeous in ways i cannot always decipher
one moment i am growing, stretching higher
and the next i am rotting away.

x is fallible
y is fallible
can something be done or undone?

i wish for a stronger grip
but i know that even then it could all pour through my fingers
dropping into water - a splash and that's that
eloquence is missing, i agree
but this is all that writes itself tonight

we don't make a living,
we are living.

i have realised that i want things to be my fault...
if they are my fault, then i should have control over them.
if they are my fault, i should have the power to fix them.
and when i am not at fault, i must be still & quiet.
(something i am only just learning to do.)

you leave markers & milestones where you stand
altars of heavy stone
i wait to see if they will only tip over
but they do not
not this time
they are steady
you are steady
it makes me hope i can do the same
it gives me strength
you give me strength

who we are, who we really are, is outside of time

"if time is the diamond
well alright
well alright"

we are in search of a satellite
to move us beyond
all (that) has been profaned
death is at our fingertips
we touch & fall
skinned knees
you have been a prophet
we all have
in the recesses of minds that would not draw forth words
any more than a statue could bring forth tears
it is outside intervention that is both the cause and the resolution
of our desperation

dear jesus i am not ready i am not ready

oh for a moment of peace..

there is inside of me
a kind of glass menagerie
& with all my careful dress
i am transparent less & less

the lamb & lover in my eyes
are hidden with clever (foolish) disguise

some days my eyes will not move enough. is it laziness or fear?

deep down, i still love what ive been trying to hate.

stairways sometimes make me dizzy.

catastrophes are averted daily.

the lucky [9.9.02]

we are made of blocks stacked together
hearts formed with origami
built up further
to unexpected heights
(days of fear
nights of unrest
circled with the impending disaster
upon falling earthward)
carefully constructed
purpose and beauty kept in clear view
aesthetics held in place
with plans of famous movements
heart folded up inside
bending its edges
but keeping its shape
we who were fed in childhood
take what we were given
and now hope to name it ourselves
we try to walk
to walk
to walk
to walk alone
is more dreadful
than expected
(again we offer anonymity
in exchange for candor)
so we the lucky
step together
in search of mirrors
(when found we analyse & scrutinise & paralyse)
attempting independence
shifting shape
forgetting the architect
and crediting the framework
to ourselves

9.11.02 [this is a prayer..]

you were behind the brilliant speeches that now lie underwater
where is your hand?
raise it up, show a scar or two
i am empty
self-propelled
(is it that distant now?)
god reveal yourself
i feel i am only pounding on stone
carved with images of saints
blocks removed for those who have fallen
this is desperation or resignation
reveal reveal reveal
[[do not put the lord your god to the test]]
...what now?

we dance together facelessly
until he speaks
and my eyes are made to focus again

my heart is made of origami
it threatens to come apart
the edges are bent
yet the center still holds its shape

i sometimes wonder whether i would make a good architect.

stretch me
stretch me across the operating table
reach underneath my skin
there are unnamed colors waiting for discovery
questions written across the elements that keep me alive
doctors in masks
eyes still visible
they will reach with a scalpel
they will reach for a photograph
they will pin up charts and predictions
and talk about them over coffee

reasons to be beautiful
(there are more than what we had first thought up in school days
with dresses and colors and matchbooks and lipstick)
there are the ways the light moves from your face into my lungs
and when i breathe something of you spills back into the air
ready to be taken in again

the sick and the sick and the sick
we are all still ill
using broken limbs to build hospitals

sometimes it is hard for us to believe.

still to continue
[inside of whales it becomes
difficult to get a view of what surrounds the days
and nights
the passing of time becomes
a matter of subjectivity
developing tastes for the form of beauty that intensifies
in the dark]
remembering how it feels the moment afterwards
[memory being a loose concept
nailed to the wall only as
an afterthought
something asymmetrical and
flawed]
we jump from ships into something less certain.

complete
incomplete
he finds me throwing ideas
outside windows
forgetting whether the screens are up
and if ive swept the porch or not

sandpaper on sandpaper
quiet aside from breathing
and a sigh

i have waited to touch your face with my hand
my skin is rough
yours rougher still
we meet like sandpaper

begin at the beginning.

[this means to be brave.]

messy messy. i did not ever remember to be this sloppy with a word or phrase or idea until i forgot that trying too hard leaves you inside of a skin that stretches too tightly and must eventually fall apart.
i am exposed again.

if A gets you to point B, what is it that we call the increments of letters in between? can they form together to make up words of their own? i feel that i am perpetually in a space where i am putting together pieces of letters (it takes all of my time) into words halfway in between the words that are counted.

do you remember how we used to fall apart together?

(i had expected you to forget.)

'it is an age old problem,' you say.

that doesnt mean that it isnt new to me.

i woke to find you stitching my wounds with your words.

i will keep quiet by remembering your words.

the lust of the eyes
the lust of the flesh
and the pride of life.