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.

why cant we be perfect?
we move to a melody we hadnt ever written down
but it turns around inside of our minds and makes shadows come up from underneath our eyelids
when they blink like a flash of genius
a stroke of brilliance
youve got your eyes on mine
we arent moving
til the shotgun fires

you make it so beautiful
and effortless
that i will only keep my mouth half-closed.
yours is half-open.

you are nothing and everything of what i want and need

we are perfectly ruined.

[something old that i recently found]

she shouldve been unsettled first when she paid more attention to her departures than she did to her arrivals
come on - give me a goodbye - a real one, like you mean it - the way you should
oh lets hold on to any evidence of tragedy
what is this?
build an image...
the difficulties push thoughts around more quickly than she can wait or understand
the problems arise when so much truth can surface from what is essentially a lie

lie to yourself to whet your appetite for something wholly unnatural

we are filthy rich with hope
there are holes in our pockets and when everything falls out there is a trail on the sidewalk
leading to quiet spaces no one would have named beautiful
until now

i am the girl who lives in the walls
i hear voices with no faces
until i cannot sleep
between halfway dreams of empty places
they visit on holidays
they wake up rested
while i am tired
from the dreams they should've been keeping in their heads

write in blood
pressure
wait - i'm freezing
i am not a stethoscope to be held to your skin

you are the boy who follows the pipes
you give speeches of brilliance
to running water
that drowns out the sound with its circular dance
we will keep each other
we will keep awake
pipe dreams of something
about beauty unrested and dancing aloud in our heads

i will freeze the pipes. you will sing and they will break and all will come rushing to the places they've kept locked. in between walls and water, we won't forget or be forgotten. yet.

write in blood
pressure
wait - i'm freezing
i am a stethoscope
hold me to your skin

i am the girl that lives in the walls
i hear voices with no faces

there is something so alive in you
that makes me want to fall down on the ground
and admit
i dont have the slightest idea of how to really live
you are awake
and it burns you
i know that
i see it
and it still makes me want to cry
yet to watch you move towards something beautiful wakes me up
awake awake
and halfway ready, finally
leaving them behind - they are dead
you are alive
they wont ever get behind my eyes and tell me what lies underneath
what ive been neglecting
they are dead and you are alive
i pray the day comes soon when you understand and walk with your head held higher
until then - i do love you

doesnt this prove it? doesnt this prove it? i am weak.
(and as i type this i am told otherwise)
the only thing ive ever been good at is words.

we've already outlasted a miracle.

underneath there were hands and angels.

does it really make you such a martyr when youve only lost what youve never had?

now i know the problem...i cant write fiction.
not in my head
not with my fingers
not for my life

(sometimesifeelcold)

...are these gloves really helping at all?

i am being tamed.

these days i love the sky and i wouldnt complain if wire passageways were breaking up to interrupt signals i was never meant to receive. leave more room for the clouds. (that's why i love you.)

i am surprisingly comfortable with the bizarre.

i wish i could somehow be more kind
i understand but i dont want to give in to silly ploys and twists and puppet shows
i find myself at the puppet theater
i havent paid admission, i snuck in through the back gate
not expecting to stay
now ive set up camp
stage left
dramatic monologue
it's twisted up i am twisted up

all i want is someone who will read to me.

repeat it and your mouth will get used to the feeling you get from the formation of words that were foreign to you.

i know it's over, over, over.

He must increase so that I may decrease.
.John 3.30

I will betroth you to Me forever;
Yes, I will betroth you to Me in righteousness and justice,
in lovingkindness and in compassion
and I will betroth you to Me in faithfulness.
Then you will know the Lord.
[Hosea 2.19-20]

you speak to me of your love and it burns pictures into my mind that replay themselves when the weather gets colder and my eyes get tired of all of the scenery.

the Lord your God is in your midst
a victorious warrior
He will exult over you with joy,
He will be quiet in His love,
He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy.
[zephaniah 3.17]

[THIS] is [love]

this is a story about a girl who was not patient for anything or anyone
and the way it poisoned her heart

lately my words seem trite
like they are scratching my throat and just force themselves out as a means of relief instead of with a purpose in themselves

my dreams are full and colorful with dark undertones running throughout...
is something being said to me?
is it the only way to reach me?

well, i said something
but it was still pretty quiet...

i looked for wedding rings on the fingers of the dolls
and was disappointed when i could not find them
the sign driving home was backwards and upside down
(it made me smile)

i will not mind being picked up and spun around until i am rather dizzy
(well, maybe i will mind a little bit, but i will know that it will turn out to be alright)
and i will be leaving the room with something on my mind that is written in sloppy letters
(the kind i pretend to forget about and replace with some makeshift aesthetic)
i will remember a lot and forget twice as much
(if not more)
and things wont be what ive planned
and things will be beautiful

i did not mean to sound like a politician.