The phone rings. The past is present. He is back.
But she is not. Rather, she is not she. The girl he knew has flown, grown. She is no longer a shy, sweet, giggling twenty year old.
But who is he? How have the years attached themselves to his soul? A lover left: what scars did she leave in her wake? How raw, how calloused, how broken is he?
What does he need?
A rushed kiss, a hurried goodbye, words sent across miles, broken promises, beautiful lies: this is their legacy.
How can a future even be contemplated when the present is a whirlwind of choices and chances? What does she do with him? What does she do with herself?
"it's just another day"
Friday, July 30, 2010
dream two
the ever-present pull, the string the thread the rope that binds that gives that keeps us in a freedom of bondage. the gift the curse the fates the gods the infinite jest is eternally on us, trapped in this circle, this maze, this never-ending piece of slice of
paradise
the garden expanded, under oceans, past lovers, hovering over and around those embracing in the passion of hate. rebellious angels, immortal mortals, demons untold, unmeasured and unbridled, let loose among the poison blossoms and the perfect thorns.
words let loose, escaped from unpracticed lips; they are given to the world, a world where words are uncherished, unprotected; the garden cannot keep them in its clutches: they wander, they roam, into foreign lands, jungles of lies and crystalline deceptions. they are lost, they cannot be retrieved, taken back, their glass edges cutting as they fly and burrow. they damn and they save, they kill and they heal, they are
they are
they are
***
a rose, a black, red, sunset rose, twines up, up, toward man and its maker, its abandoned god, its forsaken goddess. a forgotten and beloved vine, crawling, crawling, away from the darkness and towards the oblivion. unbearable pleasure in paper-thin petals, each a lifetime of happiness and misery, a faithful reproduction of the pieces hated and reviled by all humanity. pieces untouched; pieces thrown to the side in favor of plastic and watches, entrapment and slavery. petals that cannot fall, cannot die, but cannot live untended, will wither without water of spirit, water of life, water of soul and sacrifice and painpainpain
a rose of the world. a rose of hell, a rose of heaven, a rose of the future and the past, outside the loop, broken free of the endless, created and existing without
time
paradise
the garden expanded, under oceans, past lovers, hovering over and around those embracing in the passion of hate. rebellious angels, immortal mortals, demons untold, unmeasured and unbridled, let loose among the poison blossoms and the perfect thorns.
words let loose, escaped from unpracticed lips; they are given to the world, a world where words are uncherished, unprotected; the garden cannot keep them in its clutches: they wander, they roam, into foreign lands, jungles of lies and crystalline deceptions. they are lost, they cannot be retrieved, taken back, their glass edges cutting as they fly and burrow. they damn and they save, they kill and they heal, they are
they are
they are
***
a rose, a black, red, sunset rose, twines up, up, toward man and its maker, its abandoned god, its forsaken goddess. a forgotten and beloved vine, crawling, crawling, away from the darkness and towards the oblivion. unbearable pleasure in paper-thin petals, each a lifetime of happiness and misery, a faithful reproduction of the pieces hated and reviled by all humanity. pieces untouched; pieces thrown to the side in favor of plastic and watches, entrapment and slavery. petals that cannot fall, cannot die, but cannot live untended, will wither without water of spirit, water of life, water of soul and sacrifice and painpainpain
a rose of the world. a rose of hell, a rose of heaven, a rose of the future and the past, outside the loop, broken free of the endless, created and existing without
time
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
dream one
view from the death of another
roads trekked
by shadow feet
dreaming only
the view
from the death
of another
clutch at inhibition
embrace shame
worry without abandon
the view
from the death
of another
but --
the view
from the death
of a self
a cliff
a fall
a jump
delicious terror
beckons daily
voice of iron
the view
from the death
of a self
patience - a sin
lust and pride
perfect virtues
tug-a-war time
who's death
matters more?
roads trekked
by shadow feet
dreaming only
the view
from the death
of another
clutch at inhibition
embrace shame
worry without abandon
the view
from the death
of another
but --
the view
from the death
of a self
a cliff
a fall
a jump
delicious terror
beckons daily
voice of iron
the view
from the death
of a self
patience - a sin
lust and pride
perfect virtues
tug-a-war time
who's death
matters more?
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
dream zero
one day of introduction before the challenge starts.
i just got back from a month-long writing seminar and i'm feeling less than inspired. it was the most amazing month of my life, i met the most amazing people of my life, and now it's gone and i'm feel deflated. and this is bad. what's the point of having amazing experiences if all you do is mourn them when they're gone? our main teacher told us "you came here to go home" and while that statement makes me want to hit him a bit, he's right.
so what to do now that i'm home? well, write, of course. and that is where the blog comes in. i am challenging myself to this: everyday, for one year, to write daily and post it here. things may or may not be connected. they may be nonsense or crap or brilliance. they may be pieces of works i want you to see and they may be things i'm embarrassed to even admit my fingers typed. but the point is that everyday i will dream on a page for whoever is ... listening? reading? watching.
see you tomorrow
i just got back from a month-long writing seminar and i'm feeling less than inspired. it was the most amazing month of my life, i met the most amazing people of my life, and now it's gone and i'm feel deflated. and this is bad. what's the point of having amazing experiences if all you do is mourn them when they're gone? our main teacher told us "you came here to go home" and while that statement makes me want to hit him a bit, he's right.
so what to do now that i'm home? well, write, of course. and that is where the blog comes in. i am challenging myself to this: everyday, for one year, to write daily and post it here. things may or may not be connected. they may be nonsense or crap or brilliance. they may be pieces of works i want you to see and they may be things i'm embarrassed to even admit my fingers typed. but the point is that everyday i will dream on a page for whoever is ... listening? reading? watching.
see you tomorrow
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