i think my drunken poetry muse has abandoned me.
insert metaphor about longing.
insert metaphor about time.
this is the part where i talk about the night.
then a reference to embodiment.
maybe a simile about an iceberg will pull it all together?
disappearance.

your eyes put magnets along my spine, making me move in unexpected directions

a secret in 4 parts

1.1 here's the secret
in your absence my love turns into green apples
i imagine eating them with you
under the trees

2.1 i left the bar when it was raining
down the stairs, into the night
except...
everything turned into poetry
tom waits was playing
i smoked under the christmas lights
thinking about unrequited love

3.1 here's the secret
i don't miss you anymore

2.2 it's been raining since you left

1.2 there are no apples

4.1 i don't miss you anymore

2.3 um, I don't even know you?

0.1 when i am with you, the air i breath turns into bone

3.1.1 but...

2.4 the romantic and the cynic have been battling since we met
even the cynic wants to throw the game
lose spectacularly

0.2 we all carry the past within us
in the crook of our dendrites
in the lines of our palms
in our bones

1.3 here's the secret
there are apples when you touch me

4.1.1 i will always miss you

4.2 you understand the beauty of the perfect moment

2.5 i loved you at first sight (more or less)

2.5.1 a secret i try to keep from myself

3.2 i loved you when you told me "this is what a pecan a tree smells like"

4.3 i loved you at first sight (more or less)

1.4 i will never know when I first loved you

0.3 everything turns into the beating of blood
everything turns into poetry
everything turns

0.4 here's the not-very-well-kept secret
I confuse dreams with reality

0.4.1 because i am human

1.5 thank you

4.4 thank you

Drunken poetry, Part the Trillionth

I want to crawl inside your voice, sleep against the plushness of your vocal chords.

My lovely metaphova

Lately I've been carrying around bits of poetry like a secret. An unfinished secret I can't share because I don't know where the edges are. Scrawly scrawls, testaments, and pictograms tucked away into books I haven't read, mixed in with notes about pointless meetings, hovering behind the creases on my forehead. The sense of burgeoning returns. The sense of coalescing.

Perhaps it started as I drove away at dusk, asking myself "What I am doing?" Of course, I am always asking myself that, over and over again, with every breath and every unexpected shift in energy. But this time the words were clear and crisp in my mind. Like autumn. "It is just autumn, it is just autumn, it is just autumn" beats something inside me, something looking for reassurance. And when I got to the coffee shop there was a picture of a woman who looked like me on the Dia de los Muertos altar. I tried not to stare at her too much as I attempted to read. Her picture, at the back of the altar, was underneath a sign that read, "Do not light a candle too close to the wall." I can't even light a candle for my doppelganger.

But wait. That is not really where it all began. I want to tell the story of the beginning; I want to find its pulse. I want to feel the beat of the beginning under my fingertips, under the curve of flesh over bone, skin on skin. The shimmery movement. Except the pulse that I feel doesn't seem to be the right one. Perhaps it is a question of beginnings. The human desire for a starting point. My desire for this to be a story, and I, presumably, to be the protagonist. Or the narrator. Maybe it is simply the power of narration that the postmodernists and the neuroscientists blink at, somewhat blinded, pupils tightened, mesmerized by the glare.

What it really comes down to is that I cannot settle on a metaphor. Hell, even "settle" is a metaphor. The verb has 32 different uses, didya know that? Including "to become pregnant; conceive." So, I cannot conceive of a metaphor. I have been carrying around my scribbles, my metaphors like ova, awaiting fertilization. Carrying metaphova around like a secret. Waiting for something to germinate. But it appears that I am not, metaphorically speaking, getting any. So my lovely metaphova can only wait in the mottled light of my ribcage, curled in on themselves like a fist. They can't implant themselves in anything fleshy or bloody or smelling of the earth.

My metaphova. I have been thinking about the stillness near the ground. I have been thinking about tectonic plates. Of things slowly shifting beneath my feet, even though I am standing still. Of things carried by currents. Of currents. Of sea ice breaking free from the Arctic shelf. Of the movement of icebergs. Of icy landscapes bearing silent witness to the sky.

I have been thinking about all the things with wings. All the things with wings. All the things with wings. I have been thinking of birds nesting along my spine, once at each chakra. The hummingbird at my sacrum, the bluebird in my heart, and so on. And the tiniest bird in my mouth, nestled in the curve of my tongue. Breaking stems off my words for bedding. Being fed with each kiss.

I have been thinking about the people I buy birthday presents for. How I want them to nest along my spine, too. I guess in some way they already do; that is where the dreams of them reside. The dream of Chris curled up with the bluebird, the dream of my mother curled up with an egret. The mixing of the material with the immaterial. The mixing of metaphor.

I mean metaphova.

Whatova. This took so long to write that I don't even really feel this way anymore. Except, maybe, for the bird on my tongue part.

This blog entry brought to you by my current song obsessions.

what i really want to say is this

i miss the night. the softness, the shadowed edges, the stillness. walking out under the stars and realizing you are a human being. everything weighs differently at night - i'm pretty sure gravity changes. some things float a few inches above the surface of things while others weigh you down. if virginia woolf had tried to kill herself at night, the stones she put in her coat pocket would probably have pulled her right out of the river, and taken her up up up up and away like a balloon, until she kissed the face of the moon.

time is different, too. slower. maybe heavier, maybe lighter. dreamier. perhaps that is it. maybe the world of dreams seeps out at night, gliding along the surface of things, pooling in unexpected places, brushing up against corners like a cat, painting everything strange colors, making things more permeable. everything is more permeable at night. past, present, and future bleed into each, causing everything to make a different kind of sense, a new kind of sense. love makes sense at night. and families, too. all of that heart bone blood marrow stone stuff makes sense at night.

ach. i want to be painted the color of dreams. i want all the rocks in my apartment to float against the ceiling, to try to break free. i want to feel the weight of someone's dreams, of their bones, of their heart.

i want to stay up until i get all the words right.

Maybe I can listen to those old Springsteen songs.

Let's play a game! See if you can guess the existential theme I am currently pondering based upon the songs I have been listening to.

Next Anticipated Existential Theme: Every piece of land is sacred.

Caution: Drunken Blogging Ahead!

Today had bad news written all over it from the beginning, in large, bold letters. I should have called in sick to work today, which I considered as soon as I hit snooze at 7 am. I should have stayed in bed all day, drifting in and out of sleep, reading children's books and forgiving myself for all my imaginary sins. But I didn't. Instead I went to work late and hated my job and started drinking at 6:30 pm.

So what should I write now? I would like to write about rhizomes and abundance, of a thousand tendrils springing from my cut tongue, of roots rupturing my spine. Of the way spirit moves in spirals, non-linear, mimicking the movement of the planets, the dance of electrons, the coalescing of our DNA. But I never understood what the hell Deleuze and Guattari were writing about and the starlight doesn't seem quite right right now, even with Venus low in the sky. And I don't have the words to describe the branching, the seeking, the urge for more more more. Always the urge for more more more.

Perhaps I should aim for something more mundane, like when the contents of my purse fell into the toilet at the bar, and how I am currently microwaving my wallet in hopes of destroying any well-meaning but unintentionally destructive bacteria that it may have picked up on it's brief sojourn into the waters of the johnny johnny john. Or maybe I should write about how I love the Arcade Fire. How they remind me of my childhood and those Bruce Springsteen songs I can't listen to anymore, because they always make me want to weep.

Perhaps I should write about how I feel the unfulfilled potential of my parents and their parents and their parents' parents on my shoulders. How it seeps into my own potential. How I am steeped in the unexpressed. And maybe that is why I had a drink when I got home. Except that I don't know anymore if the drink is to make me forget everyone's dreams or to remember them even more clearly, so that maybe one day I can touch them, taste them, admire their crisp edges.

Perhaps I should write about how I am over you. Which is true - which is so very true. Except that I haven't quite found something to replace the space you inhabited in my brain yet, the place of nurturing in which I mistakenly rooted you. Some kind of altar, I guess. I just don't understand who you are. Or maybe I do and don't want to face it right now. I guess I just wanted something true from you. Which is all I ever wanted from anyone. Which is all we we ever want from anyone.

Maybe what I should write is this - Note to self: Do not drink for 5 hours and then listen to the Arcade Fire. Nothing good will come from it. Just heavy-handed metaphors and drunk dials to exes asking them to explain their essence to you.

What happens when an adult child of an alcoholic dates a narcissist? Read on!

I was in love with a monster. The cold, hard, middle-of-the-night truth is I was in love with a monster. A monster I painted in fairy tale colors, clothed in my dreams. I wrapped him up so tight so I couldn’t see him, couldn’t see his face, or his tail, or the ravenous hunger in his eyes. I daubed him in gold dust and we both admired the way he glinted in the sunshine, his image fractured by the light, difficult to discern. Sometimes he looked like a prince. He wanted to be a prince. I wanted him to be prince. I held the monster lovingly, and tickled his underbelly, and cooed soothing words into his ears. I fed him, helped him grow, made sure he didn’t disappear. Sweetly offering him honey and nectar, candies made of my own desire, Irish coffee, ambrosia, and chicken wings. Monsters like chicken wings. I think it has something to do with being flightless. Of eating appendages that are supposed to lift you from the ground but can no longer do so.

I was in love with a monster.

So what of this monster? This monster who wants to be a prince? “I’m a prince!” the petulant child says, with, of course, a stamp of his foot. And he notices that his fingernails grow thicker each time he says that phrase. “I’m a prince, not a little boy!” he yells stubbornly, and feels a tingling at the base of his spine. He starts to dress himself in purple, but everywhere that color touches his skin coarse black hair starts to grow. “I’m a prince! I’m a prince!” he cries into the mirror, even as his reflection is changing, morphing, unnerving him even more. He runs his hand over two small bumps forming on the crown of his skull. Too ashamed to tell anyone, he desperately starts looking for people who understand that he really is a prince. Looking for the people who will give him jewels, put a crown on his head, let him sit on whatever could pass for a throne. And there are some who see a bit of a prince in him - everyone has a bit of prince in them, after all. But the hint of a tail worries him, and the bumps on his head are growing and hardening. His shame starts to turn him into an imitation, desperately turning tattered purple linens into a costume, making fake jewels out of lint and glue and stolen food dye, creating scepters out of toilet paper rolls. And he has to hide himself more and more, hide his increasingly claw-like hands, cover every inch of his skin growing rough, dark hair. He can’t smile too much because his teeth are lengthening and sharpening themselves into points. And his eyes have become ravenous, searching out anyone who sees a bit of prince in him, ready to suck every last drop of that belief from them. But he doesn’t really believe them anymore. How can they not see the horns behind the tinfoil crown? He’s weary now. “I’m a prince” he echoes hollowly, looking at himself in the mirror. I don’t even know what he sees now. Monster or prince or monster or prince or monster or prince or monster or prince? Whatever happened to the little boy? Did he disappear entirely? Is he in there somewhere?

Enough. Fairy tales aside. I crawl into bed and turn off the light and realize – I was in love with a monster.

I want wings.

Do we ever get a chance to really see another person? Their full humanity? Or is all we ever get our own dreams reflected back to us? A vague form dressed in our hopes and expectations and irrational beliefs. Enraptured by the image of them we've created, the stories we tell ourselves. Do we get nothing more than brief glimpses? Not even when you can feel the weight of their body, the line of their skeleton? Not even when you can taste their scent, when you can see the light in their eyes as they look at you? Is all we ever get an occasional flash of luminescence, a temporary moment of understanding? That is over just as soon it begins?

We all flicker on and off, on and off.
We all want permanence in an impermanent world.

I do not want to fall in love with my own dreams.
I want wings. I want wings. I want wings.

Pete Yorn: Continuing to grow on me

"convince yourself that everything is alright
cause it already is"

(It's better with the music)

I want a storm.

I want thunder so loud it makes my skeleton jump and so much rain that I dream about the end of the world. All while curled up with you.

Dear Universe, Please send me a magical boyfriend or 2.5 lovers. Thanks, Wendy.

I've been thinking about you, night after night after night. I'm not sure why. Unexplainable. Unexplainable how when I turn off the light and curl under the covers I want you. I want you. And it doesn't seem real, this want, this desire. I don't even really know you. Except...except I do.

But I don't trust this knowledge. Not one bit. So I try to unfool myself, think my way out it, feel my way out of it, mysticize my way out of it. I'm just a skeleton wrapped in flesh after all, oddly alive for a while, forgetful of the mystery, and then gone. And sex is just a way to make more skeletons wrapped in flesh after all, the selfish gene and so forth and so on. Sex has to be compelling to keep the species alive. There is no magic to it, no mystery - its about evolution.

Except. Except I imagine trying to tell you this. Maybe we bump into each other unexpectedly, or maybe we are at Trudy's and you are feeding me vodka-soaked olives and I start to feel...I start to feel... I start to feel that I want more. That I want to be close to you, closer yet, closer still. Which can't be real, somehow. So I will do my best to convince myself that it is not real. I will try to unfool myself, normalize the situation, clear my head, forget the dreams, remember what is real.

Except, what is real is us, alive, right now. Right now. Together, here, in the mystery. You and me and desire and the now now now. The now now nowness of it all. And we are only here briefly, briefly here, before our skeletons undress and dig themselves into the earth. Before our skeletons undress themselves, alive right now, right now, together.

Which of course makes me want to do unspeakable things to you. And normalizes absolutely nothing. And I want to explain this to you, somehow, to see if I am making any sense, if you understand, make sure that I am not making it up. Except. Except in the explanation, when I am feeling for the words, and you are listening to me, looking at my face, and our bodies know exactly how far apart they are from one another, well... we're already fucking. Regardless of whether we are touching or not.

So, I want you. And I can't have you. Oldest story in the book. The end. Except... except I'm looking for a line somewhere, a troublesome line, a line that might not even exist. An edge, a space I might create simply by looking for it. A boundary where I can have you briefly, brieflybrieflybriefly. I want to rub up against that space, rub up against it.

Preferably in your bed.

I am clearly not going to listen to my head when the time comes for me to do so.

Delirious and in need of protein.

Now there is a real sense of burgeoning - of the words holed up somewhere, stubborn yet shivering, refusing to come out. This restlessness restlessness restlessness. Am I in need of a refuge, uncomplicated lover, honeysuckles? Or are these just lovely diversions?

I sort-of miss those times when I used to feel unbalanced and scream Cat Power songs. Ah, sweet mid-twenties....

"If time had a place,
And space for your past.

Like a little novel,
I wanted to read again and again,
Would I be in your novel,
Would I begin and end in it?

If I had a place,
And space for your little boy eyes,
Could you really believe,
I certainly dare you,
I do not want to scare you,
Anymore.

Oh what a fuss when the king rides by,
Oh what a fuss when the king rides,
Straight through my heart,
Straight through my life.

If I kissed and touched your hand,
A million things I will never understand,
Oh what a fuss when the king trades in,
Oh what a fuss when the king trades.

Oh love, my love, for someone else's hand

You don't miss your water,
You don't miss your water,
'Till your well is gone."

Cat Power

or maybe you did

i can no longer remember your face
you didn't know train whistles were sacred

Strangely enough, writing it in a blog is not the same as saying it in person. What exactly are you good for, o all-encompassing internet?

We never even got a chance to lie in bed while it was raining outside. Curled against one another, looking out the window.

I bet it would have been lovely.

Goodbye, David Wheeler Wynn.

"They say people in your life are seasons..."

all the young pretty girls are talking about failure all the young pretty girls are talking about failure all the young pretty girls are talking about failure all the young pretty girls are talking about failure all the young pretty girls are talking about failure all the young pretty girls are talking about failure all the young pretty girls are talking about failure all the young pretty girls are talking about failure

In case you forgot.

Loki, my dear, I knew you were up to something. Feel free to hide me amidst the eggs of a flounder, although of course I would prefer to hide in the neck-feathers of a swan. But clearly I can't find my own refuge. And I no longer trust the smell of honeysuckles.

new constellation

I want to make a new constellation
fashioning stars from rusted pocket watches and kindergarteners' art projects
old library cards and cats' stares
the shape of our hands while we sleep
the smell of pecan trees
my first thoughts upon waking
the color of your beard
train whistles, snail shells, and the tiredness of old men
the sounds that slip from us during sex
secret gardens and crushed wisdom teeth
the space above your collarbone
timelines
disappearing magic
all the tiny things that slip away
and the crinkles at the corner of your eyes

we can give each star its own gravity and spin
spend sunday afternoons lazily naming our favorites
and then pin it in my hair
or rest it on your pillow
or place it in the stillest part of me
where its orbits will carve spirals on my spine
and my veins will become entangled with its meteors
until eventually my movement, my pulse
will depend upon its nightfalls

wow. it's a hot day. and he's a tall drink of water.

constrained to stolen sips
instead of holding your wetness on my tongue
i want to taste you