Month: March 2003

  • The birds in your garden

    It takes a different sort of thing to make me happy. Like taking a picture in a corn field. Like playing music loud enough so that my ears ache. Like sleeping without creepy dreams. Like rolling over the next morning and putting my arm around your quietly sleeping form. Like writing a poem and feeling I’ve said exactly what’s leaping around in my heart. Like being able to go through a day without thinking about death or anything heavy. Like having a sink full of clean dishes. Like speaking on the phone and being able to express exactly what is weighing in on me. Like not feeling like a fuck-up. Other things include knowing what I want in an exact moment or not having my  head ache after devoring  something like thousands of books (my new best friends.)

    Some people call this ignorance.
    I call it bliss.

    what I used to be will pass away and then you’ll see
    that all I want now is happiness for you and me …


    Good things


    Misery everywhere, but all I am thinking of are the good things that make me want to stay alive, such as …

    - Strings
    - Charles Bukowski
    - My country sunsets
    - His voice
    - seemingly endless highways
    - vinyl records
    - youth
    - diners
    - silly conversations about dessert rotisseries
    - child gigling

    (more to come as I think of them…)



  • I find it so painfully fascinating how dreams turn on you. How they backfire and spit blood as they spiral down in fearful agony. God, I am filled with wrenching hurt, and if I could end it I would. So I write about words that translate this feeling. Im tired of it too. Vineet said he is sure I could write something brighter, then, I give you some thoughts on beauty; that way you can remember all the beautiful dreams you had that now lay in cooling, spreading puddles of tears of joy…


    Sang we of beauty
    When the rain came like gentle petals of dew
    Upon the draped leaves of the mulberry trees.
    The thorn of a rose pricked a tiny drop of blood,
    Crimson against the gray,
    From my cheek.
    It rolled down with the tears
    As they sang their songs that built like pinnacles of ice,
    Then shattered as blades of sunlight swept through them.
    Their operatic grief flooded through my soul
    And buried me in thunderheads of cold water
    Sweeping over my mere self.
    I am small in the face of beauty.

    Sang we of beauty
    As the ground fell away beneath our feet
    And we plummeted entwined through the insubstantial clouds.
    What is left but the winter kiss?
    The cathedrals laugh with their gapped windows.
    The final flight of my beloved fathers
    Comes upon the heavenly gates;
    They are not made of pearl
    But of wood.
    Gold was ever an illusion,
    And the last lie falls like Lucifer
    As they cross the line
    Past the table of judgment.
    The clouds are whipped into lusty sea-foam
    And the lathered steeds of my fathers
    Clip and snort,
    For they know in their hot-blooded flanks
    That it is time.

    Sang we of beauty
    When I held him at night
    In tormented tortures of mortified wonder.
    There are curves in the night
    When the sea pitches and rolls
    And the stars shriek and reach out with pearly hands of light,
    Their sylvan souls seared with disbelief
    And ecstasy.
    The moon splits in two, spinning lunar debris
    Into the black divide,
    Her two riven crescents streaming chalky dust
    As they fall to faulty earth below.
    Our cries rose upwards and twisted like vines in the air
    As it froze, then sundered into three million pieces of timelessness.
    Tears flew into the mist and disappeared.
    His lovely face closed its eyes,
    His lip bitten as she leaned closer and loftily
    Spoke of angel-things.
    Upwards sped my soul,
    Short of the sea it will not stop,
    All the way to Venus while the violins clamor higher.
    Into the sky they screech
    While our mouths open and we sing of beauty;
    Neptune’s triton rises from the depths
    And the waves surge into the cloven air while thunder reaps
    And we hold on to each other.
    The waters plunge down upon our eternity
    And we are drowned in the sweetness of forever.
    Sang we of beauty



    damn…. where is my joy? i cant seem to exale beauty anymore….

  • can’t find nobody home

    tired and lonely from the day
    from these restless hours of avoiding thoughts of you
    i agree
    to keep him company
    and we eat dinner
    sitting across from one another
    on the floor in my living room
    dressed only in my cotton pajamas
    we share thai take-out
    white pails of greasy noodles
    heavy as the silences between us
    i try not to look him in the eye
    i try to be invisible
    drunk on cheap wine
    and insatiablility
    we walk through the neighborhood in the glowing dark
    through the steadily melting shifts of ice and snow
    and the only time i laugh
    laugh out loud
    is when i think of something that happened
    hours before
    and i ignore the fact that we don’t really care for one another
    that what we really are is
    the consequence of proximity
    and timing






















  • Looking Back…Looking Forward

    Whew! It’s week’s almost over.

    2003 has been by far the most challenging year of my life. A new church/community has been born under my watch, a multitude of small side jobs, and a new business are some of the things that have been started as well. From within my heart, my theology has been challenged . My approach to life, beliefs, relationship, and family has changed.

    At the ripe old age of 26 ( ) I find myself desire simplicity more and more. I’m tired of stuff and buying more stuff. My debt is slowly disappearing, because things are getting simpler. I feel rested, though the urge to worry is challenging.

    This whole year, neither my room mate nor I have been had trouble at home or work. It has truly been a faith journey. This past week, I withdrew from work and realized how tired I was.
    I guess to sum things up this year has been a time of decontruction for me. Yes, I know that there will be more to deconstruct, but it seems already that this new year will bring new direction and focus.

    To all who have read my thoughts and ramblings…thank-you for listening. May you have a blessed weekend.



  • before this semester ends
    I MUST..



  • study study study

  • be productive at work [hours logged in the net, and having fun while tutoring people]

  • get my christian origins work done [i'm serious this time]

  • do more housework/chores/all that good stuff

  • basically become a better person

  • read more; watch less tv

    I WILL NOT..


  • spend [a lot of] money on clothing, handbags, etc

  • waste time on frivolous things (ha)

    alright, time to be “productive” or not..





  • WAS

    Today was the last time that the rain song
    Floated on the hills of sorrow
    As they waved their grass-flecked whale-back ways
    All the way to rock-sand shores
    Where foam-specked tides swam for days
    And dropped off the edge of the cliffs,
    Pouring out ivory froth into
    Deep ebony space.

    Yesterday was the last time that my hand
    Played the violin from the dizzied dismal heights
    Far above the brown-dirt land
    Where the devils believe in something other than tango.
    The melodies seemed to span
    The distance between the dancing fingers
    And the still, blind eyes
    That spoke of dust and sand.

    Today was the last time,
    And it makes them sad that my mouth is open,
    As if I am about to speak,
    Yet my eyes have fallen still.
    Close them,
    The waves flow out to the edge of the sea
    And the clocks begin to slow.
    Today was the last time
    I held it in my hand
    And now the crows have nestled in my hair
    And borne my soul away.


  • I keep a crack in the window at the dead of winter. My bed lies beside. I like how the frigid breeze stabs into my cheeks. At then do I feel wholly renewed, swallowing the cold air. It pierces my mind, clears my head while the rest of me is cemented in folds of blankets. Stuck.

    It takes a while for me to fall asleep. I do not suffer from insomnia. I just like to think with the wiping lashes of cold air against my face. I never dwell on my life then. I make pretty stories. Lick my lips, the frozen cold collects my thoughts, but the rest of me is warm, buried in blankets. Happy.

    I think of stories of love, and sometimes I cradle my pillow for that love. I think of stories of hate, and sometimes I sob into my pillow for that hate. I think of green stories, yellow stores, short stories, long stories, splendid stories, indulgent stories, and macaroni and cheese stories. I close my eyes, and my stories are suddenly real. Happy.

    I think of him. His long fingers brushes against my frozen cheeks, like icicles. All my stories are about him. I go with him on his adventures. I help him with my super summoning powers. I am the spirit he chases day and night. He loves me, and yet he does not know me, and every time he leaves with a lingering smile. Sad.

    Maybe then the cold will betray me, and his icicle fingers will claw away my dead skin. Layers by layers I am peeled away. My eyes roll, and my perception erode. The pretty colors fall away to their place. Green. Yellow. Short. Long. Splendid. Indulgent. He says good bye… Sad.

    I close my eyes. My story over. My dream begun.

    …and there he was. Stuck.



  • wishing a great weekend, all!!

  • Perspective on Crises

    So… I’ve been thinking about how people percieve problems in their lives. It seems to me that most people, when a problem arises that people tend to think that it’s the end of the world, that life as they know it is over, even that theirs is the worst problem of all the people they know. And I’m not talking ‘which highly-overpriced-item should I buy?’ or ‘which movie should I watch tonight?’ type problems, I’m talking ‘I got fired, and rent is due next week, and I can’t pay my bills.’ or ‘My friend told me they never wanted to see me again.’ type problems, serious ones. And what I find odd about this is that everybody has these problems… and many of these problems, although different, are not better or worse problems than the others. Yes, some problems are more serious, I know that. But why do people seem to think that THEIR problem is worst? I think it’s because they do not actually SEE the other problems with any depth.

    For example, a friend will tell me their problem… but chances are I won’t understand it to the full extent. I won’t be able to understand, because I’m not IN the situation. People tend to be short-sighted that way. It’s possible to understand, if I try hard enough, and ask enough questions. But if you don’t know what questions to ask, how are you supposed to ask them? And people don’t tend to offer that much information about their deepest problems. So a person who is currently having problems will be able to see their problems clearer than those of his/her friends, usually. And thus, they judge them with a bias. Just something I’ve observed lately… people need perspective on their life.


    Nice week, all


  • Laugh at me
    Shamefaces
    The fleeced sunlight pours and blends
    With your rocky eyes
    Shot through with rivers of moss.

    You drove by the Gateway
    And I watched you
    Washed you
    With a thought of redemption
    That made me scream your name
    As your flesh tore in two
    And your soul ripped into
    An angel bound with concrete.
    The needles
    They got to your brain.
    Stop me from following you,
    Please.
    I don’t want to feel.

    The Gateway is so far away
    And I remember
    When people used to say
    That angels loved that city
    But I say they lie,
    Because angels love more than cities.
    They want to stay
    So badly
    That I have felt the tugs and pulls
    Of their haloed wishes
    Bending my heart upwards
    So that I can see their silken wings
    Streaming through clouds
    In beads of impoverished color
    That pale and spring into rippling radiance
    Just before slapping my eyes away
    And vanishing without memory.

    It’s too bad that the car you drove
    Was black,
    Because I heard my heart snapping and cracking
    When I saw that coffin
    Plummet over the side.
    I wanted a shade of glory,
    And you went out
    Like something shoved aside,
    Like a burial at sea.
    I wanted to see your eyes again,
    One last time before.
    But then,
    I suppose that every minute you went
    I’d want to see them again.
    Still,
    It’s too bad the car was black.

    If only angels
    Weren’t so concerned with the tint
    Of the grass that wavers
    And shivers
    And the trees that quiver
    And wax fiery in summer flame.
    They’d maybe sing,
    And I’d hear their arias
    Shatter the windows of Mumbai
    And break the great hush
    Of valleys that brim over with silence.
    Then I’d sing too,
    Because that would be something worth
    Every Gateway

    • Lotus

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