Monday, June 23, 2008

I Know A Place

Bound over the belly of a slowly breathing beast, a warm smile which refuses to be seen, but is felt, the subtlest shades of monochromatic night unpunctured by orange stars or hazy searchlights, only trembling white pinpricks placed with delicate precision on the night's great backdrop, black and blue, the snap of grass and dry twigs (or a thrown rock), shaken branches and shaking bones, rattling for the uninvited ones. A bit of fox-red-orange burst into the grass, uncaught by the camera's flash, unseen by the other eyes, but I knew the fella must belong to those ghostly loiterers, leaned against the ashen trunks of secret keeping trees. The dirt ahead displaying elongated limbs, contorted torsoes and tiny heads, suggesting spotlights behind and, yes, in the corner of my eyes comes a glow which must be all light, but a turned head recieves no blindness, only solemn hill, quiet fields and stoic ocean; where there could be heaven - all trumpeting angels and holy choir - there is only a stillness, a quiet grace of infinite acceptance which recieves God's envy, for its mystery lays beyond mystery, love beyond begotten, a nothing capable of everything only humming, only tearing in half a few leaves of grass, only popping knuckles, chewing the interior cheek or biting a lip, scratching scalp, pulling chin, yawning now and then, only - breathing. Such humble potential, content to contain and be contained, to have all strings tied and be idle.

- Los Angeles

Friday, June 20, 2008

Did You Stay Up All Night

Discussing sanddollars, ocean's true currency dropped in a well by divinity everlasting or rehappening ----> re: happenings, social events or great wellspring of creativity Kaprows and Kleins and maybe this time they'll know, no secret, oh no, just acceptance bereft of repentance the return of heavy boots re: a missing miss but right now, this, right now contains stop and start - jellyfish, falling apart, Hawaiian islands contained on a beach towel, hundreds of buckets filled and unfilled, submitting to the pull, under, all the sunglasses, plastic buckets, blankets of every color, umbrellas and shovels, all the baskets and towels, sunscreen and magazines, styrofoam coolers and lunch meat, straw hats and elastic waist band of swimsuit, the detritus of division from sand, sky, water is under, swallowed whole under the surface to clear the shore - tabla rasa. So footprints receded and shouts all conceded, and the sunburns sulked, defeated. Seagulls rejoice, oceanic groan, a bluesy plodding that must mean "Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!". Little bursts of wind scatterdly swirling a school of sand cyclonic through the air, purple swollen with sunset, a fiery orange melting blue into milky fuscia, the lighter hues a bit of "farewell", the soon to be night rubs its eyes to yawn a feeble "hello". Finally, open eyed crescent.

- Los Angeles

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Wake Up And You Forget

Eyes open to hills. Sun cascading down the steep grade transformed by trees into shadows along the way. Sun staring straight down at me, back burned being pushed ever forward. Sun, falling behind as the miles pass away, dying always abandoned and forgotten, unburied - every mile must often die, their passing marked with numerical epitaph, recording no birth, only infinite death. Sun taming clouds, wrangling sky, taking time, tiredly awaiting sleep this side of the horizon as a twin sun rises above the other. Soon these hills will become Los Angeles and time will seem an impossible thing as geography gives up and all barriers concede, a crumbling under a whim, a wind that blew letters westward. In the corner of my eye, the east reaches out a cool hand, waits for me to turn around. "Just a moment", I say as the sun finally rests its emptied self onto blanket of water. Empties orange thoughts yellow sparkling onto sumblime surface so that finally, without hope for another, this day may end, given wholly without malice or regret to a night which may never end. If the moon, in her mercy, allows, we will awaken someday with the sun, and there will be hills again.

- Los Angeles

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

This Is The Right Time

Screaming joy of Lake Azula, blue white burst of towel, beach ball umbrella burden of the sun, absurd delineation of children splashing, laughing, but only here - the rest unknowable depths. And so the tiny hands go on plumbing the same sandy shore, once again told by megaphone voice that here is where you be and there is where you aren't, risk is diminished as excitement eviscerated - all is well: God's in his heaven, children within the ropes. And not a bit of unbridled rock jumping. But the wind knows, and the sand knows, and the toes know, dragging now along the invisible algae, light broken into beams which reach in all places to a watery center, a point which is all places. The plastic goes on floating, water goes on flowing, the wind, again, will be blowing - mother's loving touch to the father sun's scorched concern. They all say "of course"; few breathe "thank you". Lotion, more separation, nature area: this way, and the concrete meets the sand meets the grass and feels a distant kinship, as the bottoms of feet bounce along the coal-hot beach, begging for cool relief of stream fed bath, the confusion of apart and within, absorption and exception. Held breath, closed eyes, open arms, spread legs, sweat no longer sweat, and, finally, womb drone quieting, all in all and all and all, one drop.

- Berkley

Monday, June 16, 2008

We Start Again

Passed Haight, sidewalk heights, past light, caffeine to write, right, but just a chair to sit, legs in a fit, fit to walk, slow, and feel, slow, the ache of several miles, inches on a map I imagined us missing, all these walks (you were there, sometimes), the penny made heart, incomplete for empty pockets. In a Southern way, I wander, like magnolias stretching branches out in open arm welcome, vacantly shredding leaves to scatter in the breeze, confetti everywhere. Shivering Spring sticks around incensing Summer, which will cry out in July, somewhen a sunshower. Deliriously missed friends and bliss of Overton in the sun, smaller maybe but snug - home, a scarf plucked from a closet of junk, spots on the mattress from Aster's disasters, unsipped coffee in the stolen mugs, the dust, everywhere, and the leaning chair, feet lazy upon the ledge, an apple in hand and the sky specifically Memphis - I didn't know I could miss it, hung with asthma, miasma of memory and, miss - oh you above all of this.

- San Fransisco

Now That's All I Can Do

Boogaloos in the Mission district - great value 99 cents birds, pigeons flying through busted marquee, New Mission, murals, why is he smiling (?): chiropractic it really works imported Italian lesbian owl jackets all she could see get over it bites, bites, bites last night basement every night feet movin' hermits in New York, eye contact, contact, dry contacts waking up Sunday bright - Saturday who? who? what? morning after questions over first cup in Berkley the paint on grass, painted grass, last night's diner, she was there, on your cheek, everywhere god was a spectacle, wait, wait, wait, more raspberry vodka and he knew, giggling as I shouted louder, shouted out loud names forgotten from electronic beat - Bonnie, Kathleen, boy in the v-neck, the cheese slices, do you want some? fajita and coffee something like whiskey confusion on Ocean - Valencia too early: artist or CIA? Conclusions on the train inconclusive, situation or circumstance, varying ethic, vague compass, laughing, alright "alright?" this time, right I'm right, stealing pillows, stealing looks, I'll never know but pretend or ask questions while the cellular signals keep us connected, I mean: close, but, no, I never left, not yet, coming back to sit still, still... Mason Jennings knows.

- San Fransisco

A Sound That We

Time came for then golden kids to cry, boohoo, end of sunset cracked doors and warm mother light poured over mac and cheese tables, small swollen wooden fences humid mumblings the play-doh floors kitchen flour and mosquitoes the baseballs rest for a moment, concerned with hot dog or popcorn, jolly rancher stuck to the side of your mouth and then, quietly the organ begins. In the smallish stands we sucked on cokes pulling at candy straws and knowing we'd go on forever, on running from junk yard dogs and the bigger boys, plopped on a carpet and the air conditioner crankin' snowflakes, eternal drip of damp towels over the baked sidewalks, indian feet all canyons and caves as the gravel goes on, make way for the bumblebees caught in plastic bags, pulled apart and pursued, wet mist of spray bottles and flashlights, always, always. Stuffed socks full of the glow and went on harassing doorsteps when the air cooled, spinning purple bat filled sky silhouette trees dizzy over the front lawn, cardboard stained green and in the snow, garbage pail tops or just mittens thrown to the wind. Sandy tie-dye in the photograph with glasses, a peace sign, yes, and we sat by the cannons. All hearts full of fear but she flirted all the same, and the crescent moon glittered on hidden in a drawer, except when held up to the real thing by window, window view of your window, wondering about the real thing. Dreaming, mumbling, I would ask you - "... could you just - roll over? Roll over my way."

- San Fransisco

Saturday, June 14, 2008

After The Swimming Pool

Dirty dirt on the wrestled leaves of spring bobbing flowers plucked and propped on springs all the joy of wrinkled jeans cut holes on rusty fence tops, popsicle places eyes are tongues to taste with, arise, minds running in place with horizons bristling to chase cops policing the east wings of birds bustling with bee stings a spider swimming in ice cream brimming with cider the finer hours of liars such cut knees and briers stuck to feet and blown tires no defeat for the calloused all bombast and ballast, bastioned arms cast and crowded in monkey bar jails and the containment of mail, of post-cards that fail to teach dandelions to sail, Orion's last tale of a flood without hail, the lion's frail tail, taped on and sutured to ensure a bright future - the light, tonight, coniferous, unplanned, a swim out to sea, lunar crescent, I ran, a spot on the grass between freckles and shade, a spot on the steps, concrete could stay, harmonica twang and the solitude of barbecues, your lemonade hair, sun drying underwear - bits of lake in the sand a sparkling touch of the hands, can you remember falls through musty halls, grandmother's past winter, you called, you saw, I thought, when the willow waited and all cries abated - the sky indicated not rain but something similar: a shower or some Eskimo variation, a chance for elation a blanket vacation.

Possessed, possession - protection.

Until June

Something left as I sat on the 15 to Thurman. While crossing the river, it squirmed out the seat and spilled out the doors, dropped several stories into the Willamette. The departure began as a slow leak, invisible, vague bits drifting into the magic hour. Against a chain link fence, before the ivy bricks, after the buzzing stairs, a yellow wall waned against a weakening blue sky. In the violet gradations passed an nonviolent sensation, an unfelt gust, indiscernible wave. When the street lamps yawned on, gradually became all at once. Walls went up while the ground fell out. And now this void is impenetrable. Except this brisk walk past the black coat, the "stay safe" from the rough one - or was it "keep peace"? Rattling doors, back on the glass. I tried to hear the pain joy of Millennium park in the Portland shade. These days are a midnight and tomorrow could be today - while waiting we talked of stopping time with shutter speeds, neutral density filters cutting down the daylight. Dawn will come someday soon, gradually a glow kissing the sunward leaves and all at once a thrown curtain blanketing the horizon. In the early hours, shadows become sharp to divide the waking from the sleeping. Eyes blink in time to the flapping wings of morning birds, becoming accustomed to the coming day after a night which passed gradually, and then all at once.

- Portland

Show Some Mercy Today

Yellowing swath, rusting grass punctuated by parched palms, antiqued bovines accustomed to the Cascade haze, rough branches blooming wispy antennae, sunflower fields, the colors of a distant past passed over by suicidal pilots spreading death to give life, neat rows bearing - ? Electric wires and fencing, stained beams of bruised wood, the sterile scent of air conditioning. Blown bits of tire rubber on the highway. Cramped legs, yawning endlessly past Yolo county line, this morning my first mountain - head held white-faced above clouds. The night was undulating exchange of sky and hill, rolling black wave, positive and negative equal so the road flipped and we rode upside down to San Fransisco, refusing gravity to observe the scattered lite-brite bulbs of sleepy mountain towns - or were those stars? Rain starved creek bed, blackbird insomniac wandering, afraid to rest ahead where there's walls enough for all. Scorched and sun-weary, skyscrapers on the horizon. Drops enough for each blade of grass, thirst enough to see miles past. Indicating a soft shoulder, sensitive roadways bid caution to the heavy lids - red balloon announcement overhead. Slow and prepare to stop - in every city, skeletons reaching toward the sky, exposed steel shivering. Spiderweb of railways and dusted tire tracks leading anywhere, beginning

- Sacramento

Thursday, June 12, 2008

More Be Done

The nickel clowns stared down from the arcade windows, beckoning. For several miles and several rolls of film my double socked feet tramped the littered streets, looking for patterns of color and something to eat. The Pearl district was a fragile white orb, kept polished hourly, tryin' to keep it shining while the rest just rested, unashamed of the grit and grime, not wanting to waste time with appearance. The phone kept on ringing and I kept on singing to all my friends across the country, all those faces I left in cities too far for buses at the moment, wishing I could finally say all the stuff graffiti'd to the top of my skull, sleeves tugged to two coasts, collar pulled straight north and all the while socks sagging toward the south. Staring into a fire, hoping this energy don't consume the way a fire must, watching the grass catch a bit and smolder to ash, dulling, dulling the senses till the whiskey wakes the stomach up, sends us to the Florida Room for fried avacado and a bracelet a bit too small. I told her I was joking. I told her, "I just feel sort of nauseated." And all I can hear is the rattle of the train rolling stories above my head, the light coming down a tunnel and a howl. Neil Diamond sings, she sings hallelujah. Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, shoes tied and staring at a crayon map of Yellowstone, looking for a place to be.

- Portland

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

My Roots

Great grey clouds allow a single, slender white finger to carress the river which reflects the blank expanse with unyielding acceptance, recieves the gentle touch with open eyed grace; the valley forest pauses a moment, shyly turns eyes to corners and gives unbroken gaze and inward sigh as the cloud kisses the water. In their sleepy hours the river and forest are sister and brother, firefly night lights casting glow over the valley as they lay awake, huddled close to one another, listening to the transistor radio static of cicadas, sometimes picking up the song of owls or frogs, presently tuned to the howling of wolves, ears pricked for the cry of bats. Snuggled close, brother forest feels an emptiness fade into the sky, a longing resolved into purpose - where the grass and lillies touch is the warm center of all things. Each waning light, each inevitable morning, forest forgets to kiss her and spends the day stoic, full of regret. On the day cloud and river kissed, the earth quaked as forest cried and he crumbled into his sister's loving arms. And then there was no river. And then there was no forest. And the clouds departed to let the light in.

- Outside of Portland

Monday, June 9, 2008

Pulled Me Under

Anxiety rushes in as rain calmly falls a bass drum pounding, snare rattling insistence - wind passing coarsely, strained through delicately carved holes, a frightening blockage distorting notes as increasing panic swells among the symphony. Cacophony prevails, but the audience is unmoved; absently they whisper about the weather. The woodwinds ran out of breath; the violins wheeze a strained wail. Strained, stricken the conductor sweats and his armpits itch, confused movements causing only subtle shifts in the now familiar quarrel of noise. Teeth split and veins burst from ecstatic mouths, from god-struck eyes, mess of viscera filling the orchestra pit as stomachs split from unutterable moan. Collapsing, crashing the instruments fail and the players fall, desperate for peace, wanting for life as the din dies out, pitch by pitch and note by note abruptly slain, suddenly, all at once, no crescendo or moment of triumph, only inevitable, amoral end - a silence which must come. The conductor, hunchbacked and limp, eyes half closed, spent of tears, mouth agape, deluge of drool, urine soaked pant legs, realizes clenched hand and releases control, drops the baton and sags into darkness, waiting wings of anonymous void, out of the spotlight, where the whole show started.


Too Late To Play

Ah, lasers in the darkness, sounds like atoms dancing, repose, repose, the gallant markings making mystery all over the ceiling, I was thinking "This can only get better", but bewitched wavering, tested: unsure; only blessed be the statuary, holy is the arboretum and sleepy go the cardboard boxes, wobbling soggy down the rain-slick streets, looking for post-cards, pitching in for jars of cherries, dropping cigarettes rhythmically.

A mist I missed, inside with music, seeking Discovery Park in cluttered maps, finding the spots I lost, got lost, got photographed on a sunny stairway and the shutter's stuck now.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

And We Are Dreaming

Pictures painted in the tops of coffee cups and skies that got used to grey
Postcards pocketed from picture book shelves and I wonder what it means to stay

Ah, she was adorable kid, just like you, and I know I couldn't tell her because she gets it all the time, just like you, and she wouldn't know how I really love her, just like you, because she gets carded all the time and gets frustrated all the time but really, just like you, she knows it ain't her, that she don't wanna change, she only wants to be and be accepted without questions, like you, she wears her fuzzy hat, still, on her head and she draws the big eyes and smiling faces, still, on the dry-erase boards and she doesn't change a bit - she's only waiting, really, without thinking about it; it'd be nice one day, but she's not banking on it. So I wanted to tell her, "You're adorable, you know?" but there's not enough space in line for lines like that so I just smile real big when I ask for some coffee and I hope she knows. I just smile, real big, when I ask for my caramel latte (you know) and I hope she knows.

- Seattle

Saturday, June 7, 2008

It Goes Fast

Love songs crackle car speakers, distribute sound and sentiment out the open window, connected sediment of wind blown feelings formed by earthly pressures into stone sinking slowly, silently through the cave cold water of my stomach, a husky seed busrsting in the depths, wild for growth, hungry for light, to create the energy animals long for.

Be here now.

Below the ground swirls like Gutai impasto, elevations impossible to discern, ribboned strata of compressed earth, palimpsest crust of continent containing a layered history of gradient stability, topmost most malleable, but even the bedrock may be moved by monstrous tumult, all this seemingly unshifting mass containing a core of infinite impermanence whose unfamishable hunger for change mocks maps over millenia.

Be here now.

Nothing survives. Even absence dies. Ever transient cloud, ever mobile ocean, ever falling leaf, ever blinking star, whose light still travels but whose source burst before the earth was born - when do you rest? Straining through weaking twilight to reach in humid air for flirtatious blinks, sentenced to death in mason jars despite air holes and all good intentions. In darker hours, memories flicker, poorly edited, on white sheets hung from the willow, and we miss the house burning.

Be here now.

- In the sky

Friday, June 6, 2008

One Of The Few

Faces, illuminated as in shrines, framed, rows of empty (?) frames below - static like television, wanting for resolution suggesting family or at least other faces, groupings connected by black wiring, by death, the finality all walk toward, connected and given life by light. Three bulbs, the trinity, their faces smiling somewhat, sometimes beaming, the room darkened, their smiles warming the air, but a persistent dread remains, their black and white visages in photo frame size, like wall hangings in a home, suggesting family, or the familiar, and the past, or: death, but the static, though faceless, is alive with energy: green, golden, grey - alternating, the energy of their spirits perhaps, the color of their souls, Kirlian recording of a hidden aura - elegant cords like draper, the home again, like curtains, again: death. Finally all must come to death. Every plot ends in death, every narrative a murder. The creation of a memory is the killing of the real, each document (as in photographs) a bloodstain without a body, senseless violence out of context. We, the viewers, are implicated as well. The children cast their light upon us, illuminated our darkened forms, lurking in the shadows to view distantly only to be revealed the closer we attempt to get at the relics of memory. So the final truth is that we belong in those spare frames made of static - there is a place for us to die.

- Minneapolis Art Institute [Christian Boltanski - 'Monuments']

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

There's Lightning Bolts

Soaring through the cottonseed wind, sun pouring over shoulders, a warm balm of fresh vitamin E, made soothing massage by the cool breeze, the zipper of my jacket beating rhythmically against my back as the rusty frame I ride glides gracefully along the greenway, propelled by eager limbs, eager for more, more of this greenery, more of that blueness against that whiteness, more of the faces smiling, acknowledgement, yeses all around and we sail, sail into evening when the screen flickers for hours, weaving a story in shafts of light that fall squarely into images becoming music, the fiddler keeping time, keeping this story going as we drift along the invisible paths I trust cut stone into grass, grass cut into concentric circles, circling the sky little birds swoop low while the aeroplane flies high, higher still the hills climb as gears shift downward, now upward, the brakes applied generously as the traffic light approaches, approaching the final turns, the terminal twists bringing us back to examine bruises on shins and shiny new shoes, the old pedal companions busted and sad, exhausted and ready for sleep, dreaming of a world without feet.

- Minneapolis

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Even Underground

I'd like to watch the trees pass by in the darkness, but the TV reflects in the window, inevitable as Jesse James getting his bullet in the end. And Frank is brought to justice. And I wonder where I am besides north of where I was. Intermittently a weight falls over my arms, resting across my chest, and the ends of my eyelashes nervously hold hands. I mistake the cord of my headphones for a finger running down my cheek, am startled as it lightly touches the end of my chin, and sigh as it weaves a slow path down the muscles of my neck. Yellow light dances still between darkened forms, like racing horses from the sidelines, except that I move and they remain, mingling with the passing white orbs transposed over the landscape by reflection. 75 miles from Minneapolis and I'm aching still, with joy, with sadness, always bursting for every shifting change in emotion's direction, each feeling a straight-line gust that topples houses and leaves some with nothing or blows a longing sail toward warmer climes, toward open arms. I cherish each tear, whether beautiful or damned.

Tonight, the streetlights fall asleep, and I lay awake, ready.

- 75 Miles from Minneapolis

Soon, Said I, We'll Know

Bruised constellations
Great sparkling expanses
That miss teeth
and wince
There are listless stars
which wander like lost fireflies
blinking butterfly kisses
on heaven's pale cheek
Surrender to black roar
Starfish sleeping silently
in saline solitude
dreaming of light, maybe
Out on the roof
and the clouds left hours ago
Ash drifts lazily through
careless air
Embers yawning under
abandoned char
Endless blasphemy
We, infinite as space beyond space
The night, weightless and crushing
I heard myself exhaling
I saw you laughing


The Need Seeps In

A Pretty Straightforward Recollection of Chicago This Past Week:

- Arrive in Chicago, tearful hugs with Colby (also: excitement)
- Walked around Julia's neighborhood for a few minutes before she called me tell me she was home
- Made yummy yums vegan pizza (it had a super thin crust - I don't know how we did it!)
- Hung out with Julia, and her sister, and her sister's friends
- Watched Purple Rain (slap! slap! muuuuusic!)

- Unsuccessfully scour Chicago for vegan and/or sweatshop free shoes to replace mine, which are falling apart due to some vigorous gettin' down in the D
- Julia purchases some funkay shorts
- We eat Sultan's - falafel sammiches. The falafel are SO big! 

- Made hashabrowns and tofu scrambie
- Went to museum of contemporary art (jeff wall!!) and the art institute
- Ate at Giardoaladonoanosdoadlonsodsdoadanos [chicago style deepdeep dish] again
- Watched Repo Man

- It's my birthday! (My birthday! Get cake everyday like it's my birthday)
- Went to Dove's place and saw some musics (Gold!)
- Slept?

- Played croquet!! Our team (with Julia: Croquet Master) won the first game but  lost the second.
- Walked around Lincoln Park - some movie set in the 20's was being filmed
- Ate at Oodles of Noodles, got tired 'a the eggiweggs
- Hung out Morgan's "apartment" (dorm) and watched "Heavenly Creatures" (so good!)
- Ran after the bus, took a taxi

- Julia made some yummy granola
- Went to lunch with Julia, her sister, and their mom at Karyn's, a vegan place, and ate tons of food.
- Took a nap.
- Went to Ryan's collective, F*ck Mountain, and got on the roof for the most amazing view of Chicago I've seen
- Ate at an awesome Italian place

- Attempted to walk around and take some photos while Julia was in class - failed due to ouchy calves.
- Met Julia at her school and ate lunch.
- Apparently some people like Chipotle?
- Smoothies!
- Tried to walk to the lake but, again, the calves. 
- Went to Logan Square, ate at a super delicious restaurant called Lula's Cafe (I had a tagine with cinnamon cous cous, sweet potatoes, and chickpeas - and then had a life changing experience with a mint chocolate torte)

Other Things:
We kept losing the Sears tower. I kept wanting time to slow down. I wished the trains took longer. They were wearing white on Saturday. It was beautiful for the most part, and I didn't mind when it was overcast. Yesterday the shorts were a mistake, but today you'll try again. I missed my bus; I was so angry. I thought the bus was parking, but it was leaving. I felt comfortable, easy, at home and then I felt lost, alone, confused. Everything was manageable, known and plotted and then it was vast and endless, a shaking ladder that I gripped hard on the way down. The wind blew the garden away, the landlord saw the couch. The spanish movie was filmed on three cameras and involved numerous extras - the bar scene contained canola oil and cranberry juice, an empty bottle of wine. I was sick from french bread and brie. Everything was comfortable, even the futon, which was too firm for my tastes. The sidewalks felt like college. I never wanted to stop eating pizza - asian never fills me up, makes me feel whole. I felt whole. The tree was painted to the side of the building, the wine store was closed. We got our wine at CVS, and I chose carefully from the cheap stuff. Everything was electric, from the roof it was washed out and bright. The sidewalks moved beneath my feet and I wished they'd go on forever. As you wished for trees, I found salvation in the pavement, where we walked and kept walking into ever darker nights, into rooms made of candles and conversation. I could stay up all night. All the intimacy contained in a crossword puzzle. Making breakfast, not making plans, washing faces, not being embarrassed. Truthfully, honestly. We were always running for buses, stopping and running, sitting and waiting, running and hurrying, catching and missing. You knew where to go, I knew where I wanted  to be.

- Chicago, Chicago, Chicago

there's so much more
there's always - so much more

Don't Get Any Big Ideas

The morning I left was cool, and the air was summer.
The air was not clear and bright, as in winter, everything illuminated and known, but dense and obscured, the air a semi-solid volume of dew, malleable as the day. These mornings are for waiting. While my others snooze lazily, emancipated from the morning routine of the school year, I wet my bare feet in misty clover, watching for briar, waiting. While my others sleep, I do not plan, I do not hope. I wade through the possibility hanging in the enveloping wetness, breathing in what could be and exhaling what was. I sit on the step of their doors, one by one, knowing my presence will draw them out; they must feel me waiting. I wait by the fence of the pool, hands clutching peeling paint on the criss-crossed metal, a wall we've scaled so many times. I let my fingers trace a meaningless path over the the rusted brick, walls we've sat against so many times, drinking soda and crushing ants. Up the hill, I wait looking down the slope we roll over, roll over, roll over, roll over, over, over.


Every morning I wake with the birds and wait. Their songs part the air and make paths for us to follow.

- Chicago

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Nobody Feels Any Pain

We're not athletic
We weren't meant to be this out of breath, but every afternoon there's broken sweat from when we broke pace and ran out of time. Everything moves faster here, but every street has a stoplight, so every red light is a moment of pause, closed eyed mouth hung open exhalation before eyes are fixed hard on each other, moving again with the green light's permission, pushing forward in the rhythm of footfalls or wheels bouncing hard against the rough pavement - then the flash of red, brake lights and shouts, everything noise, everything silence as eyes move upward and fine nothing harmed, everything beautiful, everything placid, relief flooding veins with a sweet exhaustion and nostrils rejoicing as an acrid sweat is discovered, body shivering too late with panic, that delirious lubricant making a mess of it all. But no blood, no shattered glass. In the waning evening light, there are slow, even breaths, and we rest.