no fight without a light

Nightly— in my victory—

I grasp again for the

broad medal,

the justification of this constant struggle.

This tortured intellectual toys with words—

confusing the code

for no one to follow.

I am not myself;

indifferent to the world as well. 

If I am fighting,

I am fighting a shadow;

nothing noted,

nothing wanted—

an unintelligible darkness

passing with the sun. 

Is all there is merely 

figments of contrast?

products of enlarged, enlightened thoughts?

If there is a cause,

that cause is a phantom;

grappling with self-worth

negotiating with a flickering flame

that debates with survival—

rationalized and unfulfilled. 

Chronicles of June

Pt. ONE

June learned the skill a little before others.

She holds the cigarette lightly in her mouth, 

and lights up. 

She gulps down smoke 

Like a baby gulping milk from a bottle,

and dreams about dreaming. 

She speaks to herself in code

hoping no one will figure her out:

figurativeness, metaphors, and unintelligible exclamations.

Then, bitterly, she tamps out the burning filter

as though it was another year of her life.

Pt. TWO

Fantasies of 

Brushing aside strands of careless hair,

and kissing her as if

the world had always meant them to;

as if consequences were as important as the tokens of a board game.

June makes plans to drink herself to her senses,

and realize the senselessness of the universe.

One kiss—

so small and insignificant. 

And its unimportance justifies the action;

And its unimportance paralyzes her in the act. 

Obstacles

Was it rainy, stormy, sunny

cloudy or clear?

Clock hands ticked from numerous positions,

and it was dark and light at once

yet neither dark nor light

as the florescent lighting made the 

universe lose clarity and certainty—

similar to the artificial darkness of theaters.

It was impossible to know

whether it was night or day.

The baby was placed in an incubator—

its first box— waiting to be named.

The father made a fist in his easy-chair

while watching hours and hours of T.V.

The mother flew through tim zones in 

airplanes. SHe was nowhere all at once.

But no one

No one is ever here

Here on these pages, which they

read with nodding heads—

pass on to friends, 

Who all agree 

That no one lives it. 

Losing Out

I am watching the creases and fold of your clothing—

The understandable shadows of fabric: 

The safety and mystery of concealed skin. 

I am watching them with a scrutinizing eye. 

Oh- if we could have let time freeze outside with us

When my hands were wrapped in your gloves,

And my fingers enjoyed the knit yarn—

If only they had stayed there! 

But we had warmed.

We took of some of the layers we wore.

We left them lying— with us— on the floor,

And I fingered the material of your neckline

And became curious for more. 

What I found was ecstasy with skin and bone

And sweat that collected in the concave of your collar.

What I found was excitement in friction

And the velocity with which we left and returned to one another. 

What I found was further mysteries 

In the arches of your feet, underneath your nails— 

The darkness behind your eyes and in your throat—

Within handfuls of your hair,

But what a disappointment it was when

I found nothing there. 

We awoke.

We returned to our clothes,

And we lived between two truths—

Neglecting to see either of them.

So, now neither will remain. 

poems/prose/rants

Today - 2/26/09

watched a movie in English class today

then took a nap during project.

I think most people would cherish a day like mine—

it just left me wondering where it went. 

spent a lot of time hating people and feeling resentful.

spent a lot of time ignoring people and feeling indifferent.

spent some time missing someone, and wondering why, and realizing that

it may be love.

spent some time astounded— silent— realizing that I don't love the people I expect myself to love, and

realizing I couldn't let anyone know this but myself.

felt the freezing sting of losing all confidence in writing. if I don't get accepted to InnerSpark I think I might quit,

but I'm still writing now. I guess I can't help it.

I write because I have nothing to say.

I write because I have nothing to say.

but, at least it seems, the day has gone somewhere—

it's on this page.

2/27/09

She pressed her lips against my knee— kissing my jeans, and left her mouth there— open. Her breath warmed the

cloth, and sunk into my skin.

Now I am sitting on our couch where we've passed so much time sentimentally soul-searching and expressing. There's

a damp, cool mark where her lips had been. I shift my leg to conceal it— feeling like a chile with stained clothing,

and all I want is her lips back— making everything strange feel right.

I am not cautious. I take a gulp of hot coffee that burns down my throat and into my stomach. I imagine it replaces

the digestive acids, and now everything melts into the brown fluid— unnatural and consuming.

Passing By - 2/28/09

my heart is pounding so hard, it seems to lift me off the mattress with every beat.

a man said in his poem that love is as strange as wearing shoes.

I know he is right.

I know she doesn't want to think of love as strange.

she likes to think of it romantically.

I think I am dead, and it isn't so bad.

my friend asks me what its like— spooky, I say

because we did things in the dark; then we stopped—

in this lifetime everything fades— ghostly and transparent.

I can walk through walls, but all I want is to disappear for a while

behind your skull,

and when I return to reality, I think I'll probably

leave you.