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.

ANGST POEMS & RANT

Discontent

discontent is a cyclopes— monumental,

placed on my path,

making my life an Odyssey. 

cyclopes in my plans, in my hours— minutes— seconds,

in my name— in my hair

in your eyes. 

cyclopes with these pages— leaving grease stains.

cyclopes— repeating Allen Ginsberg's tone, and growing an eye,

then— sticky with blood— throwing the eye away;

can't watch it decompose cause everything is hazy.

lazy— indoors all day— nauseous with un-productivity.

cyclopes who is starving me, and doesn't like the taste of food.

cyclopes who has made me fat— 

who can't sit solemnly, but has nothing to say

so has me gorging on

shit food, shit conversations:

he has claimed his place

he is here to stay. 

A possibly never complete-able Love Poem

I swing my hips—

suck my breath into my lungs—

make my heart beat quick 

for you.

I get dressed, and undress.

drink caffein to not need rest—

stay awake all night 

for you.

teach myself to read and speak

remember things I'll never need 

to know— to know how to intrigue you.

I need the night to fill with you;

we look better in the dark.

we like

personalized lighting and music—

time that goes on, and on and on...

I wait up for you

let the time slip by for you

hold my tears— I never cry for you,

but ache, ache

for some reality to pull through—

from the contradiction in what I want and what is true

to

fall away. 

*   *   *   * 

I have so much to write about— possibilities. There are so many things going on, but I'm not going to write about the ant colony in my kitchen. NO NO NO!— there are too many of those— ants, I mean. No— I can only write about the fly buzzing against my window pane. THAT SINGULAR FLY... it comes close to my face, and my eyes widen: HORROR— it won't leave me be.

IHATEHIM IHATEHIM I HATE HIM IHATEHIM IHATEHIM

but— its not him its me— and that cliché line actually works in this case, but that's beside the point.

POINT IS: it is as though there has never been a fly in my room before—> never been hate on my mind before. but that's not the truth. I have definitely written a similar rant. One that is just as IRRATIONAL. Cause— damn it— there is no cause, no reason, no purpose— the idiot fly just got caught in my room again. 

poem for my InnerSpark application

Do you know how she became like this?—

Transformed from how you found her—

Breaking into fragments

And mixing with the sand.

She was monumental.

She lay across the Rocky Mountains,

But now she is eroding.

Look at her—

At the shadows made by the angles of her jagged bones.

You may see her in segments,

Love her in portions—

Her distance and misery,

The erotic tingle nudging at your senses,

Her restless, pleading eyes.

She begs to sink into the sand

And suffocate in vastness;

Instead you surround her with your arms and mind.

She fades into you.

You, mountaineer— you had

Trudged across her sloping breasts—

Explored the concave of her thighs;

You collected the dirt from the tread of your shoes,

And grew plants— from that soil—

That wilted, black, as your memory faded. 

And yet you have contained her.

She settles in garden pots,

And gathers under your fingernails—

Encounters pieces of herself there

That are no longer pieces of herself, for

Now she is the dirt-stains on your hands—

The work-stains of a life

Dedicated to constructing mountains. 

To My Fish:

a victim of humanity's 

cruel attempt at 

possession. 

who deserved

the simplicity of existence, 

but instead had the weight 

of petty human values

thrust upon him.

petty values that imprisoned him,

and bound him to an 

overly-important—

however false—

identity

when all he wanted to be

was alive. 

whose situation 

is far too compatible with my own.

this ceremony is not for you,

but rather to fossilize 

the realization

of my own pettiness,

which i deny—

and a lesson:

we have no right

to entitlement,

and no right 

to impose ourselves 

on any living being.

if/when we do

we only emphasize the fact 

that we have veiled ourselves

in self-importance,

and have limited ourselves 

to the existence—

of a fish—

in a fishbowl. 

You Love, Therefore...

Can you relate to the feeling?—

When the throat opens

And fills with sadness, 

Which sometimes remains there for days—

Sometimes is swallowed into your stomach and feet,

Or rushes from your eyes—

A pathetic anticlimax. 

I'm sure you cannot,

For life, to you, is movement—

Sparkling with jewels,

And incapable of being weighted with self-pity.

You never run out of things to write—

You can't help but express what you love,

So you dance—

Because movement is a love of movement;

So you live—

Because life is a love of life. 

Myself with Diane di Prima

You are my idiosyncratic grandmother,

And I— the disappointment who didn't follow your beat.

I hear your scolding voice in my head

As your words sift through my mind.

I confess that I am aching to live your life,

But am wary of the mess,

Which you describe without complaint: 

The dirty beds— when you can get one,

Otherwise— late nights spent with strangers—

Sticking needles in their arms,

And fingers in every place— the 

Possibilities of experiences

Taught you to:

Make language move like sex—

The words melting into the light 

You describe— making my mind glow yellow-gold.

I am found in the beat

Of the jazz you play—

Lost in the silent room

Where your tale is displayed 

On these dead pages...

They are all I hold;

I feel the disappointment too. 

I have friends like me,

And— with them— feel superiority 

Because I am in possession of your ideas. 

I condemn them lazy

For not stepping with the beat—

For not recognizing the power in their feet,

Which could keep them from sinking into the ground. 

But I have stopped walking too,

And have grown comfortable in my immobility.

I am losing freedom—

Losing sight—

Losing the pace of the stride as you walk before me,

So I trudge—sloppily— in your footprints.