50 ways

current top 5

2012-02-01T09:01:00.000-05:00

No. 5

No. 2

No.3

No. 4

No. 1

you are literally

2012-01-31T22:57:00.002-05:00

I misspelled your name and found the word.

It was real: the kiss.

I felt the soft… the moisture behind your upper lip.

The weakness behind my chest,

the empty in my stomach.

You asked why I didn’t do it sooner.

You kissed me again.

And it was real: this kiss.

You reached for my right hand,

our fingers interlaced, your left hand.

Then we walked.

The worn wooden planks, discolored

like the sky above the unfamiliar boardwalk.

I sensed the sand of the beach made white by the night.

I felt where the sand touched the discolored sky.

The beach of white reaching for blue hues.

The ocean between them trembling in waves.

I felt where our hands touched. It was real.

I counted the tangle of our fingers. Your soft palm,

the moisture… but I knew.

So I squeezed until I woke up. And I woke up.

My hand was empty.

I misspelled your name and found these words.

It was a dream but it was true.

I felt where my hand touched my sheets of blue hues.

I trembled, sensing the ocean between us.

The girl in my dreams.

I never kissed you. Inever told you.

But I want to.

Really do.

Wish you knew.

Words are true.

They’re for you.

photo:http://farm2.staticflickr.com/1008/1463597868_4179eaa981_b.jpg

a ghost story

2011-04-22T19:55:00.000-04:00

This is not a new story, just a new way to tell it. This is not a fairy tale. This is a ghost story, but not the scary kind. This is a story of a man and the woman he loved. They were married young but deeply in love and they made their home on a wide lake that sat beneath a tall waterfall. The rushing river that flowed down would roar during the day like a beast, a powerful reminder of all who had died leaping from its great height into the clear waters below. At night the wind bellowed from the deep of the trees; the voices of the spirits blowing sorrowful waves across the calm lake. By the fireplace she would crawl into his arms and listen to him tell stories of love and dragons, princesses in towers, and the ghosts in the woods that surrounded the lake. When the fire died they would lie in bed in a close embrace, falling asleep in each other’s warmth with the spirits of the lake whispering through the leaves of the trees…

After a few years of living mostly alone by the lake, the young man began to grow restless. He still loved his young bride, but the bliss had gone away and the love that once excited and blinded him had dulled and lost passion. Gone were the nights by the fire. He had run out of stories to tell and could not find the enthusiasm to create new ones. He longed for adventure and sometimes, with shame, he dreamed of someone new. His beautiful wife was unaware. Her heart was forever determined and the strength of her love unwavering.

One evening, the young man decided he could stay no longer. He took his wife by the hand and confessed his feelings. Her simple nightgown wet with tears. He told her he would leave in the morning, saddle his horse and ride west to the next town. With her heart breaking, she did not sleep the whole night. The sun rose and she begged him not to go. The young man continued to pack his clothes and saddle his horse. Nothing she said could break his resolve.

As he rode away she ran after him and called for him to stop. He halted his horse and turned to her. Standing barefoot on the dirt path, her face now dry of tears, she said to him, “I know I can’t stop you now. But I still have hope that you will come back. So I’ll wait here for one week. When the sun rises on the seventh day, I will be gone. One week my love… If you don’t come back before then… you’ll never find me again.” The young man’s heart felt heavy, but he did not understand the gravity of her words. He turned from her and rode away…

The first day in the big busy town, he spent indulging in all that he gave up when he married. He found old friends and met new ones. They laughed and sang into the night, sharing stories and drinking the taverns dry. Not once did he think of the young woman he left behind on the lake just that morning. The next day he spent with several women, dancing, drinking, and diving into dirty sheets on different beds. Still the thought of his lonely bride waiting by the fireplace of their cold empty home had not crossed his inebriated mind. The rest of the week blurred together into a timeless binge of pleasure-seeking in a state of drunken deluge. He had lost track of the hours and only knew two times of day: what came after the sun rose and the night that followed its setting.

One morning he woke up, his breath foul and his lungs choked. His limbs, his bones ached from the long days of selfish and limitless revelry. But the most apparent condition was in his heart. He finally felt guilt, regret, and remorse. All he had done in the past few days had left him nothing but empty and missing his beloved. The thrills were temporary, the merriment fleeting, the vices all had sour aftertastes and had weakened his body and mind. He counted the days backwards and realized that it was the sixth day. His love would be gone by the next sunrise.

He packed his bags and readied his horse, fast like a man who had done something wrong and had too little time to right it. Without saying goodbye to anyone, he rode out of town in a fury. In a rush and still slightly intoxicated, he didn’t realize he was riding in the wrong direction…

The young man rode farther and farther away from the lake, and his home, and his lonely wife. He had forgotten the feeling of hunger. He did not know thirst or fatigue. He pushed his horse harder and faster, chasing after the hazy horizon. He could see her in the distance, a speck but shiny and growing as he pushed forward and towards the gleaming goal. He was so focused, so resolute, he did not recognize the unfamiliarity of the road beneath him, or of the woods on either side. He pushed on.

The glimmering dot gradually grew, brightening and widening. For the first time, he felt worried. He had been riding for hours and could no longer ignore the rumbling in his stomach, the dryness in his throat, and the pain climbing up his legs and onto his back. He had to stop.

As he sat on the ground, catching his breath and resting his sore limbs, he looked up at the sky and the clouds that wandered all around it. His eyes wandered from cloud to cloud until he reached the sun. He looked as long as he could then looked down with tears in his eyes— for as he stared into the sun he saw his own reflection and behind him the glimmering dot.

He now knew that he had been going the wrong way. He mourned at the revelation, searching around him for anything recognizable: a mountain range, a tree line, a tailing stream. Nothing. The sun had begun to set and he needed to ride to it, under it, before it was swallowed by the ground. He was too far away now. He knew he would not make it in time and that she would be lost to him forever. He rode on anyway…

The sun had set and the young man, heavy with regret, had made his way back through the big city. The same road that brought him there, was now leading him back to the lake. His mind was burdened, thinking mostly of all the time wasted. He counted every thump of a hoof, willing his horse faster with his boot heels. It was now nighttime and only several hours till sun’s return.

He felt no pain. He thirsted no more. The only hunger was in his heart and in his eyes, pining to see once again the young woman he abandoned hastily. Never would he leave her again. As soon as he reached her, he promised to the moon, he would always keep her by his side till death disrupts their earthly destiny.

Now only a couple hours away from her and with a whole night for him to travel, it seemed that time was on his side.

But remember that this is not a fairy tale…

He urged his horse faster and faster, the diligent beast selflessly obeying. But it could go no faster. After a long week of neglect and malnourishment, it was content to be on the move again, driving its body through cool breezes and dusty dirt. The bridle digging into its jaw and the boot heels pounding against its bruised flesh were no bother. This was its last day. With muscles spent, lungs swollen with fire, and eyes that no longer saw the endless road ahead, the loyal stallion slowed to a stop, its master unwilling but understanding. His horse would go no farther.

The young man stepped on to the ground as his dying friend knelt, surrendering to the blue glow of the moon. He listened as it breathed in deep, exhale, and then silence. He was now on his own.

But there was no time to mourn. His wife waited.

He ran a great distance, counting each step and willing himself to run faster. He was too far on foot, but could not concede. He had to make it.

Slowly the flat grasslands on either side of the path sprouted up into tall trees. Still running, he found himself surrounded by familiar woods. He rode for hours past these woods just days earlier. The straight path would eventually curve around them and towards the lake on the other side. He knew for certain now that he would never make it. The road was too long. He slowed down and continued to walk… defeated.

An hour of walking, cursing his mistakes, and praying to the blackened sky above him, the young man had all but yielded when suddenly he saw to the right of him a trail that split off of the main path and into the woods. He stopped and stood staring at the gaping hole. It was pitch black and a cold wind was blowing from it, but he saw not too far on the trail, a yellow-orange dot; a hopeful flame in the dark deep.

It didn’t take long to reach it. The trail ended in a small clearing, and across were two more trails that lead further into the woods. The dot was revealed to be a campfire and close to it, soaking in its warmth, sat an old man cloaked in furs, like a hunter. On his face he bore cavernous wrinkles, the scars of a long life spent, and a wise beard. He didn’t startle when the young man appeared before him; a dirty, haggard figure cast out of the dark trail. He looked up as the young man began to speak.

“Old one, there’s a lake on the other side of these woods and I must get there before sunrise. Will either of these trails lead me there?”

“Both ways will bring you to the lake. The one on the left will bring you there sooner than the other, but the one on the right is safer and easier to follow, though it’ll take longer.”

“I don’t have time. I’ll go to the left. Lend me your lantern.”

“But it is too dark and the trial has many turns. Even with a lantern you’re bound to get lost. You can stay here till the morning then I’ll take you through.”

“Can you not hear, old man?! I’ve no time! You will lead me through the trail on the left, now!”

The old man stood up, leaning on a tall staff. He picked up a lantern and lit it.

“You are stubborn… and your haste will be your death. But let us go.”

And so they left the fire and comfort of the clearing. The old man leading the young man, the lantern held high before them.

The ground was rough. The young man tripped several times. The lantern was barely enough to light their way, though the old man traveled with ease, barely leaning on his walking staff. He had not lied. There were many turns and at times the young man felt they had passed the same tree twice, or that he tripped on the same rock before, walked into the same low-hanging branch. He cursed at the old man, doubting his knowledge of the trial. The old man was not bothered.

The sky faded, from black to a dark blue. They no longer needed the lantern, they could see far ahead of them. The young man began to panic. Soon the sky would burn hues of red and orange. Time was running out.

He implored the old man to hurry. Urging him on like he did his horse. He didn’t notice that the trail had straightened out and that less than a mile away was the exit out of the woods.

When he did notice, he started to weep. His long odyssey almost over, he took off running, leaving the old man behind. He would thank him after he reclaimed his beloved.

His sore feet pounded against the gravelly ground. Little bits of blue light found cracks through the trees that shaded the narrow trail, lighting his way. He could smell the lake as he got closer; the smell of wood and leaves, fresh water and mist that filled the house every morning. He longed to see the house. He ran faster.

As he got even closer, he heard the roar of the waterfall calling to him. He could see the exit, just yards away. He could see the water.

He pushed the last few feet and was finally out of the woods…

The young man was frozen on his feet. The blue sky streaked with amber rays. He felt one side of his body warming, the other left in the cold. All around him were crickets and birds, concerting as they changed guards. But he could only hear one thing: the old man’s words in the clearing, “your haste will be your death.”

The water before him was not the lake. It was the thunderous river, rolling violently to what appeared to be the edge of the world. The young man walked towards it and fell to his knees. He was atop the waterfall. The peaceful waters of the lake, the house that once was his home, he could see down below.

He turned and saw the old man standing behind him. He no longer had the walking staff or the lantern.

“I thought you told me this trail led to the lake!” He stood up and confronted the old man.

“Can you not see young man? There is the lake down below.” He pointed over the edge. “There is your house… and there is your wife.”

The young man turned quickly in the direction he was pointing. There she was standing beside the house, facing the door. He saw only her back, but in his mind he thought of her beautiful face and the long brown locks that framed it. But his thoughts were soon interrupted. He remembered the clearing.

“I didn’t mention my house… or my wife…” He heard no reply and turned to look at the old man.

He felt the warmth on his back as he stared into the cold empty where the old man was just standing. He saw no one.

Suddenly, all he could hear was the deafening thunder of the waterfall. He remembered the stories. The indigenous warriors, the sullen outcasts, and the hopeless brokenhearted. All of them stood on the same spot. All of them leaped to their death, their bodies beaten against the rock face and shattered against the hard surface of the lake’s water.

He looked down at his wife, still standing with her back to the waterfall. He waved his arms high above his head, but she never turned. He yelled her name as loud as he could, but he was too far and the river too loud for her to hear.

He stared longingly at her while he thought of his choices. He could turn back, find the clearing, and take the other trail. Maybe she would wait longer. If not, he would look everywhere for her, never giving up until they were reunited. Or he could jump. He might survive, though death would be akin to a life without her.

At the edge he stood, never taking his eyes off of her as she waited by the road. His heart burdened with the dilemma, he wished in vain that he had never left her.

Suddenly the sun lifted its head from beneath the ground, the blinding beams shooting all around. The bright light shined, without mercy, onto the young man, straight into his eyes. And as it became harder to see her, his choice became more clear…

The end.

photo1:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2576/3991781650_c845576a27_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3188/3076093908_a261f6e1fb_o.jpg

photo3:http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4065/4406959776_5a07afb4a8_o.jpg

i know places we can go babe

2011-04-19T16:10:00.000-04:00

don't ask me when but ask me why.

don't ask me how but ask me where.

along

2011-04-14T16:02:00.000-04:00

I thought I knew how to pronounce “Willamette”.

With the emphasis on the Will,

my tongue rolled over the lamette.

The bridges that cross it did not help me.

Hawthorne and Burnside,

Morrison too, I bet,

also misspoke the American Indian word.

I always thought it nice,

this noble native name.

Especially after “on the”,

or “to the”, or “by the”.

But now I know I was wrong

and the rhythm has changed completely.

The river I knew… rejects me.

Her once giving tide rescinds.

I can’t reach her water.

Her name is “wilLAmette”.

She flows faster,

more now that she is far from me.

Was I too slow reaching the other coast?

My getting lost made sure I would lose.

And now the Northwest is foreign as Macau,

far-off as Kyoto, distant as Seoul.

I did it:

I named the river and loved her as that.

Now? I hear her true name yet I still do.

I hear “Willamette” and it rhymes with “you”.

Your water flowing faster and away.

I hear the tide recede

and it rhymes with “we”.

The rhythm of your river changing.

It’s mouth no longer speaks to me.

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3285/3048880550_5340c44997_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2167/2379265390_3cdfd43edf_b.jpg

if I ever get the nerve to say

2011-02-07T21:56:00.005-05:00

I walk in and you are there.
Actually, I walk in last if you are there.
Because I want to be the last person you see,
say hello to, maybe hug. Maybe plant a kiss on my cheek
half-embracing me with your forearms against my biceps
and your hands grappling gentle, and your hair:
waves dark and the sweetly smell I am caught in.
The air I kiss instead of your cheek.
I miss because I'm nervous. And I wish I could try again.

Because I see you so once in a while and the whiles seem so long.
I walk in last so we'll be alone,
no one behind me, everyone behind you. Everyone seeing and hearing
but you, like an eclipse, are all.
For a few seconds they are gone and--
maybe you came to our friend's house for his party because of me.
You scanned the line as we entered, and the cold breeze blushing on your cheek
was really the warm red of your smile when you saw me step in.
Over the others' cold shoulders, your almond eyes sometimes sleepy
were looking at me not looking. Maybe.

Those few seconds, my shaky courage: fast beating bass against my chest
so loud only your voice can be heard like the melody of full-lips against a microphone.
For those few seconds we are an indie song.
Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. You're crazy awesome like Karen O.
For those few seconds we are a rap song.
Your Love by Nicki Minaj. Like Nicki, you're the illest.
Those few seconds in between cold street and warm living room,
between cold and warm bodies,
the confession in my head slightly slanting and
the mystery behind your closing eyes when you smile.
Between what I want to say and the real words that I allow.
Between you and me: just maybe.

Maybe next time, after this long while,
I'll walk in first. Step into the between us,
my shaky courage and real words,
I'll sing my confession to your closing eye smile.
You'll blush a warm red.
I won't miss.
And for those few seconds,
with nothing between but everything in front of us..

photo1:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2622/3777706885_773588c61c_o.jpg
photo2:http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1196/534080970_e082db161f_o.jpg

2011-01-21T23:24:00.000-05:00

This is one of those times I hear a song and it feels natural, fits so well I could wear it. I don't think I have anything in common with Adele but when she sings it, I can almost hear my voice pleading the lines. These are my words! And damn can she sing them..

Current Top 5 "after- and not-so-afterthoughts" Songs

2011-01-10T23:03:00.000-05:00

No. 1 (tie)- "not so easy to forgive, harder to forget"

No. 3 (tie)- "I'd let her break my heart again, for those five days of summer in the rain"

No. 5 (tie)- "you desired my attention but denied my affections"

No. 5 (tie)- "never trust a big butt and smile"

No. 2- "the bittersweet between my teeth, trying to find the in-betweens, fall back in love eventually, yeah yeah yeah yeah"

No. 3 (tie)- "something filled up my heart with nothing. someone told me not to cry."

No. 4 (tie)- I've never heard the original.

No. 1 (tie)- "just so you know I was thinkin' of you"

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2609/3849558215_e390b5e223_o.jpg

my new workspace

2011-01-04T01:01:00.000-05:00

Aside from my black journals, I usually write on yellow pads. Dozens of them littering my room like lazy literary loiterers, each carrying not-yet connected pieces of writing, not-yet finished pieces of writing, the will be and the will never be finished, and the Scheisse that should have never been written. I'm a waster of paper, a forest razer, a non-eraser, I crumple and toss. Forgive me Mother Earth... you are another woman I've let down.

So I've made a change. I've made myself a workspace. I'm gonna keep writing in my black journals but instead of painting several yellow pads with sloppy scrawls, I decided to write on my walls. What's better than writing all over your walls? I feel like a kid again.

acrostically,

2010-12-29T22:56:00.000-05:00

Months are receding,

I’m still your biggest fan.

Carrying you on my shoulders, defeated

helps to keep me missing and conceding—

every wish is a beaten dying one.

Love is loosely based.

Lorn with yearn, and stubborn it’s true,

eagerly I’d relive each day with you.

Go from me

and keep what I lost.

Take your prize,

pour, till empty,

out this poor man’s food.

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2102/1875927186_263f46630b_b.jpg

sidewalks

2010-12-27T14:20:00.000-05:00

We were runners.

North on 6^th. West on 20^th.

Up and down the West Side Highway.

Across 14^th, we raced to the bad Goodburger.

But now it’s cold. Inside, I run in circles.

I pretend that you ran away,

that I could never keep up.

But I was always faster, could run longer.

I breathed you in with the Fall.

I needed no music, just your footsteps

following and surrounding stereo of the close open air.

You were the beat keeping my pace.

You paced my heartbeat. It felt right.

I could have kept running.

But you walked away from me.

We were married.

By you, symbolically.

Simply you called me husband.

Hot and sweaty after racing,

I offered to carry your hoodie.

You offered me your hand instead.

I miss my “wife”.

Honeydew, do you miss me too?

You walked away.

Now this is a city of ruins.

All the places we were,

our Union, our Herald.

Our views:

your River Court across the Hudson,

my Brooklyn Heights across the East.

And all the places I go, the portmanteaus

spell out your name.

You were my South of Houston;

Broadway busy, your fashion mind.

You were my Triangle Below Canal;

artful youth, urban and wild.

Now you’re harder to get to

than Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.

And all the songs I love—

you hijacked and I surrendered.

Each mile I run,

I hear you in my stride.

Sidewalks dance slow to my sad beating.

You were my music soul mate.

Now you’re my half-empty bed.

You were my running partner.

Now you’re my shortness of breath—

photo1:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/22/37192974_431a9d3331_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3630/3513243476_0f2b4390c6_o.jpg

Current Top 5 "Christmas" Songs (not for the merry)

2010-12-21T22:18:00.000-05:00

No. 5 (tie)- Classic

No. 4 (tie)- "Santa, you player, I thought we were friends.."

No. 1 (tie)- Despite Macaulay Culkin's antics in this video, this is still a heartbreaking song. It's also the best Christmas in New York song. "Little Italy, Rockefeller tree, Fifth avenue, all i want is you.."

No. 3 (tie)- "They're singing deck the halls, but it's not like Christmas at all.."

No. 3 (tie)- Have yourself a very bitter Christmas.

No. 5 (tie)- "..the snow turned into rain."

No. 1 (tie)- Necessarily. Essential.

No. 4 (tie)- Not for the weak of heart. Ironically.

No. 2- New Christmas favorite. "Those Christmas lights light up the street. Maybe they'll bring her back to me."

photo:http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5083/5277285198_94e08a59f1_o.jpg

pictures

2010-12-18T18:06:00.000-05:00

I had to make a scarecrow.

I was afraid of the scavengers.

You left me without a grave

lying out under the sun

decomposing.

Skin dried,

heart black.

Vulnerable to the sharp beaks

of the birds circling above.

I had to make a scarecrow

but all I had were photos;

pictures telling stories

of the way we were.

A recent past,

a feeling that fell

into memories

painful and scary.

They drove away the birds.

But the hope I had left

I fed to the hungriest black crow.

photo1:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/101/281336012_1735ce9de8_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2339/2280159992_7eec116f5f_o.jpg

Current Top 5 "come back" songs

2010-12-10T21:44:00.000-05:00

No. 5 (tie)- Combat Baby "come back baby"

No. 4 (tie)- Come pick me up "I wish you would.."

No. 2 (tie)- "wait.. they don't love you like I love you.."

No. 4 (tie)- "I'm dressed all in blue and I'm remembering you.. and the dress you wore when you broke my heart."

No. 2 (tie)- "and you're heart starts to wonder where on this earth I could be.."

No. 3- "Lord knows it would be the first time."

No. 5 (tie)- "I wonder if I'll ever see you again.."

No. 1- "I know that somebody's lyin'.."

photo:http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1041/803376610_192754b13b_b.jpg

she comes at night

2010-12-07T12:02:00.000-05:00

She comes to me at night.

She conquers the fire escape as I wait patiently at the window.

She conquers my heart. I desire greatly her affection.

But lips without emotion bring on kisses that bring on sorrow.

She has not my devotion, but rather my attention.

All that she touches does obey.

My eyes follow closely as she advances across the floor.

She captivates me and makes me a target for her charms.

I want her less as I begin to need her more.

No man is an island, but I feel landlocked in her arms.

She conquers all.

Romeos spill blood for her, drunk with infatuation.

She’s the beauty in the tower, waiting for a prince to wake her.

And her face can send a thousand ships of heroes to extinction.

A man will fall before the smile of this deceiving Mona Lisa.

photo:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/25/49410827_1afcd246d7_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1029/539246111_068df1f3f8_z.jpg?zz=1

cynical

2010-12-04T21:57:00.000-05:00

Search for the best and brightest

this rock can offer you car lots

of fishes with lemons mixed in.

And the tempest is merciless to the faithless.

Peruse each face

beyond the cover to the meaning

of the story each mouth tells.

Only the best looking, best sounding

personality should satisfy.

Believe there’s more

than nice eyes and good teeth.

In a face that can paint words

no language can entrap

hides a soul with lips

that can speak them fluently.

Be patient and resolve yourself

to find the perfect flame

is to have light in dark nights.

But night’s dark

brings a shadow allowing nothing to shine

and hearts sleep alone under covers.

Thoughtfulness only keeps you up.

And a personality can’t warm you

with soft arms it doesn’t have.

Be content with what you are spared.

Fools chase after grand illusions

when all you should want

is one who’ll want you back.

photo1:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/121/303633288_448e219a9e_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3199/2886341578_a85790ec78_o.jpg

her name

2010-12-02T22:49:00.000-05:00

She leaves you a number

to call her sometime,

waves goodbye to go downstairs,

across the street

she’ll wait for a cab.

You want to stop her

from being another one-night stand,

another number in the trash,

another reason to want more.

So on cold feet you stand

to look at her with sober eyes,

reach out to hold her

and keep her while you can.

You want to speak

but your breath is foul,

fresh from last night’s last-call drink.

Your lips too tired, cracked and worn

from all the kisses they gave

and the bites they endured—

the blondes who thrilled,

the brunettes you broke.

But now she’s walking out the door,

out the door, out your life.

And its closing time again;

last chance to make your move

and make your plea.

To take a risk,

to take her hand and change your life.

Change your heart and the loneliness

in the morning for something better,

something constant.

But change is so hard

terrifying, impossible.

And she’s gone down the stairs,

now she’s walking on the street.

And the number in your hand,

wrinkled and faded from your sweat,

will never call her back

when she steps into the cab.

photo1:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/122/311179437_bba371a019_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2350/2157097328_7c95ea1f7e_o.jpg

Current Top 5 "Won't help you get through the night" songs

2010-12-02T13:09:00.000-05:00

No. 3(tie)- how could you be so heartless?

No. 1- "I've been walking around for hours, holding on to stems of flowers..." Am I really leaving it all behind..?

No. 4 (tie)- I got it bad

No. 2 (tie)- "Why'd you sing with me at all..?"

No. 5 (tie)- "don't you want the way I feel for you..?"

No. 4 (tie)- "but i can't let it burn.."

No. 2 (tie)- Frank knows. And he sings it best.

No. 5 (tie)- "I'm dressed all in blue and I'm remembering you.. and the dress you wore when you broke my heart."

No. 3 (tie)- "The dice was loaded from the start.. and I bet.. and you exploded in my heart.."

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3045/2689987175_345561c960_b.jpg

About You: An Autobiography

2010-09-10T23:01:00.000-04:00

About You

An Autobiography

by Glenn Sabas

Thanks to you (all of you, my ex-loved ex-loving muses)

Dedicated to you (a specific you, who I dated years ago, who I hope will never read this)

My finger’s plugging a hole in the dam.

But my new pen is filled with new ink.

That’s all I can come up with… -Glenn Sabas

Prologue

Pretend this is a book, an autobiography (as the title suggests). That’ll explain why I’ve included a Thanks, a Dedication, and even a quote (like most good books have). Lucky for you, this is a very short book. Probably the shortest book you’ll ever read. So, you’re welcome!

Chapter 1

This is supposed to be about you. But I didn’t think it would be this hard to write. It’s almost 11:30 a.m. Eastern time. New York City Friday time. Shitty overnight summer job time. My suit is fitting like skin, my coffee’s hot as sin, and each cigarette is a fiery salvation.

If I can write for just two hours, I can finally finish reading one of the two books I brought to kill time at work. There are only a hundred pages left and I need each page of it to last me till morning. But I know they won’t. That’s why I brought the other book. Because those hundred pages will be spent in an hour. I’ll be cracking the second spine by 3:00 a.m. (Coordinated Universal Time -5:00). But that’s if I can write for two hours.

Chapter 2

I guess it’s my stomach. It’s not what anyone would call “settled”. Though I guess it’s really the turkey and Muenster that’s not settling in there. But I did enjoy chewing them up. And they were so kind to my tongue.

Maybe it’s the coffee. Too light and not sweet enough. I originally wanted to ask for it black, but I changed my mind in between the door and the counter. Then I changed my mind back, to black, even faster then the first erred re-decision.

And I thought about that: how it took me the short walk from the door to the counter to change my mind and then change it back and how short that walk was. This is New York. The counter was next to the door.

But then I snapped out of it just in time to watch the guy start pouring the 2%. Damn. I could have asked him to pour another cup, an easier simpler cup that requires only one easy simple pour. But he must have been at the end of his shift because he looked physically and emotionally 2% and about as agreeable as the expired-looking 2% he was pouring into my undesired and yet unpaid-for cup of coffee. Did I stop him and ask for the coffee I wanted? Fugghetaboudit! I watched him stir half a teaspoon of sugar into it, paid for it, painfully, left the store and now I guess I’m still paying for it, but with a different kind of pain in my stomach.

But it wasn’t because I was afraid of him or that he’d angrily throw a stale lemon Danish at my face. I actually think he would have kindly, though tiredly, poured me another cup of coffee. And then I would have felt guilty. I was going to work, with enough energy to be bipolar in my decision making, and he was coming off of his work. I knew what he felt like. Which would warrant guilt. And that kind of guilt is like a stale lemon Danish. Hard to chew and harder to swallow.

Chapter 3

It’s two minutes to 1:00 a.m. now and I still can’t move this pen. A synonym for Writer’s Block? Writer’s Constipation. It’s all up there—inside. If I can just squeeze a thought out…

Chapter 4

On the way to work, I was listening to music. This isn’t newsworthy. I listen to music on my way to anywhere. But on this certain onmywaytowork, every song that played off my iPod was like a wink from an old lady. Shocking.

I realized that I was wrong about the lyrics to each one of those songs. It was the “Songs I thought I knew” playlist. I was mostly wrong about a word or two, which isn’t that bad, but there were at least two dozen songs on this playlist. And they played one after the other.

Imagine your parents calling 6 year old you into the living room and then revealing to you the real and heartbreaking truths about all of life’s magical mysteries.

Play. We put the presents there. Next. We put that dollar under your pillow. Next. (Fill in name here) is not on a long holiday. (Fill in name here) is dead. Next. We had unprotected sex. Pause.

Now that you get my point—I had a revelation. A revealing drive. What’s worse then being completely wrong about something? Being wrong about one or two things about that something that changes that something completely! Changes the whole line? It stings but you can fix your memory. The whole verse? Like a leak in the ship’s hull. You can stay afloat but you’ll have to lose some compartments. But if it changes the whole song? I hope you still like what you hear because you can’t climb back on a boat that’s sinking, especially when you’re already overboard.

Chapter 5

False memory. My revelation got me thinking about it. Isn’t false memory the same as pretending? It’s not lying—well it’s lying to your self. But how can you lie to yourself and not know you’re doing it? Denial? This is getting too complex. I’m gonna stick to one thing: that false memory is the same as pretending.

So what else have I been false remembering? What am I imagining? Are there other playlists? Why am I so self-aware right now?

Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to write. Because I’m too self-aware at the moment…

Chapter 6

Or am I just distracted? My cell phone’s been epileptic since I got to work. Flashing green and shake shake shaking every mid-sentence. It’s nice to be so impersonally popular but I’ve texted more than I’ve written.

Then there’s this memo left on my desk by a woman named “A. Wagner”. I haven’t read the note yet because I usually read who it’s from first and after reading her name—I can’t stop laughing! I don’t know how she could have misspelled her own last name or how I can call myself a grown man and still laugh at the mistake but—she, I hope accidentally, renamed herself “A. Wanger”! I’ll allow a space here for you to laugh.

Chapter 7

I tend to think in lists: playlists, top 5’s, ordered lists.

My top 5 relationships:

5) T my movie loving lover

4) N my short breath

3) S my rocking gypsy soul

2) S my first princess

1) J my longest distance

I blame my music mind. I credit High Fidelity. It’s not prioritizing. It’s not memorializing. It just helps to see an order; a difference in importance, however small. Measure different heights of waves. Because it proves that my life is moving. I don’t care what direction. It just helps to know it’s mobile.

Chapter 8

My top 5 Bond film theme songs

5) For Your Eyes Only (I hate the song! But the title…)

4) You Know My Name (Who doesn’t want to be remembered? And feared?)

3) The World Is Not Enough (It isn’t! But what else do we have?)

2) Tomorrow Never Dies (Because it’s never born. Lyrically the best Bond song. Musically too. And Sheryl Crow? Come on!)

1) Nobody Does It Better (What man hasn’t fantasized being sung to by his lover, “Baby you’re the best”, “How’d you get to be so good?” and that it makes her feel “sad for the rest…”?)

I, in humiliating honesty, imagine a ballroom with all my ex-loves on a stage singing song number 1 to me while, behind them, a giant screen slideshows the best and most random collection of pictures of me being—well, the best!

Chapter 9

But now it’s past 2:00 a.m. and I’m going to put away this frozen pen. Because I’ll never think of anything to write.

I opened my notebook when I got to work because I was thinking of you. I thought that I should write about you. But I can’t. Forgive the title. It was the original and well attempted intention.

So I’ll leave you with this short book. A short autobiography. Maybe I’ll try again when I’m thinking of you next. Maybe I won’t.

Epilogue

I can blame the coffee and the funny memo. My stomach which settled hours ago. My car stereo epiphany. I can even blame my listfull mind. (Listfull isn’t a real word, but I think it should be the official antonym for listless.)

But, I know now, that the reason is you. Actually, the reason is me. But it’s mostly you. Confused?

I can’t write about you because I was right before. I’m too self-aware. So it turns out I was right about all of the reasons. All of them have to do with the self-aware thing. But that’s your fault, isn’t it? When I think of you, I become too aware of myself!

You’re the reason I can’t right anything about you! You were the quiet ocean in between waves. You never cracked my Top 20. Stale lemon Danish. Pity coffee.

The honest memory, the accurate truth is that you bored me. And we were together pretty long. So you bored me for a pretty long time! Bitch…

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3069/2635608241_9dc4b8cfce_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3123/2641352297_b64e143bb4_o.jpg

index

2010-09-06T23:40:00.000-04:00

I found the 3x5

in The Great Gatsby.

Dusty, long unread

my bookcase of high-school must reads

on the shelf of love lost or tragedied.

The ruled side

is unwritten upon.

I’ve often used blank index cards

to keep my place

when I couldn’t go on..

I needed a bookmark.

I was glad to find one

in the book I wanted to read

again. I had to wipe the dust off.

I sneezed when I turned it over.

Not the book.

The 3x5, I thought it was blank

I was wrong. I read the back,

then I sneezed.

Does that explain my teary eyes?

I had a bookmark

but needed another. I was reading two books:

No Longer Human- Osamu Dazai

and F. Scott’s summer story

of dimming lights on Long Island’s shore.

A small card of tips

on taking care of scars,

helping heal my new tattoos.

I used it for the translated

Japanese text, about a man

unable to be a real person.

Women loved him.

He didn’t know why.

The index card you wrote on,

I kept where I found it.

With me, reading about a man

who became someone

so that he would be loved.

The woman didn’t.

He didn’t know why.

Are we the same? Men?

In struggle, in searching?

From what I read,

I would say we are.

But what I read

would say we aren’t.

Not the books, the 3x5.

Once, you believed

I was different from them.

Through time, through wet eyes,

I read, “I love you”

You wrote, “You’re the best!!”

“Damn sexy too…”

I was not inhuman.

I loved you too.

And your compliments ranked me higher

than Fitzgerald’s self-made somebody.

But the index card is a relic

of a place held long ago.

In the ends, both men died

without what they lived for most.

Not a person, loved. Not a person loved.

That place, we’ve long left

I’ve already moved far from.

But I still sneeze when I read the 3x5.

Am I better than that person you wrote of?

Can I be loved more?

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3255/2404777118_72967dea83_o.jpg

duologue

2010-08-02T13:46:00.000-04:00

He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins… What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not. –Cormac McCarthy, The Road

In complete stillness, a stone girl is dancing. –Zen Master Seung Sahn, commenting on Chapter 35 of the Tao te Ching

It’s as humorous as a Zen priest, how a picture can stoke dying desires. Things so permanent should be left to obscure.

Recall how we met. I like to think that it was passing each other in the narrow hallway of my dormitory. You coming to see your boy, I leaving to see my girl. There were no words but I remember it more than the first time we spoke.

There were a few people around then but in the corridor: just us. Us of separate lives and different My’s. We of opposite directions. Paralleling pre our destinations.

I recognize in the picture I saw today, how we’re all Velcro-ed and tumbling in a rolling cage. The motion is ceaseless but the moments—look inside—are random and unmovable. We crash and cling. We rip away. To then from. We of opposite directions.

And the fact of it: we might be with the same people at different times, but never at the same spot of the cage’s rolling. Never joined at the same place on our Velcro-ed bodies.

In the picture you are all smiling. You are standing behind one. Shouldered between two. Almost the most hidden body.

Your black tank spaghetti strapped on a beach outside Roma. The blue green, yellow black of the sheer fabric held at your waist, scattered inches grabbing at the fair cream of your legs’ skin. The bikini of green shades, I haven’t forgotten, is covered up.

In the hallway, you are walking. Balancing phantom books on your head, weighing nothing enough not to dent your moving hair. On the beach the same of brown shades waving, trying while pony-tailed.

I realize I’m seeing motion back where life has left. In a memory, and in a picture. Both moments rolled past in our tumblings.

“Memory recalled do violence to its origins.” Yet I can’t murder it from my mind. “What you alter has yet a reality, known or not.” In the blindness of remembering, every thing is found through alterations. And nothing of it ever realized.

But you in stilled moments, I hardly remember, are no less honest than the you-less present. And you are more real in a picture and a memory than in this you-less present.

Because the past is a museum of presence. Hallways of statues. Beaches of whole ruins.

In our hallway, we are always walking. Towards but we never reach. I think that you are smiling. Like in the picture.

It might be an alteration, but no violence can harm you in our hallway.

On the beach I remember you reclining, next to me, on an inflated island. A trampoline float on the shallow lago. You called me something nice. I thought you were pretty.

This was before the picture. Though I wasn’t in it, I remember where I was. Not far off, with a friend hiding smoke rings in a slanting forest.

I didn’t feel it then. I didn’t feel it in the hallway. It was weeks and miles from that picture, when we rolled into each other and Velcro-ed sweetly.

But that feeling—it is the violence done to these memories. It alters them. That I see you in the hallway and in the picture different than when they were present.

That I see you with eyes that loved you. Falsely, I remember loving you in our hallway. And you loved me, next to me, above the water.

The past is a handwritten manuscript of two-way monologues.

I sculpted the statues. I restored the ruins. The present is more real, but even more dishonest.

I might still miss you. I feel that I don’t.

I might still love you. I think that I don’t.

I know now the meaning of Master Seung Sahn’s comment: “In complete stillness, a stone girl is dancing.”

My stone princess, in pictures and in hallways. Always you walk through my perfect ruins.

photo1:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2314/1664273142_0695e5d018.jpg

photo2:http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1112/537033583_10fa12dd66.jpg

duck hunting

2010-07-29T07:49:00.000-04:00

It’s time to be angry. You’ve dodged it. Ducked it. I was sad. Now I’m mad. Is it alright if I call you bad names?

I heard our song, driving to work. The one with the piano, Martha something and the English guy singing. But I guess it’s only one of our songs. No couple ever has only one song. We had a few. Couples are greedy. But we—our flaw? Needy. Needy.

And they’re not the same. Though they have some similar symptoms. One is better than the other. Can you guess?

A hint: We passed our anniversary. Three years of mutual ignorance!

Here’s the answer: You can’t have two needy people together. That’s like Duck Duck Goose with two geese and no ducks. You forget who’s chasing who. We were chasing each other. And not the good kind of chasing; the right kind.

Couples should be like relay racers. The baton keeps them in the race but it’s each other that they keep running to.

You and I were like debt collectors; debt collectors who were indebted to each other. Thinking we were owed, yet never being able to pay off what we couldn’t collect.

Two geese on opposite sides of an imaginary circle. Round and round, porcelain horses impaled through their hearts. Always moving, never forward. Running away. Running after.

Greedy couples last longer. It takes time to bleed a person empty—as long as you’re patient and you want a lot from them.

It’s easier than needing one or two things. It’s better to have more ducks in your circle.

Our songs? Because we were needy, it’s like we were having an argument through our song choices. One song for what you didn’t. Another was begging of me.

These songs don’t play at receptions. They don’t get requested or dedication-ed on Light F.M. But they made up the conversation that was our relationship. Which is why they were our songs. And why I don’t listen to them anymore.

They’re the songs you hear on a Merry-go-Round; the soundtrack of your running in place. Dropping meaning with each revolution. The rounding wind fencing you in. You get dizzy. Stop the turning! Stop the music!

If you bit my tongue every time I kissed you, I would have stopped wanting to kiss you. That’s what happened with these songs. And now, I don’t want to hear them anymore.

But somehow, I still like them. They’re great songs. I used to love them. I won’t delete them. I might even hear them again, at least months from now, and not feel dizzy.

Or I might meet another goose and need these songs to help me argue with her.

I started out mad at you but now I’m mad at myself. Because I picked the right songs and let them play us out. Because we had the same taste in music.

And because I tagged a goose when I couldn’t find any ducks. Or was it you that tagged me? You did!

Did you…?

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3154/2559986296_93e396ce6e.jpg

photo2:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2519/3998170570_fff96f4719.jpg

49 Ways (to leave and be left)

2010-07-23T20:24:00.000-04:00

Walk out on her.

Run far from her.

Slow-drift apart on your bed.

Stray away, stay away,

move too fast right away.

Slowly roll off of her bed.

Climb off her Vespa.

Climb out her window.

Leave her behind on the sidewalk.

Leave her on the roof

or in a bar. Find your car.

Take the subway, take the MAX,

take the BART.

She threw you out.

She drove you home.

She ended it on the phone.

She traded up, quit you,

or packed you in.

She courtesy fucked you “so long!”

Gmail her, text her,

Facebook status her.

Write her a sorry Dear Jane.

Tell her you’re gay.

Tell her you’re straight.

Or honestly say she’s insane.

Cross the street or a bridge,

cross your arms and say nothing.

Wear a cross; you’re a new man of God.

Catch the elevator down.

Catch a rare new disease.

Or admit that your feelings are gone.

You broke her heart.

You broke her leg.

You pissed off her dad and large brother.

You used her, cursed at her,

were too much of a pushover.

You slept with her young single mother.

Move away.

Forget her day.

Lie to her from the start.

Forget to call.

But worst of all,

spend New Year’s Eve apart.

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3199/3155924284_dccace316a.jpg

photo2:http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4021/4237852544_5ea3866340.jpg

5 hard ways to leave

2010-07-22T12:21:00.000-04:00

Out the window,

one boot on,

your pants unbuttoned,

your hand in one boot.

Lucky is the stinking metal

of a dumpster banging against your ass.

Through the door,

leave nothing behind.

Nod to her boyfriend,

surrender his girlfriend.

Penance is cold after-hours

when buses don’t run

and your cell-phone is dead.

Up the stairs,

perfume and smoke.

Your hands in leather gloves,

your heart out on her street.

Murder is a humid conversation

in a bright room

with your stone mind.

In the car,

turn down the stereo,

turn off the ignition,

open the door, “Get out.”

Justice is crawling through bushes

for keys she threw

farther than she was thrown.

But the hardest

will be with you.

We haven’t met.

I’m sorry I’ll be mean.

Leaving is appraising

all you’ve stored up,

then choosing which to save

from your slowly burning room.

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3291/2408380913_d4c89af7d1.jpg

Current Top 5 "my next girl" songs

2010-07-20T13:03:00.000-04:00

No. 2- awesome song/ awesome video of little boy falling in love with cute girl and lipsynching awesome song

No. 4 (tie)- because Jack Johnson's still got it and also Mmmm banana pancakes...

No. 3 (tie)- retro video, The Outsiders meets One Tree Hill (when are we gonna learn that ultimatums don't work?)

No. 5- who else but The Bonedaddys can sing about vindaloo and underwear in the same sentence and still make you wanna dance?

No. 3 (tie)- The Black Keys are fantastic! This song is like a big delicious beer.

No. 4 (tie)- Train is back! I like this rapping thing that Patrick Monahan is doing.

No. 1- after hearing this song and seeing this video, Martina Sorbara is officially my "next girl"

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2471/3636921327_88134047be.jpg

kimchee omelet

2010-07-16T15:02:00.000-04:00

Oh ex-lover,

she won’t treat me anything anymore.

Oh jelly-thing, sweet-bean,

I’m mixing monikers,

tangling terms of.

Don’t blame it on alcohol,

but my sobered self-imposing

of self-absorbed sobriety.

I’m too sober, thinking.

I can’t hear what I’m writing.

I hear the flapping

of a paper tomato taped

to a wall in front of a fan.

I see her blanket in its red skin.

Her name rhymes with its stem: green.

Tomato, oregano,

origami, tatami.

Tokyo isn’t far from her Seoul.

Cities across ocean.

There’s a shark under my bed.

Cities across nation.

The egg came from the chicken,

I read—in my New York Times.

Carl Sagan said

that making breakfast “from scratch,

you have to begin with the universe.”

A crack from Long Island to Tillamook Head.

Two people making breakfast on opposite ends.

I can’t cook eggs alone anymore.

I need her help to make a cheesy omelet.

Please tell her, I still love

her macaroni cheesiness.

And there’s koh-pee in my mug.

Inside joke, like “what’s kim-chee?”

It’s in my head, what Socrates said.

“The hottest love has the coldest end.”

If my heart is the omelet,

then she is kim-chee.

Spicy enough, I hope,

to stay warm a little longer.

I’ll sit at the table,

sipping water in my mug.

Kim-chee, Mianhamnida,

Mahal kita, Kamsahamnida.

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3251/3146669395_0017d81686.jpg

Song Away

2010-07-13T21:14:00.000-04:00

I wanna dance with somebody!

Dance with me tonight?

You and me Dancing in the moonlight,

Dancing in the dark.

When the sun comes out

I’ll take you home.

Let’s just fall in love again.

Don’t be cruel. Just say yes!

I’ll stand by you When the levee breaks.

Ooo baby baby,

This time, I won’t let you down.

C’mon C’mon, Sweet thing!

Please forgive me.

I want you back.

I’ll do anything,

Find a new way:

Breakfast in bed, Dinner at eight.

If I had $1000000,

Spend it all on you.

I will buy you a new life,

I’ll buy you a rainbow.

For you, Only you.

You get me.

Don’t you want me?

Pick up the phone, Save me.

Bring it on home to me.

All I want is you.

Baby, you’re my light.

Take me home tonight,

Turn your lights down low.

Let me love you again,

Let me be the one.

It’s so easy to fall in love.

It’s so hard Coming to terms.

Hello it’s me:

My own worst enemy.

It’s all over now.

All my fault.

I love you came too late.

Baby come back!

I want to hold your hand,

Carry you home, Shelter from the storm.

Hey, hey, what can I do?

Brown eyed girl, Nobody does it better.

Pretty woman, You are so beautiful.

Come to my window Hot legs!

Roll to me, Kiss me,

Read my mind.

Can you tell?

I’m lost without you.

Pinch me,

Please please me,

Pretend to be nice.

Can’t you see The tracks of my tears?

Where’d you go?

Amsterdam? Vienna?

Return to me,

Take a chance on me,

Take another little piece of my heart.

I still think Someday we’ll be together.

It never entered my mind You’ve lost that loving feeling.

I can see clearly now. I can’t win.

I can’t make you love me The way I am.

Maybe, One day

You’ll think of me.

Change your mind.

Don’t stop believin’.

A fool such as I,

King of wishful thinking,

I just don’t think I’ll ever get over you.

I keep waiting for earthquakes;

Waiting for my real life to begin.

If I never see your face again

Everything will be alright.

I will survive, Long as I can see the light.

Mercy mercy me!

I want to break free!

Achy breaky heart, Release me!

photo1:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2306/2182667381_0dae3b5a0a.jpg

photo2:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2036/2300190277_360853ae0d.jpg

paper cups

2010-07-12T09:44:00.000-04:00

When I hear your name

I feel like breaking glass,

kicking an old woman,

spitting on a flower.

You’re spilled coffee;

hot and a bother to clean up.

You’re black coffee;

strongly bitter, flavor overcoming.

You’re light and sweet coffee;

artificially arranged.

You’re Starbucks Coffee;

pricey hypocrisy, bland and lame.

But I do love their espressos.

“Two doppios for Glenn with a G!”

When you told me your name

I felt like glass breaking,

helping an old lady,

picking you a daisy.

Like I spilled my coffee,

I was hot and bothered.

Your smell, like black coffee,

was richly flavored, strongly filling.

You were light and sweet coffee

my loving tongue was lovely sipping.

You were Seattle’s Best Coffee.

Honest origin, humbly made with skill.

But your colors changed from red to green.

My palms went shaking.

I woke up crashing.

Escaping, I swore

to only drink juice.

But when I hear your name

I feel like breaking promises.

photo1:http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4003/4514495576_e2fb5a8d1d.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3654/3695615600_9bf269ecac.jpg

I'd live them again

2010-07-10T08:29:00.002-04:00

“But I’d trade all of my tomorrows, for one single yesterday…” – Janis Joplin, Me and Bobby McGee

Take back my car.

My new suit. My job.

Two tattoos

and the scar on my leg.

The dozens of novels

I don’t mind reading again.

Two sunglasses

and bracelets of leather.

Take back my hard drive.

My new songs. My G1.

The thousands of minutes

I don’t mind talking again.

Two of my blogs

and the unfinished novella.

The hundreds of pages

I don’t mind writing again.

Take back my rank.

My new muscles. My stuffed leopard.

Take back me.

My future. My age.

Two coastal cities

and a dozen albums of photos.

The thousands of miles

I don’t mind flying again.

If Two can Take back The hundreds of days,

I’d live them again with You.

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2637/3875179889_f513250f56.jpg

don't read this

2010-07-08T18:05:00.002-04:00

I’m pretty good

at drinking beer,

picking songs,

and driving stick.

Knotting a tie

in several ways.

Matching meats

for a decent sandwich.

Name all the Bond films,

explain meanings of flowers,

fold napkins into roses,

drink martinis shaken dry.

But I’m special agent skilled

at making especially bad decisions.

I can double talk,

find my pants in the dark,

semi-swagger walk,

bend a bluesy harp.

I can double take,

stealthy nympho ninja,

while we’re both mid-gait,

in una strada stretta.

And if you notice,

don’t let me talk.

If you talk too,

there’s no hope for you.

So this is my disclaimer.

A warning, my future ex,

because I’ve learned from bad decisions.

I’m good at sex,

not what comes next.

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3231/2923992303_1a6da1a0e1.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3003/2894944587_7f2983e8f3.jpg

carry on

2010-07-06T14:47:00.000-04:00

Because I’m writing about it.

Not about you.

Well—a little about you.

But the story is about everyone.

Characters I amalgamated

using others I know,

I’ve been with,

and my selves.

All my peoples

I moved to one city.

And that city

of similar weather,

on the opposite ocean,

of roses,

of you.

The setting I chose.

Because I know my city too well.

It’s not magic, nostalgic.

I’m not falling for it

like I am with yours.

Because it’s far away.

I miss it.

Writing, researching.

I’m back there.

I cross the arcing phone lines.

Northeast to Northwest.

I revisit the spoked plane routes.

I write for escaping.

Connecting letters.

Connect JFK to PDX.

It’s laying me over.

SLC, LVS.

Delaying me.

And the numbers:

1 to 10 digits.

Connecting.

Chapters I wrote: numeral-ed.

I’m blocked.

UTC -8:00 to UTC -5:00:

minus 3, take 3 hours away.

Deleting numbers.

To be with you is to go back in time.

Because you live in my past.

I’m Eastern.

Connecting Central, subtracting Mountain.

You’re Pacific.

And I’m writing my novel in real time.

I’m counting down.

Minus days, take away time.

To get to the end chapter,

the last letters, and no more numbered pages.

Because I’m living in two cities.

Yours: 3 hours in the past.

When I finish the book

I can live in mine:

3 hours, the future.

For now, I’m waiting, writing.

Canceling my outbound,

loving two cities.

Not returning from the past.

Because I’m living in two time zones.

Laying over, connecting.

I’m waiting at the gate.

I’m waiting to depart you.

photo1:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/142/329975640_c4d46eeae5_z.jpg?zz=1

photo2:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/171/376224617_fda51e48f4_o.jpg

you agreed (about Twilight)

2010-07-05T09:42:00.002-04:00

Fuck werewolves and vampires. I got a silver bullet chambered and sunshine to spare. But that wouldn’t kill him, would it?

What’s with modern love? That’s what this is all about. No one’s excited by humanity and human relations anymore. Someone has to have fangs. Whether they glitter or go Teen Wolf. Remember that movie? Michael J. Fox all furry and slam-dunking! That was the best terrible teen movie that featured a werewolf. Because it didn’t take itself seriously.

What about Buffy? Angel? Up the ass with monsters! And teen love drama! But I guess it wasn’t angst-ridden enough? Not serious enough?

It’s all about the fangs and the bloodlust. It isn’t painful enough in real life. In real life, loving someone isn’t as fatal.

Why doesn’t Borders have the Mishima book I want? Or Barnes and Noble have Mandery? Why are the shelves being shelved with new books about vampire jonesin’? And I’m talking about the Fiction aisles which are only double the size of the Twilight section combined with the Young Adults aisle which seemingly has been annexed by the Meyers Republic. Why does Twilight have its own aisle?

I can’t even use the word in any of my writings sans the fear that readers will think I’m making a reference! And it’s such a gorgeous word…

I even thought, once upon a better time, of naming my future son Edward, the Americanization of my father’s name. Can’t now! And I seriously considered Jake. But I might as well name him Twilight McCullen and my daughter Beautiful Whitebird (though I’m no percent American Indian). And all because reality has become too livable for the young generations. Love too bearable. Human nature is understandable now. The sins we visit upon those we love are forgivable

And control. How can you love someone who can easily control themselves? Give me the animal! The demon! Let me pet it! Provoke it! Excite me!

How arrogant for us to assume that vampires, immortal and aged, care about something as human and un-matured as high school coupling! That werewolves would get caught in tangled triangled teen love!

I should write my own series of books! It would be called Red Seas. Plot: in the future, male teen human living in a dreary coastal water-mining colony in the Northwest part of Mars, falls for a female Martian, who looks human but in sunlight looks like a mermaid, while his childhood female friend, who is human but, when horny, turns into a unicorn, finds herself falling in love with the male teen human, who, in the end, turned out to be a vampire all along. What? Fangs sell!

Did that sound ridiculous? Does millions of dollars sound ridiculous? Movie franchise? Bookstore monopoly? The only difference between my series and the one in discussion is that my series hasn’t been written yet.

But if I did write it, millions of teens and middle-aged married couples would buy and read and love my books. Because they can escape from their lives. Their loves. Because the only thing harder and more painful than the love they’ve got or haven’t got is the same love with monsters involved. Fangs and bloodlust. And if these kids can make their unexplainable otherworldly love work, then maybe humans can too.

But we know this already. Remember Love in the Time of Cholera? Nick and Norah’s Playlist? Not enough death?

How about Titanic? (I loathe that movie! But it’s better than Twilight!)

Are humans the problem? How about Wall-E? If robots can make love work, then surely we humans can too!

My point is that Fuck vampires and Fuck werewolves. Especially if they're teenagers. (By the way, the vampire may look like he’s 25 and act like a teenager, but he’s still very very old and why doesn’t it bother anyone else that he hasn’t grown up in the decades he’s been un-living?)

We humans all have bullets with our names on it and we all have our crosses to bear. Throw in love and we may as well be undead. Because when you’re in love, doesn’t it feel like you can’t die? (That’s the opening line for Red Seas! Hah!)

Seriously, there’s nothing wrong with a fangless human love story. Because vampires don’t die and werewolves don’t exist. But human love can and does. It is fatal. And fuckin hell it’s painful!

But like I said before, we all know this already. And you knew this when we were still together.

While everyone is out buying copies of Red Seas, in the future, you’ll be at home reading Cold Mountain or Memoirs of a Geisha. Which is why I loved you.

And why in this pre-apocalyptic world of literary teen monster fetish-ing… I will always be Team You.

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3314/3579744488_9dd4e3e424_b.jpg

2nd of July

2010-07-02T08:45:00.000-04:00

You had different laughs of different births

and destinies truly singing.

I set out to define each one.

Memorized, I made a mapping.

Of past and possible sources.

Predicted where each would come from next.

All your laughings; gentle markings

of my enamored purposed jests.

You had ways to say “no” that were of

the same yet different languages.

Dialects; from these homonyms

you chose with wit so swiftly.

Passioned boldly; briefly word

seizing motion, meaninged clearly.

How you turned down my proposings:

the teasing “no!” I miss most dearly.

And your chin when rising subtle

as you shyly, coyly, smiled,

seemed to reach for rounding cheektops,

lashes bowing for you closed-eyed.

And your frowning moaning whining,

sighing “Aww…” and pleading “Baby…”.

fake complaining; love concealing;

seeking more affection—maybe…

If you’re wondering my motive

for this list of praise deliberate,

though the you I praise have gone,

from me, I must with pain still celebrate.

I’ll imagine the fluffy candleholder,

icing-ed colors and tiny fires.

And pretend you present for one sing-along,

one prayer for your desires.

In the selfish silence, I’ll hijack a candle.

Memory fishing—woeful wishing.

With a deep wounded sigh, I’ll beg of the smoke

to gift back who I’ve been missing.

For if all my wishes were made into horses,

I’d brand them all with your name.

And every one of my crowded stables

from each other would look the same.

But the meaning of the phrase I used:

satiric self-serving simile.

It’s neither generous nor realistic,

though there they may be no meaning, actually.

So I’ll go back to the motive,

the reason for my listing.

To celebrate and praise you,

offer you my strongest wishing.

Six months of Independence

yet still two days till.

I wish you a life bright and lovely as fireworks.

And all your desires fulfilled.

Happy Birthday

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3144/2637772777_7bd78c947e.jpg

gone to fish

2010-06-27T07:25:00.001-04:00

At the edge of Chelsea Piers,

across: a New Jersey skyline.

Modest, reflecting envious

of what we turned our backs to.

The driving range behind us;

towering spotlights, huge rounds

along the green hundreds

of netted yards.

Once in a while, a golf ball

surpassed the club.

Fleeing for the cold purple

of river water

at our feet.

Cannonball of white;

dimpled maker of a dimple

on the dark screen,

sinking, swallowed below

by an enormous long body of current.

Zigging—sidewinding—Zagging.

Wide stream within a larger stream.

A night swimmer.

The Hudson River Snake.

I made offerings

of cigarette butts

and spit

while you looked away

at the mansions of yachts

moored overnight,

some overweek.

The largest, I nicknamed

The Bloomingdale’s Battleship,

I knew from a week earlier

watching it parallel park

between two cruisers

that could have been its lifeboats.

I don’t remember if I did,

but I hope I told you about that stunning scene.

I forget more with each remembering.

Details swallowed in the river.

Jeans, I still own, over black Hanes,

white Hanes under a black polo,

or was it a golf shirt?

the thick leather watch I’m wearing now,

and tall spikes of hair.

But my feet are in the water now

with the flavors of Jamba Juice

we drank,

the color of the straws…

The yachts are gone,

back to the unknown republics of their flags.

And the driving range

could be a football field

in a faraway Friday night.

I leave more on this page;

dimples in a river of black ink,

swallowed.

I have to squint now to see

the jealous skyline sinking.

Swallowed.

The whole scene now,

swallowed.

But you

looking away at empty waters,

across to bare sky.

Brown summery dress

near but darker, your skin.

Waving, just loose,

in breezes it crawls and clings

to your shape.

I knew then I couldn’t keep you.

As I know now.

More stunning than the yacht’s maneuverings.

You are mythic

like the swimmer

in the river.

Now my eyes strain to see you.

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3331/3329992095_c9958184f1.jpg

is done

2010-06-26T14:53:00.000-04:00

Like I used to

close my fingers on your stomach.

Barely touching.

Breeze a whisper at your ear.

Hardly singing.

Damp the tip of your nose with a lick.

Slightly smelly.

Break your smile with a word of my doubt.

Mistrust of the Future.

And I used to

strum your strings in the cellular air.

Honest lullaby-ing.

Roll you with me on bamboo mats.

Sleepless resting.

Bring you milk in bed, thirsty and spent.

Coupled tired.

Quiet your confidence with a word of my pride.

Misspeak of the Present.

When I used to

dig through YouTube to freshen your Inbox.

Laughing receiving.

Blind myself in the darkness of your curls.

Hiding, breathing.

Muss my hair while fed live to your screen.

Fighting, receding.

Drown your cheeks with a word of my resentment.

Mistake of the Past.

But I used to

bargain badly for more time alone.

Abandon your argue through the door to the road.

Soak you in my sulking till you let go of the rope.

Wake up, measure the blanket to make sure you weren’t cold.

Like I used to.

When.

And I used to.

But I never brought you flowers.

I hope he does.

photo:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/103/282327168_e205a48578.jpg

i nostri ieri

2010-06-24T08:32:00.001-04:00

Maybe I knew,

lying on that stone bench

my head held in your denim lap.

The half hour crawling East above us.

In its wake,

the contrails of night skied clouds.

In the draft,

dusty bodies of stars

being dragged West

to the reaches of the Atlantic.

Your face eclipsed

the moon over the Mediterranean.

Rare and beautiful.

I only saw this once.

The night before,

lying on that red sofa

my head held in your denim lap.

The half hour crawling East

past the two stairwell windows.

I held your hand

under the leather chest of my jacket.

We watched the nothing being dragged

from one window to the other.

My drunken eyes eclipsed

your Midwestern face.

Blurred and shapeless.

I didn’t see you at all.

Both nights I looked up

and couldn’t see your face.

Each time,

my back ached.

On hard leather.

On stiff stone.

Neither, did I want to sit up.

Your smell soaked through my spine.

Your birthday, “Ciao bello.”

“Buona notte,” the next day,

“principessa.”

The First days.

Maybe I knew.

Half hours reaching the Pacific.

Even then.

The Atlantic dragging dawned clouds.

The First days.

The sun over the Mediterranean.

That there would be Last days.

Dusty stars over the Midwest.

exes have marked

2010-06-23T15:43:00.000-04:00

Where we go

the flat tops of an X.

Our lines split apart

from the center.

The dark knot of our crossing.

A blot of ink

thick, deep black.

The point our two lines

vanished.

We drew straight to the middle,

to each other,

from where we were

the flat bottoms of the X.

It was still a hill.

We climbed.

An arrowhead.

We sharpened.

We tipped.

We were shot somewhere far,

telescopic,

but near the end.

We didn’t know.

We didn’t see

past the top.

It was just the middle.

Where we would meet,

stay. Rest;

take a break from our climbings.

Who knows when they will go?

We viewed all the places we could go.

When we met:

face to face.

But below, around,

the countries all possible.

We turned away,

sat side by side.

Remarking the cities,

the roads carrying people,

the oceans and reservoirs,

the skies stained starry.

Memorials downhill

upon green stirring grass.

And in the air between

red heaven and black earth,

a longing streak, dreams of dawn.

desire to climb

need to roll away

We ended with our backs touching.

We leaned on each other.

Depended.

There always,

one behind the other.

Who forgets first?

What you look like face to face.

How my breath feels on your nose.

The end, we finally saw

below, in the calling countries,

around, in the sunburning horizon.

Who pushes first?

Off me. Off you.

Away.

The top of our hill;

dulled arrowhead.

The middle: the end.

Climbing is another way to descend.

The beginning.

We started for the tops of the X.

To his own grass stirring.

Her own sky starring.

Exes

we made with our two lines.

The dark naught of our crossing.

The roads carrying people,

grids of their intersectings.

Atop my flattened line

I see life below.

My land marked with Exes;

losing game of tic-tac-toe .

photo:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/195/454556806_a40fef726c.jpg

in You

2010-06-18T10:18:00.000-04:00

there’s an O in no.

in lost. in gone.

there’s one alone

after the start of forever.

they’re everywhere: these O’s.

one for each person.

have you noticed there are two

in nobody? no more?

i find it in the morning.

it’s with me in mourning.

O what i lost! O what is gone!

You are what. the O in who.

the O you left me.

in my center. alone.

there’s one in Your name,

in Your city,

in Your state.

in the middle of a Voodoo Doughnut,

glazed goodness around it.

an O in karaoke

and in the song “Soul to Squeeze”.

three in The Boiler Room

your friend, You, and me.

three little o’s in the bowling balls

we rolled down long lanes.

our lips mimicked the round shape,

taking shots from a round black tray.

O what is gone! O what i lost!

in love. do you see it?

the O keeps lovers together.

there’s two in the phrase

we juggled between us.

there’s two in the bedroom.

You and me.

O’s all around us

in the blind but loud air.

hear them in our moans.

feel them in our touch.

O what i lost! O what is gone!

it takes two to make sorrow.

just one to make broken.

two to forgive.

two to come back.

but also two in not possible.

the same two in moving on.

no more. nobody.

i wish i could forget.

but there’s an O there as well.

it reminds me of the O in the middle of You.

i can take it and use it

to make me whole again.

but two letters still remain: y and u.

there’s two in moved on.

but only one in let go.

the two letters keep asking me,

i alone and whole,

why can’t i

let go of you?

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2540/4040172828_1feab60581.jpg

my silver geisha

2010-06-13T20:59:00.000-04:00

She was white;

my first.

I was a virgin;

clumsy.

I didn’t know where to hold her.

I fumbled with her parts.

Eventually I lost her

to another man.

But she was old by then.

Tired and worn out.

I bruised her much.

I broke her body;

her spirit.

I’ve had others since her

but I still love her

wherever she is.

You have to treat her like a horse.

I learned.

She was damaged;

my second.

Some things she kept from me,

refused to tell me.

How much she had left.

How fast she was running,

how far.

I fed her.

I bathed her.

I rode her easy.

And as hard as she could take.

I was with a girl when she died.

She had nothing left. She gave up on me.

I miss her.

Then came my third.

Fancy, European.

On the outside she was gorgeous.

Slim, her body of sexy lines.

I longed to be inside her.

When I was,

she always stopped.

I pushed deeper

sinking it into the floor

but she wouldn’t react.

I hated her.

She teased me with her looks.

Inside, she sagged and cracked.

I left her.

I never want to see her again.

But then I found you,

my silver geisha.

It was lust

the first time I saw you.

Your name means heavenly.

I take you with me always.

I hate leaving you for too long.

I enter you as often as I can.

There are no limits to your power.

Slow and smooth

to faster

to harder

you roar beneath me.

My touch is soft

and you quiver, you moan for more.

I press heavy

and we fly.

The others never moved like you;

agile, athletic.

You see far

in the bright glow of your eyes.

I love you.

More than my first,

she was impaled on a mall parking lot pole.

Joan (of Arc. I mistakenly thought she was impaled too)

More than my second,

Christine (she was also red and American)

she died on me in the middle of the road.

I martyred her for charity.

And my third,

Val the Green German.

She was taken away. Far away, I hope.

But you, Celine, have my love.

Your fate will be different,

better.

One day you will go,

I will take care of you,

protect you until then.

I’ll feed you,

bathe you.

I will be gentle.

I will be rough.

My silver geisha.

On your island they gave you

a name: celestial.

Toyota Celica.

My Celine.

photo:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/56/144354035_1efefc4f80.jpg

i've no candles

2010-06-12T07:46:00.002-04:00

but I have cigarettes.

In the dark, I can’t see in front of me

I can’t see behind me either.

I feel the hollow of the room

a wide open I can’t fill alone.

It’s not the same room it was with the lights on,

before the fuse blew.

I can imagine my way around

Let my remembering muscles see.

The door isn’t far

and beyond still darkness.

Still as the photographs on my wall

I stopped noticing with the lights on.

Before the fuse blew.

I don’t have a flashlight

but I have cigarettes.

This is the same blackout of sleep.

It’s dark but it’s warm.

The closed-eyed consciousness of dreaming.

I hear their voices, the familiar scents around me.
I feel their hands on me.

The blindness of remembering.

If I close my eyes,

less light than none.

Blackout.

I have nothing

but I have cigarettes.

A few little lights.

What will I see when I open my eyes?

Who will light my cigarette?

The voices quiet, the hands pull away.

But one.

I purse my lips, perch a cigarette between them.

A flame floats before me.

The far end burns and in its glow

I can make out her face.

Her head is slanted

nodding slow.

Long ago

I cheated on her, I never told her.

The cigarette heavies in my lips

it seems to reach out far.

She came here to tell me she knows.

I think.

She came to light my first cigarette:

endless cigarette of Guilt

I can barely smoke it,

I put it out.

She’s gone.

I feel a hand from behind.

It squeezes my shoulder, massages.

I find another cigarette

the hand reaches around to light it.

I can’t see her.

She stays behind.

Just the bright spot ahead of me.

We weren’t together long.

Two people in a waiting room.

I didn’t love her.

Even when she discovered

a possible permanence in me.

She loved me.

I couldn’t leave.

She let me go.

I never looked back.

Even now, she’s behind me.

She lit my second cigarette—

what I wouldn’t give her: Mercy.

I smoke the whole thing.

I take my time with the dying fire.

I leave her again.

I hear singing next to me,

a soft serenade in another language.

Quickly I ready another cigarette.

She lights it,

the flames dancing on the far end

before they settle inside the round white walls.

I’m happy to see her.

Our romance was interrupted.

There was no end. No closing.

The abrupt of unwanted parting.

I don’t remember her ever singing;

one of the many things I never got to know.

The semester ended.

I was driven away

to another state

a strange and lonely place. Home.

I let the cigarette burn down on its own,

listening to this voice I never heard.

This song I don’t understand.

Almost at the filter,

she’s nearing the end and I can barely see her now.

A few notes left, maybe one more pull.

I take it, wondering ‘what might have been?’

As I breathe in the remaining smoke

she leaves in the dead light.

She didn’t finish the song.

I exhale into the dark.

I don’t know how it ends.

She lit my third cigarette

because of that last pull,

so I could watch it die out,

know I must move on.

I lie back on my bed,

reach for another cigarette.

Instead my hands find a person lying beside me.

She lifts a cigarette to me,

then her arm falls above my waist.

With a flick, it’s bright enough to see her

twirling a lighter in her fingers,

wearing that grin I loved so wildly.

But now, I resent it.

She wasted my time. I gave her so much of it,

of me.

She looks different here. Not as proud.

The cheeks are thinner, sinking.

The hair is tangled

her eyes seem dulled.

Not what I remember.

I blow smoke over her.

In the fog, she’s returned.

Features sharper, her tan glows.

But she doesn’t last the drift of the smoke.

Just the grin remains in the clear.

I shake my head at her

and she says she’s sorry.

But it’s in my voice.

She says it again, our mouths moving synched.

I feel heat on my fingers. The cigarette’s near.

I tell her I forgive her,

this time her mouth stays closed.

The grin straightens out as I speak.

I tuck her under a blanket of smoke.

She’s pretty in the fog.

The grin returns as she rolls away into shadow.

Before I can sit back up

I feel a weight drop on my lap.

A hand presses on my chest

and a cigarette pokes into my mouth.

I take it.

I smell a match strike,

its large flame illuminates the figure on top of me.

It’s been a long time,

I tell her.

She nods, warm,

and takes the cigarette from me.

She doesn’t smoke it.

She holds it between us, off to the side.

A lamp on my bedside.

A streetlight on the sidewalk.

Ignored, its presence as important as the people it spotlights.

She’s older now. We’re the same age.

I haven’t seen her in years.

I’m surprised that she grew up.

I thought it was just me.

That they would look the same.

It’s easier to remember them that way.

The only way to remember.

You keep loving them that way.

She hurt me. She was the first to do that.

Proved I wasn’t invincible,

like we boys thought we were.

No.

It was her who was stoic.

Girls. They survive.

Not invincible.

They rarely get caught.

Thieves in our shadows.

Bubbles floating around.

The closing of our hands pushes them outwards,

far.

If we catch them, their thin clear walls break.

Our fingers stain with their remains. Un-washable.

My.

She broke it. She was the first to do that.

She lowers the cigarette to my chest.

Beneath the glow, a gaping hole shaped like her.

The light reveals the opening. She looks confused.

I tell her it happened when she left.

That I almost fell into it.

She laughs.

I laugh too.

I tell her that I stayed far from the edge. Safe.

She stands up, her feet on my stomach, the edge.

I tell her that I still love her. Never stopped.

She laughs again.

But the hole only got smaller. I stopped fearing it.

She smiles.

I tell her that I stood where she is now,

I jumped in.

She bends down. Her face close to mine.

“I landed on another edge. So I jumped again.

And landed on another edge. I jumped again.”

She nods, warm.

She knows what took me too long to know.

What was waiting for me in the hole.

Another edge. Another jump. Another.

I tell her that I loved her.

She kisses me. She stands back up.

I don’t feel her on my stomach.

She weighs nothing, standing on the edge of me.

She doesn’t look away as she jumps.

Falling, she takes the cigarette with her.

They disappear into the dark inside me.

I wait a while.

The quiet wait annoys me.

I sit up and find my last cigarette.

I roll it around in my hand.

Someone sits down next to me.

I feel fingers slip through mine on my free hand.

It’s you.

You were my last.

I haven’t forgotten the lengths of your fingers,

where your palm rests on mine,

your soft grip.

I touch your feet with mine.

They’re yours. Always cold.

I lean my head against your neck.

My nose greets your skin. The lotion.

Your hair frames my face.

I’ve missed you.

I hear my lighter click open

and I reach for your other hand.

Don’t light it.

You close the lighter.

I listen to you breathing.

You don’t say anything.

I remember your voice.

You open the lighter again.

I take it from you and close it.

Don’t light it. You’ll leave.

I put the lighter and the cigarette away.

The ones who came before you—

enough.

I felt guilt

and was shown mercy.

I let go

and I forgave.

Even in the darkness of a blackout

I know there’s hope.

I have no candles.

I don’t have a flashlight.

It’ll be morning soon.

You’ll leave in that light.

My last cigarette I’ll save.

Another can light it.

Stay here with me.

Let me close my eyes.

Yes.

I can see you clearly now.

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2377/2345946831_aec5235371.jpg

Current Top 5 "I don't want you back" songs not titled "I don't want you back"

2010-06-09T07:45:00.000-04:00

No. 5 (tie)- I feel like I've heard this said to me before...

No. 5 (tie)- Because a girl once told me I should come with a sign or a disclaimer.

No. 4- No one can say "don't want you back" like a smiley-faced Travis Tritt can. "Here's a quarter, call someone who cares!"

No. 3- I still need you but... I don't want you now...

No. 2- the opening song from "Pretty Woman", anthem of the moving-on

No. 1- Absolutely

photo:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/87/261773911_8afabef0a9.jpg

Current Top 5 "I want you back" songs titled "I want you back"

2010-06-08T06:45:00.000-04:00

No. 5- to get the blood pumpin' in that ole ticker o' yours

No. 4- who wouldn't go back to any one(or all) of them?!

No. 3- no one knows longing & regret like the brits...

No. 2- you all knew this would be here

No. 1- the only song on this list not titled "I want you back", but the best in my opinion

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2334/2162038913_91b38ffdb0.jpg

anagrammatically- part two

2010-06-06T22:30:00.000-04:00

So this anagramming ex-girlfriends’ names thing is getting harder. I’ve given up on several names because they’re just impossible. But here’s a few more that worked.

K. B. Nab King Marble! (I am that stone man. I got away.)

T. H. Ah! Ran hazed, bitten. (True story)

G. L. Laze, nip, Go! (My first kiss. Sorry I couldn’t come up with something better.)

M. H. My dark, her aura. (Like night and day we were…)

K. S. Freakin’ flashy! (Seriously! Freakin’ flashy!)

K. H. In the inky fall. (When we met)

K. O. Art; keen riot. (Really fits her)

S. J. A Cajun hobo’s IV. (There’s always one that makes me laugh…)

T. H. And ravish the Zen… (I love the sound of that)

And again, in the spirit of fairness and self-degradation:

Glenn Espiritu Sabas Slang: I be ass; runt pie!

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2422/3574511359_a65411a662.jpg

anagrammatically

2010-06-05T20:15:00.001-04:00

These are a few of my ex-girlfriends’ names—anagrammed. I’ve included only their initials because I don’t want to get sued or assaulted. If you are one of my exes and your initials aren’t on the list, don’t worry. Anagramming isn’t easy. It takes time and the list is long. And some names just don’t anagram well, or at all. So be patient. I’ll have another one of these lists up in the near future.

S. C. C. Hah! A princess, a tin charm… (The first one to be anagrammed.)

S. G. Had tan. Sang flame.

K. K. At me, a hint: pink risk.

G. L. Lean ere glee. (I know “ere” is a really old word.)

S. R. Harm; a tan chaos.

J. A. Jeer, jab, n’ fail. Anon. (This one was a hard one.)

E. K. Ivy vagina-nuke. (I’m sorry. Please don’t sue or assault me.)

T. A. L. J. M. Rejoin a moot love! Fan any fanny! (Still makes me laugh…)

N. E. As I inhale… (Probably my favorite.)

Y. J. In me: joy gone. (The easiest anagram—and the hardest.)*

And in the spirit of fairness and equality…

Glenn Espiritu Sabas Ape grins at blue sins.

* I had to add another O to make this one work. So I borrowed the O you left in my chest.

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3418/3887304827_1aaaef411a.jpg

maybe a great perhaps

2010-06-01T06:58:00.003-04:00

“I go to seek a great perhaps.” -Francois Rabelais’ last words.

Our friend told me that your mother died. I am truly sorry. I was sitting in my car, remembering the only time I met her. We had stopped off at your house on the way up to Boston. I remember the cookies: the little black sandwiches with cream white and sweet. She offered them to me in a Tupperware recovered from one of the cupboards in the big kitchen. It was evening.

I remember the sun was low, kissing its reflection in the lake. The water was a darker shade of gray, almost peppery. I remember this sunset out of most, though I have seen many and most of the times I spent with you were in the evenings. It stayed with me since that kitchen conversation because I’ve never been able to describe it as easily as I can the rest. The sun was its own body, its hot color contained in its orb. The sky around it was a dull sunless blue. It wasn’t beautiful. It didn’t steal my breath, or anything else from me. It was unremarkable. It was very un-sunset.

The cookies were also just OK. Common-sense and meet-the-parent etiquette had me knowingly praising them for being “really good Oreos!” But I knew there was a secret about them. Not about their quality. It was apparent to all three of us that I was shamelessly exaggerating, obliging to the code of conducting one’s self before those so high ranking in your girfr… in your friend’s core familial. But this secret, only you and her knew and wanted me to find out—or not find out. I think either outcome would have pleased you two. I couldn’t tell whether it was a game or a test. I didn’t want any Oreos, but I could tell that she, or you, really wanted me to have one. So then I really wanted to have one. Because I really wanted her, and you, to like me. I had one. Maybe I had another. I don’t remember. Just that they were OK and that both of you watched intensely while I ate them. I realized, mid-bite, that we weren’t judging the cookies anymore. Are they fresh? Are they sweet? Are they good? Can he tell that they’re different? Yes. Sort of. I guess. Not really. I realized, mid-another-bite, that you all were judging me. Do you like them? Can you tell that they’re different? Are we staring too hard? Sure. Not really. You’re staring too hard.

I was at a loss, licking the sticky chunks stuck up in my teeth, looking past the two women before me, out through the wide window, out at the wide lake and its resemblance to grape Jell-O, and at this sunset that didn’t look like a sunset but like what exactly? I couldn’t poetically put to pen. I surrendered.

Everyone seemed pleased. Then one or both of you, the memory’s shaky, explained to me they were “special” Oreos. They were sugar-free, or something to that effect, made for people sick of sugar; ill because of it. I never really caught on what your mom was sick of, but I understood that she had special Oreos. I just met her and I was happy to leave it at that. I’m sure you told me, I think. But, again, the memory is lost and not really important anymore. And now, I’m afraid, I’m going to wander here.

I don’t know what your mother believed in. We can call ourselves Christian, wear crosses and talk to our ceilings. We can call ourselves Jewish and do the same thing without crosses. We can even call ourselves Bokononists, believe everything is a lie and press our soles together in existential ecstasy. (That last one is from Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut) My point is we can know what someone believes in, outside with other people, but we can’t know what they believe when they’re alone with themselves. I’m not calling people liars or worse, actors. I just think that people have two sets of truths. Each person has two “bags” of beliefs: the one they carry around and the one they keep tucked under their pillow.

It’s possible for you to look inside both and see the same items, but it’s just as likely for you to find staggering dissimilarities. This has nothing to do with lying or acting. People are inherently bipolar. We can’t be completely ourselves in front of other people. They can’t know everything about you. There would be no you. No individual you. The bubble burst. The wall exploded to make a pass-through from dining room to kitchen, from them to you. But there are supposed to be two rooms: one for the cooking, one for the eating, with a wall between to separate. If your guests can see how the food is made, smell it still in the pan, talk about it, you might as well all eat in the kitchen. Turn the dining room into a second living room because it no longer has a purpose.

No. We need to have two bags. That one tucked under my pillow in my bed in my room decorated to my taste, that bag holds my meaning, my secret, what I believe in when I’m alone with the lights off. That’s true integrity.

But let me return to the Oreos, the un-sunset, and your mother gone. First, I’ll let you peek under my pillow, a quick look inside my bag. I don’t know where your mother went. I don’t know where any of us go. I don’t want to say I believe in an afterlife, because I almost don’t and I want not to believe in one. I don’t want to live life waiting for a second chance at it. I can admit though that it’s possible. I can admit that in life there are many deaths. I mean not about the abundance of people dying outright. I mean that we each go through countless “deaths” in countless ways in this immeasurable existence until we eventually and actually die.

If you look at all the transitions as “births” and the time after as “life”, ultimately that life will carry you to another transition, which is its own death. (fuck! I honestly can’t believe I’m writing this. I sound like a priest on his second Sunday-morning sermon, or a strip club scholar reading out of a community college Intro to Psychology textbook.)

Relationships are lives. They’re born and they die. This truth is why I can’t completely disbelieve in an afterlife. Because I’ve had so many: one for each dead relationship. That song “Your Ex-lover is Dead” should be renamed “Your Ex-lover is Re-born and You Might Meet Them Again”. I’m not being poetic or worse, sentimental. It’s true that we’re different people after a relationship ends. And that’s irreversible, as irreversible as death or a normal non-reversible jacket. You can try turning it inside out, trying to recapture what you’ve grown out of or never grew into, but it won’t fit right. It’ll be very uncomfortable and you’ll look foolish or worse, out of place. It’s better to accept that you’ve changed. Let dead dogs lie. Move on and live on.

So I guess I do believe in an afterlife. Not the same one that most others believe in. I wouldn’t even call it “afterlife”. I’d call it “afterdeath”. Because if after life is death then after death is life. I’d call it “afterhere”.

And so went we, you and me. We lived, shortly. We were over as fast as we were, well whatever we were. In my bag, under my pillow, I believe we were something. We were really something.

But that was three years ago. All three surrendered all at once one numb noontime in the summery Upper East. I lived on, had an afterdeath, after you. Then there was another. And I lived another afterdeath. Then there was ano… I think I’m on my fourth or fifth life since you.

But I have to get back to the Oreos and the un-sunset and your mother gone to her afterdeath. I really do believe that’s where she’s gone to. If it happens in life, here, it must happen after here. It must be better, or at least, different. It must be and it must happen because no matter what people call themselves or what they believe happens after death (except for those who believe nothing, they’re a little too cynical for me. Just a little.) there is a common theme: that there is an after. We all imagine it different and maybe it will be different for each of us, I don’t know, but I guess sitting here writing in my black notebook in black ink, checking frequently my black watch, sipping combatively my black coffee, at a black desk by glass double doors with black framing that lead out onto black pavement under the starless and blackened New York City night sky—on my fourth and fifth life since you, writing about you because your mother just died and I remembered her—I come to realize that I might believe in something existing after all this. In the same way that I existed after you, us, there has to be something after this, here. After life is death. After death is life. I guess. I hope.

It can go either way: an infinitely blackened unconsciousness, dreamlessly dormant, or we are washed ashore in a world of rivers, along with everyone who ever lived, past, present and future, on this earth of infinite life-repeating. (Riverworld: excellent series of books by Philip Jose Farmer, and two good sci-fi mini-series.) I choose the Riverworld. Imagine! Floating downstream on a grand steamboat, sipping bourbon with Sam Clemens! Laying on the shore, tanning next to Socrates while Van Morrison grills up some fish. Or walking along the water, the clearness, the stillness of it. The blueness of it reflecting the shapes and colors of you and your mother. I choose the Riverworld. But I could be wrong. It could be something entirely different, after here.

So let me get back to here, to there, to the kitchen three surrendered years ago. The sunset so unremarkable. I guess I’m remarking about it because it was like the special Oreos. It was not what it looked like. This un-sunset that was so much like something else, but at the time through those kitchen windows, I couldn’t think of it. And I haven’t thought of it since. Until now. Now I know what it reminded me of. It reminded me of sunrise. Sunrise, the sun keeping to itself, at first, when it’s that low. It’s just a great yellow ball as it climbs out of the ground. The sky around it is unaffected by its light, unpainted, un-streaked. This sunset was like a sunrise, the sun keeping to itself as it fell back into the ground.

And so like the Oreos which weren’t Oreos and this sunset that looked like a sunrise, there I was, another deceiving contradiction, a confusion. I remember meeting your mom not just because it was the only time we met, or because of the unremarkable un-sunset, or the special Oreo game. I remember mostly because of how I felt in that big kitchen. I felt small and fake and as if you were offering me to your mom from a Tupperware instead of my flashy packaging.

I was your friend. You carried me in your bag as such. Even in the bag tucked under your pillow, I looked while you were sleeping, you put me away as your boy and not your boyfriend. That’s what I was to your mother. Your friend, a boy with black and white teeth, trying to crack the mystery of the cookie. And I wanted to be so much more. So I ate another cookie.

But that was lifetimes ago. Here, in my fifth or fourth life since you, I’m OK about it. And though it’s been three years, I am sorry that she’s gone. Since that one evening, those two Oreos.

But if I’m right, if she’s gone to her afterdeath, her afterhere, her Riverworld, then there’s hope for you too. There’s hope for Sam Clemens and Van Morrison. There’s hope for me.
And maybe I’ll meet her again.
I’d like to tell her how I wanted to be so much more. How I tried with flowers and cupcakes and songs on pink guitars. I wouldn't tell her about that evening; the small-fake feeling. I would just tell her that you had so much soul and that you were one of my favorite lives.

But that’s all still a mystery, a sunrise un-sunset, a special Oreo. You and I have so many lives left. And so much after… And hope for rivers…

for You, brown eyed and soulful.

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3466/3745823450_0abb3773fa.jpg

of fire and freshness

2010-05-26T16:28:00.002-04:00

“No amount of fire and freshness can challenge…”

One foot out of the shower

I remembered, perfectly

as if watching the scene.

The stage—what used to be,

the other half of my bathroom.

The oddly colored checked tiles

were now an endless maple;

the wood floor shined and smoothed glossy.

The ceiling rose to a faraway height

and the light dimmed to a yellowy darkness

broken by the convulsions of strobe lights.

Where the sink was, now stood

a towering speaker box

on an anorexic tripod.

And I, wet and naked

one foot in the shower

dripping scented water

all over the slippery dining hall dance floor.

You were so close to me

swaying in front of the shaky speaker

an inch, maybe closer.

But I could barely see your face

in the fractured dimness,

in my cracked memory.

I hid under my cupped hands,

but you didn’t notice me.

You were looking into my eyes,

younger, more aware.

The eyes I used to have

that saw you—they had the right to.

I was so close to you,

swaying with you in an ordinary suit

and a tie that matched, on purpose,

your turquoise dress.

Or was it teal? aquamarine?

This was the only time

you curled your hair that way…

Brown curls, brown and light brown;

curly streaks tickling

your creamy cheeks.

The freckles, so light, almost imaginary.

Phantom freckles haunting your fair face.

Your fair face, your just face.

Equality—

either side of the summit of your nose.

And what I found in your sleepy eyes:

I saw the moon, whole and glassy,

low in the still bluish sky through my windshield.

The sun, a burning match-head

sinking into the parkway in my rearview mirror.

I saw the crowd of our classmates,

violently bobbing blades

of angst-grass thick and static.

They were making too much noise

in my small bathroom.

They made a ring around us, a solid fog,

trapping us in a cramped Mexican standoff.

The Girl, The Boy, and The Wet & Naked Man.

It played on as I remembered.

You tripped backwards

on one of the tripod’s errant legs.

Your knees buckled, your back straightened,

you kept good posture even when falling.

Your head tossed back,

your eyes confronted the ceiling,

your arms waded in the helpless air.

Naked me, no less dry,

watched you falling and didn’t move.

I did what I always did in this memory,

since the first time when it was event.

I caught you.

Quickly you lied down on my forearm,

looking up at me, my lips curled into a smirk.

Swift, so aware, invincible.

Your faithful mongoose.

Your date to The First Hurrah.

We danced on.

Away from the speakers,

away into the fog, into the cloud of our classmates.

Away from me—ever more naked,

no less dry,

But now very cold.

“…what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.”- F. Scott Fitzgerald

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2090/2235602174_08a97b781c.jpg

i will bring you a flower

2010-05-19T15:56:00.004-04:00

We had fun, didn’t we?

Under the hollow glow of long fluorescent tubes,

the permeating aroma of dry erase markers,

I could have drawn your nude body

across the clean, white, board.

The whole in separate regions,

I explored each under moonlight

with clumsy finger tips.

I would need to catch each

as it floated to the shallow end of my memory.

Some I would have to imagine,

though I can’t err,

fooled by stimulated delusions.

They may be exaggerated, but

in my memory you are perfect

and I must have possession of my remembering,

if nothing else of you—

They are all.

And the decision.

You were clever

and mercifully cruel to let me choose:

How I would lose you,

how I wanted to hurt over you.

Alone, with my ignorant limbs

stupidly reaching for you across my vacant bed,

my heart, masochistic, still knowing you.

The gravity of an empty space.

Or should I compromise?

my self, my desire,

And my increasing ability to love you.

Still see you, but

at a friendly distance.

Still spend, otherwise lonely hours, with you

but at what miserable cost?

I would not be allowed inside!

I would not be permitted

the sweet moisture of your lips,

and my skin, the wet warmth of your sweat.

You were good to make me feel powerful,

after you took it all from me.

You knew I had no choice but self-imposed exile.

You should know that my hands shake as I write,

but the fire breathes relentless. It is dying

and I will soon put down this torch.

But there is more left.

You cooked for me.

I can smell it on my jacket.

It distracts me from your scent.

I know that will be the last to go.

Neruda wrote, ‘love is so short, forgetting so long.’

I have so much to forget,

and too much I want to keep.

The smell of you will be the last, but

the hardest to experience losing.

I’ll be brave and keep both eyes open;

what you could not do.

What you did was childish.

Worried about the receding years,

you said you wanted to settle down soon.

Why did you send me away?

Your other sin was worse

and less easy to forgive.

I can compare us to a literary couple.

Not Shakespeare’s married martyrs.

They were lucky to both be foolish.

No.

I think of Brideshead Revisited,

of Charles and Julia.

She chose God over him,

you your mother over me.

I wasn’t surprised, little girl

but you interrupted me.

Given more time—

I would have changed your mind.

You could have loved me

enough to deny your mother and her plan.

But I’m already late.

‘that what once was, was and is lost,

is lost in the past, and now will not return.’

We are lost and now we can’t return.

But if we can, if you realize you want to,

we’ll go back there.

I won’t look away.

I won’t hide like you,

behind your fear and your household gods.

Return with me

Cook a meal for the two of us.

I will bring you a flower.

Kiss me across the table.

I will read you a poem.

For my friend. I wish you the strength to put down the torch and the courage to keep carrying it.

photo:http://www.flickr.com/photos/alanvernon/ / CC BY 2.0

if we were a mix-tape

2010-05-14T17:03:00.000-04:00

1. playing when we met

2. living in different cities, we had too many last nights

3. your ringtone

4. my ringtone

5. your "i miss you" song to me

6. my "i miss you song" to you

7. long distance cellular lullaby

8. our favorite duet (though it's not a duet)

9. you to me

10. me to you

11. in rougher times

12. and even rougher times

13. we didn't make it

bonus tracks:

14. because even your grandma liked this song

15. because of our inside joke

the ending

2010-05-12T21:50:00.000-04:00

The ground opened its mouth,

oceans swallowed land,

and fire rained from a hole in the sky.

Solid ice melted,

trees, towering tall, uprooted,

and one by one the stars’ lights died out

Most cried, some prayed,

some surrendered to the flood.

Few looked away, most closed their eyes,

others watched with both open wide.

If I stood on the last

floating solid piece of Earth

would you stay? Or would you swim away?

Would you leave him to the mercy

of the rising water surrounding

Or would you dive in to find him?

If the rain never stopped,

the water forever rose,

the air filled with thick blackened ash.

If all that was left

was You standing before Me

would you love me

or leave me again?

Would you stay

Or just swim away?

photo:http://www.flickr.com/photos/casanovapacifista/ / CC BY 2.0

little bones

2010-05-11T15:50:00.000-04:00

I woke up early, made a cup of coffee.

I noticed that I didn’t dream of you.

Checked my mail, finished my coffee

hid back under the covers

I took a nap.

I woke up late in the afternoon

a strong smell floating into my cracked open window.

I knew the scent

meat cooking on the grill,

the backyard beneath my bedroom window.

But the meat I couldn’t identify,

pork? beef? chicken?

There was something in the smoky odor,

something nagging, something whining

mad I couldn’t distinguish.

A memory I could not yet remember.

I had to go downstairs

on the kitchen table I discovered

the fish fresh from the grill.

Suddenly you were with me.

A cold December night

the fish was cooked in the frying pan.

A bowl of rice, three empty plates:

yours, mine, and one for the bones.

You scooped the rice, I prepared the meat

carefully separating into sections:

tail, body, head.

Carefully separating the soft meat

from the thin bones of the same white color.

Proudly I dropped each piece of juicy fish

on your plate, while you ate.

I didn’t realize I barely had any.

I didn’t care.

As long as I protected you,

your hands from the greasy vegetable oil,

your lips and tongue from the sharp little bones.

You ended up eating most of it.

You look so cute when your full.

But on this warm afternoon in May

sitting in front of two plates:

one of rice and pieces of fish meat,

the other of sharp little white bones.

I felt the heaviness in my stomach

of the empty place you left next to me,

a vacant chair and a clear table.

I really wished you were here again,

I was no longer hungry

and I couldn’t imagine

eating all of it

alone.

photo:http://www.flickr.com/photos/cowbark/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

current top 5 "missing you" songs

2010-05-10T19:30:00.000-04:00

No. 5- the long distance i miss you(thanks to my sister for reintroducing this song to me)

No. 2 (tie)- the "way we were" i miss you

No. 2 (tie)- the "the way we were" i miss you

No. 3 (tie)- the "she's moved on while I'm still grieving" i miss you

No. 4- the "please please please" i miss you

No. 3 (tie)- the "you made a fool out of me, but i still" miss you

No. 1- the "if i lived till i was a hundred and two, i just don't think i'll ever get over you" i miss you

2010-05-07T19:34:00.001-04:00

I should have known

your comments would still be there.

I saw the thumbnail next to your name.

It was small, the lighting was bad

but I noticed the two figures

I’m sure one of them was you.

Who was that? standing next to you…

Your ex?

I guess he’s your current now.

I’m your ex.

I was looking through old pictures

reading the comments below them.

One with me

a little boy, a big smile

a little gap between my two front teeth.

It’s obvious I was happy

I forget why.

I didn’t read your old comment

just your name

it scared me away.

Your name makes me feel

like my stomach’s in my throat

like my insides emptied out.

Then nervous

knowing that feeling would return

the numbness goes away

the pain enters full.

Fuck Facebook.

Forcing me to look

the remaining relics

the reeling revelations

I still can’t confront.

photo:http://www.flickr.com/photos/johanl/ / CC BY 2.0

current top 5 sulking songs

2010-05-04T20:26:00.001-04:00

No. 5 (to warm up)

No. 3 (with a bullet)

No. 1 (necessarily)

No. 4 (tie) anything by Paulinho Moska

No. 4 (tie) better than the original

No. 2 (because nobody knows them, but should)

50 ways

current top 5

you are literally

a ghost story

i know places we can go babe

along

if I ever get the nerve to say

Current Top 5 "after- and not-so-afterthoughts" Songs

my new workspace

acrostically,

sidewalks

Current Top 5 "Christmas" Songs (not for the merry)

pictures

Current Top 5 "come back" songs

she comes at night

cynical

her name

Current Top 5 "Won't help you get through the night" songs

About You: An Autobiography

index

duologue

duck hunting

49 Ways (to leave and be left)

5 hard ways to leave

Current Top 5 "my next girl" songs

kimchee omelet

Song Away

paper cups

I'd live them again

don't read this

carry on

you agreed (about Twilight)

2nd of July

gone to fish

is done

i nostri ieri

exes have marked

in You

my silver geisha

i've no candles

Current Top 5 "I don't want you back" songs not titled "I don't want you back"

Current Top 5 "I want you back" songs titled "I want you back"

anagrammatically- part two

anagrammatically

maybe a great perhaps

of fire and freshness

i will bring you a flower

if we were a mix-tape

the ending

little bones

current top 5 "missing you" songs

previous

current top 5 sulking songs