A pour instead of a saucepan and a stove.
A heart to heart between you and you; and
in the morning you culpably measure
the bottle's level. And swear.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Vanity is a desert
In the microdunes of makeup dust, a bent and basking hairpin hides
beneath the hand-mirror that has seen 20 years
of pouty scrutiny, back and sides.
beneath the hand-mirror that has seen 20 years
of pouty scrutiny, back and sides.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
I'd be up to write more
...but there's this little problem.
I dream at night not of sex, or satisfaction, or allaying of hunger - but of feasts.
Nothing is sufficient but the possibility of excess. The pick and the choose, not the settle or the sufficient.
I do not know how to strangle the need for the overblown, overeaten - so I choose to never start.
The table is laid with a thousand fatty, beautiful delicacies and crisp haunches but instead of choosing - I walk away to the corner and listen to the music, watch the dancers and the eaters.
I dream at night not of sex, or satisfaction, or allaying of hunger - but of feasts.
Nothing is sufficient but the possibility of excess. The pick and the choose, not the settle or the sufficient.
I do not know how to strangle the need for the overblown, overeaten - so I choose to never start.
The table is laid with a thousand fatty, beautiful delicacies and crisp haunches but instead of choosing - I walk away to the corner and listen to the music, watch the dancers and the eaters.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Stupidly happy tonight
Which means I will no doubt write like shit.
Who wants to hear how much it means to light 2 candles, a stick of sandalwood incense, talk to your parents for an hour, say hello to the D (who still wont talk on the phone because he thinks he voice sounds wrong), listen to whatever you want from your playlist, plan out your weekend of book-buying, and fall asleep on the couch with a book on your chest?
Happy is only interesting when it is in the past.
Who wants to hear how much it means to light 2 candles, a stick of sandalwood incense, talk to your parents for an hour, say hello to the D (who still wont talk on the phone because he thinks he voice sounds wrong), listen to whatever you want from your playlist, plan out your weekend of book-buying, and fall asleep on the couch with a book on your chest?
Happy is only interesting when it is in the past.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Drafting in Exile, Part 2
I have always dreamed of escape. The run-away, the other side, the long drive to somewhere else - and I've done that.
Many times.
Whatever you can fit in your heart and your backpack - and then you're off, elsewhere.
These three years? Kinda starting to learn to live with as-it-is. Learned that there is beauty and virtue and strength and not hating where you are.
"Your mouth to god's ears" - we said this at least 3 times a day. Every pipe-dream had this coda.
Even after we got D back, as we sat at the Greek restaurant in Lauderdale by the Sea, eating feta and hummus and skordalia, in celebration with wine and laughter - we still wanted more.
Always something more to want. Always something for which to petition.
Your mouth to god's ears. Whoever is listening has something else in mind, and perhaps it is this:
You don't have to stop believing it can be better, or different, or elsewhere - but you can stop living your life as if you are waiting for it all to change.
The real meaning of this time was not how to escape, was not deus ex machina uplift from a poorly-dealt hand - but a realization that the hand was just that - a hand in a game that made you fold, perhaps, but not crushing, not the end of all good things. That there will always be another hand, the dealer deals and that the game goes on, always.
And you have to love playing, or there's no point.
Many times.
Whatever you can fit in your heart and your backpack - and then you're off, elsewhere.
These three years? Kinda starting to learn to live with as-it-is. Learned that there is beauty and virtue and strength and not hating where you are.
"Your mouth to god's ears" - we said this at least 3 times a day. Every pipe-dream had this coda.
Even after we got D back, as we sat at the Greek restaurant in Lauderdale by the Sea, eating feta and hummus and skordalia, in celebration with wine and laughter - we still wanted more.
Always something more to want. Always something for which to petition.
Your mouth to god's ears. Whoever is listening has something else in mind, and perhaps it is this:
You don't have to stop believing it can be better, or different, or elsewhere - but you can stop living your life as if you are waiting for it all to change.
The real meaning of this time was not how to escape, was not deus ex machina uplift from a poorly-dealt hand - but a realization that the hand was just that - a hand in a game that made you fold, perhaps, but not crushing, not the end of all good things. That there will always be another hand, the dealer deals and that the game goes on, always.
And you have to love playing, or there's no point.
Last gasp
Someday I will be too old reinvent myself again. And someday I will be too old to wink and smile and banter and flirt. Someday I will forget things, and be aching and confused. But I hope I will never be too old to be playful with the world.
When young you think at every point of realization or landmark "This is it - I'm done. I am who I will always be, yay, no more trying". But, thus far, it has never been that way. I've been so many things that I thought would forever define me, but year after year they simply accrue - nothing is left behind.
What frightens me most about getting old is that I will be DONE. That there will be no more chances. No more last gasps.
I do not want to live in the past, but rather to create the present as I always imagined it could be.
When young you think at every point of realization or landmark "This is it - I'm done. I am who I will always be, yay, no more trying". But, thus far, it has never been that way. I've been so many things that I thought would forever define me, but year after year they simply accrue - nothing is left behind.
What frightens me most about getting old is that I will be DONE. That there will be no more chances. No more last gasps.
I do not want to live in the past, but rather to create the present as I always imagined it could be.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Well, that is my largest fan base.
"He thought very highly of you, though he was a mysogynistic sociopath."