Once upon a time there is a lady
Who lives in a tower that’s covered in vines
Many years ago they grew
Through the cracks in the window
and crept inside.
Today the light is shining
Onto her canopy of silk and lace
And silhouetting the vines like veins
Casting thin shadows on her skin
They wrap around the bed
And twist overhead like a cage.
She wakes at dawn and sits
Stretches her arms, smiles
And puts her feet on the floor
A white blossom
brushes her hand as she stands.
“good morning.” She greets it
and plucks it from the stem
she goes to the window and, one petal at a time
she drops the vine’s gift the ground
where it falls at the feet of a knight.
He counts as she counts
And then begins to climb
Long after she’s left the sill.
Thinking still that she’s alone
She’s gone to wander the magic halls and
See where they lead her today
Her bare feet slap the grey stone
As she walks away from the bedroom.
Tiny flames in glass jars
Sit on the floor against the walls
Spaced unevenly throughout the hall
The shine on all but her face.
At the first door she stops trying to hear a sound
Then turns the key and enters
Inside the room is full of twilight.
And dragonflies fly around her
Outside the knight climbs the vine.
Nearby she can hear the crashing of waves
she catches a dragon then leaves
“too early for you.” She decides.
Still the night climbs.
The next doorway, where she stands now,
is the end of a pier
where the sun is rising.
She steps aboard a sailing ship
With rainbow sails
And finds her breakfast waiting.
“so its sailing today.” She sighs.
Still the knight climbs
Until the vines turn hot in his hands
His palms blister
And the poison runs up his arms
And he cries as it reaches his heart
And falls from the wall
Landing broken amidst the petals
Which he knows now have lied.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
the stranger
The stranger
By Katie Oscar
One tiny figure slips out
From a wet grey side street
On that side of the city.
The stranger stands for a moment on the empty avenue
Under a dark streetlamp.
All the lamps on that side are dark.
It’s nearly six-o-clock
In a month where the light goes grey at three
And dark at five.
The brown-silver fog
That shrouds the city almost completely
From outside eyes,
Swirls idly but insistently
Through the streets
As though blown by a wind
That only gas is sensitive to
And flesh and hard matter can’t appreciate.
In West Bridge Students feel disoriented
And a sensation close to seasickness
As they watch the gas blow by them
On the avenues.
But the stranger under the dark lamp
Isn’t bothered by it at all,
Only the slightest shake of his head,
As he stares back toward East Bridge
Through the haze,
Gives away that he can see the stuff at all.
No one comes here at night.
Those few students who don’t retreat
Behind their drawn curtains
And locked doors by six o’clock
Keep to East Bridge and its river side restaurants and pubs,
There’s more light and less mist there;
Really there’s just more light and
The mist, like the moon,
Turns invisible in the light.
Bridge avenue is never busy,
It’s no man’s land,
Cutting a slice
Between east and west
Here and there.
No one lingers long, they slip past,
Between places,
Eyes quick and ready
Hoping no one from where they are headed
Sees them come
And no one from where they are leaving
Watches them go.
The coarse sound of glass
Breaking and grinding
Under the strangers small feet
Echoes down the wide silent avenue
The stranger takes no notice
But continues to look towards East Bridge
With the kind of weary nervousness
Usually reserved for those standing on this side
And looking toward that one.
The broken glass comes from the broken lights,
It covers the empty sidewalk
For at least three blocks
On that side of the avenue
Until it stops where the lights are still burning.
No one comes here at night.
That side’s lack of light
Makes the line between there to here
Quite obvious tonight,
In the grey rain the street reflects the lights
From the windows on this side.
The lights reach out,
Towards the shadows
Stopping almost exactly
At the feet of the traveler
Who steps into them,
Finally deciding to cross.
He moves slowly
Watching the light around his feet,
Acknowledging its welcome
Until he stops in one black spot
Where something is obstructing
The light from one window.
Its one black smudge
In a sea of twinkling reflection.
He looks down at the shadow
And then up at the window.
I look back
And then slip away from the sill,
Leaving the stranger
Standing in his pool of light
Looking up.
By Katie Oscar
One tiny figure slips out
From a wet grey side street
On that side of the city.
The stranger stands for a moment on the empty avenue
Under a dark streetlamp.
All the lamps on that side are dark.
It’s nearly six-o-clock
In a month where the light goes grey at three
And dark at five.
The brown-silver fog
That shrouds the city almost completely
From outside eyes,
Swirls idly but insistently
Through the streets
As though blown by a wind
That only gas is sensitive to
And flesh and hard matter can’t appreciate.
In West Bridge Students feel disoriented
And a sensation close to seasickness
As they watch the gas blow by them
On the avenues.
But the stranger under the dark lamp
Isn’t bothered by it at all,
Only the slightest shake of his head,
As he stares back toward East Bridge
Through the haze,
Gives away that he can see the stuff at all.
No one comes here at night.
Those few students who don’t retreat
Behind their drawn curtains
And locked doors by six o’clock
Keep to East Bridge and its river side restaurants and pubs,
There’s more light and less mist there;
Really there’s just more light and
The mist, like the moon,
Turns invisible in the light.
Bridge avenue is never busy,
It’s no man’s land,
Cutting a slice
Between east and west
Here and there.
No one lingers long, they slip past,
Between places,
Eyes quick and ready
Hoping no one from where they are headed
Sees them come
And no one from where they are leaving
Watches them go.
The coarse sound of glass
Breaking and grinding
Under the strangers small feet
Echoes down the wide silent avenue
The stranger takes no notice
But continues to look towards East Bridge
With the kind of weary nervousness
Usually reserved for those standing on this side
And looking toward that one.
The broken glass comes from the broken lights,
It covers the empty sidewalk
For at least three blocks
On that side of the avenue
Until it stops where the lights are still burning.
No one comes here at night.
That side’s lack of light
Makes the line between there to here
Quite obvious tonight,
In the grey rain the street reflects the lights
From the windows on this side.
The lights reach out,
Towards the shadows
Stopping almost exactly
At the feet of the traveler
Who steps into them,
Finally deciding to cross.
He moves slowly
Watching the light around his feet,
Acknowledging its welcome
Until he stops in one black spot
Where something is obstructing
The light from one window.
Its one black smudge
In a sea of twinkling reflection.
He looks down at the shadow
And then up at the window.
I look back
And then slip away from the sill,
Leaving the stranger
Standing in his pool of light
Looking up.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Death and stories
I swallowed the story that she told me and once inside my body, circulating through my blood stream, it started to search for a way out.
Little bruises appeared on my legs, then over the weeks, as the story neared the surface of my skin, the bruises turned to blisters, blood blisters.
When you stick a tack into a blister, you release the blood. Is a bruise just the same, I wondered, would it only require a longer tack?
The story she told was about you. She said you were dying. She said there was not the slightest hope that you would ever leave your bed.
I watched you breath, I watched the green lids of your closed eyes.
I thought about your dancing, and the way you never stopped. You never slowed for anything, you were always moving forward.
At night I lay awake, propped up against two pillows in the empty bed beside yours.
I watched you lying there and stuck my bruised knees with short pins.
I unbuttoned my shirt and, as the hours wore on, watched the bruises appearing along my ribs,
Soon a blister formed on the left, above my heart.
I stuck it with my pin and watched it bleed and felt the pulse beneath it, feeding it. And then starvation.
The tiny wound gasped and opened wide, tensed and then failed.
I closed my eyes,
That’s the end.
The lie she had fed me had escaped, now you will live.
Little bruises appeared on my legs, then over the weeks, as the story neared the surface of my skin, the bruises turned to blisters, blood blisters.
When you stick a tack into a blister, you release the blood. Is a bruise just the same, I wondered, would it only require a longer tack?
The story she told was about you. She said you were dying. She said there was not the slightest hope that you would ever leave your bed.
I watched you breath, I watched the green lids of your closed eyes.
I thought about your dancing, and the way you never stopped. You never slowed for anything, you were always moving forward.
At night I lay awake, propped up against two pillows in the empty bed beside yours.
I watched you lying there and stuck my bruised knees with short pins.
I unbuttoned my shirt and, as the hours wore on, watched the bruises appearing along my ribs,
Soon a blister formed on the left, above my heart.
I stuck it with my pin and watched it bleed and felt the pulse beneath it, feeding it. And then starvation.
The tiny wound gasped and opened wide, tensed and then failed.
I closed my eyes,
That’s the end.
The lie she had fed me had escaped, now you will live.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
God and Pitted Fruit
I decide to amuse my apathetic self with frozen cherries, their juice is dramatic, like licking blood off your fingers- purple, red, cold.
“Vampires die when they drink dead blood, cold blood,” I remember.
Fresh, Frozen, Grade A, No Sugar Added, Dark, Sweet cherries, Pitted.
“Pitted” I think, “heartless, dead, they thaw and ripen in your mouth. Sweet cold cherries, pitted.”
How do they get the pits out?
I look for puncture wounds.
Unblemished.
How do they get the pits out? Have they bred the hearts out?I bite, then crack! I bite a heart.
I smile, thank you, I say to someone.
I understand. I created a metaphor and so
you adressed me from within it.
Heartless! Bred to live without hearts!
All cherry, all fruit and sweet without heart!“Nice metaphor,” you said, “and on that note- here- you, you have, be, find, by chance, by luck, by destiny, the one cherry with a heart, one, out of thousands.
“Here, for you.”
“Vampires die when they drink dead blood, cold blood,” I remember.
Fresh, Frozen, Grade A, No Sugar Added, Dark, Sweet cherries, Pitted.
“Pitted” I think, “heartless, dead, they thaw and ripen in your mouth. Sweet cold cherries, pitted.”
How do they get the pits out?
I look for puncture wounds.
Unblemished.
How do they get the pits out? Have they bred the hearts out?I bite, then crack! I bite a heart.
I smile, thank you, I say to someone.
I understand. I created a metaphor and so
you adressed me from within it.
Heartless! Bred to live without hearts!
All cherry, all fruit and sweet without heart!“Nice metaphor,” you said, “and on that note- here- you, you have, be, find, by chance, by luck, by destiny, the one cherry with a heart, one, out of thousands.
“Here, for you.”
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Thoughts on the Trailer for the Film “Revolutionary Road”
"I want to feel things- really feel them. How’s that for an ambition?"
Why is this so complicated? It seems so simple, really, really straightforward; I Don’t care who I am, where I am or who I'm with, I just want to feel things.
The movie that this quote belongs to is about how this simple desire causes a horror.
The trailer follows the format for a horror movie; the music, timing, thrusts of base into your guy as reviews fade in and out over black between visuals. Why are we so spooked by the drama, the challenge the pain, and the anguish of this dream failing before our eyes?
No one goes to the mall is too crowded. No one likes the normal situation- “the same ridiculous delusion.”
The dream failing before us is not his dream, it’s the dream of an entire culture we are all here, at the mall which is why we don’t want to be here- its too crowded.
The horror movie marketing of this movie makes perfect sense.
BOOM, base in your gut- You are no one.
BOOM BOOM, base in your gut, goose bumps on your arms- All you wanted was to feel things.
BOOM you feel the skin of your stomach, your chest and your back against the fabric of your shirt.
“We’re gonna be okay.”
You let out your breath.
“I hope so” She says, “I really hopes so.”
“I hope so” you think.
Maybe this film will show you how.
But, because you have the smallest bit of civilian insight into filmmaking, you assume it will all end badly.
Why is this so complicated? It seems so simple, really, really straightforward; I Don’t care who I am, where I am or who I'm with, I just want to feel things.
The movie that this quote belongs to is about how this simple desire causes a horror.
The trailer follows the format for a horror movie; the music, timing, thrusts of base into your guy as reviews fade in and out over black between visuals. Why are we so spooked by the drama, the challenge the pain, and the anguish of this dream failing before our eyes?
No one goes to the mall is too crowded. No one likes the normal situation- “the same ridiculous delusion.”
The dream failing before us is not his dream, it’s the dream of an entire culture we are all here, at the mall which is why we don’t want to be here- its too crowded.
The horror movie marketing of this movie makes perfect sense.
BOOM, base in your gut- You are no one.
BOOM BOOM, base in your gut, goose bumps on your arms- All you wanted was to feel things.
BOOM you feel the skin of your stomach, your chest and your back against the fabric of your shirt.
“We’re gonna be okay.”
You let out your breath.
“I hope so” She says, “I really hopes so.”
“I hope so” you think.
Maybe this film will show you how.
But, because you have the smallest bit of civilian insight into filmmaking, you assume it will all end badly.
Monday, December 29, 2008
old story
Magic Man
Saturday, July 19, 2008 at 10:08pm
Across the street from the hardware store where I went to buy the light bulb for the baby’s head for my installation, there’s a huge building with a domed roof and a lot of very tall columns.
There’s a green lawn between the huge building and the street and on the lawn there are tall lamp posts whose lamps are like giant glass globes.
On Thursday there was a man standing on the grass under the lamp posts, playing with a tiny glass ball that looked like it might have fallen from a post and shrunken to a size that he could toss between his hands.
theres a man named Brian Fraud whos written and illastrated a few books about fairies.
many of his fairies have globes with them, floating above their palms sort of like personifications of their fairy magic.
the man on the lawn rolled the orb over his arms and the backs of his hands... flip flopping his objectified power under the glass globed lamps like a magic trick or a slight-of-hand or trick-the-eye game.
I tried to take his picture.
I stepped out of my comfort zone to take five more shots then I usually allow myself... before my stalker slash tourist phobias take over and I run away from the stranger whose soul I’ve tried to capture...
I tried and tried
But I didn’t capture the man with the globe.
only the memory of it in the awful snap shot photos that, when I look at them, will remind me of him. And ill know where and who and what I saw.
Someone else will see a man in a blue shirt with a smudgy green grey something behind him and a blur of something that could be anything flickering between his palms.
Saturday, July 19, 2008 at 10:08pm
Across the street from the hardware store where I went to buy the light bulb for the baby’s head for my installation, there’s a huge building with a domed roof and a lot of very tall columns.
There’s a green lawn between the huge building and the street and on the lawn there are tall lamp posts whose lamps are like giant glass globes.
On Thursday there was a man standing on the grass under the lamp posts, playing with a tiny glass ball that looked like it might have fallen from a post and shrunken to a size that he could toss between his hands.
theres a man named Brian Fraud whos written and illastrated a few books about fairies.
many of his fairies have globes with them, floating above their palms sort of like personifications of their fairy magic.
the man on the lawn rolled the orb over his arms and the backs of his hands... flip flopping his objectified power under the glass globed lamps like a magic trick or a slight-of-hand or trick-the-eye game.
I tried to take his picture.
I stepped out of my comfort zone to take five more shots then I usually allow myself... before my stalker slash tourist phobias take over and I run away from the stranger whose soul I’ve tried to capture...
I tried and tried
But I didn’t capture the man with the globe.
only the memory of it in the awful snap shot photos that, when I look at them, will remind me of him. And ill know where and who and what I saw.
Someone else will see a man in a blue shirt with a smudgy green grey something behind him and a blur of something that could be anything flickering between his palms.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
just dreaming
id like to work in Anthropologie
and stay late when the people come to hang the strange paper and yarn decorations from everywhere.
and maybe hold the bottom of a ladder while they reach up to nail a nail.
i think that there should be a whole new goverment funded work devision that is in charge of beautifying.
they will be like the maintenence. and they will be everywhere where there is a maintenence.
they will have meetings and design all the decorations for the mall or community college where they work
they will hang and ornament all the places where the janitors sweep.
they will work everyday and everything will always be artful.
it will be basically like a crew of instalation artists who make things like beautiful lighting and carpets.
or something
imagine going to a mall one a week and finding that everything is different everytime because someone is paid to make sure that the lighting is blue one week and red the next.
sort of the way Google illustrates their logo according to holidays- this work force will illustrate their area according to everyday
but not just holidays- seasons and themes in the news and current events.
id like to work in Anthropologie
and stay late when the people come to hang the strange paper and yarn decorations from everywhere.
and maybe hold the bottom of a ladder while they reach up to nail a nail.
i think that there should be a whole new goverment funded work devision that is in charge of beautifying.
they will be like the maintenence. and they will be everywhere where there is a maintenence.
they will have meetings and design all the decorations for the mall or community college where they work
they will hang and ornament all the places where the janitors sweep.
they will work everyday and everything will always be artful.
it will be basically like a crew of instalation artists who make things like beautiful lighting and carpets.
or something
imagine going to a mall one a week and finding that everything is different everytime because someone is paid to make sure that the lighting is blue one week and red the next.
sort of the way Google illustrates their logo according to holidays- this work force will illustrate their area according to everyday
but not just holidays- seasons and themes in the news and current events.
Goodnight Benjamin
the curious case of Benjamin button made me want to wake up early and hear the birds singing
and live my life in a big way and fall in love
all in misty blue.
and live my life in a big way and fall in love
all in misty blue.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
rant
away
want to go away
get away
from something that feels like nothing but also feels like everything
everything means nothing
where?
away
away where?
tasks...
bake
chores
point a to point be
process, process, process,
remember to pre-heat
bake
cookies!
point a to point b.
no..
creativity
just
measurments and sugar.
tell me what to do!
but dont tell me what to do!
i know what to do!
make me do it!
i will
make me do it!
shut up!
never
stillness
tired
ache
heart sqeeezzeedd with tight situations.
sunny breezy big windowed mornings!
please!
im done.
fail me!
im done!
i dont want anything
except everything.
dont tell me what to do.
i want to do everything.
NOTHING!
college! shit!
no!
i dont want to make movies!
i want to make stories
in my head!!
i dont want to show them to you!
theyre mine!
theyre incredible!
perfect!
but youll never know
listen.
whispering.
i cant do this.
"we"
could we do it?
no!
i hate you!
no
i just dont like you
that doesnt imply hate
dont touch me!
if you touch me i hate you!
i cant do this.
i want to bake cookies.
dropped out of harvard to open a bakery.
fell in love with a charachature in a red sweater.
"i believe your writing a story about me... when i file papers i hear a deep ocean."
tragedy or a comedy.
tragedy you die- comedy you fall in love.
tragedy you get rejected.
comedy you get accepted.
no fucking way
its the other fucking way around.
give me one comedy about being accepted.
"outrageous for a man like me to stand here and complain
painting my hair the color of mud"
i think that if i had a twin i would run away
because they would come with me
and like me
and like running away
and like running away with me
run away with me?
i dont think i like u enough.
i cant stay here and give up
i have to go far away and shout back to the shore: by the way! i give up!
and then dissapear over the horizon.
or under it.
pirate ship!
yes!
point a to point b
to a whole new level!
always moving!
never standing still!
always moving! and always with the simple
uncreative goal of "treasure!"
piracy!
yes!
please
im stuck!
want to go away
get away
from something that feels like nothing but also feels like everything
everything means nothing
where?
away
away where?
tasks...
bake
chores
point a to point be
process, process, process,
remember to pre-heat
bake
cookies!
point a to point b.
no..
creativity
just
measurments and sugar.
tell me what to do!
but dont tell me what to do!
i know what to do!
make me do it!
i will
make me do it!
shut up!
never
stillness
tired
ache
heart sqeeezzeedd with tight situations.
sunny breezy big windowed mornings!
please!
im done.
fail me!
im done!
i dont want anything
except everything.
dont tell me what to do.
i want to do everything.
NOTHING!
college! shit!
no!
i dont want to make movies!
i want to make stories
in my head!!
i dont want to show them to you!
theyre mine!
theyre incredible!
perfect!
but youll never know
listen.
whispering.
i cant do this.
"we"
could we do it?
no!
i hate you!
no
i just dont like you
that doesnt imply hate
dont touch me!
if you touch me i hate you!
i cant do this.
i want to bake cookies.
dropped out of harvard to open a bakery.
fell in love with a charachature in a red sweater.
"i believe your writing a story about me... when i file papers i hear a deep ocean."
tragedy or a comedy.
tragedy you die- comedy you fall in love.
tragedy you get rejected.
comedy you get accepted.
no fucking way
its the other fucking way around.
give me one comedy about being accepted.
"outrageous for a man like me to stand here and complain
painting my hair the color of mud"
i think that if i had a twin i would run away
because they would come with me
and like me
and like running away
and like running away with me
run away with me?
i dont think i like u enough.
i cant stay here and give up
i have to go far away and shout back to the shore: by the way! i give up!
and then dissapear over the horizon.
or under it.
pirate ship!
yes!
point a to point b
to a whole new level!
always moving!
never standing still!
always moving! and always with the simple
uncreative goal of "treasure!"
piracy!
yes!
please
im stuck!
Monday, December 15, 2008
The Pact
It’s so warm today.
The wind blows and the sky is churning, black against grey
with the bitter resentment of winter overpowered.
No matter how it howls
There’s no bitterness wind
That whisks pleasantly past my face and blows my hair around my eyes.
The rock where I sit is the day’s only memory
Frozen with yesterdays chill, it turns my thighs numb
And chuckles with the small piece of consciousness that
One of the philosophers promises us that rocks have.
"No windows or doors for anything to come in or out"
Just self and consciousness of self
Is what the rock has.
But I’m sure somehow that the wind and the rock have formed a wordless pact
"There’s nothing I can do!" says the wind
As he lifts the pages of this book
Flipping back to an entry from last summer.
What a tease.
"You must hold the winter for us until tomorrow."
And the rock chuckles inside its windowless soul,
While the message rattles the shutters on its walls.
The wind blows and the sky is churning, black against grey
with the bitter resentment of winter overpowered.
No matter how it howls
There’s no bitterness wind
That whisks pleasantly past my face and blows my hair around my eyes.
The rock where I sit is the day’s only memory
Frozen with yesterdays chill, it turns my thighs numb
And chuckles with the small piece of consciousness that
One of the philosophers promises us that rocks have.
"No windows or doors for anything to come in or out"
Just self and consciousness of self
Is what the rock has.
But I’m sure somehow that the wind and the rock have formed a wordless pact
"There’s nothing I can do!" says the wind
As he lifts the pages of this book
Flipping back to an entry from last summer.
What a tease.
"You must hold the winter for us until tomorrow."
And the rock chuckles inside its windowless soul,
While the message rattles the shutters on its walls.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
ifuture
when predicting the future, tarot card readings and all such silliness predict only the future of the path that you are on now; if i read my tarot cards they will give me the outcome of an event if everything continues the way it is going.
"If i take this path (draws a card) then this (another card) will be the outcome."
one of the futures we like to imagine looks like pipes and slime and factories giving off filthy smog but another one of the paths we are on is headed towards a silence where we all live in round white ihouses.
and wear white, clean, shiny, iclothing.
and we wont communicate and the world will stay silent... like snow
Ever notice how everything is quiter after snow... with only a few foggy sounds from far away.
thats what i see when i see the white iworld.
...everything pulsing with that white round light that mac computers pulse with when they go to sleep.
the iways will shine as the icars whip around corners, quietly, like slieghs on ice. and when theyre not driving the icars pulse in the drivways.
theres a setting to turn off the pulsing light but only the most computer savvy people know how to do it so mostly the world will pulse
and be quiet
except for the sounds of quiet keyboards.
and the tiny crescendos of computers turning on.
"If i take this path (draws a card) then this (another card) will be the outcome."
one of the futures we like to imagine looks like pipes and slime and factories giving off filthy smog but another one of the paths we are on is headed towards a silence where we all live in round white ihouses.
and wear white, clean, shiny, iclothing.
and we wont communicate and the world will stay silent... like snow
Ever notice how everything is quiter after snow... with only a few foggy sounds from far away.
thats what i see when i see the white iworld.
...everything pulsing with that white round light that mac computers pulse with when they go to sleep.
the iways will shine as the icars whip around corners, quietly, like slieghs on ice. and when theyre not driving the icars pulse in the drivways.
theres a setting to turn off the pulsing light but only the most computer savvy people know how to do it so mostly the world will pulse
and be quiet
except for the sounds of quiet keyboards.
and the tiny crescendos of computers turning on.
Friday, November 21, 2008
poem at the end of summer
What did she say?
The angel with the blue, pink, purple, silver pigtails?
What did she write that last morning?
The morning when she woke- she said- as if from underwater.
She watched me sleeping.
“Katie” she wrote, followed by adjectives like beautiful and sleeping
and outlined against a blue window-
glowing.
Was I there?
Did she really see my closed eyes and think they looked strangely peaceful at rest
because she remembered them fiery and full of life awake?
Did she lie?- that perfect angel with the silver hair…
No, she didn’t, couldn’t lie.
So was she real?
Was she blind?
Or was I beautiful?
The angel with the blue, pink, purple, silver pigtails?
What did she write that last morning?
The morning when she woke- she said- as if from underwater.
She watched me sleeping.
“Katie” she wrote, followed by adjectives like beautiful and sleeping
and outlined against a blue window-
glowing.
Was I there?
Did she really see my closed eyes and think they looked strangely peaceful at rest
because she remembered them fiery and full of life awake?
Did she lie?- that perfect angel with the silver hair…
No, she didn’t, couldn’t lie.
So was she real?
Was she blind?
Or was I beautiful?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
old poem
fishing today
I think if I see you today I will smile
Today I’ll know exactly what to say
And I’ll say it.
And not think about what you think about it
I think I won’t replay it and regret it
Today I think ill look at your face
instead of into your eyes
My thoughts will wander slowly tawords the knowlage of your presence
Like thoughts are supposed to do
Like early mornings
When I find
my mind meandering easily
Between intentions of buttered toast
And theories of world domination
I don’t think I love you anymore
I don’t think you can real me in
like a fish who has swallowed a hook
The hooks you never know you have cast
The ones that
with no intention of yours
you have kicked from the dock
Into the sea where they snag
Unwanted, innocent, invisble passing fish
That you never knew were there
And you never knew were caught
And you never cared.
I was cought.
And you never knew
Dragged and flung from oblivion
And landing gasping in airless powerlessness
At your feet
Of course I cant be sure
If I love you anymore
I wont know if I don’t
Until I see you and smile
And speak and look
And look away
So I'm hoping to see you today.
I think if I see you today I will smile
Today I’ll know exactly what to say
And I’ll say it.
And not think about what you think about it
I think I won’t replay it and regret it
Today I think ill look at your face
instead of into your eyes
My thoughts will wander slowly tawords the knowlage of your presence
Like thoughts are supposed to do
Like early mornings
When I find
my mind meandering easily
Between intentions of buttered toast
And theories of world domination
I don’t think I love you anymore
I don’t think you can real me in
like a fish who has swallowed a hook
The hooks you never know you have cast
The ones that
with no intention of yours
you have kicked from the dock
Into the sea where they snag
Unwanted, innocent, invisble passing fish
That you never knew were there
And you never knew were caught
And you never cared.
I was cought.
And you never knew
Dragged and flung from oblivion
And landing gasping in airless powerlessness
At your feet
Of course I cant be sure
If I love you anymore
I wont know if I don’t
Until I see you and smile
And speak and look
And look away
So I'm hoping to see you today.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
maybe
maybe i dont really want to make movies.
maybe i just like the idea of having someone tell me what to do.
even if its me
telling me what to do
i still need to excuse of a controlled experiment of an alternate reality
in order to consider myself a credible authority
and to listen to me.
maybe i just like the idea of having someone tell me what to do.
even if its me
telling me what to do
i still need to excuse of a controlled experiment of an alternate reality
in order to consider myself a credible authority
and to listen to me.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
most days
Most days
Most days I go downstairs,
And find something wonderful to eat
Like buttered toast
And earl grey tea.
I carry it all back upstairs
With the delightful idea of
Stealing a movie from my dad's credit card
And downloading it from itunes.
Sitting on the floor with my tea and my perfect toast,
I look up at the screen and let the Beauty wash over me.
And now a universe has squeezed its way in
Through the little red arteries in my eyes.
And now the dye shows the doctors things that they couldn’t see before.
And we can see the particular cavities
Where imagination and believability swim around and wait
For other people’s ideas to arrive.
And we can see they are squeezed and prodded and swirled around
Until they are adequate for transfer
To the next piece my brain
The piece that controls the pride and the entitlement and the potential of me.
And we can see that
This second chamber of judgment,
Behind my eyes,
Houses a predictable little response who
Turns up its nose at the
Mutilated bits of other people’s universes
That squeezed their way in through my red eyes.
Because the little response has just received
Word from me and I know that we
Could have created a much more perfect work of art.
Sometimes I take my dirty dishes back downstairs
Thinking about what a genius I am
Sometimes I leave my dishes on the floor
And go downstairs empty handed
But always
Thinking about what a genius I am
I smile as I get more toast
More tea
And do it all over again
Knowing all along that I am headed for greatness
And that all my daily habits
Are somehow helping me to get there.
Most days I go downstairs,
And find something wonderful to eat
Like buttered toast
And earl grey tea.
I carry it all back upstairs
With the delightful idea of
Stealing a movie from my dad's credit card
And downloading it from itunes.
Sitting on the floor with my tea and my perfect toast,
I look up at the screen and let the Beauty wash over me.
And now a universe has squeezed its way in
Through the little red arteries in my eyes.
And now the dye shows the doctors things that they couldn’t see before.
And we can see the particular cavities
Where imagination and believability swim around and wait
For other people’s ideas to arrive.
And we can see they are squeezed and prodded and swirled around
Until they are adequate for transfer
To the next piece my brain
The piece that controls the pride and the entitlement and the potential of me.
And we can see that
This second chamber of judgment,
Behind my eyes,
Houses a predictable little response who
Turns up its nose at the
Mutilated bits of other people’s universes
That squeezed their way in through my red eyes.
Because the little response has just received
Word from me and I know that we
Could have created a much more perfect work of art.
Sometimes I take my dirty dishes back downstairs
Thinking about what a genius I am
Sometimes I leave my dishes on the floor
And go downstairs empty handed
But always
Thinking about what a genius I am
I smile as I get more toast
More tea
And do it all over again
Knowing all along that I am headed for greatness
And that all my daily habits
Are somehow helping me to get there.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
recipe
one and a half teaspoons of hot coco mix.
a bit of heavy whipping cream
put the cream and the coco in a small jar and shake the jar until the liquid does not make any noise or move at all.
then lick with your fingers
or eat with a spoon.
note: if the liquid starts moving and making a noise again you will have chocolate butter.
a bit of heavy whipping cream
put the cream and the coco in a small jar and shake the jar until the liquid does not make any noise or move at all.
then lick with your fingers
or eat with a spoon.
note: if the liquid starts moving and making a noise again you will have chocolate butter.
Friday, September 5, 2008
You
I'm ready for you now.
when i see you
i know not to wait for fireworks.
I'm ready for the silence that will follow
in the rocket's place.
I'm not expecting much.
I'm ready for that too.
ready for who you wont be.
I'm ready to be patient
while i sketch out
the perfect you
and iron it onto your face.
I'm ready to peel away that pattern
and see that-ah-yes-
you've turned out a fine first draft of you.
I'm ready to outline your features and
line by line
to cross-hatch your shadows.
I'm excited for the day
when ill take
my perfect eraser that doesn't smudge
and reveal the highlights where the sun touches your cheeks
and the lights in your eyes
I'm ready for the hard work that you will take.
and I'm ready for the grand unveiling...
ill decide one day that you are
as good as i can imagine you will ever be.
that's the day ill stand before you and view you
with the critical eye that all artists save for their own work.
ill know where you could have been better
and also where you are perfect.
ill feel a bit more perfect myself for having created you.
and also a bite more flawed
because Ive given so much of me to you
and you turned out nothing like i planned you would.
Ill run a finger or the back of a brush
over the lines of you
and smile because i know that all along
you've been painting me too.
I'm ready for you.
I'm waiting for the blank canvas of you with open arms, rinsed brushes and colors
that ive chosen before knowing you
a palette of paints Ive mixed the way i like them.
I'm ready for you now and whenever you re ready we'll begin.
when i see you
i know not to wait for fireworks.
I'm ready for the silence that will follow
in the rocket's place.
I'm not expecting much.
I'm ready for that too.
ready for who you wont be.
I'm ready to be patient
while i sketch out
the perfect you
and iron it onto your face.
I'm ready to peel away that pattern
and see that-ah-yes-
you've turned out a fine first draft of you.
I'm ready to outline your features and
line by line
to cross-hatch your shadows.
I'm excited for the day
when ill take
my perfect eraser that doesn't smudge
and reveal the highlights where the sun touches your cheeks
and the lights in your eyes
I'm ready for the hard work that you will take.
and I'm ready for the grand unveiling...
ill decide one day that you are
as good as i can imagine you will ever be.
that's the day ill stand before you and view you
with the critical eye that all artists save for their own work.
ill know where you could have been better
and also where you are perfect.
ill feel a bit more perfect myself for having created you.
and also a bite more flawed
because Ive given so much of me to you
and you turned out nothing like i planned you would.
Ill run a finger or the back of a brush
over the lines of you
and smile because i know that all along
you've been painting me too.
I'm ready for you.
I'm waiting for the blank canvas of you with open arms, rinsed brushes and colors
that ive chosen before knowing you
a palette of paints Ive mixed the way i like them.
I'm ready for you now and whenever you re ready we'll begin.
making lists.
I'm making a list
of things to stack
one on top of the other.
stack until they pile high enough
to reach over the wall
of myself.
hand by hand foot by foot
i begin to craw upwards towards the top
of this jumbled decaying compost heap of intention.
the list teeters.
"make a movie" gets pressed into my palms and
"learn to drive" is under my nails.
as i pass my abdomin and reach for a rib. i look down and see
"excersise daily" there on my foot
its coating my footholds in resisue.
what more could i possibly do on that point?
i wonder, panting as i reach
for the next rung on the ladder- collar bone. and
grasp it with all my srength...
this must be good enough to satsify
"daily workout", i assure myself, as i swing there for a moment
i turn back
hoping to check off that fulfilled bit of gooey resalution
that is sticky between my toes.
"just be happy" is hard like diamonds on the inside of my skull.
i scrape it off in thin layers which shatter
as they fall and shower me in crystal dust.
then-crack- im out- blinking in the sunlight
coated in that last bullieted requirement for freedom.
of things to stack
one on top of the other.
stack until they pile high enough
to reach over the wall
of myself.
hand by hand foot by foot
i begin to craw upwards towards the top
of this jumbled decaying compost heap of intention.
the list teeters.
"make a movie" gets pressed into my palms and
"learn to drive" is under my nails.
as i pass my abdomin and reach for a rib. i look down and see
"excersise daily" there on my foot
its coating my footholds in resisue.
what more could i possibly do on that point?
i wonder, panting as i reach
for the next rung on the ladder- collar bone. and
grasp it with all my srength...
this must be good enough to satsify
"daily workout", i assure myself, as i swing there for a moment
i turn back
hoping to check off that fulfilled bit of gooey resalution
that is sticky between my toes.
"just be happy" is hard like diamonds on the inside of my skull.
i scrape it off in thin layers which shatter
as they fall and shower me in crystal dust.
then-crack- im out- blinking in the sunlight
coated in that last bullieted requirement for freedom.
political dreams
Giuliani is tossing a ball
back and forth between his hands and laughing.
the ball is bright and red and shiny as it is flipped
from one small plump hand to the other.
i want to snatch the beautiful toy away from the cackling politician.
all it has done is shine
but the old man cant let it alone.
back and forth it flies and finally he drops it to the floor.
delighted to be free the ball bounces off the podium and rolls away.
i pick it up when it arrives at my feet
i hold it hight above my head and a stadium of people cry and cheer
the ball shines brightly back at them all...
red and pure and audaciously hopeful.
back and forth between his hands and laughing.
the ball is bright and red and shiny as it is flipped
from one small plump hand to the other.
i want to snatch the beautiful toy away from the cackling politician.
all it has done is shine
but the old man cant let it alone.
back and forth it flies and finally he drops it to the floor.
delighted to be free the ball bounces off the podium and rolls away.
i pick it up when it arrives at my feet
i hold it hight above my head and a stadium of people cry and cheer
the ball shines brightly back at them all...
red and pure and audaciously hopeful.
a wormy sensation
a wormy sensation has a hold on me
a crawling tight knawing twist in my gut
tells me that i am dissatisfied with something.
so i crawl into the tightest corner i can find
i wrap myself in my arms and squeeze my ribs together with my elbows.
i try to think of what could possibly be wrong.
why am i crawling and twisted?
maybe, i think, there is not logic at all
and the wormy sensation is just my heart
squeezing iteslf with its elbows
curled up in its own tight corner.
maybe myself has no more idea
of why it must this
then i do.
a crawling tight knawing twist in my gut
tells me that i am dissatisfied with something.
so i crawl into the tightest corner i can find
i wrap myself in my arms and squeeze my ribs together with my elbows.
i try to think of what could possibly be wrong.
why am i crawling and twisted?
maybe, i think, there is not logic at all
and the wormy sensation is just my heart
squeezing iteslf with its elbows
curled up in its own tight corner.
maybe myself has no more idea
of why it must this
then i do.
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