.

I'm too late.
I can't change this path we've wandered,
nor can ignore where we are.
And I wouldn't want to.
The language as it slides past my lips and hits the floor like concrete
leaves little more than a bitter taste on the tip of my tongue.
but I don't regret it.
Regrets are useless,
they remind me of paths I would have traveled,
lives I could have had
things I shouldn't have said
but then what?
Exactly.
Useless.
This extravagant road we took to get here
only made us later.
Your regret clinging to my heels
It slowly creeps up my leg
Waiting for me to stumble.
I stare directly as I fall

Like I said.
I'm too late.

August 2010

Fear.
It clings to every fiber of my clothing
The ones your hands slip so carefully beneath
The temperature of my skin suddenly dropping
It makes me shiver

We can create our own universe,
You and I.
Where the mountains reach the ocean,
and the stars touch the horizon
and only you and I can see our futures in the murky depths of water
Where your hands
Romping with their own volition
Decreases my temperature once more
And I can’t imagine what it was like before this moment.

It doesn't last. It never does.
There. Again.
Fear.

Somehow it clings though I watch it drift along the currents of that pond.
And I feel as though it's taunting me

But then your lips touch mine

And we create our own universe

And my temperature rises.

[random]

I admire the Autumn leaves falling delicately from the golden branches above me.
I pause in the middle of the road
in awe of their assertiveness,
How i long to be the leaf which falls;
on my own time,
at my own pace.
On the other hand, my interpretation may be off...
perhaps it is the animosity of the branch,
forcing lone leaf after another to disengage from the comfort of their home
to be left to die among the nameless masses on the cold asphalt.

2am ramble

Dancing. How sweet the music echoing through the abandoned chambers of my endlessly wandering mind. My body gyrating in the dim environment that surrounds me. I throw my hands above my body and breathe in; the sweet smell of sweat, cologne, and cigarette smoke more intoxicating than the alcohol I consume. I feel at peace, which surprises me since this is not a place conducive to such emotion. I decide the music is to blame. My mind, soothed by the sounds, rests quietly and thanks me for the solitude.

K.

The last look on your face still haunts me

After all these years, I can't forget

I've tried to wipe you out of my memories



I want to say I don't love you

I'd like to say I'm over you

Still, the sound of your voice

Brings me to my knees

I scream but no one can hear me



Fragments of my heart

shattered

fly carelessly with the crisp Montana breeze

I hear them ask me questions

I don't have the strength nor resolve

to respond to

The aching grows deeper and deeper

and for a moment my heart stops beating

and I cannot breathe

[random]

I wonder if it is too late to reconcile with you. I never quite know where these preconceived notions come from; the desire perhaps to link myself with the romanticized ideation I still hold of you and I. However, the past is clear and even the ideation holds no true appeal any longer. I wonder if you have come to a similar conclusion of your own accord. The telephone rings; it is you. I decide perhaps, you have not. I smile when I pick up the receiver, not by choice, but by some false precipice, rehearsed as though if I should move too sudden, I might be killed. Going through the motions seems a relentless task and I consider just ending the conversation but the consequences seem to dire.

"love"

I love artistic ideation
I love the portion of the beach where the sand is wet and the waves catch your bare feet
I love waterfalls
I love being kissed on the forehead
I love kissing someone's hands
I love walks at midnight in the rain
I love music that lingers long after its been played
I love feeling like the world is aligned for a single moment
I love whispering on the phone at three am
I love the ache of your body after an intense workout
I love the feeling left after a lover bites your skin
I love bruises
I love creating masterpieces with leftover food at restaurants while intoxicated
I love dancing in the dark
I love dancing in the dark, in the rain
I love sharing secrets with someone
I love conspiring
I love sitting on the floor next to someone on a chair, grasping onto their leg with my head on their lap
I love my hair falling in my face
I love secret smiles with the eyes
I love guilty knowledge
I love close up pictures of someone biting their lip
I love black and white photography
I love big bang swing music
I love to jitterbug although I don't know how
I love intense conversations
I love being embarrassed to the point of admission
I love someone's breath on my shoulder
I love anticipation
I love attraction
I love primal instinct
I love never having to say a word
I love innocence of deep slumber
I love waking from a nightmare to find yourself in safe surroundings
I love friendship
I love tree lined streets during the summer time
I love the woods at dusk
I love getting lost
I love being lost with someone
I love intricate detail
I love old cars
I love mardi gras beads
I love hearing someone sing
I love laughter of all sorts
I love living each day like its my last
I love mismatched socks
I love wearing pajamas to school
I love wearing a tie
I love reading on park benches
I love star gazing
I love being intimate in public places
I love absolute trust
I love being willful
I love quirky smiles
I love passionate debate
I love picnics on the river
I love techno beats that keep me moving for hours
I love rope swings
I love long showers with my clothes on
I love drinking wine while in the shower/bath
I love a good story teller
I love guitar during the summer, next to the bbq
I love summer block parties
I love making people think
I love challenging someone's ideals
I love to run in the park
I love to play tag
I love to spar
I love to braid hair
I love to play with my tongue piercing
I love to paint my body
I love to make people blush
I love the appearance of atrial flutter
I love fresh fruit in the summer time
I love childlike ambition
I love feeling impervious
I love being led by the hand
I love coffee with a friend at the coffee shop
I love taking pictures of people when they aren't paying attention
I love subtle romantic gestures
I love being read to
I love wandering aimlessly
I love night time exploration
I love watching the lights of the city from a far
I love a great hike
I love to be chased
I love falling in love
I love the first kiss
I love being kissed on the nape of my neck by surprise
I love checking capillary refill
I love tracing the outline of someone's face with my fingertips
I love lingering looks from across a crowded room
I love to be protected
I love subtle jealousy
I love six hour long phone conversations
I love inspiration
I love being someone's muse
I love shallow breathing
I love tachycardia
I love singing at the top of my lungs
I love a glass of wine outside on the balcony
I love good company
I love the action of locking hands
I love walking around campus smiling
I love spontaneity
I love uncensored, uninhibited conversation

[prose]

I’m elated, really.

Smiling as though I am under some influence..

or perhaps it is just some confluence of perpetuated gravitational tendencies

we have towards each other

As if life shifts in scattered moments to rivet our souls

And bind them to one another

We fight it

But lose.

Regardless, it is euphoric.

And this smile,

Is because of you.

late

When the wind howls outside my bedroom window and the silence of incidence has passed.. my body defeatingly lies still, muscles tensed and resistant to rest while i listen to the sound of my heart.

a glass of wine on a wednesday night

The blaring of unrecognizable melodies.
A glass of clear silence in a room filled with chaos.
A reluctance wavering the usual extroverted personalities.
Yet though i sit alone, i feel at home.
Somehow you are sitting beside me.

a long road to nowhere

what are you staring at?
Do you think you know me?
Do you think the empty chair beside me is some sort of an unspoken invitation to my pants?

Think again boy.

I have paved this road a long time before you wandered into my life.
The space beside me is taken.
This body you seek to acquire is home to another.
This conversation was over before it began.

You have taken a journey you should walk away from now.

Before i make you regret it.

[prose]

I should have seen it coming.

It's this thing I'm trying out...



Like becoming part of a family,

living with a woman who you say you love,

and leading her household

helping her to raise her child…

was a costume you could pull on and off

Like the residual effects of what would remain

when you were bored with this game

would dissipate,

and you could pretend it never happened

Since like you said,

it was just this thing you were trying out…

And now you go back to your life

Go back to playing.

Fucking.

Hurting.

Dating on a case by case basis.

Pretending that you know what love is.

And that the complications of our relationships

Won't manifest themselves in any other

Just remember when you look in the mirror

That what you see

Won't disappear

Even if you run fast

And remember that the aching you feel for the family you once had...

can't be drowned in a bottle, or a book,

or even in the arms of another.

Extrication

Reality seems so distant.
Masses of faces pass without a fury of recognition.
And you don't care.
The emptiness of self-loathing emits a stench that cannot be classified by anything other than of failure.
But what does it matter?
Your lifeless body holds you hostage.
A sedated prison.
The door opens and a sliver of light in the darkness of confinement reminds the remnants of your fading consciousness that you are not quite human anymore.

refuge

i fall into you. my body merging with yours to forge a code unique to you and I. Those lips burning an impression on mine, never to be replicated. Those hands holding this body hostage. Those eyes communicating through the silence. Only we can know.

unfinished

the sound of your voice echoing

though you are not near

my conscious altered by the impression

the imagery burned upon my flesh

somehow we recover

somehow we are thankful

though it lingers

the taste

the thirst

zom.

I shuffle down cold abandoned halls at night.

It is silent, but I feel as if the noise around me is overpowering.

Every insignificant sound echoes through me, scraping against my skin, painfully lingering until I wince in disapproval.

The cold cement beneath my feet, the only sense of being grounded I feel tonight.

Otherwise it is as if I am floating, like the waking dead, attempting to transverse this plane to the next.

But the sounds.

The sounds keep me here.

Hold me hostage on this seemingly infinite struggle of hostility.

The sounds.

They saunter about in a failed attempt to placate me.

Only reinforcing my resistance to the system.

Or the system reinforcing my resistance to the sound, perhaps.

Either way you look at it.

[prose]

Pristine white linens
Your voice lingering on surfaces around us
The notes from your song riding an invisible frequency
I can see it.
Like fog
crystal clear those sounds visible on the open waves of my still bedroom
it is your temple
a pillar of self-sacrificial duty
to the reverberation

Montana

As I drive down the curvature of Blue Mountain Road listening to the radio, my mind wanders. The land that surrounds me is nothing besides absolutely incredible and it’s a wonder that places like this exist at all with man’s inability to leave well enough alone. I come from California. Wait; don’t leave before hearing what I have yet to say. I came here without intentions to buy property and jack up prices. I came here without intention of settling into the laid back nature that is, well, Montana. And somehow as the last six years have flown by, I settled. Settled into a life that doesn’t even come close to the life I led prior to a 30 hour greyhound bus ride.

I remember the ride here; I was exhausted, yet exhilarated. Off to start a new life without the prior conceptions that had held me back. Without the commitment of obligations to friends and family. It was just me, and him, and two duffel bags. We were miles away from anyone who knew where we had come from. And I liked it that way. It was my greatest adventure. (Needless to say, as years pass wisdom grants me the knowledge that it was far from my greatest adventure, as motherhood, vocation and just being a woman prove day by day to be a greater adventure than any bus ticket could provide me. But I am getting ahead of myself.)

I remember the first time I traveled by public transportation and witnessed a boy carrying a pelt. And not just any pelt, a pelt of what could only be described as once a wolf (or large dog.) It was slung over one shoulder, with an overloaded backpack slung over the other. The boy, a Montana native, I supposed, appeared to be about thirteen. The discussion between him and his school mates was not about the fact that he had just stepped onto a bus with a wolf pelt on his shoulder. It was about a video game. That’s when I knew Montana was unlike any other place I had ever been.

And there I am, ahead of myself again. I was driving along the curvature of Blue Mountain Road, following a beat up blue pick-up truck last weekend. Without my contacts, I should not be driving, but I see the lines just fine, its usually just long distance lettering that causes me trouble. But there I was following this vehicle staring at the back, wondering to myself, what on earth is that thing tied to the bed of his truck. We reached the stop light at Highway 93 and my curiosity was answered. There, tied to the bed of the truck was a deer. A small, female, white tailed deer. Her glazed eyes stared into space, dried blood and mud coated her beautiful fur. As I pulled into the lane beside them, I couldn’t help but stare at her, tied there like a trophy to be had; her stomach split open, and her intestines removed. She was half the animal she had been prior to her death. I wanted to reach out to her, desperate to show her that even though some were lacking in humanity I understood her sacrifice and I wished… wished things could have been different for her.

Separation between self and other, I suppose is still one of my greatest challenges. But as tears trickle from my eyes, I wonder if perhaps they took time to thank her.

bad ideas

i want to crawl inside your body.

it seems strange, the idea of wanting to immerse myself in you,
just to feel safe again.
i would say i want to crawl inside your womb,
but you are a man,
and men don't have a womb.
But i know that you would understand.
i want to feel safe again.
i want your warmth to engulf me and remind me what it feels like to be loved.

when you go

Leave the pieces.
There on the table, next to the bottle of wine.
The words pass my lips so carelessly that i forgot we were talking about my heart.
He looks at me with disdain and I pretend to apologize.
He isn't fooled.
It is asinine-
This dance we do.
This game we play.
Back and forth-
up and down.
Make up and break up.
And yet- i feel as if i am never part of the decision making process.
So in all reality, asking for the pieces to be left this round was not too much to ask.
I smile.
Not because i am right but because he knows it.

flight?

Floating like flying
Bound to the preconceived notions that we lay about
Regretting the perfection of each intricate stare
It leaves me unsatisfied.

The end.

I mean.
How could it not?
It is the remnants of some
uncooperative
disdain
for lack of a better term.
This dance reminds me of flying
Floating?
I said this before.
Perhaps.
Then again, I may be dancing.

whispered

I have a half hour until my meeting.

I'm in the library close to tears and I can not even pretend to know why.

You left me long before you even moved to Missoula.

You left the idea of us, and the beauty of our relationship downtown in San Francisco with the stench of your fear and the slightly salted tide.

And you never gave it a chance.

Not because you didn't want to. Why else would you travel to Missoula?

But because of your fear. Your insecurity.

You refuse to work through them.

And I can't talk about fear and insecurity...

I carry them in my pocket all day.

My insecurity.

My fear.

The difference is, I take them out and play with them, then tuck them safely in my pocket where I feel the most connected to them.

But in taking them out to play, I work at them, I chip away at the constant nagging I feel when they are in my pocket.

That is where we differ.

You hide yours. It becomes more powerful that way. If they are always hiding then all they do is whisper to you. They seep into your every being and overwhelm each and every decision you make. And it can feel like you are in control. But you aren't.

You pretend to do things to conquer them. Isnt that the real reason you came to Missoula?

To combat some demons and give something that terrifies you a try?

But instead, you put it in a pocket and it whispered. It whispered so loud that the thoughts became your own and rather than love me, appreciate me, share with me, you parented me.

That is what the insecurity whispered. Take over. You are a man. Make things the way they ought to be.

What you should have been whispering back is, if I do that, just to prove I am a man, you win. The insecurity wins.



And it did.

And that is why you stayed. The fear whispered you must stay. If you stay and you fix things then you can leave in control.

And you listened.

on your terms

On my terms things seemed do-able.

Even this part.

Even the heartbreak.



But really, its not on my terms. And it never really has been.

There really isnt anything left to say at this point.

I love you.

I love you my beautiful, tortured Sir.
My confused and nervous Master.

My overwhelmed and overcompensating Partner.

I even love the broken man inside of you who pretends to have a clue to what he wants.

The man who pretends he isn't broken in order to live day to day without regret.

But you are.

Broken.

And you know.

You know I love you.

You know that I see you for who you truly are.

And that despite all we have done to each other. And for each other.

It was beautiful.

Even though we never gave it a chance.

Yes, I know we disagree on this.

But WE never gave it a chance.
And perhaps that is the way it is supposed to be.


The radio plays.
'You never loved me quite as well as the way I loved you.'

And you never gave your all until it was over.

These are the things you must work on.

The things that you have to battle.

Where you are broken. Where you lie afraid.

And I cant fight your fight.

Just as you cannot fight my fight.

But I love you.
and sometimes I want to.

Just so that maybe it could be on my terms.

Instead of always on yours.

masochistic tendencies

I went to the dentist today.

It's been a while.

And as I sat in that chair, nervous at the adventure at hand, I smiled.

As she began to scrape and prod at my jaw, I did not ask for more solution to ease the pain.

I embraced it.

And allowed it.

And really felt it.

It hurt!

Then I thought to myself,

This isn't normal.

I'm embracing the pain of having my teeth cleaned.

I'm embracing the time I am having with my dental hygienist.

Wow, if she only knew.

J.

The lights flicker off and on,

Subsequently on and off

I watch them as if I may neglect something essential

The last look in your eyes

Unequivocal

My memory implicitly reminding me

A daily dose of conscience to ease the rush of significant instances

Off and on

A shade of chocolate

On and off

The single eyebrow raise that always made me smile

Then on

And you are gone again

The light flickers once again,

And with a spark it falls silent

down, down, down the rabbit hole

It's like Alice staring down into that rabbit hole.

She knows that it can only lead to trouble; perhaps it is trouble that she seeks.

Otherwise why would she fling herself in midair to begin some pretentious journey?

She wanted us to believe it was an accident; she wanted us to feel sorry for her.

But I don't.


Alice. Oh Alice…


I got your fucking number.

the letter

He said to burn it.

It might be more cathartic that way.

And I'm considering it.

But not quite yet.

Right now I'm re-reading the fifteen pages I've written.

Well, to be fair, almost fifty percent of it is excerpts of things we've already said...


Letters we have written.

Poems we have shared.

Art.

But the entire thing was art.

The jump.

It was beautiful.

And dangerous.

Self-destructive.

And elusive.

Would things change if you read it?

No. And I don't want them to.

All that lies in that letter is the hope of some abstracted reconciliation.

A future that has yet to come, having a chance.

Because right now.

Without you knowing the truth.

Even that abstraction is impossible.



And I need to let that go.

So maybe I will burn it.

Because as I watch the edges ignite, I can revel in that devastation, and I can look at the nows and smile.

But not quite yet.

Negligence

That glass of wine.

Zinfandel.

Cabernet perhaps.

Too rich to be a Merlot.

The final glass, I watched him pour it, the label turned from me.

He handed it to me hastily.

I watched it plummet to the ground between us.

Anticipating the sound.

The destruction upon impact.

I embraced it.

It was in spite of everything,

a metaphor for our existance,

our commitment to one another.

The carelessness in which he handled the wine,

was the same manner in which he recklessly handled my heart.

My body.

My love.

As the glass shattered,

I smiled.

And walked out the door.

Breathe.

It is silent.

Not in the no one is talking, yet I can hear the birds chirping and distant sounds of the ocean silent.

But silent.

Eerily silent.

The sun is bright, blistering; the streets are abandoned and I find myself walking up a set of stairs leading to a front door.

The stairs seems to go on forever, but I keep walking curious about the absence of even white noise.

I'm half-way expecting some zombie to pop out from behind a tree or dumpster and attack me.

Like in the movies, only scarier.

Then I reach the door.

And am thankful.

I reach for the handle, and slowly turn it open, expecting some sort of creaking noise from the hinge, or at least the sound of the unlatching of the lock, but its still silent.

I open the door and walk in.

It's not even my house.

And I don't know why I'm here.

but part of me seems to know where I am headed.

The contrast of light from inside to out is almost stunning.

An amber glow through drawn curtains, bookshelves oversyuffed with books lining the walls,

enclosing it into an even more dungeon-like ambiance.

There is a long hallway, dark, lined with wood paneling and I make my way down it, slowly, carefully, silently.

It's still silent.

Almost like I am mute perhaps?

If someone were to drop a glass of wine

I would watch it fall,

Shatter.

The contents splattering across the the hardwood floor,

and yet it would still remain silent.

I reach the end of the hall to a door that is ajar.

Carefully push it open.

The room is bright.

Crisp.

The window open, a light breeze causing the white curtains to dance.

And I can hear the breeze. Soft, like gentle music.

Ocassionally a ray of sunshine wedging upon the wall.

Hardwood post bed.

Crisp white blankets.

She is laying there.

Faced towards the center of the bed, on her side, back to the window.

Covered by blankets. Quiet and still.

I tiptoe towards the bed.

My bare feet making only slightly audible scuff sounds on the hardwood.

I crawl in.

I do not speak.

There are birds chirping and in the distance, a faint crashing of ocean waves.

It sounds like heaven.

I crawl under the covers facing her.

Take her hand into mine.

Hold it between our faces, palm to palm.

And we just breathe.

breathe.

[prose]

Begging for something most people spend a lifetime avoiding.
I hear the uncertainty of these silences
clinging to every fiber of my clothing
berated voids between off key harmonies
standing still to avoid the looming consequences
stranded behind a falsified idealism
lifelong ambitions proven contradictory
unavoidable certainty, a triumph of rage
an absolute perseverance of failing reliance

Walking Meditation

Life.

Life is parallel to a labyrinth.


The road on which we travel; a simple path, part of the greater picture.

Even our decisive movement is part of the maze itself.

Components of structure,

of the universe itself,

a web spun into intricate detailed moments to create that work of art.



From afar it appears magnificent,

however when lost within its layers,

One can become attached to the idea of solving its dilemma.


A perfect environment for meditation.

Where better to resolve One’s attachment to resolution than in the company of a maze?


The point is not to solve the matrix; it is to become comfortable with being a part of it