moonbeams only

the dead

2010-10-29T23:21:00.000-04:00

I sit on the floor, my head in hands. I accidentally pull the curtains open with a jolt of a hand. But really I want to see the street better. The window spits its outside into the yellow of my kitchen. Outside makes me colder. It makes me remember of the hat I had to wear because my grandfather made me. He died many years ago. I should have just disposed of the hat back then. But I didn’t. I still have it on. I pull on a pair of muddy boots and drag myself outside into the storm and into the scream of nature. I hire a taxi and want to keep it for a day. The driver says he can’t, he has a funeral to service. Ah the dead… He looks at me through the rear view mirror above his head without turning as if afraid to let on that he acknowledges me. He narrows his eyes at my hat, worrying. I can see he is distressed, looking now around his cab in disbelief. A person like me on the back seat can make his cab seem not his cab, not a cab at all.

I should just mind my own head, but I can’t. I am lonely. “do you miss anybody ever?” I say.

It is Thursday night and the bars are packed with economy supporters. If everybody goes out three nights a week, the financial crisis can be averted in no time.

I close the lid too fast and a slice of my skin stays shut between the glass and the aluminum. My fault. I make my own life slices stuck in inadequacies.

Somewhere behind the road signs, somebody is flying a sarcastic grin through unattending skies.

“this is all I can do really,” my own grin says. I am ineffectual, spineless, and lifeless. The wind picks up my hat for me and carries it off. If the cab driver didn’t have the dead to drive around, I would have still been inside his car, with my hat on. I wonder whose funeral it was. I think of my grandfather.

It’s like I don’t deserve most things. It’s like I am too strange.

A fact of the suitcase

2010-08-21T01:36:00.000-04:00

Beatrice gets to negotiate immense heaps of snow at every intersection 8 months every year. Every car, pedestrian, and carriage spit course language throughout the day all around trying to do the same thing. This time the whole country has reached a true integration of consensus. They hate where they live. Did they know, when last winter ended, that this winter was going to be the same? Or did they block the memory of the last winter and decided that surely winters never actually happen in this part of the world? They are all insane. Beatrice has spent the last year deciding where she would move. Staying was not an option.

She had a fact of the suitcase to hold on to.

If and when (if OR when) princessly wealth, however modest, is entrusted to me, I will be a good custodian and increase it with use.

Once you have given up, everything follows with dead certainty.

I want to expect the most magical thing to happen and to relieve me from my debts, my lack of university degrees, my guilt in front of the ones who love me, my insufficient affection for available men, my life path that doesn’t want to follow any rational maps, my miserable talent, my inevitable health decay and ageing. I do not wish to be in control any longer, Mother.

In everything I quickly see the opposite, the contradiction, the attack.

Nothing can be altered, except by a change of heart. I can change a heart.

I feel envy for some, and pity for the ones I don’t envy.

I want everything too badly. I take blind leaps into the dark systematically. Everything has to happen as soon as I want it.

He had stolen something and he knew it. The world was a nerve-jangling carnival where grotesqueries might swing out on springs and cackle at you.

all my friends are clowns

2010-04-19T01:19:00.003-04:00

"I like clowns," the clown said, "All my friends are clowns."
I looked around, there was nothing but the desert and the sky. Nothing but dark orange and gloomy navy. There is a reason in everything, and so there was a reason for a bus stop to have been placed right there, in the middle of the dry cracked flatness. A girl-clown and two boy-clowns were at the bus stop waiting. Every now and then the sound of applause came pouring forth out of the air, and the three clowns cordially thanked the surroundings. One of the boys always yelled "Thanks for coming late!" in a half-bitter and half-sweet tone of voice.

...

They never came without a circus.

"Yeah, I like clowns too," I lied, for the reason that there is always a potential.

It is easy to flick the switch of preferences, when by default they are all classical.

There is a reason in everything, and so there was a reason for the bus stop with the clowns to emerge out of nowhere in the middle of Mojave. They will always be waiting for the bus, and the boy-clown will always yell "Thanks for coming late!" I will always say, "I like clowns too," and there will always be a confusion as to what my relationship with clowns really is.

In contrast, what has not happened yet possesses tremendous power to be changed, to be modified, and to reemerge in your dreamscape in as many different disguises as you have time for. and all the various optional ways and complications...

2009-08-17T23:21:00.001-04:00

It’s simple: you have to really want it. No more overbearing ego, only the present moment telling us both: we are happy.

The clock stroke two and I heavily walked out of the house and onto a scandalously lit path of dewed grass. I walked steadily for many hours. I walked South.

I feel so close to all the time that we lost. We never have to lose it again.

everything we'll ever have

2009-03-31T21:53:00.005-04:00

It was evening just like it usually was with them. Every evening has a morning, and a day, and a night. Beatrice was there, snuggling in content after the exhaustion of her day. She just arrived from the outside where the winds and the Celcius whizzed up a sensational ice waltz of minus 35. The day she left behind was pregnant with mind games, her resistance to the mind games, her mind’s resistance to her feelings, her decisions mutating one into another at alarming speeds and, also, various pragmatic issues, like what to eat. Her mind and her ego finally shook their fleshy heads at her in a pain of a disappointment and retired each to their own lonely cave. She then picked up a phone and rang Belacqua. He didn’t pick up. Her loner mind pulled its enormous head out of the cave to say, “I told you so!” But then her phone rang. Belacqua was calling back. They talked casually as if nothing was affecting them, which was always the case with them, and she finally said yes to coming over for dinner.

“I had no idea you would actually agree to coming over!” said Belacqua, pierced in the face by the evening lamp light of his busy kitchen, “I changed the whole plan of dinner!”

He did.

“Initially, there was going to be a fish and rice little number! But now I am making a Guinness stew with all the stuff that you don’t eat!” “I can’t eat anyway. I have a show next morning,” Beatrice said, truthfully, “I will just hang out.”

Blissful Beatrice was there, snuggling after the exhaustion of her day spent inside her mind. The mind was so bogged just hours earlier, it wouldn’t let her move neither backward nor forward. Belacqua was on the phone every few minutes asking her to come for dinner. Beatrice was on the phone every few minutes wanting him to do more for her, not just make a dinner, but come and pick her up at the other end of town. Habitually Belacqua resisted. He brought up the ‘broken muffler’ puzzle, which sounded more like a euphemism. Her mind burst into tearful laughter and her ego said, “He’ll never go out of his way for you…” interrupted by Belacqua’s “At the liquor store now. Red or white?”

Damaged by socialization, like we all are, Beatrice was there, snuggling after the exhaustion of her day, having just gone temporarily crazy hours earlier from all the fighting with her mind.

She was there, and Belaqua was there. He was making the stew and playing his good country songs on the sad guitar that was there too. Every now and then he would come up and peck her on the cheek or give her a quick careful kiss. Neither time nor pain exist as soon as we allow each other to just be.

Sometimes all we had to do was let our minds subside and the itch of this mean quodlibet die down. But there was always something that one had to do next. And so off our minds went in the deathless pursuit of goals, taking us further and further away from the present moment, not allowing us to ever fill up with the bliss of everything that we already had, which is, coincidentally, everything we will ever have anyway because there is nothing else to have other than the present moment.

brings you here

2009-03-31T21:52:00.008-04:00

“It seems very pretty,” I walk around a theatre lobby looking at various bouquet arrangements left after an opening night, “but it’s rather hard to understand.” Every card inside each bouquet has been signed by one hand. There is only one fan behind this. However, the cards bear no signature. Instead, they each list a film title. One says, “My Own Private Idaho”, another, “Drugstore Cowboy”, yet another, “Elephant”, and another yet, “Serry”. “Hmmm..”, think I, taking a sip of espresso and turning around.

At the opposite end of the lobby stands Stanley, short hair and mystery eyes.

I take another sip, exaggerating the slowness of my reaction. I lower my eyes, to bring them up again. I empty my hands of the smallness of the cup and… what else?.. oh yeah… open my arms widely for the hug of a honey-like “ahhhh…!” As if nothing ever hurt us, Stanley and I are talking freely now, laughing and not remembering.

“What brings you here?” I say, knowing the answer. “A Russian play,” he says too seriously and too loudly to out-yell the wires of the street lamps outside. “I was a part of it tonight,” I say with dignity, “I still am and so are you now.” “I recognize that,” he smiles with relief. He stays nervous for ten minutes. I am not nervous any more. I just spent my own first ten minutes in the distance, looking at his profile and mostly at his back, having noticed him before he saw me. Time passes, the crowd around us melts, he is not nervous anymore, just close and familiar. We laugh like maniacs at each other’s jokes because we have always in the time before shared a sense of humor. The theatre is empty now and, as if there was never any pain, we are still talking in the middle of the hall. Nothing has changed.

I get into his car. Even the car’s color hasn’t changed. “I still have the video of you cleaning the snow off this four-wheeler,” he shows me the video he shot with his phone and we almost get hit by some van because he is also driving at the same time. As if nothing ever broke those hearts, we laugh. I feel like I have never left this very passenger seat. “I’m really a cowboy,” he said back then about the Volkswagen, “And this is my trusted horse, my VeeDub…”

The wires are now going, “BZZZZZ” and we are approaching the new residence of Sir Don Stanoite which he had acquired so recently that I have not been to it yet.

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar, to be here in this moment.This place is all him. Not like his last home with a transient mattress on the floor in the corner and a closet empty of any clothes. I was never invited to stay in that home. When I insisted not to be at my place for a change, he took me to his parents' house instead or, even, up North to his cottage. During that time of his recovery process, Mr. Stanley was reflecting, hurting, and taking a break. I met him while on this break. Eventually his break was over and life sprung back into those smirky eyes and cheeky cheeks. But he never took me with him into his life.

I am finally in a place where he lives his life. Busy kitchen cupboards. An espresso maker. Antique furniture. Story board covered with notes on paper squares. A big luscious bed. Curtains. Stanley.

We hug again and this time this tall, solid person of a man looks like a baby, far removed from our broken story and its histrionic passages. Everything disappears: time, pain. It’s only us now, floating. I let out little moans. I kiss all the little creases of his skin. I used to be too good to notice the creases of his skin. I want to let all between us go. It is not about keeping a face, it is about helping each other heal. Little creases of his skin… I am tiny, wrapped up in his huge body. I call him ‘baby’ and hear him pant in this word. There is no time. There is no pain.

I escape breakfast the next day. My mind takes me over as it does. I now know why we hurt so much as we did back then. In reality it was not painful at all, but our minds were cluttered. We did not quite make it out. The day has come for me to see that these ideas were just ideas, never reality.

You and I are no longer statues on the frozen pond. We are moving pictures, me and you, Cowboy. My Jewish Cowboy.

house

2009-02-10T23:37:00.004-05:00

I gasped and sat down. The rapid journey through the air had quite taken away my breath, and for a minute or two I could do nothing but hug the little lily in my hands in silence.

When people let me down, I cry. Stale food makes me cry. Unrealized potential, in general, makes me miserable. “It’s all just glimpses,” I said to him, paralyzed by the idea. Moments earlier he climbed closer and resumed explaining to me, so much younger and so much more confident, how he is looking for a full-size happiness in life, and not just for its little poorly unbuilt glimpses.

Would I choose to build my happiness slowly, start from afar, and bring myself closer day after day, spending, investing?

Or would I choose to make love here and now to little explosions, passionate and berserk, lasting only for a beat and then dissolving?

“It’s all just glimpses,” I repeat on my own now. I settle into the fog, sleepwalking through envelopes of thick air. I come upon an abandoned skeleton of an unfinished house. In someone’s forgotten past, building of the basement was partially completed, but no floor was ever put over it. It is a lonely pocket of things unhappened. I now look at the naked torn brick walls forming narrow uneven steps up and down. I throw shoes off and jump inside the unvisited room. The ceilings above me are the unchattered skies.

The deserted floor is covered with tiny pieces of broken mirrors. Under my feet they are like little lost hearts. “Hello Hearts!” I say melodramatically, “It’s all just glimpses!” “Maybe you have already found out,” he said to me then, trusting my seniority. He was too beautiful and ageless to give away. Yet I am facing instead this unbuilt house with mirrors covering the floor. “I want you to know that it is nothing you did,” I said to him, disappearing. “I hope not,” his voice was heard.

I remember my own voice sheets of time ago fading away like this. “Just juice please,” I said then, and the words came out as coarse whisper. Have I heard myself since?

I am now in the unbuilt house, listening.

Dust of unmade plans blankets the disarray of the mirrors. I pace back and forth, naked, in fever, undecided. This house, unfinished in a rush, reminds me of a shipwreck down by the Icelandic rocky shores. That ship, like the dreams of this house, was on its way someplace no doubt. Until it was over with, as it happens.

I pick up one of the little broken mirrors and dust it a little. I see my face reflected. It is a ridicule of an expression. I almost drop the mirror as I see another face showing through the features of my own, the face of my mother. I resist the fear and remain holding the mirror. After all, our fears come from insecurities. I will not run away, I have decided not to sleepwalk any longer, I say to my mother in the mirror. I am still holding a lily in my other hand. I offer it to my mom. She used to love lilies.

I will turn cold to the very end of my whiskers (if I have any at the time), but I will not turn away.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre gimble in the wabe.

I am going to not run away one day. And for that to happen, I am going to move into my basement and try and finish building the whole house. There will be lots of big opened windows and pots with living lilies all over. My Mom and Dad will come to stay here as soon as I am done.

Forgiving. As soon as I live in a house.

“people will do anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own souls.” Carl Jung

“But it’s not a show… It’s my life… It’s my [stands and thrusts his arms up in victory] HOUSE!”
“House” by Daniel MacIvor

“I’d rather not go
back to the old house
there are too many
bad memories”
The Smiths

“Little solace comes 
to those who grieve 
when thoughts keep drifting
as walls keep shifting
and this great blue world of ours
seems a house of leaves 
Moments before the wind.”

“House Of Leaves” by Danielevski

2008-12-01T00:33:00.002-05:00

When I am back, be in my bed.

2008-11-12T18:35:00.001-05:00

There are gigantic troll feelings
Grating lava across volcanic national parks
And no sight of the moon-peg
On any night

But I saw the northern lights instead
They were moving in tango
Pointing to the end of the skies
Where there is no more blame
And no more anger
And yet you and I are there too

I tried to listen to my muse
But she can’t be heard
She’s Swimming in sparkling waterfalls.
I overfed her.
With content
And completed her
With the shocking vocabulary of nature.
Deadly thing to do to a muse.

--------------
I sit on the floor, my head in hands. I accidentally pull the curtains open with a jolt of a hand. But really I want to see the street better. The window spits its outside into the yellow of my kitchen. Outside makes me colder. It makes me remember of the hat I had to wear because my grandfather made me. He died many years ago. I should have just disposed of the hat back then. But I didn’t. I still have it on. I pull on a pair of muddy boots and drag myself outside into the storm and scream of nature. I hire a taxi and want to keep it for a day. The driver says he can’t, he has a funeral to service. Ah the dead… He looks at me through the rear view mirror above his head without turning as if afraid to let on that he acknowledges me. He narrows his eyes at my hat, worrying. I can see he is distressed, looking now around his cab in disbelief. A person like me on the back seat can make his cab seem not his cab, not a cab at all.

I offer my attention excessively to the lazy twirling of the tongue of all my cab drivers. I attach myself. I should just mind my own head, but I can’t. I am lonely. “do you miss anybody ever?” I say.

It is Thursday night and the bars are packed with economy supporters. If everybody goes out three nights a week, the financial crisis can be averted in no time.

I close the lid too fast and a slice of my skin stays shut between the glass and the aluminum. My fault. I make my own life slices stuck in inadequacies.

Somewhere behind the road signs, somebody is flying a sarcastic grin through unattending skies.

“this is all I can do really,” my own grin says. I am ineffectual, spineless, and lifeless. The wind picks up my hat for me and carries it off. If the cab driver didn’t have the dead to drive around, I would have still been inside his car, with my hat on. I wonder whose funeral it was. I think of my grandfather.

It’s like I don’t deserve most things. It’s like I am too strange.

wafer walls

2008-10-20T12:49:00.004-04:00

Imagination lives in a cup with wafer walls. When storms outside wreck and ravage the roads, it runs over the delicate sugary edges and spills its sparkly shimmering liquid all over the grayish floor of reality. I live on the bottom of a green lagoon in Northern Iceland. Northern Iceland is Very Far North. It doesn’t really snow here, only when we are trying to drive. Then, the white woolen shawl covers the black of the asphalt. Snowflakes shoot their fireworks at the windshield, thick and light, reflecting the Northern Lights of our night vision beams. Glaciers become more majestic and stately in the spiraling darkness of white winds. The young mountains and rocks happily accept the gentle support of the icy weather when it smothers them in soft lava of winter and tucks them caringly in quiet.

I let the wind slide me in my thin-soled shoes across a frozen pond. I can feel its long elegant arms around me, leading me into a waltz, allowing me to trace the names of my lovers, new and old. I notice that among those names I also periodically spell out a name of a girl, who is not me. One day I will carelessly trace it twice to fall through the ice. And that would be the end of my imagination.

Advice from a Caterpillar

2008-08-24T22:28:00.000-04:00

polka dots on cheeks and noses

2008-08-24T22:20:00.001-04:00

Polka dots on cheeks and noses
Carousels that bring you back in time
Across the moonlit waterslides
Through lonely specks of words and phrases
Into the sonnets of wind chime

There is a tall toothpick mountain. I live on the upper floor of a house that is on top of the mountain. I never leave the house. There is a tapestry workshop next to my room. I embroider tapestries. I don’t hope anymore. each of my stitches celebrate: a cat, a city, and a girl who is not me.

Letting confetti fall out of hair
Here and there

Homecoming caterpillars

Locals are local
How painful do you imagine was their hopefulness?
As painful as your hopelessness, yeah?
Audiences want straight stories, nothing abstract
Which way is to a best friend?
This is not working
I am too cold
In bike accidents
I am almost in Toronto now

living like a citizen
I watch garbage fall out of this pen
And I am spent
This cup of tea contains caffeine and no love

2007-10-08T16:24:00.000-04:00

how to send a care package to moscow from montreal:

1. begin to get very tired of sitting by your sister on the bank and of having nothing to do.
2. open up like the largest telescope that ever was.

Thanks

2007-08-06T11:24:00.000-04:00

"kalikktzschhh" said the iron bars as they fell happily from a thunder cloud and inserted themselves into pre-marked cracks in the pavement between us.
a cat strode with squeaky sounds along the bars, turning a few times, as in tango

a mouth, a derelict ship, and a heap of monster-like talent

2007-04-03T16:50:00.000-04:00

I am dying.

pull out your tongue. come and lick me off. i am dying.

your teeth are still black with wine. you quit smoking. just quit. you breathe the naked canals. you breathe lake michigan. you breathe the american fog. your teeth, black with wine

if I had a choice, I'd pass out all over again

2007-04-02T11:05:00.000-04:00

kaiser chiefs are from Leeds. and I miss truth. where is truth?..

minute cup

2006-12-12T15:36:00.001-05:00

_______________________
Zosja is a xanthine alkaloid compound that acts as a stimulant in humans. It is found in the stares and heartbeats of the healthy soulplants and in small quantities in the skin and the hair of freedom obsessive oaktreesouls. Overall, zosja acts as a natural pesticide that paralyzes and kills certain ghostly invaders feeding upon them.
Zosja is a central nervous system stimulant, having the effect of temporarily warding off drowsiness and restoring alertness. Lovedreams containing zosja, such as the one I had about me and dance, the one I had about me and theatre, and the one I had about me and you enjoy great popularity: zosja is the world's most widely experienced psychoactivity.

Zosja's principal mode of action is as an antagonist of adenosine receptors in the brain. Zosja acts through multiple mechanisms involving both action between the bedsheets and channels on your television set, as well as intraspective action on memory and self analysis pathways. Acute intersective activity with your life path and that of zosja's also increases levels of serotonin, causing positive changes in mood.
Zosja is also a known competitive inhibitor of the effects other women have on the same male species. I mean, seriously, zosja is very very sexy. Zosja can freely diffuse into structures of hearts and causes intracellular warmth release known today as global warming effect.
Zosja has a significant effect on clowns, which is reflected in their imagination construction.
The precise amount of zosja necessary to produce effects varies from person to person depending on body size and degree of tolerance to zosja. It takes less than an hour for zosja's words to begin enveloping your sensual listening receptors and affecting the body. Listening to zosja does not eliminate the need for sleep: it only temporarily reduces the sensation of being tired.
With these effects, zosja is an ergogenic: increasing the capacity for mental or physical labor. A study conducted in 1979 showed a 7% increase in distance cycled over a period of two hours in subjects who just had a pleasure of zosja's company compared to control tests.[31] Other studies attained much more dramatic results; one particular study of trained runners showed a 44% increase in "race-pace" endurance, as well as a 51% increase in cycling endurance, after a dosage of five minute laughter induced by zosja's nonsensical humor.[32] While relatively safe for clowns, zosja is considerably more toxic to some other professionals such as corporate people, doctros and lawyers due to their much poorer ability to understand this poetic soul. Zosja has a much more significant effect on trained mimes, for example.[36]

Because zosja is primarily an antagonist of the central nervous system's receptors for the neurotransmitter adenosine, the bodies of individuals who regularly hang out in the same circles as zosja do adapt to her continual presence by substantially increasing the number of adenosine receptors in their central nervous system. This increase in the number of the adenosine receptors makes their madeup faces wear off quicker under stage lights and their souls much more emotive, with a primary consequence.[39] Because these adaptive responses to zosja's presence make individuals much more sensitive to life, a reduction in zosja intake will effectively increase the normal physiological effects of, say, winter storms and icy rains, resulting in unwelcome withdrawal symptoms in tolerant users.[39]
Because adenosine, in part, serves to regulate esteem and confidence by causing validation of one's career and life path, the increased effects of adenosine cause the minds to remain blurred by pinkish veil of sweet cotton, leading to an excess of contentness and causing dream storms and love falls. A reduction in serotonin levels when zosja exposure is stopped can cause anxiety, irritability, inability to concentrate and diminished motivation to initiate or to complete daily tasks; in extreme cases it may cause mild depression.
Withdrawal symptoms — possibly including heartache, irritability, an inability to concentrate, and stomach aches — may appear within 12 to 24 hours after discontinuation of zosja intake, peak at roughly 48 hours, grounds.

anyway, good luck forgetting me, because I myself **********. in my pajamas.

will have said nothing

2006-11-22T15:50:00.002-05:00

my soul is sitting-waiting at the tips of my lips
as I attempt to swallow you whole, suffocating on the way you look
I am ready to trust, childlike, looking from underneath at the above the above
every movement I thread with thoughtful consideration
of how you would like it
mor emore
moremore
I become loud losing the ground
beneath us

my memory was hostless for days and now it is mad. plays pitiful tricks on my sunlit playground. brings stuff from the depths of the sandpile back onto the surface. can't forget can't forget. I signal you. gently. and you rush over to signal me. and we hold hands. so that nobody notices. that's how we are holly. unrelesed press coverages. locked in adoration of each other and our beautiful miracle, playing the saddest songs. my memory is heavily armed with weapons of mass soul destruction. massive soul destruction. I would rather die than have never known you. I would rather have my memory suppress my pleasures for life than not have known you. I would rather anything

oh how can I end this, there is no end, all I say cancels out, I will have said nothing

fucking leave, the fog won't lift

2006-10-30T14:00:00.001-05:00

we all got lost a little. who is to blame, we can quest until we wear off, the fog won't lift. our spiritual strength discolors our hair and stretches out our skin.
we all got lost a little.
we all grew out of our old bodies, changed our eyes' direction.
what's left today that was here a year ago? you in me. fuckin leave. leave.

NOBODY LIVES IN THIS PLACE*

2006-10-16T16:26:00.001-04:00

but nobody lives in this world. and so after all this 'madly believing' crap I have to go back. I have to. nobody lives in this world.

nobody sees it. this is mine. amazingly variant, glittering and full of wonder. damn it noone is here to play.

crushing in the same plane. I am so done living in my world. this is what it is this is what it is. my unresolved psychic that resounds in my newly created nightmares. it is the panic-fear of being not understood. Incommunicable..

I cannot live here any more I am claustrophobic of imagined spaces. metaphors are armies that have invaded my mind and oh god oh god... let me overturn all your city buses, this is MY city, and buses are NOT allowed in My city (they make me motion sick). so let me crush them all. I will graffiti "russkies go home!" on their bellies among other things... oh god I am incommunicable. nobody is capable of getting inside this train of vaguely expressed ambiguous mushiness. letting too much inside, leaving no room for wonderful honey beehives.

letting too much inside. fuck. I should have somehow got to

get
to
you

destroyed

2006-10-11T11:18:00.001-04:00

there is nothing around
there is nobody
the world is sensation
tingling
it feeds us

locked in a hug
with the essence

maybe just lips touching
but even lips touching
are for the sake of awareness
of each other

like this hug

we have it all

on the other side
you asked: "how was it?"
I said "it was lonely"

wow you laugh
so eagerly, whole-heartedly
your laugh is my weakness
your laugh
your laugh

your entire body
fills up and spills
in boils of energetic melody
of happy laughter

as we walk in the very middle
of a street that is fully pedestrian
and that perfect round full moon
is not perfectly in the center
as we talk about
how it probably does appear in the center
on some other street in the West direction
and you offer that we go there

but not too often

*******************

I watched the walls collapsing all around you. the whole Kremlin falling. no defense. you are naked in front of me. answering every question. what's in your head? too much. so much. and I can just watch this muchness spilling inside you, covering you, and, finally, completely crushing you. you are being destroyed. in front of my very eyes. you grab your hair, helplessly. I am locked in astonishment.

you are completely destroyed. we take our jackets and leave in exhaustion.
I will do anything for you.

skeletons of trust

2006-10-11T11:01:00.001-04:00

Do not be afraid. Come closer to the window. Look inside. Do not be afraid. They will not notice you. Come. Look.
See those two? At the kitchen table? The boy and the girl? Feel anything? Whatever it is, it is not simple comfort. It is comfort with waves of highs and lows: fragile, delicate streams of foaming sparkles, little mirrors of broken sunshine, still sharp and threatening in their multitude and rough-edgedness. It is comfort from trust found just recently, so recently that it can be barely called t-r-u-s-t yet. It is a risky feeling of being exposed and wanting to be exposed at the same time. Complicated and exciting, comfort. See those two? The girl and the boy? Recognize them? They are me and you. Unthinkable? Look closer.

Two bowls of cereal on the table in front of them. The boxes of Raisin Bran Crunch and Muesli Harvest Fruit. A pair of spoons. A carton of skim milk. A box of oat crackers is there too. It will be ignored for the rest of the night. He has just poured some milk on top of the little hill of flakes and clusters on the bottom of his bowl. He is starving, we know it, but he is too concerned that it is her food and she might not have enough for herself. She pours milk on top of her crumbs and granules. Sitting on his chair, few feet away from hers, he lifts her up and takes her to sit on his knees. The cereal in both bowls stays soaking in its cool milky baths, absorbing the cloudy white. The bran and the wheat are marinating in their petit shiny tubs, nostalgically missing peanut butter. Peanut butter used to be added into the damp mushiness back when her blender was working. They both finally remember about the snack. Staying sitted on his knees, she picks up her bowl. Her heaping spoon is now reaching his mouth. The shiny edges disappear for a brief moment behind the closed lips to be immediately released. The spoon is now unburdened. She looks into his eyes in search of his grateful satisfaction. The spoon goes back into the pearly pool and reemerges heaping, this time on its way to her mouth.

See those two? At the kitchen table? That is me. And that is you. Look closer. See the look they both emanate? Their mouths moving towards mutual satisfaction, however nonsexual. The smiles their mouths are stretching, see them? It is the kind of internal smile you will only see if you yourself were the cause of it. To a stranger passing by such face expression would appear serious or contemplative. But in fact they are smiling. They do not have to see it with their eyes. Is it not the smile you would want to die with?

The bowl in her hands is now empty. She puts it down. One more bowl left. “You wanna do it again?” They giggle and kiss. She takes the second bowl and the second spoon. They resume their quiet happening.

Earlier this afternoon she met him at the stairs outside of a sandwich bar.

The place used to be mere benches and tables inside. It served enormous elaborate sandwiches for a price of a cup of coffee. The food soon become famous to attract not only the barefeeted and dreadlogged street artists and students, but also the well dressed and well tipping gourmets of the city. The owner was able to collect profit large enough to renovate the place. Modern design had accomplished the coldest wall colors and the most unwelcoming furniture shapes. Gloomy cosmic setting was now the serving arena for still delicious and still very cheap meals. Bohemians and fringe artists still come here, but, we know, it will never feel like home again.

She is waiting for him outside on the stairs as he approaches. They embrace lightly. “You are waiting outside?” he speaks caringly. “I didn’t want to make you go in and walk around looking for where I might be,” she smiles as her mouth is moving; her voice softens with every melting hurt. “How thoughtful,” he feels his words flying out of his mouth, turning into sweet drops of air on the way to her mind, turning into complicated meaning, and, lastly, being reflected back as steady beams of warmth from the surface of her eyes. There is a need to turn away for a moment, to catch some air. This flow of warmly buzzing energy has swooshed through both of them once before. Today the flow is pleasingly familiar. It softens up those spots of aching matter roughened by the past weather. They step into the doorway, being asked as they enter what table they would like. These are the first few words he hears her say and she hears him say in ages. Regardless of how insignificant, at this moment little words matter. “For two, please,” smile through her voice, warmer and warmer. She glances at him: “Would you like a smoking table?” “I quit smoking,” the corners of his smile break into an intentionally forced confident bent. “For two, non-smoking,” she interrupts yet another brightly powerful energy swoosh and turns away to face the waitress: “He quit smoking, you see.” They slowly make a few steps towards the tables. She addresses the waitress again: “Is there also a section for non-smoking vegetarians?” she turns to him: “I’ve become a vegetarian,” the corners of her smile break into an intentionally forced confident bent. She breaks into laughter following the laughter in his eyes, the eyes that have just caught hers and threw them up into the air.

************************

Do not be afraid. Come closer to the window. Can you see them? That boy and that girl at the kitchen table? That is you and me. Come closer.

touch gallery

2006-09-26T11:09:00.001-04:00

and months later he goes to a touch gallery, a real one, he spills his heart into his fingertips, he touches the clay faces, it rains outside the gallery, many cities away I feel his hands on my face, and I weep with all that retained strength.

true story

the power is worth billions of metaphors, all of them count, and here is one more: every drop squeezed out from the American fog, landing on your face as you leave, is my thank you note

and so I said to him

2006-09-19T11:17:00.001-04:00

and so I said to him: let's never talk. words are trivial. pulp. put it in words and it will lose its power. let's keep it inside. all of it.

he didn't respond.

on our paths to love we used to stop for soup-and-salad, for a gentle-talk *about *nothing (art, literature, philosophy, mostly sexual), for a couple of memorable strings to tie our shoes together, for metaphors, for face touching (like in a gallery for the blind), for becoming the blind.

we talked about us never

the retained power exploded in a tsunami. killed millions. the Weakest - they simply accepted the fear. pale in fear. they passed out, dried up in helplessness. simple loss of togetherness. the Strongest - they took it all in, with no cracks on their surfaces. the Strongest - their hair all grey - they stood up for themselves. they stood up for themselves... their hair all grey... was it worth it, baby?

M., we are holy, I say, let's never meet. there is power in us not knowing anything, making ourselves up. my only fear in life has always been to lose that overwhelming sense of power when you know not, but fancy and imagine instead... there is such protection in dreaming the abstract instead of knowing the specific

the power is worth billions of metaphors, all of them count, and here is one more: every drop squeezed out from the American fog, landing on your face as you leave, is my thank you note

2006-08-30T12:38:00.001-04:00

"I meant nothing but nonsense," says Dodgson. yeah, neither did I.

and yet we come to a checkmate after correctly having worked out the chess puzzle. the laws of the game. the structure.

The most essential thing in life is to establish a heartfelt communication with others.

what is the "world" outside of language?

the longest

2006-08-22T11:34:00.000-04:00

we are about to check Oscar Wilde into a hospital.

very specific

2006-08-16T11:14:00.000-04:00

so what about dreams what about dreams

tunnel really

2006-08-15T17:00:00.001-04:00

the sun was bleeding into the eye. making a mess of black mascara. I looked closely inside a mirror to see if an escape tunnel was for me to escape. I watched for minutes how the lips were burning. eyes always greener when it hurts. and it reminded me of you. and of how we never cried in front of each other. statues. even the cat left, disgusted by that cementness. to kiss and to hug and to pretend and of how it makes me tear when I look at the simplest of photographs. of us humans. of when we are humans. no stage lights. wrinkles of thought and sadness. and of how you are where I am from somehow. and of how you are family like I fucking love you yetstillaboutit

TORONTO

2006-07-17T13:53:00.001-04:00

tyrypyry

tyrypyry

Someone taking down a poster as a souvenir, discovering a hole in the wall behind it that leads to a magical kingdom where those who are involved in small-scale theatre are hunted down and killed by an evil queen, and as a result, all the people are miserable. The visitor from our land becomes a folk hero, living in the woods, performing good one-person shows for the peasants, and deliberately bad ones for the nobles, until eventually the wicked queen is overthrown and a golden age of happiness comes to the land. They live their entire lives in the kingdom, but when they return… NO TIME HAS PASSED!!!! They write a show about their amazing experience, which a reviewer calls ‘preachy' – 88%

I can see

2006-07-05T14:22:00.001-04:00

creative magic invades the spotlight as soon as alarm is set
and a miracles curfew is impending
fragile little chances hang air-suspended
waiting to be stabbed
rains with prizes and feels hellishly beautiful
curfew impending
as reality stabs our dream-puffy eyes.
how we expected it
reality alarmists scaremongering, marionetish-pulling, clutching to the bottom of our weightless curtains,
torturing our weightless curtains.
the way we wanted it

only the forbidden fits inside
our widely open delusion-screens
headtrip with me skyward
because we know it will be over

the cat is in the cupboards among the cups and the glasses. now. now.

no really. now

tea party (we are here for the tennis)

2006-06-12T12:28:00.001-04:00

locked in a blaze of smile-lanterns
as they rush through the lighthearted raindrops
,myriad of caring glows,
over the plateau
upside down glitter
can't let me get sick,
I am the walrus
bone-relieving fizzing smile-honey
giggle beam
from the North end to the South
a bundle of hugs sent
with our rovering bicycles

so much care, love, and care,
explode under your sweater
with ice-cubed lime-and-vodka
to paint with bubbles a promotion flyer
at the head of our tea-party table
(the two rabbits were rubbing their noses)
we have to start rotating our seats
soon

true story

vanilla powder

2006-06-02T16:39:00.001-04:00

woah that hurts the line will be stuck in my beehive poisonous line bitters the sticky lava I wanted to lose my appetite, so thank you I was not born the right person, so now what ***************___________ tried my own voice after this "just juice please" came out as a dark whisper thin pain pinned through by death upon death my life is tired all around, they knew instantly I was born the wrong person, now what whatforwhatfor I am the wrong person let me get stomach sick this time it hurts forever soy beans and cayenne pepper why do I never get stomach sick even at times when I feel inside out must be because I am the wrong person well, at least I am sexy, "sooo sexy" no use to be drunk all is vain time upon pain train upon train I want me not to remember myself I am all muscle touch me right here poetic is not genetic I am not genetic my family is lost I am not genetic ,,mom's friend ages ago said to me: "if you collect the foam off the top of your tea with a spoon and sip it up at once happiness is yours" ,,,,, how did you know I was looking for family I am the wrong person look what you've done I am adding vanilla powder to my latte VANILLA POWDER TO MY LATTE how is this possible why is the universe allowing this to happen (such a disgrace to espresso shots) I wouldn't be if we tried anyway I am allergic to sun anyway (I am)

space invasion

2006-05-19T11:00:00.001-04:00

So Here I Am. drinking cheap cheap very cheap coffee. from a fucking vending machine. invisible brewer. invisible coffee granules. invisible steamer. He said yesterday that the crowd thought I was nuts talking to an invisible man. But then he took off walking upside down, a very difficult case of a person.

I am hiding from the books among classical paintings depicting medieval medical practice. Little ladies in white gowns are here too. They serve coffee to those who pay to have their coffee brewed by real people. If one dollar were not the only thing left in my pockets earlier, I would have paid to see the steaming waterfall of dark roast aroma pouring out of a pot. I would watch the inside of my little ceramic bowl disappear under the black. I used to drink creamy lattes.

I am hiding from the books. The men outside the window rush by carrying massive pieces of equipment across the roof, back and forth. They were whistling yesterday at the girls in black dresses, who were performing their pain along a brick wall of stage lights. Women are never invisible. always under attack from glances. space invasion. Encouraged not to look at men, but shy away instead with our eyes lowered. that is how men stay comfortably invisible.
As I am drinking my cheap coffee. How happy and wealthy I am today.
This coffee and these books. These looks. Thank you.

2006-05-16T11:18:00.000-04:00

There are different variations of wonderland. and all of them are acceptable.

2006-04-01T09:30:00.000-05:00

distrubing gingerbreadliness

turn the rich into wine

2006-03-29T19:48:00.001-05:00

how great you move, elegant and brave, come to another dance with us, I will give you a ride
car stuffed with surgical equipment
turned into wine. kneeshaking and clusterphobically exotic, toxic sweetness reaching the stars, dreamrealized.
and then drown

turned her into wine as we sat on the stairs between one floor and another of her luscious apartment and she told me all about Big Macs and cookies and crepes and caramel sauces, followed by guilt and exhaustion and self-hate and long 12 hours of sleep and swimming pool all day long upon awakening.
months later, caffeinated to our eyeballs, we were comforting each other and she was supporting the economy oh so strongly
and then she operated, became bony and breathtaking. and drown

what are you doing with me? he asked. I am turning you into wine. consumed each other on edges of bathtubs, slippery clean
bored. rained and drowned.

no more turning the rich into wine
[instead]will turn your lengthy sips of cheap alcohol into my genderless galaxies. would you like that? It will kill you and me slowly. I dream that it will. you and me are ******** slowly caring wishing creating producing twisting slowly gradually respeCTFULLy gently like never and nobody
mimes creating wealth, penniless jokes, oh let me go where there is no neurotic riches, intoxicated pragmatics, let me live in a circus with no animals, give me a path towards all my cravings but don't make it easy or stuntless

make it rocky, with tiny pebbles that sound so comforting but keep me hungry,
place little houses along its side that would remind me of those in beautiful England and squeeze my heart or whatever it is in there that would hurt like nothing else
give me madness on my way, I want it, even more of it, I want to overcome it
stick mines and wires all over it, I will learn to wear either a helmet or sunscreen. or an oxygen mask. or an iron lung
give me this path and release me from this wine

all the rich behind me, so long and good night

care package

2006-03-22T12:15:00.000-05:00

big hug

no liqourice here! best before end

2006-03-19T18:05:00.001-05:00

but then after the end what happens? after the end?.. uh...I came so unprepared...

As Kremlin is falling on the background, this whole thing pours all over my face with purity and [Godot]. The statues I erected while waiting, they never cry. Hollywood's wind is a howl. Allen Ginsberg visits me once again among the waiters and the drunk. clever and weird. "Those statues over there are truly massive," - he remarks. "Yes. Yes they are," - I am confident because even though our measurement systems are interfering, our aesthetic comprehension is still in tune. "They will not cry, you know," - it is my biggest innovative creation, the non-crying statues, and I am extensively proud of it, so why not mention it over and over to clever and weird people? "Do you like avocados?" he asks. "They are fruit, you know." Now, this is from something completely different. Take a potato and put a message in it. Make two potatoes dance as if they are shoes with forks as legs. Watch Kremlin falling. My statues do not cry. I will not show them to anyone anymore. So wealthy today. You?

hug time

time to hug
hug the time - it's been good to good people

clown turbulence

2006-03-03T20:34:00.001-05:00

glory gory? Gory glory?

I am your Biggest Fan. Not theirs. and not even theirs. Yours. Your Biggest Fan.

the best friend is the best friend is the best friend (so invite him into the used plastic bag). a cage is a cage is a cage is a cage (so deafen him with the song of a captive bird as it is choking on captive worms).

what are you? wearied wrinkled crumbs of lint, a pile of laundry in a bag? changed as we all have, not smoking so much, shorter hair, liking Dostoevsky, sharply aware whenever the cue words "Red Square"? invigorated, well-fed, well-loved, the family accepted your friends, connection deepened? refreshed, with winter coolness frosty reality while revisiting the street down which you and I up and down hot sticky afternoons last summer? ready? ready? Mad? mad? hurt? hurt? ego warrior steel jacket? Ego?! Ego?! long-lasting human stuff.
sirenheads, curfewsmokers. they want to start pushing alarm buttons on the window blinds, to reattach your eyelashes with stringy manipulations to the concentrated sunny dust. to maneuver the corners. your eyes corners, your mouth corners, your heart corners, your edges. I like my edge. it keeps me edgy. language weapon. I am a troubled boy. Because I like to destroy.
Well, what

is wrong

with a little

destruction?

hair colored smooth reflective beam pasta. too many mirrors in this room.
my hair stylist is colorblind!!!
(a very important development)
sunglasses framed to coordinate with toenails and flip flops' bottoms
outrageous but true. the world is on love. or is it just you. outrageous.

[belly stretch. cool moon sent laundry. changed as we all have, not smoking anything at all, shorter hair, status 'lush', instead of the older one which disintegrated into lint forcefully with a strict set of word-knives] language weapon, you asked for it.

Outrageous but true. Who are you, honey pools in my head from your perfect body dripping? used to bleed: sticky witchcraft drinkable from our veins couldn't get much higher. used to weep: birds and creatures soaking in the seas of salty and gradually accumulating floods. used to throw butcher knives like pins: thousands at a time, across the silky skin to scar to flake to become ugly and noticeably repelling. and then inside. And now - dripping with honey?!!

sticky sweet turbulence. god damn it, your make up never drips I can't even taste it I lick your face and it stays on your skin. not sure any more it is make up at all. white and red, naked nose, freckles, symmetrical, almost status suggesting is it not fake? is it you?. we are beautiful. forest of narcissi on fire. give me a clue for I am clueless. Bugs. What are your bugs

beehive exploding stickily, unbearable, fills with sweetness, up the throat, enormous state of monstrosity, lava of honey consumes, even sweeter than the anticipation of THE KNOWN: the unknown. potholes for rain to puddle in, filled with sugary liquid all around your house on top of the hill

a vampire who is burning now in a forest fire. love him. he loved you. not her. you. he is your Biggest Fan. Not theirs, YOURS. Your Biggest Fan.

The Jesus and Mary Chain

2006-02-18T16:21:00.001-05:00

The best souvenir to give is to admit without pride that the creatures are alive. Alive and well, still walking naked in the lively forest.

Bare feet, shaven heads. Beautifully inked back of their necks, their shoulder blades, their hips, their ankles. Honey is dripping off their sides.

It is delightful to be around them. For every hedonist in each of us, they feel so good.
In their hands they carry noisy beehives. Honey is the essence.

Forget yourself and try the natural sweetness of this sticky lava. The best souvenir would be to admit. The hardest thing to do is to walk back. Back to the naked brutes.

You are dripping with honey inside my head. Carrying noisy beehives and ink on your body.

2006-02-11T20:44:00.001-05:00

********

Have you seen yourself since? Has anyone?

Flying always excited you. "Come, I'll show you where penniless jokes are made," the boy with the closed eyes said. "What is the meaning of keeping them closed?" I asked. He contemplated: "I will always be glad to see you back." "Maybe, some day," I said, "Flying is beautiful," I said, "They all forget about today when they wake up tomorrow," I said, "I always have to remind them about their history," I said.
"But I, - I will always know," the boy replied with his eyelashes moving on top of his cheeks. "What if they in turn look at you and think you are the one who always sleeps and doesn't remember?"

The fountain rained with green rust. The grasstips were covered in pink dew. The only tree in sight was flowering with a great ball of frizz. The boy changed what he was wearing and came to sit on the grass in front of the fountain in a new jacket. The dew instantly discolored our clothes. His eyes were now opened. "It must be the change of clothes," I thought to myself, "When he is in his pajamas, he must stay dreaming, but now he can really see."

"What if we never talk about how strange we are, but rather talk about space and imagined stars?" I suggested. He considered for a moment: "What if, instead, I ask you just once: where is the source of all the world's flows of charisma?"
"It depends on whether many years from now you will stop at the steps of some house just a few doors away from mine, and will give up then," I responded, "So what if tomorrow we become the followers instead of making others follow us?"
"There is no 'what ifs'!" he jumped onto his feet in anguish and his eyelids shut closed.

You noticed in your well-controlled terror how his eyelashes swept forcefully across his cheeks, and, like steel whips, sliced the scars across his face open. Standing there with his bleeding cheeks, his skin cold and blue, thin as pain to touch, with his eyelids closed, he still had a smile cutting across his clownish disguise. "Even if I said previously that I would always know," he proceeded slowly and theatrically, "I might wake up tomorrow and need a history lesson. You could really stay around and request that I think and dance for you," he said.

I laughed. Flying always excited me. I laughed.

2006-02-05T13:34:00.001-05:00

"What sort of people live about here?"

"In that direction," the Cat said, waving its right paw round, "lives a Hatter: and in that direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either if you like: they're both mad."

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you ca'n't help that," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

2006-01-29T18:00:00.000-05:00

fight the dragon

2006-01-11T08:56:00.001-05:00

swirling galaxies of memories

"Even though we are worlds apart, I still taste your name on my lips. And your name is...."

2006-01-08T20:38:00.000-05:00

2005-12-19T10:40:00.001-05:00

that play. sharp as a crack. coffee truck. where is my. morning chai. at the rise of the dawn. the complexity worn. out. to shine. with sublime. high. empyreal absurdity, peals of merry laughter, end of the world. right here. with me. these bells. tuned to each other. deeply, richly, a sonorous oration. remove it, detach. our favorite artists. have gone bersek. vegan innocence.
now I feel
what you feel
what.you.feel

this fundamentalism is fucked

2005-12-04T20:59:00.002-05:00

can you see me delirious, sweaty and bothered, bewildered by this cluttered room of this heavy-hearted castle where the old elf conserves strawberry jam and screams at his lover, can you smile at me, confused and surprised, ready to die in the dark, crazed, gentle, how did you know, disordered, discoloured, gorgeous, difficult to transport this thought from one mental entity to another, the thought does not exist as a thought. it is a fresh, dripping, aromatic emotion.
no words yet invented, lunatic, mad, maniac, raving, unreasonable, unsettled, can you see me, drunk, ecstatic, hysterical, intoxicated, transported, wild, berserk, cracked, cuckoo, mental, unglued, unzipped, will you come to see me

cave is not the world or is it

2005-12-03T21:54:00.001-05:00

It used to make sense: to see the fire above the green juicy forests. Creatures walked the forests' paths in search of invigorating streams and nutritious minds. Some of them walked backwards into their caves, holding both my hands and leaving fresh nodes of their liver's roots on the surface of my eyeballs. The nodes would burn through the surface and then project further inside. Like virus, the cells of those outgrowths would not be able to replicate on their own. They would instead abduct my own body and feed on its cells. They would flower every time it was a season for sunscreen. The blooms would soon fall off and, rotting, burn the internal walls of my organs. The antibodies, white, would rush to the injured spots and cluster there, excitedly. The burning would stop, replaced by swelling and sore blisters.
Once allowed into the soul through electric wires of the eyelashes and the slippery icy surface of the eyeballs, the parasitic nodes stayed.

All the forest creatures burnt one day in that forest. The fire was accidentally initiated by a sleeping elf.
It made much sense to see the fire above that forest. But how confusing was it to see it consume everything...

And a friend of mine, who lives on the street with the trees, said to me: "I will now notice more about my street".

2005-12-01T17:12:00.000-05:00

If there is an apocalypse, beep me

2005-11-21T15:10:00.000-05:00

2005-11-21T06:57:00.001-05:00

same

2005-11-20T12:31:00.000-05:00

you pause it and there are grey uneven lines across the screen and everyone is still in awkward positions
waiting to be unpaused

the same thread stitches difficult cases - pause thread

thin needles, identically threaded, stitch through several pauses

all my victories left in non-existent towns - pause towns

here

2005-11-12T06:46:00.000-05:00

I'm here
with my big spoon
and widened eyes

I love it
and I'm staying