Seeing you

Jun. 3rd, 2012 11:58 pm
my_window_seat: (Default)
Hell with it.

All things change, all things pass away.

Like the moon trapped in gauze, smothered and suffused in an pale amber aura of light -
girl backlit before her mirror, searching in reflection for
her face
The one she can't define; can't keep in focus long enough to fit into -
to be -

I saw you.
Sat under you, out on the porch.

Talking with a friend; coming down off the cliff by stepping outside myself for just those few moments.

Hey, how are you?
Tell me about the new job.
Yeah, I'm having a meltdown. 
It's okay - let me catch my breath -

Now tell me everything.
Give me a chance to listen.


A few hours later, the moon has stepped aside.
Edging toward the wings; escaping from the filtered follow-spot.

I saw you there.

I see you.

Sometimes seeing is more important than being seen

my_window_seat: (Default)
He said to me, after all that happened just a while ago, that I was "just using him to fill a hole in my life."

It's getting clearer and clearer to me that that is more true than I understood - than I wanted to understand.

I think it would be dishonest to say that this is ever something that will be completely eradicated. 
I will always have interior spaces that exert their own gravitational pull. 

I think this is true of most people, whether they are conscious of it or not. 

I also think some of us have narrower margins between these spaces. 
Interior landscapes scarred with more funnels in the sand than swaths of uninterrupted beach. 

We think more, crave more, strive for more -
and feel the loss of the unattainable more. 
With higher understanding comes the potential for greater disappointment.

I said to him then, "I am full of holes."


[ profile] vigoro09 once said - "If you are a planet, I am a universe."

I want to see things, not entirely in terms of the former, but with relation to the latter.  It's not possible for me to be nothing but a lack of things, nothing but holes, anymore than I can be made entirely as one thing, even something as densely populated and various as a planet.

My self-concept longs for that identification - of the universal - and yet is unwilling to accept it.

And yet I still want this:

I want to be made of everything, and nothing.

I am an Asteroid - isolated fist of matter, punching through atmospheres, cratering landscapes.

I am Comet - ice heart hurtling through solar wind, a dirty darkness propelled by the expansion of its interior; unreflective, scarring the sky with every passage

I want to be a Star - the grasp and burning rage of plasma that communicates itself through time and distance to transmute as unbodied and night-visible; death translated into light

I want to be Nebulae - absorbing, reflecting, creating light - recombining net positives and negatives - the dust fabric from which stars are sewn.

I want to be a Quasar - The brightest light powered by the darkest center.  Living at the greatest distance.  Radiating loose definitions .  I want to know that I can stop devouring soon.  I want to know that soon, I can burn clear of this; soon be born into

a Galaxy.
Spiraled center surrounded by the still bodies of planets, each self-contained and separate;
an archipelago inside an estuary.

I am made up of so much of which I understand so little.
Everything and nothing.

In all things in between.


my_window_seat: (Default)

How to stay

before the edge, step back
before pinwheeling feet find only
distance, closing until
tissue, fluid, all moving things are
stopped against their will
staying final

How to find the resting point before
the flailing and the finish line of fall

silent and unmoving
imitating calm until
facsimile finds fact

purchase purpose, not to barter
but retain

Find the center
that, unseated
still remains
my_window_seat: (Default)
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Ash Wednesday, T. S. Eliot

More than just about anything, this is something I need to learn.
Need to acquire.
Need to understand - create - establish as a permanent part of my life.

How to care about being without being overwhelmed and converting that caring into codependency.
my_window_seat: (Default)
I was driving home and thought
of two things that were
not alike

In their dissimilarity
was a poem

When I got home I had
forgotten the two things and
what it was that they
didn't have in common
the backward bending elbow
bringing them together

That is where they live
ideas wrenched from different sockets
straining toward the same address

There are meanings
and there are ways home and
finding one, sometimes
the other is lost

Next time I want
to lose the way home and
find the poem
my_window_seat: (Default)
She said

I got a puzzle box for Christmas.
I wish I could carve my heart out and put it
in that box, because it increasingly seems like everyone I give it to
doesn't want it.
Maybe if I put it in the box,
I won't give it away again.


Broken toys always end up in the trash.
Someday I'll learn to remember that.

I have a figurine that I was given in preschool
Little girl in a blue dress, holding a
rose with a pearl center
my birth stone and flower of my month.

Her arm's been broken in two places
Her head's been broken off twice

Every time,
I put her back together
I'll do it again
every time.

Not all broken things get thrown away.
my_window_seat: (Default)
One of the reasons I still think I want to be a teacher is because of people like this guy.  As to whether it will ever happen, other than my after school drama gigs, is still up in the air.  And I am somewhere down below, dealing with the daily bullshit and occasionally looking up at that dream.

But this is the kind of thing that makes me look up.

What about you?

my_window_seat: (Default)
Around the clock she spins,
decorating seconds;
a fly in the amber of hours

eyes whorled like seashells button
a mouthless face

In one hand, song
on every rock, a book
a categoried country
mapped in slippage

lids flicker
wings tasting flight
my_window_seat: (Default)
Meh.  Had to have something to bring to class today.  It's definitely not great, but it'll do pig, it'll do.


The day the bombs fell

the cans on the shelf closed ranks
false teeth chattering in wooden gums

The day the bombs fell
the corner store windows fragmented inwards
exposing inventory entrails
the register tape ran for safety

The day the bombs fell
the sweaters in the women’s boutique
wrapped their arms around each other
mute mohair raised, bristling
one sheer slip fainted
sighing softly to the dressing room floor

The day the bombs fell
the bank depository wall shivered
crow’s feet seamed the concrete
teller windows starred, scattering constellations
of plexiglass on the tiled parquet
and the night drop door gaped, disbelieving
without reserve

The day the bombs fell
every security switch tripped
every dead man’s lever pulled
every shrill alarm said
he may come home today and he may not
remain on Orange Alert until further notice

Beside the bunker door,
the boxes, packed, are little landmines
I noticed them there the day the bombs fell
my_window_seat: (Default)
On the message board, the question of addiction is raised

The question of why—
we’ve seen the same scare-tactic specials
the skeletal fingers of rib
faces carved alien with nerve, twitching
hands fluttering in staccato to unseen sheet music

The comments construct
a scaffold of self-fulfilling ends
heels clicking in aftershock
toes pointing north then
compassing northwest,

why, and how, how does this happen—

There you are, smile
crooked like a beckoning finger

the surface tremors slightly
talk of blue-eyed devils begins

My eyes are brown or else
you wouldn’t have landed here, safe, in my home,
would have curled instead, hidden
in the dry fountain alcove beneath the stairwell
night stowaway evading surveillance
a quiet hunger, invisible

blue-eyed devils chasing you

Father’s favorite drinking game is calling you Satan
mother wrings the dry towel of her hands
sister, successful escape artist
miles away, twitches fitfully in sleep
ears stopped
It’s the Body of Christ, you say                       
a cringing taste on the tongue
bitter midwife to a state of grace and
oh peace, be still

The mouth sores that won’t heal
one tooth gone, then two more

Phone calls from jail, indistinct

We walk to the river, stuttering
through dead branches and dry brush
you steady me
and I never fall

I can’t do this anymore
You can’t bring that in my house
you have to go, now
the door shuts, a knife sheathed

Your mother calls me, again
You’ve given away your shoes, again
come home tarmac blackened, swollen, cut
Is he taking his medication?
oh, his father won’t pay for it
oh, I see
I see

You are on my doorstep
cautious ribbon of smile

Sitting on the porch, hip locked against mine
you say, you should look up more often
I know you forget sometimes
See the stars?  And the sun tomorrow, that too.
Don’t forget to do that—look up

Isn’t it beautiful?

Devils, blue-eyed and blind
We all need saving, you say


for Anthony

I miss you, hon
my_window_seat: (Default)
Found this while doing research for an assignment.

Ars Poetica
     -- Archibald MacLeish

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit

As old medallions to the thumb

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind -

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

A poem should be equal to:
Not true

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -

A poem should not mean
But be

my_window_seat: (Default)
Needs work. 



This morning I saw
the yellowed grass stalks of a winter lawn
pearled in ice
snowdropped heads bending
their necks in
tender bowlines

my breath is visible and
under a sky so unclouded
that it reinvents

how is any of this possible?

I want to be this thing
what is it
portrait landscape still-life
seen from the outside, elements
of desiccation, yes
and also things that stop the eye

not unlined, but lines of grace
a light flash not glitter
and only temporary
holding one small world
in every shape

I’m not a poet
if I’m a writer it is only insofar as I
arrange words in specific patterns and
other people read them

If I am ever noticed
let it be only in the way that
a patch of grass
devoid of intention
finds itself in bondage to temperature and
and beads itself quietly against
a sky-blue frame
my_window_seat: (Default)
I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this last night.
Good lord.


Cracked, the night geode

yawns apart in
eggshell splinters
blooms night-breeding gypsum
desert roses in a
fractal sky

words emerge
stitched in sans serif

they dream themselves
as contrails
arrowed screams
blistering the sky


Nope, I don't get it either.

my_window_seat: (Yuskavage's Girl)
the low sandpaper
of your
the damp slick
it leaves behind
this fisted
steady as a bass line
somewhere in my

everything else
is the pause and
between breaths
my_window_seat: (Default)
Just for the halibut, here's the pieces I submitted for my final Creative Writing Portfolio.  Behind a cut, because I'm courteous and shit like that. 

I'm pretty much - happy isn't the right word, but...  at peace I guess with the way most of them turned out.  I think I've posted the lot of them here a piece at a time at various times, but they've been - what? retooled? - based mostly on feedback I got from the instructor, who's a damned insightful woman and a fanfuckingtastic teacher.

So anyway - enjoy.

My Poetries - Let Me Show You Them )
my_window_seat: (Default)

I call the thing,
not what it is, but what it does:
a snap beetle.

When the cat flapjacks it upside down

It cracks

Snap-arcing up in small-height flight
to clatter, wriggling
before another backflip flight
that ends, batted down,
with scattered feet snickering swiftly away.

Not what it is but what it does
and does again
in clattering cartwheels
until, bored
the cat, with ginger lips
folds up the squirming firecracker
the brown tap dancer
the hard-shelled acrobat
and snaps his spine.

In dying, he becomes the thing he is -
a creature named by doing.

I call him a snap beetle.
my_window_seat: (Default)
The end of a poem

tastes like
a gingersnap dunked in Earl Grey and

sounds like
the compressed sigh of a finished book, closing

smells like
the apartment you left without cleaning and

looks like
the fine print of the contract and

feels like
a fist snap-rocketing into wallboard
and the instantaneous mist of chalk
as cartilage pops, separating and

it lies to you
in every sense.

The right kind of poem
tastes the fork you took your last bite from
breathes you in as you sleep
listens to your phone calls
avoids eye contact
forgives the bruise

the right kind of poem never
lets go
my_window_seat: (Default)
Any day now
every day
the cups of coffee

Another cliche then
every day
another rerun

I'm setting fires
just to watch
the ashes scatter

Setting down
turning round
it doesn't matter

Though every day
is one they say
you can begin again
still every day
the window faces outward in
and then

Another day
is every day

Another day
is every day

Another day is every day
my_window_seat: (Default)
Work in Progress - Please Drive Through

Death in Vegas

She rides shotgun
fully loaded

Ocher tabletops and marbled sand
susurate behind her
profile still as peachstone
in a passenger window frame

He glances at her

Stippled neon saturated corridors
fingerpaint her aura

He looks away

The motel room
braising in a slow pulse slatted halo
she falls away in hiway marker miles beneath him
arc meets arch
twins rejoin
doubled in the bedside mirror

The bottle slips
knife-edge invitations
glitter the carpet

Are they more beautiful now
cradled in flourescence and enamel
lean-faced and charcoal-eyed
they circle into each other
clockwise crimson chrome

To Be Continued...
my_window_seat: (Default)

we touch, insert
break pieces of ourselves off into each other

A socially transmitted disease
[See: Invited Infection]
characterized by phantom pain
in the area of removed tissue.

Sympathetic muscle spasms and reflexive behavior
exacerbated by perceived stimulus
to the remaining intact systems.

Recommended Treatment:
For temporary relief, take measured units
of emotional hermeticism.

Study Findings:
The problem we have found
is that the subject is incapable of compliance
and repeatedly fails direct orders to
avoid reintroducing delivery systems
within the hyperbaric environment.
It's doubtful that further testing in this vein
will meet with success
as it appears impossible to
maintain controlled conditions.


some things are more than skin deep


my_window_seat: (Default)

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