Dawn

The clouds outside are moving, light pale white-blue behind dark grey. I woke thinking accidentally of you and changed gears pretty quick into the real. Amazing how some things change.

My love is in the Indiana desert of things. I wait. Not patiently, mind you. Why should I be patient to fall into you?

All I think bout these days is gravity. Falling and forever being pushed away. Locked in an ongoing interstellar embrace.

A sentence in the language of light strikes my mind, and I know what you are made up of. And I know by the feel of the force between us what charge you carry. And I know by the amount we are drawn in what our collective gravity is.

Are we a binary pulsar system? Do we give off waves until one of us goes supernova?

God, I hope so.

Light my house on fire? No, set the universe inside of me in motion.
We are spinning and, when we rise, we are fighting against gravity. But in the end, we will be bowed down.

Because gravity is god. And obey we must <3
The choice to yield is simply not ours.
But let’s say this: come, hold my hand. Let’s follow the laws of physics together.

 

Failure to-

Crowd-sourced material.
The smell of beer and cheap floors
A table with sixteen chairs,
half of them full.

No-one else comes.
No-one else goes.

Broken pencil lead leaves
A mark on the surface,
A scratch on the ledge
A scar on the table leg.

Searching for meaning,
validation, a tug
the pull on the heart
a hug that you give
But goes deeper
than expected, and you know–

This is it.

A moment.
Two artists link, eyes
that see everything.
There’s no image,
word, hope, or cure.
It’s a metaphor we find.
In our lives, entwined.
Life? Art?
A funny line.

Only trying. Failing.
Cycle, repeat.
Wash, rinse, feel defeat.
Jumping the gun
Fighting clocked systems
Knowing there’s more, but
More but–
but what?

Laughter because tears
sting eyes after they’ve cried
too long
the end of a night’s song
A long night and a sigh.
A long conversation
we’re wearing thin
Wearing nothing-
Naked.

Learning some things?
Is this it?
Not at all.

Hope.
Is a stacked hand
stacked deck with a lost chance
hand in the dark
Knife on your throat.
I ask you to hurt me
But you say no
I’m your friend.
No again.

What draws the line,
the cut,
the blade across skin?
“Let me in.”
No. I’m your friend.
No, not again.

Fuck, wait.
We’re stuck
Cycle on repeat
Rinse and release
Is this it?

Midnight, and
break of dawn
A splash of blood.
It’s over before we start.
I loved you, but…
I loved you, but–
I loved you.

If you don’t love me, fuck.
If you won’t touch me, what?
You don’t want me,
Fine.

It’s a long time in coming.

You cannot have my name.

I ran away, in the summer before last, to a mount named after a hill I had lived with you in. I ran away from Bellingham for Vernon. It was intentional for reasons I never explained.

Over mountains, I had to pass. By a long road, curving amidst the bay and cars, I had to come. Each journey, I would pack two heavy bags, water, and a lunch. Exhausted, I would stop halfway there, huddle sweat-drenched in the shade, and rest. On occasion, I would pitch my friend-gifted tent and sleep out in the yard just to be under moon and stars. I would stretch, long and slow. I was exactly where I needed to be in those days.

Alone.

I would disappear myself behind a mug of tea, a screen, and other worlds with friends who did not abandon and deny. I did my best, did everything to be in motion. Every spare moment I had, I pedalled away the pain. And under blanket in an orange leather chair, I was safe enough to not think about the ruin of my world.

It wasn’t so much a choice, but a need. A craving to just be. To be allowed to stop, breath, and see. I was lucky enough to be rescued by the people who knew exactly what I wanted to be: someone who could creatively turn brittle shards of dreams into strong, pretty things.

These days are different because I’ve had time to sit with the changes. And over a year later, I can honestly say: if asked, I’d still give. If you called, I would answer.

I have no reason to lie. To myself. To you. To the universe.

It already knows. I am not strong, but still I carry you – my broken pottery –  around. Tuck you – the seed of a black hole – in my pocket and struggle on. You are too heavy to be as small, as insignificant as you are in me. Quantumly speaking, you disappear. Spacially, you are a singularity.

And maybe somewhere in the depths of it all — you remember everything.

I have no hope. I will never find you again. The truth is unkind and hurts. I will grow, change, become what I have been aiming at. I will do what I must,  go where I can. And yet.

You will always be there, inside of me, in retrograde. Phantom feelings from the limb that got infected.  Wind rustling and tugging on the branches in my heart that were sawed off. Thirst from the cut-off roots I am missing. The aching cracked bed of a spring that dried up.

I will always have a place for you. And yet, I have learned. Lessons I did not want life to teach. Yet teach it did. And now I know–

That we can give it all, and lose.

That we can risk it all, and fail.

That we can bet against the odds.
And be wrong.

Even should the scars dull, I still bear their subtle marks. Carbon deposits built up on a bone. The glint of metal filling up a drilled out hole. Faded lines of tissue drawing a map of where we went wrong. I live each day with the ghost aches in the places where the breaks once were. My body: a painting made in another life, once lived in another way. A thorn burrowed in my mind.

I loved with all I was, and it wasn’t enough.

The ink of us underneath my skin are the ruts of the path I travelled on. And you are a part of my story, no matter what comes. The foundation, regardless if we explode it, left grooves in the ground. The stones were moved, cities made and towers build, regardless if it all crumbled to dust.

You are the dust in my memory of the past. The tiny stone horse in the greenery of my heart. My clearing in the forest where I got lost. My burned-up torch in the dark. My love.

I will never love like I loved you.
I am not sorry.

This is what moving on looks like. I have got to where I had to go. Now, I am replanting. Seeding. Sowing. Regrowing. The work is long and hard, and I do most of it alone. My bed is mine and I sleep as well as I ever will. And I wake with the sun. Regardless of when it comes.

I am happy, Ori. I just wanted you to know. Even though you won’t.

Late rising

Eight thirty. A cup of yesterday morning’s coffee, borrowed air-pot full of this morning’s fresh. The sun has crested the happy valley mountains and is striking the back wall. There is golden light everywhere, turning plushie duckie, duvet, and white pillow cases the color of butter and clotted cream.

Last night, I biked through town like I used to do. I always think of you, even when I’m on my way somewhere new. I was on my way to you, and it was strange to see your face. Your teeth have changed. So has your timbre. So has your heart.

You belong to a world that is far apart. And thank the stars.

In thinking I would spend the next few hours alone, I glimpsed a newer friend. We shared about our lives, our dreams, our acts of resistance and love in this world. We talked openly about life paths, about how we saw a similar place, about alternatives. We drew symbols we don’t yet have names for. We shared created sentences about the world.

The bakery closed and we both had to go.

I brought medicine to a friend, like I’m wont to do. We drank tea and talked, but in the end — I think, it was not enough. Uncertainty and perhaps other things grip at me. They are brambles and I sink under them in my sleep.

The sun is both brighter and sharper now, making こだま [kodama] glow around the fuzzy white edges. Tree spirit hangs in the corner of this room that has — in so many ways — so quickly become my safe space. I come here when I need to get away, need to work, need to find solace and love. Need to breathe.

Today will be a long day of many things I’ve purposefully obligated myself to. I love the sensation of knowing how much time I have, and then giving it away.

I give what I have and resist those who try to take more. A defence mechanism thirty years old. Instinct protected me when my heart and brain didn’t know better. Now, I know better. And yet, the old guards make the most sense. They were my natural mode back then, and I don’t begrudge myself them.The sun is high above the mountain line now and turning the blue sky white. The wispy clouds in the distance melt away. It is a clear day. Creative. And full of light.

This is that.

The story of my life
is beyond my scope.

(Sorry.)

Most astronauts are transparent.
Teasing spirits are.
Lost in space.

The fuzzy foot
is what I put *all* my trust in.
The way their hand felt
was…scratchy at first.
“Redemption is crunchy.”

Good mystery is
a failure,
in the way a car won’t start
In winter.

Giving a total stranger your number
is unbelievably smug;
Your feathers are not going to help
Anything.

Last week’s leftovers are questionable at best,
as far as quality of experiences go.
The thing is–
A tiring way to spend my afternoon:

“The way we solved our issue
was QUEEN OF EVERYTHING!!!”
“Tomorrow’s meeting WiLL BE
the end of Patriarchy!!!!”
“A questionable font
IS Always something I wish for!!!!”
“The pain in my gut
IS NOT your problem, mom,
So get off my back already!!!!!”

The future of this situation
is full of shit.
Hypocrites are made of magic…
Racist cartoons
are not a good example of empathy.
The rate at which we decay
is in my dreams.

The stillness of an autumn afternoon
is going to work out
if you reeeally try.
Karma is probably going to be okay.
Sooner
rather than later.
The other is a peaceful moment.
Floating in the ocean
is just the way it is.

Don’t cry.

The way you cry is
probably outdated by now.

2016: Gravity

On a shore in the freezing cold, I launched my heart.

Written on the side were the earth, the moon, a sprawl of stars that make the shape of spilt milk above my head. 2000 years, approx, in the past.

On the other side is the name of my fellows who also cast off. Words like kindling on paper lanterns. We light all four corners and lay our hands on each other’s intentions. We press together from the wind. It is not, in this moment, our friend.

In the sky, our hearts become stars.

#

Even still, occasionally — my mind becomes dark. And when darkness is without moon or milky way — I think of you.

Old friend, missing and changed.

We were balanced once, like yin and yang. Until we tightened and tuned too tight. The strings broke and the middle way between them — lost.

Now, I wander streets at night and look at clouds and think about everything.

I wonder who eats your vinegar these days, or if you have completely forgotten the taste.

Who reads your poetry, late into the night? Listens to the sound of your voice singing any song you choose while they fall asleep?

Who wishes they were brave enough to sing along?

These aren’t answers I need for any kind of closure. These aren’t answers I need at all. I don’t ask because I think anything about you or me or us. I ask only because, like blowing bubbles in a bathtub, I think to.

I think about everything.

And the fact that you never answer makes me feel better. Because if you did, what would you say?

Nothing fitting to the world now inside my mind.
Nothing graceful.
Nothing kind.

And with that, I’m alright.

I have come to the end of a long road and this year is the beginning of the new. There are new bodies in the celestial pool, old stars dying and their supernovas are shaking me, breaking orbit, and flinging me out of the solar system we once made.

I am a comet, loose. The feeling is of drifting off, but I know the truth.

I am waiting to be pulled.

Searching pointlessly

I keep looking at public images thinking, for some reason, I’ll get some secret information. Like if I got it, that would prove to be the closure I need. Like public images can do that.

I only want to know what I’m waiting for.

To feel whole again. To stop looking over my shoulder to see if you’ve come running for me. To stop needing, what?

An old friend who sees all of me. One who I don’t have to retell all these stories to. One who remembers the burning California heat and the misery of a festival drowning in mud. Someone who was there with me, knows the fuck ups I’ve made, and still reaches for me.

A long-standing love I’m not so lucky to have anymore. I lost my memory, and with it my ability to come back to the nesting place where I learned to fly. I can only find other places, littered with shredded memories I don’t want. The sparkle is all gone. Maybe one of these hovels was the first one, but I wouldn’t know.

I’m setting fire to my heart, taking up my own cross, and leaving the hope of good things behind. Every chance I take will end in the death of my dreams, and there will be no lasting glow, but holes.

I have my grandparents, my parents, my siblings blood. I already know what that means. Some of us have bad luck. Some: bad karma from another life. I have both.

It’s alright.

I also have stories in me that I am pouring out. It’s all I’m worth. I hope it’s only a matter of time until someone drinks it down.

I have to hope for something. I can trust in questions whose answers I can never know.