the feeling of first forgetting how to say hello, forgetting as in i’ll just avoid it. no eye contact and a soft breath tempo. i do remember when you were easy to let go.
There’s more than a tactile resemblance when you spit into your cup to that of when your mother fed you crushed carrots. Fast forward to when you feel a sense of warmth brush upon your pelvic bone, like when you’re about to cum and you want to hold it off a bit longer…there’s familiarity with teasing, with control and learning to pace yourself. The thinest of ice can trip the tallest of men, the smallest of sparks ignite the largest fires. I can’t remember being so humble but it’s always been there. My small yet supple breasts hide the biggest of hearts and my loud speech defending my poor posture, my good posture relieving my body fat..etc. There’s control, there’s awareness…but i’m missing something.
there are things you could hold onto.there are things you could accept and let go…when you cross the street you do both.
poetry just doesn’t spell out for this particular subject, it is far too blunt a sentiment and a far too real a feeling, yet there are things…there are things about me that don’t spell out to this subject..there are things seemingly within my control but ultimately out, if to find the essence of the search, the root of the genuine pitter patter has never been there at all for this subject…I digress. I’ll do me, as always, and if these pitter patters sync, wonderful. if not, i’m sure it’ll be wonderful either way.
i go places when i’m sitting still. stuck inside when i walk around and it’s headlights with pupils.
pool tables of pupils, all in line in a shape of a triangle over greener pastures with frames of silver, the taste of silver and sulfur in time and a reefer set to sublime.
there’s a heavy stare in his kick and a light smile with a dimmer, never thought i’d see the light
not the kind that’s bright but those finds of swollen thoughts, the plenty of thinkers…
it’s not the talkers you should fear but the plenty of thinkers.
every time there’s doubt in my mind sprouted from one deeply nestled in another, i remember how little humans know but how insatiably we feel. To base ones foundations on that by no means makes someone impractical or by popular cross terms, an idealist. The unattainable does not exist here, metaphysical doctrines have lead cultures into enlightenments, into accomplishments, a renaissance for those casualties to the mother of doubt, practicality…someone’s reality is not your own, please don’t make it…and by all means, that includes mine.
somethings off…i don’t know why i am even writing on this..i figure if i often and generally sort out my mind on here then perhaps it will help..I fear i may be pregnant and i don’t know how most women react to this that feel abortion is okay…It’s not that I don’t think it is okay nor that I think it is..the judgement is beyond question, at least for my mind…I consider conceived to be that which it means and If I could be told I have then I have and I am carrying never the less, another life. There are moments that i could say truly have been the worst days or periods. Immediacy and the power of a moment feeling like days, merely a moment in your very large span of existence. A moment and It could impact you so greatly…Sometimes life likes to stand up and smack you on the face to make you realize how active a moment is….When Julio passed away, When my dad approached me at my bed sobbing and told me he feared to be dying describing my portion of his Will to me, when my heart was broken for the first time and the frog in my throat wouldn’t pass even with water, when I told my parents I wasn’t coming back, when my sister “threw me under the bus” in front of her friends to guard her prepubescent esteem in others of her, when I woke up that morning in my own bed sore ashamed and weak in knowing what I did not want to know…
I’ve always tried to take these moments and mold them into art, mold them into testaments that exorcize negative impact and realize a stronger me. I’ve tried to be a person that will not disregaurd hurt but will still harness empathy, a person that will not turn into stone or reverberate this hurt onto others…but rather, into work and maybe help others as it has helped me…to maintain this is a lifetime goal and I work at it everyday.
Then there are moments i fear that may falter this life that holds much good…god forbid, the day i am told that my sister ,brother or cousin has died. The day that will most likely arrive in knowing my Father, Mother, Godmother or Grandfather or aunts have passed. ….the day I am faced with the option to kill my child because I am foolish and wasn’t ready.
I fear these moments.
(I’ll post this after much contemplation only because it is my responsibility to as an artist…that wont make sense to some of you..that’s okay, maybe there is none.)
pretend parable tellers crossed their T’s dotted their I’s, their i me my’s and however holy their water was they still needed to quench the thirst of their own questions. the tired pundet at the alter, the sun kissed reverend doomed to falter, they. them. those.
stable mismemory is the sensory to the forgiven, that which was taken down by hand, made into a shrine, one to collapse in time and she forged her signature. What are ways left into ones hands these days, what are ways left into ones hands these days.
I fell back. pressed my hands, pressed them. searched for sand in the most familiar places. pardon me, searched for soil.
to remain with such disdain. the ash. taste of flame. a degree of remedy, a silly flask filled jamboree. what are ways left into ones hands these days, what are ways left into ones hands these days.
keep my hands cool and eyes warm, a distant face without words you just pace. discomfort from this seat, the unrelated body heat where the days are numbered. Let it go gently and recline. you must recline, pour your doubts away to refine your aether. weeds bellow, cement carried rows of discontent. a melody forgotten, outplayed value stored in volumes. Volume #1, Volume #2, become is to became.
prophetic conundrum a slip of words a sip of the absurd and humble, weigh a waited turn, not missed but yearned and for those, those who crept in this imagery, contemplated synergy a chemistry begotten misplayed and forgotten. A nursery rhyme for the senile, a one legged hopscotch game gone a mile…replay this in tongues, prophetic conundrum. you sound this familiar, a Familiar Foe. your etymology suits unorthodox, a faded related paradox.
reading poems backwards to find that you’re speaking in tongues and that’s okay cause I slept today. My incubus visits seldom these days but I now understand it’s language. I fear for my sanity when I lock the door, I fear gravity’s playing tricks on me again, an eye for eye and a soul for the win…and I’m sleeping with my remedy, i’m tired of writing depressed poetry. I can’t even tell when i’m depressed anymore. I don’t even want to wander in meanings, here i go again. I’m typing too fast for my mind to approve and I’m not sorry…Okay, i stopped. You know what I really hate, the orange yellow light that tells you to yield or go slower. Frankly, It’s either all or nothing with me and I detest this gray shit. I called mammi last night and told her hi and that i’m okay. then I hung up.