Ramblings #2

The little wisp,
Upturn of hair at the very end,
I fight with it,
Plead on mental knees,
But still it entrances,
Captivates,
Lures,
Me to a losing gamble,
I am a fool,
To be snared like this,
Foolish
Delirious boy,
Yet I sit,
Stand,
Float here,
With my knowledge,
Tending to it,
Like a windowsill fern,
With plenty of sunlight,
Bright and green and lush,
But for the wind,
Ever faithful,
Honest wind,
Will knock and shatter,
The little clay pot,
The wisp of hair,
And with my knowledge,
I wonder,
Doesn't the plant live on?

Amnesia

I have forgotten,
how complicated things are,
how hard it is to comprehend,
and how many things you could really be saying.
I am lacking,
that desire,
Need,
for fulfillment from others.
I have the sea,
the sounds of crashing waves,
hunting gulls,
blazing wind,
I have the feel of wet sand,
Sinking,
and the hard mountain rock.
I am, for lack,
simpler,
basic,
ecstatic,
at all I have to find,
and share,
if you will have it.

Update

Oh, and just in case anyone's wondering, the novel is NOT dead, on the contrary it has just been given a surge forward and the future seems promising! (as far as this level of writing goes of course) Unfortunately I don't plan on posting any of it so you'll have to AIM me for excerpts (all 4 people who read this, you know my AIM sillies.)
~bluez

Dropping the Ball

I love,
the failures that I find,
myself committing hourly,
daily,
annually.
they bring me closer to earth,
sinking my feet below the soil,
humbly cutting tender flesh,
on jagged rocks that have never seen,
light.
remember every mistake you committed,
when we made a decision,
firm resolution to get it right,
and we are,
getting it right,
right up to our necks in life,
choking on laughter,
breeds tears,
of experience.
I think I would like to succeed,
sometime.
now I'll play with the children,
outside accomplishments,
and wonder,
at everyone and everything,
all stars in the night sky.

Noor's Super Awesome Cloud Adventure

The following is dedicated to a fellow lover of love, liver of life, and dreamer of things far below what will be the least of her accomplishments:

This is a story,
The story.
Of a girl.
Noor.
Noor=girl.
In the middle of her sandwich,
When It called,
It
It
It called.
Time to go,
They all said "no!"
But It said "go!"

She went.

Above the sky,
She took care of the foster children there,
The stars and planets,
They were very appreciative,
Even the sun,
No longer the brightest,
Was content to foil this girl,
But It said "go!"

She went.

To the natural nature,
The green stuff,
Dirty Earth.
She put out forest fires,
Told the rest of the wildlife that in fact many people could prevent forest fires,
Revolutionizing the preservation effort,
But It said "go!"

She went.

"Under the Sea",
Gave that lobster to a Maine fisherman,
Then went under the Oceans,
Renewed the Great Barrier Reef,
Tamed the Stingray menace now friend,
But It said "go!"

She went.

To another world,
Would they like her?
Would there be a they?
There was.
A They.
They liked her and,
As before,
They loved her,
And she healed them too,
Without doing a thing,
But It said "go!"
She said "no!"
And the echo,
The chorus from behind,
Was unanimous.
All the love,
From two whole worlds,
Now lay focused onto this one girl,
Noor=girl.
She stopped listening to It,
It stopped asking,
It stopped.
Sans It.
And her wings,
Bright robin's egg blue wings,
Took her where she wanted,
To the Clouds
To the trusted,
Where there were no loud noises,
Only the sound,
That glorious sound,
Of muffins,
And their enjoyment.
And her,
And friends,
There.

~!Fin!~

Painting the Chief's Daughter

You with your ancient face,
Your artistic bent tightens your brow,
This is your element,
You are working.

And I am working,
Working this out with my eyes,
If I could paint I would paint you painting,
But God knew I could not cage birds.

You sit by the window every time,
Don't even sit but let the paint fill the stool,
And me my head rests on our old couch,
The one we willed up together when I said you really shouldn't.

I pour the last of the red wine for you,
Wrap my other hand around your waist,
Your skirt waves in the swift air,
Quietly you continue.

I love the Indian that shows in your skin,
Your mother's necklace and your sense of surrounding,
It's amazing we're together,
That the god of this world would accept that.

This one is done,
Your gentle release back to me is how I know,
I transfer the wine to your seasoned touch,
Watch the other birds on their wires.

Take up another canvas,
And I will return to my perch in the middle of the room,
You have so many ideas to get out,
So many lives to live through other means.

So.

What is this?

It's Kinda Chilly

It's so fucking cold. That is the main thought circulating around his head as he sits at the edge of the dock. He kicks his legs back and forth in an effort to keep warm, and the water has gone down too far to even worry about skimming it. He thinks about jumping down the side and walking along the newly exposed coast, but opts against it. Because it's so fucking cold. He studys the light of the moon on the water, but he never was sure what this kind of studying really entailed. He thinks he's studying the water. He wishes he could draw, but that is sadly filed under the emmense list of things he cannot do. But he has a good memory, and feels that he could recall the water quite vividly for at least a month, so he doesn't feel so bad for not being able to draw. He lays back to study the stars, and wonders what he's going to do this weekend. Adolescence is always a 5 day struggle for a 2 day pass to a fair where half the rides aren't half as impressive as the flyer hinted. But still he hopes he has something fun to do. If it were warmer he would just sleep where he was, but it's so fucking cold he thinks he should get inside while he still can. He staggers up and heads back in, taking in the night one last time. There are times when it's good to be alone. It makes him feel younger, more childlike. But as old as he was, and as old as he would get, there were things waiting to be worried about, and he would get to them. But it's so fucking cold tonight, he needs the warmth in ignoring the unimportant things.

Needy Aren't We?

I hope eventually I'm needed,
Required in even a minimal capacity,
I think that is the single greatest thing someone can be,
But maybe that's only because I haven't been yet.

I don't know how many of you I need,
I don't count because it makes me feel weak,
Knowing I depend on so much,
(it doesn't go well with the loner mentality.)

I don't know if I'm all that excited for Heaven,
What could you possibly dream for there?
And I think I hold too much onto all those lives,
I have lived so much more outside of this.

So what does that make me here?
I guess that explains the innate isolation,
But I really do want to help,
I really do love.

You.

And I always have.

It sounded more ironic in my head

This past week I have felt so worthless it verges on being written in the skyline of my mind by one of those planes normally used for cropdusting but hired for skywriting by some engaged suitor. And yet I still love every single one of you, in that pseudo-chivalrous, die-for-you kind of way. So at the heart at least there's that.

The Day

He slept more and more as the days drew on. He stopped shaving, convinced that he would just grow a beard, but then failed to keep that in check. He lost interest in picking up anything that happened to give way and slip in his apartment, and enjoyed the feeling of his bare feet grazing over empty carpet, like following a path to the frontier still not fully broken in. He was aware of all of this, it felt like he was aware of everything. He would stand for hours in front of his bathroom mirror, for some reason feeling a blurred sort of peace. Perhaps he was most detached there, he didn't know. Something was wrong, but he was unable even to postulate what. He ate when he was hungry, and worked his hours to pay his bills. But, in front of that mirror, he felt so much like giving up. Like if he closed his eyes one more time he would disappear back into himself. It wasn't that this thought comforted him, it terrified him. But at the same time there was this overriding sense of inevitability. And the day never came. He thought the fates were procrastinating, and wished he could somehow do what came next himself. Instead he slept, dreaming a whole new world. He would wake up and find a rough sketch from his dream the night before made in the dust on his window beside his mattress. A sky with no moon, men with wheels and wings, mountains turned upside down. Soon he began drawing when he was awake, on the fog on his mirror, on his one table, even in the dust on top of his ceiling fan. And then, almost catching him off guard, the day came. Later his sister would come to visit. She would knock, and then let herself into a world of replication, copies of somewhere else etched on every surface. And the only thing in the mirror would be a circle. Complete.

Counting Sheep?

He has no idea what she's thinking. He never has any idea what she's thinking. He hopes she's happy, but who's to say. But he's optimistic. If she wasn't happy, she'd leave, right? Right? He hates hidden meanings. For a brief second he imagines a word without etiquette, without formalities no one really means and without so much personal second guessing. Then the pain in his leg brings him back to reality. He lays back and looks up at the growing number of stars, like schoolchildren arriving for some cosmic rehearsal for an amatuer play. Really there's nothing amateur about the universe, but childish still comes to mind when he thinks of the big picture, in an ironic sort of tone in his head, portrayed by a simple smirk and glint in his eye. He hopes she doesn't see either, because he has moments of broken English around her and her alone, and would fail to explain his actual thoughts. Then he would have to take on, anecdotally, when he tied his tongue that he knew he would, and had been thinking he would, and had been thinking that he was thinking that he was, and his mind drowns itself in some apathetic white flag spiral. But she hasn't asked, so he thinks he's in the clear. He lets his head roll over to her side, and is filled with new thoughts, like being stabbed with a hypo full of carebears. He loves everything about her, and searches frantically for something wrong. Something faulty. And he is disappointed. Because now he is almost sure this is another dream, allbeit a vivid one. Her head mimicks his from a few seconds back and her eyes magically cushion his entire body to where he just doesn't give a fuck. If this is a dream, he's going to give a nice bonus to the awkward new trainee he bought the mattress from. He slides an arm around her, looks back at the stars, and settles in for what promises to be a fantastic show.

He would pinch himself with his free hand but he's still not sure.

(Author's Note: that was fun.)

No One Can Really Say For Sure

Say give up,
Say leave to chance,
Say there's no way of knowing,
And say you see no point,

But don't ever say you're right,
When you have no idea what you're saying,
Or what she's up against every minute,
How little I feel I'm doing.

So I will do more,
And the tides will rise higher,
Even join and stand on my shoulders,
Higher still.

It keeps you up at night,
And makes the day a travesty,
All that swells in-up-out of your head,
Lead balloons if they could burst.

But it is not the end,
Thanksgiving thank your God for hope,
In the passing of the hour,
And any relief we can find.

We won't beat this,
I'll agree with you on that,
But grant me this point,
It's one hell of a fight.

The Upheaval

The evil settled back and waited for a response. His was almost instinctive, as if merely witnessing the scene dictated his actions. He reached down and took up his sword, and saw another hand wrap around an axe. He retrieved his bow, and he his mace. Even the priest came forward and took the small wooden crucifix swaying from a hilt. But not all the men had taken back their belongings. Some had grabbed their dagger or halberd and escaped back along the path to the east. Others crossed their arms in front of the pile, rebuking those who had taken. After it was clear no other ally would be gained, as if of collective mind, those willing made for the north. The evil receded out of sight in the same direction, and the moon made clear the path they would take. Even the geography of the terrain seemed to point to some culminating point, in no way of benevolent nature. The men knew they would not come back from this, the evil had made that very clear and proved it so. But still none of them so much as looked back at the others yelling for their senses to return to them. Step after step, they neared a confrontation. And they began to sing.

Enough shit people. Move.

A Nice Afternoon

The other day I went on a hike. It started at the top and we ran down to the bottom before struggling back up. I can freely admit it was a bit more than I'd expected, but by no means out of any amateur's league. A lot of people when they got back complained and shook their heads, but I wish they would bite their tongues. I guess it's different for everyone, but I enjoyed sliding on all the broken leaves, forgoing the necessities of a steady base or anything really built for safety because I felt like I was running to something. To something and for it. Like I was inexplicably drawn to something at the bottom, and ran with reckless abandon towards it. Of course there was no such thing when I got there, no special prize, no magic waiting. But I got a nice view of a waterfall, and started back up still feeling that pull, only now back up. Passing all the people I know leaning against trees to catch their breath, I drug myself back up the bluff and again found nothing new. Same life. Same me. But as I caught my breath on the rock wall, looking out at all the other mountains, the draw resurfaced. Although I haven't gone on any more hikes since then, I still feel that draw as clear as ever. For something waiting, something worth it. And it always feels so close.

But that's just me.

Stragglers

I'm running your mountain,
Your steep inclination,
Losing grip in these shoes,
And it's wearing me ragged,
Keep pushing up (go we believe in you now go),
But I'm starting to breathe too hard,
No one's mapped out this far,
Blinded and shaking,
Older newborns still looking for someone,
At the top to save them from falling back,
Can't do it alone they know better than most,
But we are all running solitary,
Bite like wolves differing packs,
Win the race you don't understand,
Muscles flexing strands snap and reform,
Sweating,
Panting,
Faster.

And I am losing.

Update

Lately my life has consisted of two main thoughts:



Clutch her

No don't.

Elementary Schooling

If I had anything worthwhile at the end,
It would be a sense of understanding,
At how contrite we all really are,
(I've been jumping to use that word)

At how something can burst and still be there,
Looking around for the invisible shards of itself,
Believing in all aspects that there are some things you can't survive,
Some things that bound you.

At the beauty of a screened door,
As the fog is surrending the day,
With beads of light collecting in individual squares,
So you find another way outside.

And her smile,
And that fire,
And nothing else,
That is belief.

I've changed my mind at the end of it all,
I want a house,
In between hills,
With a view of the coast,

And someone to tell me it's real.

Concessions

She was right. I give myself away too.

I Am The Walrus

I think if reincarnation was real, I would come back as a sea lion.

Selfish

Come sit here with me on your aunt's old couch,
I feel like coveting you for today,
Rest here in the shaft of light succeeding above the neighbor highrise,
I feel like coveting you today.

You make me smirk you angel you,
Are your shoes dry yet?
I'm dying and I've never been so healthy,
Are your shoes dry yet?

I'm going to sell my car tomorrow,
For two tickets to France,
I'm not a fan but I know you want to go,
I'm not a fan but you know I love their shows.

You know you're right on cobblestone,
You know you're right when your all alone,
It's my maniac I crave,
I am so right.

Double check my math.

It works itself out,
Because that's how it's supposed to be,
That's not supposed to happen to me,
Yours Truly.

So just sit here,
And let me covet you today.