Really Really Weird

Oh, we're closing in on the end again.
I hate this feeling,
this anxiety over the endings 
and for the new unknowns.
Another twelve months,
365 days to make something out of.


I really hate endings,
but I guess


"Every new beginning comes from 
some other beginning's end,
yeah"

Good Night Heart

I wish I was somewhere
where I could go out at this hour
and be somewhere with people
and music and talking.


Because I am forever restless
in the early hours of the morning
when all is sleeping
but I am not sleepy.


I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Words Run on Ice

Damn it.
I want to read Whitman with you
and sleep next to your 
stupidly white-kid scrawny body,
And muss up your hairs
and call you a dweeb
because you like Star Wars.


I want to hear your life story,
because you're fascinating
yet so secretive about
these things from your past.
And I think you can tell
good stories about
these places you've been
and the wonderful things you learned.


I want to figure out how to make you
a goddamn cup of coffee
because I am inept with such things,
and I want us to cook together
and have bouts of rambunctious laughter.
I want you to make more silly, stupid jokes
and I want us to listen to music together
and I want to make you a mix cd
with all the weird songs
that remind me of you.


Maybe we could even 
like,
hold hands
or have physical contact,
though I know it isn't our style,
we don't like touchy-feely-ness.
We ought to be awesome,
together.


Because you're super rad
and I love you waaaaay more
than I think is normally allotted.


Gah.
I love you.
And I want us to do 
things together.
Wonderful things.
Simple things.
Stupid things, even.


Damn it.

Not Evident

I think I need a boy

who wants to drive around

to nowhere

and listen to music 

and not talk.

One who can read maps to me,

and will not get lost.

A human being who 

will not mind lying

in bed on Saturday mornings

and saying soft, whispered things

about anything.

A boy with soft-spoken 

ambition and a good solid heart

and the mind of an intellectual.

Someone who has the same photograph

of a relationship in mind,

a boy with dreams

and aspirations

so we may tell them to the stars

at night together.

And one who will take long walks

into oblivion streets

and the damp nighttime 

so we may simply be,

and be together.

And discuss the sights

and the sounds

and the overall view of earth

from where we are.

To be thoughtful,

most times.

To understand.

And in return 

I will listen to what he has to say, always.

I will hold him if he wants me to,

and tell him things are alright,

they will be ok.

To bake and cook for,

and laugh at his corny jokes.

I will love him,

and I will try so hard,

with my whole being,

to make him feel loved

and whole and happy.

Oh,

boy.

Yeah.

Christmastime is Here

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.

Because Christmas is love.

Full of love and hope and shiny lights

and angel-things and tinsel trees

and people you love so much it makes

you giggly and starry-eyed.

Because I have already had

one of the most lovely Christmases

of my life with my beautiful friends

who I think are my true family.

It never ceases to amaze me 

how amazing we function as

this little family prototype.

I want nothing more than

these people. My splendid

and superb family of

Lily, Marie, Jacket, Mandi, 

and Nick.

And while it really, really

doesn't feel like Christmas Eve

at all, whatsoever,

because there is no snow

and some feeling is completely absent,

I know somewhere in my heart

that it is truly Christmas because of

these people and the lovely time

we had together in front of the Christmas tree

and at my dining room table.

I know it is Christmas because

there was that intense glow of love

brighter than any tree-topper angel

or star, a heat more intense

than cozy fireplaces or familial embraces.

Because this love that is too immense

for me to describe is more

wondrous than all these things compounded.

Merry merry, Happy happy 

Christmas

Hanukkah

Kwanzaa

Saturnalia

or Festivus.

I hope you are

where it feels like Christmas,

all of you people.

perhaps there is snow,

but mostly,

I hope there is love.

Lots and lots of it.

White Christmas

But the feelings 

are all

wrong.

Step Into Christmas

And it feels all wrong.

It is too much,

and I don't understand where

Christmas went.

Because it doesn't even feel 

like December.

And it's shattering to 

hear the small children say

they can't even tell it's 

Christmastime.

And it's so saddening

to realize you

 can't 

really

 feel

 it 

either.

Here Come the Warm Jets

I love you.

And somedays

it hurts.

I Don't Love Anyone

I love

taking the papers

and laying them out

in spatial order 

on the wooden floor of my kitchen.

I love being able to move

them and understand

their progression

and how this entire body of work

is rising and falling

breathing

because it is alive

and it makes sense

beneath my fingertips

like nothing else

ever will.

Nothing else ever

can.

Because I know this is 

it.

This thing

I am doing right here,

right now.

This thinking

and working

and making things.

This is the most beautiful

thing I can do with my life.

The most raw and pure

and unrefined

and 

free.

I can be this person.

And as I move around these

extensions of myself-

these extensions of the 

world of emotion of everything

that has ever existed or will exist

or anything-

they are the only things

in those gloriously 

free moments that 

matter.

All else falls away

and these ideas

flutter with excited heartbeats

as I can hurriedly take note 

of how things should be.

I can have people say it might

go like this, 

or it could work like that,

but I don't even care

because it can be exactly how my

soul needs it to be.

It is the most right

feeling I can conjure.

By comparison

everything else is pale

and weak and frail.

And meaningless.

Because I can stand

in the middle of my kitchen

crouching over

nine pages

and know

that everything I am doing

in this elongated moment

is perfect.

Nothing will ever feel so much like this

except doing this.

And I want to do this.

For a long time.

Because yes,

I think I can safely say

I have found my passion.

And it's beautiful.

I'll Be Your Mirror

Somedays

you make me so angry.

So angry

I feel I could be so much happier

if I never saw you ever again.

And it's nothing you do.

Usually it's nothing you say, either.

I don't know what does it.

Probably my 

insanely easily triggered

insecurity and jealousy.

I can go from indifferent to

jealous in a half second.

And that's what happened today.

And now I am just 

frustrated and angry

and I feel like I cannot stand

you.

I don't want to see your face

or your hands

or hear your voice say anything.

I am finding the idea of you

to be too much right now. 

Please go away.

Or I can go away.

I think I should go.

I shall go and drive so far away

to the coast and the pine trees

and the tall cliffs and the foggy mornings

and spitting sea.

And I could forget you

for a little while, in the least.

Because I don't want 

reality.

Reality at this point

is being totally shitty.

Go away.

The Big Ship

Listening to 

certain songs reminds me of him

(which gets cumbersome, honestly),

a lot of Velvet Underground,

basically any Neutral Milk Hotel,

or Brian Eno.

Sometimes Bright Eyes.

I hope your wandering days aren't over,

dear, for I want to go places with you.

I want there to be newness,

and I want there to be you.

Let's break open the static

you seem so content with

but which strangulates me,

and we could pull down

walls and run into the sea

and stare up at

buildings and neon and stars.

Let's drive across the country,

and land ourselves on the Pacific.

Could you handle that?

Could we go? Ever?

In any capacity?

Because you seem 

so wonderful to

travel with.

Another thing for you, 

I hope you do these things

you want to,

I hope you are happy.

If there are things you want to do,

please do them- sometimes you say things

with this edge, if it is guilt or regret

I sometimes cannot distinguish.

But there is some sadness I do not

yet fathom, in you, sometimes

there is a feeling of something missing.

I can understand at least that.

I hope you go to the school in the city

to get the degree you talk about sometimes,

and you are happy there.

Do you need a change of scenery?

Of pace?

You always act content,

but I want to believe some part of you

is in need of leaving here.

Something in you needs fresh air.

So,

let's be traveling partners.

Let's get some new perspectives 

and see something brand new, together.

My Wandering Days Are Over

Sometimes I try to write blog posts
and I simply end up staring at an empty
space and a blinking cursor for ten minutes,
because nothing interesting comes to mind.
It's irritating. Because obviously,
there are too many things in the world to discuss,
but I cannot single out any specific one.


So I'll just go.


I am trying to put together 
probably three different portfolios,
if anyone is interested in my 
business of poetry.
Three portfolios is a lot of work,
and work I've never done before.
I must sift through such volumes
and pick apart things
in a completely different way
and present them, as usual,
to people without any background
on what I'm trying to do with
that piece. 


It's actually sort of 
(really, really) exhilarating
every time I mail off any 
of my work to anywhere.
It travels more than I do,
and it can speak for itself
when it has to.
This extension of myself
can go wherever it wants to.
It's more exciting than it 
probably sounds...


I always wonder,
when I get into these rambles
on poetry and such,
how much of what I am trying to say
gets through to anybody.
How well can convey what really goes
on, so that someone may get a glimpse inside
this extremely ethereal, painful, beautiful
thing. I don't think I can explain it at all.
So I'm sorry if it is all a mish-mash of
wordiness with no real concrete picture.


I guess it's
everything.


Poetry is most everything.
It is pine trees
and seas and vacant fields.


Old tvs and exit ramps,
bodegas and subway trains.


It is lines and contours 
and subtle shades.
People and every
philosophical idea
to ever even fleetingly cross
the mind of anyone who ever
lived, died, loved, or was
birthed of cosmic dust.
Which is everyone,
and every idea.


It's so phenomenal.
Indescribable.
I feel I cannot do the art 
justice,
but I will die trying.


Because there is one thing
I think I love above all other
things
and it is the crafting of,
the research of,
the musing over
poetry and poetics. 


There is so much good
in it.
So much fresh air.

Pumped Up Kicks

I don't want to speak too soon.

But I think there is mending going

on. Right now. There is some 

cusp of something new-ish.

Something much better than 

Monday afternoon.

I think there is something.

Here. Changing. 

I want to think yes,

it is true. 

I think things 

are getting better. 

"Merry Birthday to You"

Today,

it is Marie's birthday.

Why yes, it is.

I shall take this moment

of birthdaying 

to explain what this means.

This girl I know,

who happens to be

such an essential part of my life,

as one of my very best friends,

is not a smidge-bit older.

She is this individual who

is stunningly clever and

intelligent. Her existence

is beautiful. 

She has a grand soul

and I am forever grateful

her soul and mine can be

friends. 

So yes.

Happy, Happy Birthday

to a marvelous Marie. 

Road to Joy

"We are all such fragile, broken things"


We break sometimes.
Because we are so human.
We are imperfect.
And nothing is ever right
completely.


And there was an
hour and a half span
where nothing was right.
And nothing existed outside
of one room
and two people.
With some sort of
conversation
that resulted in a
lot of feeling better.


But there was
that 90 minutes
of intense letting go.
Of letting some human being
know what was so severely bothering me.
And he happened to be a human being
with some wisdoms I don't have.
With some insight few could probably provide.


And I don't think
I can thank him enough 
for what he did.


"I leave home and it's dark,
I go home and it's dark.
Is the sun ever even out?
That's it! It's seasonal affective 
disorder, it's not your fault!
It'll be ok"