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"