smooth liquidation, good dividends

lash out,
irresponsibly.
look as
hardcore as
it feels inside.

as deviant
during the day
as awake
at night.

rough edge,
rough edge,
roughage.

scars,
cars,
black lines
under skin.

wear your art
heart
start
smart

on your sleeve.
distortions behind
glass. holes
assholes
to fill the holes.

fly in a jar
no honey or vinegar,
buzz buzz buzz
wingbeat repeat.

throw yourself
against the wall
over and
over and
over again,
might get you
out sometime.

holes, needles,
burn words
into your skin.

feel something
with this body.
this body so used
to feeling
nothing,
nothing
physical
anymore. or ever.

back to back-
door rebellions,
window slip

and slick
quick
lies
like silver,

mercury beads
off the tongue,
poisonous,
expanding.

flux licked
lip drip.
quick trip

lights off
lights on
no covers
just coverups.

she drop,
drop,
drops.

pools red
in a fool bed.
dirty boots,
natural roots.

11 o' clock
desk shimmy

in the work chair,
scratch the itch
that's not there.
not there where
it can be...

scratched.

its all in skin,
beneath skin.
buck with a whim,
instead of against it.

it's fly
or die,

but

the ink
runs dry.

shore

white leaves shiver in
white branches that bend
and sway with unnatural
and discordant rhythm.

small dervishes of fog
move heavy, crowded
against the ground.

invisible arms
gather flotsam and
pull it back.

there is salt
in the opalescent air,
shimmering,
you can taste it when
you breathe.

it tingles at
the back of your
throat.

time is every
second tremble,
of every leaf;
the mealy squish
of wet sand
between your toes.

the retreat of
love, or affection
in the wet, white moments
of the morning.

rope chafes, hands
cling to a heavy line -
hold fast. waves slap
loud, unseen against
wood sides.

you caught the boat
just in time,
this time,
before other arms and hands
could pull it back, fast
out to sea.

impressions and impetus

a surprisingly good mood, for a monday. overcast, low clouds on the east horizon. by low, i mean they're skirting the mountaintops, so perhaps "low" is relative for those who don't live in a valley, but when the top of this giant bowl in the middle of the rockies is covered with clouds, i feel snug, blanketed. overcast grey days are a rarity in the summer, especially around here, and despite their stigma, are my favorite kind of days. the greens get deeper, everything's a little less yellow, a little less dry and baked feeling.

slept good, weird dreams, but good sleep. i remembered them when i woke up, but not anymore. it's all good, they weren't significant, just my brain spinning off. unwound. it's amazing what a three-day weekend can do sometimes.

i've been watching hell's kitchen, season 8, the last week or so, because it always fascinates me to watch the way other people cook, the way other people mesh. and despite his sailor-mouth (which, after all my years of gaming, i myself seem to have acquired) i actually quite like gordon ramsay. i've seen his softer side on kitchen nightmares, and i think he's actually a pretty great guy. doesn't hurt that he's a hottie, either.

anyway, the reason i share that is because i've been thinking a lot about life the last few days, my life specifically. the direction it's going. my manager wants me to go back to school this fall. he's one of those people who think that it doesn't matter what you get a degree in, as long as you have a degree, a piece of paper that says, i kicked four years' ass by jumping through more hoops than anyone should and made it out the other side. because apparently a degree makes you a better person. so, despite my own personal feelings to the contrary about this, everyone i've talked to seems to think it's time for me to go to school, or at least do something beside spend all day sitting in a warehouse doing mindless drone work and bitching about how discontented i am. because, let's face it, it's a pretty miserable job, and i DO do a lot of bitching these days.

so, i was looking around at graphic design classes at one of the local colleges, and it's like... i don't want to do that. drawing is boring to me lately. it's flat and you can't... get IN it, like i don't want a job where i'll be stuck in front of a computer tweaking crap in adobe all day - how is that fulfilling? maybe it is for some people, but not for me. i just want a career where i can do some of everything, as long as it's expressive and involved, right? but what kind of career would that be? i want a little art boutique/restaurant/music place. i want it to look good, i want to make things that look good, and taste good, and have everything sound good. i want expression and creativity and fun and i want people to be there interacting, enjoying, sharing ideas.

so what do i have to do to get that? culinary school? i know i've got the art down. i just need to practice it more consistently, and honestly, art classes drive me crazy, it's why i quit school in the first place. but then, maybe i need to just get my associates in something, so that i can have a job that i enjoy even a little, while i'm working on my crazy "career" dream.

iunno. i just have to go do something, because sitting around waiting for some great guy and all the "plans" that i thought would be in place already to fall in my lap isn't cutting it anymore. so what, if i'm not married? so what, i don't have a house or kids or a car or all those things i expected of myself at this stage of life? i feel like i've been hanging around hoping some magic door would open and that life would be there on the other side and it would be cut and dry, 1-2-3, simple, open, shut, done.

but that's not life. life never works like that, and if you think it does, then you're just lying to yourself. and i'm tired of lying to myself. life is dynamic and fluid and expressive, and when you're not willing to go with the flow and figure out the twists and turns, then it will keep going without you. it'll wash right past you, like a river. and you will be that stubborn rock stuck in the current, slowly eroding, wearing down smaller and smaller and smaller.

i'm tired of eroding, of feeling myself washing away in path of time and life that i'm too scared to let take me to all those places that i should be.

no more rock, it's time to roll.

a dream disinterred

from a letter written in october of '09

I dreamt I was back in Stamford. It was autumn, the trees had all turned, but the leaves hadn't dropped. Early evening. You were with me. We were walking. Walking along the side of a long, twisting and narrow road. One side walled up by huge boulders, that jutted out into the road... I remember walls like that in Stamford. Roads like that. The other side was a sharp drop into a ravine. Stamford is hilly, forested. Everywhere is trees. And every tree was yellow, orange and red. The wind was blowing, but the sun was still out, just setting. Just starting to set. Bright orange rays breaking through leaves and branches. The waving currents of the wind in the leaves, and the long glow of sunlight made it look like the trees were on fire, but it was cold.

You were holding my hand. Our fingers folded between each other's, alternating, interlocked. I remember turning my head to watch you as you walked, watch your face as you looked at the trees, the leaves, the sunset. You looked happy, content, interesting, intrigued. You turned your head and smiled at me with the corner of your mouth and pulled me closer to you. Letting go of my hand, and wrapping your arm around my shoulders, I reached up and held your hand again, as it hung over my shoulder. I played with your fingers, turned my head to kiss your hand and leaned against you as we walked, grateful for how warm you were. Grateful for the way you held me close. I tilted my head back against your arm and looked up at the holes of sky between the trees, watched the way the top of the sky was turning purple, and the long arms of light reaching sideways through the tree trunks had turned red.

I heard a small laugh, noticed for the first time small skipping footsteps on the other side of you and leaned my head forward, craning my neck to see a small boy, 3 or 4, jumping over the rocks and leaves on the road as had his small hand wrapped tight around two of your fingers to hold on and keep from falling. The familiar brown, curly hair, and eyes pierced my heart when he looked up at my face and laughed as he jumped over a rock AND a leaf at the same time, the laugh a small squeal of delight. I smiled back at him, laughing softly, and looked back at you, your eyes moved over my face, watching me, beaming. That glow of your smile more fitting, more perfect than the setting sun behind you.

That moment felt so real, everything accentuated. Everything seemed to burn itself into my senses. The weight of your arm on my shoulder, the twist of your fingers in mine. The way the wind was whispering strands of hair against my cheek, the streaks of dirt on the white of Max's little black sneakers as he kicked and jumped, the warmth of you and your smile. The trees and sunset reflecting in the dark of your eyes as you looked at me like nothing made you happier than knowing that I was happy, that you'd given me everything that I wanted, and that everything that I wanted was there in that one small moment. None of us said anything, words were superfluous. All that mattered was there, your hand in mine. Our small son laughing, beside us.

And the dream faded, cut out and something else took its place, like my mind changed channels, and it was shapes and a situation that I knew was a dream, and I couldn't recall colors or people or whatever else happened when I woke up, but I remembered that dream of us, of you. I wish you could have seen it. I wish that it had been real. Perhaps it will be, one day. Maybe not exactly the same... but close. 

babysteps, i need...

a vacation.