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Archive for July, 2012

the only poetry that really matters
has nothing to do with the stage,
the book, aching fingers
must be the only relief
in a storm –
in an hour –
for a day.

And maybe the only words we really
treasure are the ones between mouths,
between kisses, etching moments
on the only real thing
the skin –
the breath –
unraveling.

Maybe the only things I really believe
are hanging somewhere in the space
between our lips, at least,
they seems so much like finding
a face –
a dream –
words carving.

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I told a friend recently that I thought one of the most important things a person can have is someone to talk to when they want to confess things about themselves that make them feel ugly.

And not just physical things, for all of the connotations that word has, but the things we couldn’t even tell the people we care about, or respect.

He’s Catholic, so they kind of have that built in.

I know how that sounds, the way that must seem, but the truth of the matter is that we all have secrets. Even as close as we are, or could ever be, there things that live between the cracks. Not the worst things, or things that I can’t believe, but pieces of my being.

Fragments of desire.

Shards of insecurity.

Talking those through is one of the ways we rationalize and understand the world around us. It’s also one of the ways we begin to understand that there are unwritten rules in life. There are promises no one will tell you about, choices that are yours to make. Unforgivable things that, truthfully, are not as ugly as they seem.

Pure things that are every bit as beautiful as they promised you.

But talking them through, acknowledging the parts that are not so pretty, is one of the ways you begin to understand you aren’t alone in the universe. That your link in the chain extends outwards.

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There is a hammer,
waiting, thinking,
for the first moment –
and a strike.

There is marble,
waiting, bleeding,
for the first moment –
and a break.

The point is not
the presentation, merely
the act of imagining –
and the wait.

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One thing I believe to be true is the size of the universe. That is, that we live in an impregnable world – one of greater size than our sense of comprehension.

I believe that our lives are elucidated by experience, transformed from the abstract into the divine.

I am reminded constantly of how young I am – always, that I have so much to learn. And even in certainty, surety, I simply do not know.

We have many recourses to this moment of not knowing. Withdraw, yes. Isolate, of course. Define, as we do. THe most valuable, though, the one I am obsessed with, is the revelation of the spirit through the intangible – the momentary.

I have always believed that the heart would find me, ultimately, as a constraint. As a declaration of submission. What I am interested to discover, learn, dissect – is the union of hearts as a missive – a calling card in the wild of discovery.

Things are meant to begin and end and begin again. Truly, they are not steady. But discovering the words to articulate the meaning is part of the journey – it is the looking that makes us human.

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I was sitting in the room listening to them tell stories,
stories, naturally, about bruised skin
and ripped thighs, and puffy eyes,
and all of the ugly secrets our
pitch black hearts allow.

And the guy kept looking at me with his mouth half open
until I wanted to smash his glasses, just like mine,
and use the glass to scratch something besides
myself – I mean – I said it’s not really
that bad anymore.

You’d think with a record of being twenty years clean
he’d just shut his fucking face and let me breathe,
and go smoke something instead of staring
at me with all of that judgment they
always told me was wrong.

When Margo started talking about the time she and John
started shooting up by the streetlight outside the
coffee house she just started pouring out details
about how unclean they were – and how addiction
was all about admitting.

Admitting not just to you, you skeeze, but allowing yourself
the time to grieve all of the sores and atoms crawling
around your body. She also said that you had to accept –
allow things to take their course, just be at peace
with the fact it might not change.

And I just thought – fuck that.
I mean, really, yes, that’s – yes –
I get it, no I fucking do, you can’t say
that to an addict – it’s fine – I’m just trying
to say that we’re both here because we want something,

And, yes, you push and I pull,
and you like yourself and I can’t stand
me – okay – I’m trying to say that addiction is
about fear, really, or at least an unwillingness to
apply heat and become a beast you don’t even know anymore.

And if I can’t confront me, if I
can’t pick up something new I just know
I’ll turn into the dust you push into your arm
and become like one of you guys, just sitting and
waiting for something to happen – like the steps are the same.

I haven’t moved in so long you
wouldn’t believe how much body is here
being unused – still, quiet, ancient – shoved
in a corner where pretty hands can’t play or touch
or unwrap everything I have kept inside of me for them.

If I could eliminate my addiction
to fear and solitude and push everything
out of my body and into the air where it could
transform into a cloud and catch you up in me we
would oxidize and dissolve together. I swear, I swear, I swear.

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I’ve wondered this for a long time, but it came up again recently.

I have two old friends who have been in a relationship for years. Which is awesome! Good for them for finding a bit of company in this crazy world.

They’re both entering a new chapter of their lives, though, and so this is where I think it gets interesting.

Can two bodies outgrow each other?

Think physically, perhaps, and you’ll laugh. But it’s not so strange, really.

Everything about us is in a state of change – our existence is uncertain. We make our meaning, sometimes, but we also accept our transformation. Your arms get heavy, hair falls out, body becomes hunched. Surely your mouth must change – sag at the lips, develop such heavy cheeks. Your loins grow withered and marked. Your chest wear away to bone.

It’s passing away. And if not passing, morphing. Our bodies fit together today, charmed puzzle pieces. Tomorrow – an angry jigsaw. Tears morph our faces like canyons and islands. Anger turns us hot like volcanoes. The hurricanes of our hearts rip everything around us.

How we change. And do we change? But I have never smiled at any of them the same. How could anything fit for so long? And how would you recognize a fit when you see one? With the size of the universe – are we meant to fit together or just be placeholders to shape the edges?

I wonder about those two all of the time. Sure, there will always be those outliers – the kids who met at 14 and really stuck it out. But what about your life as a rambling man?

What about it? Blues run the game. And all you’re doing is chasing a fantasy. They won’t feel like this feels. They’re just ghosts.

All of the bodies you want to feel are just ghosts.

“I just need to know that it’s possible that two people can stay happy together forever.”

– Juno Maguff, Juno, 2007

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I keep a log of all my stories.

The ones I want to tell, anyway. And two of them have stuck out to me for a long time.

One, in particular, has eluded me for the longest time. And in considering the best way to tell it, it found me.

At least I think.

At least I hope.

Anyway, my point is that the method often finds you. And yes, you have your preconceived notions, but the searching often provides the answer.

Sometimes the medium even becomes the message. A camera cut, dialogue passage, stylistic choice – each one can reveal something unique and intimate. Powerful and striking.

The method is adjunct to finding the method. Both serve the storyteller. The storyteller uses tools to elicit emotions. Emotions are the floodgates to the truth. The truth is the pursuit of beauty. Beauty is the root of human passion. Passion is the water that gardens love. Love is the building block of human existence.

If you work hard enough, maybe you can make something beautiful.

That’s what I tell myself every day. But you’ll only find it if you’re willing to look through your toolkit for the answer.

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