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Getaway Train

Below are the 23 most recent journal entries.

 

 
  2008.02.03  03.58


I think I want to tell you that I'm sorry and I miss you. Both of those things are what I think about. I'm sorry I kept picking on you even when you were so frustrated you locked yourself in your room, and that I didn't understand that you weren't me and weren't coping the same way I was. We had to deal with the same bullshit and the same move and the same changes, but at some point I made the decision to be stubborn and get through it and get over it, and you just couldn't. You couldn't take that path, that stance, that method of rebellion. I thought about it, and after a while, after a long while I was able to just learn from the bad and the mediocre and the unsavory and get through it. Sure, I got so mad sometimes I wanted to leave, to go any where rather than stay there, but I couldn't. I couldn't run or move or anything for fear of breaking Mom's heart. I think the possibility of her making a mistake in choosing the husband she did tore her up, more than any child can understand. I'm only just thinking about it now, and it's been almost a decade, if not one entirely. But still. I'm sorry. I knew then that they were pushing you towards being a little me, being as good as I was in school or as creative or whatever, even though you're as smart as I am and I know that. But your intelligence manifests itself in other ways, and I know it's taken a few years of recuperation but you got through it in your own way.

You were able to move, to go, to find another way of coping. I don't know how you could've made that decision out of anything but emotion, but I wonder if you think about it and what it's done to your life and the changes it's incurred. People sometimes don't know I have a brother because I don't talk about you much, I don't refer to you in daily conversation because I don't see you anymore. I've actually gotten this streak of affection for you because I miss you sometimes and I'm sad I didn't see you as often as I could. I'm missing out on you growing up, and you missed out on me growing up, and our circles and orbits in this world are farther apart than siblings should be. But I know you're doing better and you've gotten settled and you're becoming someone you like and want to be, and that's good. That's really good and I'm proud of you for that.

 
 


 
  2006.12.27  00.00


I smoke in secret
my secret
with the embers caught in the wind.

I smoke with myself,
with my little flame
and my little smoke
while the headlights gently glow
muffled.

I think about finishing them
one by one
a souvenir
when the taste of it forgets me.
I also think about the ones I will get
late at night
or again, alone
and how they will taste
and smell
and remind me.

The stories whose words have fallen down
between the cracks and spaces of the hour hand
tried to capture more than ashes--
--but they flick off in the wind
and they spark on the asphalt
and they are unfinished.

A butt tossed, a cinder smothered,
asunder and snapped in two. The
leaves of the tree fall away,
crushed under tire and tread.

I'm tired and tread inwards,
hoping the memories don't linger
in the escaping tendrils.

 
 


 
  2006.08.12  01.11


Through the summer I slumber
and this infinitesimal waking is stark
a whiteness of clarity and centre
amongst those things which bog me most.

It's like the sun bakes my mind
and that place within me where water runs
carefully, calmly though steady
through a winding wood and spindly spines
and browning leaves
a touch of autumn wakes it all up.

The crispness of the wind tugging gold
from my hair and my eyes
alight with the blue of an October sky,
smoke in the air and in my lungs
like a dragon, filled and deep.

I suppose the wings are lazy when waking,
tips trailing along the surface of the river,
clean and cold and pure, an eye cracking open
and peering at the reflection. Do I see myself
in two pieces, two places, two planes?
The mountain from which the river flows,
under and above, with cave and snow,
spring and sky, is the rock onto which I
build it all. The running like horses into the wood
is the beginning and the root and the start.

I find my past there, I find the beginning of the cycle.

There will be a waterfall, a crevice, a crack in the land
where a spout will pour down deep, filling a pool
of dreams and swirls, someplace to dip my hands into
and drink. I visit it in autumn, after quiet under the river.
I keep it close, as I am close, as I am the river.
Quiet, and then acutely awake.

 
 


 
  2006.07.24  04.09
Art is.

This is the bare bones of my senior project, sort of a narrative poem statement thing that will go along with a film.

Art is grief-stricken
heartbroken
sobbing so hard your eyes are going to
fall out
it HURTS
art hurts
and knows all pain
all suffering, all despair
Art is not regretful or ashamed
is it steadfast, stony-faced
unyielding
art is strong
like a mother

art is time
and art is running out of time

Art is startling.

Art is spontaneous.

art is a struggle
and it is desperate
art cuts you in two and laps
up the life blood until you are
solely a slave to its will.
art is biased
art is unforgiving of your mistakes
art is judgmental
and often cruel
art is spiteful
art is more jealous than you'll
ever be of your ex's new girlfriend,
of your best friend's new car, of your
mother's new husband, of your brother's
new toy
art swallows you alive and
lets you swim the acid rivers
of a celestial waterway.
And then you take the plunge
down into that waterfall
of merciful conclusion.
The pool bubbles, hisses, steams
mists over the jungle beyond
and then you're floating, weightless,
ragged, waterlogged
starshined and starry-eyed
and shadowscaped
and dreamdrenched
back to the beginning
of a new canvas
a new frame
a new word
a new pain in your muscles
as you leap further
as you sing louder
and scream at the top of
you lungs
in your mind
and the note rings
true
and a new sky and a new
sun and a new day
breaks over the horizon.
You can hold it in a paint brush
or a pose or a flute
let it linger in your eyes
on the page
on the stage
art is rebirth and art is death
but first and foremost

life is art

 
 


 
  2006.04.19  03.10


They say there's truth in lies,
that the beginning, the initial point
is where you've got to look
to get your answers.
That an inkling of honesty,
a pinprick of good
can light up the shadowscape
of deceit and of the unknown.

I drew three stones:
two green on white,
one black. But to
us
black doesn't mean death
or an end
but a place of unknowing,
to be found, and explored,
and discussed in the
earliest hours of the morning
while the phone buzzes and the candles
smoke
and the trails hiss from our lips.
It'll be cold in the morning,
and we won't know when to stop
exhaling.
We won't know when the end is
upon us
or whether it's really an end at all.

Could this be love?
Or could it be just another
pool of black
surrounding a smudge of white;
just another yinyang swirling
across our mind's eye.

Then the ashes fall,
and you have to brush them away
in order to curse
and laugh
to break the silence of epiphany.



 
 


 
  2005.10.15  13.09
Winter Wedding.

Winter wedding, while walking along the misted moors
to the mausoleum of the final incarceration.
Chains in the skirts, with cuffs on the ankles above glass slippers,
and the veil as the blinding walls of solitary confinement.
Balls-and-chaingang limping towards the altar,
towards the bench to plead the judge, "Not guilty, sire, not guilty."
But no sympathy comes from blind justice --
-- he's jealous of even the fog of sight the bride has.
The sentence is passed, with a jack of the hammer,
with the choking of vows and forcing of rings onto steeled fingers.
Anything past the second knuckle qualifies
as sacred and satisfied by god and all his angels.
So if I sever my finger entirely, scatter the pieces
to the unwashed hogs who can't chew the cud of the two-toed cows,
then is the agreement made null and void?
Faltering on the steps towards the arch of my family name in stone,
to enter in the ring counts as penance and tithe.
A tenth of my peace of mind for your rest at night against the pillows of stripped fowl.
Your robed bones are warmer, O Reaper, than this rooted earth I am entombed in.
I'd rather your sinews than his uncertain and unkept flesh.

 
 


 
  2004.07.17  05.12
Weeping Selene

sometimes the moon is so bright
and it blinds me
and then i remember it's just the sun
reincarnated for the night
in the reflection of her brother
Selene seems sad
a shadow
a name after a Name
something associated with, not the association
and thus, she weeps
and hides once a month
and is reborn
of her own account
into the light of her brother
who, while not cruel,
is
a dispassionate embrace
enamored with the stars
as he cannot see them
but for when he sees them
through the weeping eyes
of his sister
Selene

and he looks to her
as she weeps
and she weeps because he looks at her
and so
she comes back during the daytime
to apologize
and he asks her to share the sky with him
in hopes of seeing her stars
her maids
her followers
and remind her
by looking at her face
and seeing through her tears
that she is needed
and she is worthy
of her place in the sky
so there's no need to cry

 
 


 
  2004.05.12  21.49
Have you left me so?

Moment of silence
   pinky on the spacebar
   with fingers at the ready
 to speed away a plea through the sea of
     cyberspace
 float along under the codes and bugs
   to appear with a flash and a ding
  in hopes of stayin the hands
   the shake on the other side
How could things pile up
    crash up into such oblivion
    as to bring about the
    supremist shattering
      of a heart
How could they form bonds against us?
   Tell us to love one and not the
     other?
   Tell us it's not true, real, believable
       tangeable
What words were jabbed into his eyes
   to blind him from any other outlets?

   Such angst
     sets my mouth on fire from
      the poisonous fumes.

   Harmless but overrated
       like the myths of daddylong legs
       and alligators under Newark
   Angst is a coral snake pretending
     to be a coral snake
   Angst is a rip in the primordial ooze
       of the basest feelings

   Triumvirate of sads, angers, contents
      Something like red, blue and green
      Something like the primary emotions
 Mix together a blackness so deep
      it's hungry
Walk down the blue halls of my
     dreams
     my childhood
what but dreams?
   Pulled apart by the ravenous
     jaws of a


     harmless coral snake
     we can only judge from blacks and reds
     and the yellows of a coward's belly
     running from the truth that
     not everything is as bad as it seems.

 Pause over the spacebar
   hold in a sob
   hold in a strike to the wall
   let out the breath that
               lets him go.

 
 


 
  2004.02.08  23.31
Double whammy.

miss the morning


why does it feel so empty
to see the morning
or see the night
and my walls aren't bare
and the carpet isn't tearing
underfoot
no
but why does it feel so empty
when the sun does or doesn't come
filtered white, filtered black
shining in those vertical slashes
across my memory
setting fire to the floor
where I learned to crawl
learned to fall
and why can it feel so empty
just to set foot outside
undersky
understand that the day isn't so bad
despite what they may say
those who sway
my every thought
every move
every step
is like dragging behind a ship
whose anchor isn't drawn
and isn't cast
why it doesn't move at all
and still how can it be empty
when I haven't filled it at all
to begin with
there's no ring of memory
and no drip of gratitude
in solitude
so how can it be empty
to simply miss the morning
god, i miss the morning

 
 


 
  2004.02.08  22.58
For farwell.

Aril (This Life)


Things breathe and things die, things sing and things fly

Things whirl and things twirl and then these things change the world

Little by little, curling around your little finger, melting your thoughts and draining your draughts

of life and learning, laughing and churning, seeing children run and your elders dwindle

the sun will rise and it will set, dawning your days, cementing your debt to a god you may not see or believe in, who may not exist and who may be in your every touch

so much, so much for the eyes to see, those stars are gorgeous in a summered sky of blues and greys, maybe I’m insane with this lust for living, drinking in a night I may forget one day,

when I’m old and grey, seeing with unseeing eyes days pass and die, fly away into that night of long long ago I can scarcely recall

but that I was happy and with you, whoever you may be, whether I’ve met or will meet or may never know,

where I go in my sleep to dream about this world, this unfurling butterfly wing of colors and sights

this life, this life

this life I mean to live, I’m meant to live, this life I’m living for all it’s worth, from death to birth and backwards still

where things whirl and curl and sing and fly

this life, this life

this life is mine.

 
 


 
  2003.12.31  16.06
Plague of the Sun

a Within the moon's cradle, the blue is deep,
b darker, maybe, because the smiling is bleaching
c everything brighter, and hoarding the darkness
d for times when the Sun is a curse
e and rots the flesh to piles of pus and maggots
f that crawl under your fingernails and between your lips.

a Such a storing of blue so deep, like the kisses from your pale lips,
b is selfish to those who'd claim the deep
c of your cellar to be too deep, and the worse of a dragon you are, with wings grey from a bleaching
d by the harsh Sun who'd suffocate the darkness
e and drive the life from your pores as the black curse
f of the Middle times drove families to ruin and decay with maggots

a streaming from the crypts of superstition and the maggots
b are just the eyes of God whose lips
c would burn your mouth until your teeth were as deep
d as you'd be able to kiss, stained white from the horrid bleaching
e by that fiend Sun who would starve the owl in the darkness
f of night and utter the silent curse

a you all perceive to be blessing you, which in my reality is the curse
b I utter daily, my words worming into your brain as the blood thirsty maggots
c they are, ridding you of your lips
d that would betray you to the Sun, whose lies are so deep
e they drown me in a bath drawn with vineger and bleaching
f water to soften my pores for the wedding to the oncoming darkness.

Of that the Sun shall induce, shadow bringing darkness and the last breathy curse
to your world, swathed in maggots, uttered of black lips,
as the infection spreads deep
by the help of bleaching.

 
 


 
  2003.12.26  22.42
Elvenwood.

Way down
in the elven wood:
Where the
moon flower
doth grow,
like a shadow
overhung
in the wind, shall blow
the steady shift
of thought
and not-
between the
moon and sun.
Enter in the
elven wood
and see what may
become.




Mood: frosty
 
 


 
  2003.12.19  22.28
It's been a while.

Since I've known you
Since I've touched you
knew you
loved you

I've begun to live in silence
because the music just reminds me
of all the things
I haven't got
but need
and want

Makes me wonder if I'm greedy

When all I am is needy

Of anything remotely sane
and steady
and ready to take on a burden
from my heart
or to cast it away when I could not
Because those wounds define me now
Those scars are my storybook.

I slip your picture into my mental scrapbook
-- you know I'll never look again
Unless I find one more thing to tape down
to the pages
that were once my mother's
and used just as much.
Not at all.

The corners are bent from when I pocketed it
so long ago
Thinking that I'd know you now
Better than before
But we're drifting
and we're sailing
and we're parting paths to different lives

I knew it couldn't last for ever
even if I tried
Because I have, and what has become of it?
Nothing but omittance of the facts
that I could've done better with
done better knowing
if only for the sake of knowing

Because in my end, all I've got are my fading memories
locked up behind my eyelids
dancing on the surface just as I fall to sleep
Whose embrace is cold but careful
and treats me like a glassy star
I hung on my summer Christmas tree.


--Summer Christmas Tree II or Long Time Coming



Mood: melancholy
 
 


 
  2003.11.27  23.09
Ebb.

I will be posting more often come the end of this month, I promise. I'll start digging up more oldies as they seem appreciated as well. Thank you for your comments!

 
 


 
  2003.10.04  23.23
Bit of an oldie...

This is from September of last year, which I was just reminded of. I'd forgotten all about it...


Winter's cold fingertips
kissed his eyelashes,
etching his slumbering face
into antiquity's embrace.

She laid him down to rest,
cradling his golden-crowned head,
drawing his last breaths as her own,
stitching one more thing of beauty.

Into her tapistry, into the stars,
She wove his dreams, his desires,
marking a path with jewels of ice,
with a frosty tone of touch.



Mood: contemplative
 
 


 
  2003.09.18  21.11
the man I could have loved

the bet
is set
that I might forget
I ever could love
just one guy
one guy
who passed me by
in circles
that never
would cross


and I remember you
standing there, we were
two
of hundreds
why couldn't we be
remotely
similar?


and dif you mind
and def you mind
my saying so
my splaying so
openly my heart for you
so corny, I know
but continually true
in word, sound and
mind, listening to what
you're wondering
not quite
aloud
not quite
allowed
to know
what it feels like to be
lonely
afraid but not of
anything more

than the life unlived
the line unrhymed
in time
so divine
I hope you find
that peace of mind
piece of mind
that lets you
know
that you're so
awesome
I can barely
breathe
think
wink

at you, for you
cheer up, Charlie
give us a smile
bring back that sunshine
I used to know


-solemn grace
solemn face
eyes tuned into
the beyond of
a box we only
treat as
metaphorical

>but you know
and I know
that box is so
constraining
at times I'm
complaining
of pains I don't
even have
that you have
that we have
apart and
together
like the rest of
the world
a lonely place, no?
Yes,
but we can change
rearrange
what so little we've done
so much we've done
gotta tell you, hun (or man?)
you're the one I could have
loved


all for the man



Mood: artistic
 
 


 
  2003.09.17  22.42
Filler sestina.

My Persistence of Memory


1
a Trailing snowfall of the remembering past
b that I ever knew love is hard to believe
c it seems to so long ago that my heart was broken
d in two, three, seven, twenty thousand bits of glass
e strewn about the road for no one and everyone to cut
f on each single step

2
a Swimming leaves in the starched, stiff air when step
b is cold and clear to me, here comes catching up, the past
c tears rolling by in the gutters were you bent my tire, I believe,
d falling in love with the baby-sitter, leaving it broken
e in my garage -didn’t you know it was okay to spill from the glass
f of my family pool? you ended that scene, cut

3
a as if by windows when we’d chuck bricks, just cut
b all the way up my spine as the tree beyond the kitchen would step
c so out of line to bury itself so nicely beyond and past
d my tolerance levels, and I couldn’t believe
e God would take away the pain like broken
f glass

4
a relieves my line of sight, glass
b that fled and turned my life over, simply cut
c along the dotted line of vision for a perfect step
d into the world of seeing and being seen past
e the locks I had to have cut or the arm the radiologist didn’t believe
f was really, truly, positively, you shit, broken

5
a just like my heart was broken
b that first time on the playground, seeing the glass
c shatter around the picture of love you simply cut
d from the frame, Rosemary, step-by-step.
e I’m sorry you loved him too, but now that’s the past
f and it IS getting so much harder and easier to believe

6
a in sunshine and daisies and ponies, if only you believe
b Tinkerbell will fly in living colors, instead of staying bleeding and broken
c like so many of my toys, shards of glass
d such as such as lodged in my soul, in my skull, needing to cut
e away and at, refuge on the armoire, with a step
f in the right direction of God who’s past

7
a only passed in, too, believe in what’s been broken
b so much easier than gluing glass over such minute a cut
c in the skin of memory, stone to step up onto for the sake of all things past.



Mood: wistful
 
 


 
  2003.09.17  22.38


Am constructing a lengthy poem for a friend of mine who's begun one of the worst habits in the world. And I'm not talking about biting your nails. I'll post it ASAP, but only after I've given it to him. This is for all... none of you who read this.



Mood: working
 
 


 
  2003.07.28  23.10


wish to lick your smooth little curves
down and over your belly
and that little trail that leads me to the perfect place for love?
i'll relish that path of righteousness for as long as
humanly possible
until either of us explodes




Mood: stirred
 
 


 
  2003.07.01  23.21
Praise Ra

Can you see it? Lazy by a pool, paw trailing
sparkles in a small silver stream.
Tail swishing to see behind the eyes,
sight seemingly blank, opaque
Sleep claims the dragon, a tooth peeking from under the muzzle
forked tongue loose without a quarrel
Sun dappled over folded wings, ethreal
did you imagine them upon a leopard's back?
Fanning tail hidden in the brush, horns must be the
sun in your eyes
just a snoozing panther, massive as a minivan
Just an Egyptian god of royalty.



Mood: pink
 
 


 
  2003.06.30  23.47
Snowfell

Snow falling over the meadow of my dreams
never did think it flew
always saying it cascades down to its doom
and I wonder if it minds much.
Because maybe, to it, it's reaching heaven
a grey haven from the temperament of the sky clouds
and its death is a sweet one
as old ladies know
drifting off inevitably in a warm, cool sleep.
Snow falling over the meadow of my dreams,
wonder if you mind that I let you die.




Mood: curly
 
 


 
  2003.06.28  22.13
Illudere

The morning slipped its finger beneath my door one day, painting the grays of twilight as chocolate browns and dandelion yellows. The carpeting, once a lifeless peach of some kind, became a field of periwinkles, dappled with pinks and highlighted by violets. The ceiling fan’s shadow became the slow, sultry spin of an aging windmill, the sails flying as surely as they had at the beginning of its time, a figure of perpetual strength. And the changing screen ribboned into life, its picture of the countryside becoming a fantastical land where unicorns might graze beside a giggling stream and dragons might fly with the butterflies. So the day began as many days do and don’t, and my eyes were blessed to see.



Mood: mellow
 
 


 
  2003.06.28  15.13


Taking walks
through other
lives
like gardens
pretty little labyrinths
for me to get lost in
with
pretty little flowers
at every turn
and the fairy queens and
sunflower nymphs are
those I go to peer at in
hopes they might accept me
into their ranks, their courts
as a pretty little fountain sprite
ready to perfume the forests with
sweet, poisonous words
twined all up in my hair for others to
come and see and wonder at as I did
wandering through other's lives



Mood: curious