raoin: (on the rail)
White Noise on the Wire

I am sitting on the far end of the couch from you.
i am not looking at you,
but i am paying full attention.
Silent; i am stripped down to myself.

you fiddle and fuss
with the gadgetry inherent to your existence
in this, the modern era, all your tech clamours for attention:
needy children
with nothing to say
and nothing to do but take.

you acuse and i have no response.
i am mute.
i am blind.
all my words and understanding are stoppered up.

Like a hose with a kink,
my emotions leak,
infecting our day to day.

and you snap back at my silence
this alien sensation, this space where substance should be,
like you could never have caused any of what i am feeling;
any of what you are feeling.
distracted you coset and jiggle the children:
remotes - they are.

are we?
i feel taken for granted.
i feel like i might be taking your for granted.

i assume that there must be something wrong with me
for you to react to me the way you do,
for you to live as you do.

hold me, see me.

be here, be real.

even if you dont like what you hear
and dont want to talk about it.
and a little voice,
from far back within me,
struggles to form the words
and failing, falls silent, ashamed.

so i am sitting, silent, at the other end of the couch
and i shrug at your accusations and try again.
you believe i have just ignored you
although i am paying attention, complete and full attention, to you
and you are still grappling with the digital menagerie of your life.
a snake handler, a lion tamer.
they will eat you, lover.

you begin to make up fantastical reasons
and i shake my head in silence with each one.

behind layers of passive observations
i scrape and burrow, lost;
looking for my words
and wonder if i imagined you feeling angry
a hot memory of your annoyance flashes
and as i push it back at you
you confirm that i imagined it all.



hey look, new poetry.
this, and all the ones for October that follow, are parts of pages i resurrected recently.
stuff i scribbled but found no use for.
i'm putting it up in the hopes of reigniting a spark.

Drowning

Jun. 23rd, 2010 03:05 pm
raoin: (water snakes)
Drowning
Not much fits at the bottom of a glass.
A world full of portholes.
It's like only ever seeing yourself from the waist up in a mirror,
reflections are all smooth and blurry lying bastards,
but then you go and find a full length mirror
so there's nothing to hide behind.
I couldn’t identify who that was if I had all night and pile of flashcards.

Light gets sharp, brightness cuts and shatters.
Squint.
Peering into a mug
the world is a vibrating haze of pilsner and lager.
Through the glass you could say everything you always wanted to say
Being here is like forgetting to breathe.
You ask yourself how hard can it be, I almost never think about it
Should be easy to forget the things you never think about
Like the rest of the soft-edged person frowning into the mirror;
the rest of the person not enveloped in currents of stout and pale.
It’s the portions you never let yourself think about
Always there – they are the hardest thing to forget.
raoin: (i want to believe)
Smoking
by Elton Glaser

I like the cool and heft of it, dull metal on the palm,
And the click, the hiss, the spark fuming into flame,
Boldface of fire, the rage and sway of it, raw blue at the base
And a slope of gold, a touch to the packed tobacco, the tip
Turned red as a warning light, blown brighter by the breath,
The pull and the pump of it, and the paper's white
Smoothed now to ash as the smoke draws back, drawn down
To the black crust of lungs, tar and poisons in the pink,
And the blood sorting it out, veins tight and the heart slow,
The push and wheeze of it, a sweep of plumes in the air
Like a shako of horses dragging a hearse through the late centennium,
London, at the end of December, in the dark and fog.



from Winter Amnesties
Southern Illinois University Press, Carbondale, IL



commenters on this poem remark that it includes in its subtext a caution against smoking.
i like this poem because it is a person alone with themselves,
enjoying the moments in their life as exactly as they can.
its a love poem to something banal, ordinary, to something that will one day kill them
- although human life is short and anything could kill you - it doesnt have to be the cigarettes.
raoin: (across the universe)
Across Velvet

Like sliding bodily through deep pile carpet;
gazing through the thick rain of a summer storm;
the blurry breath against a winter window:
sit still and look.

A momentum not of my making moves me forward
and i am afloat - detritus on a stream.
Or more so,
it is the water
coursing to the lowest point, the farthest point we can reach.

Distant, i reach back, cast back
- find only myself -
slick to the touch and i cannot hold on.
i go because i go.
irreducable, i dream:
shadows could pass me, lift me, pull me.
beyond, this sum of our parts
echoes all around me
create ripples in the water.

I cannot ever wholly know, cannot taste
yet you flow into the sea with me
what choice do you have
those who have been, those who will be
many parts, one, acting.

if i had a wish: cast me up into the spray.
If i land on the bank, on the shore
i have been there, will be there -
have never been there, could never be there.

Hold the breath you are not breathing -
pass through.



written in response to the art theme for April 26th through May 3rd.

(an excerpt from )
Hand Shadows
by Mary Cornish

specifically:

"beneath a star that died a little every day/...new stars were born/... linked
by a thumb, they flew one following the other..."


i know i was really late responding to this one.
i just had a bunch of shit going on and sometimes my headspace doesnt mesh up with poetry.
i dont know if i'm wholly satisfied with this one, not like Lost in the Orchard which i liked a great deal.
when i get into the brass tacks of talking about how i feel about time, metaphysics, and relating to others, i sometimes get tangled up in the ineffable qualities i ascribe to some of those problems.
raoin: (watch the garden grow)
this week's art theme:

(an excerpt from )
Hand Shadows
by Mary Cornish

"beneath a star that died a little every day,
and from a nebula of light diffused
inside Orion's sword, new stars were born.
My father's hands became two birds, linked
by a thumb, they flew one following the other."


from Red Studio, 2007
Oberlin College Press

feel free to look up the rest of the poem if you want.
as per usual, anyone can join in and you dont have to post your results.
although i will say, i love to see the results of others.
any kind of creative output is acceptable.
raoin: (watch the garden grow)
Tidal Breath

I look through slots -
chubby, overexposed rectangles of green and yellow
lead up to angles of blue matted with white.
Increase the saturation - small spots flash and sparkle
and back in the grayscale dimness I ponder:

What if our ceilings were floors?
What if you had to actively climb into rooms?
Would the passing of our lives hold more meaning
if our light came from below, not above?

I spend fifths of a minute, indefinitely, just tracing
the dry rot of mini-blinds and household mold -
those sporangia look like trees to me;
deep within the canyons of these cracks.

Suddenly,
the high tide and low tide compresses a sigh;
I shut the blinds.
raoin: (light a flamethrower)
today's theme is the phrase that's been stuck in my head for 48 hours:

"Tidal Breath"

feel free to play along.
create any kind of art - paint, draw, sculpt, write, cook, sing, play, perform.
just so long as it has to do with this theme.
then record it, and post it to this journal or your journal.
or heck, dont post it at all - just feel pleased to have done something.

get involved.
get motivated.
get creative.
raoin: (Default)
The Pendulum Swings

A shot rings out
the sound decays to meaningless echo
the remains are a sudden silence
we all breath in
till there's nothing left to hold

you'll wake
in the soft darkness of a city pre-dawn
in the warmth of your soft bed
amid the scents and sounds of secure slumber
hear the rise and fall of the sleeper next to you

romance the clean silence
the pureness of a field with new-fallen snow
forget the violence that got us here
forget the degradation thereafter
we all breath out
till there's nothing left to give

startled from sleep
in the pregnant velvet darkness you'll perceive hidden dangers
in the smothering tangle of damp sheets and icy air of your room
amid the sweaty fear of uncontrollable dreams
hear the name you once uttered ring through your ears


i'm not as satisfied with this one as i have been with some others.
i think that of the last eleven written, this one needs the most work.
(forget that whole one about procrastination, its embarrassing and ugly)
i dont know if i want to refine this one here though
i think i might use it as meditation for another one to write for this month

i miss having an entire poetry class to workshop my shit for me
its not the same as having others who happen to like poetry read and make comments
when its a crowd of a dozen or so other would-be poets who all have a vested interest in making your work better in exchange for you making their work better
there was a sense of collective fate, not kismet or destiny
both of which are cliche, but a tying together of interests
as Simon and Garfunkel were wont to say, "lets marry out futures together"
like that.

overall, i want to say that many of my best poems, most spontaneous least forced,
were written because i was assigned to write them for a grade
and i wrote them, like i wrote my master's thesis,
by sitting around doing other things, like making money to pay bills, and let ideas stew
and then at some point grabbed some scratch paper and scribbled something passable down
everything after that was polished through the help and effort of others.
raoin: (watch the garden grow)
go back and read this

i'm hoping to get a chance to meditate on this today.
raoin: (water snakes)
with acknowledgements to Stephenson's Cryptonomicon

What Keeps Me Up At Night

The soft pressure of your hands in my hands.
My pulse quickens as if I am running as fast as I can towards the horizon.
My thoughts flash to the shoots of bulbs pushing through soil,
Vines climbing up against the sky,
Bright green buds emerging from the bough.
You seem a long way off, my heart is pounding.
The entire world seems bright and sharp.
I wonder if my pupils are pinpricks in a sea of hazel and gray.
And I lean towards you, for I am certain no words could bridge this distance.
My hands within your hands,
As if my every ridge and whorl is interlacing with your every arch and curl.
Your hands are warm and i feel a steady pulse push back at me from your wrists.
As I focus the edges crumple grey and foggy.
My teeth seem to be vibrating in their sockets,
I have had three cups of coffee and nineteen cigarettes.
I have had half a bottle of Benzedrine.
I have been strapped to the nose of a V-1 rocket.
I lean towards you, my lungs might burst from the exertion.
Your hands in my hands,
And closer now, still closer,
the flecks of gold in your green irises are stones among the lilies in this country,
your pupils are the clear stratosphere of a chill October night,
the light around us casts alien constellations against those impenetrable concavities.

Your mouth is smooth like fresh fallen leaves,
I am interred in the wet warm reality of tongue and teeth.
Your lips crinkle as lush grass under my feet as I come running back
And I feel as though I have been swallowed whole into the vastness of space.
raoin: (crossroads)
Fiona Apple's "Never is a Promise" and "Slow Like Honey" and John Doe's "The Golden State"

The Hole in My Head

There are voices calling you
- the washing stumble of rain against the windows.
Just another herald.
Just another moment prolonged – over-extended.

Look to the too-brief too gentle kisses
You drop them subtly into my pond, they barely ripple the surface
They raise my water level and I lie there still and unrumpled, unknowing.
Look to the familiarity of small phrases,
I’m going, I’m going
Temperate calls - the clock chiming the hours - regular and unregarded.
But would you hear me.
Would you see me.

I am losing you in the toothpaste, the grocery lists, the mopping of the floor.
I am losing me among the detergent and the laundry and the recycling.

I do not want our life to be the played out rehashing of chicken leftovers;
The repeated betrayal of day-old steamed vegetables and unimaginative gravies.

Be my cliché.
I am yet still aware of what might be.

Look to the scent of rotting leaves and recent rain,
that chill in the air should mean autumn
but your hands were always warm and sure.
Don’t let them go cold with doubt.
Don’t let routine box you away from me -
we are not Christmas ornaments, pretty paper and wrappings taken out once a year.

My everyday jolt of lightening, stark against the stars of my life and dreams,
I would burn you deep into my retinas, scratch you daily into my skin.
Remind me.

Worn ragged and faint,
beneath deadlines and bills,
amid meeting ends, we have courted finality and let it end us
and the selfishness of separate worries is merely the consequence.

Your blood, my blood.
Your name, my name.
Count, breathe, and jump with me
that fire, this broom.
Let us be always each instant
Wholly ourselves together.
Be with me
full and flowing.
raoin: (little me)
"where are you going? where do you go? are you looking for answers to questions under the stars?" --Dave Matthews

The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed. --Stephen King

I Am My Own Map
I never held my breath.
My faith was strong, like stepping
out into sunlight.
And I always just knew.
So, when I see the endless blue sky, cloudless stretching
over rolling waving rustling wheat fields
the wind of my memory moaning to itself
about the end of summer - the crisp moment of fall -
I know that each breath is my own
an unconscious exhale reaching into oblivion.
And I know when it is time to go.
You are my laughingweeping ache
- my perfect acceptance of truth -
my moment when my sight is as clear and cloudless as the sky above me
and when i wish now
when i inhale and squint out into the world
it is to ask not what road i have taken
but, where do these woods go and how far are those mountains?
raoin: (watersnakes upclose)
Something to Remember Me By

"I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas." --T.S. Elliot


I waited for you, each moment like holding my breath -
each breath fluttering from me a startled bird returning to its flock.
I've seen these moments take wing and migrate far from my reach
and all the little rituals of my day
the small sigils that mark the paths i have taken or yet to take
are incremental parts of the numberless ways, the numberless breaths, that i have spent looking for you.
If you come you may yet rest your hand against the window pane and feel the warmth from my startled breaths, each longing to return.
If you return, you may yet see the small flocks of trifles and trinkets which make up the well of all my memories of you:
this pebble from that beach
the blurry Polaroids of half dark rooms and dim candles
old ticket stubs and crumpled receipts for places to go and things to eat

I expect i have forgotten you as i forget the exact whorls of my finger prints each time i look away.
I breath out and the next little bird insists i know you in my heart.
My heart aches with the breath i hold, rusts and turns over in its sleeping wait.
my vision is cloudy, fogging this window, and the shape of you is my vision -
an elusive cloud, fading even as it is transgressing the sky.
I concentrate amid the depths of this flotsam and you become essential:
warmth rising up from the ground beneath me
the parabolic trajectory of flight
the wind pushing a hurricane up river
wind in my hair and light on my face and i breath out again
my breath fogs the glass and flutters the candles of my Polaroids
where you are tonight, there too shall i be.
raoin: (dont you look smart)
Along the river bank,
against the Gothic backdrop of church spires and great stone bridges
the artists and the farmers sell their wares.

I stroll amid the clusters of well-dressed locals and tourists:
past women with small woven baskets filled with the makings of dinner,
past young lovers who walk with locked hands,
their heads bent in the private susurrous of gossip shared,
past the jumble of workers seeking sustenance and spectacle.

The early summer day is cool with tiny whispering breezes
pulling scents of cool water, distant oceans, new mown hay -
and the sun seems like an easy and welcome friend playing between the leaves of Poplar trees
glinting off of the steady pace of the river.

I will know it when I see it, I think
as I drink in the heady smell of new bread from a stall I pass by,
the market and the river seem to stretch far into the horizon.

The near palpable flavor of fresh fish rises from another stall
and I pause to admire the rainbow of the scales, the crisp whiteness of the ice,
and the affable patter of the stall owner selling to the crowd.
His jokes about the one that got away are tried but still manage to elicit laughter -
he is glad to be here today, his world is right and true.

I smile, he has teased it from my face like a earnest suitor, and continue walking.
I feel out of time, a star amid planets;
set apart and yet immersed, I am a whole grain lost in the pounded flour.
The people around me could be speaking a hundred different languages,
I feel I would hear only the sine-wave rise and fall of humanity,
their sounds curl around me, I am a stone in the river and they pass me by.

At a soap-maker's stall
jasmine and gardenia hang and flow in the air like kites.
I scent one then the other and more beyond that,
like a flock of birds, I pick one scent out and it is replaced by yet another.

I have felt myself slowly pausing, have felt my legs -my feet-
seem to grow reticent to move on. To root where I stand,
to pull me to the side a tangle of tendrils and vines.
The grass, the patchy cobblestones, the trilling fountains tucked in small garden alcoves
hidden shady patches occupied by benches stone and wood - open and inviting.

Full - all the market is the whole world and I am present to all of it -
known and knowing.
Rich with the time and tempo,
this moment is a storehouse filling with seven times seven years of grain.

I find a stall selling new plums
they shine darkly, their gradations of color
evoking ancient kings and sunsets, death by violent hands and the bleeding force of new life.
I choose the first one my hand lands on.
Paying, I feel as though i have traded a small burden for a great joy.

I continue on, palming the plum from hand to hand. Rolling.
I feel it polish and snag beneath the skin of my thumbs.
My shoes scuff the soft ground beneath me, the ground is going to swallow me one day
and the dust rises languidly as I pass along this path.

my first bite is gentle.
I hear the rip of skin, feel the tear of flesh against my teeth -
the tart tang condensing into smooth swelling sweetness.
The sun shines, I hear a guitar softly tuning up ahead.





I am now only one week behind. this poem-story is based off of the chosen theme:

"And he was rich-- yes, richer than a king--"
from Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson

If you want to participate see this entry and this entry. If you are not a friend of [livejournal.com profile] guessthejess you should be.
raoin: (through the mirror)
"We are making a cake." she said.
Home from work, I had walked into the kitchen towards the intermittent sound of pounding.
I could tell by the hunch of her pale shoulders as I entered the room
by the twisted whisp of errant hair, by the flour spilled on the floor:
she didn't want me to ask any questions.

The sun through the windows cut hard squares of yellow light
against the counter-top, the floor, her form.
Despite the heat, all the curtains were drawn back
and I could see the streaks and smudges from past rainstorms on the panes of glass.

I felt a sudden urge to run;
the sense that I had wandered somewhere I was not meant to be;
the primal feeling that I was alone in a room with a dangerous animal.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

She stood there, her back still turned to me,
I could tell she was crying, and had been crying when I came in.
The smell of almonds hung heavy in the air
and I knew I should reach out,
I knew I should place my hands
-warm, rough and strong -
upon her smooth, freckled, and slightly shaking shoulders
but I could not will myself just then to move.

Instead I asked, "What kind of cake?"

I could see the recipe book, with it's white&red checked cover,
lying open on the counter,
the sun making a hard delineation across one page,
and I could see that she was making an almond cake,
but some part of me felt the need to ask.

Small motes of flour rose in the sunlight.
The air in the kitchen was otherwise lambent and still.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot
and then continued pounding fresh almonds into pieces.

Her hands suddenly stilled, as if she had remembered something,
and seemed to be spotlighted by the unyielding light.
I began to form another question, one final unwanted question.

I took a step towards her then, as if my feet had a will of their own
and I was no more than a hands-breadth from her, reaching out -
she spoke, "You dont need to help."
- my hands frozen in mid-action hovered just above her shoulders,
I retracted them slowly.
My mouth was suddenly dry and I felt the need to lick my lips.
She said, "I'll be ok on my own."

I took a step back,
then another.
By the time I reached the door,
I was running.




despite the fact that i am two weeks behind on other art-theme projects, this week's theme seemed to draw my focus more than the others. this poem-story is based off of the chosen theme:

"White as an almond are thy shoulders;
As new almonds stripped from the husk."

from Dance Figure by Ezra Pound

If you want to participate see this entry and this entry. If you are not a friend of [livejournal.com profile] guessthejess you should be.
raoin: (pessimist - optimist)
i wore sandals to work today.
which i'm sure was not appropriate attire for the arctic-tundra weather inside this building.

but like many things i do, which i may regret later, this will not kill me.
i am stil skeptical about the "make me stronger" part
Nietzsche was the sort of fuckhead who would lie to you if he thought the outcome would be funny.

i am trying to answer [livejournal.com profile] wolven's question about truth(i mean) trust
and i am trying to resolve some issues that have welled up recently regarding my relationships and forming relationships with others.

i'd like to state for the record that i stopped making friends effortlessly after i hit puberty. around the time i moved to Enid and went to junior high school, 1996?, i began to find it very hard to connect to others.
back in school it mattered, or seemed to matter, whether one had more than two or three friends.
these days i've found myself to be content with only having a few close friends and when i think about how i came to be friends with these people, i can only say that it was through happenstance and the luck of being in the right place at the right time.
***
i put myself here. as much for you as for me.
i know it sometimes seems like its just for me, i mean, who really wants to see my to-do list?
i may occasionally elect not to discuss things here which i know will upset others
but this is my life here. when i go here i dont hold back.
the choice to read the last 1668 entries is entirely yours.
and with the advent of locking my journal, the only way anyone can read my entries is by wanting to at least be "friends" with me.

perhaps because all this information is just flung out into the ether, it seems devalued.
as if it cant be that useful or important if i say it here, to no one in particular.
yet, livejournal is as close to being an extrovert as i get.
the one exception is when i am simultaneously in a good mood and drunk.
it is only on livejournal that i simply walk up to people i havent known for long or at all and tell them whatever is on my mind.
i get to say whatever i want, as directly as i want, and you can chose to read it or ignore it.
and the beauty of that is that only those who really want to get involved have to be involved.
the rest of you, who are linked to me as "friends" can elect to "TL;DR" (as they say).
there's no shame in that.
but in this kind of relationship you can only get what you put in.
which means that if you want to really know me, if you want to really be involved, you have to make the effort to connect through comments.
and the same goes for me. if i want to reach out to you, i have to do it physically[digitally].

it is easy to find nothing to say about an entry, isnt it?
i'm sure i'm not the only one, who, confronted with something far beyond myself or something more richly emotional than i feel capable of handling, chooses to simply let the entry slide by.
or, i'll come across an entry where i know that anything i have to say will be taken the wrong way, so i let it go - even if commenting would create new levels of connection between myself and another.

what does this have to do with trust?

some years ago, at least four at this point, ryam was working nights and we were falling apart.
we were living at the McClave house, i was going to school full time and would get up to leave the house before he even got home from work to go to sleep.
he was taking two classes a semester and working the full time night shift and basically got up to go to work just before dinner was served and then he'd go to work and i'd go to bed.
and he was spending four to six hours a night talking on the phone with a girl i didnt know who had, in my mind, made some passes at him, and i was picking up the $200-$300 monthly phone tab for his (perceived) indiscretions.

a storm was brewing.

the fight probably begun as a plea from myself for him to do more chores around the house.
and then progressed into, "i pay your phone bill and i know who you've been talking to and its fucking with me."
and eventually it passed into him saying, "well, i've really gotten to know her and i've realized i dont know you at all. you and i have nothing in common, we have nothing to do with each other any more, and we never really did to begin with."
which, after basically living with him for three years was a lie, but at the time of his expression it may as well have been true.
we had both stopped making the effort to reach out to each other.
we had been living in the same house and sleeping in the same bed, but we had completely stopped connecting.
we saw each other, at most, an hour or two a day.
we realized that we cared about each other, and about staying together.
we remembered that we loved each other and that differences between people are important.
we basically realized that our circumstances as much as ourselves were to blame for our drifting apart.
and we both made an effort to change our habits and our environments.

what does this have to do with you and me and the internets?
what does this have to do with trust?

the moral of the story is that it takes two willing participants to get to know each other.
and to stay known to each other.
it takes two people to trust each other enough to start a relationship and to trust each other enough to keep that relationship going even when things arent looking great.

and the staying known part is not easy. it is not effortless.
especially if you arent spending every waking moment together.

when you are newly in love with someone, it is easier to make the effort to get to know that person.
you are in love, and your attraction suffices to bridge the gap between what you would ordinarily share and what you want to share.
it makes it easier to trust that person with yourself and to trust yourself with that person.

friendship is a kind of love. it requires just as much trust as love does.
and the attraction you feel for a friend, while not specifically physical, is attraction none-the-less.
it is this attraction that allows both participants to place barriers and prejudices to the side and let the other person in - to trust that person.
and this attraction, as in love, must be mutual.
if you feel no initial attraction, you are unlikely to pursue a person as a friend or lover.
but, as in love, the initial attraction will not suffice if you mean to keep the relationship going.
more importantly, as in love, with friendship you must continue to have effort and trust in order to keep the relationship going.

so, i'd like to bring this back to what all of this has to do with trust here on the internets.
here you basically get all of my effort at reaching out without attraction or reciprocity.
there's trust here, but its not specifically two-way.
i am trusting anyone who reads this, regardless of who they are or whether or not they trust me or are attracted to me.
you can choose to be not a friend, but an acquaintance who gets to know a lot about me without sharing a lot about yourself.
we can, essentially, share the same bed, but never see each other.

truth and trust - an h and an s
this doesnt perhaps answer yet what trust means to me, so much as it answers how trust functions to me, here in the web and in my life.

to me,
trust is this intangible thing that you can build like a city
it works like grout filling in the spaces between who i am and who you are and what we do together
but its not the sort of thing you have all by itself or all by yourself
trust is the sort of thing which only happens when stuff, people, places, truth, moments, come together - and stay together
its the sticking pole upon which you nail your faith
its the electrons within and between atoms
and trust can be dismantled just as it can be built
cities burn, grout crumbles, faith corrupts, and atoms split.
but i dont agree that re-building trust is harder to do than it was the first time around.
i am something of a romantic, so i think this colors my perceptions of building trust.
i think trust is the sort of thing which, like hope, may spring eternal if it is allowed.
i have been burned by trusting on the internet, by leaving myself here for others
but i keep coming back for more, i keep offering myself up
perhaps because i like the way it feels when it does work.
***
i have basically been writing this all day.
i keep working on it and then leaving it alone and then coming back to it.
i contemplated posting this to the original entry that asked the question about trust.
but in the end i think i exceed the character limit on comments.
and if not, i am sure that this would be better served here than there.
i have been debating whether or not to put this here publicly.
but i trust you.
raoin: (through the mirror)
if you are participating in the [livejournal.com profile] guessthejess's Art-theme project, here's this week's new entry:
This week's theme for art buddies is:

"like blood against the eardrums, paints a mist"
from Blue Juniata by Malcolm Cowley.

see also here and here.

get involved and have some fun!
raoin: (water snakes)
Lost in the Orchard

Pear and Persimmon pass from my lips
Your love is cruel and grainy, tart and snappish.

Yet, I crave you, my succulent, cloying and heavy, a ripe fig,
I fall for you each time, clean and dripping.
You pluck me from my intents, divert fruitful content to richer passions.

When you coax me with apples, thick and heady,
Full with the sweet sharp crunch, a velvet ripping between my teeth,
I tarry over resins and tannins, over the prolonging rush of nectar.

You cozen me, deep drunk with blackberry wine,
which pours Inky and Stygian, and the scent of you wafts thick.
Your aftertaste is Dandelions and Magnolia,
Sweet and bitter, a reversal; a volta.

Alone, I find the scent of you is on my hands, on my skin,
I feel you rough upon on my lips, licking, lapping,
Lingering I taste your taste upon my breath,
I feel I cannot wash you from me.
My ablutions caress as your caresses, you are with me.

Golden honey, drip away from me.
Slick sweet, still I press you against my tongue.
Slip-slide away from me,
strong and viscid against my teeth, you elide the truth,
I would devour you: I am consumed.




want to participate? go here and here. not a friend of [livejournal.com profile] guessthejess? why not introduce yourself?
raoin: (out in the open)
take the masking tape and mark off
everything you dont want touched
i'll sign the form in triplicate.
Please do not forget the official stamp.

if my mouth is closed i cant swallow my pride,
i know its not the dish you meant to serve me.

How can i begin to explain, with eyes with teeth,
all the ordinary things which can devour you,
all the moments where i hide,
behind the blackout blinds and the radio silences,
the small wars which cast long shadows over time.

How can i begin to explain, tracing the lines of your hand,
that i do not have the words, do not know the language,
my syntax, my structure
all foreign
and this concept, those concerns
more alien still.

I am an emigre, i am a stowaway.
my second language, my third,
the languages we learn as children stay with us the longest,
and the cyphers and codes i learned along the way
are set as shards inflecting and reflecting my pain.
i am harried by my silences, by the places
i cannot go - can no longer go, by words i dare not speak,
by rules i fear to break - though i feel i may have once known them all,
and the truces signed with care and bone
- the parchment of your skin the calligraphy of your hair.
i know but cannot express - locked tight against my heart and head.

the sign on the wall, torn and faded
is it a warning, is it an invitation?
raoin: (watersnakes upclose)
Some days, when no one was looking, she would pretend to be someone else.
A little note would be left up, "Sorry, i'm out. Please come back later."
Sometimes it would be scribbled on a receipt or a post-it - the words all crammed together,
but polite.

Outside there was always a summer quality to the air, warm and heavy it baked the hairs on her arms pleasantly.
Little breezes would stir past her, blowing air as a chill gift from the sea.
As someone else she told herself, "The ocean can't be far. I can smell the salt spray."
When she was outside she could go anywhere she wanted.

Around a corner she could see the haze-waves from the blacktop leading to the beach.
When she reached where blacktop met sand, she stripped off her shoes and socks
- left them abandoned on the road, set side-by-side, socks and laces tucked within.
Even as the sand grew hotter underneath her feet, the little breezes grew stronger and cooler.

When the sand was finally cool and moist under her feet she paused and stripped off the rest of her clothing.
After all, no one was looking. The crumpled remains of someone's half-forgotten life.
She didnt so much wade into the ocean as she took it around her like a new-found lover.
"How long have I been gone? How much have you forgotten? I fit so neatly in your arms."

January 2017

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