Tuesday, January 12, 2010

I thought it was different this time. I tried to do the right thing.
ma ora salutandotiaffogo.
(ma prima, la cena)

Thursday, July 2, 2009

because your kiss

(your kiss)

is on my list

because your kiss

(your kiss)

i can't resist

because your kiss is on my list...

of the best things in life.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

it's like everyone's in some club,
 and i'm not invited.
and yet i don't care.
 but i do.
it's when i don't care that i end up caring.
barb says when i say i don't care that it's not true.
the club wasn't that great to begin with.
 but it was a club.
and for a moment i was in.
and it was great.
and i knew it at the time, too.
i just feel too much about things.
i'm tired of feeling.
i'm tired of people.
i'm tired of the daily grind.
you know, some people are sad and they don't want to live anymore.
like chuck who i see in my dreams though i never knew him well.
who i cried over. if only selfishly.
that's not how i react.
i'm sad because i want to live more.
i feel as if i am being hindered in my liveability.
that might not be a word.
i just want to live more.
more real.
closer and more honest.
i was happier. i've been happier.
and it just isn't working out the way i planned it.
but that isn't true either. i didn't plan it.
i've never planned it.
but i guess i keep hoping for this thing.
and it's thwarted by different things.
it's just the same story every time.
and in the end, because i can't have the life i want 
or the life i feel i'm made to be living,
i end up not desiring a whole lot of life at all.

i'm tired and i'd like to have a nap now.
don't disturb me until the end of this 
stupid hot summer.

Monday, February 16, 2009

forse in un sogne

i love the way a dream
can make me feel
so intangibly close to you
though i haven't seen you
or even heard your voice
    in months.

i must have reached yesterday
some kind of quota
in the time allotted towards
my persistent thoughts surrounding you
to earn the right

to the simple sweet surprise
of having you cast in my dream last night,
and in turn my groggy
shy recollections of it 
this morning.

i was in your kitchen, i think,
talking with your mother
when in you walked, bag-laden,
sandy fauxhawk
blue button-down, bright eyed as always;

and staring into my coffee,
being found by you this way
even in my own dream
off-guard and unsuspecting,
my face burned scarlet.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

why is it that writing like this always makes me cry.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

a lone.

I am not sure 
if I want 
to speak 
to anyone

I seem to mess it up.
I seem to betray whilst I'm lecturing about integrity and loyalty.
These things nobody talks about.
To whom do I owe my loyalty?
To whom can I give my loyalty?
Who will accept it?
Does anyone even want it?
I get so mixed up.
I've gotten so mixed up.
I just want to do the right thing.
Always I am trying so hard to do the right thing.
To not hurt someone that I think is good.
To not hurt anyone.
To protect myself from those whose intentions are sinister.
And to warn the ones who don't know it.
To do good in secret, so nobody knows it was me.
I want to be very good to those that I care about and love.
I find that really, there are so few.
And that they hurt me.
And then I bail.
Unless their last name is the same as mine.
Then I stay and put up with anything.
Things I would never take from anyone else.

I feel alone.

I am intelligent and logical enough to know that I am not. I know that I am not. But I feel it. And maybe this is what I need. But why? Why should I need this? Why have I earned this? 

I don't want it anymore.

I want communion.
I want fellowship.
I want warmth.
I want accountability.
I want to be nurtured.
I want to feel safe.
I want it to be real.

I want to give myself.

I don't want to explain anything. I don't want to have to.
I'm holding back and waiting until it feels right.
Until anything feels right.
Is it normal to want to escape everything?
To disappear and reappear somewhere else?
Someone else.
I'm a stranger.
I've wandered out of the store in someone else's clothes.
Holding someone else's coffee cup.
I don't recognize my vehicle, and my pillowcase smells foreign.
The rest of me must be dwelling happily
somewhere else.
While I inhabit this life here.

Only alone feels right.
Only separation and isolation.
Keeping everything to myself.
As if there's really so much to keep.
I'm small, insignificant.
Losing myself in too many hours of useless work.
Rushing from place to place.
Barely eating.
My coffee grows cold before I can drink it.
Twice a day, and I throw it out.
Too many questions to be answered.
Phone calls to be made.
Pages to be read.
Responsibilities I cannot fulfill.
Though I do nothing but attempt to.
And through this, 
I don't return your phone calls.
I tell you I can't see you anymore.
I've grown irritated with your turn of phrase.

Only alone seems to come naturally.

And yet it feels so terribly wrong.

Goodbye, I've left you for nothing else.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

                        just now as I was 
staring into the end of the first 
fireplace fire of the winter,
and the room was dark and cold 
everywhere but the hearth
where I sat, and the only sound
I could hear was that of the fish
tanks babbling on as the guppies 
hovered sleeping near the rocks,

I was brought to another time
in less than an instant, as tends 
to happen to me during some
peaceful solitary activities, and 

the delicate perfectly cylindrical 
dying flame undulating at the underside
of the thinner of two logs reminded 
me of when handwashing
time always would become a game.
with soap being wasted and 
mirrors being splashed and
shirts becoming soaked and
heads hung at the sight of Mom.

one of my favorite things to do
in the kitchen sink was to turn 
the faucet to the exact spot
where the steam was as
solid and clear as an icicle,
before the tiny screen at its mouth
could break it into noisy whitewater.
I'd place one finger in 
the stream and feel its
weight and split it into
two. for long stretches of time 
this kept me occupied.

and I smile thinking of how
silly yet charmingly innocent it is 
that a child can be so amused by
something so small. that a 
stream of water and her finger's 
effect on it make bring her joy.

and then I smile again realizing
that ironically, in all these years of 
alleged cynicism and maturation, 
so little has actually changed.