Wednesday, June 25, 2008
would be nothings
a spoonful. not even. a grain of sand? nope. not that either. the body will die. the writings will be forgotten if they were ever even read. the food has been eaten, and wasted and the feelings have all been felt before. so why do it? why write? live? breathe? think? all of this will fade, melt, burn, crumble into nothing. it might be the soul. it just might be the soul that keeps me, and you, and all of the other would be nothings as something.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Summer
my taste is spicy and lingers. swells the lips as if they have been stung by bees. as if they are his.
my mind is overwhelming. underthinking, overfeeling, touching and unravelling ideas. leaving things unfinished.
undone.
my face is open. too open probably. easy to read, easier to misunderstand, hard to hide behind. My face is not easy to hide behind.
my eyes are even more often misunderstood. although they do tell the truth. the truth of what I want and not what I will take. curious, burning, wanting, my eyes are windows to the warmth in the pit of my belly.
my touch is warm and lingers also. wraps itself around new materials and fabrics. skims across every surface in reach and stops suddenly when met with the inexplicable. I won't even try to explicate
all this and it is summer. all spice and warmth and open and misunderstandings and burning under a hot sun and thick wet air. sizzling pavement and cracks of lightning and downpours of water, rivers of water and too much work and all I see is rivers run down panes that make my pain ache duller. More distant. bad tips leave a bad taste in my mouth and dark clouds in my eyes. easy enough to read.
boring people who order boring food special ways make my touch feel nothing. numb fingertips.
I've spent too much time there, so much that sometimes my taste becomes bland. and I can almost hide behind my face.
But only for a moment.
my mind is overwhelming. underthinking, overfeeling, touching and unravelling ideas. leaving things unfinished.
undone.
my face is open. too open probably. easy to read, easier to misunderstand, hard to hide behind. My face is not easy to hide behind.
my eyes are even more often misunderstood. although they do tell the truth. the truth of what I want and not what I will take. curious, burning, wanting, my eyes are windows to the warmth in the pit of my belly.
my touch is warm and lingers also. wraps itself around new materials and fabrics. skims across every surface in reach and stops suddenly when met with the inexplicable. I won't even try to explicate
all this and it is summer. all spice and warmth and open and misunderstandings and burning under a hot sun and thick wet air. sizzling pavement and cracks of lightning and downpours of water, rivers of water and too much work and all I see is rivers run down panes that make my pain ache duller. More distant. bad tips leave a bad taste in my mouth and dark clouds in my eyes. easy enough to read.
boring people who order boring food special ways make my touch feel nothing. numb fingertips.
I've spent too much time there, so much that sometimes my taste becomes bland. and I can almost hide behind my face.
But only for a moment.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Friday
What will I make? What can I get my hands into? We should start with a big salad. Mescaline greens with roasted almonds, asian pears, gorgonzola, and white wine vinaigrette. And then for an appetizer? Maybe stuffed portabellas topped with melted mozzarella that is just starting to turn golden. The meat will be either chicken or beef. I don't know the palettes of everyone coming, and those tend to be more agreeable than lamb or fish or seafood. Chicken francese with linguine? Or marinated cracked pepper steak with fresh green beans and mashed parmesan potatoes? I want there to be music. Eclectic. Maybe softer than usual. Sade, Nora Jones, BB King, Ben Harper, Lauryn Hill. We might have to eat on the floor. I hope that is okay. I like to be in the kitchen when I get to cook what I want.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Cold.
It's as if nothing ever happened. No miracles. No sideways glances or comments made that I always heard. Always repeated to myself in different voices and tones, and I wondered what was meant by them. A world was created that never existed. My mind built castles and wove intricate webs with fibers and threads that my imagination had braided together. There was nothing magical ever. Nothing so exciting or uncertain as I had invested in. My mind was invested in a game so much more complex than chess. But the pieces are gone. In fact, they were never really there. The skin on my face might burn off with embarassment. I wish I had known sooner. I would have done things a bit differently. Instead of creating the possibilities and testing the waters I would have given myself a new purpose. To think I have been so unproductive. Employed by devious creations of my mind and nothing else. A storm is just a storm and a roof is meant for protection. Bare feet need shoes and food is meant for filling. Sideways glances are coincidence and comments are prettily wrapped statements of boredom. Nothing ever happened. Oh my, this does present a problem.
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