11:03, i'm late baroque

here, we take these things for granted. we deserve these things and from up here it is hard to see these things, below us. it's all in the detail, yes, but we aren't in the detail, because we don't step outside of ourselves.

grapes and majesty
perfectly curled hair
angelic faces

but what is real exactly?
what is life?
and what's important?


i grieve your wasted efforts. but you live on now. and we pay attention. but we can't live here. nobody did.

it's cold.
i'll take your picture.

who's your daddy?

i am the creepy kid in the corner and i'm okay with it

smiling at the sky

i can't hear you anymore but i know you're on to something

in the fading light of day, i will write something. something about this. life. something about this place. something about something that i ain't got quite right yet. like we're always just on the brink of something. something good and something right and something pure and something destined. something destined, for sure. something in the stars. something like hands to puzzle pieces and falling right in. something like holding out for the perfect word when you know others will do, but there's something not quite right about them. and when the perfect word slips out of your mouth it's like you could just eat it, it's that good and heck, you couldn't define the word, but you know you've used it in all it's glory. it's something like that. of course, but not quite.

something like sitting by the fire by the lake and seeing people's faces who you love in the red orange glow. and for a while you are just looking at them, smiling in your knees because heck, this is your life in all it's glory! and you have no idea what they've been saying but you know it's just right.

for lovers of good music

www.earitnow.com

my friend did all the work. now you can join in on my education.

tag along soundtrack

i love the sound of background music... cooking tunes. sit down with a buddy and eat your pasta tunes.

i love these people and the ease with which they let me tag along on their lives.

can't you stop saying f#@% all the time

ear this, he said and clear your head
cause just when you thought words were dead
some dudes came round and resurrected
please expect the unexpected

words poetic, bent, ignited
words make rhythm get excited
beats not hosting, but invited
words transcend when all's united

rhymes not easy, not outplayed
not beaten here, because you've strayed
nothing stunted, not delayed
brilliant, sure, that's right i sayed it

this i heard on a cd
a good good friend, he played for me
prepared to hate, because you see
people bore me usually

no one plays with words no more
no one plays at all, they're boring
no one plays what's not at stores
but shit's not gold because it's touring

an exercise in hypocrisy: the trouble with nouns and adjectives

i am.
that is.

do not finish.
there is no more.

i am.
that is all.

i am,
that is,
all.

everything else is
inconsistent,
transitory,
hypocrisy.

you're already many different people

everything else
just to be
included (these rose coloured glasses)
... excluded.

you already belong

everything else,
at the expense of
everything else.

your nouns and adjectives
cannot account for these things
you already are

you and your ego games.

id
entity

separateness
and animal guts

we are
bigger than this.
we are
more than nouns and adjectives.
we are
more than our unique identities.
we are
no different.
we are
no more special.

we are forever proving this hypocrisy.

see?

we are everything.
we are.

infinitely more special
than nouns
or adjectives
could imply.

anonymous

anyway, it's all just a time and space thing. in other words
inconsequential.

welcome, hello
i loved you before i knew you.

which is still to say?

my ego loves comments. i laugh and submit to the attention games, like a kitten snuggled in my lap getting her fur stroked cause i love him, too.

anyway, it's all just a love thing. in other words
everything.

i met You in every city

here, in this the 'greatest city on earth', i find much the same things that i find in other 'lesser' cities. the people are nice and mean and grumpy and nervous and bored and happy and sad and interesting and moving too fast and standing still and singing and dancing and yelling and running and walking and jumping and poor and wealthy and loving and hatefilled and distracted and focused and ambitious and stagnant and crying and laughing and hugging and hurting and proud and humble and ego centered and eco centered and under nourished and over nourished and brilliant and uneducated and pretentious and genuine and caring and sincere and just trying to get by.

just like everyone and everywhere else.

there's just a lot more of You, here.

i passed You on the street a million times.

the places are places, it's the people that make them.

just do what you gotta

people will always do what they're gonna do. so you just gotta do what you gotta but not getting caught up in what other people are doing. to the extent that you're doing it, too. and people, just love what you're doing. your doing it, doing it, peter.

imaginationary food fight.

rufio.

you know what i'm talking about.

imaginate.

slug shruggery

this shell is my home and i carry it around. like a slug, if a slug carried it's home around... well, more like a turtle or a snail. but this is my home. i feel the same in my bed as i do sleeping on your couch. strangely strangely home, but strangely strangely foreign. like a slug, but carrying its home. and all the other slugs shrug and move slowly about their business. because a slug will always notice, but a slug will always let you move slowly about your own business and they will do the same. people are much the same, but only because they never notice you and your business because they are too busy with their own business. but if you get in their way, moving slowly cause you are carrying your home on your back...

drizzling in a ghost town

i'm drifting around someone else's town, someone else's friends, someone else's home. like a ghost. i silently float among your things because you are gone. because you have real life things to do. and i'm wishing i brought a rain jacket, or a jacket of any sort because your town is drizzling and if i soak my sweater i'll have nothing else to wear. i feel foreign, but this is not unusual. this consistency only shows me how foreign i feel, always, even in my own town, even among my own friends, even in my own home. i give the same attention to random people on the street as i do my closest friends. perhaps more. the closest i ever get to giving away this burden is to strangers. less a matter of trust than anonymity. i will remember the people i did not speak to much longer than i will remember anything you ever said. i walked silently next to him, leaving the subway, intimately tied by regret.

but this is not about you.

for amanda... but belonging to everyone

where i come from sincerity is currency
where i come from people hold hands and sway when they are moved, kind of koombaya but less self conscious
where i come from people offer cheese in words and no one thinks it's weird
where i come from i love you is spoken as often as hello but the word love is never thrown around
where i come from tears are the proper response to everything
where i come from hugs are rewarded
where i come from the truth shines
where i come from you come from

november nine

(in response to november ninth)

don’t run, fly!
always chased
but they can’t follow me here

the buildings are beautiful
the lights, gorgeous
and i’m always running into friends

brickhead is looking for me
stickman wants me back

what happened to you?

it was a teddy bear picnic gone awry!

always with the gum stuck in the mouth
how embarrassing
what about all these loose teeth?

flip through the dictionary
i can read here, too
and never just in black and white
just time and numbers and bathrooms that give me trouble
the light switches never work

i forgot my shoes again

wrote another song
someone else sang it
but i wrote it

learned about sailing in the hot tub
fully equipped
piano made sense

and then my mom took a swing at me
shot me once, too
with a rifle
she was mad about groceries
and something to do with my grandmother
i woke up sore
in real life

what does that say about me?

this old familiar cottage on the lake
where bad things happen
and we sailed the ice berg right through
and nobody even noticed
stayed under water the whole time
and he floated right over top
held my breath even though i didn’t need to

people in wolf’s clothing

you visited me once after what happened
in real life

and you died
in your happiest moment
up on stage with the band
crowd surfed up to heaven

and i spent the rest of the day calling you
because i’ve been known to predict things
in real life

leaving me stranded on a brick wall
amid the fog
watching the churning see

he abandoned me, too.
me with just this elephant
with one tear

but you left me with so much more

who knows what he gets into while i sleep

i hear Him in you

He said, quit trying to do this on your own, love. unburden yourself the way you let others unburden on you. trust that they, too, are strong. look at all these beautiful people just asking to be let in. let it out and fly.

november eight

(in response to november eighth)

I locked up this heart to protect it and I patted myself on the back because a heart needs to be protected. Because a heart is vulnerable to heartache. Because a heart is necessary to live. Because the pain is unbearable.

I congratulate myself because it doesn’t ache like it used to. In fact, it hardly feels anything at all.

I learned to breathe slowly and deeply to control the pounding of my heart and I patted myself on the back because a heart needs to be controlled. Because a heart needs to slow down. Because a heart needs to beat more regularly. Because you aren’t controlled by a heart if a heart is controlled.

I congratulate myself because it doesn’t pound like it used to. In fact, it hardly beats at all.

I built walls around my heart and I patted myself on the back because these walls keep you out. Because my heart is made of glass and you have clumsy hands. Because everyone has clumsy hands. Because I throw things around.

I congratulate myself because the glass is still intact. In fact, I think it’s turned to stone.

I learned to pretend to love and I patted myself on the back because you are fooled, probably too easily. Because you forgot to lock up your heart. Because you are more easily manipulated this way. Because you tend to drop things with those clumsy hands of yours and I can catch your heart and be your hero because I don’t have a heart to worry about dropping. Because it hardly feels anything. Because it hardly beats at all. Because it’s made of stone.

I congratulate myself because I am strong and I will always come out on top. In fact, I stand here proudly, alone at the top.

november seven

(in response to november seventh)

i’m going to give you something. i’m going to unburden myself on you and it will be heavy but it will not weigh you down because i won’t let it. i’m going to hand you something and you’ll take it because you have no choice, because i smiled at you and you know i’m sincere and you love me even though i haven’t let you know me. i’m going to let you love me. i’m going to let you in. i’m going to let you now, and it will change both of our lives. it will shape us both for all time to come. it has been shaping us all along, before either of us ever made it here. i will give you something heavy and i will soar with the weight gone and you will soar because you let me and that is enough, because that is huge. i will unlock this place, and we will both go free and smiling, dancing and hopeful down the platform and we will neither of us be caged by this any longer. i will give you this and it will heal me and once i am healed, i will heal you. i will give you this so that i will continue to be able to take things from you, to continue to let you unburden yourself on me. i will now give you a real chance to soar. i see now that it is a give and take thing and i have only been doing half the work and i see now how i haven’t let you grow. i see now how i have made you what i expect by not allowing you to be more than i expect. i will let you now, and it will change both of our lives.

another perfect day

this is a perfect day
like every day that's been
and every day that'll ever be

you don't have to believe me for this to be true.

november six

(in response to november sixth)

I’m happy, sure. If that’s the answer you’re looking for. And as far as I can tell this is what you mean when you ask the question. But I’ve always had trouble with the way you use language.

Are you happy? Like it’s some sort of valid question, with some sort of equally valid response. Like happiness is something consistent, something enduring, something that defines you, something that you can maintain – like I am woman, I am breathing. If it were something like this, there wouldn’t be much point in asking the question. Happy wouldn’t mean anything.

Those who come close to some sort of enduring answer don’t know happy like I do. They throw the word around, like we throw around love… not in any way that means anything. And I guess, to them, it doesn’t. What they speak of is mere contentment, mere satisfaction. They are, merely, resigned to feel less. They are, merely, motion sick from the fluctuations. They are, merely, afraid to feel less than ‘happy’.

And so, while they don’t suffer, they also don’t soar.

My sadness is intrinsic to my happiness. My sorrow pervades every moment, every emotion I feel. But don’t cry for me. I’m happy, sure. This is, in fact, the very reason for my sorrow. In my willingness to feel, I exist in extremes. I have accepted that this is – must – be the case. And so, I have accepted that whatever happiness comes over me, it will be fleeting. And I grieve these brief glimpses most especially when my whole body smiles. While at other times, my mind dulls these memories so that I can go about my day not missing it, like a dear lost friend.

Are you happy? You ask me like you aren’t even aware of the implications.

november five

(in response to november fifth)

I’ve always known I was different. Others suspected as much, but weren’t sure by what comparisons. Was I special in a way that would lead us to further greatness? Or was I different in a way that would result in our eventual demise? They kept me at a distance – close enough to keep an eye on me, but far enough away to protect their vulnerabilities. I did a proper job hiding it, but inevitably the truth would reveal itself.

Chocolate?

No, thank you.

Very rarely was my polite decline a successful evasion tactic.

You don’t need to be polite. Have some chocolate.

No. Thank you.

Go on. Have some chocolate.

All eyes are on me. Trapped. Disclosure is inevitable.

I don’t like chocolate.

My confession takes the air out of the room. Some people stare and others struggle not to make eye contact. I have become the giant purple satin elephant in the room and like most enormous pachyderms inside rooms they don’t belong, this one is not up for discussion. I cough. The awkwardness hangs thick in the room, choking. I cough again. People are quiet, yet I can see in their eyes – frantic. Suddenly everyone is judging themselves, wishing they hadn’t put that last piece in their mouth, wondering who saw them stuff handfuls of the stuff in their pockets – a few for the road. They do to themselves what they imagine me doing. They imagine me as some sort of holier than thou health freak casting judgment on each of their chocolaty discretions. And their resentment is tangible. I know from experience that explanation is futile so I gather my things and leave the mess I have made of their shared experience – the shattered comfort of what was once thought to be universal.

And I start again.

fall back

daylight savings time: just another example of wonky time.

november four

(in response to november fourth)

I don’t walk anymore. And I most definitely don’t run. I float.

I fly up and down the streets. You still tell me I can’t even though you’ve seen me do it. Apparently seeing is not believing anymore because refusal to believe is blindness. The way children can see angels and speak to long passed uncles and converse with animals and climb the stairs without touching and walk on water and heal… until adults convince them otherwise.

Don’t tell stories. Don’t tell lies.

We’ve ruined the children.

(We are the children we’ve ruined).

It took me many years to get back to this place where my feet don’t have to touch the floor. As a child, I levitated but I’ve stopped telling people since I let you convince me I was dreaming. I’ve always had a hard time separating my dreams from reality. You took advantage of that. You took advantage of me. And you dulled my reality. You perverted my dreams.

You tried to kill my inner child.

But I still breathe from the belly.

And then I discovered others just like me. Others who did equally impossible things as children. Others who had been told not to tell stories. Others who had been told to put their imaginations away with their other childhood things, but secretly still sneak into that closet and climb up to the top shelf and giggle and spin, doing unbelievable things. Others who have still not forgotten, who still imagine, who still believe.

They are called story tellers.

But we know better.

They are the speakers of the truth. They are the children of wisdom. They are the keepers of imagination. They are the administrators of magic. They are the hope for the future.

Their’s is the impossible task.

Save imagination. Save the world.

november three

(response to november third... this time it's about eighty percent plagiarism. just word play.)


coming goes and going comes and in the process stopping and going annihilate each other and it’s like stop

breathe

and for a moment it’s like low tide with all it’s things that come in view like a wreck and too that you might

breathing

view it with compassion all its winter dark and papery flaking skins these things so fragile so cold so lightless and so ready to be shed all stuck up in cardboard boxes with dusty overlapping lids inside a room you’re scared to visit so you latched and padlocked the keys on a hook too high to reach and slant the blinds so no one sees but

breathing

you can see the sea with your eyes closed and you can always wait for low tide and you know it’s inevitable like the planets and for a moment

breathing

you smell earth and onions and you know that some simpler part of you is home and growing your own vegetables and playing in treehouses because you exist in every moment in time no wonder it’s hard to just

breathe

and smell the earth and all its things it’s whelming over me again this task we’re given

breathing

pulling out at each end while your belly rising falling

breathing

fingers pinched perhaps to focus energy while you drop into place and say a prayer of peace from whatever book or bible you believe whatever genesis to revelations your heart takes part in whatever

breathing

makes you flap like looking down on the street in your dreams or how your world can sometimes change just looking just outside your own front room like

breathing

how you move and still your mind and how this

breathing

let’s you play careful with fire so gently gently trapping blue and orange flames

november two

(a response to november second)

In this cage, she finds her freedom. She dances for herself. She dances for money. She dances to take back power from men. She flaunts her exposed body. She taunts them. She makes them yearn for her, but they cannot have her. She is safe from them in her cage and she goes home alone night after night – strong independent feminist. In this cage, she finds her freedom.

In this cage, she finds her freedom. She is covered from head to toe in her traditional vestments, only her eyes see the world. Only her eyes do the world see. Her facial expressions cannot betray her because they have no one to tell. Her curves are not violated by trespassing eyes. She does not waste time and money and energy worrying about what she is going to wear, day in and day out. She does not have to agonize over every piece of clothing, analyzing its effects on those around her. Her clothes cannot betray her because they do not say anything. She is safe in her cage, safe in her mystery – liberated Muslim woman. In this cage, she finds her freedom.

In this cage, she finds her freedom. Sure, she didn’t volunteer to be here. And she sure doesn’t dictate her own comings and goings. And sure, she killed a man. But she is free. Free from the bruises. Free from the broken ribs. Free from pitying glances at the grocery store when his fury happened to land on her face the night before. Free from the name calling. Free from the smell of booze. Free from all the crying, all the fear, all the hate. And the world, freed from him. Her little attempt to save the world – the righter of wrongs. In this cage, she finds her freedom.

november one

(a response to november first)

Everything I know about the world, I’ve learned from people. I know about the big bang – the starting point as far as we can tell (for now). I know about those atomy particles. I know they formed in the air when the temperature got to a certain point. I know these particles hang together and form irregular clusters. I know we are such irregular clusters, and I know that we scatter, light reflected, to give each other sensation. And I realize that, like snow, this means we lie.

This is not news – of course not. We would have no need for the phrase ‘to be honest’ if we weren’t, as a species, active liars much of the time – a curse of this mind and free will, I suppose. We’ve already learned to make allowances for this. This is not the point.

It is the stuff of snow white lies that concerns me – innocent, accidental lies. It is the stuff of physics, of separated experience, of relative perspectives. We are light, traveling at light speed, slowed down by motion in multiple dimensions. It is a lie to consider us in any other way. We are struggling creatures, each in a frustrated attempt to put this mind, this soul, to words, only to have meaning again stripped away and altered through the eyes and ears and hands and hearts of every other. It is a lie to be so sure of yourself. It is a lie to be so sure of another.

It is the stuff of misunderstandings.

These lies come to us in abundance, in snow fall – hundreds and thousands of flakes, and each one unique. These lies come to us from people, from ourselves. If everything I know about the world, I’ve learned from people… what then, do I know?

a november writing project

Your Messages

exactly three hundred words a piece.