Great House

"It wasn't that her face was open or revealing in any way. It's just that it appeared to be at rest, completely unaware of itself as the eyes took in all that happened before them."

"We search for patterns, you see, only to find where the patterns break. And it's there, in that fissure, that we pitch our tents and wait."

"I was familiar with the little mating rituals of getting to know each other, of dragging out the stories from childhood, summer camp, and high school, the famous humiliations, and the adorable things you said as a child, the familial dramas- of drawing a portrait of yourself, all the while making yourself out to be a little brighter, a little more deep than deep down you knew you actually were. And though I hadn't had more than three or four relationships, I already knew that each time the thrill of telling another the story of yourself wore off a little more, each time you threw yourself into it a little less, and grew more distrustful of an intimacy that always, in the end, failed to pass into true understanding."

"As for what, exactly, was said about the future, all I can say is that, speaking as indirectly as we were, transferred between us was only a feeling, or a shift in feeling, something like the sense of solid ground underfoot after walking for days or even months on spongy bog, a shift that I would be hard pressed, both then and now, but especially now, all these years later, to put into words."

and the end-all:

"But if every Jewish memory were put together, every last holy fragment joined up again as one, the House would be built again, said Weiz, or rather a memory of the House so perfect that it would be in essence, the original itself. Perhaps that is what they mean when they speak of the Messiah: a perfect assemblage of the infinite parts of the Jewish memory. In the next world, we will all dwell together in the memory of our memories. But that will not be for us, my father used to say. Not for you or me. We live, each of us, to preserve our fragment, in a state of perpetual regret and longing for a place we only know existed because we remember a keyhole, a tile, the way the threshold was worn under an open door."

well it's all out in the open now; i'm unediting this one

finals week meditations

1  cigarette breath, i watched a play like it was a movie last night
placing and rearranging in the slumbers of study, tenacious and yearning for an explanation of how and what i should feel
during the long drawls of finals week.

i become aware of the crescents forming on my fingernails, how limber and cold my hands feel under the fluorescent light.
i think i shall go insane. i think i cannot breath all the lives i've lived, am living and will pretend to live.

drowning in the ecstasy between work and play, piecing it out with the immense gravity of death possibly
waiting behind
the corner,
tucked away neatly behind a door frame.

i become desensitized to the all-knowing knowledge of when is when
and if enough is enough.

and so, my arms simply drift and hang in the indian summer heat- what great poetic weather.
and yet, i shall recover the metal scraps, the tinge of nerve and blood and live the next day
more unknowing, more clean, more substantial and less understanding still.

2  peaceful absinthe, still fluid.
i would like to drink in your ocean and feel, once again, whole.
whole like when the first sperm-drop fuses with the delicate egg.

 to float above, deliver commandments with little worry and much detachment
  to feel a human version of holy, celestial and trembling with All-Knowledge
   to sink in the love-mass, in synchronicity with myself- to embrace the end of a period to a question- its ultimacy.

and yet, i feel the atmosphere weighted on my shoulders, swallowed by gravity
-every tinge and tingle of my blood kills to be exposed to the seemingly inviting night air.

breaking bread is too difficult here. everything is unresponsive, nonreactive, hollow, dead, floats mindlessly-
rears its ugly head like the limp seaweed bobbing in salty black seas of real time.

the world is quiet after the fall from sin,
the cord is cut and yet still sparks- confusion runs rampant and we die, unknowing of our days.

2.2  a slight shuffle
a soft sniffle
a long withdraw
the coming of summer heat

wingtipped pens, looseleaf paper
an inorganic silence.

an indecision- a lack of words- stupid.


3  lover, you are such a fucker.
you monstrous draught- you are the action which washes, treads, tumbles and slams, shreds, hangs me out like
laundry on a single thread and watches, prowls, destroys me with your mercurial blue-gaze.

you, with your hot tongue and tissued lips, coaxed me from the sacred vestal, the hearth of home- warmth and goodness.
you blew smoke into my face and made my lipstick bleed; you danced the dance of mystics, the distillation of your soft perfume
intoxicated me, the feel of your shirt brushing against my cheek.

i wove tapestries of time, erasing doubt and regret, looked on from the stairtop and took the final plunge-
to no avail, but only the pristine realization that rescue was a random point of light, kneaded- in me, already, at conception.

i feel the incestuous waters of my form swell, macerated tomato puncture and explode within every thin, dark membrane,
seep every black-silhouetted blood corpuscle, kerouac's 'good glad fluid' and i swell the morning of, smelling of your desires
in the deep, purple night and clinging to the jugular vein, a pink,
thudding mash- bruise with the best sexual intentions- a valley-girl scarlet letter.


4  RAGE/
RAGE/ AT THE WORLD
RAGE/ AS IF TOMORROW WILL SCAR YOUR FLESH
RAGE ON/ ROCK ON/ BELIEVE IN MAGIC- BELIEVE IN HOPE
BELIEVE IN ALL THAT IS WORTH BEING ALIVE FOR (may not be much).

5  soft velvet, tissue fabric against the horizons of my chest.
i feel the immense swell of the universe- creation of the cosmos

and suddenly- the forsakening of the world as we combine our
sacred energies to create one massive, coherent whole.

and suddenly, the crows sing in the distance and the night shivers against
the blue backdrop of some late atmospheric phenomenon.

And the world is no longer whole, but rather, inconsistent, unattainable
random patches of utmost serene and clean blue- pink sky.

And i return from my bedsheets, filled with a new horizon
that can never be.
And i seep in the blood of my own existence
And wish of another tomorrow, another chance to see betrayal.

gosh, it's like 2 in the morning

and i'm writing and i'm crying and i'm writing and crying, which is never a good combination. it's times like these that i hold onto some sanity and kiss and kiss goodbye emotions.

in these few long short-months

i have been in the library before the start of school, plotted, schemed, twisted myself into a pretzel and flowered the knot growing like a peach in my stomach. i drew in from old friends their thoughts of the future- those long awaited adventures in iceland, created a brat pack, created a dream team, loved someone except i did not love him, kissed and kissed and drove across mountain ranges at sunset, got lost in school and in my heart.

i teared to the rhythm of eloquent lectures- felt my brain contract and release, drained countless cups of 7$  coffee, went to club meetings with the air so dense, i swore for the first time in a long time, went to optional lectures at night, crossed train tracks, crossed train tracks while drunk, watched a play like it was a movie, watched a modern dance recital like it was a comedy, explored gallery openings, witnessed the physical pull of a good book, danced to jazz music, saw the blue of cigarette smoke.

got sick, recovered, was a victim to a fire alarm, rearranged sandwiches, felt my heart swell, held my breathe, cried, wrote, sang, slept, dreamt and understood certain dark things.

12 14 2012

you and your trabecular meshwork. stop.

i would think i was half-dead

slashed and stretched in all directions. time wears so thin and just barely brushes against my shoulders here at school. one quiet blink, one short gesture and suddenly the world is unexplored again- so new, it's exhausting.

i respond with a harsh, raw call- a crackling of the lips, a breaking of intonation- and i deflate a little more each time. i conjure a fresh, witty sentence; a brief moment passes and that golden strand withers and drifts into the conscious night air, and i am a little less whole.

 it's exhausting to wake up to the day and respond to its harsh demands of being charmingintelligenthappy. i can't know what that means anymore and i don't even know what i've become.