A List, Simply

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fate. duality. purpose. anxiety. faith and lack thereof. strangers mannerisms. the way light comes naturally through windows in dive restaurants and makes royalty of a relic. energy, and ones ability to effect a room in the immediate. pure aesthetics. intimacy in shadows and smiles by the low light. dualism. the far reaching, finite, inescapable affectation of the dualism of life. karma. influence. truth, and want of. little lies and are they innocent? memory. ones ability to adopt any specifics and arrangements of the past as they see fit to the varying light of their current life. stories. coincidence. conspiracy. charm in conversation and the elegant power in a simple smile. perspective. effort. empathy. expression. obsession. all of these as i see them in regularity and adoration. as all the parts of all the days of me. the recollection, and the trailing off as the sounds of the day surround the lines of the page. and i simply am, again, carried off, return my day away.

And The Desert Shines

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There’s a certain tinge to timing. When words are worked, and perfect letters lift a curtain in the way they leave some lips. Time tested, for smiles left in airports where I never turned back; and before it’s known, a scene starts moving, unfolded from the former, and people, places are more than walk-pasts and dreams-ons. More than memories in the face of the fatalist brevity of the best encounters. That certain change. The tinge of timing rinses, off-white to bright, and the desert shines to summer.

Where I Reside

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I reside with a vast collection of inconsistencies. A sea of distraction that's dust collected me; still I come back to a path where no X's sleep, and all question marks proceed. The same old ride-by-luck, drawn on hope and infinities. My coming back, my toxic trials, my heart resides in all these miles; my face-to-face finds peace in all the midnight tides. I come again, and leave again, and back and forth by right. On letting go, and consequence, and continental quills. Stuck to me, stuck on us in black and white beguile. Drawn inside and disappeared and "Hey, come back in time". On letting go, and letting go of mine.

A Plea of Pages

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You simply turn a page, subtle, unassuming. Suddenly you’re staring back and shattered glass, there you are in the middle where someone else has said, and you have been there too, and all that page is you. Live there. As long as life. Soon it passes, in “Faithful and Virtuous Night”, I have been her too.

** I have been reading Faithful and Virtuous Night by Louise Gluck recently, the title piece drew this from me. Sometimes you turn a page and never know what is going to come out of those words, hers have struck, unexpected, and welcome.

A Life of Goodbyes

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Live a life where the goodbyes are always Irish, and the warmth in your cold blue eyes is what they're reminded of when the sound of your voice strikes their mind, and the dramatic line of your smile sets in to surpass all questions of "Why?". Believe only in the chances you took, not the ones you had; breathe only heartfelt in reminiscent minutes.

Always a Story

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The weight of explaining to someone how you've changed. They stare in expectation, knowing, wanting, waiting for your story, because there is always a story. To sum a lifetime of nuanced actions, reactions, insults, injuries, scars, starts, start-overs, endings, renderings of every you from every time and the culmination of every life you've lived in your lifetime of living... the thought feels a forgery. The question puts words in our mouths and minds as gospel, but we will change again, and those words turn false from hymnal...

Anxious Appeal

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bulidup to bigger breaths from the edge of every bed. pressure filled from somewhere in some sidestreet soliloquy you once forgot you said; and since forgotten thoughts all haunt your head. the anxious quilt to cover up until you pull a thread. and up and down, and lost the crown, the cool is fucking dead. your chest is full and scared until the air unfurls, then fade to dreams forever before the scheme repeats.

Toes to Summer

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it's been easy to be lost lately. or distracted, unfortunately with open arms. i feel the winter faded into new faces, wide eyed conversations ending dually meaningless when the finish couldn't suit the start. a taste of welcome spring, skin on skin in star-crossed flings, renewed in flesh and bone and the sweet heat spells in ventures far from home. on we go for foreign wild fare, as the cool breeze blows and spring slowly drags its toes to summer, for freedom, in dog days we dare.

Morning and Midnight

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it's strange this year, must be the place; things are coming up, or out, or back, things put in the past. people put in the past. songs that always held their spot in tangible torn off corners of my other lives. the desire for newer, brighter bindings feels lately fading, stemmed from lack of new findings I suppose and I consider the winter’s got me down and indisposed. the winter got me close. this year the winter bought the most in months of earnest mornings and solo midnight toasts. hours into light and feeling in the dark for ideas of fate. of faith and finding. positivity from all my faulty sides. some say faith is futile, some feel faith divine, but here I am for faith is just a question, and your belief in a strangers nod. in that sense, suspect the face of every stranger brings to you the face of god, and every foreign road should find you with a smile, knowing. you've been known. maybe now, maybe once, maybe all those eyes along the road were all yours before. I think the beauty in it all is the lack of answers, and life's only finite shine , is that it's all abstract. in bleeding over fate I've found that you find your choices in your day, they do not find you gripping, hanging on in faded jeans for glory and fatalist whims. we don't blow with the wind, and though the romance ripens in my blood, everything I have loved has been found by constitution in that only I decide I; and here I place nostalgia, here I take my name. these feelings all inherited, these feelings built the flame. this year I reach for firmament, and from the vault I'll pry.

In Uncondition

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the fault in conditions is the fault in all our faces; a famous lack of understanding, of unconditional terms, traced back to unbelievable words in moments when vulnerability hurt the worst. all of this becomes default, and framework for declarations of disbelief. the hardest one to love in uncondition is you, and only in periods, long, and sometimes lonely periods of strength through self study and big questions stared out bigger windows into the biggest backyards do we dare to even dream to love ourselves as much as someone else once has. this is as difficult to accept as to conceive, and many will live full lives as only silhouettes; but, those questions stem to answers, and answers to understanding, understanding bridges change and soon we form shadows in those same old window frames, in bright light and adoration. the process is what paints us, the picture presents us to the world.