“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same…

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.  I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind…as my own being."

-Emily Bronte

golden empress hands

in golden empress hands

and all of us without guns in us
and our hair growing out of us

when her belly bleeds
its an open seed
that strains into the sea
that drains into the sea

and suddenly, oh suddenly,
a voice comes out of me
a voice comes out of me

but it dont belong to me
but it dont belong to me
but it dont belong to me
-devendra banhart

Tool alert

Chuck Norris has convinced us that he is the most bad-ass man that ever lived. We already know this. We have known this for years. Round-house kicks to the face, breaking the sound barrier with his whispers, giving birth to himself, inventing time-- you know the drill. Well, latest on his list of accomplishments is poetry. Yes, I said he is a poet. And (republican gasp!) his literary target this time around was Barack Obama. I know this is old news, but I couldn’t resist posting this little treat on my blog. It’s just too good. Let’s just hope President Obama is reading. And taking heed. Or else I think we all know what will happen (insert roundhouse reference).

When all of a sudden/There arose such a noise/I peered out of my window/ Saw Obama and his boys.

They had come for my wallet./ They wanted my pay/ To give to the others,/ Who had not worked a day!

He snatched up my money /And quick as a wink /Jumped back on his bandwagon/ As I gagged from the political stink.

He then rallied his henchmen,/ Who were pulling his cart./ I could tell they were out /To tear my country apart!

They took off for his cause, /And as he flew out of sight,/ I heard him laugh at the nation, /Who wouldn’t stand up and fight!


Let’s stick to the Texan TV shows, shall we Mr. Norris?

poem for a lost boy

And like the sun setting in the back of your eyes

I recede past our memory

I blur against the lines

I don’t love you anymore

Did you ever love anything?

This rhyming tangle of poems and prose

Never was enough

To satiate me

But you’re still scorching

And I can’t stop this crying

Putting my back to the ground

Move over me like a mountain

Slam your fist into a blackened chest

Pull out what you left inside

I want more than a sepia colored lie

Crawling back to me on hands and knees

A thousand years of trying is wearing on me

Open your mouth.

I’ll feed you fire

I’ll feed you the sea

I’ll drain your desire

While you bury me

'I'm youth, I'm joy,' Peter answered at a venture, 'I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg.'

skinny love

The caged bird in her had been beating its wings for years. It's feathers fell on his hands as he reached in and drew it out.

Her revolution had begun.

The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her.

voluntas

A strong woman. Born weak. Made impenetrable. Carved into stone by life and betrayal. Guilt made her cold and obligation made her defiant. Resilient back of unbreakable strength. A hardening layer that grows deeper and thicker with each reaching dagger that presses through her heart. Daggers of friend, of closest family, or anyone who thinks he knows her path better that she does. Who envies her pride and seeks to destroy her will. But will is a thing not easily broken. Will lives long after a passion has faded and touch have receded past memory. Will is what picks up pieces of the most splintered heart-- will is what breaks the glass and eliminates the fear. Unrelenting steadfast will. And a woman’s will. My will. Is sharper than the daggers, sharper than a sword, and stronger than the harshest word. My will gives me power. And with power I conquer. Conquer the heart. Even if that heart may be my own.

I miss Paris

...and taking pictures in Paris.
Montmartre

Concorde Square


The Louvre

I have a pretty good time with life.

“I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.” -Virginia Woolf

something akin to drowning

It started suddenly. It overtook her.

The depth and breadth of life and choice hit her like a wave, and with the force of the sea. She was lost. Left floating and disassembled, surrounded by piece of the life she had. Frayed bits of the bow, broken splinters of the hull, knocking against her body and scraping against her side. The anchor of the ship remained tied to her foot, dragging her under, towards the floor. She was being pulled down with each turn of the sea. Its gray mouth swallowing her. The waves, great spine of the ocean, swelling under and around her. She was overcome. And she finally gave in. Relinquished herself to the pounding tide.

Drowning wasn’t the worst way to die.

James Jean

Audrey

My god-son thinks pictures of Audrey Hepburn are pictures of me.

A few months ago, unprompted mind you, he pointed to her face which was floating as a screen-saver on my laptop, and cried, “Munkle!"

I fell on the floor in a fit of ecstasy. It made my life.

Of course I proliferated this mix-up of his by getting out my “Audrey: a life” (cue cheesy Moon River music) book and forcing him to look at all of them, prodding him to tell me I looked like her again and again and again.

I am shameless in my admission of this.

One day he will realize his Munkle isn’t exactly as superfluously beautiful as the venerated Audrey Hepburn... but that is years away.

☺

I am galley slave to pen and ink.

Or, to typing and posting. Whichever.

I know, I am a quote addict.

It can get a bit annoying.

I literally, mentally process my own thoughts in various
forms of literary quotations.

It's been like this for years.

Since childhood.

I don't plan on trying to remedy it.


That being said... the following quote basically sums up most of my life:

"I feel you know what it's like to be without happiness. But do you know what it's like to be afraid of it? To see the world as so conniving, you cannot take pleasure in the appearance of something good because you suspect it is only a painted drop behind which other troubles lie. That has been my life. Every good thing has been a trick. Until you."
-Nicholas Nickleby

Holden

“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept record of their troubles. You’ll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.“

- J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye

A choice is a funny thing. A terrible thing. A necessary thing. Choices define our entire lives. Simple truths. But reality is striking me harder now than ever before.

The fragile, tiny tear. That brought down the sky.

We chose who we are. What we do. What we are. The cause and effect play the major roles, the emotions play the minor. Because emotions fade. They are not strong enough to withstand years. “Hearts don’t beat the way they used to”. Hands can’t feel from the callous. It’s the choices that we learn to live with, want to live with, or know in the end, are the right ones.

Timing.

It’s all in the timing. And so often time is wrong. “Time is a strange pulse that beats to cover and stops to reveal.” The looking back. The trying to look forward. Looking through eyes that see so clearly now they burn. Mistakes and regrets. Thought only so after it’s too late.

I guess it’s the stages of processing. Letting life stall and stop and being again….

And it only takes a second. Just a few words. I could feel my heart fall.

I regret nothing in my life. Not yet. I don’t plan on ever. But the feelings that so long I have kept hidden. Covered in a corner. Drowned in the noise of everything else. They surface eventually. It’s inevitable. And when they rise, it’s a terrible thing.

And I can feel the knife sliding
Deeper in my spine
I can hear your words rewinding
Balancing on this edge of mine.

An incarnate place

where my river sleeps dry

forgetting is next to impossible

you fill every space

like a great black balloon

that pops like gun shots

and shatters finely into skin

its metal heart

forging a metal lie

and your pieces multiply

the harder I scratch them out

a dissonance in my veins

that old immeasurable pound

screaming to let you out.