on writing + "directed, observer" a poeme
bold underline: on writing
somewhere inside of you there is a dream.
it's amazing how much i need to live.
and how little.
i used to think about writing as a pot that needed to boil over - accumulate, heat, stir. heat, heat, heat. the rush of steam when you know it's about to happen - the little bubbles like warning signs. and then when: that moment. you can feel the searing, pumping pain of it, the anticipation like bile or old spit in the back of your throat. the pinching. like sickness.
writing is a bird that cannot fly. it isn't caged, but limps around dreaming. somewhere inside, it has the ability - the wings, the individual caked feathers. the memory of soaring. but writing knows - it sings sad, night and day - it knows it will never see the sky from below. condemned to watch, to look up, turning its face to the sun like a flower. blossoming only when the rays hit.
i cannot think of characters. i cannot say, jessica is a girl who was a lesbian and now is not because of a car accident tragedy in which the love of her life tragically conspired to die. and how she only now likes men because there are no other women for her - not like jamie. i can't just say this person and that and they had sex. life isn't like that - or it is too much like that and i need more control. the scenario needs symbolism. and life needs less so.
we read into things because we get bored and the mind starts working. or not working. idling. twiddling its proverbial thumbs and saying, yes, that meant something more. that kiss, that look, those words. when he closed the bathroom door on that drunk girl, that meant something. that was a character trait. when she lied about an excuse about her car about an excuse, that meant something. insecurity in the face of distress. some freudian impulse, to cover up her lack of a dick to cover up her soul. personality. face of distress.
and when you lose face you lose it. completely. you are nothing without the facade.
directed, observer
every time we punch in
personally the personality
frightens me
sinking deep into the teeth
white jaws cracking
crumbling
like so many sugar cubes
melted like tea
over my bones
slicking my throat
with something other than salt
tears
and there is a point
when you want to stop
freeze frame everything
and return, go back, re-live
rewatch, re-evaluate, regrade
retrograde
close up your mouth mind
taking you home
watching the curve of your
white jaw
and the little speckles
of black dust
like so:
dotting your face, multiple
incarcerations of my directed glance
every time i look at you
i fall a little more in
i scratch my thighs and think
what life would be like without
my lips on that triangular patch
on your chin, then your lips
kiss you with eyes closed
or when yours lash shut
you frighten me
in so many ways
i can't handle your love
ruminations on cue.
11-25-09
somewhere inside of you there is a dream.
it's amazing how much i need to live.
and how little.
i used to think about writing as a pot that needed to boil over - accumulate, heat, stir. heat, heat, heat. the rush of steam when you know it's about to happen - the little bubbles like warning signs. and then when: that moment. you can feel the searing, pumping pain of it, the anticipation like bile or old spit in the back of your throat. the pinching. like sickness.
writing is a bird that cannot fly. it isn't caged, but limps around dreaming. somewhere inside, it has the ability - the wings, the individual caked feathers. the memory of soaring. but writing knows - it sings sad, night and day - it knows it will never see the sky from below. condemned to watch, to look up, turning its face to the sun like a flower. blossoming only when the rays hit.
i cannot think of characters. i cannot say, jessica is a girl who was a lesbian and now is not because of a car accident tragedy in which the love of her life tragically conspired to die. and how she only now likes men because there are no other women for her - not like jamie. i can't just say this person and that and they had sex. life isn't like that - or it is too much like that and i need more control. the scenario needs symbolism. and life needs less so.
we read into things because we get bored and the mind starts working. or not working. idling. twiddling its proverbial thumbs and saying, yes, that meant something more. that kiss, that look, those words. when he closed the bathroom door on that drunk girl, that meant something. that was a character trait. when she lied about an excuse about her car about an excuse, that meant something. insecurity in the face of distress. some freudian impulse, to cover up her lack of a dick to cover up her soul. personality. face of distress.
and when you lose face you lose it. completely. you are nothing without the facade.
directed, observer
every time we punch in
personally the personality
frightens me
sinking deep into the teeth
white jaws cracking
crumbling
like so many sugar cubes
melted like tea
over my bones
slicking my throat
with something other than salt
tears
and there is a point
when you want to stop
freeze frame everything
and return, go back, re-live
rewatch, re-evaluate, regrade
retrograde
close up your mouth mind
taking you home
watching the curve of your
white jaw
and the little speckles
of black dust
like so:
dotting your face, multiple
incarcerations of my directed glance
every time i look at you
i fall a little more in
i scratch my thighs and think
what life would be like without
my lips on that triangular patch
on your chin, then your lips
kiss you with eyes closed
or when yours lash shut
you frighten me
in so many ways
i can't handle your love
ruminations on cue.
11-25-09