HISTORY
09.09.19
Philippines II
flock intuition will never be able to fully understand
herd mentality
like that – the best i can do
is remain open, empty
forget the tendencies nurture instilled
and learn from those who sing.
HISTORY
09.08.19
Philippines II
call me Satyr
my body has never truly felt my own
filling it with vice and pseudo control
half finished sentences we’re a little jagged
a little un-finished
when i die, bury me with the brambles and thorns
let me be dried blood iron,
sweet honey suckle and poplar.
bark tender for fire.
i’ve never been unique
one of a kind un-replaceable
my purpose here is somewhere
solitary in tolerance
servitude by example
around a plastic table five people play drunken questions
one man asks the other
“If you are a cactus, why?”
the other man does not miss a beat.
“Because I was born a cactus, and I shall serve as a cactus, I’ll be the best damn cactus i can be”
HISTORY
9.7.19
Philippines II
there’s a folk tale in this town.
it says pointing at trees will call the spirits
they’ll make your balls swell until you can no longer walk
Steph says “bit your finger if you point at trees.”
i jokingly say i’ll have no hands left soon
i know there is arrogance in me still
something disrespectfully unpure
i swear – im trying to drain me dry
become empty
malleable
HISTORY
9.5.19
Philippines II
sometimes i still roll up the little piece of paper
fancy i can move it with my mind
being in you, is kind of like that
breading hair under water
experiments
with static electricity
rubbing balloons on you head and sticking them to walls
talking to the oldest youngest physicist
who reminds me – there’s always a blind spot
and that makes vision perfect
like
how now matter how hard i try to move this tiny object
with the vastness of my heart
it will not budge
but what is inertia – to magic
like that
realizing things will never move on their own
but knowing they will still move
singing hallelujah until you cough up blood
cause the devil came from minds
but he left with our hearts
and a piece of it beats this country to life.
DANCER
9.3.19
and of course i could talk about
all the flight anxiety, the turbulence, how i didn’t drink the wine and only got vegetarian meals
i could write about chasing a robot down the airport terminal
finding wrist-less time on a dumpster
or lawyers, letters, immigration
my flute playing neighbor
portugal and lanzones
the size of the magnolias
how humid it is here
at the other side of the world
i could writre about about mercato
the kinship of another familiar place
posh breakfast with upper class yuppies
being called ma’am more time in one morning than in one year of my life
but all those words are tiresome compared to the sweetness
of your “good mornings!” your “how was your flight? ” – “and how about that flight?”
your questions both
a love note from home and
grounding me in the now
in the beauty of my luck
of my travels
how odd. to feel loved within your day – and not outside of it.
i think you’ll make the perfect travel partner after all.
DANCER
8.29.19
the clock ticking hours dipped in honey with you
the past increases
the future decreases
possibilities decreasing attempting to keep remorse at bay
whatever you are seeking wont come in the form you expect
your persistence gently breaking down mud walls
planting seeds taking root
creeping through stone walls they’re crumbling all barriers
when you speak to parts of myself so private
so secrete
they’re almost denied existence –
do you have any idea, how exposed you’ve made me?
dodging questions youre reading into me it’s terrifying
open my rib-cage an assault on the protected there’s nothing
hard cover left
my story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious,
as real stories are
it has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams-like the lives of all who stop deceiving themselves
im no writer, no dancer, no leader, nothing special
i dream
sometimes i feel that’s the one thing im good at
i live in my dreams maybe that’s what you sense
other people live in dreams, but not in their own
that’s the difference
so we struggle through laughter
you hold my hands above my head and i
melt into some new type of pleasure
no one likes change they didn’t elicit
im learning to be okay
to let go – let you, let life
take control
HISTORY
8.26.19
willingness to be accepted by a country has sullied me almost unjustifiably dishonest.
to set the record straight. my arms will be used to build homes, not tear them down.
BOTANICA
8.25.19
dear moss,
you are nobody’s hero. and nobody needs you. desperately.
id like to think all the hardest coldest people ive ever met were once as soft as water, that’s the tragedy of living.
im trying my best to be more like you
ever so patient with the one way tide
maybe thats the lesson here
to remain fluidly in now.
i mean, look at us – him and i and you i mean
paradise to ourselves
free
a universe of possibilities and yet
here we are, content to touch feet-to-water-to-moss
perhaps it s not so frighting
for love to make us blind to the world
the magic happens here, after all
in this shallow pool where cicadas and lovers play
MIRROR
8.24.19
Tupelo
i like your body against my body and the way it feels like conquering and wrongness.
i like the cracks in her voice
the broken record in her loud
i like witnessing the bow break
crystallizing change
we wouldn’t be human if we didnt hold hands
like Hiroshima held bombs
SUGARDADDY
8.23.19
of all human feelings lust and want are the most gullible
no wonder everyone here suffers from imposter syndrome. You’re not wrong, exactly. The part that breathes in you knows some celebrations are more funeral – something moral dies here tonight. there is nothing more feeding to ignorance than greed and delusion so they give you carnival ring leaders, aerialists and a four course meal. saturate you with a little more righteousness. Notice here “saturation” as one who cannot absorb or contain one single drop more. Notice here “saturation” does not bring with it a connotation of satisfaction, either in concept, or in experience.
and me? some weird type of cheering squad upper crust too there to ever bee fully here. longing for silks around my feet and fire in my belly. a modest front porch to cackle about the yuppies and their jerk circle. milk and honey. soothing high heel blisters with mud and horseplay.