Why I'm Not Writing

1. i am, as i know many of you are, anxious about the fate of the world. i am anxious that people have not yet understood the idea of a gradated tax scheme. i am anxious because there is an inchoate hope that is starting to sing and if silenced now- there will be a very heavy despair to follow. i cannot concentrate on too much else right now. Which is why
2. the past is not usually a source of happiness for me. Sure there are moments of tenderness in it, and various memories glow a little, but by and large, the past is a burdensome weight to carry. There is one thing in my past however that always makes me happy, no matter the occasion: the West Wing. in this world, i am greatly thankful for having many incredible friends, which enrich me constantly. And amongst the group that forms us, no one is as enshrined in me as the two people who come immediately to mind as soon as the music of the opening credits starts to play. and the conversations we've had, debating public policy, or greater principles, or whether i most resemble Joshua Lyman or Toby Ziegler. And in a time when i think the world is overrun by not just ignorance, but by arrogant ignorance (a smug acceptance and propagation of the doctrine of uninformedness, like in high-school where it was cool to not know the answer), there are very few guiding lights to remind people of the loftiness of civic duty, the ingenuity of the ethos of democracy, of participation in the issues that matter to it: free speech, the rights of women, the necessity for accurate and specific language, the hope it has the potential to breed (yes we can).
   
   West Wing is not a television show to me. it is a time. a little universe. it is a universe made of a few people. a theme song. a yellow couch. a dark office dubbed the batcave. that time during the fast when Martha came to my office and sat with me and said prayers with me. Of walks down steep hills. and people crying on park benches for no reason at all (which continues to make perfect sense to me). all that. And i can't believe anyone truly knows me if they don't know the West Wing. There's too much they'd miss. (like Southpark). (or Bach). But, now, here's the amazing thing, for the first time in my life, something of the past is having a retroactive influence that's actually positive. My orientation to law school begins on January 12th. I already have a two-page list of places i might like to intern. my resume is almost ready to be sent out to potential part-time employers. i have plans for exchanges, and cram-a-thons, and...when i'm bored out of my mind in torts, or contracts, or civil procedure, or criminal- in my head i'll always see Josh sitting on the front steps outside of his house saying to Amy: I'm sorry I wasn't around in school... I'm not as smart as the other guys... I just had to work really hard... for this. This is all I've ever really wanted to. And I'll feel better about it. And because... for the first time since high-school, my academic pursuits make sense to me. Make sense for me. And I see paths and directions that can be uncovered that are amazing, and most importantly, exciting to me. I see discussions of civil liberties, and diplomacy, and arguments over precise wording, and how subtle facts demonstrate that the rights of women are still undervalued. I want to fabricate uproar about abortion (before secretly apologizing to my lord because I'm 100% pro-choice). For the first time in my entire life, the past is a source of inspiration, and not a dead weight that reminds me of bruises and failures and a geanology of all the cracks my body now wears for ornaments.
   
3. i bought a SMART car. it's tiny and drives more like a go-kart than a car. it gets 1000km per tank of fuel (33 litres), which is to say: it just about runs on urine and saliva. I wanted to upload pictures but can't find my camera anywhere. in Los Angeles, for lack of anything else, getting haircuts became a rite for me- a 'feel-good'. a thing you do to celebrate, or, alternatively, a thing you do when everything sucks and your life sucks and you suck and if you just come home looking different maybe that's a good stimulus for change. tomorrow i think i'm going to get a haircut.
   
4. i'm breaking down a wall tomorrow to double the size of my room. then i'm putting up shelves. then i'm tearing up carpets and putting down wood. mostly: i'm not really writing. nothing's coming to me. nothing but plans and re-plans and counter-plans and hopes and hopes and hopes. and for right now, i've taken love, and history, and gravity, and time, and told all of them to go screw themselves, and i've squished them into a litte man-box (the size of a shoe-box) and hidden them away in a dark closet-corner in the back of my head somewhere where they'll be out of the way and they won't remind me of the ghosts that used to feed on me. there they can gnaw at shadows and make little muttering noises i won't have to deal with unless i'm listening to Bon Iver (and i'm glad someone other than me thinks any winter is a good winter). For my friends in North America, bon hiver mon freres.

A Sunday Smile, a waltz, by Beirut___(more variation-experiments)

____i.
a sunday smile
the farther i get from__ (escape from)
the end of the lap ___ _(escape towards)
starting.end point(s) , convergence(s)
again
again
again


____ii.
what's to say for the days i cannot bare?,
unclothe, unsheathe, unwrap (hand and foot), undress,
unmisunderstand, unconsider, undistinguish from:
the days i cannot bear.


____iii.
a sunday smile,
in israel a saturday one,
in los angeles with yogurt,
in seattle every one a walk,

____also, trees that are pink remind me
____(and who we.you were
____is dismantled into constituent antarcticas)

a sunday smile,
in the present
with a breeze, a calm forgetfulness,
a nowhereness
a how the whereness
a howness


____iv.
__a sunday smile:
__a fishing hook,
__the center of gravity,
__the heart of the shadow beating in gradations of gentle somber nothingness,
__a transparent entity, __(and memory its transparent anatomy)
__a blinding disparity, __(by any other name is still love)
__the join of the fold turned twice upon itself notices a slice of remembrance and acknowledging the infinity of that one moment (the sunday smile) concedes to itself the future is locked away in a dark spot no one can find inside a cadaver,__ (we've horded soo long, we take with us)
__the magnet of lips,
__the sound of bare arms in bare gardens in bare youth,
__the light brown hair of white white backs,
__the silence of,
__inevitable failure of,
__geological certainty of,
__the always here again morning reminds us what didn't wake up,
__the fan turns above my head and reminds me of death,
__a sunday smile:
__a fossil (of),
__death rite, missing dream, future rides away no horseman there to guide it,
__unmanaged cough (the anticlimax),
__the sharp steel of cuts through,
__your shoulders and, your wrists, your thighs and ankles and,
__falling

On Everything ___(Some Portraits) (Fragments)

Isn't there any body you want back from the grave? We were less generous in our time

____Palinurus







Glen Erler from Tiny Vices


On Words

it's easy enough when you deal with truncate, which can happen- say the ending of a story, or...

____- do you mean it?
____- what?
____- what you just said to me, __do you mean it (?)
____- [...]
____- [she looks at him looking at the table top, lost in nothing, just having decided he'd come to the end of something, but she couldn't sense what]
____- [...]
____- yes.
____- then say so.

but dress is a tetrapod. 1. dress me mommy __2. such a beautiful pattern on your dress __3. a tower built of dressed stone __4. we have dressed professional clowns for three generations. But at least it has corners. What about night, what about visions what about (i'm scared to say it, it's too big: love) (time) (history) (gravity) what about them? I have no sense of words, what words mean - it is a morphic heiroglyphics the language of poets and fictionalists- like shapes made of shadows: that come and go and grow sharp and can smile and diminish and be vague and are grey on sidewalks and experience wind all on their ownsome.

when someone says to me "nightvisions", or "i'm gonna fly right through the walls", or "i will, i will", or "i love(d) him.her" or "it's my shoulder blade" or "please?" or "sshhh" i cannot collapse that universe to mean just one thing. there is no such thing as just one thing. i do not know a just one thing, even god can only be interpreted as the whole of alleverything from allinfinity(past) to allinfinity(future) including alltheinfinity(of the present) bar no fly, no kitchen sink, no emotion passing through a dead man's wife at his funeral, no palpitation in the heart of young strangers making out by the grass besides the river, or the parallel fifths of Debussy. i am a failure.


On Life As It Once Stood

i am wearing a tshirt that says ONE PLANET
______________________ONE PEOPLE
_____________________ ___...PLEASE
____ ___ _ _____ ________ __Baha'i Faith
i remember too many things from that day. a long parade. an overcast day. we were tired (the two kids, my cousin and i) by the end of it. our parents promised us burgers if we just got through to the last. Ended finally and there was a Carl's Junior right at the finish line. That was 19early90something, i was a little fat that year and my cheeks were puffy, and my hair was still an unkempt fro. We were a poor family, just returned from Africa. my sister had just been borned (all babies want to be borned) so we were also a sad family. except for me, i wasn't sad, as much as i was... confused. one day i was playing with my yellow (hollow) plastic baseball bat (which was also: a sword, machine gun, a row for a rowboat, walking stick, normal stick, karate stick, electric guitar, fireman's pole, pilot's gear-stick, snake, magic flute) in the quiet living room where no one ever came and the dust was always gold in the air and i'd stare out in front of me and follow them around, perennial falling stars (since i wouldn't see a shooting star for another 8 years), wounded fireflies, or drifting galaxies lingering in gravity's tail end - all silence and sorrounded by the black of a shadow civilization, and my mother walked in red cheeks, puffy eyes and said: Qdudsu, you have to be a grown-up now. I'm sorry, there's no more time for you. and walked off. Which of course made little sense at the time, given that He-Man had just been given the 'other half' by The Sorceress, and must now prevent Skeletor from linking the two halves to gain access to the castle. Unconcerned, i unsheathed my yellow sword and dived back onto the persian rug that bore too many of my tiny sole's steps for those years.

After that there was no Carl's Junior for 19 odd years. When I finally returned to a Carl's Junior, an too, too long night, Monz and J-Bird exhausted from the drive, and me still too lethargic at the realization that i could not just climb under Sunday afternoon and be lost there forever. it seemed smaller, the burger this is, smaller. dripped a transparent oil so we were all a slippery wet by the end of it, lubricated inside and out, and the 2am soft-drink was too sweet and too sharp and felt like a pierced acrid farewell (like the soo too many others i've known, made, manufactured, been happy for, would rather die than have gone through with, died doing, was born at the moment of

________III. Finale, Duetto: Adagio ma non tanto

____- this is what you want?
____- __i , _think , it's ; it is, is , ___for the best.
____- [I did not know death was so strange]
____- hey? ____hey ... you gonna be alright?
____- sure.
____- i... it. ____hm.
____- hey. don't worry ok, it's. ____fine.
____-
________________
________________fine.


I wear it now almost as a joke. I am full of jokes today. I am riddling myself silly. Constantly challenging the who-i-am/who-i-was ,__ who-i-want-to-be/who-i-shouldn't-let-myself-be ,__ who-the-f-am-i frontiers. and mostly, no matter how you spit on it, it got me here.


On Here

the bedsheets are still pink. (today my sister, after seeing the net-link i sent her, cracks up. she has a high-pitched laugh, genuine, absolutely ebullient, are_you_crazy? that's the ugliest car i've ever seen! which makes me soo happy, because she is laughing). i'm not sure what's happening. or true. or... present. where we are (going), if there's any more room to fall, or if it's safe to start believing now in uphill climbs, in altitude, in slow, placid love affairs that feel like feathers (and not semi-trailers), in the concept of future, in meaningness, in floors that actually are there beneath your feet and hold you in place- locked into a certain space and time- like a pivot, in the universe and i's general concurrence.

there are the mistakes of the poet- derived from the multifid nature of some words, and the transgressive, shadowy nature of others. there are the mistakes of the man, derived from steeps and notches of inexperience and miswisdoms and brutal roullette games; and the vague, floating.diving.falling.sinking realms of human whatever-all-of-it is that drips and drops in and out just in time to ignite tragedies, and remind miracles to occasionally show up.

Also, i don't even know what this post is about. I don't know even know what anything is about- but i tell myself it's about tomorrow, which alone is an irrational enough idea, that it just might be worth staying human for.

and but what? (notapoem)

via bigfun

yes, there's that too,
characterizing my voice as winter,
not a single note can be reduced to a blossom,
but crack and sneeze and huddle together like cold lovers
walking down peaceful promenades.

____to constantly
____what i , the point of , saying is :
____of course there's a point to (at which) which
____sensing finally dream from stone , (man alive, what gentle slip is the sun in these afternoons)
____which is diffracting at angles that makes souls (

who is the spark of us?
or what, or where or how can you unlock me from the outside?

____of course there's no point to
____besides the obvious one
____(who's gonna save us? or at least me... who's gonna save me?)

drip gentle somenothing, unravel and decline gently into goodnights
it's not that i wish you were here with me, but that i was there with you,
or just there , and you too just there , and symbiotic -
growing together like

____it is impossible to say what i mean.
____and what mute life is this that i should be soo bound
____unable to describe even its dry hair?
____what am i saying other than i don't smoke, i don't,
____i don't ____(know no no know)

palindromes derived from all sorts of
shantih shantih shantih

____(where there is no peace or transcendence)

(where there is no piece but of transcendence)

mikrokosmos

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

____EE Cummings







avalon 2, tommy oshima

____i. (16 perspectives of )
a long strand of hair, curled back once,
on page 43 of a thin book, a dark-brown bookmark,
a pigeon in time, a proteinous photograph,
the least dying part of you, a flimsy statue,
an unworthy epithet, a prophet's last chance,
can i smell it to find you yet again?,
at every turn you hide: memory history future tide,
my fingertips smile to touch you, the shape of a crossroad,
traintracks, my cold feet as i walked in the snow in prague,
soo many voices condensed, the light of two bedrooms,
the night of two moons.


____ii. (nocturne)
i stretch out at night, inhale persistently - finding newer darkness to reach for.in.towards,
and smelling the rain grass bursts of night fidgeting against pale clouds that pass still by
and hold themselves like teeth, and fade at last stretched so thin into the colors i found always
too deep to contemplate but too apparent to misunderstand.


____iii. (sahar)
the pink sheets, the violet flowers, this bed was made for another person's dreams. no wonder i sleep with unicorns, white bearded prophets, and little girls that only walk or float- but never sit, never in chairs, and never with crooked eyes see a world they can't ever touch.


____iv. (dirge)
i am jealous of the future of my bones since it is the most certain of my futures. solid now, solid then, a slight crack or two does little to diminish the shape of a humorous (and with its gentle bend a mona lisa might be smiling at time.place.nouns packing unpacking itself under a tree in a park watching yet another sunset with a stopwatch), and the incus - a tiny shell in my ear that sings the songs of Ocean's too-many lost loves (a starfish clown, a white cloud, and a tattoo bearded sailor) in the slightest murmur, little waves unheard seen or imagined by even the grass's ears: when my heart rests its muscled lips and my eyes sleep under blackest skies, my brain's tenor voice silent does as silence says all is silence not now but then, but then: my bones will mark an asterix of once ribbed cage and once wobbly knees, certain as the sand that will wear them eventually to white dust, finally snowflakes or desert sand or a flicker in a sun's briefest smile. the final echo of the final syllable of the lastest word of the lastest breath of the lastest moment of my lastest death.


____v. (don't explain, by nina simone)
what blue music, your songs always tinkle behind dusty red curtains i see shiver from the sighs of flowers in vases disturbing the air, vacant rooms but for thick air from the weight of dust, palmless pianist's fingers, a darkened auditorium stage - wires leading from shadow to shadow, and empty seats only memory has the patience to recline in, your blue music stares every note back into silence, every rest recedes back into the kiss of yours saved in a dark chest, every ivory key two more centimeters of the width of your ceaseless back, and the sound of footsteps always hovers, delicate clicks like a metronome, all the time in the world can't save the silence you've made in me.


____vi. (prayer)
finally, a moment just between you and i, dear universe, dear alleverything, dear delicacy, dear fragility, dear fallibility, dear so beautiful more than anyotherthing, dear momentary, dear ceaselessly soft, i think of you in simple terms, you feel to me like my fingertips along tulips' petals (butterfly wings, lips, babies fingertips, lover's eyelids, dream's final goodbye!), dear sweetheart, dear love, dear peaceful restful place, asleep in your lap, asleep in your hair, awake hand in hand, awake sun in hand, awake night after night, awake drifting off to nowhere's extended span, dear heavy history, dear bested past, dear gone too fast, dear finally at last, all that's left all that's to come, will soon pass, dreams and tip-toes and tipped frames and shoes in hallways, all that's born dear alleverything is soon to bud, dear deepful thing, when i close my eyes i fall always, gravity is inside me (not out), and all that's out leads back in, home sweet home, dear monday, dear Constantinople, dear friend, all my life's just your hem; dear cosmos, dear infinity, dear maturity, all that's one, all that's one, i know nothing but you and diminish you to color and word and palm-to-breast, forgive me now, all that's left is left to rest, all that's left is yet to test, all that's left is yes and yes.

on im)possibilities(?

____yes we can.










ffffound

my thoughts have been with this man these last few days. for any number of reasons. some of them arbitrary. i like his haircut, and think maybe i should try it out. i have been thinking about his grandmother, and how she explained to her friends that her daughter was marrying a very dark man from Kenya. (and some years later, an Indonesian man). i can't say entirely why i relate to the Senator from Illinois on an almost personal level- i almost never relate to television-personalities on a personal level, and least of all politicians. Clinton has way more sex than me, and he's cool. JFK has this ease about him, he always looks like a magazine fashion spread. President Bush is too masculine for me. Committed, personable, jovial. i tend to feel more comfortable around people who see more grey than black&white. (i'm scared if they see black&white, then i won't be visible). But Mr. Obama i relate to. i think in many ways he must be lonely right now, in the sense that... in 10 days (or 9, depending on where in the world you are), he may be the first man in a while to walk on the moon. to find a leprechaun. to breathe life into old i have a dreams. But why should i relate to him? He's... intellectually far superior to just about anyone i've ever met. he's thorough, pragmatic, precise. he carries himself with a modesty that you don't often see. he manages to make plain-cut suits trendy. he loves his wife. he isn't daunted by the things he's being called. if he's sensitive to it, he doesn't let on. sometimes, i think he must get home at night, take his white shirt off (and i imagine him walking around his hotel room in a white, ribbed singlet, his trousers and matching socks still on), wash his face under luke-warm water, and look up into the mirror and think: wtf. how'd this happen? is the world really ready for this? how'd it happen to me? that's the marvel of this, thanks to Gatsby, Hunter S. Thompson, Rovian politics (and a stolen election), i'd more or less decided the American Dream (which, by the way, is the entire world's dream: to live in peace, to be given enough space to speak your mind, practice your religion, love your wife, raise your children, earn a fair wage for a hard-day's labor, and watch your babies grow in a world where their hard-work can amount to success- in whatever endeavor they find fascinating. that's not just an American dream, that's a universal dream) was long-dead. Perhaps once true, but now true only in the minds of Willy Loman, poor kids who haven't anything else to believe in, and the misguided unicorn followers. the rest of everyone knows that poor kids go to poor schools, get poor jobs, and live proletarian lives.

and yet, i can't get the images out of my head. a skinny dude with big ears, wearing a suit that's an inch more fitted than typical (the suit wears a mischievous smile of fashionista in camoflouge, as though it were smiling at the over-sized under-fashioned USA going: admit it, you guys can't dress worth a damn, i prove it) and standing there, dumbing down his vocabulary in order to convince people that it might be true: yes_we_freaking_can. So i sit there and think, well... can i? I mean... really... can i? Can i get through law school with above average grades? can i get a decent internship? can i... be a good man in an ungood world? can a half-black man with an Arab name become POTUS, i mean, are you effing kidding me? these last few days i've been thinking of something Barrack Obama said earlier in this campaign (to paraphrase):

"I am being called anti-American. I am being called a dissident. That's fine. Abraham Lincoln was a dissident. Martin Luther King was a dissident. Having views that are different from those of official policy does not make you anti-American- in those two cases, those men were great Americans"

so i think of the dissidents that i know who might be up in heaven with ambrosia dripped on popcorn, and nectar mixed into their frozen cokes. Socrates (i believe in domacracy) Ghandi (i believe in peace) Martin Luther King (i believe in dreams)... my grandfather, who perhaps didn't care about any of this 'stuff' while he was alive, i wonder if he's sitting up there now too, thinking: dear humanity, this is your chance to be human. this is your chance to dream that amazing things can happen.

i might be exaggerating, i don't know, i am prone to frequent hyperbole. But for some reason, when i see the man with the large ears standing in front of a podium that says CHANGE, i think, 'i can get perfect grades. i can get find a decent car for 5 grand. i can find a law-firm that will take me a few days a week. i can get into Northwestern on exchange next year. i can be more.' i really do. and there's no reason to feel that way, Barrack Obama (as i heard on CNN yesterday "a once in a lifetime intellect, and a once in a lifetime temperament", that's certainly not me, not i), and yet... some part of me wants to whisper, q... yes we can!. and a little buzz passes through my body, like, even though this world is ripping at the seams and cracking at its joins, we we we we we (can!) put it back together. and even though i made the wrong decision and studied the wrong thing and was too stubborn to change and pursued a trojan horse across four years of deserts and then fell into love and fell out of medical school and spent a year lying by the pool in Santa Monica reading Ulysses and prayers and feeling homeless and lost and unloved and under-achieving and under-performing and under-sexed and under-loved and under-a-too-massive-heavy-ceaseless-blanket-called-unwilling-uninterested-make-it-stop-this-is-too-long-now-life,
despite all that... can we (of all people), be of some use in putting the cracked vases back on shelves, and helping the other we-canners stitch sleeves back onto this ripped shirt(everything)? And the thing is...
the thing is...
the thing is...

i really want to believe we can.
and i really want to. (do it)
and i really want us to do it all together.

it's been an awful long time since i had a feeling like this world could change. (and for some reason, if the world is capable of change, then me too, my little puny life, my little puny intellect, my silly unintentional actions, that's able to change too... do you know what that means? it means anyeverything! anyeverything! what else does one need in life than to believe sincerely that anyeverything is possible? just with hard work and a fair go you can do anyeverything. and that... gives me goosebumps.

(because one man could remind a nation that we can all be new (wo)men and together we can do anyeverything)

Lay Down Your Arms

the first immediate problem, or at least, the one that's most visible to the clothed eye is a dichotomous schism thing that I'm feeling these days: a very light feeling of hopefulness (like vast cavities of space and time and circumstance opening up inside me, and also outside me, so that world could actually have things in it I don't know about yet... which is a truism, but I don't often feel this way), and a terrible brutal hatred of all that's come before (the vast caverns of coiled up, tortuous highways and byways and chanceways and wronglanes that clog up the greater part of my insides so that my chest is always heavy with past-tense and my lips can grow soo sad soo fast and my eyes disturb me with the things they fail to concede... the heavy weight of myself atop myself, choking me, like Jerusalem, city after city after city built on the same ground so that one can't tell corpse bones from kitchen sinks. In other words, I can't completely lose myself in this (though to a certain extent, I really want to), I'm held in place by a thick string of history. a conscious awareness of all i've wasted, lost, gained, had to go through, lose, give up, give in, give away, to get here (if here is a place that's worth being or not i still don't know).

the second immediate problem (if it's second it's not immediate, i know this, but it's a kinda uber-literary humor thingee) is this freaking annoying song: Lay Down Your Arms. Wanting to be a new man begins with wanting new music. Bon Iver, the Bug, Fleet Foxes, some recent dance music... I was doing well. but it's not esoteric enough. Being the genius that I am, I found a way to crack myspace with safari, and got busy clicking around trying to find the greatest song ever ever to inspire a new century of me-ness (anyone who thinks I am less than a hundred years old doesn't me). Of course I found a few things. Strange things mostly, a band called Bodies of Water that sound like happy Christians (men and women both) singing and clapping and dancing around one of those old-skool surfer V-dubs. But the real mouse-trap of the night came courtesy of one of those soft-spoken, no-need-to-shave man-boys who called himself: Flowers From the Man Who Shot Your Cousin. The song is a lovesong (of sorts) (also, it's an anatomy lesson because it mostly goes through the parts of a woman he'd like to touch: your ankles, your knees, your shoulder, your back). It is infective. I haven't been so sick with a song since Final Fantasy did a charming cover of the Stars' (as Anjie pointed out more than a year ago: the band is Canadian) Your Ex-Lover is Dead. (now that bastard of a song drove me, and probably Gol just about out of our minds). In any case.

I'm currently trapped midcenter of a complicated confluence. Today, in various boxes I found different things: a CD Monz had sent me last year titled 'Truths (at dawn)', which I sat down and listened to. Any number of love-letters that I found easier than expected to dispose of, though the leitmotif my heart which is the preferred closing statement will stay with me too long. Photographs of Martha straightening my hair. Pics of V that I had packed 4 years ago and took to Haifa with me and pinned to the walls of every single one of my rooms. A book called Conversations with Great Composers - Mr D and I spent an entire afternoon in the studio, me reading aloud while he painted and nodded furiously. "more, more". "you sure dude? i've been reading for like an hour" "more, just read the whole chapter, it's fascinating don't you think?" (he's referring to the conversation with Brahms) "it's incredible- it really is" "good. so keep reading" Photographs of too many ghosts i one day knew and i'm saddened to think if they saw me now they wouldn't know me.

This probably isn't a very interesting post is it?

i don't know what to say guys. i really don't. how does it all happen? this freaking song! it cracks me in half so all my themes come spilling out:

____- time (and all its variations and changes of velocity)
____- love (and all its permutations, tricks, sly smiles)
____- gravity (and all we have to lose, find, discover, destroy, in order to be led (lead the way) to whatever it is the final point is

and that's who i am i guess. the trinity. i am my inabiliy to fathom myself. my inability to contest happening from happening. (it just happens!, i don't know how, or where from... )

mostly,

______ __*__*
________^_ _^^
________**___**

(she leans towards me, i know she wants to kiss, but i hadn't counted on her making the move. magnets decide these things, no one's really in control- lips lead to lips the same way palms lead to palms. rudimentary physics. join like clasped hands. ___after it's done, i think, how rare it is, something that never existed now does- a whole trajectory, a new byway, a new universe bred into the buds of the hush that comes over kissers. the grass is now a different shape. the sky has a new weight. was your hair always that color? all this, hidden inside the soft sound of lips (like holding an orange segment lightly in your fingertips).
___she wants to move away, i sense that, but i don't want her to. she rests her forehead against mine, so her mouth moves away from me, our noses are spooning. i smile. she's feeling shy, sensing the new universe we now live in, if it's any better than the last ones she's known. i lift my hand out from wherever it's been hiding behind me, slip it past the veil her hair makes, falling over her face, partially pulling it aside in one move and resting my hand against her head, her ear between my thumb and forefinger. i pull her mouth back to mine. it's dark again because i have my eyes closed again. where are we? i say in an unintelligible language i'm sure she can hear with whatever organ conceives these moments. wherever we are... it's never been found before.