it's 7:15 in the morning. a brisk breeze is sweeping into my bedroom from the open basement window. i can hear a stolen shopping cart being raggedly rolled past in the alley. the wheels on asphalt and the metal clanging & reverberating with each bump until it stops at the next garbage bin. i can almost sense the whiteness of their knuckles as they grip and push through the uneven terrain of urban desolation. unable to see, i can't help but wonder who's madness is behind the cart & how long it's been with them - how much of their madness does that one cart contain? sometimes a cart to wake up with and put my madness into each morning sounds like a remedy. i'm trying to stay clam & listening helps me. there is so much life out there that i'm not living. or even observing. how much "-ness" there is and how tiny of a micro fraction i am. it's strange that no one has the same world, though we all coexist on one planet. even my own life is separated into varying existences and time loops. for instance, my dear stephanie just called me and is stuck in the thick of traffic. even her experience, while lived simultaneously next to mine, is vastly varying. she's calm and has the radio tuned into NPR. hearing her voice grounds me in the most immense permanent way. it's absolute ludicrous upon the sound of it how fast i can crumble to sadness of her vacant presence, even when she's only been gone half an hour. i've never known this. quite frankly, i'm bad at it. with each moment, we have wreathed our souls together, and are evermore eternally entwined. full circle. continuous and capturing. which we have sprinkled salt around and blessed with spells of binding and protection. though, i must soon too construct a separate one within our wreath around my own knowingness in order to cleanse. cognizance is a brutal fate. especially when rapt within a mutated state of delirium. but i'm awakening. and i will compote the waste to build an enriched fertile footing from which to grow.

i've never experienced this much and this little at once.

spirit writing my own horoscope - Monday, May 12, 2014 .

at this time you feel your life. you are particularly attracted to the ideals of a painless, easy way. you are now provided the opportunity to be prepared for sudden shifts. key issues arise becoming involved in some form of projecting your imagination on others. but the probability is higher than you were aware. following the crowd to hide, impatient and rather reckless at times, you experience major unexpected, sudden changes in your dreams. you are also very prone to fantasize about a more perfect idealistic state. at this, probably deceiving yourself. you should not. you are impulsively affectionate and awakened at this time. and the novelty and possibilities for the changes push to consciously initiate them. the only caveat is to keep quite restless, though you are so, so lazy. sometimes a wave of spontaneous, responsive, and creative flows in over and you are inclined to be moved, though be wary of deception from others in life. perhaps more importantly, you believe in unexpected ways. you promise to gain a fresh, more inspired perspective. you tend to project there is a high probability that some people will try to take advantage of the exaggerated and fantastic, then as your own tendency persists, form a great distance to others. you now seek what will not necessarily occur now. also, you may find that you cannot restrain your imagination; let it soar. for this time period sensations of rebelliousness and abrupt changes in adventure await. impulsive decisions that you can regret take an exotic vacation. visit the low point in your ability to reach spiritual aspirations, effectively unveiling an inspiring place. you tend to become seriously disoriented and experience a more imaginative, unstable territory. psychically make major decisions and be weary of any tendency to drink to excess, you are prone to make sudden sadness. you entertain more fantasies than you realize, and easily slip into a disoriented and confused state of mind. even danger zones. be very careful when in a more magical, awe-inspiring world. a way to escape from practical affairs is watching many movies as a used for medical purposes. though may cause emotional upheaval. so be very careful with an urgency now. this is the feel you need to escape from your daily routine and immerse yourself in the very disorienting and confusing. during this time you are likely to find yourself reading fantasy with practical affairs. exciting world. time. you are driven more by sudden intuitions and dreams grip you. you pretend to be very strong at this time, and a stable, predictable. that offers an easy victim of this deception. find yourself.

the expected honk
in the quite void
still startles you -
cowered deep down
(and unwillingly) you've begun morphing
into a manila cocktail of moon,
headlights, and the taxi's own reflection
(which rests hitting your body
with aggravating precision
through your tightly shut
drapes). you have perfected
the act of sinking
on the couch in your head,
which is raggedly outdated
and never replaced
because (memories) - watching,
but unmoving as hours drain
like blood from the sky -
the stars turn to flames
in this infinite vigil 
(brutal is the slaughter
you have grow to know
all too well). abruptly, the screech
of hot rubber, asphalt, and tar,
the sounds of
black on black on black -
it's gone & you don't care
as you walk with cracking ankles
to turn on the stove and make a cup of tea
like a complacent coward - but you rest
easily, because everything
(in this moment) is now
as gone
as you -
yet, amidst the massacre
darkness always wins -
there is a neglected
glister glinting gently
& playing off the whites
of your emptiness 

soft stabbing sound
of a needle
breaking through fabric
swift low whiz
of crimson string
being pulled through
displaying an un-beating
vein embedded body
...can't help but
wish for echos
each stitch craves
homage to remember
the puncture's origins
rests within hands
far too familiar

Joanna Newsom - Ribbon Bows (with lyrics)

you still feel it there. so you dig it out and get it in the palms of your hands. the trashcan is in the other room, and you don't want to. your nose bled only once, like an omen. it haunts you. the anxiety of your body is staring in your face. you wad it up real small so you can hide it. you push it down between the bed and the wall. a soft kleenex stained red. the wetness seeping slowly in as portions begin to disintegrate. you shiver as it vanishes bit by bit, back into your body.

never be certain. everyone's a tragedy. ticking. everyone's a tragedy holding in them the most sacred lonely girl drinking wine. running it over her tongue in small circles to taste so deep. it gets better with age. pouring, sipping, waiting. sipping, pouring, sipping, waiting. it will happen. cyan is ticking. it's the moon's color. it's the color of a lifeless body. the final color of humanity. it's creeping up our fingertips. do we hold pulses or merely ticks?

I was looking for my sketchpad and accidentally found a book with some of Her poetry. I didn't mean to. It was hidden behind one of the boxes I put in a cupboard without unpacking -- which, of course, was filled to the brim with satin warm toned expired photography paper and notes about masculinity vs femininity. I thought it was an old 90's calendar based on the panoramic shape & large white plastic spiraled binding. I was going to flip through for some laughs, but there, on the left page was Her name boldly printed beneath a piece of poetry. My blood rushed. I could feel the tips of my fingers buzzing & slowly swelling into a red pulse with each. My heart beats in the rhythm of Her words. When she gets home, I will hold my hand on her cheek and thank her for existing.

She has a cold. And I get sad so easily. She comes home exhausted and with too many pressures that I wish so badly I had a pause button. She can't think, so we walk through the Seattle drizzle to get a large bowl of veggie Pho on Broadway, then to the store for Rum. We start to watch something funny, but She's too exhausted. She asks me if She can take the Tylenol Cold & Flu medicine we bought, but I say no since we had a couple drinks. And feel really bad. I hate not having control in situations like this. It's so hard not being able to make her better. She turned over to sleep. And I get sad because it's still early and I missed Her all day, but I know she needs it. I'm quiet a minute or two before I hear Her breaths slowly deepening. I kiss Her neck, then write this.

My head hard in the nape of Her. My joints are disintegrating to nothing but Her. Eventually I move my body and feel a slight slide of conscious breath. As if by instinct, before my body creaks like someone you've grown old with, birds have started chirping, I inhale and I pull Her closer into me. I squeeze for Her heartbeat, I listen for Her breathing. The purest pain. And I have no control. My arm right beneath her breasts. I listen. You try to kiss me. I smile, but Every morning, while it's still dark & no body is even fully awake, I turn my neck & almost cry because I'm scared now. I'm scared of what's happening to my body.

Never perceived this current transition to transpire. And “You’s” have turned into “We’s.” Which is foremost shocking bearing in mind the We’re okay. The We can breathe. My “I’s,” I’ll never be so foolish again. I want to press these keys to the point that they nearly shatter, or at least tremor severely. The last time I was writing in a frequent state everything was so solitary. I didn’t mind it. Though having Her now, it’s comforting in a way I never imagined it would or could be – especially considering all my desirings were muse-ish dreams states. It feels so damn good. She’s in front of me now. She’s here. She really, really is. She’s mine. How does She exist and how am I not just romanticizing this in my mind? I have hardly written anything in the past (very almost) two years of Her mystic presence. These have been the most enchanting years of ever in my existence & I wrote fucking nothing. How could I’ve been so senseless? My rapping on this keypad is nearly blaring in volume. I want Her to ask me, almost. Just so that I can kiss Her hand or forehead, which will be the perfect degree of lukewarm. It’s hitting me that this sound is not secretive anymore. I’ve been scared to write about Her. I’ve never been so careful the way I am with Her. So considered, yet so open. How strange it is to even acknowledge.

Reflecting. It troubles my psyche. I’m disappointed in it in the same way I’m disappointed in not keeping record. I got so rapt. Fuck, the rhythm my body got used to in one swift. I used to write, and then I was found. Why have I not even journals anymore? Not any art piece even stirred out of me. Everything except you was worthless. I, wanting nothing but you. Nothing. How’ve I not been cataloging? A dark fear is forgetting you. The you pureness. The perfect blankness you provide in yourself for me when I am desperate to escape from the madness. That’s why before I found you I wrote the way you did. I almost hated you. Masterpiece. I so desperately, almost hurriedly used to exist in a constant motion of scooping, but these past two years have been snowflakes. So delicate and beautiful and as if slow motion, then suddenly morphed to fast-forward. All of the sudden, accumulation. Abruptly, and disrupting. I got so rapt. I forgot to write. I forgot motion exploded sometimes. I’ve been reflecting on how scarcely I’ve been the same way. I get disappointed every time. All past emptyings, now I have to fill, fill, fill. Bloated because I wasn't supposed to ever find you, though I have indulged. I wanted my world of wishful. Yet, so aggressively they would melt. How’ve you not evaporated?

and the shards in history remember the age. there's mud on the ground and glass. she was run down. hid from the dreams she held. hard to keep inside. what is she looking for? see her body and you believe the blues. her photograph. now submerged in winter's totem of ice which constantly is melting into gray mirrors that you so avidly avoid looking at directly. "why?," you whisper. one eyebrow slightly contracts as you swallow and fold your arms against your body. it's been years. she's been gone. you're always empty.

i know i've already posted today, but i cannot get over the view that is just outside my door. i get to see this glorious landscape even when just walking home from the grocery store. texas, i just don't think i could ever miss you (except for your mexican food).  soul is so fulfilled and swept perpetually.

thoroughly freaked out. stephanie & i both had one gift that was not going to make it by xmas, even though we both ordered them near the beginning of december. since today marks the eve and we both knew we wouldn't have said gift yet we decided to open an image of what the gift was on our computers and then close them/trade for each other to open at the same time. and to put it modestly - both our faces dropped entirely at the precise same moment. as you will see in the image below:

for her, from me: a gray hoodie with the dr. who tardis printed on it in the center.
for me, from her: a gray hoodie with a moon umbrella printed on it in the center.

and to make it not any less eerie at all - we both have very similarly sized presents under the tree for tomorrow. this shall be interesting.

  

can't dream because my skull is tingling like your foot does when it's asleep. so instead i'm flipping through old photographs. mind looping. creating its own reveries by piecing together all the rectangular 4x6 relics in my hard-drive like broken bones which i quiveringly unearth as some archeologist of memory. i don't know if this is any easier than just fighting my eyelids.

i keep saying it, and i keep falling through. but i must start writing again. mostly to keep my memories close in this time of vast transition. this morning we saw the first snow of the season. it was so delicate and seemed to float in a gravity defying paradox. i just kept staring into it, waiting for it to swoop me up and swallow me whole. i was so rapt that my fingers froze through and i could hardly move my bones, but i managed just enough shaky strength to form my very first compact ball of the fluff in my life, then proceed to throw it at my darling. and we both laughed when it hit, but then i felt immediately awful because in my inexperience from existing most of my life in texas i was unaware of how painful a seemingly innocent snowball could be. but now i know and am anxiously awaiting the next snowfall. this time i will follow it's lead, be more gentle. make an angle or something.

"bonsai, bonsai, it's better to write than die." - patti.

her love is the blanket so beautifully molded beneath my skin that i cannot help but wake with its imprints upon my body.