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i guess in the world as she sees it
i wouldn’t break apart with what’s been done
i guess i am broken already
that’s why it hurts so much
i watch the wind whip the limbs and leaves
outside my window, and it is a horrible
sound

0 notes | 09.22.14
tags | wind | poetry | relationships | spilled ink


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The corn turns and rustling to my window in the wind it calls the bright stars and tells your breath to show itself. I drove her home.  Everything she said was static and I tried to work out the fuzziness in my mind. I needed rabbit ears and some patience to position them. I pulled in front of her house and she got out with her crutches. The aluminum click click click came around the car. She embraced me and I kissed the inside of her elbow. The smell of her perfume mingled with the golden-dried-up-plants-recently-wet air. I knew this would stick forever. I could see droplets of mist in the air and a red maple leaf drifted slowly down to rest in her dark hair.

2 notes | 09.11.14
tags | autumn | spilled ink | image prose | h


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“It’s inside the egg,” she said holding the glowing oval shape, well… thing. It was like one of those squishy toys that are some type of latex filled with some sort of gelatinous ooze, but this was solid and would tremble when I would reach out to it. This, of course, would make me hesitant to even take another step in its direction.
                “What’s in the egg,” I query.
                “It is.”
              I stand there and smile waiting for some sort of a punch line or explanation. She’d been over for a few days and I wondered why she hasn’t shown me this thing already, and she hadn’t gone out anywhere without me.
                “It’s our baby, she says, spittle spraying with both B sounds. She walks closer to me arms out stretched and instead of the egg being held up by her it seemed to be holding her up and I looked to see that her feet in fact were off the ground. I froze, my smile unchanged since she floated into the room.
                The breeze from the open window blew across my brow where I was breaking into a sweat. I never sweated from my forehead, not unless I was running. I was running into the egg. I felt an alcohol gel coolness around me and I was a baby: A tiny carp with cartoon eyes. My whiskers emitted a glow, like pastel glow sticks in every shade of orange, yellow, and blue. My vision was sharp. Everything was lined with a harsh severity. I was looking at me looking into the egg. I felt her hands holding me, warm, but not warm like affection, warm like the friction of machinery. I notice I am sweating, not inside the egg, but by the window. I watched myself edge to the window, climb out and jump. I become frozen, all my senses working but, I cannot move. She is walking again, to the window, and my glow fills the night outside and lights my white pajamas wet on the sidewalk below and without my body. I am carried instead of carry, and placed in my pajama drawer beside a pouch of seashells we found together



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She keeps herself away
though she says she wants
I wait in a flashing apprehension

I try to turn myself off
I sit and breathe with it
I pace above and beneath it

She sends love via text
and there is a fuzziness over
all I was feeling

I am cushioned for a moment
but after a time I begin
to blink on and off again

5 notes | 06.04.14
tags | h | writing | poem | on and off | love | lieben


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you float near and I feel it everywhere around
and like lightening you illuminate the present moment
and I see all that sorrow has hidden from me
a flash and then you go
and go out running toward a storm

3 notes | 05.29.14
tags | h


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i see your imagist poem
it has only been a month
this spring stretched out to its limit
snaps back when you reflect
the very thing our love seemed to be rallying against
the status quo
normality
you say you’ve never been so close
and then you snap back into yourself

i see my imagist poem
sitting behind your eyes
you see into me
and

i’m waiting

2 notes | 05.01.14
tags | h | maus | writing | poem


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As I look over the expanse of this moment, a container shaped of nil, that contains everything you have pushed this container through and everything that is to come. It is already full of the future
 because this moment is the only container

I reach into the water where I drowned you, reformed, a slippery fish writhing for the water, I let you go away, the silver light of my thoughts play across my memories so deep I’ll never know the bottom
like Ulysses but every second is a volume and there are more years than I have lived.  To the Lighthouse is here, À la recherche du temps perdu, The Red Wheelbarrow, Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra, Bodhidharma doesn’t stare at my mind for ten years, but for a now, inside the zero container.

You swim away, but there isn’t any coming or going. Just the silver sea of our brain. I stand by the water.
Actually I make the water stand.  I realize hand in hand is always but also my face in the mirror. I know you are my immaterialism and you refute me with a shake. The container spins out of balance on the table of itself. My mind bends itself out of peace. How much I do hurt myself with my beliefs. Our beliefs.

So much depends on the golden Madeleine beside the blue ever wall. Perhaps we will walk forever today and return this way and my beliefs will warm me as much as they now ice me down to the bone.

2 notes | 03.17.14
tags | poem | writing | chinneths | spilled ink | bjf


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not to go up and down
drown or be summited
pave the world with movement
a wave that seems to end at the beach
sand that seems to end under the feet
hidden in all the grooves in the car’s seat
over my eyes so i can get to where we meet

and a wave extends again and you plash
into other worlds
and i may be the seafloor, the sky,
the glasses over my eyes
but i’ll always be the wave too
sliding past, a sort of adieu,
(but always the hello too)
rolling to someplace new



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washed ashore

i saw on tv that the starfish were dying in considerable numbers
their legs would detach and swim away
i walked slowly out and looked into the sky, orion was pointing south
inside i opened the drain to the bath-tub and feet first
slid down to the sea

i was in the sky
“the horse head is a sea-horse,” he said
and handed me a fig from his belt.

i swam to carina and the starfish’s leg swam away
i reached to repair and
awoke with kelp in my hair.



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Until the steam beams some part of itself that wants to be the sun
I can come undone again and again and not yet I just wished until I saw sparks
they flew apart and made a fine static in the dark
the multicolored dust lit by some spirit-shine: a wish for you
ha I am just inside out sitting in the dark
I pretend you are there and I feel your phantom movements in my bed

I reach for the past

It wasn’t steam at all but your smoke-rings
and it wasn’t the sun
but me warming you with laughter

It’s true I probably wouldn’t want you now
but I would kill to go to the day you came back to me



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