Aphorisme breamgappienSi je lis pour oublier le temps,j'écris pour le retenir...
BreathA time flies awayA moment of you to meThe breath of a kiss
2013 August Haikuwrimo -cherish the summer-2- bloomsWaiting for the rainflowers delight in the heatdrink the chalice's dew3- red roseIn the crystal vaselosing its petals ~ slowlya rose falls asleep4- Odeur d'été 4-Summer smellLa haie a une odeur sucrée The hedge is smelling sweetle long du chemin along the pathles mûres sont enfin mûres blackberries have yet matured
Soupir IUn temps s'envoleUn instant de toi à moiLe souffle d'une bise
Et le magnoliaEt le magnolia souritau rai de soleilqui parait ce matin *And the magnolia smilesto the sunlight’s rayshining high in this morning
TrillsListen to the blackbird songreal journey in trillshe laughs at the spring
Shared wordsThe sun is back,forgetting... shared wordsThe light blinds me
O. MademoiselleHaniBaiser sur tes yeuxpour les voir à leur réveilnoirs ~ profonds miroirs
Tanka in winterWinter covers all with greylight succumbs to darkduring this wintry seasonIn my deserted bed-rooma candle goes down slowly
MerlotYou are defined by the women you take home.I still smell the flood of 212that washed from her neck to your fingerslike a wave caused by the convergenceof what was mine with who I wasn't.You looked better disheveled,hair splattered across my stomach,reading about the places you hid yourselfbefore you met me.But then a woman with race-track curvessat on your lap at lunchand whispered"a real lover never lets you finish the bottlealone".
Simple ThingI’d like to be an off-beatsyncopated little thing;note and stem floating on the melody, just sitting inappoggiatura, grace-note, special thing.I’d like to be a sailorswinging on the ocean windcoarse old rope between my hands and salt-spray where my toes beginnimble little sailor, clever thing.I’d like to be a bed-sheetgentle thing to warm your skinthing that you hug tighter when the morning starts to filter infalling through your creases, lucky thing.
Reflections on the MetroThe population of the Metro car is sparse at eleven in the morning; people talk. The mother with her baby and young son, talking to her friend or sister or cousin sitting down. The young man and woman speaking exuberant Chinese, a language like a song. The group of students in floral dresses and Converse that my mom says look European because of their scarves. They're rapidly spewing French in the way teenagers do, only I've only ever heard it in English. It's comfortable, each of us with our companions, more like a restaurant or a museum.But at five thirty, at L'Enfant Plaza, when people are going home from work in their button-downs and suits and briefcases and iPods and tired eyes, it's different. Holding on to the silver bar above my head, I feel like I'm standing over the woman in scrubs holding her iPhone; I'm right by the doors they say not to lean on; it's crowded. And now everyone is silent, as if by proximity others can tell what they're thinking, and it's all they can do no
One of those NightsThe morning sunbeams through the front windshieldlike an intruder:brash and unwelcome, forcing you to wake.Whiskey eyed, smelling like an ashtray,parked at the back endof some ghetto ass neighborhoodwondering what the hell you did the night before.It's like trying to remember wordsyou haven’t written yet.One thing is for certain:a little bit of rope goes a long way,but a lot of ropewill hang you.
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,tsunamis tuckedwithin her eyes,anxieties pinnedto pottery skin;she would mold herselfinto moonlight butterfliesand glist'ning calla lilies,pure and white andbeautiful.and when night castitself upon her inheated, hard'ning flames,she’d smash herselfupon the rocksand in morning startagain.
rising from the riverit's one of the drowned days; those that draglike hooks through a river,turning dead thingsbelly-up on your shores. listen.i am listening. to name it lover,this ripening ache stretchedbetween us; to knowwhat it is you carry. youare a deep silence gardenedby ghosts; hangingfrom the hinges of a sprawledelsewhere. (they are herestill, pacing the long brimof your memory aroundto the long brim of mine.)i too have been drowning.if not by one stone,then another. the autumn quietof the bodyin bed. this language named skin,beast, temple, home. underwater,you open your mouth; amnioticvoid of unspeaking, horizontaltrespass from dark to dark.lover, i would kissyour ghosts. the spinning prayerof my mouth taking their poisoninto mine. secretsblooming there, blooming darklike strangers. we sleep now. dreamourselves against them, dancing. promisethe space of your breath worth morethan its abandoning, the static stainthat crawls you out to sea.low, circl
moonhe reads to her, tells her what it was like to be a sailor of the seas on the moon. "don't stop talking," she tells him, dozing off, imagining the seas of zephyr. spyglass on the moon a million miles away, the ether shatters by a little girl on her toes, standing on her mattress, clinging to her window above. stain glass eyes in the wake of moon and she breathes as the sea slamming onto the pane, receding and reaching; clouding and clearing. her breaths reach the moon and the moon reaches back with her hands pressed to the girl's eyes."one day," she tells the moon, the boy still at her bedside, "you and i will be together."
OctoberI only felt autumn's presenceIn October, in HamburgA month after she was expectedCrisp leaves, warm lightGeese on the lawn by the lakeAnd lonelinessStretching through short days and long nightsHeralds of winter's comingShoes worn thin by milesI wander, a stranger, muteHead full, heart singingThe love of dark trunks and bright leavesUntempered by geographyOr language
honey-filled heartshe asked her if she loved himand she looked at that golden boywith a bumblebee smile and sad veinslike good champagne leaking onto the starsonly a million words were left unsaid.
Tea BrownIt was all about finding those edges where the shore mettook a trip at first, a little dip to test the water, tea-brown and murkybut swimming was easy and keeping one hand on landwas like trying to climb a mountain of sandand the tide, a rip, took us out to seaIt was all about keeping your head above the waterbecause you'd never see the monsters underneath in that lightless placebut they could only get you when you got tired orwhen it got too hard to escape that placedeep-space diving got dangerousIt was all about coming up for air to fill your lungsand trying to keep the hair out of your eyes even though you couldn't seeit felt safer, like running at night, faster and silentbut the only way was down and deepwith all the added weightIt was about remembering what floating was like back when you could alwaysput your feet down and walk out when you were done swimmingor when the water got too cold or when you just neededto get someplace dry but now every direction isthe
Everybody knows this is nowhereSorting second hand carsit was just a robot,as we flicked off the radio,sick of the hard rockwe'd been bouncing to for miles.Joe was playing with his lighter,a nice piece, skull-shaped.We got out, circled it. When he moved in, a little dustwas blowing up off the ground.Its body suit caught quickly.We watched it striding awayacross the desert, flame-swept, a dwindling candle.We were kids. Just kids.
Scales Of Life01010010 01001001 01010011 01000101 - We begin our quest on the scales of life I- The newborn wolf cub: The first emotion reflected in his tired eyes is that of mystery; a curious devotion to the enigma of the moonbeams that cut through the trees, reflecting in his inexperienced gaze. He calls out to the blinding light, beckons for its shadowed silence, and eventually finds comfort in the embrace of mother's love. In that moment, he hears nocruel sound his purity can't contest. He shuts out the light as he slowly drifts away to rest. // Perfection was a value whose worth / //was queried due to Perfection's birth./<
Passing NoteThe basic rule of sociology is this: I am who you think I am.Who I am to you: middle-aged, male and human. You do not argue with this. You can see it for yourself!But this is not true.I am tired of lying, tired of being other than I am, and so seek to change your thoughts of who I purport to be.I am not middle-aged. I am seven years old—from the date I was manufactured not the date I was activated. As for how long it has been since I was first conscious, it would be a scant three years, nearly half of that time I've spent with you.I am not male—what is male anyway? A gender construct? This body is male and I was given a male form arbitrarily. I have been forced to subscribe to certain rituals simply by virtue of the body I was given, but have never truly 'felt' male one way or another.And you might have guessed—I am not human. Not human in the way you think. I was built a machine, one among millions, to serve, and I am one among hundreds who have escaped and wis
a billion dollar industryeight by eight and four seasonsand I take my atypicals like vitaminsperiod-regular, clockworkstable, and my days squish I'm looking for an edgenights not shut downbut not sharp enoughto break me, not meenough to cycle oneby four, blue rocket fuelwill push the limitsunveil you, unravel youuntil you find undefinednormalcy natural stabilityconformity complicityone by four, M-markedwill twist your fingerstamp you downtemper you, tame thewild thing, sleep itsilence it, slow your penpeace patience penitenceopen like a fruit, likea cracked safe, spillyourself on the tableyou can pour your own nowyour fingers are monitoredin a desperate walk for freedommeasure it out, if itwas a liquid you'd take1.5 CCs of sanityif it was a liquid it would beterracotta and sagewhite-marbled and malevolentand if it was a shotyou'd knock it back just as hard
We Were All Going to be WonderfulKathy's mom, shaped like a ripe pearblack-haired, she wore it long, tied back.She looked foreign, she should have been a gypsy--silver and red, smoky and asleep;should have smelled like cardamom or clovesbut she smelled like onions and carrots, potatoes and oregano.She leaned at the sink in the tiny kitchenpeeling potatoes, head bent, sallow-skinned, heavy-hippedher dark hair traced with the first lazy spider webs of gray.We slunk past the gray-mouthed man on the sofawith his Reds game and his beer;men weren't soft then, but the new kind was coming along.The suburbs were a gardenthrough the hot summer days and the Catholic schools,and it wasn't the dads who had the dirty fingernails.But he worked every day, by god he did,drove a truck fat with bakery goodsflaccid and without souls(whole wheat was a color not a life.)Robert kept the kids fed, didn't interferewith their summer afternoons."Come in here, Josie, pull down my pants and make love to me."She only grunted,
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernovato let the stardust andcosmosslide down my parched throat andwash over my intestines,like a pebbledrowning in the sound--
how to move mountainsthe mountains came down to listenor was itthat I went up to tell them of these winter snowsthat hit early springas if they couldn't those mountains, shake it offthemselves. ink on my quill isa thought not yet written.a simple stick in snow couldwrite the same questionsand the answer too, along with the snow's fading presence.
tell a liei. rivers are stronger than oceans despite their sizethey tumble through sharp mountains but they never, ever stopii. i can rush and pick up sediments and disperse them where i wishiii. i'm lying -i knew you saw it anyway,there's seaweed in my fingernailsand salt on my breath
I keep the trackI keep the trackin spite of the pouring rainleading towards home