Steady

Slowly, he recalls his steady hands.
Soft and freckled, both of mine could fit comfortably into his one.
Tracing me, he drags his warm hands across the landscape of my body
carefully walking his fingertips over the surface of my skin.
Exploring each curve, he swallows me in the breadth of his palms.
Eyes closed, I ask

If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?

In my mind, I envision
The countrysides of Spain,
the canals of Venice,
and the coves of California.
I absorb myself in his response and am surprised to find
my insides twisted into subtle knots.

Here

he says plainly,
and I'm sure he's been mistaken.
A trick on the ears, on his part or mine.
I choose not to question however,
and quickly lose myself in the shape
that his body makes.

Dearest P. Watson

Your music breaks barriers.
Words can be crossed and body language misinterpreted
But you sing and we all understand.
Years of understanding pour out of you, drawing smiles, uniting hearts.
The expression molded on your face tells of your longing and misery.
We are continents apart, yet I can feel your sorrow as if
it's my own.




In France:
Underneath the sea.

The Corn Factor

The simple fact: I love you. No rhymes or embellishments.
But am I in love with you? Two words and an ocean body apart.
'Am in' dividing me, keeping me from commitment, leading me to the truth.

But I digress and become lost in the shape that your body makes.
So for now, we are safe.
Inseparable until I am honest enough
to leave.

Fleeting

I find happiness on the subway:

Warm and at ease, I let the sunlight engulf me.
Squeezing slowly, I close my eyes, letting the spots dance
beneath my eyelids.

We are all strangers, comfortable as we are tucked under this blanket of silence.
The world rushes by, speeding through tunnels
and I feel nothing.
As if this hub of burgundy seats exists separately from the world
Calm and

detached.


Or maybe I'm a dreamer




And this is really turmoil.

Overheard

"Google has all my life answers."

"My mouth bled like a skyrocket this morning."

"One day, you'll be ugly, and nobody will feed you."

We Used To Vacation

What's the sense in making sense?

I am trapped. By what others tell me I am.
I am glued. By the things they want me to hear.
I stick. Like a mouse to their mould.
I am constrained. By a general understanding of religion.
of time. of hierarchy. of what makes sense.
I am bound. By a history others claim to exist.
I am restricted. By what I know
and especially
By what I don't.
I am alive. I am ignorant. I am knowing.
I am breathing. I see. I am hungry. I am people.
I am your concept, your idea, your perspective
of what the other is.
I am being. I am yours, but I
am not.
I am am am am am
constantly questioning who I am.
Where do my roots grow? and how far.
I am learning.
I am the tie
between her then,
his now,
and our future.

Oh (m)

His round shape was in direct competition with her slender figure. He crowded over her, yet without her by his side, there was no harmony. Alone, he was meaningless. A letter lacking syllables. He was nothing tangible, merely a figure of little value to the other 25. Although silent, she was beautiful. Careful, coy, speaking only when her voice was meant to be heard. Although his sound was the same without her, his one was of little match to their two. He complimented her, and she respected him. A perfect oh without the m.

On Good and Bad Art

Art is something which knows no bounds. As a form without limits, it is difficult to judge the difference between ‘good’ or ‘bad’ art. Something that is lewd and vile can be interpreted as beautiful to one, while a piece that appears perfect to someone may seem cheesy to another. Since judging art is subjective there is no way to define art as being of a certain stature. One’s personal experiences, taste, visual preferences, all contribute to how one perceives a piece. Although an artist may write, draw, or create something with a certain intention, the audience may not perceive it the way it was meant to be perceived, as is the case majority of the time.

As a means of expression, so much of art is relative to the person who creates it. Some believe, however, that the art already exists on its own and merely takes an individual to be open enough to make it come to life. Without confines, it seems as though anything can be called ‘art’. Animal cruelty and self abuse have been portrayed as art and people have accepted it. If one is able to justify their intent behind the creation of a piece, people accept it as so. Since art is so subjective, it is difficult to set criteria to judge it.

For me, art is therapeutic. If I feel as though the artist was genuine in the making of the piece, I can appreciate the work. If it lacks feeling and is stagnant, I lose that vital connection which makes art what it is. Art is in nature, is in the way one looks at you, and in the way we communicate. It is freedom, it is a personal fuck you, and is a way to escape. Art says what you can’t and sometimes keeps you from speech. A hideout, a collection of words, an anonymous postcard; I don’t know art, but does it know me?

i hold back

Suddenly the city sleeps. Footsteps cease and only the wind can be heard. Whistling, it throws itself against shattered windows and muddy pavement. I restlessly drag my feet until the rubber of my shoes meet the hollow expanse of a tin can. As I kick it along, it sputters to life. The ridges that comprise its smooth surface scrape against the ground, releasing a thousand echoes which i fear will wake the city. Abandoned, I pity the can. Used only for its contents then discarded.

++++++++++++++++++++++

It crumbles. Words passed between you and I lost. The poison of each syllable driven from the page as if each scantily clad letter is afraid of its self. The words and arrangement push to one side and cling to each other as I scramble to forget.

What's the point
If you hate, die, and kill for love.

broadview opens
to a sharp view
a glimpse
of the world
outside
but almost as
quickly as it
comes
it goes
the light engulfed by a
murky station.
grey
walls grey
ceilings.
his mouth gapes
hands folded
i can see his
laboured breath.
mine
i notice
is 3 paces slower.
i feel
remorse
for the old stranger
who is waiting...