the deconstructionist

when you were a little girl
i'd play inside your hair
and dig little holes to your brain
like an underground treehouse
it was never a question, then
more like a declaration of principles
and i'd publish it around the world
on all the newspapers, all the shows

and i loved to give you paper cuts
as your body slipped through my fingers
away, like a book made of jell-o
i buried myself in your pages
paragraphs, sentences, words, letters
punctuation marks and empty spaces
before you turned your head away
closed your eyes underneath my hands
i threw myself at a closing cover
and the cover closed over my face
brought me darkness and peace

you welcomed me to your world
and i thanked you
by creasing your pages
and ungluing your spine
that's what love is

the question

the question you asked me this morning
was "does it make you happy?"
and i told you "yes" without thinking
so we tumbled down the grassy slope
arms and legs tangled together in knots
stuck all day in a ticklish mess
i got hair in my mouth
you got burns on your elbows
and we both itched from bugs
we both lamented our grass stains
i started to panic uncontrollably
from my fear of heights, of falling
you said "don't worry, we hit bottom"
and started to get up to do it again
i grabbed your ankle and didn't let go
because it was starting to get dark
but i made the fatal mistake of blinking

so i said "i'll wait for you here"
as you tumbled down once more
kicking me in the chest this time

 
I am directing the play I wrote. And Blogger needs to do something about spammers commenting. I refuse to force the inconvenience of using a code word on my nonexistent readers.

i would like to fast-forward, please

as the cold and lonely winter approaches
riding on a midnight horse
i can feel her long, white, spindly fingers
wrapping creepy, clammy claws around the ball of air
that is the earth
that is the mild warmth of fall
choking it, suffocating it
slowly
asphyxiating life away
like a ball of fire burning itself out
in the absence of oxygen

and i want it to be over.

everything's

everything's idle when everything's wild,
so i'll never turn my back or my collar or my sleeve,
and so told the earth to all of god's trees,
growing older and older like a perpetual child

oddly enough said the eureka eureka man
and don't commit a non sequitur at this place
it's not allowed for the creation of space
but an inverted world is exactly my plan

so we drift in and out of houses
but never out of homes
and the silence of the world drones
like a bucket of water douses

almost

a gurping within
a jortension pretention
finally i can see
where the lemondrops fall
i can feel my heart pulsing
bursts of neurons exploding
but in the brain, no one can hear you scream

she sat by the window, looking out
hair coming down

For Monty Python Fans

This link is for Monty Python fans, or anyone who's ever wondered what the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow is (European, not African): http://www.style.org/unladenswallow/

The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac

I finished this book last night. It was wonderful, truly wonderful. Much more spiritual than On the Road, in such a zestful and contagious way that I could not help being ever-so-slightly convinced of the "truth" -- if not in fact, then in spirit -- of every passage.