Archivo de la categoría: English


I have always known this to be

              f   r     a      g        i        l            e

the house denial built


like we knew it would

and yet…

there I sit

a demon

eating my own tail

gnawing back at me from the inside.

Land has parted        deep

              m   a     s      s        i        v            e

from within

a wellspring of sympathy

gushes out         glasslike



what is ripening here

what has rotten

our foundation.

Ground shakes.

Ground breaks.

It sobs          loudly

«I wanted to be

all those things for you»

It wails the world to sleep

a shroud for covers

little blue heart embroidered on it.

Horizon can be seen

its distance can be known

bu t       i  t    s             w      e        i          g             h               t

as unbearable as tomorrow

and always a day


Boy, it was really nothing

Sixty nine love songs

not one fit you

perhaps the one about

wanting to talk about ex lovers

and however many others

jumping off the wires

like tiny birds.

Have you seen them

not a flip as they go

wings stored away at the jump

they know when to when

they know what is what

nothing special about them

you can find two in a row

even when they’re rare.

I am perhaps ready for you

to whistle your tune

and spring off that wire.

In turn I’ll sound out

nothingness to no one

perched on a clothesline

waiting to when.


I find myself looking for

god with no faith

no beliefs

other than the need for reprieve.

Conversations with myself often turn to

pleas for those I can’t reach

it’s hard for us who crave

control when none exist.

There’s none and never was

so build a god I must

and pray this time he does come through

for patience is not my gift

I need to see him receive

the happiness he so deserves

and I failed to secure.

Patience is not my gift but I’ll wait

for god to grace him first

a bone for me, then

if time allows.


Sinks in a little deeper

each day slowly dipping

from hanging rings.

The more I train this muscle

the less it hurts to shoulder

a perfect split.

Merciless hour glass ran out of fucks

fresh out of time knocked the wind off my lungs

flawed execution by classical measure

o h ,   b u t   t h e   b o n e s   !

count themselves and their blessings.


Took a bunch of pills woke up soaking wet

a perfect saturated circle under me

so perfect this shadow, how?

bedspread darkened with sweat

the fabric which clothed me, dry as wry

don’t even know what I meant

don’t even think that it meant     anything

«God is the sweat running down his back,

the water soaked her blonde hair black»

I think about that,


Perhaps I sweated out all color

or slashed the walls of the world with all my clawing

and color slowly drained out


Yes, I’ve sweated out all color       feasibly in passion

but this embarrassing hue

striking against the grey.


Twenty five years a teen

so much you ask of me

«would that I could»

age out of wanting you

like I did at thirteen

foreseeable routine

to covet those who’ve misaligned themselves to me

stripping me only for parts they need

that I happily part with

as if I had no value no value

no value at all.

Train’s a-coming, you know

if we won’t meet, I should board

but you stay on your side

I let thunder roll by

we stare each other down

we each mouth something but it hits the ground.


The very first time we met he took me by the hand in the dark

The world poured back and forth between our eyes, too

poorly-lighted, once or twice

Led me through dim rooms

corridors patio now back

rooms left-to-right office to bed-

room gingerly holding my fingers

pulling my hand to where light was

Still love that moment the softest

the opposite of blindness, a gesture

a kindred I instinctively knew

through the tips of my fingers alone

Time changes most but not all

things. I know through it all this keeps true

Even if we fall out

Even in the end

Even as we pack

For I know blindness of all things

and this was razor-sharp.

With both eyes

A mimicked gesture

is the purview of children

however inaccurate

intent is celebrated

I too hurled my whole heart at

wrong pantomime

to great reviews

I search for the memory

of this warm un•failing

never to be felt again.

Camera roll

Reverence for all things past

is a reflex          unexamined

sometimes useful, like scars

often useless, like stored documents

at its most unremarkable, a daily haunting

of futures that have stalled

reaching through the screen

like light from long gone stars.

Identical hand twin

For all my clownery, I’m surprisingly insightful ⎯nay, damn near clairvoyant!

See, I’ve met the boy.
He reminds me of all things I’ve said I needed, verbatim
and some needs I couldn’t voice.
I’ve put off putting it down
here ⎯blog jinx, kiss of death!
But I’m showing.

Kept my geriatric pregnancy a secret, as one does in the early stages,
wishing for clockmaking sunsets,
for a fast-spinning gentler world
to tenderly place me on the right day’s palm.
Yes, I’ll carry this to term day.
Yes, I can tell my friends

When that day came and went, its lack of fanfare
made it all the more special. It was just there.
It was real ⎯we don’t really celebrate real, do we?
We are told we want the tale,
we want to give our hearts away and receive another in return,
one that we now own, and goes the way all property does
obsessively looked after lest it be stolen or lost ⎯and you better not lose it,
because losing makes us losers and nobody loves a loser!
Shut up.
This could all end tomorrow and it wouldn’t diminish what I’ve gained.
Delicate creatures die in hands cupped too tightly.

We don’t celebrate real enough,
we don’t appreciate the reality of being two people together,
who quietly go about their love,
wanting for the other what they want for themselves.
Closeness, travels, personal space,
forgiveness, individuality, support.
It’s the strangest feeling, loving yourself through loving someone else.
I will admit to that.

It’s funny, I thought I knew exactly what my falling in love would look like.
In a way, I did. It does kind of look like what I said.
But he has decidedly put his little spin on things.
And spun I have, around a stubby finger that looks nearly identical to mine!
It’s uncanny, the way our hands look almost exactly the same.
And that’s kind of how it all feels: uncanny.
It looks like something I’ve known forever, like the literal back of my hand
yet still surprises me ⎯makes me nervous?,
because it’s not.
It can’t be, there’s only one right hand of mine!
I don’t know how to explain it.

I’ve always hated the way my hands look, by the way.
Among many other things, as it is the human condition to think we’re hobbling trolls.
Now I’m learning to love that which once I thought was unlovable about me, silly as it sounds.
Not necessarily because he loves those things,
but because he shows me how absurd it is to be afraid or ashamed or bothered by them.
That mending won’t go away if he ever does, so that alone is forever a win.

It’s all quite the journey.
From which I should be utterly spent, yet somehow feel like I’m finally resting?
I’d keep going but his cat, the most loving, well-behaved cat I’ve ever encountered,
is currently stepping on my keyboard searching for love.
I’m both afraid she might delete the whole thing and eager to stop my rambling to squeeze the shit out of her.

So that was the update, whoever you are that still reads this.
You can stream Under Rug Swept‘s underrated healthy love anthem You Owe Me Nothing In Return for a way better take on this particular matter.
Alanis will explain it far better than I can.