...her...

“… her simpleness is what struck me first. Not plain, not indescript, but simple. A light glowed from her eyes and smile. A warm flame burned in her heart. Unlike the beautifully distinct , she had a countenance that was like a canvas a thousand Michaelangelo’s could be painted on.”

observed for all time

“You sit crosslegged, upright, posture perfect, a thin layer of summer cotton covers yr delicate & balanced body. Yr hand playing lightly w/ yr hair. Yr silver pendant hanging, low, on yr bare breast bone. I wish you’d uncross yr legs so I could peek at yr ultimate paradise. Yr power source and my spiritual black hole. Yr almost childlike face holds all the innocence & wonder of youth but w/ slight clues as to yr true age. I want to devour you to save me from my boredom. Yr nonchalance as to yr actions, the sucking of the cappucino milk foam off the wooden stir stick, makes you either the best actor or overwhelmingly unconscious. Ah, betrayals, betrayals, the inconsistencies seem to harbour cruel hiding spots for yr games and rehearsals. Rubbing yr legs from knee to ankle, slender ankle. Why, why do I write words about you? Yr beauty must dictate it.”

another excerpt from Identity: Shift

“Who is this guy? And why on earth are we hiding out at his place? You don’t even really seem to like him.” “Henry is someone I’ve known for most of my life. I haven’t seen him in ten years or so. But I know one thing, we’re safe here. And I could use a good night’s sleep and a bit of rest after today. I’m sure your nerves must be a bit out of shape too.” “Yeah, but there’s something about him I don’t know if I like.” “Like? What’s with the like!?! Who said anything about like? Henry and I have been at war since we met. We’ve had three knock ‘em down drag ‘em out fist fights and numerous arguments. But there is one outstanding element that has always remained between us since we met: Respect. “I’ll deny I ever said this if you repeat it but he is one of the best people I’ve ever known.” “You have a funny way of showing it.” “Still, I’ll sleep without worry tonight knowing where I am.” Henry re-emerged into the living-room at this time, arms heavy with pillows and blankets. “Why don’t you two take my bed. I just changed the sheets. It’ll be easier than making up the couch and the floor. I don’t sleep anyways. Not now, not when I’m working.” “Oh no, I wouldn’t want to kick you out of your bed.” Nat almost interrupted. “I would,” Louis said and started towards sleep, “’night, Henry.” “’Night…Louis” The Louis hung in the air with a smile. “Prick.” Louis said. And without looking back he flipped Henry the bird as he left the room. “Oh.” Nat giggled and followed after Louis.

short story:

Every night before the humpback went to sleep he prayed to God to please remove his hump; if only for an hour. Every night, unbeknownst to the humpback his prayer was answered.

excerpt from Identity: Shift

“She had a look. A presence about her that perhaps made her a tad more beautiful than she actually was; if that makes sense. I suppose if she were a corpse she wouldn’t be the best looking one but alive she was dynamite. Her hair was cut in a Joan of Arc style. Expensive, not like Moe’s from the Three Stooges, but more like Coco Chanel’s in the 20’s. Her high cheekbones were full, and of a natural rosy colour which offset the blackness of her hair. There was a contrast that any artist could pick up on. Her eyes were a soft brown, and big, almost saucer sized. They must have been huge in her child head but now they seemed to fit perfectly. Seemed as though you could park a Buick in them; if you could find the valet and get a ticket stub. I loved her. I loved her from the second I saw her. I knew because all my foolish maleness puffed up. I started bragging like a jackass and I ‘turned’ up at every place she was for the whole evening. But if you ever saw her or knew her there is no way you couldn’t understand. She moved as though she had just walked out of a Bottecelli painting. The gravity of the beginning of all life swayed in her hips.”

A Poem For MTL

A Poem For MTL:

She waits for someone (other than me)

... pace once to the edge...
... pace back...
... pace once to the edge...
... pace back...
- now upon yr lips dance the smile hint
- yr eyes glowing, look far down the street; past forgotten corners
- I am held by the gravity of a being physically stranded by her wandering soul; flights of doves. 
  ok, ok
... pace once to the edge...
... pace back...
          etc. 

new finger motion

Moments, these moments that hold time in a way that feels like hot fine sand running through my fingers and into my picnic lunch as the waves lap at my feet and I drift to where all the water drifts, away, somewhere great and fantastic.
These goddamned moments that hold me fixed to this spot w/ no hope of turning or being any further than this expansive here & now. What matter, for it holds, I sway, and the rhythms start in ways that I cannot nor want to understand as I am farther away than these moments that want & try to hold me here. I am. And that cannot in any way beyond my fingertip thoughts be an anchor for what pushes and pulls through my most base of being. I can picture a thousand thousand thousand moments. All hanging fire, waiting for the reference point to catagorize them into some sort of library limbo. Or it’s all going in quite the opposite way, w/out the all consuming, confining point of reference it all just stays where it is, floating like diamonds, like a snowfall where each and every snowflake holds you in the palm of its hand and allows for each individual snowflake moment to stand alone and together, all in that tick of time. When the sheer volume of information input into the mind is likened to a moment, a satori moment. And even before any thought is really put to it the whole scene is ready to pack it in and become just another sensory overload, but deep down the editor who needs to catagorize and compartementalize it all is kicked in the nuts and goes down like a sack of hammers. Leaving the moment to be, to be, to be, to be, to be.
Cars drag by, chicking and chugging and moving and lugging and I watch them. Watch them move in the sweet way that inertia allows. Forces of different kinds playing out the hands Newton dealt them. And the piano tinkles in the back ground, playing to the drummer who sweeps his brushes in synchophantic melodies. I push out of my thoughts, beyond this finger motion of alphabet to the realm of notes, high notes, low notes, trilling notes and a sad moan made light in a blink of an ear.
And the world starts to interupt in a way that cannot be held back and that is not in any way unpleasant nor is it in any way pleasant. This all seems to go so far beyond the pale of the usual pace of the day. When forgetfulness is kind and befriends me I can be, just be.
And that is saying something, that is the confession, the moment, the goddamned moment that has no way of being understood or related to beyond an understanding, a pleading, a look in the eye and a hopeful nod of “Am I understood the way I think I should be?” Ha.
These moments are not to be related, not to be desired, not to be shared. They have a purity and strength that is all but destroying. And by attempting to dilute them through the actions of communication they are reduced to a mere caricature of themselves. A mean and venal reflection of what they are. Why must man reduce themselves thus? What loneliness and fear drove us from our true selves?
These are not my questions. These are questions for those who cannot and will not allow themselves the moment of the moment. Perhaps I am another breed, perhaps not.
I can see in words. I can see in music. I can see in every language known to man & to beast. For this I am blessed and similarily cursed. Sometimes the jumble of all the speaking, all the tongues, all the notes, drives me to a distraction that does not allow for my freedoms, for that lightness that holds me.