synesthesia

crème brûlée with blackberries and shavings of chocolate in a rocky trickling stream of clear cool fresh bedsheets just before May dawn


Everyone should start off the week with a joyous sensational mix-up. Throw some sensations together and evoke your happy place.

Do it.
Now.
Because I said so.
Happy Monday, loves.

something a little bit different

When I took this photo, I knew it wanted to be a poem, but the words weren't there yet. But I wanted to post the photo. So I did. I then decided to write and post simultaneously. And that evolved. There is now a poem-in-process made up of notes on the photo on my Flickr account, and I'd love it if you'd take a look.

If you're on Flickr, feel free to leave comments there. Or here. Either, both, whatever. I'd be interested to hear what you think about it, and it as a concept.

And here's Volume 2...

Like Van Gogh's sky.

Your name is written upon my heart
What more of me would you ask?
I carry you every place I go
And see your face in stars.

Now this is what I ask of you:
to stir the eyes
that see every day as new
as rain--
the dewy,
gentle,
kissing kind.

As sunshine droplets
and candy trees,
fountains that pour music,
statuary that giggle.

Ice cream cones that drip my name
upon the concrete
in swirls and flourishes
like Van Gogh's sky.

Cry with me
this once
and never will I wish you cry
again.

Some presents can't be wrapped.

I will write a poem tonight,
I think. Words begin to float.
I will write a poem tonight.
I think of you. Whispers from the sky.

I will write a poem. Tonight
I think of you and whisper words to the sky.
I will write. A poem tonight
I think will float to you,

unwrappable, like joy
unwrapped, like me.

When you want to tell someone of so many yesterdays, you don't know where to start.

I think you can love stories that have never been told,
moments that live in someone's memory ever-happening and re-happening
like light through their skin
glowing a name that can't be spoken.

But signalled somehow--it can be signalled--

and what comes out is never those moments
exactly
as lived, relived, re-relived each second
in their waking and dreaming.

But better,
even,
something new
bearing being
hinting history
carrying the weight of their core.

You can love decisions, lives chosen,
and compromises, dimensions unlived.

You can love the filter of their being,
making new
of moments old

calling yours
to curl and clench inside you
punching and praying
begging

release.

Pieces

You have pieces of me.
Objects that I have held, touched. Run my fingers over.
I imagine them--postcards and letters, envelopes and paperclips:
do they look different in your hands than they did in mine?

Are they worn now, edges smoothed, corners bent, your fingers rubbing and folding and creasing as your mind raced?

Or are the pages pristine, pressed carefully between your techno-gadgets, for fear you might destroy the fragile fibers, and by some symbolic voo-doo, all that they delivered?

You are tactile--the only thing you care not for in your hands, a pen.
Your words scrawled: a mere practicality.
My words delivered: an object for your hands alone. An amulet.

Loved inkless or preserved priceless?

Stroke.

The bloggers over at International [Blank] Day have declared April 13 International Ego-Stroking Day based on ChickyBabe's field research in analyzing the male ego. It seems that women are more often the recipients of informal compliments than men, but men could use some stroking as well. (Where's your mind? Stroking of the ego, I mean. Obviously.)

So today I bid my fair and fabulous readers: stroke each other's! Stroke other people's! Spread the love!

And so I shall heed my own advice...

****

You'll know that you've made his day, she writes.
I do know. I have known. You've told me so.
I didn't know how to respond, but I reread it often.

Did you read that as present tense, continuing, rereading? Or past? Reread. Done.
Do you reread? I think you do. I think my every word is safe, my every slip of paper tucked neatly with the few objects you cherish.
Don't tell me if I'm wrong. I don't want to know.

Make sure you mean it, she writes.
Have you ever doubted that I've meant every word I've ever written?
Probably you have. You're modest that way.
But you shouldn't.

I can't do it today... but I'll do it again.
I've been storing the words.
More words than you know of.
More words than you'd ever dare dream.

Make your day? I prefer to aim higher.
I'll make your life.

Maybe, After All

Oasis. (noun) 1. a fertile place in the desert, due to the presence of water.
Water: next in my series of poems, following Sky and Air. I haven’t yet a clue what it will say, but I know it will exist. Parallel: the existence of some people; me not having had a clue what I would say, now or then or someday; only knowing, somehow, doubtlessly, that they would exist.

2. any place or thing offering welcome relief from difficulty, dullness, etc.
It is possible that we don’t sense the dullness until the oasis appears. Desert and dullness both parch, but an emotional thirst can be repressed a good deal longer than a physiological. To be oblivious to its bluntness, to its rounding of your psyche like a soup spoon, is not so far-fetched.

“THERE’s a hole / there’s a hole / there’s a hole in the bottom of the sea…”
I’ve always had an affinity for nonsense songs, little me, singing them at the top of my little lungs, over and over until my parents’ ears bled peanuts and railroad tracks and hearts all-aflutter. Little me, sensing somehow, in some context, that nonsense made perfect sense.

ARE there ever songs that get stuck in your head, that play themselves a million times over in the jukebox of your mind, for no reason readily apparent?
MANY of them, I find, are prescient. Years later, they make meaning where before there was merely melody.
THINGS once ambiguous and immaterial take on sense and substance.
THAT I ever doubted their clarity seems absurd.
I never foresaw the need for an oasis; I never believed my life would require intervention.
WOULD you like to know when I figured it out? Only after.
LIKE months after. At my favorite table, in my favorite bookstore.

TO intend to write one thing, and have your pen be overtaken by a story you didn’t know you wanted to tell, about an oasis you hadn’t realized you’d visited, is to be jabbed repeatedly by a cold, blunt, soup spoon. At first, there is a chill. And maybe, you laugh. Because how could a dull utensil do any damage? You laugh.
SAY, for the first three drafts. Well...maybe four.
TO continue laughing, however, after you discover that something has pierced your skin, and indeed, gotten under it, is a sure sign of delirium. Or writeririum.
YOU realize it’s in deep when the pain seems a surer sign that something’s going right. Very right. There are thousands of words where before there was only a visceral impulse to run up onto life’s metaphorical stage and kiss the universe.
BUT you’d remained seated so long, nails dug painfully into your own thigh, that your fierceness had dulled into numbness.
I fear numbness now.

DON’T get me wrong. It doesn’t overtake my system, the way my textbook phobia of all things puncture-possible will have me hyperventilating in the fetal position. It’s a wonder I can even write metaphorical punctures, a miracle that I once pierced my own ear: testament to the veracity of the assertion that given sufficient motivation, any phobia can be overcome.
KNOW that my fear of numbness is more the pain of those first few taps of cold blunt soup spoon. A rhythmic chill and retreat demanding vigilance.
HOW I ever allowed myself to get to that place of oasis-desperation so thirsty it couldn’t acknowledge its own lack is beyond my present comprehension. A nonsense song yet to make any sense. Stuck in my head. On repeat. In hindsight, one message shimmering above the sand: don’t let it happen again. I detect the piercing need for a sharper reminder. Now I understand why some people get tattoos.

Wonder. (noun) 1. a person, thing, or event that causes astonishment and admiration. Initially, surprising to me that this is the first definition listed. Initially, I say, because contemplation yields sense. It is this wonder that births the next. Without it, no need for definition number two; without that which is a marvel to me, no words written. And that is why I thank you, I believe you believe, far too frequently. But I will not stop unless you tell me to. 2. the feeling of surprise, admiration, and awe aroused by something strange, unexpected, incredible, etc. It is a gift in return for which I ordain no amount of sincere gratitude to be excessive. As a writer, though, I loathe meandering unpurposeful repetition. Fortunately for me, an infinitude of ways to express wonder. I won’t run out any time soon.

(int. verb) 1. to be seized or filled with wonder; feel amazement; marvel.
I can write as long as I wonder. Writing can strike as long the iron-awe remains hot, lightning over the dark sea. 2. to have curiosity, sometimes mingled with doubt. Insidious doubt, electricity cackling through the undercurrent of my vast wonder—conducted to, pooling in, the hole in the bottom of the (my) sea. Awe and doubt: two sides of the same lightning bolt.

I fear your silence. Incommunication breeds numbness.
DON’T assume that because I fear numbness, I am blind to its power as a defense mechanism.
BELIEVE not q, then p. I see its power and therefore, I fear. Numbness can be cozy.
THAT is its threat. It lulls.
ANYBODY you ask can tell you ignorance is bliss: ignorance of your thirst quenches your fire. It
FEELS, at first, like a little death. Not the French le petit mort. No—that is far too pleasurable. But it requires the same surrender… I rethink… Perhaps it’s not so different after all, succumbing to the numbness.
THE relinquishment of responsibility halts the flow of electrical doubt—a reprieve from pain virtually indistinguishable from pleasure, in the
WAY falling asleep against the cool tile in the bathroom after grueling hours spent retching is the best you can imagine at that instant.

I do not wish to succumb to the numbness again. I must remain vigilant, even if means prodding myself with my own cold spoon.
DO you believe my doubt destroyed the moment of our mutual marvel?
ABOUT my inability to answer questions, to be verbal in my wonder, my silence indicating my incredulity of the incredible: I profess my responsibility, recognizing that I was the one who advanced to your soil, and also the one who started slapping mortar, laying bricks, doubting my welcome the louder you greeted me. I was given what I'd hoped for and was too stunned to properly receive it.
YOU know nothing of the depth of my regret. May you never. I wish my regret unwarranted.
NOW for the first time, I wish to be lightly informed of my unquestionably overactive imagination.

See how I redefine words for you.

Wall. (noun) 1. (and only.) a figment of my imagination.

Air

You plan long-term
but live in manageable chunks.
Climb, focus, hyper-focus.
Arrive.

I dream long-term
but endure eons in a second.
Juggle, juggle, juggle.
Leap.

I live breathless.
Wanting this, yesterday.
Bleeding onto the keyboard
words that win me you.

You are summer—alive, prime, lush.
My body feels like summer.
And sometimes, my words.

The rest, I’m afraid, awash eternally in spring.
Always in the process of.
Wanting, but not quite getting.
Waiting, but… not… quite… there.
Somewhere.
Maybe, getting there.

I covet that--your road, your vision. I want it for my own.
But that would make me you.
If I were you, I wouldn’t want you.
I’d want me.
I’d want someone who loves me breathless.

Two hours between sleep and awake.

Five am: your voice in the hum of the ceiling fan.

Over my left shoulder: frozen history, not too distant, framed by that very curve, punctuated by those very freckles. Sunset-silk wrap. Slips. Pupils so wide, what iris remains?

On the right wall: phantasma-gallery of the regrettably fictitious. Italian restaurant, countlessly mine, as if in a dream. Chianti I can't drink. Eavesdroppers. A cab ride, the ferry. Inky harbor, floodlit statue. Your hand just above my knee.

Above me: a ceiling painted with you.

Surprise, Take 2

What you remember.
How it felt to realize that I'd been watching you. That I noticed. But didn't tell you. For so long.

What you know.
My voice. Especially since I actually leave voicemail messages. But don't tell you as much as I could. What I sound like when I'm about to tell you something, then don't. What I was thinking all those times I stopped myself before the sentences even began.

What you imagine.
Every scene I've written--the ones that happened, and the ones that haven't. What I looked like when I caught you looking. What parts I caught you looking at.

ritual offering to the value of surprise

What I remember.
The line of your back, speaking to me. You know what it says, though I haven't told you. The curve of your leg, from afar. Solid, I think. Solid.

What I know.
The sound of your voice. Anywhere. The sound of your silence. Every word you never said. How to play.

What I imagine.
My hand, fingernails like pomegranate seeds, splayed across your stomach, rising and falling with each sleeping breath.

Typography

My smile. The words I speak.
Veiled. Scrawled.

Playful: "Are you not sure I really exist?"
Because, I swear, I made you up.

Turn the topic back to him. Give the impression that maybe he shouldn't ask.
I want to tell him things. Things he doesn't know about me.

Fear: that if I started, I'd unleash my world. And he would wonder why.

Despite protestations and assurances, eagerness and receptivity, still I can't believe that what he wants to know is me.

Ask me again.

Diversion

Some of us need it always. Pinpricks of ambiguity. Tiny because that’s all we can ask. Tiny because that’s all we can give. Delicious because tiny is just enough.

Venture a few grains into the groove of the line. No ground lost. No one else notices there was any movement at all. But see how the sand sparkles from here?

Words you write at 2am are like whispers to me, until daylight when the world can hear.

Little thrills: to know you’re there, to know you’re quite the same. And don’t quite care that my mind is elsewhere. Intrigue, to wonder: where is yours?

Etched

I think she is lovely, feisty, fun. Her impatience makes me laugh.
Then I find out who she is. How odd, I think.

It is not a match I would have made among a crowd: her icy glamour, your easy grace.
You look like, if you love someone, you would give her everything you have.
She looks like she would take it.

What does she see? Does she think she is better-looking than you are? Probably.
I think no more until I see you again.

Entirely by coincidence, we are standing much too close.
The world opens when you smile at me.

Her coy smile. Her impatience. She acts like you are wrapped around her finger.
(The one with the diamond.)

I leave, determined to forget.

You never would have known.

Sky

The first time I call you sweetheart, it is light, flirtatious.
A throwaway line.
You are silent.
You think it is me trying to finesse a man
into letting me have my way.
Or me trying to convince a man
not to feel taken in
for letting me have my way.
And you are right.
Of course I don’t tell you that, but you are right.
Partly.

(But I really do think you are sweet.)

You do not want to be called sweetheart.
Did you let someone have her way once too often?
Forgive me. I was just getting warmed up.

What exactly did you want me to say?
That your voice drips over me like melted chocolate?
That the sky is like when I ask you to marry me?

I would.
But I’d need to be very, very drunk.

“Melted chocolate?”
Oh, it shocked me, too.
Try on “sweetheart” while you’re at it.

Or “I’m such the fucking man!”
Compared to what you didn't say, it would be much closer to reality.
So I'm okay with that. For now.