i love

i feel severed from my family stuck inside a glass box and outside everyone screaming secrets i cant hear. i feel actual spiritual connection to my sister, strange since i cant speak with her. i keep having nauseating moments of sharp contrast between here and there. he is a swan. she is a blessing. she has had to sacrifice so much for knowledge like some golden inedible fruit. all my love goes out flying to her at the light of speed...

some thoughts before the fog

the fog rolls in from clover point and only the pink cherry trees shall keep the integrity of their color. the sun is about to be swallowed and the mood will change suddenly. i write about the tension between memory and imagination and wonder if they are so different. Is not one dependent on the other? I would have to say the imagination is the stronger and least dependent, but memory can be its fuel.

on saturday we will be taken to a beach up island by one of the v-dubs and we will light a fire and dance around it like warlocks, brew and all. he will let the swell swallow him and come in like a fish with the waves to land and for a moment forget to breathe air. i will walk to the waterfall where the rush and crashing muffles speech entirely and the cool mossy rock walls convince me i must have been a salamander in my last life...

sunday night

i had a day dream that i found a path of branches to the sky. i could climb a garry oak and the cathedral of branches would go up and up (body suspended in black spider veins against the blue and white sky) until i could look down and think if i fell i would crack my skull a thousand times before the ground could find me. oh to be alone and so much closer to the sky.

i love to run at dusk when the peacocks cry in the park. do they try to sound this plaintive? their cries echo and evoke dying knights and dead ghosts of maidens. when you approach the blue and gold gilded pear her tail opens like a switchblade, and you are suddenly trapped in the gaze of thirty-seven hypnotic eyes.

objectivity is a lie. subjectivity is truth.

"there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody's asleep.

I say, I know that you're there,

so don't be

sad."

-charles bukowski

i anoint my lucid skin with a tough white cake of mother's milk. the path my hand follows, the only one possible at this moment, travels my body as the heat rises and stings my skin, now white, now red, now pink.

tickets

my two seattle u2 tickets are up on ebay - come one, come all.