ihaveeatentheplums

I wonder if people can see our story when we hold each other. I wonder if my thoughts are constantly projected, and when strangers hear how much I am thinking about sex-- they are afraid. (why do i instantly start thinking about sex when i wonder that?) I wonder if you can see how much I love you in my pupils and irises and cornea and rods and cones, somehow (I know the answer now.) I wonder if everything good is too good to be true and why the bad is so much easier to believe. I wonder if maybe just maybe things are precisely as good as they seem. for once.

Let me tell you a story. I tend to get the words mixed up and sometimes I try to say words that haven't reached my mouth or brain yet but maybe this one will come out straight. This is a story about metaphor breakdown told figuratively. A story explaining things that constantly defy explanation speech or clear thought. A story about strong, wordless feelings That beat my organ systems into submission and leave it bleeding, breathless, alone between sheets and in cold alleyways and broken abandoned elevators stained with beer and maybe saline from late night confessions fueled by brain chemicals firing and refiring, electricity

We've reached a strange part of our city, Look the other way, children. Here the streets never end, but wind through dim alleyways littered with rotten scraps, crumpled wrappings, a stained mattress Here a child cries out for human touch, for life-giving contact And people scurry by, eyes straight ahead, from one dot on a map to another The geometry of "and then, and then, and then…"   Since the inception of cities, since their foundation was torn out of the earth and concrete was poured in and steel structures rose and rose and rose and smoke filled the sky and people filled the concrete and steel, There have been so many voice

Strange to think that when I've been struck down to the crawling point my broken body atrophied and hopeless death brushing cool fingers over my cheek you: whose breath animates bones into armies whose word births galaxies, whose hands shaped history, you: reach out and draw my backbone up, straighten my shoulders enter my veins, give me strength. and you shine so brightly that there is no night. and you are so sustaining that there is no thirst. and you are so beautiful that I want nothing else.

Once I met a theatre tech She worked the lights for all the shows She used to sit backstage And drops tears on the soundboards and her hands would shake. She wasn't sure she wanted to be onstage she didn't think she could act or sing and directing meant too much control and music meant nothing to her because her cilia were all flattened. she couldn't tell me what she wanted she only knew that there was a death, a silence, an inexpressible pain and she could find no purpose for herself. She would speak to no one but me. One day she asked me to give her a reason not to kill herself: And i said "you are the light of knowledge

What is truth? Truth is eyes shining with tears, the icy grip of realization, an old man exhaling once and never again, the kitten on the side of the road in a pool of blood, a hand on the doorknob as he says I never loved you/I don't anymore/Sorry what's your name again doll? What is intuition?  It is "I know what you are thinking" it is "No one knows what I am thinking" it is "I'm different" it is "We're all the same" it is "How can two opposite things be true at the same time" it is "They can't, I promise, now touch me again because at least that feels good." What is identity?  It is yeah I tend to do that, You get quiet when you're angr

Fate isn't kind, you don't complain. And now the sea is lapping at your feet White legs both wrapped in chain. You're numb, you cannot feel the rain That tastes like bitter sleet. Fate isn't kind, you don't complain. You don't know what they had to gain By punishing, by your defeat White legs both wrapped in chain. And you remember every pain From everyone you ever meet Fate isn't kind, you don't complain. Your trust so easy to attain You melt when you feel anger's heat White legs both wrapped in chain. Will your blood even leave a stain? A proof of purchase, death's receipt? Fate isn't kind, you don't complain White legs b

Ace – The stakes are changing, tsunamis ripping through our cities and Two – The droughts scorching through our verdant plains.   We can’t predict Three – the hands we’re dealt and we don’t know what the dealer’s Four – intentions are.  We predict nothing, change nothing, mean nothing? Five – Is that it? Six – The heavens claw over us, the firmament tears at us and screams Seven – its rage, its rage (justified?  unjustified?), liquefying, changing, filling, snap, snap, Eight – snap, onto the table, we’ re all getting bad hands. Nine – The dealer shuffles the plates,

It’s a cool summer evening by a lake, and the moon is casting a silver light over its surface.  Moonlight also falls on the faces and shoulders of a boy and a girl sitting in the grass on its shores.  The air is cool and clear, lightly scented with honeysuckle.  The girl’s white dress is glowing in pearly contrast to the darkness around it, and the boy is facing her, cross-legged, with his hands around hers.  They are silent. They’ve been talking nonstop all evening, but now there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say.  He is gently running his fingers over her hand.  Her fingers are smooth and slender, and soft to the