windless. 

mothless. 

inside glass. 

lying in a half-dream. 

to blame for your half-dream.

concealed

(as the yolk).

 isolated from all but vibrations. 

feeling only breath and cotton. 

you can be

the third

color

begin today.

touch touch touch touch touch touch

The glowing ballerina. 

She is holding a light (such as a lantern). 

She dances towards the young girl.  

This is the semen finding the egg.

It's all about the pauses. 

Quiet. Whispering skin, skin as it slides against skin.

As we press blushing flesh into hot dermis.

We slant and lean / side to side. 

Is this dancing? Is this sex?

Your hand at the nexus. At my shoulder. 

Pinked faces. We look down. 

Not ocean, nor kelp, nor jacaranda. 

Your empty bed and a glass of water. 

don't wait for it

just write it down. paint it. peel it. 

squeeze something.

 fuck somebody.

create. 

withdraw. 

inclose. 

encompass. 

draw your dream. 

paint your ideal. 

philosophize the shit out of everything. 

say fuck way too often. 

eat something tasty. 

try your best to make something tasty,

 and when it comes out all wrong, 

laugh about it with your best friend.

build your favorite something. 

in your favorite world. 

that you can create with construction paper. 

with photographs. 

i am guilty of procrastinating the things that will make me happy, too. 

we all deserve better. 

Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.   For I have known them all already, known them all; Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                     I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.   So how should I presume?   And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                      And how should I presume?   And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   And should I then presume?   And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets             And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

-The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot (lines 45-74) & "I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed. And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.) God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)" -Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath

the sky was gold at sunset. 

the horizon looked like it was breaking away from the lake. 

we saw a star glinting even in the afterglow. 

maybe it was vega. 

at night

in the darkness

with lightning bugs flying around us.

we eased up off the wet grass.

a deer had wandered into the clearing,

and suddenly scampered away. 

we were a universe apart and yet so close.

always. 

11/4/2011 (already)

I finally know it is a real place. Attainable, achievable, touchable. 

We're adrift. 

today:

candles with blue wax, oranges, italian cookies. 

walking when it's just slightly raining. 

kissing, sometimes. 

feeling a presence, feeling present, feeling your presence. 

thinking about her glass legs.

writing something fiction, reading something fiction, painting for three hours straight. 

constructing a mask, wearing a mask, painting the pieces (the layers of a mask). 

walking around at night. writing to you. getting letters. finally feeling calm.

under a barrage of rain. 

waking up early and knowing.

hearing good poetry. 

being thankful, being quiet, being silly. 

mirth. 

elderberries, daddy's peach jam. 

the moon. 

Yesterday, I went to Syracuse for the evening. Autumn is clinging to the atmosphere, hanging over the roadways, pulling in Northern winds but no snow. Soon winter will descend like a punctuation. And for four months we'll be between parenthesis. We should all be playing in the leaves.

It's easy to move away and forget a place that disappoints us. We're all given the responsibility to do something and be something and make the place we live in the most creative and exciting place possible. We can't just all wait around, sitting on our computers, isolated, hoping someone else will do it for us.

Come up with an idea. Go out and do it yourself. Just make it happen. Don't be afraid, don't be nervous, don't wait for someone else. Do it. We're all directly responsible for our boredom, our disappointment, the lackluster quality of the world around us. Turn off your computer, your television, your video game system, your music machines, and play. Just play. Rediscover. Re-explore. Put on new lenses, new space goggles, new binoculars, new glasses, new blindfolds. Touch the world around you. Watch the world around you. Smell something new, breathe something new. Please. Go spelunking around your imagination and then tell everyone what you find. Everyone has this place.

You can find your way back home.

I say it once more (with new energy and confidence):

Don't put off being creative.