Revisions

first of all,
it was nothing like that.
i had it in mind
you see...

everything is tainted
with a loss of memory

even the letters
transpose themselves under
the amnesiastic activities
of our neural connections

secondly,
it was not the one who drempt
but the one who saw the dream

in the editing room
you cut me out
lazy fingers

registered new life
resigned myself mummified
in tape and dead ends

it was until now
an hourglass
held me erect

scattered sand and rock and snow
my receipt was a token
and a five dollar bill

types of desire

flight so far away
a small place, quite

the rumble of the city
with friends
with silence

i can't control the urge
bleak
a rumble from my heart

the size of a fist
a slow wind

though my pillow is full
my bed is empty

dreams are my beginning
and my end

madness and the sea

you who billows my sails
and you my ballast:

this ship at times huge
my crew need be many

for i wish to travel to the edges of the earth.

too eager to sail i neglect
the contours of my vessel

a ship torn apart in the maelstrom
but salvageable
and strong

tethered in to the dock
i, weary on the shore
pushing pebbles into the sand

i feel the strength of the wind
as it changes i know (or feel)
this worn-out junk will taste
salt water on her flanks

what i lack in skill perhaps
i can make up for in experience.

but i am pushing too far out again.
the material world requires my presence
more than the sea.

...

i have already forgotten
what i have begun to write

& the fatigue of my illness
sets in again

my mind at once too grand and too small.

i need you to reflect the contours
of our reality

you, the sane
who remember

leaving him finding her

leaving him finding her

i've forgotten everything so i can remember him
i forget everything so i can create him in her, her in him.
so i can fuck her like i'm fucking him, like he remembers her, me,
the woman he loves, the woman he remembers.
for this, i leave it all behind.
i go in alone with my own pussywillow.
she is my memory of my future past.
the lie i've lived.
the lie i write now.
she is writing me.
and i've only seen her in film.
an actress. a dream.
someone else's life.
beauty in someone else's dreams.
a dream that we all dream.
that beauty that only she possesses.
we only allow her to posses.
we all dream this dream together.
we pray to her - those of us who dream.
we worship her.
'she is mine,' we say. 'she is mine.

drawing lines through fragmented memories

i'd rather the truths of our inner worlds
(crashed)
than the facades that we give each other
(like so many handshakes, business cards, and
"nice to meet you"s.)
but again vision like clouds
and the inability to grasp the sun

the ethics of ambiguity
the wisdom of insecurity
titles with innards remembered
only in wisps & filaments

i don't know what i'm writing
nor who i'm writing for

but please believe me
i want you closer than is possible
between two beings born
apart

framed memories
picture postcards
i can't help but look
the sad countenance that tells
so much more than what it sees

the day before October

what to say in another moment that i know will change.
too full of memories. too full of pain.

who's advice shall i carry with me through all the moments of trauma
we experience? who will bother to love us?
wretched of the earth.

rage under rages.
and once the match is lit
a quick flame
deafening blankets.

at a certain point we must leave Virgel's side
at a certain point we must not look back.
at a certain point we must set ourselves free.

it is your freedom that i desire.

your house has always been on fire.
you have always been literate even if you can't read.
you will always be with god. and even when i'm gone
i will always be by your side.
i don't take vows lightly.

it is the interpretation of what is being held sacred
that is in question
and the translation of the words that are at fault.

a new possible place.

we may always recognize
death. but how is it that we can
recognize life?

a 3 month journey.
a sojourn into a difference
in language
encultured
mind.

can one commit
to that? time
of difference
which,
with patience,
will bring you, with irony,
closer, with love,
to home which yes,
has changed.

i suppose

i suppose somewhere
a moment in time.
you will hang
up on me.

i suppose this moment
in place and time
and meaning
is not yet

present.
but no, yet,
possible to come.

who's memories?

who's memories?

what will it take to remember
the good times and lesser of
evils with gods and monsters

letting wind pass by
cloudy or cloudless sky

invisible moon
moving in accordance
with wishes
chaotic butterflies
those storms of brooklyn

i remember a memory
of yours. i remember a
dream that you dreamt

as for me...
i cannot recall
a dream of my life
that dream of my fall

another cigarette

another cigarette

an egg turns on its head and breaks.

the crack is never straight
she looks me dead on
and the top falls off
a kettle to the floor
the water boiling
still as it touches
my left toe.

with drugs
with cigarette ash
and flame
with the dying
memory a dream

carved out pictures
caricature of who
we once knew we were
we are
changed

i am dying with
the thought
i am dying with
the creation
a new beginning
to rot in
waiting...

Without Words

The Importance of Shadows

may i walk in your shade
as you walk in mine?

may i shadow you for a day?

would you like to carry my outline
with you as the sun moves east?

by night

lay by my side while our bones
and bodies rest together and

we dream

thinking through

thinking through

3 myths of America:

privacy
freedom
happiness

ask me again sometime
a different answer might
pose itself on my lips

panoptic death a funeral
panoptic life an internal dream
and then there's reality
in between...

the myths of rights
and privilege
and sane sanity

the myth of desire
the myth of self as sex
the myth of individual
integrity passing as
free life itself.

the difference between

a long and waking dream.
following the night sky.
following the moon's gravity,
the waves and tide of the ocean
and following you too. following those
deep impressions in wet sand.
the ocean making pools
of footprints. the salt water,
the drifting, the pushing of minds,
of thoughts

like the grit of the earth
pulsating between sole and sand

shaped and split into hapa
howlie white japanese
girl poc queer pervert
side-step smoker,
chick who likes her water cut
with whiskey, likes her men cut
with women, strangers to break
apart her soul. strange.

older than my country, younger
than my comrades-in-arms,
and smarter than my fears - (lie)

i have other peoples tears
that proves it. i don't want
my smoke in their eyes. i don't want
my dirty words to pollute their minds
with ideas that destroy their beauty
and their perfection. i don't think i
am a poser. perhaps just
a perfectionist. fighting
too hard for that which i love.

the complexity
the hypocrisy and hybridity
the pain
that turns our faces
towards one another, only i
have forgotten (selective
or otherwise) forgotten
my own countenance as
you turn towards me.

don't look at me
i say in no words at all.
let me be. bones with no beginning
but god knows, god knows better.
and a quite cyborg turns
her face to a different mirror
and something else stares
her back...

you, please, say i,
carve out the lines of me.
let be my own wind
set free. a myth gone
mad...

Secret

i simply did not know
how far my voice carried
(and weighed or wait?)

i took the pill about
an hour ago a nighttime
remembrance a ritual. a writing.
it's hot in here. hot
and good. thoughts
of a boy. thoughts
of a girl or woman and
no thoughts
of a man. "Man," said i
don't believe in them.

(like a heavenly scene. strange
as it seems.) a history, a memory, a
ghost. And a woman
named Billy. A cyborg
named Bobbie. And.
(that's not all. and never
is. fill in my dreams.
...strange as it seems.)

as for me i would rather be
a cyborg than a ghost
flesh & blood than iron steel.
i would rather the pain
full reality of all the senses
the memories of me.

(wreck) collection is a funny
thing. recollection there.
inappropriate and
useful? harmful and
mundane?

it was necessary
that i was involuntarily
put away.
necessary, tragic,
beautiful. (secret)

in the beginning.

corrupting the word
slightly
so it becomes
twice as beautiful.

co-opting the world
so insidiously
it becomes
twice as corruptible.

and in my dreams
you.
and in my dreams
you.
and in my dreams
...

middle of the night

not quite day
no where close
but maybe here
the time after
after midnight
before the sun
even crosses your

mind
maybe here
we can finally
breath
the hardest part
of writing
the words
the hardest part
of love letting

go
the hardest part
of breathing
the space
in-between...

where are your words?

i never wanted
to be a writer
to be a muse.

not some image
who you see as
who i am
in some utopic time.

Speechless Possessions

the day turns
here. the night
creeps passed.

i write people. i
give words
not theirs but,

my own words
i shove down

throats. i lose
my lip. when i fight
my legs give way.

i swallow not words
but my own...

sweet desire,
how shall i feed
myself then?

fighting is such
a ruthless battle
in the basement

in a music hall,
my lips burst open.

who's blood?
the sound of dark.
the drop of
a ring? a tuba? a tremor?

reverberations...
my legs gave way.
i don't know the meaning...

what i cannot say...
you must.

burnt by the sun

it was I who flew too
close to the sun. thoughts
ravished me and i
became undone.

did i realize then?
that (a mistake)
you and i
are less than one?

this night, here

the rain is coming through the door. it wispers. have you heard?
the wind cools the city off like a broom
the electric lights keep the bugs out
(or is it the reverse?)

i won't bother going back tonight.
to fix the changes
writ already.

tonight the rain and i
will weep.

pith or pleasure; poem or prose

One full cycle of the moon, with a new moon fitted nicely in the center. Friday the 13th. ...how do we track time? 24 hours in a day... how shall we "spend it"? always? was it really always the same? these 24 hours backward in time? and will tomorrow count? 24 hours in tomorrow's day?

and this day
in this sunlight (or
moonlight)
is this day too
the same?

how shall we count the minutes? up or down? in segments of 60? shall we trace our fingers along Apollo's path? shall we travel with him in the fullness of the earth?

and what of the moon?
the old man's face tracing
the line of our own like
a mirror through time.
the Rabbit. the Goddess.
the Ghost.

how can we tell the difference?
how can we look in the face?
only the reflection of ourselves; the unknowable.

time tells us so. and we obey.

Artemis draws her bow across the sky.

our own shadows
tickle
our own feet move away...

Friday.Morning 7.27.07

what happens to our inner demons when we refuse to face them?
do they go into hiding, building refugee camps out of forgotten parts of our memories? do they stand guard, ever ready to sash out when we lash out, to cry when we cry, to despair, to give up, to die?

what happens when we recruit them to our side?
when we aline ourselves with their footsteps stride for stride?
...how can i answer that in dreams? what was fear i mistook as hate. what was love i mistook for discipline. what was kindness i mistook for understanding. what was forgiveness i mistook as God.

in those lonely moments i let you,
little demons (little quiet things),
stroke my hair, put me to bed, whisper
(cultural) myths into my ear.
whisper myths about each other, about freedom, about empathy, loneliness, life, reality, and about us
- you and i, little demons, you and i.

post the latest psychotic tendency

yes.
and what next.
and what now?

how will you tell them how to love
when will you tell them how
to let go
it hurts like nothing
could we imagine?

take us back to midnight

my body flows, rocking.
the ballast sands between our fingers.

yours touch,
and mine let go.
you push,
and my boat rocks the waves.
you take me there.

the incommensurable

i believe we do a disservice by attempting to take account of difference. - that again, is the process of sameing difference. we do violence by using one register to speak to self and other, to difference, to the complexities and varieties of life. registers need be multiple, need be protean. here enters postmodernity and the skepticism of single registers, of grand narratives, of ultimate truths. we can never speak of value without asking 'who's value.' to live in this world, an ethics requires that we ask by who's standards and to what effects?

thinking difference

i was mesmerized when i first read hegel. the idea of ourselves as constructed through another (the idea of the self as constituted by the other) - that it is never simply "I" or "You", but the space in-between that defines us - this elated me. yes, i said, it isn't about monadic individuals who are self-contained and make choices and live their lives by their own accord. hegel, to me, spoke of interconnectedness and the ways we collectively define the world and each other. when i read haraway, i was blown to bits by her rendering of the dominant self - the One that relies on the Other, but negates the Other to assure an autonomous Self. "One is too few, but two are too many." that was 5 years ago. i am now trying to reengage. these ideas lost hold of me for a time, yet their crucial importance to me never fully abated.

In Yegenoglu's book, Colonial Fantasies, this quote caught me, "The Hegelian assumption is that the other shares the same universe with the subject." it caught me because all of a sudden difference was too different to be held within the self-other dialectic. i am thinking about the relation of self and other in Hegel as one constituted by (again) a certain way of knowing - a Western/European, White, Male configuration (of course). But what is beyond this? Can we only find ourselves within this relation to the dominant? How do we get out of the relationship that binds us here? - binds us to a dominant idea of success, of meaningfulness, of the value of our lives? this is where difference is needed, yes? but two things may happen that trip us up: 1. we recreate and reinforce the self/other binary by flipping it -- 'since we are other, we will be the other that is not the self,' 2. by our attempts at reconstructing a language that defines us differently, we lose the ways in which difference has been constructed and utilized by the dominant . but how then do we move? for we can never take it all into account because accounts aren't finite. difference can never be accounted for because it is a process of posing, positioning always in relation to that which itself is not finite. there are clues in these books i am reading, clues in the language that they are utilizing, the spaces they inhabit. but they are only clues (often incomprehensible) and i am left with shifting sand.

this here. a possibe place.

Marx writes: "Every beginning is difficult, holds in all sciences."
Hemingway writes: "The hardest part of writing is the words."

i use these two quotes to give validity to my overwhelming difficultly in this, our endevor. i am without words and i offer no beginning. only, something needs to be tried. you know it because this world doesn't make sense and we are at odds with our sanity. we need our own hands to grapple with the dirt. and we need the dirt to balance our sails, steady ourselves. we need dirt because we need flight. here i/we am/are spirling out of control. may my words be my ballast. may our words be our world made sane.