contemplating chaos

moments in time.

 i cut and then watch the blood trickle and drop into the sink or onto the floor.
shades of postbox red to deep purple 
add some water and the drops seep into each other and create veins like trees or rivers seen from space.
what is it to be alive, is it to have a pulse, to go to work, to have obligations and responsabilitys?
is it the birth of new children or the beauty of mother nature whom will ultimitly be destroyed by us.
they say destruction is a form of creation.
after these questions i ask, is self harm really destroying yourself, or is it what it is to be alive, just from another point of view?

after all the world and everyything in it is all just opinions.
who was the one who decided right from wrong?

ultimetly time is all time, it wont change, it wont warn you and me, or explain things, it simply just is.
take it moment by moment, blood drop by blood drop and like me you will find we are all of us just another bug in amber.
just another ant in a feild, another person on a planet, another star in the universe, another universe in a universe and then just another fish in a fish bowl.
  • Current Mood
psycotic state

(no subject)

like myself we have a tendency to be paranoid about our origins. Sometimes I suspect I am not who I think I am, like maybe I died a long time ago and somebody took my brain and stuck it in this body. Maybe there never was a real me in the first place, and I'm completely synthetic.
  • Current Mood

it's always ourselves we find

The sea was particularly calm that day. The calmest he'd ever seen it. They ran into the water, barely touching the ground, and dove-- shattering the surface like ice. He found her under the lukewarm surf and, emerging, swung her around to face him. They found themselves in a very peculiar situation at that moment. The atmosphere of the day suggested he should instantly try to throw her under the water. The atmosphere of the moment suggested he should kiss her. It was that determining instant you only get once in the infancy of a relationship. The salt clung to her eyelashes and her hair draped, framing her clavicles. She looked at him, their ripples reflecting in her eyes, daring him to make the choice.


part of a new short story in progress

I am writing a story—I don't know how long it will be or anything else about what form it will take—but since several of you had asked to read more of my fiction if I wrote more, here is some to get you started. Your comments on it are both welcome and much appreciated.

On the back of the letter from Max’s mother to Joanna he’d written the following in Slovene:


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  • Current Music
    the Morning Benders : "Stitches"
cigarette man

Where Fog Is Bad Milk and Cherried Snails Go.

(This was a freewrite I did a while ago. And when I say free, I mean free. But the point of the exercise was to keep writing whatever came to your mind, so.) 

Love. Was that not what Grandfather told me? It bottled and ran from me like bile from a lemon-drop throat. Or softer, gums rotted in young caramel. Foul, foul, it stroked the baby's head and silk-armed the crack in its brain. It wrapped me in the chalk-bone of its stomach. Magnesium, zinc -- prosper, and fringe the Good cape. Though the daughter of karma hunts for my ghost. Buddha-colored ink is getting on the ridge of my cuticles. Fingers, nails, stones and tombs made of fiberglass. And so they take me to keeping place where the fog is no longer bad milk and we dig on elbows. There's no way backward from the lion of hot air, or the nomadic chests of waves that cherried in snails to be swept up from sea sticks. Like children the papers were galloping, the plastic synthesis of deer feet liquid and wet from winter's goose feathers. Sins were raping laughs from sky-cheeks and knuckles bent on sleet.

Was that really its name, Grandfather? Love. My eyes buckle back at the sheer sound. Will the liquor tongue have its way for anatomy, or do I forget still? What is it, then, that compresses the dove bone up, so that they grin for blankets to heat the clay hands of earth? The hips of night so human-wed are laced -- my turn of thought, agonizing, flickering little cocaine warts boldening. Did you say they were the aging cells of the sky? Wielding those medevial beetles who ride for the war of clock-skin. Gathering, gathering, smothering to go on...

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letter to a friend in Iraq, November, 2005

The events this poem was based upon were relayed to me by a former professor who had kept in touch with a friend she met at an international conference on literature. The friend was Iraqi and wrote to her after their home had been looted in early 2005.

letter to a friend in Iraq, November of 2005

you're not at all alone, even here in the States, see, my parents' friends returned from the mountains disheartend to find their cabin had been broken into, looted, and the few things of value there carried away. in your nation, it was though primary homes—not cabins of a lawyer and his wife, where they retreated to fish in June when Florida was humid, sun-baked, and the kids out of school. his fishing lures, some had been his dad's, and all were gone plus a table too fine for the cabin really but it didn't fit in after they renovated the dining room in their house. that too was gone, despite its size.

when your house was looted, it was an event worthy of that term. like LA or Chicago, there was fire in the streets. like New Orleans, the power had been out for days. you saw an American in his desert camo and called out in perfect English as to the problem yet he said sternly "ma'am, I am not the police" which was true, but there were no police that day, either. the things stolen ran a gamut of worth: flour and sugar and syrup beside your best jewels and the television. they didn't take your books—as books, like some insect or opossum, have a defense of being boring as well as heavy and worth little—except to those who love them.
I thank you for so long a letter—especially given all that's happened.

I wish I could do more: I once met Dr. Rice in the Sephora in Georgetown and she seemed quite nice and prettier in person than her press, too, but I doubt I really have any pull. It is hard to know how to respond: what do you say after a friend's house is torn apart, and your troops in some small way enabled this to happen? It's as if my dog got loose and pulled all your fresh wash from the line and rendered it to shreds. I send you a quote from Raman Mundair, and otherwise try to remind you that five or so years from now, your son will be in college—I guess in England or somewhere. Not Iraq. Things will improve with time, see.
they have to—somehow.
  • Current Music
    Gülben Ergen : "Ben Olsaydim"

A discussion: your thoughts on subject and predicate and other mechanics issues

How big a role does the consideration of these things play in writing stories, whether short stories or longer pieces, i.e. novel(la)s?

I feel like it plays a much larger role even in mediocre books, than I perhaps ever give credit for. I also feel like that's a big reason for why my writing tends to fall off a cliff in short order, before the entire spectrum of a particular idea really takes off. It's as if I've run into a wall with the way some of the things I write are worded.

Any thoughts?

something I wrote with a friend while talking about Cuba

”Poetry always remembers that it was an oral art before it was a written art. It remembers that it was first song.” —Jorge Luis Borges

You have convinced me to resign. Once again, I will be known as a man of belles-lettres. And with the echo of mountains that always fill my life in hindsight, with saudades, I will go and look for places with docks, with saturnine moons, with exotic trees that drip down their leaves; places where you cannot see the other side of the lake. Places where I need to speak of them in details historical to make them found on a map, these places like Burgo de San Cernín, Navarre, Spain. It was the Languedocian borough of Pamplona. It still is but where it is is no longer as it was. See. Places of that nature. While Spite I don’t reckon to locate, they tell me whole Cart-Loads of it may be found near the Places where they empty the common Jacks, and scarce a Ditch can be found without it growing by it.

i found a ditch and i didn’t plan to, i was walking home from a friend’s house and ran to the right side of the road by the bar where no-one seems anymore to go and it was wet and muddy in the road there so i went over to the left of the road and fell forward down into a ditch, but at least it was only me in jeans tee and sneakers not a car nor as you talked about what was it? ........oh yeah, a cart. cart-loads of it.

what was it? in the cart?

Henbane. I have a glacial attitude about it. Never mistake poisons for salad greens, but go with care into your garden. Slow. We have now a world in imperfect motion and patches everywhere it requires real repairs, don’t we? I imagine it as a collage of jet engines and old electric fans from the 1950s, don’t you? Don’t you just see it all as every manner of things that spin and whirl? I see the pages of a book in Buenos Aires blown this way, then that, by the many jet engines and even more annoying fans in Miami—it carries that far. How could it not? Yet all is not well. Asphyxia, congestion, and death are complications of its use. Not only henbane, but the damn fans, too.

what did you say after that? ” It is not hard to find reasons why such problems should have arisen. ” yeah. i know what you want me to say, i know you want me to lay here next to you and say something funny, i know a fat woman falling out her window in a colonial place like a disney cartoon would have it would do. i didn’t come to make you laugh though, no, i came to clean your chimney and maybe the oven, too. the fat lady didn’t fall from the window, anyways, she was pushed and it was a man named ”Gomez” who did it and he was called ”Gomex” because he looked like Raul Julia and came from Cuba. you won’t believe me though when I tell you he did it because you like Gloria Estafan and she came also from Cuba. and it was the very same Cuba, too.

Was his name then really ”Gomez” or ”Gomex”, for the latter sounds awful like a name for a cheap brand of Mexican dishwasher that is supposed to do twice the job in half the time. Instead, it does half the job in twice the time. But maybe then, ”Gomez” also does as advertised: I can see him now pushing countless plump ladies from their bedroom windows open to allow in a stirring breeze in the first weeks of summer of the last month of spring. So quickly it happened: she was watching ”Maude” on the movie of the week and painting her fingernails when a tall and slender Hispanic man barged into her quarters and smiled as she rose to her feet . . . . . before she quite knew whether to be scared, outraged, or intrigued, she found his experienced and forceful hands pushing her out the open window and in her vast surprise, she didn’t even scream as she rolled down the old roof, taking with her several loose tiles, before falling with a resounding splash into a reflecting pool both too large and arrogant for her small middle-class home.

she was like the tigon, we didn’t even expect her to live. ” The female cub, although of delicate health, was raised to adulthood.” and then she got wide. very.

She was, but it’s not important that she was portly, really, what’s most crucial is that a madman is on the loose. He had only escaped the attention of the authorities because he was smart enough to not rob a bank or jeweler’s and none of his unsuspecting victims died. Thus, by sidestepping the conventions of crime fiction, our Gomez took the police by surprise when he pushed a rather rotund police-woman off a dock and into the lagoon. Saturnine, I said of that moon, and soon, our criminal will have his first murder for the officer pushed from the dock into just three feet of water could not swim, and suspecting that still waters run deep, she simply thrashed about until she expired.

in the offices of Estafan Enterprises, Gloria is telephoned by Interpol. they would like a short interview. it is in their interest to know, when she as a girl immigrated to Miami if a tall man with a villian’s cloak was aboard the same boat. she really didn’t remember as she was really young when all this happened, but because she’s Gloria Estafan and everyone loves her and knows she’ll do the right thing and help out, she made something up. she said he wasn’t on the boat but probably left the day before on a plane. she was however dead wrong, and in fact he was on the same ship and her misinformation threw the whole investigation off. now, to this day, there’s a fat-woman killer on the loose because a pop star wouldn’t tell the fuckin’ truth.

  • Current Music
    Sonora Ponceña : "Ramona"
Sequin Mask

silent reconciliation

It’s been so long.
2 years, almost. 2 years since they told me what you supposedly said about me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they lied. Maybe they misunderstood. I never knew. And yet it broke my heart.
It was breaking again tonight. I broke it myself, walking past you without saying a word, not deigning to look at you. I know you did. Stopping abruptly, staring. We spent 5 hours doing this, over and over.
And now, this moment. I was just about to leave.
And while your eyes pleaded for forgiveness, and your hand on my shoulder tried to appease me, and your lips remained quiet – my arms forgave you, whatever you had or hadn’t done.
It’s been so long.

new poem : "magical realism"

magical realism

"it doesn't matter, cry and make believe that I don't exist"

—Clarice Lispector

sometimes we surprisingly revisit original intent,
placing our ethics distal to our desires,
like our forefathers and their fleets of slave ships.
I walked a beach after surfing, seeing small round
fellows tending to crops on a hill, seeing white smoke
arise from fields where they burned the old to make
room for the new. to make the soil young, to bring
from the dross of unharvested cane the nurse-bed of
a flowering new botany.

in the spring, all is fair game. I am invisible, like
a ghost here, because I have nothing to do. yet in town,
I am a spectacle, the visitor, a person who is memorable.
on a remote beach, I just have nothing useful to do aside
from surfing in the warm water under a tarry dark sky of
storms about to set in — those lasting until five in the morning.

San Juan del Sur, summer months of a year ago,
you'd find me then on the porch neighboring my hotel, drinking
rum with the man who lives there: he was a teacher and came to
the US to study law but left after two years, when his father died.
they needed a teacher and a man around the house moreso than an abogado
anyways, he tells me, and points towards the harbor, explaining
all about cargo ships that come and go, and how Russians aren't really
such bad folks.

I asked him more about those ships, and the Russians, too. I did not
ask about his ex-wife though: the lady at my hotel advised against that. I know this from personal history, unfinsihed and like a mural awaiting more details, I know: why speak of frustrations when you can stick to sheer facts?
¿Como olvidar a un chico que no me quiere y que yo amo? . . . esa persona nueva entraba en mi vida me hacia recordar a la otra persona que . . .

or, as Bri reminded me more recently, why repeat mundane details when you can trip to demure romances lost to all but ten photographs, an unfinished bottle of rum, and a scar on your hip?

yet whatever is lost, is memory: Bri got to meet Vincent before he took off like a 737 to some other place further from my mind. All here is fine. And Managua too is alive with light tonight, just like Orlando from the driver's seat window leaving the club, up on I-4, overpass and nothing more.

two days prior I stood before the catedral-basílica de la Asunción, where Rubén Darío lays beneath the considerble weight of a large and heavy church with a stone floor, plus his many travels. maestra vida, still alive. La Prensa, La Tribuna and El Tiempo.

(Doctor Rubén Blades must have a brass section and backing chorus the size of a sea, to tell his stories, only to tell his stories, it is no arrogance, but to tell his stories.)

the time, understand, is not always now. I got off the flight back at MCO with no
fanfare whatsoever. next year, I was in the back of a Scion Tc with my head on Vincent's lap, talking to a Russian friend on my phone and watching pine trees through the window become a blur of grime-green. just then I find out Vincent's father is Russian, too — as was the old man in Managua's father, also.
magic has its own time, its own years. today, I called Tobias to see if he wanted to go skate and he said no, he was reading . . . what, I asked? and he replied
"Julio Cortázar".
so we come full circle: somehow, I am right back here again.

—for Bri Schiebler & Rubén Blades
  • Current Music
    Rubén Blades : "Maestra Vida"