Sunday, July 24, 2011
my two dogs are ashes. one inside a wooden box carved by a Tibetan monk, the other a hand blown black urn, her name is embossed in gold. they were big dogs and you wouldn't believe the weight of these things. i guess everything , even the slightest whisper, even ashes- have weight.
I plan on doing a bit of traveling, minor explorations and hedonistic adventures. As much as id like to i can't commit to getting more fur friends just yet. So for now, I volunteered at the local Tri-county animal shelter. It's a No-Kill shelter. The dogs don't just sit sad-eyed in cages all day waiting to get adopted. there are many great volunteers and they help train, walk, give millions of pets, brush, and play with all the "guests" as much as possible. The shelter is situated on a few gated acres so the dogs can run loose for exercise too. Some of these dogs are amazing. Two of them were adopted in just my short time there. It's pretty great seeing that, especially when an older dog get a home. Its what the No-kill shelter is about.
Home is wherever I'm with you - don't you know? I have difficulty having to put them back in the caged pens after i hang it with them. Id like to take them all home. I imagine them all having homes. each one, the older ones, the puppies. I visualize it. I send it out to the universe. Even thoughts. Everything has weight.
Friday, July 15, 2011
there were fights and sweat soaking fucks, like animals. but there were also sweet dreams fortified with red wine and soft pillows. sleep was easy and it was probably the soft sheets and they way the scent of it all sunk deep. everything clings.
when she was gone i knew i had to wash them, but i put it off because i wanted my skin against
the smell of her ghost. even though she was miles away somewhere next to him - she was with me. funny how that works. funny just how true that seems in our heads.
the silence doesn't stop me. it only pushes me to look deeper inside myself. heart beats. muscle tissue. expansion, contraction. disintegration. I wont let go.
late at night i play instrumentals so fucking loud the paint might peel from the walls. cellos and trombones. real woods and metals. real flesh and bones. the part inside the inside - the narrator. nothing can stop me from getting what i want in this life. nothing can stop me from living this story.
sweet dreams fortified with sugar rush and piano chords. we gave our blood in a mobile-bank outside a library. we never stop giving. we share our sin.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
miles and flagrant
the night we swam
stung our eyes
remember that old house?
remember how the walls came
oh that was a time
oh that was a time
the rain fell like
all the miles
those little birds
and power lines
i wanted was
to swim like sharks
in a pool
of summers blood
and she'll take her photographs
spread them like wild fire
you are in my
photos: Cari Ann Wayman
Thursday, July 7, 2011
it sounded so much better playing in her room. inside out. turning me inside out. the music floated to the ceiling. it gently bounced off walls. it meant something. scratches and bites and all.
sometimes it means new or change or something you've never done before. jump. leap. live. lyrics you can't hold or understand. It means illumination. it means dark secrets mixed with drum beats. there is want and need heavy in the air. breathing.
the song had meaning because you were there and i was there and we sang it deep in our hearts. i felt it on my mouth and in my hair and fingers. I felt it on your skin and inside you.
somewhere along the line, the scar closed, the memory tape healed over by time. time steals these quiet moments, the ones i tried so hard to hold and not let go. the smell and feel of her. its on the tip of my tongue but just out of reach. her voice when she said my name. the song that played. now just a soundtrack on a rainy day. background. I feel words. i don't hear music. i feel text. I think of you. I write it. nothing more.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
water pools in the drive-way mixing with motor oil, black-top. a flow, a stream, a rainbow hurricanes into the drainage ditch. but it's not nearly fast enough. over-flow. small floods.memories, tide pools.
summer heat is followed by mid afternoon summer storms. reducing the mood to a purer state. i fold paper sail-boats looking out the window. stuck inside. we are always stuck inside for something, stuck inside because of rain or work or the oppressive humidity. stuck inside our own heads, thoughts of sweat and fuck and silence. It is that kind of summer holiday. the long sight lines, the emptiness, the building wind. I fall into myself. thunder-storms. the soft tap of rain against the window. i wish you were here.