we only said goodbye with words

26 November 2007

when i wrote a poem on a coffee cup

i play rhymes like the Volga
in the heart
of musical winter -
sweet little sunshine,
can you show me the way
to Elboa?

19 November 2007

when the rain had laughter

selected excerpts from a recent story i wrote:
--
My first thought earlier was what if the rain had laughter? What if every drop of water that fell from the sky was giggling or guffawing, chuckling or chortling, hee-hawing or howling, snickering or snorting, tittering or tee-heeing, cachinnating or cackling? Then the clouds would be more like mouths and the sky would be more like a face and the sun and moon would be funny-looking moles than appear at different times on your face depending on what you ate for breakfast or lunch or dinner and fog or smoke or smog would be what happens when you don't shave for varying lengths of time - only if you're a guy, of course. Or a woman of ethnic origins which I won't say in case it makes me seems racy. I mean racist. Though being racist is racy nowadays, isn't it?...
...[W]hat if we held our friends over our heads like umbrellas when it rained laughter? When we needed them, of course. And they could do the same thing with us when they needed us. Laughter rains from everywhere and I hold my friend Anna above my head and she absorbs all the laughter and it makes her clothes all wet and hilarious and drips everywhere. But then, you see, the whole idea of an umbrella would be reversed, which is exactly my point. Let's say my friend James is sad because he's an attractive gay man but doesn't think he's an attractive gay man, much like a bush baby is happy because it thinks it's a cute little tree-climber when in fact it is quite hideous, or an author who is confused because he keeps having these thoughts that make sense but he thinks they don't and he just rambles on and on about his ideas and friends, like his friend James, who is sad because he doesn't think he's an attractive gay man, which he in fact is. So it starts to rain laughter outside and I say "James get your attractive gay person over here!" and he says "I'm not attractive. Though I am gay." which then proves my point that he needs to have buckets of laughter fall upon him from the heavens, so I lift him up and swing him over my head and it rains and rains and rains and I hear laughter everywhere - this time the laughter of two ridiculously flamboyant gay men sitting at a bar overusing the word "fabulous" - and James becomes soaked in it and he is then effectively wearing laughter, he showered in laughter, laughter going everywhere, and since laughter in inherently equal to happiness and happiness is inherently equal to thinking better of yourself than you do when you're unhappy, I can put James down when the brief storm is over (for laughter always comes in brief storms), confident that he now knows - or at least temporarily believes, rightly - that he is an attractive gay man. Gay in both senses, too! How punny. And let's say my friend Anna, who has large breasts and curly brown hair that she had straightened when she went off to college and pierced her belly button and lost her virginity is feeling rather gloomy because she hates everyone around her except her friends (which doesn't make much sense, because if she liked everyone else, wouldn't she call them friends, too?). So it begins to thunder chuckles and rain canals of cacchination and I whip her up over my head, which is rather easy, because she's rather thin, and, as proven earlier, she'll feel buckets better once the storm is gone.

12 November 2007

when i was so much more than something

my darling here,
i ask you:
can we explode
(bedridden - not
and rose drenched)
into nothingness?

pretty your eyes parting
and your cool lips
aflutter
you do but say
naught and
in great stead,
unbreakable like a diamond,
you prefer
to kiss me
as an answer that
sings Yes and
screams No
and electrifies
all in between

(why nothingness
perhaps you ponder?
why because new
when i hold you
there is nothing else
but the hum of your body,
so beautiful and new a thing
every time).

04 November 2007

when i was timeless

how is that i seem to have hours upon end to fill with nothingness, yet in the end of the day i feel like i have no time at all, like the list of things i want to read and need to write just slowly add their weight to my eyes and hands? i've been barely making it through reading Amerika, a fairly easy read; it's been 2 weeks and i'm only about half way done. i'm neglecting my thucydides reading more than i should, i have to write my humanities paper (contrasting homer and herodotus' respective views on how the gods play a role in war in ancient greece and thus how herodotus ultimately sees the truth and reality in human agency), i have tons of books i want to read for fun, i have to come up with an extended bibliography for my spanish research paper (mercifully, i am allowed to write it in english) comparing the trichotomy of heaven/earth/hell to that of the three levels of existence of Comala in Pedro Paramo, i (feel like i) have to constantly be writing and working on some story i've got going or other...

but when it comes down to having time to do these things, i throw a blanket over my head and pretend like almost nothing exists. i just look at the clock and wonder what would really happen if it just stopped.