bombyx mori: a love song for shawn

the talking beat beneath my feet is love.
it takes me through the thrash of day and night,
the ticking tocks of clocks in silent rooms,
unwinds the bind, recalling something new

we met online, t’was women seeking same.
we talked at s’nice, the coffee shop on eighth
she liked my shirt. i liked her honest face.
her easy laugh, my awkward rambling on

entire nights were spent with just one thought
her lips on mine, entwined, our senses taut
we ate the chouchun leaves of heaven’s tree
cocooned in pupal casing spun of silk

if she could see inside my mind
imbued with visions dark and unrefined
she’d find a space for her, unmarred with pain
i knew before she knew, but that’s okay.

© 14 february 2009

female bombyx mori image

obama fever

i have had the worst week in months, but I feel like I'm finally coming out of this black cancer of a brain. i found out that i wasn't accepted into that NYCTF program and even though i had already made up my mind that i wouldn't be pursuing it, i fell into a dark, familiar hole of self-doubt and fear of incompetence/failure. i suppose you want to know what helped to get me out of it? it was actually reading Obama's first book, Dreams from My Father.

in it, he grapples with the stratified self, the lack of identity that we all seem to be suffering from in this new collage of existence. he so eloquently describes his emotional journey to know himself with such captivating detail that i feel inspired to try to describe my own. to take responsibility for my life and for all the elements that came together to make me. the incongruence of my experience, the joys, the sorrows, the maddening injustices, the legacies of my father and my mother and their families. all of it comes together to give me the basis on which my values are formed. but to get lost in those experiences, to be afraid to live, to be consumed by fear and pain--that can only be my tragedy. i can decide to move beyond these trappings of the human condition and discover how i can be useful to others.

i had hoped that i would see a non-white president, a female president, an "other" president in the white house, but i never dreamed that i would connect so deeply with a president. that he would be able to so accurately touch upon the fundamental aspects of my character. that he would call on me to be a less-selfish individual, to break free of the trap of logic and reason.

when i talk about Obama with friends and family, i typically hear: "well, that talk of hope is another form of rhetoric. let's see what he will actually do" or "i doubt he'll be able to even scratch the surface of all the problems we're facing as a nation." at this point in the conversation, i ask if they have read either of his two books, and the answer has invariably been "no." two things bother me about this: i'm not sure how they can make such casual claims without doing any research, and they can't seem to see all of the change he's already accomplished.

dreams from my father image

perfection

i remember how her hair smelled
when I used to cradle in the nook
between her head and her shoulder
like a cat snuggling up firmly against a leg
finding the closest spot possible

she called those spots “Perfection.”
she would run her lips against my face
and every nook they found was deemed “perfect.”

it’s funny but I have trouble understanding
what perfect means anymore.
now that she’s gone.

it’s not funny but eternally sad
to know that I can’t find those spots with her anymore.
it’s not funny but unforgivably torturous
to be without her for so long.

i close my eyes and stretch my mind to find her across the oceans and seas.
as I will myself closer, her freckles start to focus.
i can see the sparkle in her eyes that used to get us in trouble.
i close my eyes and I can feel her lips against mine
i can feel her hair gliding across my fingers
beautiful black silky thick hair
that smells like freshly cut flowers.

© july 2005

spooning image

you know you want it

i sent out all of the emails requesting recommendations for grad school. probably my least favorite part of this whole thing and it's done. take that, academia!

tintin image

om

s and i did yoga together earlier. it felt so good to get in touch with my body. the practice focused on the back and hips and that's pretty much where i hold most of my tension. we both feel strongly about finding a daily yoga practice that works for us. i really hope we do.

a week or so ago, i signed up for some really cheap yoga classes run by the local library that will take place in january and february. the cost breaks down to $2.50 per class. freaking awesome. i have to find out when the neighborhood yoga studios do their free community classes, and add those to my schedule as well.

after yoga, s gave me a full-body massage. it was absolutely amazing. earlier this week, we decided to give each other massages on sundays, alternating giving and receiving each week. it's very reciprocal and interdependent, you might say. afterward, we sat on the couch and i started studying for the gre while she read. the gre is kind of fun in a way--to feel like maybe i can beat this stupid motherfucking standardized test. fucking motherfuckers and their stupid standardized tests. my life motto: "fuck standards. really. fuck 'em."

we just took a walk to watch the sunset. it was so beautiful and huge that it made my eyes feel small and incapable of taking it all in. what a nice motherfucking day.

om image

fallujah, fall ‘04

disillusionment, disentanglement, disappointment
the fall is here, has fallen upon us
and the first frost of the season solidifies my grief.

warm hands of summer, slick with sweat
from the anticipation we made with pressed bodies
pressed like sentimental flowers in heavy textbooks
we felt permanent or worth saving under the weight
of pages and words.

hot heat of Athens’ summer streets,
walking with nothing following us,
walking with no destination,
the ruins were the ones frozen in time.
they watched us with admiration and astonishment
and they held their poses with grace and respect
for we were free to come and go like Michaelangelo
we were the masters
of us.

back to Buda, back to Pest,
back in time to my father’s immigrant past
we stood in the spot where Stalin was torn down
we laid in the square unafraid, feeling the anomie of generations since
culminating in my stratified self, broken down so many times
into so many pieces of pain, and like a kaleidoscope, She saw me
and said, “You are beautiful.” and she glued my pieces together.

but New York City welcomed us back
with the rat leading the way to the dizzying pace of complacency.
under the thumb of nothing but our own idiosyncrasies,
placating ourselves daily with ephemeral pleasures
like the mentally disturbed taking their meds.

© november 2004

fallujah image

all the bullshit

today, i feel like grad school isn't right for me. all the bureaucracy, all the bullshit, people speaking in code. that's not what i want. i just want to carve out my own little world of peace and happiness and love. every time i get close to "re-entering society," i have so much anxiety and that quickly turns into depression and a catatonic-like paralysis. i'm so tired of this cycle. i make myself sick with it.

i need to stop thinking about the big picture and just focus on the day in front of me. it's disgusting outside, so what can i do inside that's healthy for me? maybe some yoga. maybe play some ping pong. blogging is a good start. finish reading dewey. go for a run on the treadmill. take a hot bath. play rock band with s.

but i just want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers up over me and try to make the anxiety go away.

bullshit image

close to home

i couldn't sleep last night. not really sure why. kept waking up suddenly as if i hadn't been sound asleep. so i played some word warp and when that didn't make me fall asleep, i started researching the master's in education program at stony brook. i recently applied for the NYCTF (new york city teaching fellows) program, interviewed, and i am now waiting to hear back. they have a great package: a partially subsidized master's degree, no GREs to get into the program, a seven-week intensive training session, and immediate placement in a school. the downside for me is that you teach in nyc. i don't have an issue with the location whatsoever. it's simply the commute. i can't imagine commuting two hours each way to a new and challenging job while studying for a master's degree. and s and i have decided wholeheartedly that we don't want to move back to brooklyn. so i thought perhaps i should look into programs near me in suffolk. the only issue with that is i will be hemmoraging money. if i can pull myself together to complete the application, get three personal references, take the GREs, and find the money to pay for all this, i think it would be the best option for me. i need to be close to home for now. i know that much.

commuting image

flight or fight

like a dog with no concept of time
staring out the window, waiting for her owner
to come home;
it’s an instinct like flight or fight.

she loved me less than one would love a dog.
who would leave a dog waiting forever?
but dogs never win.
they are the first to be eaten on a failed expedition
they are put to work, put to sleep, put outside,
made to serve a purpose.
as the owner sees fit.
and then when the purpose is obsolete.
the cuddliness and softness of the fur is expendable.
the dog can be put down,
and the secrets whispered with quivering lips will die with it.
even the guilt.

love is cruel in the darkness of cages.
time no longer exists and sad, wise eyes
stay fixed on unconditional thoughts.

but even dogs give up sometimes.
they let go and give up eating, drinking.
heart broken, the beating stops.
with no purpose, they willingly let go.

© november 2005

sex should be like eating

she told me last night.
something that we just do—
which is exactly the opposite
from the way she touched me.

magnetic electrical impulses
begin in my arm and shock like a current through
my chest
into my stomach sinking it

down like the hollow empty hull of a ship
that floats in the water
allowing the balance of buoyancy
to keep the rest of the vessel afloat.

Buoyancy that is the tugging of equal forces

gravity pulling down
and captured air that will
never stop
trying to escape.

And yet the air is released in my breath, on her neck
in her mouth.
for a moment the balance is skewed
until another shock fills me again.

this is not like eating.
something we just do because we have to.
because it tastes good.
even because we love it.

sex is like language,
creating each sentence
reaching out and hoping that meaning is found
words meeting words

language by definition

we define ourselves
sculpting with our hands, our lips
carving down the spine
through the stomach, into the heart

© october 2007
buoyancy diagram
language image

i forgot my blueberries

s showed me a really cool widget on the iphone called howcast. it tells you how to do pretty much everything. the howcast that i particularly enjoyed was "how to improve your memory" because i constantly feel like a dumbass, partially due to depression, partially to meds, and partially because i didn't know about all these ways you can improve your memory.

here are the materials you will need:

a puzzle game
purple (not white) organic concord grape juice
rosemary or sage
aerobic exercises
catnaps
relaxation techniques
an active social life
blueberries

puzzle games like crosswords, soduku, and word warp keep your brain active. 8 oz of grape juice a day improves memory by 20% (organic grape juice has 40% more anti-oxidents). rosemary or sage stimulates the memory center of the brain. aerobic exercise brings oxygen to the brain and builds new cells in the brain region linked to memory. people who take catnaps retain twice as much a day. relaxation techniques reduce stress (stress activates an enzyme that impairs short term memory). an active social life sharpens concentration and memory. and a handful of blueberries a day contain enough of a chemical that improves memory.

also, memorizing on an empty stomach is best for retaining memory because a hormone that helps memory is highest.

and moving your eyes from side to side for 30 seconds every morning improves memory by ten percent because you're improving the communication between left and right hemispheres.

and how did i remember all of this?? i wrote it down... booyakacha.

"center of brain" image

i am a snuggle-loving motherfucker

i think i hate traveling. i used to love it, and it used to love me. i mean, it might have loved me more than i loved it. but i digress.

here's the thing. i miss my dogs and cats when i'm away. yes, that's right. my furry little angels. every day, i snuggle them, kiss them, feed them, play with them, sleep with them, walk them. my life is a good 60 percent about them. okay, maybe 70-75 percent. point being, i MISS them when i'm gone. there is a huge, lonely gap in my day. sometimes, when i think about MY LEGACY, i wonder what i would do with all of my time if i didn't have pets. but guess what, motherfuckers? maybe that is my legacy. i mean, that and beating myself up about everything i do and don't do. but i'm working on reducing that percentage from 30 to maybe 5. i can dream, can't i?

beer coated sticky greased table

The perfection of unrequited love
Weighs on my mind like
A heavy beautiful burden.

Softball is coming again.
In a month we will begin again
Our romance that only lasts
Six months of the year.

We will meet weekly.
Speak niceties. Give condolences.
Share news--good and bad.
Encourage each other at bat,
Yelling the things that make us
All laugh.
Sometimes we will smile for
Just one beat too long.

And then in the undressing
Of alcohol.
We will take off our relative masks
And we will be in love for a moment.

Then linger on opposite ends of the
Beer coated sticky greased table, speaking blindly of
The plays of the day.

And then you will go home to your cold, impatient wife
And two beautiful girls.
And I will go home to my menagerie
of lovers that I don’t love.

I can’t wait.

© march 2003

image "frosty mug"

my cancer

Open me up again
Spread my skin
Splay my tissue
Until you find the bone

It’s what you thought you would find
Simple bone encased in comfortable cancer
Folded upon itself, gelatinous mass
Poke at it and let it hemorrhage a little

But wash your hands before they stain
Wash your hands until the memory has faded
Me inside you, you inside me

I thought the cancer was shifting
But it shifted loose and spread
And now it’s too much to wrap your arms around me
Quarantined with infectious anxiety

I’m sorry I let you in only to disappoint you
Your hands should have healed me
My bones wanted to breathe
My legs wanted to run
My heart wanted to pump blood
Strongly and Clearly

© august 2007

"skin and bones" pencil drawing

michael's voice

I'm lying in bed thinking about michael. We were together for five years, and he's been gone for a month and a half now. I called his cell phone yesterday after dreaming about him to listen to his voice. It gave me an idea for a mixed-media painting. I have some pieces of his car that s picked up for me at the scene of the accident: the driver's-side mirror, the fuse-box cover, and piece of exhaust piping. I read a eulogy at his wake.

I took this photo of him shortly after 9/11 when he first became a sergeant on the NYPD. When I entered the wake to view his body, this photo was blown up to poster size, and it was sitting next to his coffin.