Only two things are limitless: timespace and stupidity, and I can't prove that about timespace.

It fascinates me, the ways in which we think we know people. How can we find ourselves surprised by anything, when the capacity for changing one's mind is boundless? People change their minds constantly, and in spite of knowing this, all we seem to want from people is consistency. We think, "How can I know you if you keep changing? What can I mean to you if your feelings are constantly in flux?" So, is this thinking selfish? Or is it just wishful? Wander on.

PS: the following poem deals with duende, not death or suicide or whatever. So don't take it the wrong way, ya fools.

[another untitled, in progress]

I am water and tonight I speak

the language of the black tip sharks,

the movement in my ears and skin

like a lover's hands down my body.

I could drown here, stop swimming

and gulp the sea into my lungs.

I want to be carried away, I want

the endless sleep and light of death

to pour from my eyeballs and toenails

and pull me, stretch my limbs and spine

to seaweed, raw and whole, until

I am full and broken like an egg

in the hand, shaken but not cracked.

My organs are melting and my skin

glows like a satellite in the sky,

like a nettle inviting you in. I could

end all the things you know in the raising

of my finger to your lips.

Do You Believe in Magic?

Sometimes it really hits me how surreal life is; it's so much beauty and pain smushed together. It's so much meaning without any answers.

There was a boy who every morning for three weeks of ninth grade would wrap his arms around me. He didn't say much or kiss me, but every morning I would come to school and he would hold me. He is gone, and I don't know what that means. And to learn of it this weekend, after days of thinking that life was finally reimbursing me for its prior wrongs. What does it mean?

I wonder: would I rather be content and detached from the bipolar swings of the world, or at the mercy of my passions and really feeling the breadth and depth of my capacity to feel anything? As much as it hurts sometimes, I still choose the latter.

Wander on.

[untitled, in progress]

Today in the rain, there is only

your face dripping with mist,

the stream by my apartment gushing

cafe au lait, the cricket in the holly

bush glistening brown. If this is not

love--your mouth's worship of

my nape, clavicle, scapula--

what is there to say? Your fingers

explore the bay of my navel, the

cresting cliff of my hipbone, and for you

I would be a spider web dotted with dew

perfecting my every arc and angle toward

the symmetry of your folded arms.

I want you to kiss my eyelids

every morning, pressing my sight

into the heavy winter drunk

of daybreak in my window.

What would our hands say?

Them for once the true entwiners,

the conquerors of flesh plateaus--

would their nicotined nailbeds care?

The drastic bow of your lips is soft

with heat and sleep, arrows safely

quivered in your rest. The rise of your

chest is creation, a world beginning

and ending in each cyclical sigh

and I watch your patterns, feel the chaotic

swells on your ribcage sea, its salt

sliding from edge to sternum.

I want to call you "Lover,"

gauge your response in tongue flicks

on an earlobe, then shout my fears

to you like love cries in the night.