(2-3-2017)

Do you remember when we were trees and we drank from the ground? Our bodies were still and we allowed life to grow upon us? We responded to light and conserved in the dark. You may ask where we're our thoughts, but it seems we didn't need them. Our destiny was to grow, bear fruit and seeds, and our breath made a home around us.

Morning Walk to Work (1-13-17)

Walking to work. Passing the hospital. My feet on the sidewalk pavement moving towards my school. Two doctors walking side by side towards me, a wall of 2 men taking up the path. I yield to the dirt, my new sneakers gathering wet dust. Was it a choice or was I a victim to discourteous behavior. Which one of them forgot to share? I can't make up my mind if my act was choice or habit. Just the day before, a capable student asked me politely to tie his shoes. I leaned over approaching his laces. He pulled back laughing, "You was actually going to do it!" I told him, "It isn't beneath me."

Days when God is unattainable...(9/15/15)

There are days when God is unattainable; where we have met a boundary that we cannot penitrate, go over, go through, or ask for it to be removed. We become responsible to go around, honor its limits, and accept the work it demands. Sometimes we approach mountains without a shovel to dig through. Take my hand, and lets walk around together.

For My Birthday...

I finally know what I want for my birthday; another chance to give.
Another chance to give to you something of myself. A post card, a poem,
a piece of creative put-together-junk that resembles a smiling face,
a flower from the lawn with some sentimental memory attached of how
and when I grew it and what it meant to me symbolically,
a chance to share a childhood dream, or to treat you to an ice cream,
a chance to bring you peace of mind with my calm heart, not the panicky-version,
a chance to make you smile with my laughter as you tickle and tease my silly ways,
a chance to hug you with tears in my eyes cause I'm having such a good day.
Another chance to write to you a letter with my sentiments and stories.
I know what I want for my birthday.

A Summer Coctail and friends...

I came to see Angela and Conner today in Allentown. I gardened with Angela for a few hours in the humid sun. The shade felt good. My skin became irritated from the dust, dirt, and various pollens that I am not exposed to in Brooklyn. I hosed off my arms and legs, then rested while Angela still worked. I left her there to shower at the house. I strolled over to the grocery store for pizza toppings, fancy cheese, and uncooked pizza doe. I also picked up some sushi and frozen breaded shrimp. Conner made me a fancy cocktail with tequila and the fruit I bought. After our meal we put on wet suits and headed to his cousin's pool. We competed in the water who could touch the other side and back without surfacing. The water, so refreshing in the dark at 9 o'clock. We then skinny dipped. It was my first time doing this with friends. I felt like my day was an old photograph.

Pain

Pain,
We're connected.
You know us each by name.
The issues you enter in us differ,
still you're familiar to every heart.
Belief is your companion,
Belief that we're divided,
Belief that no one understands,
Belief that we are different,
that we bleed different,
cry different,
eat different,
sleep different,
love different,
dream different.
Maybe issues differ,
yet pain remains the same.
We forget we're connected.
We believe in a divide.

Then Today (1/5/15)

This morning, the moon and lady liberty.
There was blue in the sky, radiating with vibrancy no one, nor I, could understand.
A glow.
This afternoon, the sun, beaming in a similar space.
Windmills in the distance I haven't notice before.
There was I, sitting across from a girl, passing the time.
Then today, there was snow over the city that I love.

Then love returned. (12-30-2012)

I saw beauty in a cloud and soon after I witnessed grace a desire to contain it manifested in my heart. That was the moment I ruined love. Upon the realization of what I had done I chose to let it go. It was then that love returned and we became closer than ever before.

Control

When he stood his head touched the ceiling of the small cedar box. It was his first experience of a sauna. It was dry, yet the temperature was more comfortable than what he had expected.

The sound of the timer seemed annoying at first, but it was quickly drowned out by memories. Attention was brought to his legs, their hairs, and small pinches each follicle made when rubbed by his hands.

The light from the late sun reflected off the siding of the house. It created a hypnotizing grey haze that the eyes struggled adjusting to. He grounded himself through looking out the door window. The blue of the afternoon contrasted the peachy clouds.

His thoughts visited a time when he was on his own. He could do as he pleased without the judgement of others. If he flirted with a man no one could object. He was free to love, smoke, and drink. So little would interrupt foolish actions.

When he was touched by another the speed was significantly slower then. It was within quiet rooms unbothered by common sounds or schedules. Could his lovers appreciate it to the magnitude that he did? Could they feel the intensity or the reason for its meaning?

What did it matter if they could? He was happy whether they shared it or not. He realized how insignificant it was to be understood. He knew life's beauty and the pleasures in romance. He was content in knowing himself. His ambitions in love were to have all that it offered him while contributing to the experience of his partner.

It fascinated him to find how each lover wanted to be touched; discovering their sensitivity and reaction to his hands. He wanted to know their thoughts. He memorized their interests and their expressions made whenever they appeared unguarded. He asked himself what price he must pay to keep this moment or to have them desire him. How could he become wanted? These things were beyond his control, just like the colors the sun had made in the vapors of water in clouds. He wanted the sky in the way he desired to be possessed.

Along with his ambition to serve equally existed the understanding that he was 't obligated to give. He could experience pleasure without any effort to learn about his lovers. These thoughts frightened him for his own desires were dependent on selflessness. He could ask for nothing, as no one was obligated. He could only act and hope for something to be returned.

Droplets formed on his shoulder and he observed the spaces between them. They seemed equally balanced as neither one touched the other. They contained in their reflections hints of the blue sky. He became conscious of his body and the position he was sitting. Touching himself created flashes of subtle romantic thoughts; some real; some imagined.

He was convinced that the only companion for him would have practiced a similar caress. The way he held his own body contained gentleness an appreciation for peace. Did he know of any others who strived for this? He thought he was alone in his desire for independence; to hold himself in peace. If he found a lover who silenced their thoughts for the beauty he saw in lust, he suspected that in time they'd share their concerns an he'd be expected to council things beyond his control. He wanted to love; not to council; not to change. The world seemed interested in change while his interests remained fixed on simple pleasure.

As he held himself that day he continued to observe the sweat pour off him in spite of the absence of a twin mind. In the silence he embodied such grace that he visited these memories without regret. He was glad for their existence. He was happy he had loved. He was glad to know pleasure, its pain, and it's impressions.

A thousand implications. (12-13-2011)

Sometimes I do the dance of misunderstanding, chanting to myself, 'no body gets it.' You tell me I'm confusing and I assure you the feeling is mutual. I am the fool, but for a thousand times have asked you to read implications of experiences that you do not have. No one criticizes themselves like this, where they can foresee the selfish man that others have tried to consume with condiments. No one has the tongue for the raw elements. It is the preparations of the knife, discarding the fat, and catering to your tastes that we unite in a meal. Dancing alone keeps me away, until I get tired of all that, and return to gardening.

The Sin of Thoughts (3-8-2011)

Concerns of status, of position, and loss thereof, travel in thoughts, taught to be afraid. I, a performer, and observer of such things, at times will negate my desire to play, and ponder any meaning of why. I wonder if I am suffering, if my dreams are escapes, or visions of a world man will one day come to know.

In my drive home from work is the religious pattern of turns and thoughts. The sky, the clouds, the trees can only be noticed when I am empty of all those things. I turn on the air to imitate the cool breeze from a former verse, as though it could replicate rotting sentiments. I will play with words to discover a description of the opening in the clouds near the horizon. I want to tell you how the ends of the clouds are like tails, in a line, in some parade, moving at one speed; not one of the parts moving faster or slower. I want to replicate something private, expose it for viewing, and believe that an imitation won’t scar the fact of its genuine mother.

I wonder why I am angry, but as it occurs, I rarely consider its source. Is it because of my friend, the time I spent with her, the way she has influenced me, and now that we’re away, that anyone else is not her? Can’t they see me as she does, learn to treat me the same, or is it that I’ve held her so close, afraid to release her, and do the same amount of work with a stranger?

What will my confessions produce in the minds of the striving? Can my subtle doubts wake man to the emptiness in his heart so he isn’t afraid of the hollowness he has carved? Can I make friends with the privacy of God, keeping our door open for those willing to sit towards the face of the sky? I’ll keep the air blowing, and my heart in practice, hoping that my promise never has to deal with conflict. Better yet, I’ll release my promise, and forgive this deity for the sin of thoughts.

As I am Dead

Was it the cold nip on my legs that lead me to those nights, waiting in line for the club, and how difficult it was to wait with such a desire to be noticed.

What did it mean to be young and so full with thoughts of men? What would you say of a man who wanted to be wanted?

It’s totally useless, how amazed I was at the bird, swooping back and forth in a reoccurring U-shaped flight, in between the branches of the tall pine, over and over again. My amazement has no bearing to the night or to men. My amazement has no meaning. It is completely empty, as I am alive, watching a bird, as I am dead watching men.

Breathlessness...

I recently discovered in an old scrap book a poem I wrote when I was probably around the ages of 10-12. I can still remember, very specifically, that I was at my grandparent’s house, in the back room, sitting in a large reclining chair. It was either late spring or summertime, during the night. The windows were open, and I was experiencing the breeze, and the sound of a few lonely cars driving by on the main road in the isolated country of Pennsylvania. I don’t remember what was happening in my life at the time, but I recall, in that moment, I was experiencing a profound awareness of myself, where I felt like I couldn’t breathe enough air, that my lungs were bottomless, almost like the feeling one experiences when they contemplate the infinite. I felt the large, vast, open space of the dark night. I felt incredibly alive. I then recorded in that moment this poem, questioning what it meant:

What am I doing?
Why am I waiting here?
Why can’t I say something?
What is this feeling I have inside me?
Why do I feel this way?
All I did was read a book, and think a little, and now I have a weird feeling in my stomach.
Is it god?
Who are you?
What do you want?
Why do I feel Déjà vu?
Is my death near?
Explain!
What it is about music that gets me going?
Why?
Help me cry! God! I love you.
Am I in Love?
Marry me.
Children?
My heart cries!
Love is the answer!
Help.
God loves forever.
Me.

When it comes to these things...(11-23-2010)

Dear Mystery, the essence that provokes, the feeling of desire that hungers for more.

Dear reflection of myself in the mirror’s image, that tells a backward tale of a young man’s morning hair, yet to be bathed.

Dear myself when I was five, discovering my body, its height, its color, its volume within a reclining chair.

Dear summertime days that I didn’t make art, that I didn’t sentiment trees or discuss romance.

In the afternoon you will leave me, and I will cook a meal. I will ponder my schedule, my words, my thoughts, my plans. I will take a bite and eat it, and maybe my mind will become empty.

Flowers don’t bloom in the winter, they come in the later spring. This makes sense to a gardener. Men in misery will drink their beer, ignoring the distance between us and them. Scared men will kiss their mates, making wild love, begging existence to stay where it is. You’ve left me no choice but to consider these things, dissecting the skin to discover organs. Within the process of looking, so many minds wonder, will they continue to feel?

I go first when it comes to these things, diving in a pool, maybe never to return. In the context of all things, the landscape remains the same. The sun still sets on the overcast day, and my gut wants to pull over to see it. My hand will reach for yours, greeting the cold surface of the car seat.

Is there some way to transmit this to you, void of intention, a pure gift to see?

In the context of all things I am awake to some problem, to which I face the reality of misery and protect myself in romance, but I am a slave to it all until I see it as it is. And then, without pride, something beautiful occurs. Neither you nor I can describe it. I am passionate to respond, and that joy translates into muffled sounds, a language no misery can bare. And in the context of it all, I am learning to be alone, and why it seems to make true love come to life.

Four men crossing a bridge. (8-25-10)

Caught in the passion of my emotion, over petty arguments with my mother, I passed over the bridge. It was the same bridge that I stopped near, pulling the car aside from the road, to speak to my friend about my concerns of when my lovers have mistreated me. There I asked her if she thought that he might continue to think of me. She told me that he probably hasn’t allowed himself the thought. While she spoke of facts, indicating he was afraid, I watched, observing the outline of the trees in the moon’s light, wondering if a police officer might question my business there, but no patrol car ever came.

That day, I saw four men walking on the bridge in a small parade of humanity. Where were they going? Four Indian men, walking in the sun, dressed in polo’s and Khakis, and then there was I, young, observing four adults, maybe three generations, crossing a bridge, possessing grace.

I’ve been thinking of that bridge. I’ve been thinking of the past, how it smelled, how he smelled, what it felt like to have him close enough to remember the warmth coming off him, or how the moon’s light can’t outline a man’s body through the haze of a city sky. I think I was happy then in the drama of those days and nights. There was no direction, there was no wind. There was only snow, and cold, and his impulse to kiss me because it was what he wanted, and how then, and only then, he deserved me, and I him.

Was it just a ruse to the ego or heart? Was it only then that I’ll know lust and letting go, or is there, within this order, a more complex way to fall, so I might once again feel entranced with life itself? Does it require other halves, twenty marbles to fill a jar with some spaces, empty creases in between?

Get me out of the memory that says to feel the ghost’s hand, and to be alive on the floor in my room. Get me out of the mind and into a practice, preserving my name until I die. Get me down from the spirit, and into the land so I can face loneliness and love her.

News of your arrival (8-15-10)

If tomorrow doesn’t bring news of your arrival, then what have I left to do but wait? Waiting is the game I play, faking that I’m patient, when really, there liviving, burning in my gut, for union and the surprise that you’ll join me in this thought. Neither I nor you can conceive the great day, where we will say hello to the death of boundary. Neither one of us can conceive this union till we’re willing. If tomorrow doesn’t bring news of your arrival, maybe I’ll leave, fighting with all things, pretending only gentle things possess wisdom. Maybe, I’ll be the one to run from commitment. I’ll be a hypocrite if I complain any further. What’s the point of living if it’s fear that I allow to cradle me in solitude, rather than jumping into your arms, feeding us both with wild passion. What if I chose to stay and forget the words of friends, only to have the moment I said I was too afraid to have. If tomorrow doesn’t bring news of your arrival, it is then that I’ll decide.

Some TV (8-14-10)

Where are you today, that you couldn’t join the crowd; the people willing to share beyond the barriers of where their heart resides. Couldn’t you turn off the TV, or at least tease me till laughter about how I hate this show? You know, some of us could use a little entertainment of your body or your mind. Something to validate how lonely we are, but maybe if I had your hand on my hip, or your tongue in my thoughts, speaking a language so foreign to my complex needs, that I can’t even articulate between the discernment of desire or genuine need. So I’ll struggle instead, finding the roles of response, and the commander with the instruction book; but published and authored by whom?

My only sense of resolve is in the company of my oldest and most familiar companion that mirrors the ideal, but without ever saying what is actually so. I’ve told my friends about him, and their responses differ all the time; some wanting me to shut my mouth, while others will cheer, “Right on! Keep on fighting man. I can’t end my appreciation in finding such refreshment that there is another fighting like me. We haven’t won the war, but we haven’t lost it either. I’m so happy to see we’re on the same side.” Rarely do I say that I’m on anyone’s side, and I’ll find myself each moment indecisive of where to agree, because my real heart doesn’t care, and only wants to be close to another. It’s only when confusion runs through the community do I shout, “Everyone, shut up, for my words need to be known.”

Never, it seems, can resolve be found, and I find blank stares from American men, while I talk of responsibility. Every once-in-a-while do you find a few houselights on, but who wants to live in only the attic or basement? Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are many romantic things that can occur in either location, but for now I’d like to sit with you joyfully, while together we can watch some TV.

How great you are. (7-7-2010)

It is in the moment when we first met, with the sincere interest in you, your fame, your weakness, your heart. It is quiet when you touch me, alive in your smile. I know breath in a humid night, and the chances to be awake as I walk toward the mailbox. I very well understand the consequences for love, and the price to be paid when you speak such kind words. It is so easy to cherish, so simple to smile, and amazing to have thoughts that praise this. I practice this in image, created from sentiments of now. Yes, to your words. Yes, to your mouth. Yes, to the drama that made you. Your invited to see the sun, the flowers in my hands, the language that will do all it can, just to tell you how great you are.

In a Stand-Still (7-2-2010)

In the morning air, the moon could be seen a quarter empty, while a star served near to be her companion. It was summer, yet the air was like fall, still the flowers greeted me on my walk. The haze in the dome stood violet, facing the particles of orange, but I was not restrained from receiving a sense of the atmosphere. There was an overwhelming beauty, incomplete, awaiting eyes, ears, and a sense of its fragrance, or conversation that could confirm or compare how and what it was.

Thought could be of recollection, and then there was opportunity for nothing to occur except the beauty that would exist, only if I confirmed it. I paused on the sidewalk. Before, I watched my envelope get stuck in the slot of the box, and I recalled the words I had written. I could have taken it back, but there was no word unkind or gossip that ruined thoughts. I let it go. In the stand-still, I faced the sky. I thanked both the creator and its witness.

The Eclipse (6-27-2010)

Is it endangered? These moments, the memory creators, are they rare or otherwise unpracticed? I see them plenty and rich, and still there is no more or less suffering and madness dwelling between life’s events. Does it stir curiosity to know what practice derives sentimental behavior in the now rather than months, years, or lifetimes later; where you’re appreciating while also enjoying today? Is there a way to transfer my thoughts that existed in the aroma of water splashed onto rocks sitting in the sun? I recorded the wonder of what language could describe what it was like. How do I tell you that the smell held warmth, heat of the sun, given a smell, given a scent as white stones reveal a bolder color when you splash a liquid upon it? I watched from the stones two companions sit together, constructing their ideas into forms and natural colors. That morning I looked for the eclipse. I got up and found them sleeping on the couch. I decided not to wake her and instead I looked for the moon alone. There was a glow in the morning of the partially lit sky, with a haze over the horizon, and a white planet, probably red, hiding somewhere behind clusters of trees, and I wished I had seen it, but I was satisfied to just be awake. I watched before a man, so familiar I know all of his names. He spoke of his professions and offered her a gift. Please, complete my work, and call it to be your own. Take my thoughts, my words, my practice; take me with you after I am gone. She responded with excitement, “Really?” she asked him, almost praising how honored she was, and I cried privately to myself. Gifted I was to be this witness.

Even after a shower, the smell of the creek didn’t leave my hair. My skin was warm of the sun, and my face withheld the light. My thoughts were empty while flashes of the day might visit for a moment. I would remember how I turned over rocks so my feet could grip the stones under water, rather than slip in the algae. My body ached from this bridge’s construction, and I was grateful to be this flexible. I photographed these moments, but these pictures only reveal to me my obsession to love life while it’s happening. I want to take that, and this, and that, keeping it to myself, letting it out every once in a while, sharing it with friends at times, and visiting the memories when I feel alone to recall the context of my life.

Still I understand misery. I can get the suffering, and I know firsthand what it means to have someone cling to you, so you can share this joy together. Before my companions left, we sat in each other’s company. There I told them stories about the love that clings to me, the love I willingly choose to be involved in. We enriched each other’s lives for a half hour more, delighted that we came to know one another. We hugged each other goodbye so briefly, believing it would be soon before we saw each other again.

I tried to rinse out my hair, but like I said before, the aroma of the creek remained. As I drove, the pale shyness crept into my body and I felt like the white skin that I was hours earlier before I entered the grace that the sunlight provided. My body was weak from standing in the flowing river. My heart was nervous, but it settled holding hands, and I breathed, and I sighed. I read a story, then I talked a lot, and I found great satisfaction with the day. Promise yourself to love in these days. Give me your permission past your judgment to unify with spirit, grace, and tender words that express honest feelings so you tremble realizing how good this is for you to love. Then breathe, then write, then paint or cry, then talk about it, and then there is tomorrow. It leaves me with an old photograph of my youthful parents, curious to know who was the one who decided to photograph that moment. In it, they were holding hands.