יום שני, 19 בספטמבר 2011

winter storm (first, you were sitting beside me)

my hands are icy cold like yours were
the night I felt your radiated energy.
And now you're lost!
And I, aside,
and we that never were shall never be,
in stride.
You do cross me softly
from time to time;
I feel your whispered embrace
(frozen) in a hidden memory that never saw
d a y l i g h t !
And then, you were lying beside me!
But I, forgetting,
'cause you've forgotten
And my rush of heartbeats, broken
By the vibrations
in our empty silence.

sigh


He sighs,
and I try,
yeah I really do try
to give meaning to the lies
that he's told
in his life
and I cry
but I don't think I'll fly (yet)
'cause of the things
that I've said
of my love,
of my past,
and the dreams
that I've dreamed
in this bed,
in this house.

he whispers and I try not to laugh 'cause the moment is precious,
though serious,
and maybe this is a trap like the ones he sets up on the stairs
that creak on the hour,
on the dot,
or the traps I create for myself to hate so I just
sit there,
as I wait,
and I stare,
and silently pray
for another way,
another reason to leave.

maybe I should put this off for another day.

I sigh and I see that he tries not to cry,
not to give meaning to the lies that I've told
as the secrets we each hold
bury themselves
temporarily.

I'm an artsy kind of girl but he's far too far within himself to uncurl,
to unleash,
other stories, other
girls, I
long to know where his flesh has been!
I long to know if his soul hides within!

I wish I could share
meaning (!)
with him, wish I could dare
myself to just say something
say anything real to know he can feel to feel that I'm real but I've made a deal
(with me)
to just
let
things
be
and hope for the best, I
confess!
I am trying
(all to no avail)
and I badly want to fail,
to succeed at my failure
and win over a love.

the day i became an observer


My muse is walking
And my journal, my hand
And all these thoughts, jumping
Inside my head-I
Want to make them
STOP
I – can’t – make – it –
STOP
It
Stop
It

Stopped?

And now I long for it to come back!

You see, this is
An imitation
Of an
Imitation
Of my
Original poem

‘Cause walkin’s my muse and all these phrases
Jumbled up inside my mind- they
Make me jumbled up
Inside- and
I’m walkin
               (awfully) close- but
You don’t seem to mind- so
I think I’ll keep on {walkin’} by your side
And every conversation that you have
I think I’ll choose to overhear
So please don’t mine me [or]
If you do- just
Simply  w a l k   a w a y ;
I’m sure I’ll find somebody else who’ll
Make me want
To stay

You say there’s a killer on the loose but I’m not even seventeen so
I
can’t
take
Shortcuts- I


Can’t
Walk
Alone- and
I feel like S C R E A M I N G
There’s more killers than you know, more
Victims
Than you
[Choose to]
Recognize

You say the police sent out a statement
‘cause so and so left jail x amount of days ago and
now we’ve got ourselves
someone to beware of
in your
precious
sheltered
neighborhood- with
[ g o d   f o r b I d ! ]
an ex-con- and
I just feel like telling you
there’s
s o   m u c h   m o r e   h e r e
to take heed of

I mean, I appreciate your concern, man
But I don’t need to discern
{My} fact from {your} fiction.
You see, somewhere in my junkyard mind
Behind stored messy heaps and
Cluttered garbage cans
There’s this button that,
When triggered,
Tells me the difference between
{Your} “true” and {my} “false”
And it draws me a line to
(Guide me!)
between reality and dreams-
Though, I must admit
This line is some-
Times
Blurry,
Hazy,
Noteventhere

Maybe you’ll call me crazy
‘cause of this fact
but I think you’re a little more bizarre
simply ‘cause of that

so welcome to my world
on the day I think I [chose to] become
an observer-
when I really wished
there was a typewriter inside my mind
so every thought the muses gave me
would be recorded
and, in turn,
this poem would never have been written
nor the one that came before it-
‘cause the original,
the one I imitated twice,
would have been the (first) one written
                                             all things happen for a reason, I suppose

if my brain could talk
if my words could be graffiti on
the walls of my
junkyard attic- {addic}t-ed
                         to the world,
                         to spoken word,
                         to a muse that never stops when I need it to,
                         never comes back when I need it to,
                         never knows the right time.

                         addicted?
                         Maybe.
                         At least it’s not to something tangible…?

Sand

 


 I fall hard on concrete on the side of a highway,

And you graze the grass on the side of a small country road.

So that you know:

Every time I'll press my face up to the fence and feel the difference,

I'll think of the time I should have held your hand.

יום ראשון, 4 בספטמבר 2011

מעגלים



סיבובים סיבובים בראש חרקים בראש מסתובבים מפריעים לישון שעתיים שלוש שאני מנסה אבל היתושים המילים החרקים הזבובים מסתובבים מתעופפים והראש מתפוצץ מתמוסס מתנפץ מהזמזום הזימור הזיון של ההזיות הנפוצות האלה הלילות הלבנים האלה,

הם של המילים הם לא שלי ולא תמיד אני כותבת אבל כבר שעתיים שאני מנסה אז מה אפשר לעשות אם לא לכתוב לכתוב להוציא את הכאב את החום את המחלה וכשאני פוקחת עיניים המילים מתחבאות מאחורי הריסים מתחת ללשון בנקודה שבין סוף המיטה לכפות הרגליים מתחבאות באוויר שנושם הסדין שנצמד בין הירכיים כשאני ישנה על הצד מתחבאות מתרוצצות רצות לכיוון ההפוך ממני רודפות אחרי בחלומות ומתחבאות כשאני מחפשת עבורן קצת

אור

לנשמה

לנשימה

לאוויר לכתיבה אך הן כבר עזבו נעלמו נאלצו להשאירני לבד עם מילים חדשות פחות טובות אך קוסמות מפתות אותי לכתוב לשכוח מהקודמות לחזור לאביבים ולהוציא אותן

החוצה

במעגל כזה בין ההילה שלי למחשבה שלי למילה שלי הקדושה השפה הקדושה לעברית במעגל לשוני