Defining the undefined one post at a time.
I hear with a questioning ear and interpret with a sickened mind
I am delusional and I love it
I am cynical but I am happy
I sit in solitude and breathe heavy
I sip wine just to keep steady
I want to move but to somewhere unknown
Somewhere I can be with you yet still be alone
No talking just words
No thinking just thoughts
No loving just love
No living just life
Jessica Reynolds, “Just life”, copyright 2009
The reminents of cock stained her breath.
And it felt good.
She wasn’t in love with him.
And if felt good.
She frequented his place for good conversation, good company, and great sex.
And it felt good.
She had no ties, no obligation, no commitment.
And it felt good.
She had money, had her mind, had her creativity.
And it felt good.
She had what she needed yet never knew she wanted.
And it felt good.
Jessica Reynolds “And it felt good” copyright 2007
I feel myself sinking back to the depths
The depths of which turn me lethargic
The depths in which I do not speak
The depths in which my thoughts are the loudest
I feel myself sinking but its not really sinking, it’s returning
Returning to the inside where I am afraid
Returning to the emotions which I can’t control
Returning from the outside with all the smiles
I feel myself sinking but it’s not that bad for I can still breathe
A breath with more meaning than necessity
A breath with more patience than anxiety
A breath with beautiful sadness rather than contrived beauty
I feel myself sinking but it’s more like releasing
Relaxing
Unpacking
For I am home
Jessica Reynolds, “For I am Home” copyright 2009*
Include everything and you leave
Out the essence. Leaving out all things
Such as emotions of any note make it appear clear,
Colorless as it is turned over.
Hurrying to this thought,
Putting away the tasks to hear
The transient trains that glide by the screen
Is a way of collecting our parts:
The photographic memory that holds
The numbers on the boxcars, undifferentiated,
Of equal value. Place them here,
Pebbles found at a beach
Examined for their mystery.
We put them in a drawer.
Years later they will be as they are,
Aged meaning remembered down a long avenue
Cleansed by rain, by our tears.
the wet tires
on the black
on sand
the woodpecker
you don’t see
tick, ticking
the slippers
you can’t find
in the dark
until you do
the sound you can’t
imagine until you
hear it
the humming wires
overhead with
& without the wind
that rasps, creaks,
ebbs, ends
in the calm
full of subtraction,
substance
sustenance
that clears
the field
This poem is also a reaction to/review of the album, “ajar”
by Otomo Yoshihide, Keith Rowe, and Taku Sugimoto,
guitars
The Majority of our EMOTIONS are determine by how we INTERPRET life’s events of Our Selves. Use REFLECTION wisely.
The substance was the doing, the process of moving out
into the day.
Transposing the objects and dilemmas with an action
That led you beyond meaning, siren call of distraction
To the roots here in the quiet under the tree of life.
The reality of plumbing pulls me back into the rooms I left.
It clunks away. I have not been inspired nor turned
Inward enough to you, who is always standing
There in the back of my mind.
I am not going to put the trees in though they stand
breathing softly,
Attentive as dawn in the famous calligrapher’s picture.
This part of the arena is being closed.
I am left here with only words.
They flare briefly on the bare floor and go out.
The scenery is rolled on to the next plateau.
The parts, (buildings, animals, destructions, lusts,
cars, etc…)
Are going to be still and become a homogeneous us.
My dreams I will to that other you I have chosen
Hoping to tame a contrariness which is the other side
of the coin of submission.
Now the lights are on, have been for awhile
And, in this feeling at twilight
The forest and trees become one.
As only going the DISTANCE can tests the STRENGTH of Horses; only TIME can reveal the HEARTS of Men.
don’t ask
for change
when my heart
is empty
I will give you
only money
I am feeling so cooped up right now. Not able to stretch, to speak, to cry. Things twist and curve and roll off my eyelids like the storm outside. I shudder when the ground does. I flash green when the sky does. There is mania in my eyes and a hole in my chest. Like the weather, I am futile, prone to moods, given to hallucinations, taken by my thoughts. Scott waited so I wouldn’t leave to go score dope on the hill. My roommates’ cackle. I drown in loathsome loneliness. Nathan bites the bait. I scuttle along like a beetle. The cats wrestle. SHUT THE FUCK UP! I feel like yelling at the black girl on the couch. But she is my roommate, so I can’t. The fat girl int he kitchen is cooking fish. She is my roommate too. One Fat and Finnish, one Black and Bi-Sexual, and one Funny and Fucked-up: Me. Annette searched my purse for dope or a needle. If only she knew the bag was stolen. It’s often not what’s in the bag but the bag itself. But that’s life. Tabitha, the cat, ropes Oliver in, ripping through the screen door, swelling with sex and shunning from the rain. I sit and hesitate, whether to call my sister again.