Not of your design

i don't think like you
so why should i write like you
my thoughts
my world

(06/06/2003; 03:08am) - sharing

i can't help but wander if she would like me more if she read this

if she saw my soul on a silver platter
glittering in the starlight
trapped in this moment of twilight

the tests say that i am
a poet
a minstrel
a dreamer

but i hide these parts
too hurt from too many past experiences
too scared to try again

yet i hope::with the small piece that still believes::
yet i pray::with the piece that died long ago::

that she will

free me. from the bonds of ice, forged in fire, of my own design
stumble. upon these words meant for her that i dare not say
be carried. by this binary stream to
a place
a mountain
to see

me

as i won't let me see myself.
without the shroud of bitterness::that i dare not remove::
with my head cocked to the stars

i can't help but ask
could she love me?

that she would not is a foregone conclusion

---

(06/05/2003; 10:10pm) - making all local stops

and so i sit. here. waiting. on an N train. to depart into a night pregnant with possibilities.
ASTORIA BLVD:	solid plans were formed
30th AVE:	only to dissolve into a vapour
BROADWAY:	?
36th AVE:	leaving
39th AVE:	me surrounded by a ghost I do not know and do not trust.
QUEENSBORO PLAZA:	?
LEXINGTON AVE:	*vibrate* my phone misses a call and leaves me with the shadow of voicemail, hearing voices from a time not now. the return call halted as the train burrows underground. me wondering what state the world will be in when i return above it.
59th ST:	do i get off? transferring is a fool's game, the payoff often not worth the risk. but voices from ago urge me on and the fool wins *Transfer*
42nd ST:	and so i sit. about to enter a night pregnant with possibilites
14th ST:	and i depart.

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(05/29/2003; 04:31am) - gary snyder stole my title

i write in the moments of twilight.
in the place where tinkerbell will always love peter pan.
the time between asleep and awake where i feel that i can fly and know that i will live forever

where a second explodes into a lifetime and thoughts dash by me at warp speeds as i see the outside world creep by me, frozen, as i move and think at speeds too fast for others to percieve::except for those special few. where is she?::

but the problem is

but the problem is the moments flow through my fingers::that's what make them special::
they wash over me
they wash me
a fool straining the mississippi
me straining to hold onto the twinkle of starlight in the fluid deluge of life

i do find moments.
moments when i look up to find the world on pause.
but even then i always question
whether it is a moment of my own design or
whether in this moment, the world has truly stopped

sometimes i just write regardless
and i find stardust
or i find in my hand the sand of the glass of the mirror::that does not exist""
reflecting myself
illuminating nothing

sometimes i just kick the world back into motion::moving on rather, either out of boredom, exhaustion or fear::

anyway
that's where i write

---

(05/22/2003; 02:22am) - halfway between the gutters and the stars

---

(05/21/2003; 04:58pm) - flash forward (from yesterday)

though it feels so natural.
though it feels so perfect.
this is not my life::yet?::

this
strolling out into a warm summer day to await a bus that will begin the trek home
after a good day at work leaving me with a feeling of fulfillment and contentment

this is not my life.
at best presque vu::some sort of deja vu in reverse::
at worst the only solace for a long long time to come

between now and this future shadow is the short long road through st john's.

so no. this is not my life::yet?::
i still have far to go

---

(05/21/2003; 02:33am) - stuck between the pages in the journal

each night, in the shadow time, when i lay resigned to sleep but before the darkness engulfs me i always ask myself two questions.

am i alone?
am i not alone?

strangely enough, the answer to both is always yes.

---

(05/17/2003; 03:07am) - bright times on the cliff

no one tells you about times like these.
blissfully stumbling around a darkened apartment.
lighted only by the light above the stove and the small lamp on my desk.
that 'i am on no one's mind as they fall asleep' crosses my mind
but i quickly realize that's ok

the emptiness around me forms a comforting hug of darkness rather than a place in my self or my room that needs to be filled

i prolong the act of coupling for moments like these.
when i'm left alone to confront the totality of myself, which will leave me stirred and shaken or a with a smile across my face.

this time the smile won.

---

(05/12/2003; 05:41pm) - time

some days are like the egg timer of doom
seconds tickings away to confront a moment you don't want realized

you stand in the bottom half of an hour glass.
desperately.
hopelessly.
trying to push the sand back into the top half.
pleading to anything that will listen for those precious minutes back.
because. you scream. you yell. you're not ready yet. you're just not ready

and a tear almost falls, you almost give up at the sound of the universe's reply
of
tick. tick. tick.

i have an exam soon

---

(05/04/2003; 02:05pm) - unease: in possibly 2 shots?(/|\)

shot 1
on the corner of 57th and 5th.
outside of tiffany's.

watching pretty people buy pretty things i know that i want no place in their pretty world.

there are other visible sore thumbs in this pretty place.
minorities.
lower sec's
tourists

but most get by, by acting pretty

also watching people walk by is a volunteer for uho::i think that's the acronym. i may be wrong::
collecting money for the homeless. when i first appeared at the corner i saw him. i gave.

the pretty people ignore him
the others wanting to be pretty follow likewise

my favorite pretty people were an old white couple. the wind messed up the three strands of his comb over. he was very distressed. the wind has some nerve.
for a comb over. it was pretty pretty... i guess.


i-. benny finds me.
we walk
we talk
i tell him of the pretty people
and he tells me of the pretty people ignoring a man shivering. with problems. who needs help.




shot 2

staring into the abyss that drove the world insane

very few things in your world can like a switch change my mood. its very presence sending shivers to my being. tonight i was drawn to one

saw x2. it was good.

before the movie benny and i surveyed lower manhattan::on pause for break (weekend)::
from an ivory tower made invincible from our forthcoming excitement

we watch. we enjoy

i pee. we depart but enroute to the exit are stopped by the view of a brightly illuminated square::a light. so white. so brilliant. it makes me question my doubt of angels::
we continue looking to the square that looks so small but we know must be so huge. and together we ponder aloud "could that be it?" with a barely spoken agreement, as if possessed by one mind we
agree to adventure and set off.

we quickly realize that it is::see last question::

::keep up in the back. if i lose members of the tour group it comes out of my pay. *ha*. now we're heading south to beautiful downtown new york city. on the left is the mass grave of too many
innocents. on the right is the UA Battery Park Theater created in a growing effort to rebuild and bring more business downtown. when.......::

walking parallel to the wound that poisoned the world. thinking no tower of any height can inoculate it or us against that fireball. that bullet. tainted with madness.

staring into the abyss that drove the world insane i turn my head to look for her eyes, to tell me it will all be ok. her shoulder, to support my cold dead weight.
she's not there::is she a dream to be or a delusion for moments like these
right now there's just me. strong?::
-that oft repeated nanosecond concludes-

reality returns

i return my gaze left.
::without her::my heart tears in two. one half limp and defeated, supported by the strong other::like a carmalized apple on a stick ::
i hear a cacophony of silence. i hear voices. thousands of voices. yelling. SCREAMING. quietly. with voices so loud with absence that it is deafening.
::the strong other pauses. gets a better grip on all. and carries the cold dead weight. strong ::

they rebuild. a bridge to the spot has been constructed::a bridge to death. imagine the view!::
we try to enter but are disallowed access.

.
.
.

we continue south in attempt to find a path to cross the street so we can head east, to head back north again.

we cross

and find ourselves in the bowels of the city formerly known as new amsterdam. that one place scattered across the york that you stumble upon. so urban. and its yours. your pocket. one of those
kinds of places they find in vancouver or sydney to define new york.

we explore the bowels.
shine a light in the colon.
poke our nose in the lower intestine.
and we discover those left behind by the ghosts. the closed cafe::once down the small block. once on the same sidestreet that touched the place with all those people::
the pizza place open in the late hours trying to attract more to replace the many many many that it lost.
we see what's in the upper intenstine

and we emerge. proud. back on one of the major arteries. no worse for wear. the brown stuff on the chin a badge of honor

we ascertain our surroundings and

on the northbound trek for a subway home we find ourselves at the "official" face created by a city in mourning, at other side of the site.
gated off for your safety::and emotional security::

very few things in your world can like a switch change my mood. this is one.

we walk north more. find the subway to go home.
we ride
i write this
benny shifts under a weight all his own. we often catch each other eyes. each in our different headspace. each trapped in a world of our own design

around me the scene changes. people shuffle from car to platform, platform to car, sitting to standing and vice versa
strangers enter.
strangers exit.
i write this.

benny departs
we shake hands our way
and i resume writing

around me the scene continues to change
i write

i write, but stop mid-sentence
i hear the far off song of an accordion being played by a man i know to be blind, who guides himself from train to train day to day with a broken cane barely mended by duct tape following each play
which can not earn him more than a dollar.

i pull out 50 cents to give to the man::not even poverty should stop one from giving::
i groan and curse quietly to myself::for being reminded again that the world is a place neither happy nor fair::

which is heard by the girl who at some point claimed the seat that benny sat in::is she cute?::

a conversation begins. we talk. we laugh

at some point
i return to writing
i look up and see a spark in her::but is she cute?::

i say so much to he[a]r that never leaves my world
hearing nothing because i said nothing she eventually leaves. but not without giving me both a sideways glance containing a smile and a goodbye
is my notebook the chastity belt of my heart::an excuse to not express myself. thinking hurts::

very few things in your world can like a switch change my mood.
did i just find another?

---

(05/02/2003; 09:32pm) - impact

and so here i sit.
again.
with the same view at the same cliff.
and i notice that nothing has changed.
dark clouds still loom on the horizon ever encroaching upon the blue skies whose light can cut a swath through misery
in my absence the bills decided to not only not pay themselves, but to multiply in some hedonistic orgy
st. john's continues to remember that i owe them money::my outstanding balance blocking my ability to register for summer and fall classes. elongating my scholastic adventure a full year?! choices. was given the full tuition amount by the 'rents but part was used on frivolities such as food and transportation.
and i am broke. deeply deeply broke; with no forthcoming paycheck as i spent the pay cycle sick in bed. leaving me in the familiar trap that the rich never understand, and the poor know all too well.
immobility translating into sinking

once upon a time there was a plan.
the plan involved me working, eventually allowing me to pay off st. john's without bothering the parents. and with tuition settled chaos would cease. i would return to "just getting by" instead of "hanging on by a thread"

either the thread was plucked or i was hanging on too dearly because in the end i fell and broke. and that's when the plan became irrelevant:: I was to later place it on a shelf in a dark closet between my wish for world peace and my collection of songs that include the word hope in the title without negation.:: i spent my last dollars on food, medicine and doctors, learning that walking into:: faux:: poverty is hard, even if the trek is for a good reason

here i sit
the phone rings

my grandmother calls to check on my health, alert me upon the availability of rent funds, and the presence of financial breathing room.

and so here i sit.
again.
with the same view at the same cliff.
and i notice that nothing has changed. much.
dark clouds loom on the horizon ever encroaching upon the blue skies whose light can can cut a swath through misery::but the dark clouds are always there. they make the view look mysterious::because t is::
the bills. on the tables. in the mailbox. i look. they fornicate. i walk on, doing what i can
st john's is a corporate whore that i loathe but have fucked to my own disgust. and like any whore it will get paid. in time::out of taste i chose to forgo the metaphor, of incuming semesters and impending graduation::
and i am broke. deeply deeply broke; with no forthcoming paycheck as i spent the pay cycle sick in bed
but there is control. there will be order

a smile wanders by amiably. it streaks my face

and so here i sit.
again.
with the same view at the same cliff.
not laughing. not weeping.

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