Monday, February 28, 2011



i miss your face next to mine. drawing with my fingers on your skin. listening to the sound of you. breathing. mumbling. my legs all tangled around yours as you fall asleep first. and the warmth of you making me always a little too warm.

and two for tea

"Are you alone?"
-Do you mind if I pull down the curtain?
"Who do you think I'd be with?"
"That's the state I'm in. I'd like to be with you now."
Silence, then a sign and an answer. "I wish you were with me now."

from Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Saturday, February 26, 2011


i am mourning. an entire city is suffering. there is an emptiness in the fallen bricks. missing people. quiet. and those found that will not share the hope still left. i know it is selfish for me to feel isolated in what has been endured. i wish i could help boil the water, sweep up the ceiling from the floor, light the lamps, comfort my little brother and find the cat. i can only give my love and a hug. over the telephone. i was not there. and i feel that.

here are some words.

I did not know what to say to him. I felt awkward and blundering. I did not how I could reach him, where I could overtake him and go hand in hand with him once more.
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.

from The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint-Exupery

Friday, February 18, 2011

jingle jangle morning

A beautiful piece of writing that looses me a little towards the end.

Skinless Love

Louise, pass the salt, please pass
the sun-our savory mornings.

On walks with the dog I'll bring you tied like
a kite to my wrist, your face bobbing in the moonlight.

I dream of you riding a giant spider.
You are all dangle, darling and weightless.

Reel me in tied to your mouth (silk-spin),
your secret glands sticky with waiting.

Save me for later like a peppermint,
I'll nap under your tongue, lick your furry palate.

Who needs breasts, eyebrows, or white platelets?

I think devotion is like this:

skinned of art
a bodiless mingling.

Beyond your cotton-stuffed limbs and nylon slacks,
your greasy cells buttered in wax.

We love beyond all these drippings,
a love that lasts.

from Fields, Ribbons, Folds: Somatic Landscapes for Zaha Hadid by Hadara bar-Nada

Sunday, February 06, 2011

a matter of taste

lots of things are different. heavier. lighter. more or less meaningful. there are more tears. deeper breaths. blowed raspberry giggles. tickles. and laughter... and a sore face from smiling so much. things taste different. sweeter. maybe a little salty.