Three Dimensions

‘Read some of these music magazines’,-he said with eyes that never looked straight into hers-almost as if saying to keep herself busy. Then he turned around and all she could see was his back and the blue towel wrapped around his skinny waist, heading to the bathroom. The stack of yellow-framed magazines lay next to her body on the floor.
She only looked at the cover, and left the stack unopened. She longed for his presence instead of reading about music. The feeling she fell in love with.  She wanted to be around that feeling forever- like seasons are around, changing as the hair turns grey and the eyes wrinkle.

She wasn’t ever ready to give herself fully;  she wanted to blend, rather than belong. The days went past the streets of harlequin strangers she nominated as a possibility.

***

‘Read some of these music magazines’, he said with eyes that looked straight into hers-almost as if saying that she needed to catch up with the latest news to be more interesting. Then he turned around and all she could see was his dark birthmarks and the blue towel around his waist, heading to the bathroom.

She only looked at the cover, and tossed the stack on the side. She didn’t care about the stupid magazines on the stupid floor and she felt as if all for seasons shut down and she wished the shower was just as frozen as his heart.

She was ready to give herself fully: she wanted to belong. All of a sudden she found herself longing for the days when she danced with harlequin strangers wherever she went.

***

‘Read some of these music magazines, he said with eyes almost apologetic- as if saying he’d rather stay laying next to her. Then he gently tucked her hair from one side to another, turned around and all she could see was the blue towel around his waist and his strong back heading to the bathroom.

She curiously laid her hand on the magazines and looked into the first one on the top of the stack. She felt the same way about the magazines, the movement of his shadow behind the shower-curtains, the seasons changing, every new wrinkle and every grey hair that grew along with this love.

She was herself.

Delusion

Let’s throw on another log and sit around-

I don’t want to play with fire.

Let’s throw on another log, and

wait for the summer.

Like a child,

I lay down on the porch to sleep in the sun, as if

a silent tribute to John Lennon­ 

the skies are blue

Live, as if you were to die tomorrow 

Maybe death is but a silent breath. 

Maybe some of us are already dead. 

Another year, 

lunar-lunatic times...

Our days are counted- 

organized

given a name.

We calculate 

to 

count down 

Like a child,

I lay down on the porch to sleep in the sun, as if

a silent tribute to John Lennon­ 

the skies are blue

Live, as if you were to die tomorrow 

Maybe death is but a silent breath. 

Maybe some of us are already dead. 

Another year, 

lunar-lunatic times...

Our days are counted- 

organized

given a name.

We even calculate to 

count down 

Nothing Is Taken

Nothing is taken

lightly. Nothing is taken

all seriously.

Word

the only way to reach balance is 

to weigh nothing

Let Go

I don’t know how to let go.

An ocean behind,

as far as I can see is

what lies ahead –

Stars... 

they guarantee nothing.

Not even their own light.

Sublimation

In a room for everyone

on a barstool my bones 

connect to muscles and nerves
connected to my skin in these jeans
connected to a leather seat of a chair firmly
connecting the shiny floor to walls stretching to
connect corners with the inside here to the outside there 
while summer-like weather exhales through the door.
The particles blend with each breath of new air
from all lungs and I fall asleep
traveling further and further amongst trees toward the sky
like a patch of fading smoke parting from the tip of a burning incense

into a vast unknown universe and I dream of

a bloody rose bursting into bloom from my open gut.

Daylight on the ledge of a

dream – I make my bed and some pancakes for breakfast.
Doors open to another day in the usual manner, motion and speed,
the water is boiling on the stove. 

I walk into an open suitcase left on the floor,

yawning and stretching, 

the mirror is a reflection of me on an average morning
of just another day.

At the Coffee-shop on a Wednesday

What was that thought that I had ... last night before I went to sleep...

The one I was sure to remember in the morning...

It’s always the same.

Drawing circles in the sand with a stick.

Eccentric circles.

The Witch and the Lion – outside the wardrobe.

Questions.

Sometimes,

there are no questions.

No answers.

Chances are.

There is too much anger!

I want to dance...

There is too much darkness.

I want to dance!

Oh, but the density of silence...

Secrets?

Some people are too fat for

their miniskirts...

Her underwear is actually pink.

That’s great.

A black temple-cat against white walls

suddenly stops, looks around

and looks at me.

Sits for a while, then leaves.

What’s that cat going on about all day long?

It’s too sunny for umbrellas.

I’m hot –

a tarred road on a suffocating day,

heading for a meltdown.

I don’t know what time it is.

Feels like it’s time to go.

I don’t know what the time is.

The Universe provides.

Feels like it’s time for a drive!

I don’t know what Time is.

I can see road-signs.

Never an airbag.




2013 Summer, Wednesday

Corporate Silence

Like a piece of shedding skin,

the scarf around my neck

is a smoky-grey cheetah-impression

of a sewing machine carpe diem

of a woman at fifty cents an hour.

Stitches, and dyes.

Life fell under the harvest moon

where I stood like a tree.

In the sky,

there was nothing but clouds

in a perfect fit.

There was more to it.

There were dogs.

I wished they were wolves

howling at the fiery eyeball

in the bruised billow.

I wished she was as strong as a silent tree.

I wished she could scream like dogs howl.

I wished it right there.

She wanted nothing.

I wanted everything and all the time.

Voices of a choir in my silence,

I wanted a prayer,

a dancing wind,

a muse,

an invisible touch,

Bukowski’s soul,

Thoreau’s mind to find

A thread of thought and time.

I wanted to rest in this illusion.





Published at http://www.counterpunch.org/2014/07/18/romero-and-vongsaravanh/


 

                  

The Challenge

when the moon is craving its own light
when the sun is praying for cloudy skies to hide
when birds are featherless but want to fly
when wet paint dries
when nature is framed for a wall
when saints fuck prophets
when the window is open and everyone watches
when the eyes are shut and see it all
when words are voiceless
when the floor is softest
when a song is on repeat
when paper planes fly and land on a lake
when ice seems thick enough to skate
when the falling snow rushes into a breath
when the knees crack
when time is a desert
when the clock won’t stop
when dust sits on tall wine glasses
when candles burn 

stay in the present

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