krokosays - Tumblr blog

[krokosays]

[krokosays]

Does anyone remember Fred Astaire?

I used to love dancing I used to love the smell of lavender I used to care about the magic of a still image and the preservation of memory within in it.

I used to pray to God,

but now I envy the whale.

Oh how desire enters the hearts of man and smothers the light of the moon.

I suppose a dead soul must look for a tree once fiction hardens and the world stops lamenting.

And when the abstract cannons fire black paint across the horizon touching briefly the lines of our own sensitivity will we cower like the rabbit in the company of a fox?

We were raised by screaming and yet we’ve become so quiet here, on our own.

Sleeping in separate beds

reading different books.

When a glass breaks from time to time, we’ll remind ourselves of the unwanted love we had and the ugly way we would breath air.

I am afraid of losing time. I am afraid of the rhythm in my chest,

and the way it keeps me up at night.

I could sleep away the days of winter with dreams of cedar and the collection of milk, the same way smoke hits the window and stays.

A vegetable garden,

white lilies,

an old man and his train.

The road to Alberta,

the seats of a car

in the morning sun.

The edge of the universe

and the laughter of children

like a sleeping dog,

that once was mine.

I want to cut off all my hair, over and over again. I want to feel my teeth falling one by one as I call out your name.

I want to feel cotton against my skin, I want to bleed evil from my pores. I want to cover your eyes with gold, so that I appear  luminescent.

Watch the flint in my face watch me dance for you watch me sing for you let me in let you in let me let me let me

(a child)

The rattle of a shopping cart

throwing stones bare feet muddy faces sore lip

“burry the submarine”

Winston Churchill drank scotch at breakfast and so did my father, but he never could never save anyone.

In Japan I learned to write very small, (sometimes the world feels very small)

When Ondaatje wrote about the lion, the lion as the enemy, I remembered that I found her in a mirror.

Bells tied to pigeon wings,

rip the seam.

Forget the shape of faces

and taste the salt

I promise,

we can go on living

and find new ways to spend the time

without fear

without blind consumption

without fixation

with love.

[krokosays]

“You should have seen who I was, in the last town.”

[krokosays]

“Passing stranger

you do not know 

how longingly I look upon you.

You must be he 

I was seeking

or she 

that

I 

was 

seeking, 

(it comes to me as of a dream)

I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you.

All is recalled,

as we flit by each other-

lucid, 

affectionate, 

chaste, 

matured.

You grew up with me, 

were a boy with me 

or a girl with me.

I ate with you (and slept with you).

Your body has become not yours only,

nor left my body mine (and mind behind).

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, 

face, flesh, as we pass.

You take of my beard, breast, hands, 

in return (not a woman or man).

I am not to speak to you, 

I am to think of you only

when I sit alone 

or wake at night 

alone.

I am to wait.

I do not doubt 

I am to meet you again,

I am to see to it 

that I do not lose you.”

[krokosays]

The sadness of

every little sound

you will never 

ever hear.

The way a fire spreads across an aired landscape, 

centred in the mind of a narcissist. 

Rage without warning. Without any reason, just time and space.

You do not exist- not even the same air.

So clever watcher are you, systematic in your way of being (taking).

So eager to inflict pain, so easily find the holes of another.

Substantial damage, beyond repair. Inhuman.

Do I scare you because I am everything you cannot be?

Did you want me to die? It is you that beats the lamb for returning,

again and again and again.

The inability to cease.

Poor thing. Poor,

idiot

thing.

I am certain that anything I feel is,

and will always be

alien to you.

Sad

poor, sad thing.

You have no more mentally in common with me

than

a 

bird

in

the

sky.

[krokosays]

A voice rose from the depths of my years and howled into the night, 

like a wounded animal longing for its mother.

I wish for you to break, break down at the moment when your cup has emptied- dried and drained of everything that you have tried to save.

Let the emptiness make room,

for some light to come.

(no, not you. not even close.)

Inconsequential,

a desolate cul-de-sac of no defining moment (words with no meaning).

I wanted to know everything, I wanted it all.

The whole entire nightmare.

[krokosays]

“We were solitary and apart. Slept during the day, uncurled at dusk like evening primroses; fragrant and lush. We never wanted to conquer the world, only our demons. We didn't keep in touch. Somewhere, though, our memories had.”

[krokosays]

there are walls and windows

and sounds

that make up a room

we know nothing about.

i wonder if you dream the way i do?

my navigation of feelings

is insurmountable.

i want to greet you

in truth

i want you to peel like an onion

unravel,

let me in.

breaking glass

i’m losing my voice

i have become tiny water

dense air

floating light.

the ocean carries my body away

engulfed in flames.

a willow branch

a lilac bush.

[krokosays]

the way i have come to know myself

is through dreaming.

i appear like floating pieces of glass

or something shiny.

here and there

a fluid sphere that is always expanding and shrinking,

illuminating memories

of people and things

a balance beam

a tip toe in time

a blink of an eye,

this mirror.

if only we could rearrange

the what and where

make it stay,

or ask it to go.

the same way furniture moves

so easily

from place to place.

[krokosays]

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People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.

Thích Nhất Hạnh

[krokosays]

[krokosays]

Carol, did you know the sun was going to die?

Max (Where the Wild Things Are)

[krokosays]

“When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.” - Rumi

i recall some moments differently than others. some moments, in the memory form, are distinct and viscerally remembered. as if experienced in real time (with close eyes). i can see myself now, in the present mirror and acknowledge certain things about myself (an awareness which heightens and becomes more defined with the trajectory of our singular life as a human being).

geographical place, time, circumstance, the wind. the roll of two dice. things we can control and things we cannot. desire, intention, logic, emotion, motivation. the chaos of stars, and every unanswered why?

i found ali bosworth in some (apparently not memorable) art history class. caught my eye. interest. intrigue, as with most things of unique beauty. there have been times of self doubt, restrain, non-action. a kind of suppression of self. but there have been those (remarkable) times of not. of freedom of self and honest living (action and intention). for better or for... even better than that.

i was walking and dreaming.

ali reminded me of something, or someone...

i was looking for myself and a place.

the things you hear, see, feel, remember.

then there was meeting sinead. a voice says “hey, wake up.”

a voice says, “hey, hello, are you there, are you thinking, what are you saying?”

.....a voice that shows you a mirror, or, stops you from running wild without direction. the desire for something you considered without detail or definition. a feeling made tangible. real time awareness.

(i brought you whiskey, soup, loving things.. for a cold sickness, i offered this unassuming limb, a limb of desire to bring you in and to be brought in..a limb that you accepted, and one that i will forever cherish and hold sacred.)

night walks, quiet bluffs, picnic parks, long drives, swimming pools and foggy nights. your penetrable laugh, and fierce (political, ethical, social, intellectual) passion. your way of speaking. your history, experience, generosity, empathy, charisma (such good taste), determination, and pursuit of justice. the way you instigate thought, reflection, revision. how you situate yourself (in conversation and physical presence). the way you walk, and tilt your head. the shape of your face and your ability to accomplish, create, formulate, make into action an intention. your truly authentic and natural beauty. perhaps the most stunning head of hair i have ever seen, in my entire little life (and i am a very observant person). thank you for being the memories of true joy that live inside my heart. you have stayed with me there in the warm summer lakes of vancouver island. in every spirit walk, i do not feel alone. wherever you are, i hope you feel my love.

dear sinead, until the end of time.