on a night like this, why, she's pro-stars, pro sky

bejar, bejar bejar.dan bejar.

destroyer is faaaaantastic.

"european oils."

bonus photo:

"desperate times

call for desperate measures, i

wanted you,

i wanted these

treasures."

(fast) like the

red sea, the atoms

spill inwards

on my words

floating

through the

atmosphere.

& what the fork? a poem

about long island predating

the nineteen fifties?

"long island sound" by emma lazarus

"god is love, & love is real

but the dead are dancing with the dead,

& whatever is charming only disappears,

while all things lovely only hurt my head"

[mewithoutyou]

why bother

this is

rapture

this line, a

vertebrae:

call me

what you want to

but these words

spin

like an apple

pulled

at the market:

those above it lose their

footing

& all else comes

spilling

forward with

propensity:

with the world

torn, we (aloof from this)

watch in

naive-awe:

"behave!" by frightened rabbit.

"behave, behave,

i don't know quite how to behave, behave

i don't have a clue how to behave when i'm around you

behave around you, behave around you."

"their sex life" by a.r. ammons

ha.

nothing gets so bad

a whisper from your father couldn't fix it.

short walks

& small rain are

all i need on a

day like today. see,

today was

swollen. like a

stubbed toe or a bit

tongue. it was red then

blue then gray.

i haven't got all that much

to say. i suppose

no one does

on days like today,

when heat boils

rain &

all that falls is

a product of

unkemptness.

i wish today would

drop above

some other place &

leave me the

hell alone. the air is

lazy & ripe

but i sure won't

be the one

who picks

it.

appropriate song: "raincoat song" by the decemberists

appropriate poem: "weathering" by a.r. ammons

& my body

it leaks like a sieve.

days pass

through the film:

one by one

they rub against the grate

& through which

they are

taken in shreds

on the tongue:

these negatives are

inaccurately

uncolored:

i've seen some

hint of sepia

& watched the alley

cats

crawl past the gutters:

watch me as i

disappear through

chalk dust &

asbestos: i want nothing

more than this

color seeping through

the cracks:

the calicos

prancing on sand-

paper paws:

i love this:

the sun tugging at

my dry (bristle) hair:

i am in

your light: watching

through a periscope

looking up &

catching glances

of rays

prancing overhead:

which is to

say that

we're looking up:

which is to think that

people change:

hold me

(closer): wing through

my

heart & the valves

will flap open:

can you

stream? can you

rush in: you

are

ochre water

from a rusted

tap: you are as close

to blood

colored

as will ever

come.

"the best slow dancer" by david wagoner

"the best slow dancer

Who stood on tiptoe who almost wasn’t there

In your arms like music she knew lust how to answer

The question mark of your spine your hand in hers

The other touching that place between her shoulders

Trembling your countless feet lightfooted sure

To move as they wished"

"cold summer" by seabear

"i can see your eyes turn blue.

i can see the weather changing you.
cold summers, one after the other.
got old fast, grew tired of each other."

[photo: natalija brunovs]

presence

you are making

ripples.

you, a small child

in my pond,

make

resonant wake

& wait until

I shiver.

there are things

we don't

want to be

(to some)

& i

could be

nothing.

i could be

a lonely

ripple

in the

sea of wheat

that is

your

hair.

between the

curves &

planes i

tremble within

you

your skull

&

its

thoughts.

couldn't find this one so i had to write it out:

"As though touching her

might make him known to himself,

as though his hand moving

over her body might find who

he is, as though he lay inside her, a country

his hand's traveling uncovered,

as though such a country arose

continually up out of her

to meet his hand's setting forth and setting forth.

And the places on her body have no names.

And she is what's immense about the night.

And their clothes on the floor are arranged

for forgetfulness."

[Li-Young Lee] from "Book of My Nights"

"and she is what's immense about the night"

wow.

don't think

that just because we spoke

(for the first time

in months)

that this is okay. that

i'll just let you

back. let you slide

through the grid

& transmute

what you

had to say. it doesn't

work that way. you don't

just talk for

ten minutes & then

everything is back.

i don't believe

what you say so

stop

running your

finger along my

tattered &

chiseled ear.

you're not making

anything better because

you are not here

with me. give it

time.

let this silk unfold.

you are thin

lipped &

whimsical.

i miss you

in my life

but you

have been gone so

long. you forgot to

tell me

to let

loose &

die. you never

called. you never

ever

called.

"we don't care do

we dearie we should

worry about the rain"

[raise the shade] by e.e. cummings

"kiss, kill, nothing in between

i can't sit still & get cancelled"

"sweet talk" by dear and the headlights

[photo courtesy of triptych photographix]

some days

are rain on the

doorstep.

i think i am writing now

(again) because

it didn't quite register

before. but

everything is

quite diffuse. this seems

to be an hourglass

cut in half.

watch the sand pour

out into the wind

& be dissolved by

all its tiny

vacuums. i don't think i

can handle this.

the interference is

immense. you are

unaffected (in-

different) & i am

split into

infinity. my body plays

sadness on the piano

& my eyes

cut chords

on the guitar. i know nothing

& yet i know everything

that will happen.

i am not the watershed

but simply the exception

in the rewrite of

the plot. who am i.

what am i good for. was

i put in this vastness

(between the clouds &

the subatomic

particles)

for any other reason than

to vicariously

experience what others

are plagued by. i don't know

if this is

manageable.

someone guide me.

please: please:

i need some signal.

you are the unlit

motel sign

in the pouring

rain on

a lonely

thursday

for a likewise

man.

[picture courtesy of jennifer lawson]

(sur)reality

it's time to

question

whether or not this

is a successful way

to cope. not sure if

channeling my

life through text

is necessarily the best way

to deal with the

ailments

that come with real life. how

many times do i want to

say something &

instead withhold

it & run the words through

a nonsensical

sieve. i can't keep forcing

this; sometimes

venting is better vented

than deconstructed.

some things deserve to be

said frankly. others can

be wrung through

the dryer. where's the line?

do i throw my hands up

(& with them

the towel)?

do i partition speech &

keep some in the

boiler room

from which they become

malleable & ineffective,

dull & careful.

i am nothing & plan on being

nothing for a long time.

but i want to spend

my days with

someone

some (body)

who sifts for me

(as i sift for them).

i want trembling &

quivering.

i want uncertainty & blue

eyes.

watch me as i walk

away &

the words i

chose to reserve

are tucked between my thigh

& the thin layer of denim

that rests against it.

i want nothing more than

to be frank with you ma'am.

i pray that you open

your valve &

accept this

language. it is pure &

it is

intoxicating. i know you

& i know

that i've been turning

your doorknob. call this

what you want,

but understand that

i know you

are on the horizontal top

(or bottom) of

this door. you are

peeking again &

i will advise you

to go

numb &

let the handle

fly.

"the boy who blocked his own shot" by brand new. or live with kevin devine

classic poem. one of my favorites. "the love song of j. alfred prufrock" by t.s. eliot.

cortar

your words or
(lack thereof)
your eyes
(like
kaleidoscopes)
are
serrated
& sweep
through my
vocal cords
accounting
for my
sudden loss
of
speech.

sorry but i

forgot to introduce myself. i sort of half-assed it on the first post but here's the real deal:
my name is andrew. i am a sophomore at wake forest university. i study psychology & english.
i don't know why exactly i made this blog. i suppose it was more of a personal thing than for
anyone to read. as someone who studies a social science & english together, i find that
the combination of the two is simply divine. in fact, look no further than dr. kay jamison's
"an unquiet mind" when looking for a truly unbelievable intersection of the arts & sciences. but yes,
back to my point. this blog is my own way to grasp reality, vent, and integrate the problems i so
ungracefully fumble with every day. sometimes it's too much to handle the uncensored &
naked streaming of our worldly perceptions, our frenzied thoughts. thus i write to you all (whoever you may be) in
hopes that someone can empathize, sympathize, or just plain enjoy the content.
i retain a great love for both music & poetry, thus explaining the random quotes of song lyrics
& poems in my posts. i hope you click on the links sometimes. for serious. you just might like them.
don't get used to this "long line" stuff. it's gone after this post. but i think it's been too long
without a formal introduction. so
hello. watch these thoughts
tail into spiraling frenzy.
watch the literary fire
take this into his
heart & let the
page margins
squeeze be-
tween the
aorta &
the dull
roots
of
ash.

aint' that the truth

two poems courtesy of a.r. ammons

"mission" [a.r. ammons]

The wind went over me saying why are you so distressed: oh I said I can't seem to make anything round enough to last: but why the wind said should you be so distressed as if anything here belonged to you as if anything here were your concern. "spinejacking" [a.r. ammons] One of these days I'm gonna leave you, baby: I know it: I can tell: my bellyfat shakes & knows: one of these days I'm gonna just up & outsy: like that: my dog knows: he turns around a lot lately: I don't know if the parrot knows: it isn't just lately she started scratching: you always were a kind of bushy bitch: one of these days I'm gonna just pack off: you get to make some new arrangements, then: you like to change things around, change this one: one of these days I'm gonna leave you, baby: I know it: I can tell: my bellyfat shakes & knows.

this week

(has been)

is

a split fingernail

(or horizontal cross-section in layers).

this week is plucking hairs from

brow, peak,

& burn.

this week is

slithering down into the empty space

between the chair's legs.

i can't quite touch down.

the thrusters are going

& going but i just can't land. throw me

an anchor or something.

i just want to see in something

other than sewer vision (like

tunnel vision but far worse).

the storm

is stumbling in along

the (montauk) point.

i can't complain

because i think

(not too) long ago

i would have just been dead. i think that some lines should jut out

& puncture the space on the page

(let it bleed out, the ink that is).

you remain

spectacular

when the trade

is voodoo & the medium

is language. i think i'm just out

of words. is that possible?

i talk a lot.

either way my creative license seems to

have expired (get it, a joke!).

i'm just

done.

two or three (or something)

more weeks until my

campaign at wake forest is

half

over. that's not scary.

i just want to

forget.

i just want to

be forgotten.

jesus, this hurts.

&

if i recall correctly. that halo

you slapped on my

head (over my hair, folding

& reserved)

was makeshift

& from those

fluorescent bulbs

leftover from

the house we built. that must be why

i'm covered in

glass (dust).

surely, that's why.

times (like these)

remind me that

sometimes joints

& bones & (small)

muscles aren't enough to

move you. sometimes

it's birds & syntax &

profundity. but not

even those can help

when your pancaked against

the ground

& the entity (that urges

your flattening) is unknown. like

an angel peeling feathers

off &

inching them down your

throat. it

is paralyzing.

& you don't know what to do

when your voice & limbs

go numb. i

don't. i sure

as hell

don't.

"i'll give you something

that no ones gonna' give you;

my sleeping skin

& my heart deep down in you.

i'll never tell you

but you're my little scar.

goodbyes are hard &

they're hard

& they're hard. "

[land of talk] "it's okay"

poem: "vespers [in your extended absence you granted me...]" by louise gluck

excerpt:

"I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots

like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart

broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly

multiplying in the rows."

"bear those teeth to me, please...

no breath left.

cold breath thief."

barley above grass level

tell me there's no

way to find what you're looking for.

that's most likely the

case when you're

one cm

tall &

you live in the grass. isn't it

difficult to keep your head up

when the

grass grows tall &

you grow

weary. the sun

(sometimes)

suffuses the space

in&around

the tree branches.

past the garbage &

the once art, now trash can.

it's true, the sun seems to polish &

rub in (small)

circles everything it

encounters.

it changes colors of things & possibly makes

them a bit closer to the way that

they are meant to be seen; that is if

things are even "meant" to be seen

in a particular

way. it's a strange feeling

being smaller

than blades of grass.

the grass is cut down & keeps at it.

keeps growing. keeps

gasping for air. for light. then

there's us. there's me.

i'd rather lay down

& die. let the sun's

rays caress my body. feel every

angle &

imperfection that follows my face.

i'd rather let my umbrella down

& have the

wind gently (forcefully)

breathe life into my nostrils. even if that means

getting no oxygen.

letting work slip past as

i am concealed by the ochre droppings

of the trees. i have no concern

for sustaining

my breath.

but all that is found

in a (not)

deserted field sees otherwise.

lie down

on the grass at night.

tell me you don't feel the same. it's like

life support minus

the machinery

& plus

the birds, breeze,

&

tongue of the grass.

perhaps

the grass holds a great deal of things;

an earring, straw wrapper,

a poem folded

up, &

other such items.

but those are difficult to find when

you are so

small. so

small.

that's why it's easier to simply lounge

& the

wind works meticulously

with it's partners

to keep

us alive.

perhaps the song "turncloaking" by the annuals off their new ep aptly titled "sweet sister" is appropriate.

perhaps ammons' "gravelly run" is.

who knows. maybe the (my) muse rides the wind on a

paper airplane while i write nonsense.

maybe nature is worth while.

*&the picture is courtesy of my computer's camera this afternoon (evening).

conquering mt. pilot

for all of you who know what mt. pilot is, good.

for those of you who don't

it's a state park in north cackalacky

& that's where i spent the day today.

a moderate/strenuous trail aptly named

"grindstone" led us past some amazing

places; some of which i've included

pictures of. mostly though, it was some

great exercise &

also there was some wildlife. that is, a

couple of mice, a salamander, several hawks

(those of which we saw gliding at the near peak of the mountain-

unbelievable), &

a couple of nature freaks (one used the word "phat"

in reference to being able to see downtown winston

from the peak).

it was, in the least, refreshing. easy to forget the world,

to chat about this & that.

who knows, this may have been something i needed.

i'd like to think (while peering down a rock climbing trail)

that more people would appreciate something like this.

i'm not sure they would, which

made me want to fall down the

long drop beneath.

i marvel at the mts.

who knows,

maybe one day i'll go back. why not?

& that pink thing is the only flower that mt. pilot

had to offer above

fifteen hundred ft.

thought it was nice so i snatched it.

that's it for today.

i guess.

appropriate song for today?

"upward over the mountain" by iron&wine

"mother remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry?

blood on the floor & fleas on their paws & you cried till the morning."

these days most (reinterpreted)

these days most(ly)

feel like

it's pleasant to

wander about the fields

of poppies.

that is, until the

flowers grow over head

& you're breath is stolen

as they quickly

collapse

above you.

Retreating

it's as if, today,

the rain that winston-salem

avoided for so long

(a whopping week & a half)

was unleashed today

spilling about the city.

it was

only good because the rain

washed the thick layer of pollen

off the hood of my car.

my ipod somehow lost all the

music on it.

that's cool.

got me thinking about how

i grow tired

& all of a sudden things turn

dark.

the shades close & it doesn't

feel

quite right.

my heart slows, but each beat

more like a stomp

than a

step. each pulse

vibrates my lids & things

start to go blurry. only then i feel

tranquil throughout.

tell me, did you slip something in

my water?

were you scratching my back gently until

my eyes were at half mast.

till my tongue was numb?

& my tongue is

numb still.

that feeling of elation that seems to

have faded on your end of the hall

hasn't quite done the same here.

so i wait for you.

i suppose it's that

less than subtle

stroke of naivete

that colors

my character. i suppose i shouldn't

wait but you're so captivating

ma'am.

so what if you catch my eye. so what if

you chill

my bones & my ligaments

tense up.

so what if i stare at the ceiling wishing

you would walk in

& whisper

to me. don't really

care what

about. just

whisper, dear. you never seem to do

so. i must be overbearing,

the way i think

& feel

about you. i suppose it's

a bit

much.

i'm sorry but you

are

beautiful: just beautiful:

beautiful:

thank you:

i think i take you more seriously everyday

& you (understandably)

disconcert

just about all i say now. i suppose i wouldn't care much if i

were in your position either.

i'm quite the nuisance.

i'm sorry but i

mis yr fce.

"I've a layer of film & a coat of dust

Made solid in the kiln with a smile bent in rust."

"sous la plage" by benoit pioulard.

oh. & here's a poem i love by w.s. dipiero: "skirts & slacks"

what to do in case of an emergency

reciprocation, you see, is a funny

thing. just when you feel

what you think it is-

just like

that

&

you don't have it anymore.

it's just a hesitation

in the voice;

the brief

the slight

paralysis of the vocal

cords.

that's the same moment in which

you can feel the

interest fleeting in the other.

not visible per se, but watch

her. like

jackrabbits she's here until

someone tells you she was

not

real in the first place.

i heard that the only

good reason to hold your chin high

is to make sure

when you pull the trigger

that your prefrontal cortex ends up on the

ceiling. i suppose that's the

fastest way to lift your spirit.

hard to say

but if i had to guess

whether or not to let your guard down

i'd say go

for it. sometimes the thrill of the pretty

girl is worth the

pain that she'll undoubtedly

leave you with. that's the truth.

don't worry

you'll be nursing the wounds

like open cuts in

quicksand;

like the suns glow on the

shameful asphalt.

i don't feel her tugging at

my fingers the way

you might expect one to.

i remain the tide that rolls in a bit too often

& she is the unaffected shore;

the dry sand

with the razor clams scattered

about.

this is going nowhere.

like all things good, there's a catch.

two types of catch:

to capture.

to snag, to be unexpectedly caught on.

the second meaning is a nuisance.

she caught (captured)

my attention but she caught me (that

is, i was snagged) on her

upper lip.

it's odd to feel desired but

not really at all.

like i said;

reciprocation is a perception

severed by a

weak &

dull

arrowhead.

i hear the feeling causes the nerves

to tense up &

peel away

& there's

a brief

(a slight)

hesitation in the voice;

in the fingers, like similar poles of

a magnet, repulsed-

like a wave retreating towards the atlantic

& the

palms like cool streams of air

thrusting

apart.

quite unnatural.

it is standard as far as i'm concerned.

telekinesis: "coast of carolina" (great song) much better than my ramblings.

"this room & everything in it" by li-young lee

excerpt:

"I’ll close my eyes

and recall this room and everything in it:

My body is estrangement.

This desire, perfection.

Your closed eyes my extinction.

Now I’ve forgotten my

idea. The book

on the windowsill, riffled by wind . . .

the even-numbered pages are

the past, the odd-

numbered pages, the future.

The sun is

God, your body is milk . . ."

On Forgetting

It's really unbelievable how the mind works.

remember certain things, forget others.

like research paper or

a birthday. like watching the dry skin

curl above my index

knuckle. long walks in reynolda village

& back to wake forest,

watching as the flowers grow. it's odd.

as you breach the outskirts of

the school you notice that beds of

tulips:

lillies:

not sure: have one flower-

so you pluck it.

but as you walk deeper into the brush,

away from concrete

asphalt & footsteps,

there are identical beds of flowers but

almost all of them (the flowers that is) have bloomed.

not just one.

& all of a sudden, near the mud diluted

pond water,

you stop thinking so much as the

plucked flower that resides in your pocket

has scampered away.

whether it be the winds,

the words, the

smoke that comes with eighty-five

percent humidity. who knows.

try walking & not wondering about the flowers.

try listening to the song of the cicada

& the wolf spider. the confused

morning birds whistle their

tune. the light's

florescence isn't lonely anymore. the mosquitoes,

like the remora hold

steady beneath its wing & kiss it with

the subtle buzz (hum) of the group.

it's odd.

i dislike so many of the creatures that live

in this area. but so many produce such

captivating noise. it reminds me of "brother"

by the annuals. great song.

that's all i got for today. need to sleep. get ready for that research

paper.

(fist on forehead).

oye.

here's a link to a fantastic frank o'hara poem called

"rhapsody."

enjoy.

"Philosophy...

is man's expression of curiosity about everything and his attempt to make sense of the world through his intellect."

I really, in all honesty, do not care much for philosophy. That being said, we'll avoid the topic completely.

i'd much rather muse about

where the sun went this afternoon. it was

eighty degrees out yesterday. what the hell

happened today?

the annuals new ep, "sweet sister" came out a little

less than a week ago.

that's good news. i spent hours catching up

on a blog that i get a grade on-

where's the justice?

it's as if it drained all the creativity out of me.

i'm exhausted.

there's a single

dollar sitting in front of me. who knows where it came from.

all i know is that i should have more.

people are so stingy about money,

it would be

nice

if people just paid their dues

instead of delaying their payments

so i didn't have to feel like a goddamn loan shark.

i sometimes feel as if they like

the tension. the feeling

of

indebtedness. what an awful prospect.

but it's their lives. not mine. i just want to

skip across the uncomfortable

plastic mattress &

catch "z"s until my

eyes roll

back into my head & i fall

fast asleep. i kinda thought it would be pretty lame to not

be faithful to this blog. if

you were curious as to what i

was interested in today

it was the idea of filling in the blanks.

too often i

am left with all but many missing pieces. but i suppose

that's all perception really is. we are given five

senses to fill in the extraordinary amount of ambiguities that are

thrown our way.

that's how the impressionists did it. that's how we do it every day. look

at paul cezanne. he's a bright guy.

perhaps i'm just lazy. maybe i'm just not as brilliant as

soft-strokes was. who knows. for funsies, here

are some impressionist works that are simply amazing. take them for what they are:

a great psychological and perceptive insight.

sometimes th wrds jst dnt quite ft & yu hve to pt

th pces tgthr fr yurslf.

your rational mind's insane

Anthony Green is pretty much a genius. a great mind of this generation for sure.

sometimes it's necessary to weigh your soul against the cross.

against a pistol.

against a wad of cash held by a crusty rubber-band.

it's easy for me, mostly because i'm a libra. the scale comes

with the horoscope. right now my

soul barely registers.

as mr. green asks, "would you sell your soul for gold?"

good question.

not yet, not ever.

different question. if my faith is weak, is it okay to strengthen it through alternative means?

can i use an anchor as a cross?

can i modify what's been set in stone for so long. is it

okay if

i

pull the blinds

down. is it

okay if i take off for

a little while?

i wonder what will become of me. an afterlife i hope.

one in which i can run my fingers through the clouds &

trace the outline

of t.s. eliot's

"love long of j.alfred prufrock"

while chanting about

what love is.

is it seeing the scale tip ever so slightly in favor of my heart?

i don't suppose we'll ever find out.

being rhetorical gets

old real

fast.

but i'm having fun.

stick around till tomorrow?

i will:

the mud is loose but

i will take

aim &

stand firm & i suppose that is a-okay, at least according to anthony green it's like:

"trembling idle hands, holding me there."

am i touching enough on elation?

hi. not sure who you are, or why you are here.

this blog is for nobody in particular.

let's not call it a blog.

& sometimes

I find that

watching you

is the most

spectacular thing.

just watching

the pretty

girls

pass by

is so

unreal.

i feel tired. i have been left behind once again. still i wonder where contention lies; in the destruction, the creation, the suffering, or (&)

the tidal & cyclical re-entering of those who puncture what little muscle i have left. is it

worth nursing the sores left by the protagonists of my day dreams. is it worth letting

those same sores etch their presence across my skin.

i don't know.

i like poetry. music. resting. pajamas. hockey. picnics. art. psychology. thought. beauty. loss. longing. masochism. searching for the trinity. the idea of "love." you. & a great deal else.

by the way.

what in god's name is a list poem.

there's no such thing.

not that i could write one if there was.

i'm fairly helpless.

but seriously,

if you couldn't tell,

i'm truly elated

to be back.

to be writing

again.

thanks for having me.