korovki_vorovki (Mashka Siberiak) is definately and up-and-coming talent and I invite everyone to check out her photography work. Her imagery contains a stillness I rarely see in one so seemingly young.

--

Regarding everything else, I'm guessing that it's just a question of putting one foot in front of the other. There's nothing left for me to do.

I've never felt so tired to my bones of life. Preisner's '10 easy pieces for Piano' speaks such souls to me that I can never tire of it ( Onezen, you need to get this album. I know that it will get you of all people).

--

Changewinds are blowing
'an it's all I can do
to laugh at their fury
through these tears of mine.

Tags: poems

It's the dark places that beckon, now
cool and forgiving and silent
I lick at wounds with no blood
my chest heaves, though my ribs are not broken.
there is a heartbeat to the earth
and my eyes close to the rythmn of a womb.

Tags: poems
Current Mood: indifferent
Current Music: Edyta Gephart

Dear L_____:

I'm listening to Adagio by a man named Tomaso Albinoni. It's slow and almost entirely of strings and a sad, old pipe organ worthy of Preisner. As it plays, I imagine a man in a trench coat walking cobbled, city streets alone in a darkly, grey foggy evening. He stops on a bridge and looks out over the water with the wet of the air plastering his thin, balding hair to his scalp. Passerby's ignore him as they hurry pass. He exists by himself in the world.

Fade out.

--

I'm writing this to you because it is what I know to do. I know that most of my words can no longer touch you, yet still I try to lay them side by side on this paper in some magical arrangement like the notes of music that I'm listening to. I try to invoke some deep, dark magic; a Qabbalistic venture where the weight of each sound of each of these syllables push against closed doors and open them.

Words.

Only words.

--

I live in a room with five walls and a door that leads neither in, nor out, but only somewhere else. Always, I walk through as one person and walk through again as another. If only I could imagine where this door of mine will lead to, next. I could rest my hand on the doorknob, close my eyes and wish. I would open my eyes and then the door and walking through, I would be there.

Ah, the Cello plays, now. It is a sad, gentle giant of a voice murmuring as it turns in its sleep there under the hill.

--

I am the man who could capture you, once.

I was of a thought that I had not grown since that day when I first dared to hold the hand of the woman that seemed so far out of my ability to reach. As these words flow out of me, though, I can feel a thing that these last weeks have allowed me to find. Were I to meet that girl of five years ago today, I would not reach... not with my hand, and not with fear. But, she is gone and with her some of the strings from the music in my life fall silent.

These words...

I chuckle at your observation that I am not like other men. How we were able to talk is not how other people talk. You want to learn to get along as they do. You want the ease with which men talk to men... men as old as you are, now. You want to speak the casual language of rising stars and be seen, not as you were with me, but as one of them; as a leader of them.

You'll learn.

You'll learn that I've ruined your pleasure of the surface of things. You want more. Go explore, as you say.

Go explore what lays underneath the ties and jackets; the penetrating eyes that can hold your stare and release it as a game not worth playing, or already won. Go explore the touch of that man and I think you will see. You'll finally be content.
--

I am free.

Finally, I am free.

Tags: essay, letters, poems

It's Monday. L_____ is gone as of this morning. The apartment is a silence banished only by turning my back on it to my work.

I have 288 images of Tina Mars (Tang Yan Ying) which are finally cleaned and ready for processing...

There's an ache in my heart that sets me gasping, sometimes, for breath. Listening to the plaintive voice of Loreena McKennitt's "Prospero's Speech" (The Mask and the Mirror, 1994) and I had to stop work on the pictures for a time.

-----

I am held here chained
by bonds of mine own making

string and twine and bitter thorn
to bind mine hand and feet
to be borne upon mine brow again

chained here, held I am
making bonds by my own.

Tags: poems

Untitled Lyric -- still working on it.

(Slowly. Simply. Lots of pauses. 1 beat per syl. C min key.)

I'm wide... awake
your breathing's deep
I wonder where you've been
a couple's laughing...
voice goes by
and I'm all alone again.

Theres nothing wrong
just nothin's right
and nothing seems to die
we can't live
the promises
we saw once in our eyes

Oh, sweat and tears
they're not so bad
we're laughing when we can
then memories
are in your eyes
and I'm all alone again

Oh, The story of "The Little Prince"
was never what we thought
the Rose and I were sent to hell
for seeking what we sought
so time it keeps us pressing close
and we're just waiting then
'till you can finally say good-bye
and I'm ... alone again

I'm wide awake
your breathing's deep
I wonder where you've been
a couple's laughing
voice goes by
and I'm ... I'm all alone again.

Tags: lyrics, poems
Current Mood: restless

The warmth is a tease.
it can't be truly spring
And none of the springtime
things should please
for but a while
more of winter's cold embrace endures
and tickles my nose for a smile
before going as she must.

I watch the glowing embers burn
to their last
and wait to feel the cold reconquer the room
before padding off to sleep
to hibernate beneath layers of mine own heat.

Tags: poems

I don't have children. I certainly don't have children that are all grown up. So, either I mised it entirely with this poem, or I was inspired.

From the Other Side of Your Angst: Dear Mother Revisited
Sean Rice 2002

I saw her, then, for the first time
Not as a many-forked road
of tragic destinations
and
Not as the sum of all of my lectures
and desperate wisdoms
but
as my daughter:
A woman furious that I thought her so, still.

I manufacture a severest frown
and disapprove her words aloud
hoping that she not see my
hapiness inside.
I run my thumb along her steel
and am amused at the blood
that she draws
and hope that it's enough.

Even in this soft place
I hope that it's enough.

Tags: poems

Fifteen years, three days and a smile gone by
and I haven't got now but that much older
and the "whole lot of plans" that I once had before...

My ex-
I watch her as she packs her bags one word at a time
which is fine, I suppose...
which is misery in repose
to those
who know not better than I
the grace in each movement of her parting

Old Preisner doesn't play on the radio.
None of the best songs ever do
the first, painful baby steps of the survivor
The resumption of the smile on FM?
The presumption of a laugh when the flowers
on the grave of memories have not yet faded.

I don't cry.
I don't shed a tear no more.
I don't place one foot farther
save that it gets me farther from these shores.

Isn't the amusement wry?
The laugh on the street infectious, now?
Don't others' loves and lighted windows
now entrap the hungry eyes?
and fly
does not our hearts like Icarruss
at the arrival of our no-longer-loved?

Tags: poems
Current Music: Preisner -- All

What have I done
to you my dear?
why, up against the wall,
to fall,
to wander ever lonely, now,
in the cages
and pages
of histories writ large with the tiniest mistakes.
But, then you can
no longer run...
and then, there is nothing left to fear.
The walls fall away,
and you
step away
to the sun
and your own, miserys' freedom

Tags: poems

The girl was young as she stood there
and, selfishly, I took that shroud
away from her and wore it
for the first time on my own shoulders.

Look at the snow, she said.
She did not notice why she was cold
moving into the theif's arms for
a scrap of her own warmth back
which i gave gladly.

Tags: poems
Current Mood: depressed
Current Music: 10 Easy Piano Pieces