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Journal Archives

2005 Journal Entries

snow or rain

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

who knows what came.
when it came
it was both at once.

i am static
with shock at your
blossoming fervour.
your overflowing good
begets good and good and good.

oh loves!

you've frozen me
in embraces too complete.

this must change to be real
it must die
but it won't

so with tears
that are grateful
i turn to the hill
again,
it is time to go under

towards the lake I carry the blossoms
I cut from your bending,
benevolent tree.

a coward, a theif,
a blaspheming liar
I turn from the hand that was promising me,

there, in the pain
of your absence, I cower
as night's foreign beauty throws shadows on me

the winter of namelessness
fails to undo
every flame that is stalking the trail of my sheets

but under the ice
I can get to the bottom,
a pit that is deepening, diving to death -

or is it salvation,
to love?, to a morning
when out of the blackness
I come to myself.


s


thank you for your ears.
i am off i think. getting frantic in my ancient parts.
need the real battle. the archaeology.
how i need the seasons.
i kiss you feverishly.
until next year...
x
s

ocean-side

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

so be it.
the millions cannot know,
the minions will not search,
the seekers are not dazzled
or fame-struck.
- it be so.

the story's not appropriately bloodied.
it is not grief-ridden by the day's exalted wrongs.
but I,
I know
that I have killed many a killer,
I have risen over mountains
like a
brand
new
sun,
I have called the name of heaven
in my being, every shred they left undone
and unconsidered
- there I travel
there I run,
like a river over jewels, there I travel
there I run

ss



I'm
incubating in the lap of God my starlets,
making tea for Buddha and his buddies.
The ocean gives you kisses
so pure you'd die of love.
Wait for me. 'twill all be clearer soon.
xo
ss

A Day in March.

Saturday, March 26, 2005

so many times i have uttered
"i cannot"
and yet, I did.

I called out
to you and others like you
on days i'd prepared as deathbeds.

so many nights now
have spread over our letters
like surgeons pulling sheets over corpses.

you will not tell your truth to me
and i am forced to speak in riddles.
my hungry mouth is crammed,
but I hate the taste.
it's like death,
or the sweet rotting of vegetables,
- something once so alive,
but gone sick with time and daylight.

if you have not Courage
or bloody fires like mine,
leave me to the forest;
He knows what to do.
He brings me water and
combs the hair out of my face.
His fingers deserve this holy skin -
burned and electrified
by last year's war.
He is everyone's soldier.
His words never falter
or take the stage.

He is the monk
we both profess to be.

I won't ask you to stare at my flames,
the battle is too deep now,
too much my own.
That is why I bow and
gracefully close the doors,

because I'd tear your tower down
with my shatterings,
my pheonix,
love so mixed with madness.

I'd tear your tower down,
old raven.
I'd tear you tower down.

It has been written,
and it may be true.


xxx
ss

the grandmaster

Sunday, February 06, 2005

how peculiar these nights are
teeming with strangers

the loneliness is a living weight
an invisible companion with no stories
or flaws. it is bored
and argues wordlessly for poisons,
the poisons most kind...
to which I reply
go *** yourself.

for this time,
I sweat it out.
I swear to the saints that I am
indeed
a student.
so I look
and look around again.

then i know that they are not strangers.
they are all wild children,

sometimes plants
starving for light,
sometimes wise men with myrrh-filled pockets and a
sense of the absurd -
the one earthly cure for this intricate coldness
I have named
life-living.

the wise man there is crumpled
over fast chess with lesser minds,
brown hands folded like wings.

what is that smile betraying?
that he has seen me before
in the history books?
that we were once great warriors
crossing deserts under holy
and terrifying stars
as sand bit our faith down
to the raw, pleading stump...

i sit down and watch as they move and smack
move and smack.
the air burns with their thinking.

what is that sound we're making?
the blue of my young eyes
meets the grey of his two watery veterans
like the sound of Queen taking Knight,
a bone back in it's right place
or a lock popping open..
it is our
opposite skins
opposite ages
opposite sexes
tick tocking hello

it is the lifetimes in this loud cafe
passing by
in droplets
heating cooling
and dropping again

and that one
is the door
as loneliness makes an exit.

and that one
is my mind

brand new.

so it was, dreamers. so it was. i met many teachers on the latest European jaunt. Namely one in the form of a little paperback called "Demian". Herman Hesse has done it again...the ending isn't prize-winning but I assure you, (rather happily and comically - and, as you already KNOW,) it doesn't matter. Philosophy... our weak underused sense, and yet the mightiest of them all when fully mined...it's a prodigy child whose bratty siblings hog all the food and affection.

germany was pure fantasy. the cathedral in Cologne is a mouthful of potent awe.
my stroll that evening through the city is tucked away in the treasure chest.
i cried the wine was so good. at night, in my wee hotel strumming my toy guitar..singing to you the new beads and buds... mes petits bijoux....

good night i'll be out soon with my band on a cold february road..
ss