Whitecaps

I sat by my window looking at the sky. I brought my hands forward, pulled into a kiss. Moments before, a peek, eyes closed, hands taut. That touch, glowing and pale, watchful and soft; my eyes trace a billowed curtain hanging from the windowpane. I turn off the lights and see your form from under the covers, lighting the corners of my face with pinpricks of light. A turn, soft. A touch, light. A breath, snug. A word spoken evaporates into an endless embrace. I sat by my window looking at you.

I sat by my window looking at you. You stood across the room, an outline wreathed in darkness, a curve beset by shadows, radiant in defiance. I saw your face, barely feature, hidden grace. But I could not take my eyes away from you. I traced a line across the sky, hoping I'd find your bed, hills quiet, sleeping. Upon your shoulder, moon, an atmospheric embrace. I gaze forward, and sideways, at once. Looking back, lonely room, lonely chair, only one. Moon, why are you here? Why take life into your furrowed brow, when life below lives between curtains, between sheets? A quiet nod, a slow return, between a blanket, a warm heart beats. Felt through the back, a dull thud-thud-thud. An arm drapes over the moon, felt from the front, a quiet thud-thud-thud. I pull closer, my lap between the sheets, your head, quiet, golden. I sat by my window looking at the stars.

I sat by my window looking at the stars. One-two. Clouds coddle cooly lit skies, casting shadows across sleeping eyes, lidded by slow whispers. Lonely traveller, traced across my view, must I touch you to find where you are? A prick, pins and needles, a shift towards a quiet back. Save for breath, twinkling, a spot of heart. I lay on my back, a blanket pins the world above me, an awning, catching the worst of winter's rain. Drops fall down, splash between slinking clouds. Umbrella, sheathed, raindrops on the windshield are stars late at night. I can only look at one star at a time, eyes tire from overexposure. But then for an instant, all taken as one, eyes blinded, beauty envelops my windowpane. Your reflection, eyes stars, moon, a dazzling display. Snug, between my arms, blanket skies. Moon when did you shatter into a million stars? Are they of you, or you of they? Gathered, bunches, Milky Way. I sat by my window looking at the sky.

You saw me sky, and I saw you . Graceful bareness, naked line. A moment frozen in memory, a star, frozen in time.

Cold Milk

I've been keeping a deck of cards by my desk the last few days. A deck of red cards and a deck of blue cards. They make quite the stack. I sometimes go through them, flipping each card over, one at a time. It's comforting knowing that the next card will be different, that I have no control. There's two cards missing from the red deck, a fact I frequently forget. Every once in a while I'll notice it and sit for a second, just trying to remember where I lost it. I never can, and frankly, it's quite frustrating. But that's what it's all about I guess, you can never remember where you lost it, just the fact that it's gone. I don't mind it, but the deck's never complete. Same with the blue deck, although it's missing different cards. People have told me it's pointless to play with an incomplete deck, much less two incomplete decks. I think that's a silly thing to say. I shuffle the two decks together ever now and then, blue and red. Once they're shuffled together, I can never tell which cards are missing, the red takes up the blue's loss and the blue takes up the red's. However, I never keep the decks together for very long, taking time to separate them fully into two piles. Sometimes I even order the decks, but it's all too organized. Even so, shuffling them is my favorite part. Separate piles fall onto each other, random order builds a deck. But the best is the shuffling of the two decks. It feels complete, two things coming together. All together now, oil and water. A complete deck?

Too bad I can never finish Solitaire.

Stuck-o

Someone told me the other day, "Man, I've got to let some of my walls down, I just gotta let people in." I don't get it. What are these walls people talk about? They're everywhere, apparently, in movies, on TV, in my friend's relationships and in mine. I have walls. Yes walls. I don't remember putting up the framing anywhere though, so they must be pretty flimsy. But yet, they exist and I have to consciously let people in. Or so people tell me. I have a feeling it's just a sort of collective cliche, something Friends or Melrose Place invented to screw up relationships. Now the guy down the hall is telling me he needs to "Let his girlfriend in?" I don't get it, walls are supposed to keep people out, it seems pretty counter-productive to build walls just to bring them down. I think the word everyone's looking for is drawbridge. Yeah, drawbridge, where you can let people in or keep them out and drop hot oil on them. Problem (that never existed) solved. But then again "I need to let down my drawbridge" sounds oddly sexual. Hmm, maybe door. "Baby can you open your door for me?" Ah forget it. It's all stupid in it's own stupid way. I feel bad for that guy, it's like suffering from a disease that doesn't exist but he's convinced himself he's caught. What happened to being in a normal relationship? And an unwalled one at that. Sometimes I feel I'm on the outside looking in; everyone's so caught up in everybody else that they forget who they are.

Talk about putting up walls.

Breaststroke

I still remember the first time I held your hand. It was a Sunday. Dawn. We had just met at the harbor. The waves were crashing against the jetty and the air was thick with spray and salt. It was bitterly cold, it had been a very cold December. But you hadn't even brought a coat. So I gave you my flannel. I remember letting you wear even when I had goosebumps from head to toe. To this day my clothes look better on you. We both stood there quiet and together while the sea churned below us. Standing in that morning mist, I found the boundary between myself and the world. I turned to look at you, eager to tell you of my revelations, I had just seen the world. I looked to you and it was lost. The wind snatched it from my arms, for I had stolen what was not mine. But suddenly, I had more than ever before. You were there and everywhere, a shape unknown. I looked into your eyes, brown, green, blue. Just like the sea. Just like the sea. I had always been afraid of the ocean. I still am. I told you something I don't remember even now. It didn't matter. The sun had risen, the first leg of its swim begun. We were together standing with the wind in our eyes and the sun on our ears. I knew I had found you, my flannel flapped in the breeze. I asked if you were cold. The sea thundered, then splashed, clapped, then receded. I don't think you ever replied, but I knew. The world was in front of us, dawn a feeling. I counted - one, two, three. I grabbed your hand. Spray clipped the sky. I held you for a moment, fingers traced lives. I didn't need my flannel anymore, I wasn't cold anymore. I wasn't alone anymore. I jumped.

Wandering

I feel like I should be writing something. Something with words that expresses something I feel. Something with something so that something is something.

Something. A loaded word, something. Endlessly changing to fit the situation. But something must live a lonely life. Something never has a residence besides someplace. Or a love for that matter, just someone. Someone. I think someone is worse than something, they're just a blank canvas that no one can appreciate. Everybody just loves that damn artist though. Hey someone, I like you. I think you're beautiful just as a placeholder and not with paint all over you. Would you like to talk about something someone? Or if you're tired of something, we could talk about everything. When? I don't know sometime? Yes that sounds nice. Let's go someplace sometime somewhere and talk of something. Or everything.

Everything. Does everything exist? That's a lot of things - too much for me. Well, now that I think about it, I guess I could get used to everything, but I'd need everywhere to store it. But everything everywhere wouldn't fit well - there'd be no room for me. Everywhere by itself sounds nice though, excluding everywhere that's not nice. So scratch everything and keep everywhere. What about everyone? Oh God no, everyone? That would be horrible, I think I like someone more than everyone. Everyone is loud. Someone is nice in a nice way. Someone everywhere sometime. Maybe I'll write about that. So what's missing? I'll check.

Who: Someone

What:

Where: Everywhere (excluding everywhere I don't like)

When: Sometime

Ah, What. I've got nothing for What. Hold on. Nothing. That's another one. Nothing just might be the weirdest one too. How can nothing exist if its nothing? Define nothing and I'll find something in it. Maybe nothing can exist nowhere never. Yes I think that's right. But nothing somewhere? Sometime? Every time? That's absurd. Nothing and nowhere and no one and never all need each other to exist. Kinda romantic in a ironic way. No one is never lonely because he has nothing never to keep him company. The nothings keep to themselves. If they even exist that is. All oblivion and nothing. But I guess nothing can be something can't it? Like talking about nothing? Hey, I like talking about nothing sometimes. And on top of that, I like talking about nothing with someone because talking about nothing with myself gets redundant. Oh and I can talk about nothing everywhe... hold on a second. Eureka! I've got it!

Who: Someone

What: Nothing

Where: Everywhere (see above)

When: Sometime

Well, problem solved. I've got my topics. Time to write about someone sometime everywhere with nothing! Sounds about write. I mean right.

Right. Funny word.

Where was I?

Old Time's Sake

My drink's empty again. Damn, what time is it?

"Only the lonely,

know the way I feel tonight..."

I should be going, why did I even come? Pat and her pity-invite. Why the Hell did I think I'd enjoy this, I haven't talked to anyone all night - I've just stood here totally disengaged. But it's not like I've had the best company. Haha. Look at them, everyone an idiot, talking, laughing, living. They don't know anything about any of that - I'm the only one who knows what it's really like. "Tonight on National Geographic, David Attenborough examines the social habits of the modern human." Haha, what a bunch of losers.

"Only the lonely,

know this feeling ain't right..."

Shit, it's Rob. Please don't walk ove-

"Oh hey Rob."

"Preston man, what's up?"

"Oh y'know usual shit. Something cliche like that."

"Tell me about it."

Tell you about it? Pfft. You don't know the first thing about "it" asshole.

"How are you and Patricia?"

"Broke up last week."

"Aw, shit man, I'm sorry"

No you're not. I watched you flirt with her at every bloody party.

"Well, me and the boys are going bowling tomorrow, you should come with. Guys night."

I'll keep out of your man-love club, prick. Thanks. Now go get another drink.

"Sorry Rob, I gotta work late."

"Haha, alright Preston. Hit up the cell if you wanna hang man. Later."

God I need a drink.

"There goes my baby.

There goes my heart..."

Man, what's wrong with me? Do I really hate all these people? Shit am I depressed. I can't even relate to normal people. I'm leaving. Can't stand another minute of this. Car keys, phone, watch. Check. Alright. Here's to you, you happy people, I'm off to sit home alone with another record on. Just like every Saturday night.

"They're gone forever,

so far apart..."

8:00AM. Damn I'm late. Oh shit. I knew I drank too much. Goddamn-it, I can't go to work like this. Might as well sleep it off, Patricia's party is tonight. I need to be on my game. I need to win her back.

"But only the lonely,

know why I cry..."

God, my drink's empty again. What time is it?

"Only the lonely..."

Cigar Box

It takes a long time to get used to living. I'm not sure we ever do. I think that's why we die, we just get tired of not getting living.

Cable Knit

End

I've always had a fascination with how words work together. But in the most literal way.

I love the idea of words that work literallytogether, hugging eachother forwarmth.

Or on the flip side, words that de test their com patriots and seek their own in depend ence.

It's disconcerting, but intriguing, a world disjointed . Would we read Shakespeare differently if the words "Romeo" and "Juliet" were several spaces apart, mirror ing their event ual and e ternal sep ara tion? Would their love have more meaning if their names werethrowntogether, aliteral expose onthe lovethattranscends death, thelove thatkeeps oneforeverin the other'sembrace? What about a blend of the two? to confu se, todiscon cert , makingus fi nd our ownpath, makingus search fortehid den meaning tuckedin the innoc oulousspace ingofharm less clauses. Whynot tcompound the entire ideawith the

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Chapter one.

the

Tree Tops

Being alone is something I find myself preconditioned too. I am alone when I find the most inspiration, I am alone when I find nothing but myself, and I am alone as I walk these emerald hills. My burden is light, but my footsteps are heavy. My eyes look to the horizon, but my head hangs low. Nothing guides me but the speck of light in front of me. Where I am going I cannot say. Why I am going is a question my mind cannot see. My feet desperately churn back and forth, they are not savvy to my course, they are trying to escape. They seem foreign to me, hands searching for something, finding nothing. But I'm not searching, my eyes gave up on that a long time ago.

My course is straight, my destination just beyond this next hill. But the sun is setting, and the world has become a shifting mass of muted colors. The night has come - I tell myself the course is still straight. But as I shift my pack, I prepare for the jarring chicanes and the spartan switchbacks of twilight. My feet jig with excitement. They are in control now. My eyes can no longer find their way, the night is tied to my heart. The tide takes me in its embrace, I ebb with the grace of seaweed, my feet buoyed by the clear water. They are calm now, powerful in their control, precise in their kicks. I swim, drowning on the air in my lungs. But I am at peace, for I know the beach is just over this next wave. This next wave.

The sun rises, dawn tugs upon my mind. Cobwebs, strung across my conscience, evaporate into the fine mist of morning. The orb has not forsaken me for another, her voice reassures me - she was there through it all. Land returns to my feet, soil trickles through my toes. Hills climb before me, chasing the horizon. Eyes open, my blood flows, warmness a pinprick upon my stiff limbs. The new day has come, a blank canvas, anxious for brush of rebirth. Am I to be the artist? Is this what lies in my pack? I turn, meaning to open it. There is nothing there. But I can still feel it. It feels heavier. My feet kick, they seem more rebellious than before. My mind shifts, questions teetering on the edge. I shiver from the bite of morning. My feet churn forward; today will not be the day I stop, for I know my destination is just over the hill. I can make it.

An open sea is like an open door, both are limited by the threshold.

Cute Beanie

Metaphorically speaking, I like realism.

In reality, I like frankness.

Frankly, I quite like metaphors.

But that's just it isn't it? Everything falls back on itself. Everything comes back to you. There's nothing but you. Can you handle that? Or must your burden be on another's back? Mine is, but I lost them back at the fork in the road. Hopefully we meet up again soon, I'd really like my burden back. Woah, did you see that? Just now, it zoomed by. It was a double entendre. Wish you'd seen it. Oh hell, now I've lost my train of thought.. Oh yes, something about burdens. Ehh, too heavy of a subject. Look at that one! I swear this is a wit-shower, I just saw a pun-meteorite fly by. You saw it? What was your wish? Fine don't tell me, I don't want to know anyways.

The Founders met today - down in Ladera. Plans are going according to schedule. I can't wait for the towers to go up, they'll be such a nice addition to the landscape, and the people. I just hope it doesn't affect the piped-in frog noises, they help me sleep. At least when I'm sleeping in Ladera. Which is never. But you get what I mean right? Thank goodness you're so understanding.

Red Velvet Cake is good. And Chocolate. And Vanilla. All three for that matter, mixed of course. Where my Oreos at?

School wouldn't be the same without my power pole friends. They look so inviting and so protecting. Like two friends on night-watch at the campfire. Actually, I think I could watch fire forever, it's like looking into someone's soul. Flames lick the night sky, ashes curl lazily, embers glow contentedly, and the fire falls back on itself. But no matter what, there's always heat.

Actually, they're more like two English royal guards - minus the fuzzies.

Shadow Puppets

Stop saying you've changed. You never will. It's annoying - "New Resolutions" are the crutches and excuses of the lazy. You haven't changed at all, from what my records say you're still same ol' Mrs. P Sherman. So cut it and roll with the punches. Oh and by the way, I'm the only one allowed to quote lyrics, cause I wear cardigans.

Black and white, stream of consciousness writing, The Whitest Boy Alive. Logical fallacies, straw men and the TAR-21. Haircuts, Vans, triglycerides. Kafka, Steinbeck, Colin A. Adams, and Theodore Roosevelt. Chainsaws, email, other people's blogs, The Fundamental Theorem.

I can't be explicit with you, then I wouldn't have anything to hide behind. But I want to tell you everything.

Dancing is bliss, even with scuffed shoes.

It's currently 45° in Newark

*ring*

...

*ring*

-"Hullo?"

-"Mrs. Patterson?"

-"Speaking."

-"It's me. It's the cro-"

*click*

"Mrs. Patterson?"

"Mom?"

I knew you'd never pick up, you hate talking on the phone, specially to me. You say it's cause I mumble. I say it's cause you've got nothing to say. But then again, neither do I.

Why do I keep calling?

The bedtime stories are becoming real again. The crocodile won't stop smiling, his teeth are ever so big and his scales are ever so bright. Dr. Stanley isn't here to protect me and the crocodile won't stop smiling. He just won't.

Why do I keep calling?

Now he's moved, underneath the dresser. His eyes, two yellow orbs, just stare. And he won't stop smiling. I guess Dr. Stanley has gotten too old for this bedtime story. Crocodiles don't age, but I do. Does this mean I'm going to live with the crocodile forever? Will he ever stop smiling?

I know why I keep calling.

You know where Dr. Stanley is, don't you?

Why won't you tell me?

The crocodile won't stop smiling. Teeth, eyes, moon, sky - such a soothing lullaby.

I've fallen asleep now. Finally I'm safe - smiles don't exist in my dreams.

I remembered a poem I thought I had forgotten a long time ago - you used to tell it to me whenever I couldn't sleep:

Breath deep
The gathering gloom
Watch lights fade
From every room
Bedsitter people
Look back and lament
Another day's useless
energy spent

Impassioned lovers
Wrestle as one
Lonely man cries for love
And has none
New mother picks up
And suckles her son
Senior citizens
Wish they were young

Cold hearted orb
That rules the night
Remove the colours
From our sight
Red is gray and
Yellow white
But we decide
Which is right
And
Which is an Illusion

The crocodile always leaves in the morning.

I smile.

Good Morning George

It's been a while, that's for sure. I've been meaning to write to you, but it's been hard with everything happening around here, what with the Hydrangeas just coming into bloom and Ethan going back to school - it's as if life doesn't want this letter to be written. But Ethan's just gone down for his nap and Tito is out for the afternoon, so I've got plenty of time to write of the goings-on around the Kennan household.

Like I mentioned, Ethan's just gone back to school, with much gusto I might add, and comes home everyday with a head full of thoughts and eyes full of colors. He reminds me so much of you, right down to his wry smile and sandy hair. He's got Nana's eyes though, you can never quite pin down the color. Tito took him out to the coast the other day and when they came back, Ethan showed me all the things he had collected - abalones, crown snails, alabaster coral and a curious piece of sea-glass. I still have that necklace you know, it hangs from my dresser - it catches the light beautifully in the morning. Speaking of which, it's quite apparent Ethan's going to follow in his father's footsteps as a man of the sea - but hopefully he will lack the recklessness you seem to flaunt so well. But let's not talk of our problems, they seem so petty now that Ethan has been born.

I received your package just last week; it must've been a right horror trying to get such a large shell shipped all the way from the Seychelles. Ethan loves it, as do I - it now adorns the little coffee table in the east nook. I haven't had much time to read the manuscript that came with it though, mostly just the opening chapters, but I have made some sketches of the photos you've taken, and I asked Tito to take them to the publisher for approval.

I remember when you took me to the Seychelles - it was just yesterday wasn't it? I've never seen such clear water, such blue skies, God they're better than the weather here. Sometimes I just can't stand these Cape Cod winters, the sky is an eternal shade of grey and the wind howls through the bay windows most every night - Tito had to nail them shut last weekend, the latches wouldn't hold. But it's probably best I'm not there with you, there's too many memories. I still think about that summer you know. I try not to, but every once in a while I find some trinket we bought and those days just come back to life. Just writing this letter reminds me of our correspondence we had back then. But I didn't write this letter to reminisce, at least that's what I keep telling myself.

Oh, that's Ethan's waking up, he'll be calling for me in a moment. Time to end this letter - I hope this finds you and the crew in good health. I'd ask you to write back, but I doubt you'll have the time anytime soon. Sorry if I rambled, but that's the status quo with me isn't it?

Goodbye George,

Jess