we are most alive in dreams

Birthdays and Whiteout

Sun, 19 May 2013 09:04:18 -0400

This blog is officially three years old.

Funny how time moves away from us. A measurement that we place so much significance on. Even the best of us cannot escape it.

And so most of you may know that Yahoo! is in the process of purchasing Tumblr for $1.1 billion. Cash. Billion. That’s a lot of money.

Which puts a funny feeling in my stomach. I have a lot of questions that already found the inbox of the Tumblr support folks. They may never get answered, and so I will put my concerns here as well.

What will happen to the three years of my original content if this sale goes through? Will the privacy and protection conditions change? Will I no longer own the rights to what I have put here for three years? I don’t know.

What I do know is that I will begin the painstaking process of taking a good portion of my material off of Tumblr. Not all of it, but the possibility of my thoughts, feelings, and words being in jeopardy has my stomach in knots.

And the reason for this is I may remove myself from Tumblr altogether, leaving only a skeleton of my progression as a writer. To look back on from time to time. To cherish as a place where I poured out my heart.

Happy Birthday, words. Perhaps it is time to move on.

Spring: Bodies

Sat, 18 May 2013 21:30:26 -0400

Young boys
and girls hitting,
fireflies with
badminton rackets
in the field across
the street, shrieking
with joy as tiny
bodies explode,
like fireworks.

Mothers and fathers
drink in the garage,
pale yellow
cascading, words
sliding gently and
the divorced bodies
ache to be touched,
hoping to erode
towards dawn.

5.16.2013

Thu, 16 May 2013 19:31:14 -0400

All anyone
needs, is
for someone
to believe,
in them.

Spring: Ashes

Mon, 13 May 2013 20:55:18 -0400

Slept six inches
from beautiful people,
pickled in champagne
and stoned, whispering
about five years ago
when happiness was
plucked from the roots,
of ponderosa pine groves.

We are a single
consciousness,
thatched with tendrils
of coastal foam and
Midwest pocket
watch grease.

I will release myself
into the natural wonder,
that is a collection of
magnetic souls when
the desert asks for
my name again.

Spring: Scribbles

Tue, 07 May 2013 20:33:59 -0400

I had something
for the headaches,
but lost my way:
Empty house
caverns suck at
the edges of
my frame-worked
molecules,
in dim light from
flickering candles,
set neatly on wood
counters during black-
out struggles
in Winter’s chest.
Announcing, fear at the
door frames, ticking
seconds with sweat beads
and palpitations. Foolish boy,
you are no man.

Spring: Splinters

Tue, 07 May 2013 00:45:34 -0400

Stood up
by imaginary

friends, left
to forget about
belief in cleft

tongues where,
promises sit-

Too many missed
phone calls,
from those

once kissed:
Is this what
guillotines
feel like?

What exactly is your style of poetry called?

Sun, 05 May 2013 11:18:17 -0400

I like to trick myself into thinking that my poetry style is unique.

But really it’s just free verse.

Is your writing something you do on the side, or are you a paid writer?

Sun, 05 May 2013 11:09:49 -0400

I am not a paid writer.

I love writing, I'm just not sure I'm good at it. I would like to pursue it as a career, but I'm afraid that it is nothing more than a long shot. Any advice?

Sat, 04 May 2013 22:57:22 -0400

If I were published, advice would come pouring from my body in a great and wonderful deluge. I would give it all to you, I swear. But, I have never been published and so I guess my best advice is this:

If any career were a sure thing, everyone would do it. With a lot of hard work, dedication, long nights, long days, frustration, soul, and most of all love, anything is possible. If you want to be a writer, do it and don’t let anyone tell you that it’s a waste of time. Keep working, writing, reading, and experiencing. Give it everything you have. Give all of your blood, sweat, tears, bones, and skin to make your dream a reality.

Even if you can’t make it a career, you can still look back and tell yourself that you gave it one hell of a shot.

And no one could ever hope to take that from you.

I'm interested in writing, and I write poems and narratives, and all sorts of random pieces that are often not connected to the other topics. I'm not sure how I would put it all together if I were to ever try to make something of it. Any advice?

Sat, 04 May 2013 22:10:26 -0400

Make folders, either on a desktop or tangible folders, and separate your writing into categories or things you think could somehow come together. Then, add to them a little at a time. Focus on making the connections and stringing together complete thoughts into stories.

Or you could try using outlines, if you have specific story ideas in mind that you want to write and complete. I used to have this problem and still do to some extent. Outlines help quite a bit. And the outline itself doesn’t have to be extravagant. Just a simple framework can do wonders for making a story or idea cohesive.

Those random bits can have their own folder. Some day, they too will find a place in another folder and become something bigger. Or they could stay where they are.

And it’s okay if nothing ever comes together and makes sense. If writing is what you want to do, then do it. The important thing is that you are motivated enough to keep writing, no matter the outcome.

How do you approach editing your work?

Sat, 04 May 2013 10:58:58 -0400

First and foremost, I get it all down, even if it’s just a basic framework. Then, starting from the beginning, I make short notes in parenthesis where things need to be changed or strengthened. After that, I don’t look at it. Sometimes for a day, sometimes a month. When my brain is ready, I go back and focus on the parenthesis. The cycle then repeats. It’s a long process, but it works for me. Also, everything eventually gets read out loud, especially dialogue.

How do you decide what to write about?

Sat, 04 May 2013 10:45:36 -0400

A lot of thinking. Sometimes more thinking than writing.

Other times I experience things that stick and the words write themselves. It’s just a matter of sitting down and getting them out.

Lover, I want a poem, give me a poem

Sat, 04 May 2013 09:32:42 -0400

Leaving myself,
at the coat check
of feeling void:
choosing to believe,
in the definition
of color, as spectra
and lengths of
invisible waves-
Feeling, is harder
and deeper than
surface hue,
described by my twenty-
seven years when all
anyone wants is
honesty,
for one minute.

An Open Floor

Sat, 04 May 2013 09:19:49 -0400

An Open Floor:

I’ll be around for a good portion of the day, editing poetry and putting together a handwritten, hand drawn zine with a friend. Feel free to ask me anything.

5.2.2013

Thu, 02 May 2013 22:28:55 -0400

One car pile-up
with two trees,
after too much speed
and sunroof ejection
into slow motion 1am:
trying to believe in mercy,
wondering what memories
flickered, as her shallow
breathing reminded
no one of the fragile
mortal coil until one
first responder phone call
revealing, dead-on-arrival.

Three funerals too many
this year and I’m trying
hard, to stitch myself
back together.

Spring: Bleeding

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 20:40:51 -0400

Can’t concentrate on
being undead. On being,
messy
molecules that
could have been anything-

Forced into skin and,
bones and blood, strung
out on oxygen and electricity
never wanted, asked for…

See the way we move, and
ask, “Where will you go
after death?” Back into,
another cycle repeating-
Demagogues get ten
million hand written
letters, every day for

(more money
fewer bills
less hungry
more drugs
less traffic
more sex
more cigarettes
more wishes)

more of anything that,
disconnects from the core
intelligence that is
the human body: a mess
of molecules, that could
have been anything.

Spring: Sparrow

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 19:58:49 -0400

Describe the feeling
you had when deciding
on divorce, on putting
him outdoors. After, two
days under vicodin haze
at his request and how,
he crawled into you: half-
conscious and begging
stop
stop
stop
stop
stop. Husband, please stop,
I’ll say the words exactly
like you want, no more
drugs, no more
stop
stop
stop
stop
stop. Describe that feeling,
when the shackles of forced
love fell from your ankles,
tell me how beautiful you are.

So I want to become an author but I have all of these ideas floating around in my head all the time and when I start working on something I always hit a dry spot. Any words of wisdom?

Fri, 26 Apr 2013 21:14:28 -0400

Start small. Focus on one idea and develop it a little at a time no matter how long it takes. Write the other ones down, but put them away somewhere for later development. Keep doing it. Stay focused on the idea you really like and make it bleed. Don’t let those other ideas tempt you.

Their time will come, and they bleed like all the rest.

4.25.2013

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 21:24:08 -0400

Here lives the great
Colossus next to lung
nodes Three or Four,
clothed in gray soot
concrete dust cigarette
ash still hot off the press
of learning, who You were
with when I was hospital
bound, and down Fifth
Avenue across two parking
lots light flashing red then
gone, then red and I’m fading
into Comatose with head-of-
table seating when my Heart
stops. But they shook me
once, twice, and I’m brainwave
awake still learning that I’m
frail and weak for letting You
inside.

4.24.2013

Tue, 23 Apr 2013 23:59:28 -0400

I still,
can’t believe
I let you,
touch me.