Thursday, December 27, 2012

Christmas Card


This is not a christmas card
in a language I do not know how to speak
give me the palm of your hand 
and let me trace the creases
of your stained glass window
as you draw the curtains

So hang a star at the top of my tree
but never hang an angel

When I was thirteen I wanted ink into my wrist that
read “hope”
over and over tracing
thumbtacks into flesh
if this is hope, the moon hangs in a noose 
I can hear the music in you

So turn your porch light on
and pull me under your ribcage
and into your lungs
you are my family

And when we danced in your kitchen for the first time
until we dance in ours for the last time 
on our last breath
you are the impossible coming true 
and if that is not truth, what is
pull all your gardens out of your chest 
this is for saying yes


Draw me my dream bridge 
and push me across the rotted wood
no matter how much I scream

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Monday, September 24, 2012

Fold




white twisted branches twist my arm
thin bark  - like paper
and after I had planted 
words
underneath your flesh
petals bloom out of your fingertips 
and take root in my wide open eye
cranium & skeletal bones - white and twisted

but you trim the leaves 
that sprout from my mouth
and water the dirt 
until it turns to mud
in my chest 

regurgitate worms
and spit beetles for words
that suck your flesh
red rub contusion 
skeletal bones & teeth - white and twisted

petals bloom out of your fingertips
and take root in my wide open eye

but you trim the leaves that sprout from my mouth
and water the dirt

thin bark - like paper
after I had planted words
on white paper
origami box
with a flower lid 
16 folds and 16 folds 

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Do Tempt Not


Does anybody ever not read 
something marked 
“do not read”                      ?

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

De fine




The sand and waves drift apart
& come back together like my hipbones and yours’
clamoring together. flicker and fail
The frames of those pictures bled out -
and you said you loved me and I peeled your eyelids 
back and melted the stars inside 
that made up your universe and
put together what was left over
in your calloused palms - like melted wax cooled
don’t ask me why
Digging through the worm’s labyrinth and past
the dead hamsters in size six shoe boxes ;
I thought I was.
Wildflower breeze, and you trace
the pathway my collar bones forge,
under my skin.
But is a shiver any more tangible as a cloud?
I’m not sure If I still have a
spine as the keys to those doors don’t fit and 
who were we to chop down those trees - red ax with 
the splintered handle - only to keep other’s out and 
have to invite them in?     and I thought 
of your breath against foreign wrist 
Which is only really a catalyst  to my
chrysalis. wrinkled and grey, the ink in russet skin
egg shells.
Bitter dandelion leaves and orchard pink  
flesh the morning doesn’t smell like 
dew the morning doesn’t smell like you

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Stone and Moon


“Parce-que
Je sais qu’une fois que vous avez passé ce
vous allez me souviens
et se réveiller à nouveau
et je sais combien nous nous soucions les uns des autres
et combien nous comprenons les uns les autres
et comment nous sommes un
vous laissez vos émotions prendre le meilleur de vous
et c’est pourquoi je ne les tiens pas en haute estime
parce qu’ils nous séparer”


The moon feels so far away
tonight -
and I’m spinning
and it’s not my blood running through my veins

Regression feels a lot like home
a home I loathe
one I don’t belong in

The clouds in my head
are masking the moon
and you are so far away tonight -
distant

but only because I let it
only because I let you be

Why would anyone rebuild something
that has been torn to the ground
stone by stone
 - shedding preconception
 - breaking down past notions
- unrooting fears
skin to skin
flawless

but now I’m a puzzel with a piece missing
you can almost see it
fitting so snugly with the rest
you can almost see it.
- but its not there

rummaging around in the empty box

The moon feels so far away tonight
and regression feels a lot like home

our love is a river,
raging
but my heart is overflowing
and your tears
run into mine

nous sommes un
 - je connais

Why would I rebuild something
that you and I tore to the ground?
there is no creation without
destruction

and the cracks in this godforsaken wall
let the light in

so destruct me
break me down
- I know
its not your job to built me back up

my words slip through a sieve of anger,
from someone who’s always so cautious and careful with words
with their placement
and their reverb

and I was afraid that I won’t ever
measure up
but doubt is such a seductive evil
and we’re spinning

but what place does measurement have
in something so immeasurable?

so destruct me
break me down
don’t ever let me run away from this
I don’t ever want to leave


“I feel my way
through slowest heaving night
whatever fear invents
I swear it makes no sense …
In the swirling curling
storm of desire
Unuttered words hold fast …
Darkness creeps in like a thief
And offers no relief
Come on, come talk to me.”

La Coeur


Ton coeur bat de plus belle
alors - que tes yeux sont sur moi

slipping into flawless intimacy,
adrenaline, my friend
neurotransmitters and neurons tangled in a delicate and nervous nervous system
and the precipice were carelessly dangling our limbs off and inching our feet towards the edge carefully
is synthesized into euphoria
and transposed into a harmonic chord

tracing the flesh of your hips
with my fingertips
        my lips
  muscle memory

 - you are
paperback books
the color blue -
a strong hand
closed eyes -
lids and lashes
a deep sigh -
a gentle touch

 tunnel vision blur
 discovering pure freedom in the blindness
 for seeing everything within:
  your eyes are a window
   with window panes
    & pain
   with shutters
    & shudders
   with curtains
    & sweeping lashes
   with reflections
    & reflection

your hand found mine
    at a very funny time
gestures freeze
and shared breaths get drawn in quickly
       as if they are fleeting
       as if they are numbered
       as if they could be easily lost
  if not held on to

a rooftop dance
city smog has hidden the stars
and the twinkling city lights
    are a poor excuse
    - but will suffice
for they reflect in the pool of your eyes
   & your eyes reflect in mine
and as a breeze dances across my skin
 I am more than satisfied

calculated motions
ebb and flow
dans ma coeur
 thinking:
 this is only the beginning
 thinking:
 ce qui ne peut vous me dire, moi chérie?

Momentum

I’ll read your eloquent words over and over
as if I can see the elusive corners of your mind
you tell me that time doesn’t exist 
or that we do not exist within time -
but, its 12:53am
and when we pirouetted in the darkness of your room
it was 1:23am
and you counted the hours we shared - 
5
you tell me that time doesn’t exist 
then why do I need to
      slow
      it
      down?
I live in a world of constant motion 
wrapped up in the earth’s spin
I live in a world of “productivity is key”
and “be here on time”
where quicker is better; where faster is the norm
but in the moment,
inertia
perpetuating motion
of something so real - and raw, taking root
no compromise -
but darling, the things I’d do for those eyes…
I’ve existed for nineteen years, one month, nine days, one hour, and a few minutes after that
encountered the pain
made the mistakes
I made the choices 
the ones that I thought were the best at the time
but my impatience stems from being tempted by the apple - 
which is a funny metaphor
because apples are my least favorite fruit
but are beautiful 
on the inside and out
  and if you cut them just right,
  they form a heart in the middle.
sharing moments and
sharing words and
stealing kisses
doesn’t have to be defined
    not in space
    nor time
if we simply exist
  why can’t we exist together?
  - separately
but nonetheless intertwined
you do deserve me at my best,
there’s no doubting that.
and I’m getting there - 
the resentment stemmed from suppression
simple solution - let go
it was that easy all along
 simply needed the inertia
 the momentum
 to get to the realization
all I know is that
your mind
[what I’ve seen so far]
is a beautiful thing
and I’d like to be by your side
       - but I know that you’ll simply tell me “in due time”  

Open is really Closed - and this poem isn't well-written and I don't like it but I'm sitting in a patch of scratchy grass scratching my pen against this blank page

Open wide
and swallow me whole

past patterns condition
          actions
         behaviors
          choices
past patterns condition 

All I had to do was wait
for you to tilt my chin up,
to face your face,
face to face

but past patterns condition
        actions -       
              and I'm not good at waiting

 I'm afraid of a lot of things
and I've learned to take what I want
or it'll be taken from me
and I'm afraid of a lot of things
  but all I see is you,
  trying to look through me
with insipid eyes

Open wide
and swallow me whole

I think
and I think
but mostly
I think that you have this idea in your mind
 of what two people should be
 and this knot in this tree
 is causing a knot in my back

pressed hip to hip
bone to bone
 yeah, do I stray from that?
 from your predetermined ideal?
yeah, maybe I move too fast

but past patterns condition
           actions
         behaviors
         choices
past patterns condition

 I'm too used to being swallowed whole

Surface vs. Depth (vulnerability)

I get swallowed up in the day to day
clocks&pens&papers&books&computerscreans
time&ink&trees&binding&integratedciruits
but what does the brain have to do in matters of the heart?

Come closer?
infiltration
heart temptation
inspiration
- reflection

Surface vs. Depth

as someone who always drowns too quickly
why would I remain on the surface
belly up amongst the fallen leaves and the struggling beetle
floating an orange life vest during darker times
one that screams, “I’m too young to swim alone”
(that’s all you were)

silk twine
heart lines

“see you in dreamland darlin”
 but I’ve seen you there before
in your doorframe without a door
your eyes - iridescent & piercing mine
a doorframe without a door

no barriers,
nothing to keep out
nothing to lock away
free
- that feeling like too much smoke in your lungs
& not letting it escape
as if it would ruin the high

 nothing else mattered,
not the ceiling or the sky
nor the floorboards or the earth under their feet
divine purpose

infiltration
heart temptation
inspiration
reflection

 i gave me away to you
 -- i woke up smiling

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

“He had a word, too. Love, he called it. But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like the others: just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn’t need a word for that anymore than for pride or fear.”

-As I Lay Dying


The idea that I am grappling with is this idea of love transposes itself to other people’s faces. And maybe the feeling shifts and changes or evolves. But is it really different with each different person? When you think you know, do you really know? Because feelings change. And the faces change. And you change. Do we simply fit each other into a mold? Long enough for flaws to be revealed and cracks to show? Long enough for things to crumble. And then we move on, or we don’t, but things change and the faces change. And you change. I can hear the clock on the wall ticking in my brain. I can hear your voice in my ears telling me to make up my mind. Waking up, every morning, with a new bird in my cage. A bitter light filtering through the curtains and into my head. It casts a eerie shadow on my heart. Tangled limbs and lips pressed together signify closeness and intimacy. But can that be transposed? So easily, from face to face. And dancing to a different rhythm isn’t really different at all, its just like the last. And when I’m alone, I’m not really alone at all. Because they’re all there. All the faces, they blend and mix together. Muddled and blurred. I remember the eyes. Brown puppy dog eyes, blood shot but sweet - asking eyes, pleading, sad eyes - your eyes, the ones I can’t let myself think about long enough to describe, can’t let them in - amber eyes, framed with light lashes - then yours, iridescent, [not insipid] piercing blue, mirroring mine. All fingerprints on my heart. Smudges, smears in my chest, through my veins. With each pair of eyes - who am I? A listless stoner, a moral ignorer, masochistic - a cheater, a liar - a naïve, whole-hearted lover - a surface dweller, a self ignored being - a passionate, creative being entwined in depth. Substitution. We perceive nothing, by knowing what it is always. Repeating patterns, face after face. Submerged self. Drowning self. I think I know what I want, but I’m not brave enough to obtain it. My life is a series of moments, happiness and pain, moments I let define me. Relying on others to keep me safe, sane, satisfied. When was a time when I could truly rely on myself? Such a simple question to ask, but my whole life has be a projection of self on others. Defined, dependent, demure. Is it easier being alone? With all the shadows of the old? It’s a long trip, with no new places. Empty echos that have been said into chasms, lies cut through flesh. My life is a series of moments. Some fleeting or prolonged; tortuous or pure bliss. Lingering, enveloped in a sheathe of protective memory, swirling in my effervescent brain until a circuitous and harrowing excavation. Forever stuck in time. Rapture of euphoria. The incomprehensible nature of life is completely illusive, and will forever puzzle me. I always know what I want, always quick to make decisions. But decisions like “will I buy this shirt” or “will I dye my hair this color” or “will I go out tonight”. This one’s not so easy. Even for decisive me. I can’t see the moon through the city haze. And the sun bakes the piss into the cement. Rum and cokes blur my rationale. Independence is relative. Hidden myself in disguise. Windows of temptation. Learning to be free. Temporary bliss. But this time, open your eyes and I won’t disappear.


“Is there no way out of the mind?”

-Sylvia Plath

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Change

ten
i haven’t been counting my steps
but walking in worn-down combat boots
being on my own
sole coming off
soul on my own
next i’ll be walking barefoot in philly
alone is not alone
people surrounding
dirt and glass
twenty
i haven’t been counting my steps
blue emergency telephone sign
not so smart
why would anyone
call anyone
on that
anytime
fifty
i haven’t been counting my steps
pictures of eyes
as they are thinking
hate series
love series
cliché
touché

Surface vs. Depth (vulnerability)

I get swallowed up in the day to day
clocks&pens&papers&books&computerscreans
time&ink&trees&binding&integratedciruits
but what does the brain have to do in matters of the heart?

Come closer?

infiltration
heart temptation
inspiration
- reflection

Surface vs. Depth
as someone who always drowns too quickly
why would I remain on the surface
belly up amongst the fallen leaves and the struggling beetle


floating
an orange life vest during darker times
one that screams, “I’m too young to swim alone”
(that’s all you were)

silk twine
heart lines

“see you in dreamland darlin”

but I’ve seen you there before
in your doorframe
without a door

your eyes - iridescent & piercing mine
a doorframe without a door
no barriers, nothing to keep out
nothing to lock away

free -
that feeling like too much smoke in your lungs
& not letting it escape
as if it would ruin the high

nothing else mattered,
not the ceiling or the sky
nor the floorboards or the earth under their feet
divine purpose

infiltration
heart temptation
inspiration
reflection

i gave me away
to you

-- i woke up smiling

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Inside

inside
inside class
inside work
inside walls
inside windows
inside me
you inside

get out

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Substitution

We perceive nothing
worse
by knowing what it is
always

American Flag

I just drew
a thick, blue line
in pen
down my thumb

I don't know why

Spent the rest of my time
trying to get it off

Now its raw and red - still blue
American Flag

lipids

lipids
foam on ocean
bar of soap
love handles don't get much love
fight club
beached whale
pink eye
rhubarb pie
penis

Thursday Afternoon

My coffee cup is
wearing a mermaid dress
with a frown

I put the cardboard on
upsidedown

Skcurbrats

Pair Pare Pear

Serial
as in killer
qu'est que c'est?

Cereal
as in frosted flakes
Français

Pyramid

splifs
no. 9s
beauty
engines
rev their
deftones
desperato
radiohead
typewriter
bright eyes
morse code
C’est la Vie
a stunt baby
memorabilia
scum o’clock
extraordinaire
contemplation
cinnamon buns
domestic abuse
animal crackers
too much coffee
motorcycle gang
paper snowflakes
down broad street
cinnamon candles
jesus you’re drunk
on Friday the 13th
concealer of murders
memory and honesty
undercover state cops
a certain shade of green
home sweet home alone
foundation is canyoning
sea turtle in a tiny bottle
brandon boyd flows to bay
puzzle with a piece missing
food from the garden of eden
espère que vous regrettez tout
abandoned house explorations
a stone from the dragon of love
the native is doing his tribal dance
fault lines should be worn with pride
this professor talks in circles circles in talks professor

Tweet teet tit twat

splifs
a stunt baby
sea turtle in a tiny bottle

jesus you’re drunk...
C’est la Vie

this professor talks in circles circles in talks professor

too much coffee
motorcycle gang
rev their
engines
down broad street

typewriter
radiohead

puzzle with a piece missing
concealer of murders
extra -
ordin -
aire


brandon boyd flows to bay
a stone from the dragon of love
food from the garden of eden

abandoned house explorations
on Friday the 13th

foundation is canyoning,
fault lines should be worn with pride

cinnamon buns. domestic abuse. morse code
espère que vous regrettez tout

(desperato)

the native is doing his tribal dance
a certain shade of green

cinnamon candles
contemplation - scum o’clock
home sweet home alone
memory and honesty memorabilia

beauty
paper snowflakes


undercover state cops
animal crackers

deftones
bright eyes
no. 9s

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Voyage of One (Short Story)

“I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges,
I see my father strolling out
under the ochre sandstone arch, the
red tiles glinting like bent
plates of blood behind his head, I
see my mother with a few light books at her hip
standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks,
the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its
sword-tips aglow in the May air,
they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are
innocent, they would never hurt anybody.
I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don’t do it—she’s the wrong woman,
he’s the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do,
you are going to do bad things to children,
you are going to suffer in ways you have not heard of,
you are going to want to die. I want to go
up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it,
her hungry pretty face turning to me,
her pitiful beautiful untouched body,
his arrogant handsome face turning to me,
his pitiful beautiful untouched body,
but I don’t do it. I want to live. I
take them up like the male and female
paper dolls and bang them together
at the hips, like chips of flint, as if to
strike sparks from them, I say
Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it.”
-Sharon Olds



1.
Pink skin and clear blue eyes
horizon and void
mortality circles within a chest
spinning webs of muscle fibers
tiny hands outstretched and willing
welcoming the swirling incandescent sea of a star-dotted mobile
the flutter of warm milky breaths and arms to comfort cries
swim up, up and through

Delilah Jane was born on the 24th of March, 1993 in Richmond, Virginia. The air was cool and crisp, but it was one of those days where everything seemed clearer, illuminated by the sun; the sun overhead, the sun radiating off the asphalt, the sun reflecting off the hospital’s windows. After six hours of excruciating labor and 56 ice chips, all eight pounds and thirteen ounces of Delilah took her first breath.

She was welcomed into countless arms and her tiny pink fingers reached towards the promise of a warm embrace. She seemed content to doze while the others doted. With golden hair and pacific blue eyes, no mention of, “Oh! She has her father’s nose!” or, “Oh! She has her mother’s eyes,” occurred. With a first daughter of an olive complexion, think dark hair, and brown eyes, Delilah didn’t compare.



“Hey diddle diddle, the Cat and the fiddle…”

It was 2:43 am and a nightlight shaped like the moon illuminated a patch of the wall above the outlet it was plugged into. The navy blue curtains were drawn, and the Mother was silhouetted in darkness. The Mother, full of devoutness and love, tried and failed to keep her russet-colored eyes open. Her head was drawn down, tempted by the lull of sleep in her crib-side rocking chair.

“The Cow jumped over the moon…”

Delilah was awake in her crib of pale wood bars. She had no cries within her, only an occasional coo or gurgle. Her bright blue eyes were wide open, framed by her sweeping golden eyelashes. Those eyes, which were open to the world, and thirsting for information, were mesmorized by a star-dotted mobile, swirling and turning above her.

“The little Dog laughed to see such sport…”

Delilah reached one tiny hand up, up to reach those stars. At first it was pure enjoyment in simply watching the stars whirl in the darkness. But her tiny hand fell short, she couldn’t quite grasp them. So Delilah tried the other hand. She tried again, and again – they still couldn’t reach. But Delilah didn’t mind. Those stars would be in her sky the next night too. With one last peek at her stars, Delilah’s eyes fluttered shut. The corners of her rose pink lips turned up. Delilah smiled as she slept.

“And the Dish ran away with the Spoon.”


2.
Skinned knees and broken barbie dolls
postage stamps and gardenias
tiny hands tugging on grandmother’s apron
a butterscotch candy, sweet and familiar on the tongue
swim down the lobotomy of remembrance
gold finches with ballet slippers
they sprout lies like dandelions
swim around and explore

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon on the 24th of October, 1999. There was nothing special about this Saturday, but Delilah loved these days; when Saturdays were full of pink pajamas, eggs and bacon, play dates, and family dinners. Time seemed to move slower, a contrast to the weekly rush.

Delilah was sitting at the kitchen table facing the large bay window. Her feet dangled down, not quite touching the linoleum. Her tiny toes danced within her pale pink socks. The sun was setting and the stained glass ornament hanging in the window cast a sliver of a rainbow on the smooth wood table. Delilah was hard at work.

For a six year old, work was squishing cool, messy play-dough through chubby fingers. Delilah was not methodical in her work, she simply enjoyed the carelessness.

Delilah was at ease. On Saturdays she knew exactly where everyone was. The Mother was at the counter preparing the evening’s dinner of roasted potatoes and carrots with rosemary and barbecue chicken. The kitchen was consumed in aroma and warmth. The Father was upstairs in the office, with parsed lips, reading numerous email. Delilah’s older sister was caddy-corner to her, carefully constructing a play-dough penguin with precision and ease. Delilah found comfort in knowing where every single one of them were, especially when in close proximity.

Delilah’s sister’s long brown hair fell into her face as she fabricated the play-dough penguin’s beak. She tucked her hair behind her left ear and continued.

Delilah looked at her sister with a twinge of jealousy. Delilah’s play-dough resembled three colorful lumps. She had to focus; she grasped two of those lumps, the pink in one hand, the green in the other, and twirled the two together.

As Delilah twisted the colors in her hands and squeezed the play-dough through her fingers, the colors began to muddy. And Delilah began to get frustrated. Her brow furrowed, and her blond hair fell in her face. Delilah got even more frustrated. She shoved her hair back, while letting a low hiss escape her lips, wondering why she couldn’t ever be as perfect as her sister.

And then her mother scolded her for the mess she had made.


3.
Crumpled papers and piercing alarm clocks
red faded bandanas and splintering picnic tables
jointed fingers calloused with the creation
tide pools rippling; the surface dancing with deceit
stubborn voices collide and crash like tidal waves
angst and pent desire blinds
polluted permanence and linked limbs
swim to the depths, become a bottom-dweller surrounded in darkness

It was the 24th of July, 2008, and Delilah and her family had just gotten home from her grandparent’s house. Delilah had gotten into a torrid fight with her two best friends Sarah and Olivia earlier that day, and those thoughts consumed her. Fights and friendship drama seemed like the end of the world. Sitting at her grandparent’s dining room table earlier that evening, surrounded by chatter and the clinks of forks and knives against plates, Delilah thought with a proud contentment, “Even if I don’t have any friends, I’ll always have my family.”

How ironic…

Delilah and her mother were in Delilah’s bedroom, and Delilah was complaining. Complaining about her father. Delilah’s still-childhood room was dimly lit and her angst was pent up in between those pale blue walls. And her mother just agreed with her. As Delilah ranted, she paced back and forth in the small space between her twin bed and her desk.

Delilah’s mother appeared tense, but this was nothing new and Delilah was so consumed with her own thoughts, she barely noticed. Delilah’s mother sat down abruptly on Delilah’s bed and averted her gaze from her daughter’s piercing eyes.

“Delilah, I am leaving your father.”

Delilah’s eyes burned with flame. She screamed, “No!”

All of a sudden Delilah was out of her room; she flew down the slippery wooden stairs and out the front door of the house she grew up in, home. It was late and dark, except for a singular street lamp illuminating a patch of sidewalk in the suburban neighborhood.

Delilah’s ears were ringing, “I am leaving your father, I am leaving your father, I am leaving your father.” She was running, faster than she had ever run in her life, not even feeling the pavement scrape her bare feet. A neighbor had sprinklers on, maintaining the perfect lawn.

Someone was yelling her name. It was her father, crying out for her to come back. Delilah hadn’t gotten far. Suddenly she was back, collapsed in the front yard’s grass, crying.

In that moment as Delilah’s father reached to pick her up, Delilah felt smaller than she had ever felt in her life. Small in size, but also insignificant, inconsequential. As her father struggled to pick Delilah up off the damp lawn, his knees shaking under her weight, but not buckling, Delilah became confused as to why her father was struggling under her weight; she was a molecule floating in space; a particle of dust, settling on a surface. No permanence.

Delilah’s father eventually managed to scoop her up and he carried her inside through the forest-green door, which was left ajar.

He carried her inside to a cold house, to sickening hatred, and a shattered version of a future built on the fragile pillars of lies. Delilah lost faith in the things she held so close to her young heart; she succumbed to darkness, internalized, grew quiet, except for torrid screaming matches with The Mother.

But time passed, like it always does, and with time, Delilah gained perspective, distance. But Delilah did not forget.


4.
Lacerated nightmares and carbon copy fingerprints
foreign foliage and letters on a blackboard
get to know that river bed
when water runs uphill and smoke filters through the air vents
I swam that river, head first
greedily fill lungs with each promise to be sustained
foam piles like dust; blindness ensues
swim up, surface, blink, and breathe

It was the 24th of September, 2010 and Delilah had fallen. He had come out of the blue; a friend of a friend. A Facebook request. With three complements, two kisses, and one look, Delilah was hooked.

He was three years older than Delilah, a college boy, uncharted territory. Elliot was a German major at Temple University, and Delilah was still stuck in the monotony of High School. He commuted, and the hours when he was not in class, he clung to Delilah, and Delilah was more than happy to cling back. Elliot had soft brown Paul McCartney hair and puppy dog eyes. He seemed real, sincere. She was sure, especially with his anxiety driven tears, his promise of forever. Delilah was naïve. And he was persuasive. She dove in, head first. She was in love.

“Ich liebe dich…”

Elliot did everything a hopeless romantic like Delilah craved. He played guitar for her, sang to her, wrote her love notes, wrote her songs, opened the car door for her, gave her his sweatshirt, paid for her dinners, brought her to family events, visited her at work, bought her a stuffed bear, gave her a diamond necklace, told her secrets in the dark, whispered his love for her across a shared pillow, promised forever, a flawless future together … It was cliché, but Delilah believed every goddamn word that came out of his thin lips.



College parties are all the same. Dirty row home, girls in short skirts, preying guys, sweaty crowd surrounding the keg, a fog of cigarette and marijuana smoke, red cups with Keystone Light sloshing out.

It was Friday night and Elliot was at one of those parties. Delilah was home, of course, home at 11 o’clock PM like a good little girl. She was not permitted to go down to the city for the night with Elliot, and this caused friction in their relationship, revealing the age difference between the two that usually was not apparent.

It was 12:49 and Delilah was growing tired. “I miss you and I love you, have a good night baby,” Delilah typed out on her cell phone and pressed send.

But Elliot never read it.

He was too drunk. Elliot stumbled over to a brown dirty couch and ungracefully plopped down on it. The dark room had one lamp turned on and the ceiling was spinning. Shortly after Elliot slunk down on the couch, a girl entered the room. She had short black hair and a not-so-skinny mid section. After already fucking everyone who had lived in the house on 17th and Norris at various times during the year, she had made Elliot her next target.

She climbed on top of him and kissed him first.
Or so he said…
But he kissed her back, and Delilah’s face blurred and didn’t cross his drunken mind.



Months passed as if nothing had happened, and Delilah lived in ignorance. And Elliot lived in guilt. He drew away from Delilah and became distant. So Delilah clung to him more, not wanting to loose him.

Elliot eventually broke it off after picking Delilah up from work and parking his red Honda in front of her house.

“I don’t need a relationship holding me back from my goals right now.”
“I’m not in a place in my life where I need a long-term girlfriend.”
“Its not you, its me.”

bullshit, bullshit, bullshit

The night was leeched colorless by the moon and as Delilah got out of his car, and slammed the door behind her, her shadow was cast across her driveway from the one streetlamp behind her. The shadow stretched from the bottom of the asphalt, all the way to the top. Delilah’s shaking hands reached up and pushed her bangs out of her face as she walked towards her house’s door, her shadow shrinking with each step she took.

Delilah didn’t find out about the coward’s infidelity till weeks later. She found out from one of Elliot’s acquaintance who was at the party. It crushed Delilah, to say the least.

Wer bist du jetzt
Und wer waren Sie damals?
Ich dich geliebt, so
Yeah, ich liebte dich, so was


But Delilah was strong. Well she wasn’t that strong, but she was resilient; she was brave.
Her shattered image of love, had just began to heal itself. Sure, it was scarred, it was stripped down, bare. But, she had let Elliot break through her walls. See, Delilah always saw the best in everyone, believed everyone was born inherently good. This, and her unrealistic, fairy tale influenced image of true love cause her intense trust in Elliot’s intentions, while his heart was already pushing over the red routes of other’s road maps.

fingers tangled in my tangles
in my heart stings

like the surf envelops the shore
unties the knot

the elevator in the fire
melted wax dripping like desire

nature is full of teeth
and the stones write this silence

the furnace of your chest
the lullaby of your skin

i migrate toward the fog
the blackness is murderous

tied down time with a rope
threw out the wrinkled map

faces in a parade
a thin tangled poison

your fingerprints
metallic rains tracing

sweet honeysuckle and red wine
your eyes in mine


...

Delilah’s life was defined by many moments. Some were fleeting, some were prolonged; tortuous or pure bliss. These moments had lingered, enveloped in a sheathe of protective memory, that swirled in the effervescent brain until the excavation. Forever stuck in time, nothing ever moves. This excavation can be circuitous and harrowing. Or it can be a rapture of euphoria that transports a smile to a whole new elevation. Delilah Jane Cook was made from these moments. Her eyes held the pain, her arms the burden, her mouth the joy. They defined her. And they made her, her.

“When you get those rare moments of clarity, those flashes when the universe makes sense, you try desperately to hold on to them. They are the life boats for the darker times, when the vastness of it all, the incomprehensible nature of life is completely illusive.”
-From the movie One Week