tomorrow, tomorrow...

and if tomorrow, dawn
comes without a sunrise-
without reds
without dew
without hope;
if it comes with clouds
with fog
with frost
still the world will wake up
and stretch their hands
towards the saddened sky.

and if tomorrow, the sea
rages without end-
batters my little boat,
and breaks it's wooden ribs
on the rocks
and shreds the canvas sail
with wind,
I will mend it all by evening
and begin again in the morning.

and if tomorrow,
I wake up hollow-
the sea will rage, without end
and the sun will rise, without hope
and I will know
that you have gone.

march 1st, 2008

I wrote this a year and nine days ago...

He smelled like cigarettes. Not strongly, but faintly, almost like an air of cologne rather than a haze of smoke. I like him this way. Green button down shirts with the sleeves rolled halfway up, contacts instead of glasses, and strong, sure arms. The sky seemed like midnight at only half past eight, so we sat on rusty trailers and told bad jokes. His hands found my shoulders, or my sides, or whereever they liked, and rested or rubbed accordingly. None of this was sensual so much as all of it was sacred. The entire evening a "moment" as he called it, breathing in lungfuls of air and laying on his back.

"You even have a pretty heartbeat" he says, I ruffle his hair and rub my face in it. He wraps me up in both arms and lays his face on mine, gently, thoughtfully, and I feel the few rough patches on his cheek. I giggle, and he smiles. We're both quiet for a few breaths, and then he softly kisses my cheek.

"sometimes you just know 'this is a moment' and so you have to stop, and remember all the details, so that when you think of it again it's there, clearly."

I think I might be in love..

with this dress.

I wrote this about two years ago...



Sun- don’t set! I beg of you-
grant me still the light of day.
Sun- beam ‘cross the barren blue-
the shore still so far away.

Away- across the somber sea,
where no wave does raise its peak.
Away- from peace, from purity,
of which no man does speak.

Speak- of what? Of life? Of love?
I see none of that out here.
Speak- simply of the clouds above,
that christen me with drear.

Drear- that clouds away the light,
and rips its rays undone.
Drear- that beckons forth the night,
As my heart sinks like the sun.

there is something important in the way paper fades. In the way words pale into a soft navy and photographs blush yellow. In how the subjects in the pictures begin to blend into one another, subtly.
there is something important in the way our attempts to capture moments dim and dissipate when we lay them out in the sunlight; how something new and soft and beautiful emerges out of a seemingly solidified second.

future goals and aspirations: a list.

- learn to knit
- travel to spain, germany, and back to belgium
- have a functioning vegetable garden
- have a flower garden
- have a significant number of poems published
- live/teach in a foreign (preferably european) country
- take philosophy classes in college, and know what I'm talking about
- learn to crochet
- have people live in my house/apartment/cardboard box on the side of the murch, and cook for them
- write a self study of...myself.
- not have ugly bulletin boards. this is very important. very, very important.
- learn to speak either spanish or german. maybe both.
- learn to make jam/jelly
- write a play, and see it performed (even if just locally)
- have a substantial column in the newspaper
- make/sell jewelry

a new haiku, for you

i hate mock trials-
and so would you, I promise
it will destroy you.