coming home near sunset...

sweet dollop half moon
lounging in
cotton candy sky

grateful
for the honeybee
that nearly lit on my hand
at lunch

for seeing through honeyed eyes
even with no explicit reason
for dulcet expressions.

maybe i can finally
touch my own center...

make beauty effortless
effortlessly see myself

effortlessly see...

sense
something
more...

freewrite (for jean-michel)

watching basquiat
draw his crown
wishing he'd smile more
but knowing why he doesn't.

he's always intrigued me:
his beauty
his youth
those impossibly perfect bloodlines...
black lands, rich ports
colonial perfumes, afrikan spirits
retro euro original man mashup.

drugs didn't really kill him
brilliant blackness in america did.

today's observation

with pigeon shit
splattered on concrete subway walls
posing as modern outsider art
who wouldn't miss
new york graffiti?

one

one dream
one on-time understanding
one full week together
one song
one ritual
one flu-ridden hand held

one thing to hold
one something to grasp
one special birthday gift

one piece of evidence
that you were ever even here at all...
...any one
would have made us seem real,
made the pain worthwhile.

without it
i'm just crying over spilled love
and unsprouted seeds...

void

worse than the broken heart
and the disappointment
is the emptiness.

the hole left in my heart,
deepened by frustrated repetition,
missed opportunities,
and acute aching; knowing
that it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

my heart despises this
as nature abhors a vacuum.

it begs,
pleads,
stands there staring.

i have nothing for it.

no matter how beautifully i manage it,
this emptiness is not the void of zen-ed out peace
nor the black primordial ooze of creation.

it is lovespace
that cannot fill itself.

it can only wait...

nanowrimo notes...

well, i gave it a shot.

it's likely the 50K goal will not happen, even with a four day weekend. but i am setting a personal goal of at least 25K by november 30th, which i think is well within reach.

instead of a novel, this may wind up getting cut up into several short stories that i can serialize here.

this exercise has shown me that i am probably not a novel writer.  at minimum, novel writing demands a level of focus that my life does not allow me at the moment.  

in general, i've learned that creative writing winds up sending me down some huge highway: i know where i'm going, but there are so many interesting places to see between here and there, i get distracted. as long as i'm dealing with stretches of road, i'm good.  but some of the exits are just too tempting. opening the flow for one set of ideas brings others along for the ride.  sometimes i never finish the original trip. 

this is how i wound up with three blogs.

sigh.

the longing

what follows is a freewrite/stream of consciousness.

i shared it with some close friends a little over a year ago and just re-discovered it. i am releasing it now, slightly edited, because it is still true; because these holes are still deep, aching and open.

because the release is the only thing that has ever truly soothed my soul.  because there are many days when honesty and transparency are all i have.

because my soul is not satisfied.