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Slide between my fingers because I have no strength to grip.
Like a silent heaving, the words lie unvoiced at my throat, unformed in my skull.
Pulling at memories like resin from concrete;
 recuerdos in bits like strings on a loom that I cannot work.
I sleep over paper tonight.

Lines that are too long

There is a beach
And I am not here.

The sand parts for the sinking of my feet.
With small strokes my toes dip and are gone.


My back is held by the softly ridging bark of a palm tree. And here I am. Pleasantly alone.

And I wish I was not here, not watching the glow of a screen, not waiting for the capping off of words in the image of a dot.

Scale it back

I speak in cliches.
Voice in attempts to reach.
But we always circle.
And she sits outside.

One hand rises

like the flow of warm breath
that understands a shiver
and settles over your stomach.

The question of endurance: for how long?

A something.

How do you pick one? A singular moment in which an awareness rises out of you or melts into you? Which moment do you pick? A moment in which you saw that the world was a little more dirty, a little less pleasant, a little bit unfriendly? Or do you pick a time and a place in which you saw that the world was just that much more precious, that much more worth it because of you, and them, and these flaws?

The slickness of memory washes away details of incidental occurrences until your life is one moment happening after another, with brief connections in between. I want to throw lines of safety between my memories so that I am able to walk back and maybe even walk forward; the evolution of me. That which floats over my head, where ever it is that I am going. I want to find it. There is an exploration within the self that brings awareness if you only step back and look at the connections of your memories. I want to reach up. Always. Pull myself up, grasp between my being and softly tumble between the stages of my self. And maybe then I will know who I am.

Exercise

Catharsis is just a term with a consensual meaning.
'Consensual' is not static.
And a punch to his face is not a static motion..
It is a motion that is followed by a shove, a kick to the solar plexus, and a crunch of fractured, bony somethings.

See, it wasn't him that I was angry at. I could barely make out his face as I thrashed him. It was purely emotion in a concrete form and he happened to encompass the receiving platform for that release. As I reached out, again, and again, I considered the words in which to accurately voice the reasoning behind my actions. And as the futility of understanding dawned on me, I stopped.

"What- the fuck- is wrongwithyou- asshole," he gasped as he held on to his stomach. I kicked him in the balls. Once.

"You wouldn't get it." Three more quick kicks and then I stood up and straightened my clothes.

Or the back of your head

A purple ball bounces. Down. Up. Down.
Falls into outstretched hands.
The push of wind that flows
around the ball: a vibrating motion.
The ball lands softly.
      I want to throw it at your face.