upload : 2006_10_04 2006_09_22 Rarely, there is the play of seasons here. But this time it's theatrical and tells the story of how I imagine us. It has been a while since last I've heard from you. The winds here are cool and reminiscent of autumn Or the end of summer in some specific northern place. The rains are dressed in hues that try hard to avoid complementing the sun but fail miserably at it and the only rainbows are the ones that cover the puddles of oil that simmer on the streets as people fly by, burning and not seeing. Their ambiguous beating stand in for leaving or for life, mirroring how it begins again, over and over like how my stomach turns and my nerves tingle every time I can't make you out, backlit against the setting sun. Your leavings leave me unsettled. But I like the feeling of not feeling at home in my skin Or imagined in the minds of the people I want to exist in. In non-specific ways we want. In such vague ways we need. And in so many ways we complicate. My organs are pending, limp and dripping. You remind me how needing is like digging a hole. The digger's work is understated and fearful But I've dug through to the other side And smell the freshness of a whole new misty blur. And there are no seasons in this other place. entries contact