Figments (reflection on the imagined future created in the past, brushed off by the actual present)

last year, I glanced her with tucked shirt, saluting, sauntering, cacophony sounds

yesterday, unbeknownst to
figments of the past
blurry mem’ry cold,
she lay
wound around me
lacing with me

first bright hazy hazy sighting
greeting, turning away,
startled, swallowing
the thought of her, down my throat

coming up now,
to the present, to the air
arms round ridges, body senses
written universe
sculpture scene
our lines, our body twined,
synesthetic entanglements
then forgotten
soothing, hair stirring passion
and gone

not each other
outside each other
without each other,
pressed to–
begging sighing warmth, folding blankets of –each other,
rising, pressing
clock tick heart,
minutes turning over

structures non-existent ’til I met her, that existed nonetheless

hands on handles, handles turned,
before they came to be,
before my knowing
with I, to need
to give them purpose

now here, now aching, now
witness to her vibrancy
brushing silt sand skin, my foil
colour definition
window eye frame
raveling, drawing me

aligning, drinking
drunk now

once realities
undone by reality
red wash thick paint
o’er clever made up fantasy
weaving unwoven diluted refigured

cloud choking, airless heights
blinking unreality, impossible, unfathomable
shrinking views, the breath of your name
mystic marrow madness

cacophony sounds



What I most simply want in a relationship is a friend.  I see it on a hierarchy of needs, a spectrum of social interaction, where connective friendship precedes intimacy, and the feeling of intimacy is more important than physicality.  I won’t feel fulfilled without people to talk, connect, spent easy time with in my life, before I’m concerned with romance, or even just touch.

Perhaps it is because there have been limits to my social contact, the relationships I do have are incredibly valuable.  What I’m afraid of is apathy.  Lack of feeling, of investment, of real connection.  Related to this, I don’t like the idea of dating; it seems to me like an experiment rather than [the basis of] a relationship.  Dating is drowned in expectation, but there aren’t necessarily connections between the two people, and it’s in such a setting that they don’t have to be part of each other’s lives at all.  I don’t want that.  I realize that this seems controlled, maybe too bound up, but physical or sexual connection isn’t important unless it has an emotional basis.  The good part is the feelings; everything else just represents those feelings, and brings them to life.  Romantic relationships have the same meaning as friendships, it’s just organized and manifests in a different way.

I’m aware that instant attraction can happen, can cloud every interaction when relating to the person, can catch you off guard in the middle of a conversation, can make it so that when you’re across from each other, you don’t know how to both look at them and talk to them because you forget your words and then you’re thinking of how not to make it awkward – meanwhile you think they would make a good friend if they weren’t so… like that.  Admittedly, she’s like that.  Admittedly, it’s confusing.  But to go back to the original point, what I find most pleasing about her is how we talk when we don’t talk about us.  We aren’t friends, right now, but it’s that possibility I… depend on.


met him on the backdrop to
seventh hell
wrung out
dripping musk
too cold, cold
small where boneflesh left him
he was
crawling out of body
shrinking wrinkled within
oyster shell cage
he was
naked, cloying
phenomenal urges
basking, he was
folded in crisp creases
left behind
fevernight elixir
he was
illucid dreaming
too cold, cold
sputter light white mind
he was
bruised senses
numbed down, numbed down
blackout desire

so no
I don’t regret


Pink-Yellow-Neongreen-White-Turquoise Abstract Painting (4)

On Monday night, dead night, Lydia defriended me.  On Thursday, I thought, and thought and thought about her.  As I walked home, I filled with a choking emptiness.  Every Thursday between 9 pm and 1 am, I’ll have to get over her again.  Something was there, defined as time for her and I together, and even in the short month it had been that way, it made a mark, like a painting on a wall that leaves eerie blankness when it’s taken down.  I realized I felt lonely, lonely for a specific occurrence, for a substance all her own.  And then I realized that I didn’t want her there – if she didn’t want to be there with me, I didn’t want to have her.  It – she – wouldn’t mean anything.  And then she called me, and said she might have been wrong about needing a break from me, and asked if she could come over.  And then I said yes. 

From Tuesday until today, I didn’t write.  That time was weightless, hollow.  When it was the present, happening live, it wasn’t (couldn’t have been) waiting – but now that there has been a shift, the flesh of this week seems outside of reality’s continuum, taking place in some other space in anticipation of the true timeline jumping in and continuing.  

How odd it is, to describe and qualify events as though they didn’t happen to you, didn’t hurt you and give you strange senses, made no mark on you.  There is evidence of how real it was, steps taken and processes to sort it out.  Cursive notes with half-hearted gravitas; weighted text messages-  

It’s the loss of opportunity rather than the loss of Lydia that grates… to know someone, to see and understand her life and her world, to broaden my own. To have a meaningful friendship is an opportunity in itself;


Attraction is a cool thing. It tells you nothing about a person, it means nothing at all. But it is a gateway, the maker of curiosity;

and letters, where letters meant for her are far off and disconnected and not hers to hold- 

they all want to say it’s strange and you’re – wrong, but maybe it’s just incomprehensible, a mechanism in your soul’s body that clicks-clicks-clicks, forgetting it should churn, if it even had a way how. 

if I start writing now, I may never stop; thoughts continue on, and where writing is concerned, sleep and sustenance and communication, where it is not fodder for wordspill, are aimless, get in the way.

when I dreamed of you, you were a feeling, a pink-yellow-neongreen-white-turquoise abstract painting, you drifted around me, I know your voice, you were there.

I wish I had been someone who… had less weight in my own soul, less to hold against the sky, less words, someone who could say “the world is a beautiful thing”, who could say “fuck you”, who could write “goddamn your face though” and be like “my stupid friend who wasn’t my stupid friend stopped being my stupid friend” and regret it all later and feel immature – but I’m not…

I’m trying to find something that says it isn’t okay and you can’t continue this way, but civility is accession and ignoring you is stubborn and watching you is desperate and wow, you’ve mapped your whole world in such a way that anyone who disagrees with your methods is wrong…

It happened, and it now stirs in a blind moment, feeling around for purchase. Today, it sounds like this-

I’m so happy right now.  It’s interesting, taking the same thoughts and feelings and currency in my mind of one person, and looking at how very different they are depending on what I have with and who I am to that person.  A simple switch – it took two days to get over her, but the Thursday feeling of needing her there, simply to do nothing with me – it was still there. Having her encroaching on the cloud of my mind was hurtful, poisonous, when there was nothing of her to look forward to.  Now I’m thinking of her; earlier today she was thinking of me.  The thought brings a smile, is noticed, and floats away.  I can live easy knowing that I’ll be spending time with her again soon.  It’s strange, that feeling; to be alright alone because you aren’t alone.  It wraps around, subconsciously stilling worry, quietly breathing and telling me nothing is wrong.


Comment today for today goes quickly

I’m drenched with a failing of resolve, realizing that what is creeping into my life now is no longer fun and no longer has the aura of simplicity.  Lydia runs parallel to my moods, it seems, in that when it was so lively and uninhibited with her, my life too had a charm and a meaningless simplicity.  While now, again, reason has come back to me.  Lydia and I made it to almost morning together, but we did so in calmness, based in a sense of reality that begins to question and give meaning to what goes on.  In my larger world, this means I’m beginning to look at the surroundings and experiences in my life, and my place in the world’s connective web.  What I am creating, becoming, moving towards and away from.  

I wonder who I am against the spirit of the universe; where Loki has gone, if there is a beating hollow of my inattention; what my soul looks like; what I really am.  In flagrante delicto.  Caught in the act of living, moving ahead, far behind, and with this exact shape, bound – by laws and paradigms – exactly like this.


And then I must write.  Writing is something that I am always doing, but more often aiming towards.  Something that I have to sort out constantly, inside my head, externally on my paper.  I don’t know, quite yet, what it does to me, or what I do to it.  Perhaps I haven’t looked; perhaps, emphatically, I need to.  

I appreciate intelligent critique, perhaps even more than positive comments, because they give me something to grow into.  The negative, a strong one, is that I often don’t know how to grow.  To continue.  I thrive on beginnings, beginnings alone.  Perhaps I shall try to make the middles into new beginnings, and the beginnings into central lines.  


In this new world touching my mind, there is a breathing solemnity. There is a loosening of energy and the fear of incapability. There is threatening, freezing, wide-eyed helpless pouting insecurity. The evermore knowledge and fear of my own my deathless worldly incompitence. Every time I reach into the social, adult, living world, I draw back – because every time I reach, I fumble, I do things that seem to take extreme effort to mess up so substantially on… I don’t understand the realm of common sense.




So many of the stories I’ve wanted to write have been about strange relationships, ones that didn’t develop in a traditional manner or were outside of normal society virtually in their entirety. People who, individually, were absent from the recognized world. Stalkers, incest, teacher/student friendship, a bedridden spy. A Greek god enraptured by a human, a victim calling back to their victimizer, a model fatally physically flawed, a child waiting for his mother’s touch, changelings, clones, the lost and unbinary.

I sought, and sought to write the “other”, uninhibited by their otherness. I don’t write about the strange; I don’t see those whom I write about as strange, as minority. I see them as people whose imagined lives and loves interest me, who can mentor me from the inside of my mind. They are the kind of people whom I think of as human, inhabiting the world. They are what makes sense to me, what kind of people seem to exist. By that, I don’t mean their actions, necessarily, but the truths in their hearts, their motivations, the precise way they feel about other humans and about their own humanity. The things that they doubt and are certain of. One thing they may all have in common is that they trust who they are, and they trust that what they feel is real, and they trust that what is real is what should be acted on. And so, it follows through.

I think it’s both in attempting to create “weird” people and in attempting to create “normal” people that I lose myself, becoming stranded from my interest and flow and love of writing. I’ve just seen: what I love about writing is making a world I want, one that gels with me. The world I want is filled with thinking, feeling, insightful, introspectively expressive people. That notion, and the ability to make it reality – that may be all I need. It may be all my writing is. It may be all I have.


because around you
I don’t care for anything
         but you
you matter not in distinguishing
the trickling from moments gone
what you know is my own
what you don’t is mine alone
shifting phrases from my pores
become me
         spin from mental fibres of you
you are there, enough of me to be me
enough my own to be with me
in kind, to own me
you are part of the world in which I walk
I’m not afraid of your sensing of my senses
you become a prayer
I commit accidents and they breathe of you
my coincidences seem spun out for you
I read of you in hollow books
you are alive where no life has been
the world peels
         as though away from you
as though you are its sediment
founded in the atoms of a future
where you have decomposed,
and release into the world
your weight
         in the present


Sociology – Trans/National

This is from a slam poetry event, written and recited by an Indian transgender male.  I appreciate this poem because of its link to transgender identity, which is my own identity – but each time I watch it or show it someone, I start thinking about the speaker’s cultural identity, and a lot can be said from that sociological context.

On a micro level, there is the relationship Janani has with his mother and grandmother.  We see his mother’s fear placed on her child, a fear that has been influenced by what she knows of men, of the sexism and racism that she has been subject to.  Janani sees certain kinds of masculine expression destructive, and this shapes how he interacts with other transmen in his community, and how he chooses to express his own identity.  He also has a strong link to his Indian heritage through his grandmother, and we can see that the values of culture and community are stronger than her feelings towards his gender identity.

On  macro level, this poet references patriarchy and the weight it has even within the trans community, where he has seen transitioning men take on the learned behaviours of treating women as lesser even though they themselves have been aware of that treatment.  He talks of understanding this societal norm and not falling into the role of man that is conditioned in American society.  He talks of people “own[ing] their position as white men”, being aware of the privilege they have and not abusing it, and of how “masculinity takes up too much space” in his body because of these social facts and forces.  He also weaves in the gender roles of Indian culture, where playing the drums has a significance to gender, with positive implications.

Globally, Janani speaks of the Indian perspective on the US and Western society, and of colonization.  Speaking at Stanford, an American university, he brings the perspective of someone for whom the “white man” is not something to aspire to, or be proud of.  We see the fear and mistrust of an entire society because of the relationship between countries and across the world throughout history.  He also says his testosterone comes from Israel, and so his identity and its representation in his body depend on globalization and world trade.

Overall, this poem gives a perspective on a single person, whose life is influenced from many angles and who is made of fragments throughout the world.