where the fuck is the moon?

the moon was beautiful last night. i accidentally saw her, and all i could come up with was "wow, the moon is nice."

the moon is nice? what the hell is that? i was looking for her tonight, i couldn't find her. but i did find something else.

behind cloud and concrete
[15V06]

i miss having beautiful thoughts—
she’s taken them from me, my words, my cadence,
my brief encounters with brilliance

she’s robbed me by hiding herself
behind cloud and concrete

i miss her jaundiced face,
scarred and beautiful

compare that to two months ago:

fruit of the moon
[16III06]

the moon is an overripe fruit
waiting to be plucked
from the night sky

human hands cannot relieve
her heavy succulence

thus she overflows and
stains the clouds yellow

*sighs* i really miss my early morning thoughts. odd hours are conducive to writing for yourself and nobody else. so is an empty house. i was digging through my folders and i found this:

[11IX03]

How do I start? By saying: “there is no beginning, no end, there is only now, and here”. Words stumbleovereach other, wanting to break loose, unborn children impatient to see the world. I cannot tell them to wait, or else they will vanish and become aborted thoughts only because I could not think of a proper beginning.

I like sitting in front when riding a jeep. I wanted to sit up front today, so I waited. I can be stubborn—the patience and the will are innate. Today, I also had the time.

Several passed me by, they were never the right ones. They had no space for me up front, and that is where I wanted to be. At last one came, but someone got there first, though I had been waiting longer.

That was fine. I could wait some more.
Another came. I took my place and I was where I exactly wanted to be.

Why do you like sitting in front?
Not just in front, but by the window. My right side hanging out, my face turned towards the unobstructed view. Half-in, half-out. Not really anywhere, just sitting in-between, I become a liminal category.
I like the wind and the sensation of flying and the minute risk of falling because I am not holding onto anything.
I like the in-between-ness, the illusion of movement though I am still.

It’s like writing, isn’t it?
How do I mean?
Words give me the illusion of action. Of doing something though I am not.
My fingers hold a pen or move across the keyboard and give voice to all the things I know I can do but will not.

word
play
comes
be
fore
play

The house is empty.

Am I sober? Does it matter? These thoughts are all mine. Whether I am sober or not, mine.

The house is quiet and I can hear myself clearly, my self and not my voice. If I speak, my voice seems foreign, intrusive, apart from my thoughts.
Empty,
empty--

fickle Eros has played
in your heart’s vacant rooms

leaving arrows without targets
lying carelessly on the floor

Another one of my exercises in temperance. Keep them short, how about:

Eros rose sore.

Ha ha.
Riding up front in a jeep is the same as sitting in the back of a trike.

I have had an idea, but I do not know how to state it briefly, so I must run off at the mouth now and edit later.

Does the night envy the moon of her light, borrowed though it may be?
We are both children of the sun but the moon has shared her secrets with you.
You do not burn, you reflect. Your body is a mirror.

I seem to be fascinated by light these days.
Black and white.
What would your whiteness feel like on my darkness.
Probably the same way the night feels in the luminous presence of the full moon.

Unlike the moon, you do not wax nor wane, you are simply here or not.
In plain view or absent.
True.
But that is physical reality, the corporeal realm.

Emotions wax and wane, ebb and flow.
So you could be here, couldn’t you?

Enough of that.
Enough of words.
Why?

love, our lips
and tongues
shall deal
in a currency
other than kisses

words words words words words. I have more, and there will never be enough.

let me photograph you
nude--
naked,
skyclad.

but nude is different from naked
nude, you are without shame and beautiful

yes, beautiful
beauty goes by many names
and i think that yours is one of them

Quiet! Work on it another time.
You’re reading too much of D.H. Lawrence.

What does he say?

“Give me the democracy of touch, the resurrection of the body!”

“Ravished! How ravished one could be without even being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions.”

Yes, but he also says

“it’s no good It’s no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. You’ve got to stick to it all your life. Only at times, at times the gap will be filled in. At times! But you have to wait for the times. Accept your own aloneness and stick to it, all your life. And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come. But they’ve got to come. You can’t force them.”

Yes.
Are you sober now?
Were you drunk, to begin with?
There are no beginnings or endings,
remember? Only now.

yeah, those were the days i was reading d.h. lawrence. now i'm reading stuff like freakonomics and the tipping point.

good reads... but i miss beautiful thoughts, is all.