Happy Holidays, Americans

Have a lovely Thanksgiving!

Here's to the last holiday we can wish each other uniformly without fearing political correctness.

Until New Year's,

:)

Amoeba

blood, its traces proof
of desperate, bursting desire
to transpose thoughts exploded
into utterable phrases
fit to cross lips
live air

by even a heart whose finnicky
borders
shimmer across a baked horizon
melt quickly in order to float
evaporate across
borders

twitched veins pumping proof
of throats clogged with sounds
noises, really
living amoebas' lives
refusing language
and taking the form, instead
of bubbling, simmering

weight.
blood drips to fly
not of pain
injury
but of vitality
flying to paint the sky

the sky that finds all faces
not the same
but just the same,
mirrors each dimple, tear
with feverish precision

only one perfectionist the judge
judging slowly
by measurable standards
immeasurable error
and beauty,
no less
no less
than one in the same

United States of Anticipation

I've had a lot to think about over the past few days. My whole life to think about, really. Every aspect of my coming life hid around the corners of an 1800 mile road trip to New York City.

I don't have time to spell it out right now, but I only have...eight months until my life enters a new, inevitable chapter.

I don't know how I feel about that.

Silence

[romantic addiction: http://leloveimage.blogspot.com/]

Fear

[I found this in my journal from a little bit ago. Free material!]

lilted hopes fall from last week's roses,
--overcome by foolish necessity,
varnished with melted fantasy--
endlessly stripped by midnight's fear.

lingering are the echoes of inevitability
across phone lines, hallways, borders
--never quite geared for cake and china,
garnished with buttercream and lost replies,
upstaged by a decrepit gardener--
awaiting a flower's leap of faith.
glowing embers of compatibility
extinguish, making room for dawn.

I dare you

to listen to Beyonce's "Halo" without dancing or singing along.

If you did it just now, you exercised sheer will power. Don't lie.

Physics

If a girl speeds toward a heart
at a constant rate of thirty-seven tears per week,
like a train pulled toward its destination
using different units and time,
how far is she from herself
when she falls into love?
And if a boy speeds toward the mind
at a constant rate of forty-three grins per day,
like a yellow-faced balloon smirking at its toddler
citing different motives and results,
how far is he from love
when he finds himself happy?

Through which tunnels do the smartest crawl
On which clouds do the loveliest float
Near which cross did the holiest hang
Year after year after year
Cradling hopes and dreams and reality
the latter striking all else dead.

My hands belong to him, him, and Him
my heart to them
my hopes to him
my dreams to him
my reality to Him.
What do I have
but the speeding train?