Vadim's Birthday

Thought-provoking moments, and
dreams shared in between,
scatter the air, hovering motionlessly above.

Having spent long seasons apart-
and too few moments since-
your shadow stands within this cave.

The walls are thick with seasonless days.
Communication becomes my past.
I surrender myself to books written by
better men, and music sung by fathers of all.
Days pass without notice, until the
shadows become people, and the sun calls them down.
And his message realizes its way into me,
into the cave that has kept me safe,
speaking softly about out there.

The seasons push air into the depth of my lungs;
and, I am here again, and you are real.

The raw power of life beats quickly in my chest;
and I know that this friendship is love,
no matter the short years that stare
at pictures in the distance.

California on my mind

an endless moment

it's 3am
the clock is blinking 4:47

the room is not empty
there is noone around

flipping through pages
searching for an answer

looking for inspiration
sniffling at love

there's a huge hole
black and growing larger

endlessly gaping
you're not here to fill it

i talk aloud
and feel more empty than before

10/05/03

Babble, babble, what?

Clarity unwelcome when I've
only duped myself; the days
can change in any motion,
but the seasons remain intact.

The trees will grow stronger,
despite the number of rings or
leaves-- it’s the inevitability
amongst the forest land.
The rivers will continue to pull,
water from point to point, slamming
against the rocks and life whom,
unknowingly, block the route.
The need for life to resume, heeding
through the roughage, is visible
and constant.

In some worlds, days
don't stand still, but here-
we stand or move on our
own accord.

I want to be a writer.

I've been itching to write again, but the more I read the more I think I don't have anything to say. There's been so many things already said by writers who are much more elequont than me. My writing style is not unique and I do not have a voice of my own.

I've sat down with a blank screen and a blank piece of paper a few times now: each time I've just stared. It's amazing how small and insignificant I feel everytime I get an urge to just write. I feel like everything inside is stuck and there is no way to get it out on paper.

What's weird is that every time I'm in a writing phase, it has something to do with love or pain. When I'm not there I hear Rilke telling me to stay away from the subject of love. I wonder why I don't hear him when I'm in that stage. Perhaps because it's my vice, my addiction. It's been awhile though. The last time I was able to write more than one poem in a sitting was more than two years ago. I used to write because I had to: there was no way around it. I was blogging and poeming everyday. Those were not particularly good times.

And, so, when I say that I want to start writing again, I scare myself. I don't want to write because I'm depressed, and I don't want to be depressed to write. I've been in both places, and I strongly believe that real work is beyond that stuff. The real work comes many years later, after the pain, and it isn't because you have a wound, but maybe because you have a scar, or even a memory. And, in the end, the work shouldn't really be about the memory. The work really should just use those things to say substantial things, ever-lasting things.

I guess I'm not there yet because I still don't know what I want to say. I just know that I need to say something real. I want to be moved when I write it and I want the reader to be moved to read it. I want to grow up, but I'm better off letting it happen to me.

I'm sure that you feel the same way. Thanks for the ear.