8.15.2005
disclaimer #1:
i lost my journal at DTS, thus i misplaced several months of writing, realizations, and personal growth. thus the below is a snippet of the past few weeks, and that is all. if you find my journal, let me know. it was small, square, pink, and ugly.
disclaimer #2:
privacy is for lunatics, hermits, and those who are alive.
the dying keep no secrets, for they do not need them.
Sonnet for the Fickle Muse
unnamed poem and unfindable insight,
please hear me plead from my stark white
page and faulty, dented, dried-out pens.
come to me with mystic salve
and remove from me this parasite.
i search the night for sacred lore
as a sailor for some shrouded shore.
words are gulls against the horizons
of every thought i have.
so tell me just once more
why every time i speak,
my tongue falls out my beak--
and every time i love,
my mouth declines to move.
Swinging on Mood Swings
2/25/2005 (Cinemas)
Time passed, and again his thoughts approached her, timidly as ever. He remembered sitting before her. Close to her, with a ribbon of hair accross her face as she smiled and her cheeks glowed and her eyes glistened. He remembered later the cool sift of her fingertips as they swept across the palm of his hand. They were like doves grazing the roof of a cave as they passed through it. But how did they mean anything at all? He wanted to see her again. He wanted to be close to her. Leaning in and feeling something like a dam break in his chest whenever she smiled. And yet he wondered why. He was always wondering why. Was it possible to create a ghost of feelings from the person he wanted to love? He told himself that feelings could not be trusted, and that feelings are not for real. What he needed was truth. Something solid that would never change. Still, though, all the feelings he had--for her, for all of his closest friends, for the wise and calm-voiced priest, for his unripened younger brother-- they were the reason he wanted to stay alive. The facts and truths and solid things in books and prayers provided an explanation for his bloodflow and a cause for his belief. But his feelings, oh like air that gives life to a body with none--they gave him the motivation to eat or bathe or to continue living. Though unstable and untrustworthy and often gloom-filled, they were also the source of his deepest inspirations. His feelings were meant to flow through him so fiercely. They connected him to other people just as rivers that pass from city to city, ancient, necessary, and life-giving. They were the blood that connected the organs and cells of truth and fear into a body of purpose and action. Every person, location, institution, and situation, was bound up with this thread of emotional existence, forming seams in a splended garment of hope. He took this bright cloth, freshly stitched, and fell asleep, thinking once more of her. Of the way her eyelids passed across her eyes when she blinked. They were like veils, like white clouds drifting across a full moon.
8/6/2005 (Carnivals)
assure forever in an instant,
and in an instant turn and question forever.
clutch at someone’s body as if
you could somehow take hold of their soul.
existence is emotional.
it is pure emotion.
yet there is no objectivity in emotion,
no distance or perspective to see by.
there is only the rise and fall, rise and fall,
and a cork with which to stay afloat.
existence is emotional.
it is pure emotion.
purple and green are all i see.
the violet wine that floods the cork
and the olive grass that grows
across my grave.
existence is emotional.
it is pure emotion.
(The Human Condition Can Be Summed Up In Two Words:) Let Go
“explain to me the universe,”
she said, with lemonade in her hand,
and a hurt in her eyes like the Marianas Strait,
“and why,” she followed, “goodness and rightness
are just scattered, flowing blemishes
on the face of all this evil.”
i searched the linoleum tile
as meteors completed their cycles.
i examined the backs of my eyelids
while the matter that composed them decayed.
i offered a plea that she thought was meant for her:
“Father, forgive me, i don’t know what i’m doing.”
it’s always cold on Sunday morning,
for the thoughts and dreams of Saturday night
are a cold, sharp and bitter cream.
if we are just fragments of genetic code,
or spatterings of chemical equations,
then why is it that we reach
for every minute, breath, and word
as if the next may never come?
Pleading in a Dark Campground
Father, strain this love i claim.
remove the egos, lusts, and stains.
repair the many wrongs that Thou dost find
in days and nights and mouths and minds.
Father, whom i should love most sweet,
i pray for her i often love too sweet.
restore the every instace we have sparred
and close the very trust we may have scarred.
Oh, I desire to be all enthralled with Thee,
but there is one that i may touch and see.
her steps a flight, her words a nest
that hold my wings and bid me rest.
i ask that Thou wouldst take us tender doves
and teach us both to live and die in love--
for Thee forever always first and last,
for each other if Thy will be passed.
Sonnet of Salt
this pillar of salt
(my flesh, my heart, my face)
stands in place.
this crime is my fault,
my soul cries this halt,
and my body knows this sin.
(“arise my child, and enter in.”)
my spirit dries to cobalt
at the arrival and awareness of my iniquities.
how statues must break to fall to their knees.
i am the salt of the earth,
gaining flavor from my Giver.
and with this salt will flow rebirth,
for i am no pillar, but a river.
Cellular Phone
15 minutes of silence.
47 seconds of total nothing.
i never wanted such things
to lie between us.
i always dreamt of tenderness,
of joy, of completion.
never this blazing fire of stillness
that blisters the flesh
of my stomach.
i strained my ears
to hear your breathing
(such vital signs as paramedics
scramble to detect),
but discerned only static and dead air.
i hope hard that this
awkward, slaughtering silence
is not a symptom of you
slowly dying to me.
i lost my journal at DTS, thus i misplaced several months of writing, realizations, and personal growth. thus the below is a snippet of the past few weeks, and that is all. if you find my journal, let me know. it was small, square, pink, and ugly.
disclaimer #2:
privacy is for lunatics, hermits, and those who are alive.
the dying keep no secrets, for they do not need them.
Sonnet for the Fickle Muse
unnamed poem and unfindable insight,
please hear me plead from my stark white
page and faulty, dented, dried-out pens.
come to me with mystic salve
and remove from me this parasite.
i search the night for sacred lore
as a sailor for some shrouded shore.
words are gulls against the horizons
of every thought i have.
so tell me just once more
why every time i speak,
my tongue falls out my beak--
and every time i love,
my mouth declines to move.
Swinging on Mood Swings
2/25/2005 (Cinemas)
Time passed, and again his thoughts approached her, timidly as ever. He remembered sitting before her. Close to her, with a ribbon of hair accross her face as she smiled and her cheeks glowed and her eyes glistened. He remembered later the cool sift of her fingertips as they swept across the palm of his hand. They were like doves grazing the roof of a cave as they passed through it. But how did they mean anything at all? He wanted to see her again. He wanted to be close to her. Leaning in and feeling something like a dam break in his chest whenever she smiled. And yet he wondered why. He was always wondering why. Was it possible to create a ghost of feelings from the person he wanted to love? He told himself that feelings could not be trusted, and that feelings are not for real. What he needed was truth. Something solid that would never change. Still, though, all the feelings he had--for her, for all of his closest friends, for the wise and calm-voiced priest, for his unripened younger brother-- they were the reason he wanted to stay alive. The facts and truths and solid things in books and prayers provided an explanation for his bloodflow and a cause for his belief. But his feelings, oh like air that gives life to a body with none--they gave him the motivation to eat or bathe or to continue living. Though unstable and untrustworthy and often gloom-filled, they were also the source of his deepest inspirations. His feelings were meant to flow through him so fiercely. They connected him to other people just as rivers that pass from city to city, ancient, necessary, and life-giving. They were the blood that connected the organs and cells of truth and fear into a body of purpose and action. Every person, location, institution, and situation, was bound up with this thread of emotional existence, forming seams in a splended garment of hope. He took this bright cloth, freshly stitched, and fell asleep, thinking once more of her. Of the way her eyelids passed across her eyes when she blinked. They were like veils, like white clouds drifting across a full moon.
8/6/2005 (Carnivals)
assure forever in an instant,
and in an instant turn and question forever.
clutch at someone’s body as if
you could somehow take hold of their soul.
existence is emotional.
it is pure emotion.
yet there is no objectivity in emotion,
no distance or perspective to see by.
there is only the rise and fall, rise and fall,
and a cork with which to stay afloat.
existence is emotional.
it is pure emotion.
purple and green are all i see.
the violet wine that floods the cork
and the olive grass that grows
across my grave.
existence is emotional.
it is pure emotion.
(The Human Condition Can Be Summed Up In Two Words:) Let Go
“explain to me the universe,”
she said, with lemonade in her hand,
and a hurt in her eyes like the Marianas Strait,
“and why,” she followed, “goodness and rightness
are just scattered, flowing blemishes
on the face of all this evil.”
i searched the linoleum tile
as meteors completed their cycles.
i examined the backs of my eyelids
while the matter that composed them decayed.
i offered a plea that she thought was meant for her:
“Father, forgive me, i don’t know what i’m doing.”
it’s always cold on Sunday morning,
for the thoughts and dreams of Saturday night
are a cold, sharp and bitter cream.
if we are just fragments of genetic code,
or spatterings of chemical equations,
then why is it that we reach
for every minute, breath, and word
as if the next may never come?
Pleading in a Dark Campground
Father, strain this love i claim.
remove the egos, lusts, and stains.
repair the many wrongs that Thou dost find
in days and nights and mouths and minds.
Father, whom i should love most sweet,
i pray for her i often love too sweet.
restore the every instace we have sparred
and close the very trust we may have scarred.
Oh, I desire to be all enthralled with Thee,
but there is one that i may touch and see.
her steps a flight, her words a nest
that hold my wings and bid me rest.
i ask that Thou wouldst take us tender doves
and teach us both to live and die in love--
for Thee forever always first and last,
for each other if Thy will be passed.
Sonnet of Salt
this pillar of salt
(my flesh, my heart, my face)
stands in place.
this crime is my fault,
my soul cries this halt,
and my body knows this sin.
(“arise my child, and enter in.”)
my spirit dries to cobalt
at the arrival and awareness of my iniquities.
how statues must break to fall to their knees.
i am the salt of the earth,
gaining flavor from my Giver.
and with this salt will flow rebirth,
for i am no pillar, but a river.
Cellular Phone
15 minutes of silence.
47 seconds of total nothing.
i never wanted such things
to lie between us.
i always dreamt of tenderness,
of joy, of completion.
never this blazing fire of stillness
that blisters the flesh
of my stomach.
i strained my ears
to hear your breathing
(such vital signs as paramedics
scramble to detect),
but discerned only static and dead air.
i hope hard that this
awkward, slaughtering silence
is not a symptom of you
slowly dying to me.
| # posted by Ryan Weberling @ 3:16 AM 
