It is here in these empty canals that the spirits dwell,
the wind a strange bedfellow.
The tired glass and pretty coins in windows
wait in a lonely, solemn peace.
Red, green, golden hues on land that once held birth.
In the fragile leaves of time and minds
there lies a thousand delicate symbols of a hand and tongue long forgotten.
Sparkling dust that is rough and warm
runs its hair and teeth over things that once were,
the crux of the great seas now vast and dry.
Grinning in the heat that throbs, there is no other life.
A pulse of solar profusion across this forlorn land
The baths of gods and fountains of art and science
still stand in a quiet, resolved calm.
Over the violet night, twin bodies keep vigil.
Streaking, flowering, blooming sky,
there is a thirst to know.
To know, to drink, to see of these
To touch this distant cusp of space and time
which blows its strange winds beside the hearths.

Dreaming through a screen,
Kiki with the yellow hat and black eyes.
Tú eres la manzana del ojo.
As he drums his fingers, they turn to ash.
Kiki with his blue eyes, red lips.
Mi hijo, mi muchachito bonito
Ven aquí, por favor
He just wants to look at you.
Don't be shy, Kiki-boy.
Te miro, like a dusty film at a hot,
scratching midnight movie house.
Sweat like salt, like bloodied lips.
Kiki with the violet eyes, Kiki by the screen
con las luces en sus dientes.
Skinny boy, crazy boy.
Spiraling boy down the thin metal stairs,
thin like his wrists.
Como Díos, pero más joven. 
Díos debe ser joven, y bonita.
Como Kiki.
Dark-haired, black eyes.
White print with no color.
Kiki, you're a name in a newspaper
no picture, no fotografía
pero voy a te recuerdo.
Cuando Kiki está muerto, 
all that shiny black hair of yours
is going outside en la calle.
Oye, Kiki.  Adieu.

It rained all through the departure.  The people on the dock fussed with umbrellas and coats, for they did not want to say goodbye, really.  It seems people often become strangers when saying goodbye.  There was a considerable turnout, rain and all.  Some came just to see the magnificent ships, and they were truly a breathtaking sight to behold.  They were very beautiful, albeit a touch cold.  The people had hoped for a clear day in which to birth the future and see the ships off, but the departure would proceed as scheduled all the same.  People waved in earnest, for all sent their hearts out to the voyagers.  The voyagers were to go to a new world, a strange and fantastic place which the people knew nothing about.  As launch time drew nearer, the people on the dock said their final goodbyes and anything else that they needed to say in order to be at peace lest anything happened to the voyagers.  The people prayed that no harm fall upon the ships as they were escorted off the launch dock.  When the last voyager had entered the ships and all was ready, a beautiful light appeared.  In horror and wonder the people stood transfixed.  The rain was forgotten as all watched the ships rise steadily into the air.  Higher and higher they rose, until even the sharpest of eyes could no longer discern the ships.  Very slowly, the silence was frayed away and the people came back to life.  Many left for home, seeking shelter from the rain, and there was nothing left to see.  A few others lingered at the launch dock, but eventually the rain and winds drove them reluctantly home.

A tree was planted the day of the departure.  By the time the voyagers returned, the sapling had grown into a grand sentry of a tree.  From betwixt its branches the children watching in rapture as the ships touched the earth once again.  They had all heard the tales of the departure, but the brilliant light that bathed the launch dock as the ship doors opened went far beyond their most exotic dreams.  It was in this light that the voyagers took their first breath of the quiet air, walking from their coruscating ships onto the landing dock like a realized future.

sweet dreams, dream train
train of thought.
ride it on to the next stop.

sweet bones, crushed bones
only bones.
walk them on to the next home.

move along
up stream, down river.
move it on to the maker.

living in a 
music box
looking out, watching out
spinning 'round in a 
gold 
dome
lock up, lay down.
sweet dreams
for tomorrow.
in a 
precious box, a soft box
living in a sweet
sweet world
of the satin and the crank that makes it
spin, spin, spin to a stop.
shut the lid and
sweet dreams.
soft to the touch,
living in a music box
spin, spin for tomorrow.

I answer this only because I have been reading Anne Rice for the past month or so.  The Vampire Lestat sits beside me as I type this.  While I don't think I'd fancy joining the legions of bloodsuckers for all eternity, I would fancy giving Lestat a kiss because he's a fabulously charming vampire.  I'd give Louis a hug, because it seems he's always in the mood that needs a hug.  And also, I'd wave at Claudia from afar because I fear she'd eat me.  I dunno if I'll get Queen of the Damned immediately after I finish The Vampire Lestat or give the series a rest (it's all school's fault, you know, but I've heard Lestat ends on a cliffhanger... I may have no choice).  Either way I felt this writer's block was a sign to publicly let it be known that I would indeed send Lestat a valentine. 

There is a boy who lives inside a box
filled with pictures.
All the pictures are old
and soft
and remind him of better times.
He swims
inside that picture box,
sleeping, drifting, hiding.
When the people glance to the box,
he offers them a picture
but never
shows his face.
There is a hole in his box,
and sometimes the dawn comes through,
but he continues to sit in shadows and
reminisce.
One day, a boy made of light
was flying near the box.
He was curious, this boy made of light,
and he sat on top of the box, wondering what could be inside.
Through the hole, he heard the boy talking to his pictures
and stretched and reached so he could slide his luminescent being
into the box, as well.
The boy hugged his pictures and shrank, for he was afraid.
The other boy offered out his glowing soul
and said
to not
be frightened.
With wide eyes, the boy offered a picture, for that was all he knew.
With gentle breath, the boy of light illuminated the picture
and together they traced the lines as the boy in the box
told the boy of light all about
all of his favorite pictures.
The boy made of light was a good listener, and they were together all morning,
through the afternoon, and into the first hours of dusk.
As the light coming through the hole became fainter,
the light child explained that he had to leave, for outside the box
his kin was moving on.
The boy with the pictures nodded, and touched his tiny hand to a face made
of pure light.
And then, the boy made of light climbed through the hole and west, into the setting sun
who was his mother.
It was very quiet, and only then
did the boy who had lived surrounded by pictures crawl out of his box
to watch the moon rise.

About a year ago, I thought the world was ending
and I had never been
so thrilled.
I never left the books I read lying around.
I clutched them to my chest and carried them
with me always.
At any moment, the smoke could have become too thick, too close--
but we were always
just out of reach.
We were on the map, on the news,
and under the red skies we thrived.
The city and the smoke
were the only things on my mind.
Everything else
was distant.
Words and words and words and 
windows.  Trying to find a cool spot
under the sun, so I might turn the pages.
I don't think I've ever walked so much
in my entire life.
We liked to watch the boats go out.
As long as I was home before it was too dark,
I could walk into the sun
and it would swallow me, showing me the sidewalk.
Rain
and funny little birds,
always smiling, touching, running away.

Perhaps this year,
the world will end again.

Before proceeding to the main attraction, the people were requested to remove their shoes and watches.
They were to be placed in safety boxes until a later time.
While on the tour, the cacophonous machines that lined the path would have been deafening,
but luckily ear protection was made available, courtesy of generous sponsors.
The automated guide spoke softly and directly into the ear of each person.
The voice was smooth and soothing, and they were not afraid.
With bright eyes and open hearts they proceeded down the path.
Before each of them was a large television screen, showing a variety of clips.
At first, the clips were specially matched to suit the interests of the viewer, but as the tour progressed, 
the clips became increasingly similar.  At the half way point, everyone was watching the same footage.
They did not notice, they did not mind.
While the people  were busy watching, the machines were busy outfitting each individual with his or her very own
action suit.  The suits, like the television programs, were much the same.  Hair was clipped and eyes were fixed,
posture was corrected with the touch of a metal arm, and all of the teeth were straightened and whitened to perfection.
The television screens were state of the art, and the viewers had never seen a clearer picture
nor a more engrossing show.
At the end of the tour, a small serial number was painlessly and neatly printed at the napes of their necks.
The television program ended, and they all applauded.  As they made their way off the path and into the new world,
they smiled, strangely and effortlessly fulfilled.
They did not think to return for their shoes and watches.

It makes me glad that there is a song written about her.
She deserves to be the subject of a song, I think.
It's a very beautiful song, too.
Maybe we all deserve lines in songs.
Maybe we've already chosen them.
If I can wrap my imagination around it, make it mine--
Only if you can begin to grok it, to love it as I do,
Only if you respect it will I allow you a glimpse
Into the things I love.
Some things are too precious to be advertised.
Then again, the things held most dear can be advertisements, I suppose.
It all depends on the point of view.
Don't forget your hair.  It's very important for a lady.
And to think how much people need words.
Words are power, you know.
I swear on the water that this is true.
Sometimes all it takes is an utterance
To make one's head spin.
Twelve seconds to go and my nirvana is violently wrenched from my ears.
Don't ruin this for me, not now.
I look at your face and perhaps for the first time fully realize how beautiful it is.
I want to show you, but only because I think you'd appreciate it.
Perhaps someday.
Scissors and paper, glue and pen;
My mother once told me that when I decorate cards I must be in a good mood,
because otherwise my negative energy would stay in the card and taint it.
Now I always make sure I do cards when I'm calm and at one.
It makes sense, you know.  Energy travels, and you can put your finger on it.
One day I'll write you a proper story.

There are an awful lot of eras I would like to live in.  I can't think of them all, but I would most definitely like to experience all the epic music scene of the 60's and 70's.  I also think it would be interesting to be the age I am now in the year I was born.  I suppose what I really want to do is visit all the decades in the 20th century (the roaring twenties, the nifty fifties, etc.).  The Victorian age would be a ball to see, too.  It really is fascinating how humans have changed over the ages.

I volunteer my time at the library.  Why?  I love libraries.  They're beautiful, peaceful places filled with books and I'm happy to help.  *^_^*

This question is impossible to answer.

She wonders what it would feel like
to stand naked in the rain.
She fancies she should try it once,
just herself, thin and plain.

She would free her dampened hair
so it may trail down her back,
and entertain the icy drops
until it's cold and slack.

To tilt her head back to the sky
and let the water hit her face.
If arms spread wide should be too bold,
she would settle on light embrace.

Mist and dew to gather
on her skin and on her core,
to let herself be standing
and hide her face no more.

And when the rain has ceased to fall
she will be left as she was began.
Cleansed and soft and full of life,
son of woman, daughter of man.

She wonders what it would feel like
to stand naked in the rain.

It's an absolute Tower of Babel in the park,
and all the people come to see the trees.
I always forget what euphoria bicycles are
until I'm on one again.

I love feeling inspired, feeling full.
Feeling genuinely joyful.
I had a dream where I hugged you in a city turned paradise
and we were both so whole.

Of all the lovely things to see on television,
I manage to miss them all.
I secretly hope something grand will happen
so I can pretend we're all gathered around a radio.

Is it odd to love people so far away?
I don't think so.  In fact,
I think a picture book in my room
will fit in nicely with the people of now.

There are an awful lot of things.
Every cause seems so noble,
but the next is always more worthy.
I want to sit down and touch them all.

I have sources cheerily piled up in my pocket,
so let the summer come.  Maybe sitting
in a waiting room, surrounded by glasses,
is the best thing, after all.

I've got a lousy face, but it's not half-bad
when I'm home with nowhere to go.
Perhaps photographs are always best.
You've got me exactly right, and I love it.

If I stay very, very still
and retreat inside myself
will I be able to go out of my body?
Water is holy, holy, holy.

Dad, it makes me smile when you tell me
that Martians have the best sex.
Although it was kissing in particular,
I can't wait to meet them.

I like to watch, to use my eyes. Eyes, in addition to hands, are the most beautiful parts of the human body. At least, that's what I believe. When I get a place of my own I wish to cover the walls in photographs of eyes and hands.

I love learning about people. There's such an awful lot to learn. I wish we could all take the time to learn about each other. That way we could better understand each other. Everybody ought to be understood by someone, you know? In fact, if you've nothing more pressing to do, I'd be delighted if you told me something about yourself I don't know. I'm being completely genuine.

Here, I'll tell you something about myself: When I was little, all the boys in the stories I wrote had long hair. It was inconceivable to have any male character with short hair. There were always rather a lot of characters, and I used to spend a lot of time thinking up their names. Once there was a young woman named Virginia, and her younger brother's name was Richmond. Richmond happens to be the capital of Virginia. I'm not sure if I knew that at the time. Perhaps it was in my subconscious.

Originally posted to linebyline, the key line being 'she just couldn't help herself'.

~

every time he hits the screen she
swoons with the force of a hundred
hours spent watching and learning and
mimicking the way he talks, the way he smokes, the way he
clothes himself in exotic things in order to bring herself
closer to the man in the silver show.

but that was a mask and now he's moved on
but she still sings his songs, still jives to his groove
she just couldn't help herself
it's the only thing she's got
gives her
glamour
gives her
purpose
gives her a vicarious existence
to call her own.

In the tall grey house in the middle of the beach colors lives a tall, sad mad. He wakes up and types his thoughts only to toss the papers on the dusty, smooth floor. He pours himself water in a wine glass and watches the summer beauties play. From the deck of the seaside restaurant a girl sees him and gives him a name and a story to tell herself as she wanders back through the brightly colored bubbles.  Some people sit on the wall, others play in the sand, some in the surf.  The people on the deck laugh and talk loudly and their voices carry to the little boy in the sun.  She wishes she had a bicycle and money for an ice cream, but that was yesterday.  And she loves the second-hand baby clothes on the corner, and the dresses on the racks, and the scented oils that line the shelves.  The tall, sad man in the tall, grey house sits on the window sill and looks to the sea.  He once knew a man who worked on the wharf, and together they'd sit, but they never talked.  The woman working the counter at the end of the wharf pauses to look past the gum ball machines and painted horses.  

And all the people walk until their feet and burned, but they just dip them in the water and then walk some more.  They'll get there before sun sets.

Perhaps there is a softer place

That rises above the shells.

Perhaps there is a kinder place,

Where everything is

Gentle.

 

And in that place he fancied

Only colors,

And a bed.

 

A bed with hallowed pillows

To dissolve the thoughts of grey,

A pillow to lend him sweet dreams

To abandon the horrors of day.

 

Bathed in the scents of colors fine

He shall lie him down to rest

With not a trace of fear left in his heart

And peace upon his breast.

 

But his hands are rough and his mind is turned,

His vision warped and red.

The idyll of his fancies, like his spirits,

Left for dead.

 

All he ever dreamt for

Only colors,

And a bed.

 

lest we forget these silver tongues
that search and flick
and mock and click
and a thousand other 
names that
stick and cling and wail and sing

moaning from the center of a room inside a box
gushing sugar-coated things simply cannot be
counting tangled daydreams from dolly's pretty locks
never once pausing to think to learn to see

lips that never pause
seldom say anything worth hearing
unless you're mister cnn
in which case you're spewing bile all the time
your face is working overtime
and you're immaculate this time
because this is wartime
but from the depths of your pushy couch it's peacetime
every time
buy time
cut time
cut money

a tempo.

there were great many, many words that stood here
before the words that stand here now.

the mind can be many things
but i doubt it can be truly lost

such a cruel thing
makes my tongue slanderous and vain
such a tiresome act
makes me want to shake you sane
such dusty words
when will they render mundane
but who am i
mousy and plain
fond of rain
as well as of sunshine.
 

Led Zeppelin's Misty Mountain Hop.  Ever since I was a little kid, I thought this one line was:  "Gods are people seated on the grass with flowers in their headsets..."  Only later in life did I discover it's actually:  "Crowds of people sittin' on the grass with flowers in their hair said..." Even so, to me Gods still are people seated on the grass with flowers in their headsets.  It's the loveliest image.