because blogging is a bitch sometimes

i had to repost these:

For C.C. ,who is permanently lost in the flood

the world has lost these pretty young girls.
their angst has woven a different, more impenetrable
planet around them. they sob and weep about
atrocities that take place in other dimensions of space where
everyone else is a lost mother , a drunken father, a neglected urchin of chance - versions of monsters
under beds, the dagger in the closet. they no longer know the importance of mystery,
of holding out. everything takes place outdoors. i would like to peep under
their skirts and find out if the myth is true -
if down there, there is really nothing much you can see but a built in boombox,
a transistor, and dozens of blue and red connectors stumbling all over themselves,
pricking their veins that are seas so blue they look painted on.
their mouths are always hungry for trophies of intellect, for disasters then and now,
for vague properties of love. they say words like "atrophy" or "vindication"as if they were new weapons that still have the capability to hurt. but their ideals are different.
they prefer them raw these days so that they’d be easier on the palate when they swallow them whole.
this fact alone makes me think less of the weaker ones - the ones who scar easily or those
who consider a bad hair day an opportunity for suicide. maybe this is just me,
barring time. in dreams, i see my younger self, running with bared teeth,
my brown skin soiled with so much anger.
i remember being unafraid. but now, i ask myself,
what was i running against? and for whom?

--------------------------------

House Cleaning

Today, I left him.

It was because of all that dust, really, the kind that sticks all over your furniture like an unwanted guest. Somehow, one of us invited it in. Or maybe at that time it was both of us, ushering it in our sunlit rooms, all the way to our new found feelings because we were scared to admit the fact that there were no divinities, no gods in blue.

I remember a day in September when I volunteered to clean the whole house but there was always something he hid, something precious but pointless, wrapped carefully in scented paper that smelled faintly of rotting flower petals. But because he was afraid of losing things, he always remembered where he kept them. He labeled the boxes " for further use." Before I realized it, there were already containers stowed away in darker parts of the room.

I hated stumbling upon them. It felt like I was spying.

There was also a time in early May when he decided to clean up. He got suffocated by the noose the dirt crafted around his willing neck.I thought he threw the boxes away, on account of the dust. We had splendid afternoons then – drinking wine from new bottles, making love on the green couches. He said "I am finally free to love you." Everything was cleaner than god. I forgot about other things, like the urgency of prayers, the anticipation of falling bricks.

But after a year, there it was again. It started with a whisper, a dialogue with wooden tables. It lurked in corners, in shadows of remonstrative possibilites. Then its voice became more insistent, laced with unfeeling confidence. It told me that I wasn't necessary anymore. I have never been. It told me that the past was present and future. There was nothing else. And that I was, after all, the interloper, the singular lie. After the end of the day, whatwas important here was really the insatiable mystery, divine interventions, the fluid liability of fate.

I realized then that doilies can only do so much. I can only do so much.

So I admit I left on account of all that dust. I took a train and went on that long-delayed trip to Panama. At least there, the sun shines without complications. Everything seems to belong to its proper place.
The most that can happen to you is sunburn. I don't really mind scorching a little skin. At least, that's all just surface vanity.