Desire is the small creature
with eyes that glow in the dark,
hiding in your center of gravity.

as experienced once again

There is joy in truth, and joy may or may not be pain.

I feel no sorrow for my actions until I speak of them aloud and dismissively to someone I think will not care at all. But when he does care, tears like allergies well up. Why should I be surprised? We side with our own kind. Telling the story was all a vanity to begin with, and so I accept my punishment.

Moreover, I know I chose rightly.

I am still wildly attracted to him, but it is all excitement and no feeling. Excitement, of a covetously intellectual sort, and still slightly smarting pride. Of course, in 6 weeks we will all disperse, and we will all pretend to be the best of friends and even the friendships of substance will grow empty with the glossing of socially acceptable Good Memories of College.

Have a nice life?

I will make my home among books, trees and large bodies of water.

If this be love

If this be love, I'd rather disgust.
If this be pleasure, I'd rather numbness. (Ignoring the fact that the excess of pleasure brings numbness.)
If this be passion, I'd rather restraint.
If this be togetherness, I'd rather independence.

For all of you cannot fill me!
Not your body, nor the expanding depths of your eyes.
If after a time, a covenant emerged or were eradicated,
perhaps your soul could fill me.
But so long as you remain unable to comprehend past my breathing,
beating, pulsing, rhythm of physical being unto death,
No covenants can become or begone.

I bear behind the barriers of my body the burden of eternity.
Eternity it is, who holds me from abandoning myself,
Or filling it only half-full.

I think that all of only Nature can hold me and so
I made a covenant with the Forest.

In Passing

As moments begin and continue
And the vibrancy of Life sallows
with the incomprehensible stasis
of experience,
Knowledge appears. -
Shrouded in impenetrable plaster,
Caked with rotting youth:
To know myself
I must know the Other.

In seeking,
My body grows weary
And understanding, repulsive.

It is thus that I become most lost
and see only eyes
as if
by engaging another's senses with my own
I might fasten upon
a steadfast something.

But eyes, How they move!
Grasping, not holding
Knowing and not remembering,
They receive the world
and give their wearer.
Alive and searching,
the world is their task
and master.

Were our eyes to meet,
It would mean an end to motion
And our world
So they do not meet.
But rather, they recognize
and become each other's
constant change.

Upon waking/ The workaholic

I inhale the feeling of his eyelids
upon my heart
which sings only to him -
the rhythms of sleep.
Then he lifts his head
and the pounding bursts
out of me to fill the room
and hold (swimmingly, with blood)
his mind, bound to the tides
of my body.

When nightmares end,
I know that the light thuds
are his feet.
And blood: the flush of
dawn upon my cheeks.

At Prayer

Sometimes, it is as if I could feel my soul expand and contract, widen, and condense again, like the waters of the lake as they freeze and melt in our spasmodic winters. The silent coldness of solitude touches me, and I build tiny lattice-works within myself, holding still the trapped twigs, and imprisoning the fish. I am kneeling, and my mind understands the complexities of my spiritual state and the dualities of my love. Then, all at once, fiery bodies collapse these carefully amassed crystals, and all Knowing flows freely with earth and air. I am lying on the floor, comprehending everything and understanding nothing. Slowly, algae flourishes in the stagnation of passion.

Feeling and Time

For Hasty, time has quality(ies), and cannot be a pure, unbroken flow. I interact with time always, all the time, every minute, etc. I feel it, and it moves me. Perhaps the most obvious quality is its speed or perceived speed. At times I feel that I can control time, and then again, in other moments, it seems to control me.

My most powerful interactions with time and its qualities, its submission and dominance, have necessarily involved music. I set up a rhythm, reaffirm it, and deny or stop it. With my hands on the keys, I cake up the form I have given to time, and with full awareness, alter it. It may be called a shift from duple to triple, but the underlying feeling of time itself and its movement changes.

Music seems to be such a direct conduit into the nature of time itself precisely because it been regarded for so long as inherently and necessarily rhythmic, and rhythm has been set up as temporal flow. If the meaning of music and the idea of temporal flow are so closely bound up in one another, then when time becomes not a pure form but a qualitative aspect of experience, then music becomes in interaction with time. Every musical event, both as a whole and as every event that occurs within that whole, marks the experience of that moment of time, holding within it the power to slow it, accelerate it, expand it, contract it, and so forth. In the case of any kind of acoustic music, this power is then ultimately transferred to the performer, and so we have arrived back at our starting point - the empowering ability to interact with time.

However, I must admit that this near abandonment to total subjectivity sometimes frightens me. I do not know what to do when faced with the fact that our only hope for common understanding becomes chance, or perhaps the proof that the duple, for example, is somehow physiologically fundamental to (almost?) everyone's perception of rhythmic events.