When identity is recognized

Drew,

When identity is recognized
illusory, then models become,
at best, bright and fleeting distractions.

So what are we to do with this
intelligence? How do we play this?
Perhaps a memory will prove luminescent:

The front door was open.

A breeze fled the outside, and, once, the existent electricity became my distant cousin. I had asked, dancing, the past evening for a storm to keep pleasant personalities constrained, but last night, arguments dropped from the tree inside my apartment. Each burst on impact and filled me, and perhaps you, with a lovely fragrance. You said, “Ethics aside, I’d still do it because it’s such a fun game. If I ever get caught, I’ll respect that.” Later, I was told that our party was very Russian.

I’m curious—which is more valuable: the above memory, or when I tell you, now, that my lip is cracked and bleeding?


Best,
T

Bless us being indolent

Dear Trevor,


Bless us being indolent. Savage
in the gentlest way.
Lied to about who we may be.
Surrounded by "no bluer was he than I,"
I'd like to remain how I am.

I have no model for this, distracted
as I am by the minutiae of our
apparent movement.
Memory.
Illusion of fine senses.
Illness that devours.

Things that are slow become beautiful. I'm not
saying this to hurt you. You dreamed it.
In your waking. Time flew by.
In your waking life, time dreamed it.
So we could do that with our sentences now.
We could love them. The way they.

A.

World traveling epistles

A friend of mine, Andrew Adams, is traveling the world for the next few months, so we decided to try out some epistolary poems to each other, which will be posted here.


Dear Andrew,

Good god! Such besmirchment upon
the tertiary senses! Such
rupture of spleen. We always wear
lamentations as hair-shirts.

I’ve heard say that “we were raised
for a comfortable decline,
a decadence,” so we must become
men who query the horizons
—intuit weather patterns.
Wander with firm and eager purpose.

You must know, by now,that ontic
indulgences never approach
“the real” or at least that’s what
they say. They’ll tell you this about that:

“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“It’s a dangerous place to be.”

Best,
Trevor

From hidden motives spring such fruit...

Persimmons.

The Experiment is Over--originally published July 17 on my other blog

Recently I was on Nada's blog, ululate.blogspot.com, reading of her experience in Japan; her description of eating a bowl of noodles is fantastic. She also mentioned how Japan anticipates a person's needs--"buffered, sweet, comfortable, happy!" This description perfectly captures this aspect of Japan. I think, that perhaps, this is also why Ammie and I have decided to return to the loving streets of Oakland. In Oakland, when you run around by yourself, and then trip and fall, it doesn't kiss you, but instead tells you to get up, brush yourself off, and get goin'. Yes, we have indeed decided to return. Japan is now more beautiful, because we know we are leaving--it's become a great honeymoon, now that we can distance ourselves from it.

Kunitachi--where we are staying--is incredible! The Kunitachi apartment situation is just what we needed to mend us after our -- to be quite honest -- somewhat heartbreaking decision to come back.?It`s quiet and private, but within 15 minutes on foot to the college town of Kunitachi. The town is beautiful, and it`s apparent that actual city planning has happened to make sure development doesn`t run amok. There are good record stores, a fantastic forest-like campus to explore, cheap groceries (that carry real cheese and proper bread!), and noodle shops. From what Stephen and Jeremy (our kickass guesthouse roommates from Scotland and Seattle, respectively) tell us, there are also 400 yen ($4) all you can drink bars. Scary, yet slightly inviting.

tachikawa hanabi

tachikawa hanabi, originally uploaded by trevor23.

poem written at night

There was a squall inside the music.

Diagonal, like a misread line, something
sat obscure. In the grass,

there were ten thousand small, lit displays,
quelling the moon and perhaps its gravity.

Valorously, the fireworks abandoned
their souls, massively drifting—

a suspended infinitive alphabet.
I was susceptible to reading.

Tobacco smoke drifted by, so I began
to float away on it. Really, there was no

music, but it began the evening.