tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23605823574449398732024-03-08T09:00:38.150-08:00When all the ghosts have gone...Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-64190551038279837762011-03-28T09:37:00.000-07:002011-03-28T09:37:00.230-07:00Excerpts<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">March 16, 2002--Revised March 2011<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Don’t think too much. A kiss is after all, </i><b style="">just</b><i style=""> a kiss.<span style=""> </span></i>I sigh as the road stretches out before me. Kori is driving, chatting incessantly about work and how excited she is that we are going to get our nails done on Friday. I am looking out the window thinking about how hard I am trying not to think. The miles pass away and the sun gives way to the clouds that are now over taking the sky. As the sky grows darker the tiny flakes of snow become more apparent as they hit the windshield of the car, dissolving into transparent beads of water. Every moment of last night clings to my memory, and a wave washes over me with every replayed second. I should have walked away when he closed the door behind me, when my heartbeats were still steady and even, but something drew me back. Something just wouldn’t let me say goodbye.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I rest my head on my arm, still trying to catch my breath. I never seem to learn that antagonizing him only results in a wrestling match I can never seem to win. But I guess in truth it’s a lesson that I don’t want to learn, a cause and effect that keeps us communicating when words no longer seem to make sense. My eyes were closed as he ran his fingers through my hair, tucking the strands gently behind my ear. With every touch, every brush of his hand against my cheek our history is writing its future. I looked into his eyes and I knew his heart was connecting to mine slowly, subtly, unavoidably, and-- unwillingly. I reached up and, for the first time, touched him honestly. I grazed his cheek with the palm of my hand, my feelings finally finding their voice, finally finding a way to speak to him with the genuineness I had been denying. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3in;"><i style="">The relationship between men and women is a pyramid. The base of the pyramid is friendship, and the ascending layers include building blocks such as understanding and respect. At the very top is what we term “a glittering little mystery called romance.” If one tries to stand the pyramid on its point, expecting romance to hold everything else up, the pyramid will fall. –Bruce C. Hafen</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""> </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""> </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>It is dark now. The light from the kitchen is mingling with the glow of the T.V. Kori is resting on my left, half asleep, half watching the movie that has been playing for the last hour. I feel peace in this house, in this place nestled so quietly on the edge of the wilderness. My head feels clear here where it’s simple, where it is silent from my man made complications. We drove past the Temple when we arrived in Monticello. It is small and sits next door to the chapel. Across the street is a beautiful California style house. Vern, Brother Lyman’s best friend owns it. He just recently married his second wife in that Temple as their children looked on through the big picture windows in the living room, waiting for them to come out. I think about this small town and the lives that occupy it. The modest houses that dot the streets tell tales of domestic life—a life I will someday have; a life that will probably not have room in it for the memory of this day, of this solitary moment on a couch in a room with white walls. I wonder about last night, about knocking on his door after I heard the sound of it locking behind me, and the way I feel into his arms not ready to let go. I wonder about what ran through his mind as my head rested against his, as he tucked my hair behind my ears again, brushing his thumb against my cheek. I wonder what held him back from kissing me, and what it was that finally let his lips find their way to mine. <i style="">This could make things more complicated</i> he whispered. But we both knew they already were.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.5in;"><i style="">We can know if a relationship is good by judging its fruits. Is the friendship deepening as the partners share and develop mutual interests, desires, goals, and values?<span style=""> </span>The Doctrine and Covenants (88:40) describes a successful relationship: “Intelligence cleaveth unto intelligence; wisdom recieveth wisdom; truth embraceth truth; virture loveth virture; light cleaveth unto light.” –John D. Claybaugh</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The clock on the wall ticks methodically as I feel myself growing tired. Kori is curled up next to me asleep, every so often moving her feet under the blanket. I hear his voice in the quiet of the house telling me to relax, and for the first time in a long time I am.<span style=""> </span></p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-84021110516906438282011-03-21T09:36:00.000-07:002011-03-21T09:36:00.182-07:00Tanka<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>Here we stand in love</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Autumn falls to the desert</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Blowing in the wind</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Your warm air carries me home</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Green, my leaves turn arid brown.</p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-76243108652507965732011-03-14T09:30:00.000-07:002011-03-14T09:30:00.507-07:00I am<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">January 2002--Revised March 2011<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">I am the wind that whips through the trees on a cold November day.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">I am the whistle of the storm, trailing the leaves, dancing softly.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">The cold is intense and penetrating.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";"><span style=""> </span>It is deep inside my bones, freezing the marrow.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">My hands are thin, transparent, a gentle blue.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";"><span style=""> </span>The red of my blood is turning to ice.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">My heart beats slowly guarding their time. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">The leaves have turned and the rains have stopped.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">I am the pure white snow that falls delicately to the hard artic ground.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">The ground is life-less as I touch it, bare and bitter.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";"><span style=""> </span>It is rigid and unyielding,<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">holding tightly to its frozen exterior, unbreakable.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">I am the darkness that cascades over the winter like a black, thick layer of stillness.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">I am the silence of nightfall as the dawn breaks.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">I am the lingering stars in the heavens; I am the moon full in the sky.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">I am the pulse of a heartbeat and the trace of life that flows fainter through my veins.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">I am the reflection in the mirror and a hard, deliberate swallow. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva";">I am the deep, unforgiving color of charcoal.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-55738357561027944812011-03-07T09:15:00.000-08:002011-03-08T12:00:03.161-08:00Atlantic<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><u></u>Cold air and dark night wrap around our silhouette.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Winter wave’s move back and forth,</p><p class="MsoNormal"> back and forth,<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">wet, against the hard-packed-January sand.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> Tears, that chill razor sharp, drop, unsalted against your hand.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> We have been here before.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> Inside this crime, unmasked.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It is time to question love and God, but, neither of us asks.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> A mouth opens.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> Yours or mine? I can not tell</p><p class="MsoNormal">Breathe turns misty white, a voiceless frozen fog that longs to yell.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Dusk stained faces lost in a kiss.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">So familiar and forbidden you taste to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-56316865561441485122011-02-28T09:12:00.000-08:002011-02-28T09:13:16.120-08:00Acuity<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">1/11/02--Revised 2/28/2011<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">In the dark of night it shines,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">dances and glitters against the black</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">It envelops everything, softly, gently like a mantle of perfection</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">I wonder how it can be so beautiful, so innocent</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">it assumes nothing, it wants nothing, it holds no prejudice</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">it is everywhere</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">it is kind</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">it is honest</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">it is there as the season turns,<span style=""> </span>offering no predictability,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">mysterious and spontaneous</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">it marks it’s own course, it’s own destination</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">lying in wait, patiently, calmly </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">it departs quietly, invisibly, with no hesitation</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">it enters in for but a moment, to alter but not destroy</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: "Arial Black";">it is familiar, it is home</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: LithographLight;"></span></p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-76246929907415573832010-09-08T11:03:00.001-07:002011-02-28T09:01:35.822-08:00August Laid To Rest<div style="text-align: center;">The scarlet blanket falls from my acquiescence,<br />as your heart beat pounds out the rhythm of a thousand tortured drums.<br />You scream my name into the pitch black of the buried dead--<br />as I hide in their shadows.<br />Your voice catches me, the musty wind of a stolen season, aged and hollow.<br />Distance draws you near.</div>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-91855406615809752632010-07-23T12:51:00.000-07:002010-07-23T13:30:57.731-07:00Birthday<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I push you through me.<br />Bloody fluid, and life-<br />nine months too long inside.<br /></span></span></div>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-85031257160649042572008-07-29T09:35:00.000-07:002011-03-08T09:22:16.739-08:00A Weekend In The Wilderness<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Revised April 9, 2002-</i>Published in 2002 in <span style="font-style: italic;">Touchstones An Art & Literary Magazine</span><i style=""><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><br />They look at one another. They look into the light. They jump.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>There is no question I covet that conversation. There is no question I am someone starving. There is no question I am making this journey to find out what the appetite is. And I see him free of it, as if he had simply crossed to the other side of a bridge, I see desire set free in him like some ray of mysterious light. Now tell me the truth, would you cross that bridge if you came to it? And where, if you made the grave choice to give up bread, where would it take you? You see what I fear. One night I dreamed of such a world. I rowed to the surface of the moon and there was no wind, there were no moments, for the moon is as empty as the inside of an eye and not even the sound of a shadow falling falls there. I know you want me to tell you that hunger and silence can lead you to God, so I will say it, but I awoke. As the nail parted from the flesh, I awoke and I was alone.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>Ahead of me walks a man who knows the things I want to know about bread, about God, about lovers’ conversations yet mile after tapping mile goes by while I watch his heels rise and fall in front of me and plant my feet in rhythm to his pilgrim’s staff as it strikes the road, white dust puffing up to cover each step, left, right, left. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wish I had spent this weekend high in the canyon lands, sun beating down on the pallid of my skin, warm winds blowing and tangling the sands of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Moab</st1:place></st1:country-region> in my hair. The arches standing as a reminder of what my muscles must endure to reach their pinnacle. But I would have welcomed it. I would have welcomed the physical strain, the pain of tired legs and exhausted limbs. Alan did it. He left it all behind—except for Anne, he brought her along, tucked away in his backpack, next to his bottle of sterile water, his bottle of <i style="">plainwater</i>. What it would have felt like to have read <st1:city><st1:place>Carson</st1:place></st1:city> in the haze of the sun setting over the red rocks of the abscond. I would have read Carson to him, to my blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder—to my image of desert. <i style="">So we climb to the top of the world once more; A thousand miles straight down, straight back to the morning we began.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Saturday April 6<i style=""> He is annoyed with me today. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am offering up my sacrifice to God. My mouth is dry and my stomach screaming—but I will not turn my stones into bread, not this time. What more can I give him than my weaknesses as a sign of submission? <i style="">Christ expelling moneylenders from the </i><st1:city><st1:place><i style="">Temple</i></st1:place></st1:city><i style=""> and others. Now we are close to the heart of the color. Shame. Water abandons itself. God does not. God takes life over. You don’t look at it, or breathe, you feel a pressure but you don’t look. It is like being in the same room with a man you love, and you know you are not strong enough to look at him (yet.) </i><span style=""> </span>From the back of a truck on a hot June night right before finals, the sky is the deep black of ink wells dotted perfectly with silver stars. I feel my legs pulsating as the burns continue to set in.<i style=""> </i><b style="">Second degree I think</b><i style=""> </i>Leiah says, <b style="">we need to get something on them</b><i style="">.</i> We soak towels in water and lay them across my remaining layers of skin. That day calls my name, begging me to return to the night we slept under God’s dark blanket sky. Heather next to me, softly breathing in the air that just a few hours earlier baked our lungs with every inhalation, but that now fell cold all around us; Leiah and Brooke asleep in the red, rusted truck just a hundred inches away. I lay awake all night under that open sky, under that charcoal heaven wrestling with my God for his forgetfulness, and, for mine. Offenses buried deep, sleeping soundly, not wanting to be disturbed from their dormant place of slumber. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"><i style="">I will gaze at the moon and cleanse my heart—Zeami<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">People really understand very little of one another. Sometimes when I speak to him, my blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder looks very hard and straight into my face as if in search of something (a city on a map?) like someone who has tumbled off a star. What is it that keeps us from drowning in the moments that rise and cover the heart? It is already late when you wake up inside this question. I should have taken photographs—I only know glimpses of his life.</i> Karin doesn’t have any pictures of Jamie Killian, the boy who drove her to Las Vegas in the dead, dry Utah heat in a long ago May to see Diana Ross. She said he was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen under the moonlight as he pulled the car over and got out, shirt off because it was too hot to keep driving. My blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder is heat. He is the arid, temped intensity of the <st1:state><st1:place>Arizona</st1:place></st1:state> sun blazing down on <st1:place>New England</st1:place><i style="">. That is who he is, he can sleep anytime. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">A conversation is a journey, and what gives it value is fear. What is the fear inside language? Timing is important in the middle. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I pour my truth into him like I would pour water from one pitcher to another, but <i style="">water is not something you can hold. Like men. I have tried. Father, brother, lover, true friends, hungry ghosts and God, one by one all took themselves out of my hands.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“I don’t want to believe anything” I said (but I was lying)<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“And I have nothing to prove” (lying again) <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder stands at my door. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder touches my face. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder looks deep into my eyes. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder says things are different now. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder lays tired in the hall. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder is holding back. I say to blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder <i style="">I know. I know what you say. I know who you are. I know all that you mean (is it a choice?)<span style=""> </span></i>Blonde-haired, blue-eyed wonder is rebuilding walls.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">I would say that knowing is a road</i>. <i style="">Coger por el buen camino “to get to the right road.” <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">A bridge is a meeting point, where those who started out—how many, how many nights ago?—come together. </i>Zeami says that our griefs may hold our greatest hopes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><i style="">The rumor is already<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>in circulation<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>yet when I began to love<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>there was not a soul that knew<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>-Tadamine<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">I can feel you watching.<o:p></o:p></i></p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-37655353369299192802008-01-26T19:29:00.000-08:002008-01-26T19:37:58.514-08:00Spring Cleaning<p class="MsoNormal">May 2002 <u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></u></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">You place this one,<br />the one with blonde hair and brown eyes,<br />face sullied with age,<br />white dress torn at the seam, aside. </span><o:p></o:p><br /><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">You have no need of her now;<br />it has always been the other.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In a box she goes<br />this collectible of yours,<br />this pretty-faced-flaxen-mane porcelain;<br />this put away possession.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The other was on the shelf,<br />until you took her down.<o:p></o:p><br />Dust her off, try again—<br />memories sweep away the cobwebs. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">You place this one,<br />the one with the blonde hair and brown eyes,<br />face sullied with age,<br />white dress torn at the seam, away.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Out of sight,<br />out of touch,<br />tottering on the edge—daring her to fall. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-13550950956060165902008-01-20T08:23:00.000-08:002010-07-24T10:52:13.711-07:00Tuesday Fell--A Prose Piece<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:date year="2002" day="17" month="4">April 17, 2002</st1:date></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My image of desert is cooling now, against the ice-cold fair of snow-capped mountains through the open window. <span style=""> </span>I can hear our laughter trailing late and long through the sallow atrium in the hush of night, as voices and footsteps steal our hidden moments. I look from the windowpane and I see us there, children at play—long lost friends in flight, lovers that lie in wait. We hide from the world in our hallowed vestibule, in the dawn of the morning, in the wake of pretending. In the hour the world sleeps, we have no name, no face, and no identity. We are shadows in the corridor, we are long goodbyes and salt stained kisses. You held my head to you as I poured my tears into your shirt pocket. One by one they gathered there, collecting time. You shiver under the covering of wide open spaces, night falling all around you, your brilliant blue vanishing in the dark. I reach for you with closed eyes, ebony eyes wet with April rainfall. Heartbeat against heartbeat you are mine under the <st1:time minute="0" hour="0">midnight</st1:time> dusk, under the silver glow of heaven’s stars. I feel life course scarlet through the frozen of your hands as ambiguity steals your warmth from me. Ashen stroke for ashen stroke I whisper your name into the unmoving heat of the spring wind. Stubbornly, you cling to winter.<br />Dormant against the flurry of storm tossed fears; beginnings are sown into silence, sown into auburn soil unearthed.<br />You dig deep.<br />Into the hollow of your heart I fall, endlessly descending into hidden corners of false affection, of artificial disquiet.<br />There I stay, kept distant, kept buried.<br />There I stay waiting, waiting for the gray moon to turn the tide, waiting for the nocturnal seasons to amend; waiting, for the sun to rise again over our frozen desert. <span style=""> </span></p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-34090890054890697852008-01-13T07:51:00.000-08:002008-01-13T07:57:31.347-08:00Ice Cream<p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span><st1:date year="2002" day="24" month="10">October 24, 2002--Revised</st1:date></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Dissolving over the edges,<br />the past melts away.<br />Sky blue eyes search<br />for her, the flaxen haired<br />girl of summer.<br />Nineteen leaves have fallen<br />as I have deepened<br />into the dark, short<br />reflection of autumn’s mirror.<br />Can you still see me?<br />I look down,<br />away, afraid<br />I have disappeared to you.<br />The wind moves<br />softly as the air<br />turns your touch colder,<br />and somehow I know<br />—winter is coming.<br />I open the letter you<br />wrote to her, the golden<br />her of days gone by.<br />Memories of white liquid<br />seas and laughter have<br />been long since quieted,<br />have been long since hidden.<br />God’s Alaskan hands, old<br />and tired rest weary<br />on my head, words<br />from heaven descend<br />with the promise of miracles.<br />I stare at her, this daughter<br />of autumn, this portrait of a stranger.<br />She sees through my eyes,<br />my soul,<br />the soul of hot days<br />and blazing suns, the soul of<br />deep rock canyons where<br /><span style=""></span>we sat—eyes closed, as the<br />night winds slid, <span style=""></span>illicit<br /><span style=""></span>across my face. </p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-35595720716980981462008-01-06T09:43:00.000-08:002008-01-06T09:48:08.217-08:00Three Thousand Miles<p class="MsoNormal">I sit<br />in the canopy of<br />my dark you, <span style=""> </span>creating<br />harmony inside a window.<br />The moon hangs red<br />and green over us, worlds apart.<br />The music of silence evolves,<br />as we become the coherency of stillness.<br />Laughter is slipping,<br />drowning as you are withdrawing.<br />Withdrawing into places I can not go,<br />places I have long ago left behind.<br />Blindness is the only sound you make<br />across the miles, across the three thousand<br />tones of your voice.<br />No taste<br />No touch<br />Inconsistency running<br />as the current of our connection,<br />as you fail me in perfect time.<br />Splashes of water and mirth give<br />life to my sightlessness beyond your transom,<br />and with eyes closed my vision is clear. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-65132286333140491892007-12-20T06:59:00.000-08:002007-12-20T07:04:12.278-08:00Kitchen Table<p class="MsoNormal">March 2002--Published in 2002 in <span style="font-style: italic;">Touchstones An Art & Literary Magazine</span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The sun sets<br />into bruised<br />purple,<br />hiding in the midnight morning<br />of white tumbling<br />inseparable.<br />His feet are bare<br />and he is singing—A love song to her.</p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-57880010474158517122007-12-14T06:36:00.000-08:002007-12-20T07:03:52.652-08:00Blowing out the candles<p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><o:p></o:p>I wish yellow could color<o:p></o:p><br />my mind clear of blue, ocean <o:p></o:p><br />cold eyes. I wish the echo of<o:p></o:p><br />my trust breaking, splintering<o:p></o:p><br />into slivers, jagged and rough <o:p></o:p><br />could find its way out, from deep<o:p></o:p><br />inside my skin. I wish for warm sandy beaches, <o:p></o:p><br />for the </b><st1:state><st1:place><b style="">California</b></st1:place></st1:state><b style=""> sun high in the sky, <o:p></o:p><br />for waves crashing against bronzed bodies. <o:p></o:p><br />I wish he didn’t look deep into her eyes<o:p></o:p><br />as he pressed his lips against hers. <o:p></o:p><br />I thought the god of the desert would save me. <o:p></o:p><br />Instead, he gave me his spot on the cross. <o:p></o:p><br />Both betrayed with a kiss—Jesus and I, <o:p></o:p><br />and red my heart bleeds, the only sacrifice offered. <o:p></o:p></b></p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360582357444939873.post-59512974802142803792007-12-14T06:28:00.000-08:002007-12-20T07:03:10.925-08:00A Walk With Annie<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:date year="2002" day="2" month="4">April 2, 2002</st1:date>—Revised <st1:date year="2005" day="3" month="2">2/3/05</st1:date></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time. I worship each god, I praise each day splintered down, splintered down and wrapped in time like a husk of many colors spreading, at dawn fast over the mountains split. I wake in a god. I wake in arms holding my quilt, holding me the best they can inside my quilt.</i><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Language dissipates down,<br />down until the cycles <i style=""><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />of nature<br />vivid in season,<br />vivid in time, bloom.<br />Will we?<br />A thousand choices ago;<br />One a lover, one a friend.<br />A thousand chords on a guitar strum the soft sound of your<br />heart beating<br />as you hold my emptiness in your arms;<br />pale lifelessness<br />buried in shades and shadows of flaxen.<br />Deep pools of black fear poured over ice grow cold, cold<br />as the artic frost in the long of my eleven year winter.<br />A thousand choices ago;<br />We were strangers then,<br />strangers that walked side by side as 98 autumn leaves<br />fell in the October that only God knew was ours.<br />Do you remember last night?<br />Do you remember? Dillard asks. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><i style="">She burned for two hours without changing, without bending or leaning—only glowing within, like a building fire glimpsed through silhouetted walls, like a hollow saint, like a flame-faced virgin gone to God. <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>My November myth,<br />my Greek tragedy plays to the glowing<br />amusement of the sirens as I hear them whisper,<br /><b style=""><span style="">it is time.</span></b><span style=""> </span><br />Time-<br />time-<br />time-<br />time stretches out like a road, jagged and<br />unmarked.<br />You build me a mountain,<br />a mountain with a cliff overlooking<br />the ocean sands where I have lingered<br />in silence.<br />I feel your hot,<br />sweet breath against my skin as I turn my<br />face from the truth.<br />And if we jump together;<br />what of us then?<br />Will we break against the rocks below,<br />will we shatter like<br />glass against the waves?<br /><span style=""> </span>Will I survive the fall,<br />or will I wake up shipwrecked on our<br />island alone,<br />the color of charcoal still staining my white linen?<br />A thousand choices ago</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><i style="">A Little girl mute in some room at Fletcher Allen, drugs dissolving into the sheets; a little girl with her eyes naked and spherical, baffled. Can you scream without lips? Yes. But do children in long pain scream? It is November 27 and no wind.<span style=""> </span></i><o:p></o:p></p>Nikihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07992255455939486047noreply@blogger.com0