mind games

one of those mornings when my mind wanders. back to the little coffee shop in longwood. on those high tables where i have laughed, cried, celebrated and mourned. those coffee cups are long-stained. with finger prints of the dead and the living.

one of those days where my impatience is strong. i become fidgety when this happens, and slightly aggressive. and my thoughts are all over the place. cancer children, heart disease and my misty future, bobbing up and down in my cursive imaginations. i just want to know, i scream to my coffee cup. asleep on my table top. it is pale with patches of blood. bloody rims of the past. my carry over from boston. there is this comfort. temporary at the most, in touching my coffee cup. this time is a drag. how slowly it moves. every second that rolls on my digital screens. i await.

one of those hours when i am tired. this ballet of sun shine and my fabric is long. i just want to know... this life. yet who is the messenger of fatalism? this is the alchemy of fate. there is a reciprocity, however. when the golden gold is washed away. the spirit has been paused, for a few minutes. this gentle relapse of negativity.

to give comfort, i dangle a neck tie against the brown of my book shelf. it is crimson with silver polka dots. wraps so gently across my neck. smooth, slick and slender. creased with my momentary clenches. it plays with the wind. and chimes against my breath. there is a closeness. i do not know how. or why.

still breathing. the edge of my lips are set in order. this morning. touched with balm. they tremble, how. the mind games of time. matter-less at thirty. yet scouring, this october. on tissue tops. i just want to go. i just want to know

dear longwood

walking around i looked at leaves. some are crimson. some are gold. asleep on the gravel road. there is a constant hum of raindrops today. like so many others...months before, when home was home. and i loved this home. and the marble of flames, burning with souls. from years and years ago. there is a voice of crimson. afloat the rain clouds. and the winds in this city of wombs. pregnant with love and tingling ivy.

i smiled all night. and drank rose. with friends and colleagues. like old times in the crimson parlor. this is not a sophistry of umbilical imaginations. or a terra cotta figurine of intangible dreams. this is a craft of realism and silk. threads that dangle by the canvas of blood work. the uniform. of believers and givers alike. i have missed this smell. of cancerous lesions. and cluttered ambulances. of trench coats on the brookline trail. and the caricature of the charles. so graceful in its meander...i want to kiss the waves. rippling down the river boats. and the rotunda of silver pebbles. i have missed this architecture of familiarity. and the muttering Harvardian at the bus stop with a china rose and handcrafted ukulele. and late night moon gazing on the roof of the library. against the cold cement. that housed millions of tales. scribbles from two centuries ago. may be i was song bird then or a cholera victim. or a cornet player in a court house. when did that soul learn to breathe?

to this city of love. my city of joy. i have missed your rain. like a collage of polka dots. and the geography of lunar trills. vous belle lune. and the house of medicine and granite metaphysics. this cove of electricity and unshaven aptitude. inflames my hunger. my desire. my belief. on this lone spiral, difficult and challenging. i will tread and fall. leap over dams. some day, dreaming in dreams.

metropolitan manhattan

running through the conservatory garden this morning. i have missed you love. your smell. your leaves. your windows and awnings, stretching down the streets of fifth. i smiled. like a child. it feels so good to be back.

the lady at the Met. the ladies and men. and their observant children. so polished in her charisma. i loved her smack. her lips tightly pressed. delicate pearls trickling across her neck line. she was stern. and glazed at art. the language of paint. and motions of hands. this is an orchestra of finger work and acrylic. the statuettes in the hallways are blazing in the sunshine. the marble so white. the alabaster so sweet. the graphite so grey. and the art students by the master works. sweating and breathing. their language so beautiful.

i read through the little blurb. those pictures, so so very interesting. ohm night. hawks. your use of the phrase, i reveal the dark side of men. the way we are wild, and raw. i love it. a man being comfortable with body. the construction of perfect image in society. has blown away the scent of the table-salt manhood.

tone

sometimes you believe that there is something out there for you. what, when, where, how. you have no clue. but you want to know. and you want to believe.

i will keep this short.

in this process of tracing futures, i have re-found my faith. in my god and in my heart. lined with a pencil ring of moonshine. emotionally, i am holding up. as much as i can. sometimes i really want to break a glass, or beat my walls. and slide down the paint. the friction was destined. may be. but through all of this, i never forget to breathe. and feel my pulse. and my beating heart.

this is who i am. T.D.L. a twenty two year old boy. believing in crimson and the sounds of veritas. but there is a world out there. with many worries and many nets. with dying souls and bleeding wombs. there is a duty. there is a purpose. may be one day. what if...

to the believers. and dreamers

to the believers. and dreamers.

it is the season of trilling mahogany. of shadow whisperers and tendrils. and the melody of dreams. the sound. so loud. so crisp. blurs... sometimes. carrying a palm. an arm. and belief. we belong. to the land of songs. to the cradle of yarns. spinning. this spool of crimson and blood.

in my memory of gold. the mist of your cello strings sing harmonies to the moon. a bowl of talcum. so tender and labile. i walk. and walk. there are crystals on my palm. believe. the tune of flautists tonight melt into my soul. there is a cry, by the carnival of doves. i miss you so, little city of pearls. your scape of lands, and tempera of gods are ablaze by the alleyway. pattern of steps and prints of feet, playing monopoly with my soul. my beats are yours, you crimson quill. your care and love. and tenderness of touch. the gardens of faith and psychedelic healers are awake in the congress of death. the glint of your rouge. and the sequin of clouds breathe my breath. come back to my heart.

i will hope. till then. in the canvas of oil. patches of threads and the spectacle of fate. the strength to stand, in this ministry of void.