obscure_one's blog

I grabbed my bag
and guitar and slung
them over my shoulders.
In my hand I took hold
of my sticker-covered water bottle;
a declaration of so
much of me.
These things weigh me
down the stairs with
dropped eyes, watching my
steps so I don't fall.
I see a couple coming up
the stairs and hear the
girl worry about her
boyfriend being caught in her
dorm. He looks up to see
me and says to her,
"Don't worry, see?
There's another boy."
A small smile creases my
lips as I continue downstairs,
my little secret safe from them.

Later, sitting under this tree,
I see the couple walking idly
by on the sidewalk.
She rushes over to apologize.
"I'm sorry we thought you were
a boy earlier.
My boyfriend, he just
blurted it out before I could
stop him."
I tell her it's fine,
that I don't mind being
mistaken so much.
"Don't worry about it"
issues from my mouth,
although she continues to feel
sorry, I'm sure.

I don't blame her.
Usually these sorts of things,

I am back,
or so they say,
to continue these
ravenous-ramblings
through the sky.

Once, maybe twice,
I will be gone without a
stitch left behind,
only these words.

These days,
they can be numbered 'cause
yeah, I can
count that high;

higher than I can jump
and will have to in
order to not fall now.
Down where the ground is
less than soft, but is,
at least, welcoming and familiar.

Around that wall,
through that door
and over your body.
I dreamt I touched it once.
Or did I?

Who are you any how?

In fifty years it will
all be the same,
but in the
meantime, why can't you
let me be?

I am back,
or so they say,
isn't that enough?

I lost my pen
even though it was
in my pocket
for good measure
one hundred and
ten percent of the time.

I was,
am, curious to see what you'd
write to me.
I wanted a sample of your
handwriting that wasn't a
grade on my homework.
So I slipped that tradition
into your hands and uttered a
please just as I'll whisper a
thank you upon its return.

I lost my watch
even though it was on
my right wrist,
morning and night,
ticking off the
time wasted in a
droning, uniform
tocking sound.

If I had known these three
weeks would contain very
little of your face, I
might have walked with you
outside and let your presence
linger for a moment,
despite the slipping time.

I lost my notebook
even though it was on
my floor, beckoning and
daunting with its
jealousy-clouded,
plastic face.

If I had known where that
fateful discussion would lead,
I might not have opened up so
quickly. If I had
known how quickly you would

Big storm today

.......Branches down
.....Trees uprooted

...Williston and St. Albans got the brunt

Tuesday

....Exams
..Latin and
..........English

Almost over

.....Busy busy
.........summer ahead

M--- wore pink

......She really
...........does
.........have legs

I am
dripping
with sarcasm,
dripping
with your uncontained
presence.
Dripping down
my throat withing this
tea holding
court in a mug whose
handle has no
purpose for
either of us.

I am
gripping
this mug around its
middle, knuckles
white, as though it's what
matters the most;
as though surrounding my
hand with this useless
handle will help me
to get a grip.

I am
thinking
of how
silly a handless
mug must look standing
stoically, confident
enough to not be
hiding behind a
strange curl of clay or
porcelain.

I am
imagining
the confidence looks
just like you.

I am
considering
that I
like the
handle, even if I
never use it.

This is my first stab at song-writing since I was about fourteen. I'm only trying again because Imagine suggested I try at YVWC. Here are just the lyrics... Don't wait on a podcast. It's unlikely to come.

I saw your face there on
the corner.
It was in place of
my mouth on yours.
The paper bottles and
letter jackets
told me you'd been driving
back and forth.

I cannot
hold you back.
You cannot
hold me back.
Since when
did you cry?

I went and whispered
your name to millions.
I cannot tell you
what was said.
I broke you open and
climbed inside your hand.
You told me nothing would
ever change your mind.

I cannot
hold you back.
You cannot
hold me back.
Since when
did you cry?

I cannot take you
for granted.
You spoke too plainly
when you called
my
name.
It was so long ago
now I don't even know
what is left here for
you to take.

I cannot
hold you back.
You cannot
hold me back.
Since when
did you cry?

I saw your face there.

Your arms stretched upwards,
fingers extended,
grasping at clouds,
grasping at drops,
grasping at...
just grasping

at your naked shoulders,
spinning and spinning in
the downpour, drenching
my white shirt proclaiming
YOUR VOTE IS
YOUR VOICE
becoming less and less
opaque by the second.

Then down
hit the ground
and under the spouts spouting
God knows what.

(Government knows)
only they don't tell us
instead they sell us
little snippets of their
lies through their teeth
where their smiles don't
reach their eyes...

sighs as the mud splashes,
jeans made heavy by the
acidic H2O fall down around that
place where the
thigh meets the hip.
The bottoms drag around
my heels so I trip and
stumble all the way back

then, back when the
coal was just convenience for
unknowing souls whose skies were
always thick with black
smoke. When even the early-
budding scientists whose
descendents would be those to
testify against it didn't give a

Everything is
slightly off,
slightly tilted,
slightly turned,
like in a
science fiction novel.
Everything is
recognizable and yet,
everything is
not the same.
There is a
gap forming between my
past-present-future and I
can't seem to be able to
bridge it fast enough.
I guess that
space and the feelings of
ineffectuality are forming for a
reason. Maybe this
sense of slight-off is
telling me to
move on. Or to
at least try adjusting to
something new.

I'm thinking I'm going to be taking a break from YWP like a couple other people have decided to do. We'll see how it goes, I might not be able to do it, but I'm going to try. I'll still check in and read everyone's stuff, but I think I need to take a break for various reasons.

-Obscure

I whispered the
words so many
times inside my
head that I
forgot how I
say them. So then I
had to
whisper them aloud to
myself just to check.
When I did, when I
whispered those
words, I saw a
delay in the mirror.
My mouth was moving
too slowly and my
words too fast so
nothing was lining
up the way it
should have been.

She was telling me a
bit more about
her this afternoon.
She explained how her
conversation skills dominate so
she is left ignored and
forgotten about.
It reminded me of
you and I.
It reminded her of
lunch today.

When you are there,
despite my best
efforts, I become
nothing unless we
strike up our
own conversation.

Prelude.
I keep playing this
note, just this
one and realizing how
redundant it's sounding.
I'm realizing I know
six other notes, so many
rhythms, octaves, and variations, have
so much more to
say that I've been neglecting.
So much more that I'm going to
try and convey here:

I.
I've seen it so many times.
The jealousy.
The encroaching.
The take over.
The anger, victory, sadness, tunnel-vision.
The last time you were in
fine-form. I didn't
catch your
ready-stance--body and
mind poised for the
strike--until it was
too late. You were
already there, had pushed through the
slight discomfort I'd been
harboring in the
dark recesses of my mind.
It's not true I would
say to my pillow late at
night, willing my
paranoia to cease.
Now, though, I've spotted your
stance long before I did the
first time. I've always been a
fast learner so I've
caught on with only
one go 'round. I heard the
tell-tale words come out of
your mouth. Those slippery,
slimy words worming their way
into my life:
The only people I
ever want to hang
out with any more are
you and
her. Just like
before. So what now?

II.
I can't tell what's
creep-crawling through your
mind. I receive such
mixed messages from so
many people telling me
what you've said that I
don't know any longer;
don't know how you
feel, what you
want. Maybe until I
read your poetry or
taste your
lips on mine once again and then I
have to
wonder just how
much is going
entirely unsaid.

III.
Your note is
different because of
all the music there is between us.
This is not a
metaphor, no, this is
literal. I love how we have this
much in common, but when the
tension died and when I
know I've done the
same to you, I want the
music to
stop playing over this
distance between us.
When I think of how
wrong and
rushed I've been, I want to
slam my hands against the
wall in frustration because there's
no way I can slam my
mind there, too, let

As is this
debauched mind a
trip from the past,
you are unreal.
One tiny figment, a
muse, perhaps. One
pigment so bold and
over-reaching. Over-spanning all these
cliches. Over-stretching,
over-compensating, over-checking.
Reaching out, checking up,
and being okay with my
subtleties regardless. Being okay
enough to ask the
necessary questions. Tell me now,
what answers are you
hoping for?

I kind of
love how curious you
are about my
lack of sure companionship,
about why I didn't
ask her to go with me.
I'm kind of
scared about how
much I can imply and that I
feel as though all those
questions were tests;
your mind checking to
make sure that what your
gut's been screaming for so
long isn't true. I
think I failed.

I have reached a
tipping point:

I am where the
body meets the
cool breeze as the air
(nothingness)
gives way to
cold, hard reality.

And because I am this
(this being
where the floor meets the ceiling,
where the sky meets the water)
I can't do anything.

Even though I've been
gone and things have
shifted ever-so-slightly during that
gap, really everything's the
same and so I'm
trapped in
limbo, just waiting for someone to
push me as this
tipping point has made my
center of gravity that
unstable and my feet
that scared-plastered-fast to the
ground so I can't
do this alone.

It is funny how
similarly people think:

After you're
eighteen, after you
graduate (you
have to be
out of that
school first).

But,
but you
can't put your
life on
hold, waiting.

I spoke of
false hope, I
spoke of how,
really, it all comes
back to her.
And so I
thought of this
afternoon; I
thought of all those
damn dreams; I
thought of my
parents and how much more
ruined she would be.

On the way
home, though, I
couldn't help myself.
I invented a
new plot and as I
did, as I
experienced it
oh-so-vividly in my
mind, I felt my
brain slip down into my
throat and a strange
tide rise up from my
shoulders to crown.

Now this is
all I can
think of. What was
said: It's not
unheard of and
it could happen.

Except somewhere,
deep inside, I see that
possibility is
so slim that I
really wish false
hope wasn't
bandied about quite as
often as it
seems to be now.