Who Knows What Will Happen Next

I came home to Canby this weekend.
In what might be termed an overdue visit.
I've been crying over phones in the seats of my car
and neglecting the folding of clothes on my floor
my iambic pentameter is poor, no doubt.
but unintentional, so don't fuss or shout.
Most importantly
I can't seem to see
any flashing car lights
or noises from planes;
a simple silence of crickets pervades
I am at peace, I claim it for me -
a small step for mankind, one big step for Lyndsay.

Timshel

My mouth opened with the flare of my nose

My nose closed with the fall of my chest

My chest rose in time with my knee

My knee left a rose on my thigh

Movements may never lie.


My eyes would not believe my bones

My bones disagreed with my skin

My skin fell in love with my hair

But my hair was cut and left in the sink

Whilst I remained on the brink.

A Phone Call After Dinner

I am trying to substitute your face with this phone.
But let us be honest --
No Nokia, no Verizon 3G smart-berry has the capacity to replicate your contours.
Not even the Iphone, with its HD image capture and its smooth and silky touch screen, makes an even veritable trade.
You know, all these letters piled together can be simplified. 3GHDR2D2.... though the acronyms have taken on new meaning through repetitive cultural use, they can still be simplified into single, fully-telling words.

Accompanying your face is a name, but your name will never be able to fully tell the story of your face.
To know this story you must experience it - like one of the Spanish words for knowing. They say conocer. To know. To experience. The Spanish always understood the multiplicities of knowing far better than we.
So in the spirit of the conquistador I have held the smooth ridge of your cheek to my palm, I have wiped away tears from your eyes. As the eldest, I admit I am protective. There are pores in your cheek that I can see when I have sat across from you in the past- it reminds me that you are human and open to the world. (Though your 15 years of life would like to close itself off from everything, at times.)
I miss you, more than midnight poetry can suppose.

And for those that insist that cell phone vocabulary will never pass as poetry, my only reply is: The things you spend the most time with become part of your heart. And our heart, friends, is the only example of living poetry that we have.

Tonight my heart reflects only the screen of an Iphone, as your voice travels one hundred and ninety eight miles to fade quickly in my ear. I can't grasp it; sound has no pores. Tonight my heart reflects only a screen; smooth and without any opening to the world. It does not open to me.

There is a word in this post that isn't real

Oh girl imbued with a volatile nature!
Why do you neglect your little blog?

Some questions, dear friends, can not (or refuse to) be answered here on this 2 x 4 of internet space.
My little stake of cyber space, etched out here. 23 followers. 23 followers who subscribe to the jibbering foggy notions of a 3 am brain. March came and went, I thought it would make more of an impact this year. But I thought wrong; March is always surprisingly quick. What irony, when March finds its namesake in Mars, the god of War. Wars always take a long time. (You can argue that sentiment if you want. I admit there are loop holes. Loop holes everywhere, and I am overwhelmed with them!)

The twin's recently married friend is here, sitting on our living room couch. He is finishing out his bachelors at some  university here in Seattle, I forget which. He is a nice guy, I saw him drum in a band once in Canby before I knew him. That's when I first met the twins as well, though we would forget about that meeting (embarrassing for me) until three years later during a conversation in their house in Seattle.

I bring the married friend, Tommy, into this post because his conversation has inspired me into a bit of transparency. But, being a girl of volatile nature, that moment of inspiration is already passing. Basically I will summarize: He mentioned his new wife with such sweetness, respect, and consideration that it jolted me, for a moment, out of my stolid insistence on independence.

I would like to be considered deeply. Does that make sense? I would like some one to ask me questions and actually want an answer. So many people, and I am guilty of this too, flush out so much information via the web and life in general. Tumblr, Tweets, whatever. It's the mating call of the 21st century. Look at this video, look at this picture, look at this thought I'm thinking. Cute, right? Date me.

Goodness I have been going over this thought a lot lately. I want to keep going, but I'm going to let it alone for now because I have an 8:00 tomorrow. It is possible that I have been conceptualizing a lot lately, and am just realizing it. Maybe thats why I haven't been posting. Too much time has been going into generating thoughts, very little into writing them down.

But who cares about this, right? Whenever I tell people that I blog, (There I go, flushing out information again.) the response is always, "Oh I could never blog - no one would want to read what I'm thinking or doing - how boring for them!" Then we chuckle and I insist it isn't true and life goes on. But really those instances are always downers. What did I say in this post? What have you gained from this? 23 readers, forced to tag their names onto a mass of ever-evolving, well-intentioned bullshit.

But I love it. I won't stop. This is for me, not you. Get over it.

Oh lonely girl in your Seattle apartment,
Your getting lazy and translucent in your blog writing.