you and I
could make a sunrise
stand next to the window
the sun will hit your body
and we will watch it crawl across your skin
untill the sun sets
or you aren't there any more

Breakfast Song

My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue.
I kiss your funny face,
your coffee-flavored mouth.
Last night I slept with you.
Today I love you so
how can I bear to go
(as soon I must, I know)
to bed with ugly death
in that cold, filthy place,
to sleep there without you,
without the easy breath
and nightlong, limblong warmth
I've grown accustomed to?
--Nobody wants to die;
tell me it is a lie!
But no, I know it's true.
It's just the common case;
there's nothing one can do.
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue
early and instant blue.

Histories

Great Grand Parents

Francesca Woodman

Pigeon

unlit sunbeams
kiss your eyes
yet to find their fire

there is nothing left
but the sparks
from that long walk home

eyes dimming
memories like glass

memento mori

Its cold.

i promise you summer, i'll see you again. love always -c

 

check out other endeavors, artists, and talks at the university of toronto here

in the ground

 

1 of 6

 

2 of 6

afterthoughts

 

Be passion

and compassion

there was nothing left for lust

And in this once

forgotten room

                                                           bodies whisper away the dust

The Map

Land lies in water; it is shadowed green.
Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges
showing the line of long sea-weeded ledges
where weeds hang to the simple blue from green.
Or does the land lean down to lift the sea from under,
drawing it unperturbed around itself?
Along the fine tan sandy shelf
is the land tugging at the sea from under?


The shadow of Newfoundland lies flat and still.
Labrador's yellow, where the moony Eskimo
has oiled it. We can stroke these lovely bays,
under a glass as if they were expected to blossom,
or as if to provide a clean cage for invisible fish.
The names of seashore towns run out to sea,
the names of cities cross the neighboring mountains
--the printer here experiencing the same excitement
as when emotion too far exceeds its cause.
These peninsulas take the water between thumb and finger
like women feeling for the smoothness of yard-goods.

Mapped waters are more quiet than the land is,
lending the land their waves' own conformation:
and Norway's hare runs south in agitation,
profiles investigate the sea, where land is.
Are they assigned, or can the countries pick their colors?
--What suits the character or the native waters best.
Topography displays no favorites; North's as near as West.
More delicate than the historians' are the map-makers' colors.

 Elizabeth Bishop

In the Lost and Found

intimacies and lost connections

lost hope and lost intentions

forgotten pasts

remembered fractions

lost and found

found attractions

                                  1816
                                    STANZAS
                         ("IN DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER")
                                 by John Keats
STANZAS

                      I.

        In drear-nighted December,
            Too happy, happy tree,
        Thy branches ne'er remember
            Their green felicity:
          The north cannot undo them,
          With a sleety whistle through them;
          Nor frozen thawings glue them
              From budding at the prime.

                     II.

        In drear-nighted December,
            Too happy, happy brook,
        Thy bubblings ne'er remember
            Apollo's summer look;
          But with a sweet forgetting,
          They stay their crystal fretting,
          Never, never petting
              About the frozen time.

                    III.

        Ah! would 'twere so with many
            A gentle girl and boy!
        But were there ever any
            Writh'd not of passed joy?
          The feel of not to feel it,
          When there is none to heal it,
          Nor numbed sense to steel it,
              Was never said in rhyme.

                        THE END

bodies

i love you as i love...

baudelaire

morning light

Its just passed dawn
And already, you’ve closed your eyes
What is it your so afraid of seeing
Light

The sun will set in its own time
Again
It stopped caring if your eyes were closed long before you were born
Try and wake up again

unlearned

I want to think absolutely nothing of you
nothing
your lips meaningless

the places they have touched
and were only meant for you
never felt
the words, that played with your tongue

I want your eyes to never see me
so I will never see you
and remember to forget
for you have never touched me
and I have never felt

summer skies and joy rides

summer

Life

So listen to this fleeting world:
A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.

-Diamond Sutra