On the Merits of Silence

A soft rapping on the door
turns to a frantic knock;
a pounding in your head
and a vibration in the wood.

Now memories are stuffed
like ill-fitting clothing
into cramped drawers,
spilling at the edges,
painting a perfect picture
of domestic living.

A soft breeze in your hair
turns to a violent wind,
a wind that fractures temples
and crumbles ancient cities.

You sip water from a
fragile, pellucid glass
filled with tiny ice cubes
and watch the city turn to dust,
spotting an arm here or a leg there
of the heavy marble statues
protruding from the sand.

All this is observed
in silence,
a deep void filling the air
like the bottom of a clear lake.

And the pillars fall
with no witness
to the sound
since there is none.
And you smile because
your careful taciturnity proves
to be a blessing
and finally, mercifully,
the knocking stops.

Avalanche

Slow down, slow down
Start from the beginning
But not the very beginning
With silence and a whimper
And the pinprick of light
That became the ocean in your iris
And the salt water in your eyes

Slow down, slow down
Don't lie anymore
When the mountains are crowns
We could always sleep
In the rubble
And when the avalanche comes
We'll cross our fingers
Behind our backs

Slow down, slow down
There is so much less
Oxygen here
And if we can't breathe
We could always dance
Under five feet of snow
And you can take your time
To learn the steps.

Feast or Famine

Summer entices. 

The way she glitters with half closed eyes and hazy visions of sunsets over lakes. The frigid, unapologetic splash of water and ever-present sound of feet hitting ground and laughter tinkling in the background like the bell on a cat's collar. She beckons. With her empty, relaxing days waiting to be filled with equal parts merriment and meditation; her promise of late mornings and even later nights edged with soft liquor and the closeness of friends. 

Summer entices, yet I can't seem to grasp her hand. 

I can spend all day doing nothing, if nothing means reading and listening to the familiar crooning of the Tragically Hip; if nothing means jumping on every shift at the humane society so I have something to do; if nothing means eating snacks just because I'm bored; if nothing means convincing myself that I'm not upset, that I just need a walk, that I'm fine, I'm fine. 

It's frustrating because for the rest of the year I'm so busy that I hardly have a moment to sit down, a moment to myself, but then summer comes around and I have all the moments in the world. Both scenarios are unsatisfactory. I'm grasping for that middle area, that place where I'm busy enough that I don't feel depressed but relaxed enough that I don't have a panic attack. My grandma said to me over the phone, "as I always say, it's either feast or famine." I haven't found that place yet, and maybe that's why I can't quite grasp summer's hand. I'm just holding onto her pinky finger.

Summer is soft skin, dark skies, and fireworks. I lay down staring at my phone, wondering if I should call my friends and if they would even want to hear me complain. Summer is a shout that fills the space, a beaming sun and even brighter smile. I sit on the subway, on my way to the humane society, happy to be going somewhere, sunlight hitting my face and a smile curling on my lips, faint. I feel battered by lofty expectations that have been freshly crushed. 

I used to think that seeing a radio show host's face would shatter the illusion and I wouldn't be able to listen to the show any longer. I would try to imagine what they look like, creating elaborate characters in my head. These characters felt right, they felt real while attached to this person, this disembodied voice. Strangely, nobody ever looks like how they sound. 

Part of me wants to go back to childhood summers. Eating nectarines with mouth wide open, juice trickling down dirty elbows. Pencil drawings of rabbits and strawberries. Birds chirping, owls hooting in the dead of afternoon, well maybe it was the evening when the sun was setting, wind chimes... chiming. Scrunching up my nose as a dollop of cold sunscreen is smoothed over my skin. My grandma cocooning me in bed for my afternoon nap, singing songs and telling stories that I know by heart. It's not simple anymore. Every bone and vein in my body says that it should be, that I'm fine. I imagine a man taking a drag from a joint with the absolute air of nonchalance and musing, "it's a dog eat dog world, man." My fingers slowly type a short text inviting my friends to go to the beach sometime, half expecting them to be busy.

As my grandma always says, it's either feast or famine.

Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years

You told me that it was a feeling, unprecedented. That I had to grin and bear it before I touched the grass beneath my feet and it would be electric, not muddy. I think I found that feeling in a gritty video of Matt Good playing Tripoli in his apartment to a bright-eyed audience of 20 people. Maybe I'm just a kid, but I could have cried.

The thing is, the young don't understand the young. The old don't understand the young, either - but the truth is that we're all the same; we're all just not what we're chocked up to be. There's an empty throne in the sand and ants have colonized it. If the world is a town, then what is the universe? A city? To me it's all rocks and rubble. It belongs to the ants. 

I gently rubbed a cat's belly, purrs seeping from her like warm chocolate. As her tiny paw rested on mind, claws carefully sheathed, I suddenly felt the utter vulnerability of this animal, completely submissive and trusting; the cat, a receiver of energy. It was beautiful. I didn't understand this cat, she didn't understand me - but she loved. In the present, she loved - and that was all that mattered, past and future disregarded. She could have decided in the next moment that she didn't love me and decided instead that biting my hand was worthwhile - but I would roll that dice. It's funny - I have always known it isn't possible but I like to believe that I can somehow influence the number that comes up on the dice by shaking and rolling it a certain way. 

You told me that life is more than vices and virtues. That it ain't all beauty but poetry. I told you that I knew that already, but really I just thought that you were trying to justify. Your hypocrisy slapped me in the face, leaving a stinging red mark on my cheek. But I forgave you. Time and time again, because time is honey and I'm a honeycomb. This is what the young are like.

I feel too much to think. I feel too much to be young. I thrive on my intellect but it's my emotion that makes me live. I can eat hummus at 10pm because this is the most individualistic time of my life. I'm not one for moral realism, but I never did read the Bible. 

Life has scaled down. It's a delicate Victorian miniature, painted with an ivory brush. I realize now that fulfillment isn't the peak of the mountain, it's carving a crevice in the side with your bare hands and sleeping there. That's what the young are like. 

You told me it was worth it, and I believed you. 

Where has my head gone?

Well I felt it slip away