CultureFilter

to death … to death. (wip)

not wind — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 01:45:01 +0000

Whiskey. Willie. Your god damned hanging on.
You look at empty spaces just as you look at me.
Nothing. Then Someth … No. Nothing.

Go on. Go. Please.
For your loving wife.
For your daughter. On the edge of a cliff.
For you. Most of all. For you.

To death, Father. To death.
I love you. To death.

some sketches….

not wind — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 01:38:51 +0000

No affliction is so great
As the twisting tight
Of a bed without your lover.

Her slippers by the door
A strand of her hair resting on the empty pillow
The nest of blankets often put to the side
now wrap me in my solitude.

———

Lurching, suspended over chill depths,
I ponder my monolith.

Smooth and warm and heaven to touch, my monolith
Housed in the body of My Love, breathes and lives.

———

Lest I be Restless.

msloren — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 20:14:34 +0000

A girl in athletic gear bounded up the walkway to a derelict indisposed. I watched her bend over a vagrant, hover closely over him, speaking to him as if trying to rouse an intimate friend. Fruitless efforts to incite motivation. There were gimmicks, rolls, murmurs, coughs, cackling, bitching and moaning. There were people watching people people-watching, digesting, and the on and off again diatribes against the virtue of being nice. There were those in philanthropic costume trading art for your age, those with clipboards that registered the palms of voters past. Some were vying for your attention and some hoping you never acknowledge their presence.

In this space abound with energy I find myself undergoing a mild sensory overdose trying to cultivate an inauspicious attitude. I am imbued with irritation. I failed to adjust. Chain A and franchise B have not enough room in too much manufactured ambiance. After three laps around the track, I’m finally offered a shred of reprieve and just when I start click-clacking it’s already time to uproot myself and move on to be another person in line who can cross one more thing off a never-ending to-do list.

My first time.

msloren — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 19:10:15 +0000

Everyone remembers their first time. Not necessarily for everything, but for something. I remember the first time I drank a beer. It was 10.13.95. I was 18 and it was at a University of Miami frat party. Not my first frat party or college party, mind you, but my first beer and first sip of any alcoholic beverage of any kind for that matter. I only had one that night, but have had a substantial many since. That was incidentally the night of my first time being “buzzed” as well (Yes, off of only one beer).

I remember my first cd (Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation), my first concert (NKOTB), and my first time crowd-surfing (Violent Femmes). I remember my first crush (in kindergarten!), my first kiss (in high school), and the first time I laid eyes on the love of my life (10.09.08). This is the first time I’ve lived in New York. I’m in the midst of my first “real” winter ever, complete with snow on barren tree branches and watching people shovel sidewalks clear. The first time I actually saw snow fall was in Saginaw, Michigan after the first time I tried to “runaway from home” (No, I didn’t have a hobo stick with a bag tied to the end of it). Welcome to my first blog post. My first name is legally Lorena Maria, but you can just call me Loren.

Passing over the Williamsburg Bridge (wip)

not wind — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 15:18:40 +0000

Passing East to West to East Side
We’re always East or West of Somewhere

Delineations, small bits and digits
to give us comfort.

I’m East.

I’m West.

I’m I. Comfort.

Here, I say, take this finger. It’s a digit, too.

No thanks, you say, it’s shriveled and smells funny.

That’s true, I say. But that means its precious. One day we’ll be shriveled and smell funny, too and they’ll put us in fancy boxes or jars. They’ll throw flowers on us and bury us like squirrels.

Arriving to my East - my beloved East Side.
Vertical Ghettos bleed into the horizon.

The Teeth (work in progress)

not wind — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 13:16:42 +0000

Perfect moments. Quiet walks through parks, Central and Hyde.
Remembrances and visions of ghosts.
The void was plain in those spaces and I embraced it as though it was the time of my death.
Death. Embrace of the void. Acceptance most plain and final and joyous.
We are nothing. We are everything. We are all and none and in between.

We drank and wept that night.

You wept for your missing Father. Last seen with Cancer.
Strong Bull of a Patriarch humbled and hobbled.
Your hobbled and humbled state mere hours from its appearance. It began instantly.
No water needed just time and drudgery. Regrets and realizations.
Prisons.

I wept for Perfect Moments. First kisses. Doomed Loves.
Weights still heavy on my mind.
The Lost Swede, coy and insanely passionate on the floor of her flat.
The Bird on Sauber’s lawn, young and insatiate.
Lady K, explosive and unexpected. Neon and electro.
Where are you all now? With lovers more correct or better hung or less broding, doting, attentive?
Less troubled, humbled and conscious of the whats? What whats?
Exactly.

But you had sympahy for me. My ragged drunkeness and pain
of lack-love laid bare before you.
We sang out loud. Father and Son together singing out our pain and longing - Singing Willie Nelson, prince of the blues
Genius of longing. …

Eulogy for a Friendship

not wind — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 23:32:10 +0000

Shield and Armour - Mask of Order peeling away, blistered failing paint
And beneath, the rust and essence, hairy-naked-madness, lusty passion and lonesome Honesty

Broken, mumbling, solitary Honesty
smiling with broken teeth, arrestingly beautiful and stinking

I pray to my God - bent low, prostrate before It, pleading, laughing
Crying for audience - Please God! Stab my Loves to death! Smite them with terrible holy hands!
And I stab them too - with damned logic, damned reason, damned alcohol and damned bitterness.

But somehow my Loves survive
Malignant gorgeous mushrooms, passions turned in on themselves - the perfect inverse!
Hate! Anger! Rancor! The Worms of Hurt and Heartache!

You - Born on the 4th of July but no patriot
No allegiance to anything or anyone - not even truth! Not even Truth! Not even Honesty - earnest and misguided!

But no matter - now I pause with my knives and turn to memories
Memories denied, forbidden, concealed beneath our wreckage.

There is pleasant-ness in that flotsam, small and timid
Lurking like a beaten child denied toys - without the imagination or will for new games

Holy Fuck! The Dust and Ash!
The Dust and Ash of dead friendship, camaraderie wasted on lust, compulsion, instinct, bald-headed ignorance needing a bath!

Horse fetus kicked and killed and buried, these are your words, only to be exhumed and kicked some more. Furiously.

Verbose rantings into the void, eloquent destruction until only the dust itself is beaten and clouds of it billow about choking us both, covering feet weary from running, clogging nostrils, poisoning lungs until they can no longer draw breath to speak!

And now we don’t speak and we haven’t and I suppose we never will again, my dusty friend.

Brush yourself off. You need a bath.

Untitled (work in progress)

not wind — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 22:16:48 +0000

Taking off
Solo Trip

Mission? Find.
Query Unknown

Meeting dawn
Speeding East

London town
First impressions

Wandering Thames
Riding Tube

Pub pints
English fare

Cured trout
Irish breakfast

Double espresso
Short muscato

Hyde Park
Perfect Moment

Reconciliation (work in progress)

not wind — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 16:14:17 +0000

Reconcile all suffering
And temper it with Hope
This is the effort of all people
Both Awake and asleep

…

Trip Home to PA

not wind — Fri, 21 Sep 2007 06:15:09 +0000