This is my first blog about the wedding. Candi’s done the entire coordination, and I’ve attempted to be her support and listening ear.

The preparation for a lifelong journey’s one-momented prefix is very stressful. I never thought we would have to arrange such minor additions or necessities to make the ceremony seamless. That could be a metaphor to describe the emotions, too. From candles, an aisle runner, the floral arrangements, and the dress & tux (which are for our ceremony), to the table favors, the catering, the music, and the seating chart (which are for your celebration of us), this process is as dynamic and fluid as it is streamlined and hackneyed. Enough so that we purchased a planning book, but have done most things without its assistance.

Candi works exclusively with each vendor, which helps in ironing out small details as well as with budgetting. She’s not splurged twice, just once on the cakes, and has met some of the most wonderful people, who worked with us to make the day so special and personal (I will revise this with their names and websites).

I really admire and love Candi, and her determination and ability to stay grounded and sane in the most confusing, stress-filled, emotional, and wonderful times has reminded me each day how much and how much more I continue to love her.

beauty, you,

beauty, you,

smile on softest neck

adorned in strands of gold

lay fair from crown, a princess, wears

can’t sleep.

fall asleep for 2 hours, wake up, and stay awake another 4.  should i go back to sleep, or take another nap in 6, or just lay on my back until the ceiling resembles stars, the mini-mountains, shadowed, showing some mark of a stabled/stationary existence, but i know, with a pinch/apush/aslightbrushing, they will fall/willcrumble, as all do, eventually.. and where do they go, these fallen remnants of a ceiling, of what is oft-seen by night, now hidden within the sheets/the carpet/behind the desk?  and what of them now?  what of them then?  what if the vaccuum picks them and places them, distanced, from their origination?.. though, the ceiling is hardly their origin.  no, they were before the ceiling/the mold from which they hung in right fashion, though they belonged elsewhere.. perhaps the plaster next were used in mold of bust, of carvings, gone through with care by wretched artist, fumbling to be known/recognized/understood as other than a simple chipper of a mound?  the tv calls, and i, weak/a weektomydebts, i look down from these words, in shame, and pray, though rarely i do, pray they be a remembrance of these noble stalactites, fashioned to be 'bove, as, in art or placement, they, through careful hands or swift swipings of a brush so used, they, in fall or stance, so known as more, as though they majesty's fractal musings, left/or placed/or 'signed to be, are beauty, they, those/these landers from unknown, stars, but shining shadow 'pon their selves, as do most in wait of notice, though so purposed they may be

without you, i thought

without you, i thought

the world wouldn't

spin so much

 

and after all the tiltings,

you're so far away

and i can't stop tipping

to the walls as they pass

 

all these victories, yesterdays,

we never saw this coming

but you knew all along

and so did i/

we knew all along

these would be mem'ries some

 

day

yeah, so, you always hear about Love, about This, about That, about whatever pops into someone’s head

yeah, so, you always hear about Love, about This, about That, about whatever pops into someone's head and, well, it's now my turn, and i'm pretty sure that no one wants to hear/wants to read what i have to say about the subject, seeing as how i have non to speak of, but i think you'd like to hear another take on it, on Love.

 

Love is jealousy.  Love is atonement.  Love is forgetting to be remembered and to feel horrible for it.  Love is losing, because you can only gain from there.  Love is the brushings of a musing, of a word, of a wind, so far off you don't know it's a reality until you're missing it and you're drying up and you have no way to keep warm, to keep cool, to stay 'just right' or to know when such a thing exists.

 

Love

i have nothing but words

i have nothing but words

and the breath about me

and the slow-caress of a wrap of wind from palms to brow, to nostrils,

reluctant to divert the path to me, when so much needs more

than i let slip by

but this, these, those

grow on and inspire me, as does the Sun, as do her Shadows, The Land,

both l'quid and moving,

so tectonics are inside and show the overlappings well deserved are

but shifts, so needed to allow the revolutions to persist

Mrs. Ary. Liz. Jakema. Valencia. Mrs. Mary. The Mother,

Mrs. Ary.

Liz.

Jakema.

Valencia.

Mrs. Mary.

The Mother, Protector of Her Child.

 

I'm sorry to have forgotten names.

 

These women, soldiers of the laughter, they are the life of happiness.  They are the workers, the gears from which turns are made and measured by.  They are the ones, the team, the outlook of a life in ordinary, not as a measure of value, but of values, of worth, of a life of drive in something other than in the words.

Misty

Misty

 

Porcelain royalty,

Iron-haired maiden,

Sloped to see those

in front/beside/by her tips'o'toes

and all in smile, widing grin

through which happy air follows in

with every love comes

with every love comes questions of whether or not you are true for one another.  with sarah, i once used the term 'loath' inappropriately, telling her, "i loath you," believing it to mean a sincere and extremity of love.  i realized afterward, quite soon afterward, and that instance has carried itself rather far within this cave of thought.

 

the reason i say that is, just now, i believed myself wrong in using the term 'enamored' with Diana, and, though i somehow felt it was the core of feeling, i was unsure as to its true and proper meaning.  having found the word to be, at root, "to inspire with love; captivate," i believe there may be a meaning to this i'm not yet aware of.  perhaps, as my mind works in opposites and intervals of sparse recognition and sporadic order, perhaps i've found to be in love with sarah and quite distended with Diana, though i know not why, other than a lack of knowledge of her physical life.  that plays heavy on this soul, as the lack of knowledge of attendees at an arena may play heavy on the flow of a battle amongst those on a court.. the constant sway of banter, chatter, chants and raddled spectators an almost overwhelming flush of thought for warriors who would, without hesitance, be completely fine otherwise, if no such media were represented, or internalized fight found to match the aggression upon the floor.  bad analogy.  i don't know her intentions, nor her abilities to carry out those intentions, nor her desire to.  i know what she allows me, that she will always be smiling, in some way, and, if not, i shall allow her the pleasure to.  it's hard, being so distant, so– away– from her, with but the strokings of a key'd board and the wit split-forth, a try of protection, and a try of progression.  one knows not how far one may go to be within the company of another, but one may fight, may give and take all given, to know another in ways uncomprehended by the distance, by the lack of physical structure to a relationship.. even if topped and seeping forth great amounts of feeling, those feelings are but placed upon a screen, electrically charged, both from mind, from body, and from socket and cable.  this nose twitches to beg me find an answer, or is it to show me i already know and need a question?  it's stopped.  i must have said something wrong.  you're still there, though, enlighting me.  the pressure, the collapse of thought upon itself, drives a longing deep within the pit of being to expose and let wade within the breathe'ings of these souls your quest within my vessel, tied tightly      with your goals

underestimated, as not human may feel without distance or inclusion, great observer they may be

Katie was always my anti-hero.

Katie was always my anti-hero.  My protagonist, as I was the antagonist.  She would harass me, I her, and all around would know and feel this.  She pinched, I choked.  She slapped, I held.  I love her.  She is the reason for so much of my life to be happiness.

 

Mom was always the anchor.  Katie and I sailors, the House a ship, school a land we ferried to and from, and Mom was our anchor.  We would come home from school, go our separate ways (Katie off to wherever she wanted, usually a friend's, while I stayed and talked with Tina, rather often, or went to the computer.), we would wait for Mom, and have dinner, watch TV, and go to sleep.  Mom obtained for us a life we would not have seen had she not given to us what she did:  Knowledge, foresight, responsibility, morals, all of these were left to stay, boiling on our minds, only to sink in later and to stick to the bottom of our awareness.  She knew.  Somehow, she knew we would be upstanding citizens.  Yes, potheads, artists, designers, writers.  She knew.  She gave those to us, not through addition, but through augmentation.  She saw us acquire as we did, and handed us an open hand with enough insight to allow us to roam, freely, upon the plain.. to fill the land with thought, with buildings, trees, plants, companions.  She knew.  Gone, now, is who I was:  The stubborn child, being hauled away, shouting, "I WILL SUE YOU!" to the daycare personnel; the obnoxious beast, whose only means of fun was harping on others; the anxious, often excitable and yet reluctant child, whose temper flared as would a mercury thermometer on an open flame; the shy, the terribly shy.  I am still those, yet I am traveled.  I am carried, onward, as though a step away and a step toward those, and myself.  Mom knows a discussion about her would eventually lead to goings-on in regards to myself.  She allows me to be selfish, to be self-centered, self-aware, self-unconscious.  She is as an addition now, an augmentation of thought, a conscience whose identity is fully known, recognized, yet understood as being completely free of any bonds of limits placed; she may be emotional, running her eyes as her thoughts, leaking over her hands, or she may be flared, raised, intolerant of those who do not understand as she does, yet she loves them so.  She is Mary, Mother, Guidance of Self from Tormented/Anger/Unruly toward Seclusion/Personal/Disciplined in bulldog's way.. not outright, but fully delved to what need be done/what we need to have done.  She deserves more.

and the droppings, buckets poured, smell of ringings, washings, more,

and the droppings, buckets poured, smell of ringings, washings, more, to these ears, unfollied in their search for you

 

plip

upon the screen,

the window, bare but dotted, sprayed,

lays, in hurried fashion, another

to be dried by sun,

though its mission, sentence,

rings true

 

thank you.

Her Breeze And The Boy

she smiled.

he felt her lips widen, stretch,

part as those nostrils flared

for her to breathe.

 

he sighed/he took her inside,

her breath, and held

to fall the chest

and release to her

his lungs.

 

she turned her head,

chin toward him, eyes

down to see him,

from her side, and

she showed her tongue/her throat,

open-to-welcome him, and

he smiled.

from dusty orange to water/island blue

from dusty orange to
water/island blue with
wavey-white wisps, wandering
in the suspended, Starlit sky..

beetle’d-bone white
to
smokey’d quartz..

how do you describe
the back-bone’d cloud,
the forest-picked cotton/
naked
but the bare’d-white scoops found
missing cone for stick?

how do you describe
the damn:bright sun,
that face seen/
burnt to ‘lids’ memory
and nights’ wont?

that feeling– the

that feeling– the
warmth/numb of skin under self–
how
nerve folds,
burning/
casting in for fear of char–
that breath/
stagnant,
waiting
for tide of motion to sooth/to part its
wake–
that silence,
boiling steady in simmer’d spot
so distant as to be unreachable yet
scarring to touch–
what
lies upon this wind in making fragrance/heat
a palpable taste of something/
of lightened air
in rub of ‘neath?