(I) do not stay up late
because I (am) not tired.
I like sleeping,
but I cannot stop (thinking)
(about) how little time there is left
and I know (you) are almost
out of my reach.

-kk

I often sneak out at night
and stand alone in the deserted street
the air almost as crisp as my loneliness severe
and soak in the beauty that is the world
standing still
completely motionless
from my perspective.
A world so noiseless that it leaves an echo
of silence in my ears
and quiet becomes a sound.
Every problem that attacks my mind at day
dissolves into the velvet sky
nothing matters
everyone is sleeping
vulnerable and at peace.
I feel a connection with my surroundings
and for a small moment
I get a glimpse of tranquility
that cannot be described
with any combination
of a meager 26 letters.

-kk

sharing a spot of brilliance with you
yes, it will touch your internals
only if you want it to*


Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the ******. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”                       ― Rosemarie Urquico








S T, 5 July 2013

One skin.

Two bodies,
But
One skin.

When you weep,
Salt tastes my lips.

When you draw me,
Our one skin
Thickens.

When you read to me,
Because it is you,
I hear every word silently,
For when your eyes
Acquire them,
So do I.

Your thoughts are
My thoughts,
Mine, yours.

So we speak but little,
But love each other
Quietly, with much fanfare.

And

When you write,
It as if you write upon our
One skin,
For I am your tablet,
Your sole/sol/soul composition.

So stop kissing me
and
Write upon us.

7/7/8:00am

If I had  a daughter,
I would tell her this-
"Never lose your strength baby girl,
Always respect yourself enough to walk away
From anything or one that makes you unhappy
Walk away in combat boots or stiletto heels."
I would tell her,
"Always travel light, don’t ever be weighed down by all
The burdens life will make you carry
And if you struggle sometimes don’t worry because
Your mama will always be behind you with a purse
Big enough to hold some of them for you."
I would tell her,
"Always keep your heart on your sleeve
And after that teenage boy rips it off time and time again
Don’t worry because mama will always keep on hers
A needle and thread to sew it back on."
And, "Either way Papa's a straight shot."
I would tell her,
"Baby girl when things get rough,
When you’re down and getting back up seems
Impossible and you’re feeling low and you're feeling stuck
You can always reach for my hand if you need it
Even though I know you don’t."
And I know she’ll remember how strong she really is
How beautiful in everyway she grew up to be
And when the same people that pushed her down
Tried to again-
She would tell them,
"You know, you should really talk to my mother."

The Baker boy down the street is a peculiar thing. His book bag is a familiar sight around town, its red and aged with dirt, it’s anchored to his back by brown straps that are torn and excrete small little tuffs of white stuffing. Like the kind you’d find inside a teddy bear. The large front pocket is scribbled with poorly drawn cartoonish characters. Doodles one could assume to be depictions of imaginary friends and by the boy’s sheepish and largely odd demeanor one could also assume these imaginary friends were probably spawned by the lack of real ones. The boy’s book bag is more familiar than the boy. If only because his face solely exists in a light tan hoodie too close in color to the completion of his skin to readily differentiate between the two. Either way, the Baker boy usually always has his head down, this allows for a small ***** in his posture that pushes his book bag up to the very top of his back, making it very prominent, making it something like a substitute for a head. People started recognizing his book bag as the boy himself. In their minds they could see it as clearly as they could the faces of their own children, spouses, close friends. They gave his book bag the same recognition and remembrance of aesthetic value as one would give to the details of a face. They notice quickly and with the same concentration a new rip in his straps as they would a pimple on someone’s chin. He never spoke. Not to anyone. Not a word. The kind of recognition given to a person’s voice with whom you are familiar is a sign of their presence in your world, a kind of confirmation of their existence other than their physical self. The Baker boy used a sound instead, lacking a voice. The specific sound the Baker boy used to validate his existence in our town sounded like the soft scratching of an itch, a repetitive petting of his book bag strap that marked conscious thoughts from underneath a silent exterior. He did this when he was nervous, or if he felt he was being prompted to speak. A repetitive thumbing of his book bag straps.