our thoughts are cradled like an unexperienced parent.
our willingness to be in each others work.
to watch is to live. to live is to watch.
films speak more on how we see our worth to
others...
maybe it's the other way around.

the campus is giving 90s teen drama.
motion pictures is why we are
here.

i am the star.
no, is she. or is he. wait, it's
all of us...

it's the thought counts. it's the frames that
count. it's the thoughts that dictate the rate.

the obligation expands as some of the angels cry over
us. protecting the rest.

some scream like the students in 'cleaners'.

does the comedy make us think? or cry instead in the
seats of  
cine lawan --

Me, [insert your name here], a filmmaker. we all win
an award or two. some of us do.
we still keep creating.

my thoughts hold me in a loose trance. dancing with
me in the heat -- walking
with me the rain.

the white lady - i mean ghost- must have stopped recording since
we can here our voices again.


is the world even gonna end? says a fragile student
two rows in front of me. their back facing her
front.

it's giving blue and hidden in the dark. illuminated
by the works of art.
cinema. it's films. movies.

that a big reason i'm alive.
it's a reason to continue
even if there is not a quick
fix to life.
films give us life. or is it
the other way
around?

as the filmmakers desends into madness -
i mean their seats,
they soak the experimental footage,
red dirt sprinkled everywhere in
a ditch--
one weeps and the other takes a shot
for a share later.


everything happens because we filmed it.
thought it. cast it. documented. recorded.
edited.
distributed.

a feedback loop.

we think we know how the plot will unfold.

i see the colors from the projections even
as i look ahead. Still. Here.
I am still here as
my thoughts-

i am forever grateful i met you in this
universe.
however i still wish things were different.
i wish i could be someone different,
i wish i could be the thing that brings
a smile to your face
but not in way most people think i mean.
i wish i could be the ideal person for
your universe
even if i was, would you take that chance?
if i change everything about myself
would you take that chance?
i dream almost every night of that
different universe
where you and i live together
in a house, with our cat and dog
maybe we’re different, maybe we switched
places
maybe we even learn new things about ourselves that we never knew
our lives would be full of “maybes”
however that is not our life that we live.
our universe isn’t my ideal one
but i’ve accepted that.

She remembers
when the light
was filled
with silent ghosts.  
They would flicker in and out
in the cigarette smoke  
of the theater,  
each frame
an ashy wisp,
a burnt offering.
The story spooling out
in the air
was a familiar one.
The  sentiment
caught in her heart
and  made her cry.  
  
Years later,  
she went back,
after the smoke
was banned
and only the light
was permitted to filter.
The ghosts  
talked to her, now-
but it was no longer
a sacred thing.
There were profane words
and the noise hurt her ears.
In this night  light  
there were no  
familiar family faces.
Everything was clear,  
startling new and strange
and all the colors
too bright  for her eyes
to bear.
And it was then
she knew
she would die
in this nightmare dream.

I tell them to watch a movie- that one when the sun sets like aloe on their scalded skin, that one where after sunset, the guy kills himself. 

But I don't tell them that part, I simply lather the lotion thicker, suffocate their burn and boast about the healing powers of cinema I so humbly wish to share.

In honesty, there is little need for conviction as I so kindly spread love on their wound, proposing the perfect solution, a comforting press to the chest.

On condition, they are instructed to watch alone; travel to Ankara and snuggle beneath cloudy blue skies. They must take extra care. And under no circumstances should they tamper with the blooming blisters- they should let the summer breeze do all the work. 

They trust me, pathetically, even as the hours wane on, even as my waxy ointment melts to oily paraffin and slips far, far away from the wound. 

I doubt that they even notice, but I know that with five minutes to spare, all hope of healing will be held out of reach- especially as my soothing facade shatters beneath blinding strobes, as my fibs fade and salt sprinkles their skin with the promise of a permanent scar, fragile tissue that will surely wither with the sun for an eternity to come. 

The credits roll and so do the tears, until their cheeks are so stained, so branded with hollowness that all left to do is howl out for the end to near.

Now, they feel like I do, and we will suffer a lifetime of sorrow in unity. It makes me feel a little better.

the answering machine let out a beep
with a message soon following
just words stringing together sentences
phonetics, tongues branching the space
between syllables
not a voice, a sound decorated with an accent
created by a language that has taken
all of history to form

and i slept through it all

you can hear the transmission towers
around my house
buzz if you walk underneath them
electricity with somewhere to be
shoving breakfast in its mouth
and rushing out the door
to my neighbors and their 32 inch
flatscreen TV

and i slept through it all

the DVD player will keep replaying
the film if you don't unplug it
one continual loop all night long
scene after scene, cinematic sequences
following quickly in succession
without a hitch, without fault
one actor triggering the other
one domino falling upon another

crashing and burning

spiraled far into the nighttime
i woke up
to unfamiliar noises and unseen voices
people made of black and white splotches
projected from a box aflame with static
and i decided right then
a starring role in the world wasn't for me
falling back into sleep

the movie continued on forever
and i slept through it all

of what's a house built,
tatami mats without
figures, ghosts within walls,
haunted by the absence
of anyone of substance who calls,
ozu, can you hear me? in
these rooms of noh occupants,
transients staying only a night,
staging a performance for no audience,
except me, turning slowly to dust,
late spring in tokyo twilight,
floating weeds in an empty house,
by a projector's light.

Cut to me: tempting his anger with my white-knuckled grip and words so honest they could make a saint scream.

Cut to him: choking on his own twisted tongue and front-door fear.

Cut to me: still holding the reins of the wreckage, still not letting go-

Cut to him: saying sort yourself out, saying he’s broken women far stronger, saying anything he can to turn me against him, saying he’d pay for my own heart to be sealed.

Cut to me: a daisy in my mouth, a blackbird in my hand, a shattered window in my chest. I have this feeling that I'm not supposed to be here, I have this feeling that I’m only half-way through this story.

Cut to him: six feet tall, and each one a cellblock of quiet anguish.

Cut to me: cutting my feet on breaking branches, scraping my fingers on the rough bark of a tree. The poems don’t say anything, the tears never come. The rain falls in the wrong places, the daffodils die for the wrong reasons.

Cut to him: new job, new state, new life. Starting from scratch but still scratching at the itch that looks like me, still licking wounds from the daggers aimed at my hope that ricocheted back to his own. What does he do with his hands when he thinks of me? How does he deal with his guilt when it claws up his throat and he’s afraid to spit it out?

Cut to me: dreaming him with long hair. I don’t know where to imagine him when I imagine him; a topographic map of unknowing in my mind- an uncured landscape and rough terrain. I see him as a question mark in the wilderness; forging his own labyrinth of twisted truths and hop-scotching the minefield he planted.

Cut to him: Not really in the wilderness, probably in a condo in a mid-sized city. I think if he meets a nice girl who tags him in her Facebook posts, I’d have to **** myself.

Cut to me: demolishing the both of us, casting his secrets like seeds in the dirt, watching scandal bloom, and his character rot in the high noon sun.

Cut to me: imagining annihilation, holding his hand while leading us to slaughter, destroying us both, and having a marvelous time doing it. I’d make sure they slit my throat first; he’d have to hold me while I bleed out, stroke my face as it loses color, and tell me it’s going to be okay as I fade away.

Cut to me: doing none of these things. I don’t have it in me; when I told him I’d never hate him, I meant it. Wading through summer defanging the snakes in my belly, hoping he’s declawing the tigers in his mind. I won’t admit that I’m waiting, but the story's just half-told. Our plot is paused, and I’m sitting alone, but what if it’s merely intermission, and he’s just at the bar, getting us drinks?

Perfect images,

captured, just for a moment --


Already passed by.