Bones in the rye field they sang, brittle stems of iron spreading leaves of
rust
A hidden look in watery eyes, secret sickness, ripping my guts
asunder
That space between midnight and morning when the world has been reduced
to monotone
In the blue-gray lucidity we sit, absorbed in cigarettes and gusting
wind
A few notes of Satie and I’m sitting in that blue room again, bamboo out the
window
Your voice like a finger running up my spine, singing to me, drowned out by
spring showers
Clay pots on the shelves, wilted sunflowers on the floor, grass pushing its way
through the floorboards
I step into falling rain, dream of sleep, dream of nothing, the blankness between
wakefulness
Hands carrying the scars of a thousand days, much like the day before, unconscious of
its passing
In tired two syllable words we exchange our hearts
In smiling kisses we pass each other breath, fresh like fertile ground split by
rugged plow
Black and white photographs in odd fitting drawers with cheap brass
handles
A pocket watch carried by many men before me, strewn upon stained counters
and newspaper clippings
I will these tired eyes to come to their senses, absorbed in a single word in a single
line
Losing their focus for minutes at a time, the sensation of drifting, the feeling of
fading
Like watercolor or lines in well-trod earth, shuffled into meaningless
harmonics
I still miss the sound of your violin, though you thought no one listened through
that ***** window
Scraps of Scriabin and Brahms, your symphonies saved me many a night
Such frail hands and white scalp, but you did not shake when bow met
fingers
Those nights of cheap Merlot, secretly stealing a moment of calm from your
skilled hands
The records never quite rivaled those nights, my unknown
friend

The trouble with Buddhism ?-- in order to free oneself of all desire, one has to desire to do so.
Henry Miller




Alexander Nikolayevich Scriabin


‘To think is to exaggerate.’ — Valéry

endurance is frequently a form of indecision.
princess elizabeth bibseco

I had a dream and I was laying on the grass of a football field with a girl. we were just talking. I asked her who her favorite composer was and she replied "Mary lou Williams" I had no idea who that was and had never her that name before, I lean over and say "I have to check her out" she said, "Yeah, we can do that, you'll be in love", she asked me the same, I replied "Alexander Scriabin". She said, "I love his work, he was before his time and completely underrated" That was the first time I felt that feeling. You know that feeling when you don't feel completely different because someone knew what you were talking about... That feeling.

While sitting there, This guy walked onto the field and into the stands and asked if we could listen to him conduct and we said, "yeah". He puts his stand in place, raised his baton and began to tell us that people had called the piece "the Planets" but it wasn't holst, her and I looked at each other, looked at him then closed our eyes while he struck the downbeat to what reminded me of the StarWars opening mixed with Jupiter but Holst. She leaned in and I did the same. My heart was beating so fast... then my grandmother woke me up to tell me that there was still BBQ chicken from last night if was still hungry...  YEP

I just broke my arm,
   playing songs with no melodies
   motifs like lizard scales.
I just broke my arm,
   remembering where my fingers go
   bass on ivory like Scriabin at midnight.
I just broke my arm,
   dancing to crumbled up manuscripts
   timbre so soft like bags of nails.
I just broke my arm,
   singing sweet tragedies off key
   ostinatos like "I told you so's" from a book I didn't read.
I just broke my arm,
   begging for answers
   arco off strings like hate off the tongues of babes.
I just need help
I just want sight
I just...
I just...

i don't want each month to
become a benchmark
i can already feel
myself like a steel stiletto
scrawling each day off

anxiously waiting for time
to heal when it's only been
the tick of a metronome to
Scriabin's best

holding the slick undone
slivers of myself together
as wet kindling, an offering
that I hardly know how to give.

You have to give yourself permission.
You said that once, I remember it clearly.
I remember you saying that. Right in the middle of one of those many episodes I had.
You know,
One of those episodes where I sat at the table.
Shaking my leg,
Hunched over my journal.
You remember the one:
It's that journal I have that looks like an old Islamic prayer book.
Complete with geometric patterns embossed on the front, machine painted, with a lock on its side.
That lock, that doesn't really lock.
It keeps itself shut through intimidation.

You and the book have so much in common: maybe it's your sister.
Or something like your sister. Of the same blood, of the same mother, but maybe of different fathers.
That's not the point though. It doesn't really matter.
But I remember it well.
Even though it never actually happened.

Really, it was just part of a dream. Whether it was a dream I had during the day, or one at night like everyone else has at some point in their lives.
It  
Doesn't  
Matter.

It's just, I remember it well.
Like it actually happened.

Maybe by thinking about it this way...
It did.
Like telepathic communication, or reading my "energies", or something else that can't be proven beyond a feeling.
Maybe in this dream... You were there.
Not as an extension of my subconscious desire,
but like you were physically there.
My brain interpreting the electrical signals of you being right in front of me.
Kind of like your picture that shows up on my phone when you call.
Existing, but encased in memory, not reaching out.

But really, you couldn't have been there.
You were only present in these dreams.
Comforting me there, taking my hands, speaking softly into my ears.
In real life, I knew that was impossible.
You could see nothing, through my eyes.
You could never be that close for long.
I guess it hurt you in a way, I couldn't see. But,
I wanted you there.

But lets go back. Let's not get discouraged. Let me remember what you said in that dream, where one detail is always left out.
What was it you were saying? It seemed very important.
And I can't help but feel the memory I have, is counterfeit.
Because I'm a man, who questions my motives.
And you being there, seems so clear. Like it had to have happened.

So let's recap: there we were, in the car, staring at the city lights. Scriabin's Piano Sonata 6, blaring through the stereo. This scene always seems to cut out, right at this point. Your hand was gripping my own. Your fingers, lightly caressing my skin. My heart was racing, I looked at your eyes and said: "What's next?"
Your hand reached up, brushed my cheek. Our embrace moving closer and closer. Your hair, resting softly with my fingers moving through.

                                                                             (End Scene)
What am I giving myself permission for?
                                                                             (Silence)

Alexander Scriabin - Poeme Op. 32 # 1

The young man sits down to play, impressed his date wants to hear him play a piece so close to his heart.

Nervous he breathes, praying that he remembers it well enough to amaze her. His fingers begin to dance upon the keys, he's content with how he does.

She is amazed. This man who challenges her, has picked her brain about humanity, and makes her feel like she's the only person in the world, can play a melody so sweet her heart breaks.

She doesn't realize it's a date. But she's in love with the way his hand shakes at the end. The glow in his eyes, pride obvious when she claps.

She has to tell him no when he asks for a kiss. He's perfect but that song will always remind her of the man who tore her heart out, the one who made her not want to exist.

The young man is perfect and in another life they'd have met under better circumstances.