ad-venturism

Te quiero maquillar con mis labios Te quiero inhalar como aire fresco Te quiero beber como una fuente en el desierto

a worker's hand: menacing It is extreme inflammatory 

there was one party the artist professed What is an artist, anyway? 

the spirit allowed one small coup to support proletarian tastes

who was posturing as a worker of his own design 

they were all so merry I could have without 

we could find no train back. we would be excited living within the confines

the following weekend Our parents asked about children. we needed a home to launch ourselves to land to arrive 

a gem a sofa a pillow "Yes," what are you 

an unnamed country a mother a time a death 

opera influences, from horror scenes star imagined out of chocolate 

a little prince the mystical visions of former promises he agrees to the season 

I thought the easiest way to make a man weak wasn't sex, though that helps. (but sometimes it does the opposite, it makes them feel powerful when they are not). it is to listen to their word word as if it was from the Dalai Lama (who, I'm told, is aloof and cold), to ask follow-up questions if you were five years old, and suddenly they feel like the expert of their own unexamined lives, emotions they never knew existed, like they were the Discoverer of a New Land and you appear as the exotic Native who will guide them selflessly to bounty. 

I hang on the every word like ammunition. 

A man will reveal himself to a woman that no other man will see. what vulnerability. I create the space and he 

you said I was a star but I felt under a microscope you took out the telescope to see the planets and I tried to recall the forecast on my horoscope ScorpioMystique.com said something I'd forgotten, something foreboding or maybe I simply mistook arousal as fear

you sounded different on the telephone last night. traffic in LA. I was famished but couldn't eat a single grain. your face distorted, like through a macro lens

you are the sun and I am dizzy from orbit I am aging faster in space to catch up with your wisdom you know so much about stars, space

I want to be a magnificent star in space

I am sketching a world with words that sound like other words other parables I learned a whole different English in math class that was so long ago when I learned about parabolas the future looked like a big ball of hope – sometimes dense compacted, a ball of clay, or a stubborn knot – sometimes light like a bubble on the cusp of bursting, like an exhale full of relief I once learned in a drawing class to draw in ellipses, straight lights, the simple plain geometry beneath every image – later to draw not the outline nor the shape, but draw the shadows

The prints of my fingers The palms of my hands The balls of my feet

Blue, all blue everywhere blue but I felt pink

The living room window faced south and the neighbor's garden grew with purple pea flowers

I stood in the sun, peering at delicate life waiting to be cooked blue I wanted to set the color into my skin marinated by flavorless pigment

I stepped into the shower to wash off the color in the hottest possible water I scrubbed and scrubbed picked at my body like it was a giant scab peeled at my shell as if I were a steamed shrimp

I got three stamps in my Moleskine notebook:

1 from Plain Stationery, where I lingered excessively debating between uniball one mini vs a penco pen clip - and left empty handed for a pink MUJI bullet pen.

1 from Yangmingshan's xiaoyoukeng, the volunteer at the info desk asked where I was from (here) as I pressed a stamp in my book, and he showed me the lanhua from the balcony looking into the valley.

1 from Zhongxiao Fuxing metro station after I cried in therapy, and walked around the mall tracing my usual routine, wandering around the import supermarket, window shopping along the escalator, browsing in MUJI, getting a soft bread or a cream puff, and finding a place to plop myself down with some pen and paper or words and a screen. I got the stamp as I was about to leave.