gian can’t dance,

these legs have grown tired of treading;
i am in the middle of the ocean,
cradled by waves. birds begin
singing lullabies — the first star
begins twinkling. the sun is far,
far away; consumed by the horizon
and i am swimming in hopes
of it rising again.

one day my legs, my hands and my
heart will grow exhausted and
i will drown. and here i hope
that when i finally do
i am one of those diamonds
sparkling above the ocean
that lovers often *sigh* to.

and perhaps they will swim
towards the sunset too.

Artists

You are painting a field; a rice field that stretches out into the blankness that begs for your imagination. It’s been three weeks, three weeks sketching blades of grass; studying their movement in the park down the street; having them move back and forth. It’s been three weeks looking at the wind, drawing it with your pencil.

“What color is the wind?”

I am writing a poem; a poem about things that don’t change. I write in bed, beside unfinished paintings; colorless sunsets and faces without eyes. I begin: “It was a tree,”    I end. I begin: “a chair; hands groping at its arms,” I end. I cannot begin – it’s been an hour. I tear several pages; it’s progress.

“What’re things that don’t change?”

I make a trip to the grocery, you ask me to buy cup ramen for the night. We can’t cook.   I buy beef, chicken, and seafood, four of each for good measure.  I take a side-trip to the book store and buy a new notebook. I tear too many pages. We boil hot water and pour them into our cups – and it strikes me as it does everyday; we are living together – in an urban home. It is the sound of water filling a cup that tells me so, for some reason. You’re having chicken tonight.

“How do they make these?”

We finish. We’ve got television and each other for tonight, as always. You will dream of your field and how you want your sun to shine down on the back of the earth. I will dream of things that do not change, but my dreams always change. Before sleeping, I attempt to write again. I begin, “Under the rusty fan,” I end. I begin, “You drew a decaying city,” I end. I go to sleep.

“Where do dreams come from?”

I wake up in the same jeans I slept in. It’s raining. “The weather’s changed again,” I whisper to myself. I decide not to wake you up; it’s one more day without the sun for you, there are blades of grass waiting to be drawn. It’s cup ramen for breakfast again. I ponder writing about soup in the rain, about those strange little things that sound profound. I decide not to, convinced I’ve never been skillful at those.

“Why does soup taste better during rain?”

You wake up and go straight to the bathroom. The paintbrush isn’t the first brush you hold today – and paintings aren’t the first work of art you make. The rain disappoints you, but you draw your blades of grass as faithfully as you did when you began three weeks ago. You put folk music on the stereo to remind you of sunny days.

“What’s music got to do with the weather?”

I look at your painting and you ask me what I see in the blank areas. I told you I saw your sun and your sky, and more of your faithful blades of grass. You’re frustrated; and I say again how I could describe them as a poet would, but I refuse to do so.

“How the hell does that make sense?”

We have afternoon tea. You used to think it was pretentious until you had your first cup and found it relaxing. We discuss how we don’t make sense; how the wind does not have a color; how everything changes; how they use MSG and other additives to manufacture the cup ramen we pile shamelessly into our stomachs; how dreams are a result of R.E.M.; how the relative warmth of soup increases during cold weather; how our heads analyze the musical notes and relate them to past experiences.

We discuss how we ask questions we already know the answers to; how the answers have never properly explained things to us. We conclude that we never grew up. We draw on walls, wantonly tear pages apart because of bad ideas, watch the wind and eat cup ramen everyday. We’re nuts.

You ask me what I see for us in the future. I say that I used to see a painting of us getting married in that field, under your sun and your sky, but as I saw how things changed so rapidly I tore that painting down and now I see nothing but your blades of grass sprouting up one after another everyday – everything else is a blankness that begs for your imagination.

You giggle and call me your “little poet boy.” I am not amused.

It gets dark and I begin wondering what tomorrow will bring, and I keep all my questions in my head.

Maybe tomorrow you’ll finish your blades of grass and start with drops of rain; or maybe you’ll erase them as you do sometimes. Maybe you’ll see the sun tomorrow and finally start sketching, and you will definitely paint your sun and your sky, and I will tell you that I knew they would look the way they will all along.

As for me, tomorrow things will change again and I will be closer to giving up on my poem. But perhaps things will change, and I will get to finish it.

Tonight, I begin: “You are painting a field; a rice field that stretches out into the blankness.”