This carpet needs a thorough cleaning.
It ranks first on a list of things
I've yet to do.
I always find another reason to stay in bed;
to put off that shower another day.
Just five more minutes and I'll tune my guitar.
Five more minutes and I'll go for that jog.
Sandy can wait to be walked
five more minutes.
I don't see the point in sex tonight
when I can masturbate tomorrow.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Selfish
We went out for ice cream
because
it's easier than staying in that cramped apartment
and staring at you
with nothing to say
but "How was class Honey?"
"Did you have a good day?"
"What did you have for lunch?"
You can't claim it isn't tiresome
to look at me
knowing I'm somewhere else.
I'd rather be anyplace else
than here.
Not being able to remember that one time
in St. Augustine where we got along.
I'll tell you what I do remember,
I remember wanting to sleep,
you were on my shoulder,
your drool decorating my chest in droplets.
I remember making a sandwich,
the joy of almost forgetting to cut off the crust,
because you always want a piece of what I have.
Most of all I remember the way the setting sun looked
reflected in your dollar store sunglasses
as you drove away after our second date.
You've always been at your most beautiful
when you were leaving
and now it appears you plan to stay a while.
You're being unfair.
because
it's easier than staying in that cramped apartment
and staring at you
with nothing to say
but "How was class Honey?"
"Did you have a good day?"
"What did you have for lunch?"
You can't claim it isn't tiresome
to look at me
knowing I'm somewhere else.
I'd rather be anyplace else
than here.
Not being able to remember that one time
in St. Augustine where we got along.
I'll tell you what I do remember,
I remember wanting to sleep,
you were on my shoulder,
your drool decorating my chest in droplets.
I remember making a sandwich,
the joy of almost forgetting to cut off the crust,
because you always want a piece of what I have.
Most of all I remember the way the setting sun looked
reflected in your dollar store sunglasses
as you drove away after our second date.
You've always been at your most beautiful
when you were leaving
and now it appears you plan to stay a while.
You're being unfair.
Pre-Breakfast Ritual
The afternoons I spent trudging towards the bus stop,
drenched,
lamenting going home
are sepia-colored dreams
I reluctantly put aside
when I wake to find her
snoring,
her back to me,
sealed in my comforter.
The phlegm is a dull brown streak
as I rinse it down my sink,
along with the last vestiges of sleep
from my face.
Same pants.
Same shoes.
Different shirt.
My morning ritual lacks variety.
I shower mostly out of necessity:
She makes me feel dirty the morning after.
drenched,
lamenting going home
are sepia-colored dreams
I reluctantly put aside
when I wake to find her
snoring,
her back to me,
sealed in my comforter.
The phlegm is a dull brown streak
as I rinse it down my sink,
along with the last vestiges of sleep
from my face.
Same pants.
Same shoes.
Different shirt.
My morning ritual lacks variety.
I shower mostly out of necessity:
She makes me feel dirty the morning after.
November 7th
The walls of my mother’s kitchen were lush with faded sunflowers
And my grandfather’s portrait. He stood in our garden,
Dark suit and no visible hair,
The Bible that would become mine clutched to his vest.
I was convinced his severe expression
Was a result of his daughter’s failed beef stroganoff.
My grandfather suffered the indignity of hanging just above the stove.
I stared at him, that man, until the time came to put him away.
I removed the portrait from its grave of sunflowers
And turned towards the room where my godfather waited.
He looped the tie I had struggled with all morning around my neck
And tied the effortless knot I was too proud to learn.
We walked out the door, silently agreeing
There was nothing inside worth setting the alarm for.
The window into my mother’s kitchen showed nothing.
The world beyond those walls went about its routine.
Day gave way to the moonless night,
Crickets performed the Moonlight Sonata
To an empty garden. The wind blew upon this house
And then right through its foundation,
Changing the way my mother would cook for years.
And my grandfather’s portrait. He stood in our garden,
Dark suit and no visible hair,
The Bible that would become mine clutched to his vest.
I was convinced his severe expression
Was a result of his daughter’s failed beef stroganoff.
My grandfather suffered the indignity of hanging just above the stove.
I stared at him, that man, until the time came to put him away.
I removed the portrait from its grave of sunflowers
And turned towards the room where my godfather waited.
He looped the tie I had struggled with all morning around my neck
And tied the effortless knot I was too proud to learn.
We walked out the door, silently agreeing
There was nothing inside worth setting the alarm for.
The window into my mother’s kitchen showed nothing.
The world beyond those walls went about its routine.
Day gave way to the moonless night,
Crickets performed the Moonlight Sonata
To an empty garden. The wind blew upon this house
And then right through its foundation,
Changing the way my mother would cook for years.
Olga
A month ago, I started seeing Olga;
she has marble-grey eyes and smells of strawberries.
On Saturdays, we drink hot apple-cider at Maude’s,
listening to live sets of bossa-nova and jazz. Maude’s
atmosphere suits us, but not like the darkness of my room. Olga
loves to lie on my bed and talk about Lennon and “Strawberry
Fields Forever” while I tune my guitar. She suggested a “Movie Night,”
a sleep over at my place. My mother would call her “forward,”
but I feel she moves at a good pace. “Amelie” allows for snuggling,
though “The Shinning” terrifies her. I’m all for snuggling,
yet there’s something about her screaming in the middle of the night
that excites me, her watery eyes focused forward
towards the screen. Next year, Olga will be a memory,
a blend of strawberries and grey eyes. Now she just cries
beneath my comforter and I look at her, quietly,
while she reaches for my icy hand. Quietly,
she curls up into the fetal position and a memory
is built out of Kubrik’s film and Olga’s cries.
she has marble-grey eyes and smells of strawberries.
On Saturdays, we drink hot apple-cider at Maude’s,
listening to live sets of bossa-nova and jazz. Maude’s
atmosphere suits us, but not like the darkness of my room. Olga
loves to lie on my bed and talk about Lennon and “Strawberry
Fields Forever” while I tune my guitar. She suggested a “Movie Night,”
a sleep over at my place. My mother would call her “forward,”
but I feel she moves at a good pace. “Amelie” allows for snuggling,
though “The Shinning” terrifies her. I’m all for snuggling,
yet there’s something about her screaming in the middle of the night
that excites me, her watery eyes focused forward
towards the screen. Next year, Olga will be a memory,
a blend of strawberries and grey eyes. Now she just cries
beneath my comforter and I look at her, quietly,
while she reaches for my icy hand. Quietly,
she curls up into the fetal position and a memory
is built out of Kubrik’s film and Olga’s cries.
Dante in the Sunshine State
The path is littered with lightning-charred stumps
leading away
from the jaws of the beasts. They are drawn to my scent
of sweat and guilt,
my pores throwing up a fear of mangrove islands.
If I had left these woods,
I would have never witnessed the black-bellied plover shaking
off the dew,
baptizing dead leaves; the safety of water a compass against drought.
“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.” The plover takes off.
I’m left in the middle
of man-made levees feeding the wrong side
of the panhandle.
The beasts are gone; nothing is left alive.
Brown sawgrass falls
limp on all sides; to the plover all this might spread out like a map
of Africa. Beatrice, I name the bird Beatrice, with her onyx belly
and fickle wings flying
toward the Florida sunrise made famous by postcards:
“Wish you were here.”
“Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
leading away
from the jaws of the beasts. They are drawn to my scent
of sweat and guilt,
my pores throwing up a fear of mangrove islands.
If I had left these woods,
I would have never witnessed the black-bellied plover shaking
off the dew,
baptizing dead leaves; the safety of water a compass against drought.
“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.” The plover takes off.
I’m left in the middle
of man-made levees feeding the wrong side
of the panhandle.
The beasts are gone; nothing is left alive.
Brown sawgrass falls
limp on all sides; to the plover all this might spread out like a map
of Africa. Beatrice, I name the bird Beatrice, with her onyx belly
and fickle wings flying
toward the Florida sunrise made famous by postcards:
“Wish you were here.”
“Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
Genesis Now
Pretty sure this was inspired by a short story from Sabato Visconti
Soon after the beginning, God created
the break up. He told his first son, born of mud,
“I’m seeing other people. Ones who treat me
as a God. And you know what? I find it good.”
So it was that the Lord abandoned Adam,
who turned to Eve for some companionship.
Eve and the snake sat by the river Pison,
in the gold-covered land of Havilah
where onyx, grass, myrrh-colored bdellium,
and lust grew plentiful. And Adam saw
how Eve became enamored with the snake,
his fancy clothes, and his Miltonic diction.
Eve had no time for Adam’s boring stories,
his leafy underwear, or his love of breasts.
Alone now, Adam learned that love is fickle
and conditional. The only pleasure left
to him was gardening, but he lacked the skill
to prune the thorny roses from the bushes.
Soon after the beginning, God created
the break up. He told his first son, born of mud,
“I’m seeing other people. Ones who treat me
as a God. And you know what? I find it good.”
So it was that the Lord abandoned Adam,
who turned to Eve for some companionship.
Eve and the snake sat by the river Pison,
in the gold-covered land of Havilah
where onyx, grass, myrrh-colored bdellium,
and lust grew plentiful. And Adam saw
how Eve became enamored with the snake,
his fancy clothes, and his Miltonic diction.
Eve had no time for Adam’s boring stories,
his leafy underwear, or his love of breasts.
Alone now, Adam learned that love is fickle
and conditional. The only pleasure left
to him was gardening, but he lacked the skill
to prune the thorny roses from the bushes.
The Lion
It moves its paws upon concrete savannahs
lush with wild Milky Way wrappers. Ants gather
around the mounds of speckled droppings
while narrow-eyed boys suck on pretzels and watch.
The lion’s eyes, veiled golden freckles
of honey, blink behind oxidized metal bars.
He nudges a lioness from her sleep. Annoyed,
she lowers her head. Children sing “Hakuna Matata”
off-key and the lion handler tosses down
raw chunks of meat, clicking his tongue.
lush with wild Milky Way wrappers. Ants gather
around the mounds of speckled droppings
while narrow-eyed boys suck on pretzels and watch.
The lion’s eyes, veiled golden freckles
of honey, blink behind oxidized metal bars.
He nudges a lioness from her sleep. Annoyed,
she lowers her head. Children sing “Hakuna Matata”
off-key and the lion handler tosses down
raw chunks of meat, clicking his tongue.
Son of Siddhartha
Nag-Champa smoke surrounds my plastic Buddha,
the scented wisps caress his glossy belly.
Upon his throne, my desk, his dimpled grin
reveals the inner peace that sparks my envy.
The scented wisps caress his glossy belly
and burn my nostrils. Eyes open, Buddha’s face
reveals the inner peace that sparks my envy
and induces an awkward lotus pose. I breathe in
and burn my nostrils. Eyes open, Buddha’s face
is intertwined with mine. My calf cramps up
and induces an awkward lotus pose. I breathe in
slowly; acceptance fills my lungs. All life
is intertwined with mine. My calf cramps up:
My body was not built for meditation.
Slowly, acceptance fills my lungs. All lives,
like mine, are salmons caught in Indra’s woven net.
My body was not built for meditation,
my mind wanders off. How can a modern soul
like mine be a salmon in Indra’s woven net?
Our present rises out of past traditions.
My mind wanders off again; a modern soul sits
upon his throne, his dimpled grin unchanged.
Our present rises out of past traditions:
Nag-Champa smoke surrounds my plastic Buddah.
the scented wisps caress his glossy belly.
Upon his throne, my desk, his dimpled grin
reveals the inner peace that sparks my envy.
The scented wisps caress his glossy belly
and burn my nostrils. Eyes open, Buddha’s face
reveals the inner peace that sparks my envy
and induces an awkward lotus pose. I breathe in
and burn my nostrils. Eyes open, Buddha’s face
is intertwined with mine. My calf cramps up
and induces an awkward lotus pose. I breathe in
slowly; acceptance fills my lungs. All life
is intertwined with mine. My calf cramps up:
My body was not built for meditation.
Slowly, acceptance fills my lungs. All lives,
like mine, are salmons caught in Indra’s woven net.
My body was not built for meditation,
my mind wanders off. How can a modern soul
like mine be a salmon in Indra’s woven net?
Our present rises out of past traditions.
My mind wanders off again; a modern soul sits
upon his throne, his dimpled grin unchanged.
Our present rises out of past traditions:
Nag-Champa smoke surrounds my plastic Buddah.
High Noon
The star on his pleated vest doesn’t shine as the crane pulls back,
showing a lone man in a deserted town.
Technicolor rain drips
on my window pane, taking me out of black-and-white Hadleyville
and placing me on a faded blue couch
in Florida.
The microwave beeps. She must have forgotten
Her tea on her way out, after slamming
the door.
I watch the gun fight while stirring honey into the tea; a hostage is taken,
a man shot in the back. My back aches
in grudging empathy
while the phone rings in the kitchen. I brush the hair
out of my eyes, admiring the mise-en-scene.
I am torn
between love and a classic movie. The raspberry tea is sweet
in my mouth as Garry Cooper throws his badge
into the dirt.
showing a lone man in a deserted town.
Technicolor rain drips
on my window pane, taking me out of black-and-white Hadleyville
and placing me on a faded blue couch
in Florida.
The microwave beeps. She must have forgotten
Her tea on her way out, after slamming
the door.
I watch the gun fight while stirring honey into the tea; a hostage is taken,
a man shot in the back. My back aches
in grudging empathy
while the phone rings in the kitchen. I brush the hair
out of my eyes, admiring the mise-en-scene.
I am torn
between love and a classic movie. The raspberry tea is sweet
in my mouth as Garry Cooper throws his badge
into the dirt.
Potential Energy
The water absorbs the light, drowning
the shore strewn with garbage. A heron uses
an MGD bottle to triangulate its position
for a landing. It stares at the turtles from a grassy perch,
high as the walls of Troy.
The colors are ill-suited for mid-afternoon.
Too many egrets occupy the right side of the sky.
O lake, you lack the nuance of a master’s brush.
The egrets, off-white and refusing to hold their poses,
flap like forgotten pamphlets.
The herons have taken flight, the egrets as well, leaving the matted grass.
Some tan-faced men picked up the MGD bottle,
perhaps to be recycled. Mosquitoes fill the air.
Even the sunlight has left the waters.
the shore strewn with garbage. A heron uses
an MGD bottle to triangulate its position
for a landing. It stares at the turtles from a grassy perch,
high as the walls of Troy.
The colors are ill-suited for mid-afternoon.
Too many egrets occupy the right side of the sky.
O lake, you lack the nuance of a master’s brush.
The egrets, off-white and refusing to hold their poses,
flap like forgotten pamphlets.
The herons have taken flight, the egrets as well, leaving the matted grass.
Some tan-faced men picked up the MGD bottle,
perhaps to be recycled. Mosquitoes fill the air.
Even the sunlight has left the waters.
Crime et Punition
A mud-grey car dove into the river.
I stand on the banks, examining her I.O.U:
“Regarde-nous bien!" Over
my head, clouds gather under heaven. The once blue
horizon bloats with rain. Thunder
is the empty boast of a Godless sky, I know. What use are suits of armor
in a storm? They are impractical, rusting under
the water’s constant drip, water that makes it feasible for farmers
to harvest Jeanne Moreaus draped in curtains.
These Jeannes pout and pose; their noise
overlooked in Ovid’s translation
of Nature into Man. Nature feeds this haze
and my view of the horizon is fading fast.
But look, in the distance one can almost make out the graves
of Jules and Jim. They were friends, now lost,
who sank together in the Tomis mire that sullied Ovid’s
legacy. Drowned in muck, the car is gone. On the shore
I’ve ceased to breathe, and suddenly,
aimlessly, my knees sink into the river bank. I’ve become the sun-glare
of this world’s supposed constancy.
I stand on the banks, examining her I.O.U:
“Regarde-nous bien!" Over
my head, clouds gather under heaven. The once blue
horizon bloats with rain. Thunder
is the empty boast of a Godless sky, I know. What use are suits of armor
in a storm? They are impractical, rusting under
the water’s constant drip, water that makes it feasible for farmers
to harvest Jeanne Moreaus draped in curtains.
These Jeannes pout and pose; their noise
overlooked in Ovid’s translation
of Nature into Man. Nature feeds this haze
and my view of the horizon is fading fast.
But look, in the distance one can almost make out the graves
of Jules and Jim. They were friends, now lost,
who sank together in the Tomis mire that sullied Ovid’s
legacy. Drowned in muck, the car is gone. On the shore
I’ve ceased to breathe, and suddenly,
aimlessly, my knees sink into the river bank. I’ve become the sun-glare
of this world’s supposed constancy.
Divorce
These twenty years were more than jumbled noise
Composed of her clichés and sentiments.
My words would hurt her in a quiet voice.
I tried to imitate my father’s poise
While lawyers showed him where his marriage went.
These twenty years were more than jumbled noise.
My mother knew that apathy destroys
A home’s foundations, torn without consent.
My words would hurt her in a quiet voice.
She found me on my room’s floor reading Joyce
And pled her case for Christmases misspent.
These twenty years were more than jumbled noise.
My mother pressured me to make a choice:
Choose her or patricide, to an extent.
My words would hurt her in a quiet voice.
I packed my suitcases for Illinois
And left my mom a kiss she would resent.
These twenty years were more than jumbled noise,
My words would hurt her in a quiet voice.
Composed of her clichés and sentiments.
My words would hurt her in a quiet voice.
I tried to imitate my father’s poise
While lawyers showed him where his marriage went.
These twenty years were more than jumbled noise.
My mother knew that apathy destroys
A home’s foundations, torn without consent.
My words would hurt her in a quiet voice.
She found me on my room’s floor reading Joyce
And pled her case for Christmases misspent.
These twenty years were more than jumbled noise.
My mother pressured me to make a choice:
Choose her or patricide, to an extent.
My words would hurt her in a quiet voice.
I packed my suitcases for Illinois
And left my mom a kiss she would resent.
These twenty years were more than jumbled noise,
My words would hurt her in a quiet voice.
Roshomon
The woodcutter came home that evening, bringing flowers for his young wife,
Stepping to the beat of the hammering rain.
The wife awaited her husband’s return from the deluge in the forest,
Stoking the fire with last week’s batch of wood.
The beggar hoped to chance upon food and shelter in an inviting shack,
Finding relief from the raging of the storm.
The beggar was brought before the Gates of the Dragon,
Accusing the wife of murdering the woodcutter.
An old priest had happened by the bloody shack after the rain had stopped,
Wanting to pay his respects and found a forgotten infant girl.
The woodcutter was abandoned as a baby before the Gates of the Dragon,
Crying as a priest handed him over to his adoptive father,
A woodcutter as well, while the rain washed away the land.
Stepping to the beat of the hammering rain.
The wife awaited her husband’s return from the deluge in the forest,
Stoking the fire with last week’s batch of wood.
The beggar hoped to chance upon food and shelter in an inviting shack,
Finding relief from the raging of the storm.
The beggar was brought before the Gates of the Dragon,
Accusing the wife of murdering the woodcutter.
An old priest had happened by the bloody shack after the rain had stopped,
Wanting to pay his respects and found a forgotten infant girl.
The woodcutter was abandoned as a baby before the Gates of the Dragon,
Crying as a priest handed him over to his adoptive father,
A woodcutter as well, while the rain washed away the land.
Miraflores
The wind off the Andes plays with my hair,
Parting it to the side with the affection
Of a mother greeting her long absent son.
Spanish and Quechua intertwine in a web
That looms over me as the Sun-God looks on.
I take my first steps off the platform
And onto the paved roads leading me to the ancient ruin
Where my afternoons were spent.
Turning around, I curse softly,
Dwelling on the past is not my policy.
Lima has its share of charm.
Today I’ll allow myself a stroll down Calle Miraflores.
Sipping chicha morada, I’ll walk up and down
This golden street, stopping only
for my first desayuno lurin at La Flor de la Canela.
After paying the bill, I’ll ask the waitress for directions.
“Pasando El Rancho Restaurante, pe Jovencito. Al final de la
Cuadra, justo al frente de la tienda Argos.”
I’ll tip her extra well and then steal a kiss,
Pausing only to regain my bearings.
Finally, I’ll arrive at my Abuela Milona’s house.
I’ll return to soccer balls, turtles with three legs,
And chicken coops on the third floor.
The carapulcra will be on the stove, burning,
Just how I left it. The claveles still blooming in the garden.
I’ll arrive just in time to find a car bomb
blowing apart my childhood…
Parting it to the side with the affection
Of a mother greeting her long absent son.
Spanish and Quechua intertwine in a web
That looms over me as the Sun-God looks on.
I take my first steps off the platform
And onto the paved roads leading me to the ancient ruin
Where my afternoons were spent.
Turning around, I curse softly,
Dwelling on the past is not my policy.
Lima has its share of charm.
Today I’ll allow myself a stroll down Calle Miraflores.
Sipping chicha morada, I’ll walk up and down
This golden street, stopping only
for my first desayuno lurin at La Flor de la Canela.
After paying the bill, I’ll ask the waitress for directions.
“Pasando El Rancho Restaurante, pe Jovencito. Al final de la
Cuadra, justo al frente de la tienda Argos.”
I’ll tip her extra well and then steal a kiss,
Pausing only to regain my bearings.
Finally, I’ll arrive at my Abuela Milona’s house.
I’ll return to soccer balls, turtles with three legs,
And chicken coops on the third floor.
The carapulcra will be on the stove, burning,
Just how I left it. The claveles still blooming in the garden.
I’ll arrive just in time to find a car bomb
blowing apart my childhood…
Mother's Milk
I know a few things about my mother:
All of her wedding pictures are missing a half,
My father is wrong, and she’s obsessed with low-fat mango yogurt.
When we watch Bambi, she holds my hand tight,
And doesn’t let go until the credits finish rolling…
That’s my favorite part.
All of her wedding pictures are missing a half,
My father is wrong, and she’s obsessed with low-fat mango yogurt.
When we watch Bambi, she holds my hand tight,
And doesn’t let go until the credits finish rolling…
That’s my favorite part.
Insomnia
Have you ever felt the type of lonely where you are surrounded by the people you enjoy most on this earth, and yet still find yourself drowning in the gulf of differences that lie between yourself and them? That there seems to be no place anywhere where you belong, no place where you can take off your shoes and run your toes through the rug, no place where you can find yourself completely, utterly at ease? That no matter what this modern culture of ours tells us, independence is a joke, a lie we tell ourselves in order to feel that we’re not missing out on being part of something greater?
I have. I do. Now. Right now, as of this very moment, I feel a chasm inside my belly. The rivers of lies and insecurities have flowed unhindered for years, carving its channels in the living tissue of my intestines. Empty is not how feel. I feel bloated, overflowing with self-defense mechanisms, sarcastic wit, and denial. You see, my world is changing. Turned upside down and loopdyloop, with no indication as to where the metamorphosis will stop. My sense of self is shattered, with every fragment of who I am or what I was lying on a carpet of velvet mockery. Yes, mockery. The very ground I stand on mocks me because every shattered piece, every fragmented edge of me reflects an image that bleeds my eyes from the utter horror of what is front me.
This can’t be me. I am not this malevolent human being that so delightfully feeds on the sufferings and discomforts of others. Of course, I am right. That is not me. Yet even the most venerable of saints has the capacity to act out evil upon others, and this is what I have done. I have to come to terms with the fact that I am a good person, yet, in the past I have wronged my peers in order to have a higher perception of who I am.
This very night, the demons are pestering me… no, forcing me to pay attention to each and every one of them. They are tired, exhausted, fatigued. Fatigued of always running round and round, round and round. You see, the purpose of one’s regrets, our “demons” if you will, is not to haunt us like I, at least, have always believed. No. No no no no. Not at all. How very irresponsible of me to think so. Regrets are not punishments from some higher power, tormenting us with the memories of what might have been. No. Regrets serve a much higher purpose. They exist to remind us that there is some unfinished business in this life we must atone for.
No one is exempt. No one is innocent. I could be wrong. I wouldn’t bet on it though. But this isn’t about everyone else. This is about me. I am not exempt. I am not innocent. For the last half of my life I have felt unclean. Every action I have taken in the past has had consequences, whether pleasant or dire, and it is in these consequences that I have created a framework of experiences, making me what I am. Not who, but what. I have absolutely no idea, no clue, as to who I am.
How does one begin to find redemption? How can one be cleansed of all the unworthiness one acquires from this world, when it is life itself that makes one unclean? To live is to experience and to experience is to sin is it not? Maybe I’m just rambling on. I have been accused of being “full of it”. People have often described me as “verbose” and I am considered an ever flowing fountain of “jargon”. The truth is that I am alone and it kills me. Plain and simple. I don’t think it can get any blunter than that. I am human. Blood is racing through the various parts of my body as we speak. The criterion for being a person is met, no? All these thoughts flow in and out of my head to the point where it resembles the comings and goings of adventure seekers testing fate as they careen head first into the rapids. The sheer volume and content of these thoughts is so large, I’m beginning to question whether they have been in my head at all. If it wasn’t for the lingering impression, the memory of them, I would surely be committed, or at least medicated. And that is not a thought that oozes comfort now is it?
Come to think of it, all I’ve done up till now is think. Pondering the mysteries of the universe in the most superficial of ways, because let’s face it, I don’t even know a fraction of what people think I know. I’ve found myself to be lacking in many areas. I’ve put up a front, you see. I’m supposed to have a clear grasp on chemistry, physics, biology, calculus, poetry, writing, boxing, reading, friendships, love, and me, among other things. Truth be told, I really don’t. My sin lies in the fact that I’ve done nothing to disprove the suppositions of others. It’s expected of me to be well-rounded. After all, I am a certified gifted/genius according to IQ tests given to me at the age of 5. Apparently, no one understands how much can change in two decades, or even wants to. Anyway, I’m not going to be the one to tell them since the end result of all this could either be a fear of failure or a desire to be Superman. Unfortunately, I’ve acquired both.
See my dilemma? I have this need to save everyone and everything but I’m afraid to try. I must do something with my life so extraordinary that I will be remembered for generations to come for my righteousness, but I don’t know where to begin. Not to mention that I feel morally corrupt since my motives to do the right thing aren’t entirely devoid of ego.
I have. I do. Now. Right now, as of this very moment, I feel a chasm inside my belly. The rivers of lies and insecurities have flowed unhindered for years, carving its channels in the living tissue of my intestines. Empty is not how feel. I feel bloated, overflowing with self-defense mechanisms, sarcastic wit, and denial. You see, my world is changing. Turned upside down and loopdyloop, with no indication as to where the metamorphosis will stop. My sense of self is shattered, with every fragment of who I am or what I was lying on a carpet of velvet mockery. Yes, mockery. The very ground I stand on mocks me because every shattered piece, every fragmented edge of me reflects an image that bleeds my eyes from the utter horror of what is front me.
This can’t be me. I am not this malevolent human being that so delightfully feeds on the sufferings and discomforts of others. Of course, I am right. That is not me. Yet even the most venerable of saints has the capacity to act out evil upon others, and this is what I have done. I have to come to terms with the fact that I am a good person, yet, in the past I have wronged my peers in order to have a higher perception of who I am.
This very night, the demons are pestering me… no, forcing me to pay attention to each and every one of them. They are tired, exhausted, fatigued. Fatigued of always running round and round, round and round. You see, the purpose of one’s regrets, our “demons” if you will, is not to haunt us like I, at least, have always believed. No. No no no no. Not at all. How very irresponsible of me to think so. Regrets are not punishments from some higher power, tormenting us with the memories of what might have been. No. Regrets serve a much higher purpose. They exist to remind us that there is some unfinished business in this life we must atone for.
No one is exempt. No one is innocent. I could be wrong. I wouldn’t bet on it though. But this isn’t about everyone else. This is about me. I am not exempt. I am not innocent. For the last half of my life I have felt unclean. Every action I have taken in the past has had consequences, whether pleasant or dire, and it is in these consequences that I have created a framework of experiences, making me what I am. Not who, but what. I have absolutely no idea, no clue, as to who I am.
How does one begin to find redemption? How can one be cleansed of all the unworthiness one acquires from this world, when it is life itself that makes one unclean? To live is to experience and to experience is to sin is it not? Maybe I’m just rambling on. I have been accused of being “full of it”. People have often described me as “verbose” and I am considered an ever flowing fountain of “jargon”. The truth is that I am alone and it kills me. Plain and simple. I don’t think it can get any blunter than that. I am human. Blood is racing through the various parts of my body as we speak. The criterion for being a person is met, no? All these thoughts flow in and out of my head to the point where it resembles the comings and goings of adventure seekers testing fate as they careen head first into the rapids. The sheer volume and content of these thoughts is so large, I’m beginning to question whether they have been in my head at all. If it wasn’t for the lingering impression, the memory of them, I would surely be committed, or at least medicated. And that is not a thought that oozes comfort now is it?
Come to think of it, all I’ve done up till now is think. Pondering the mysteries of the universe in the most superficial of ways, because let’s face it, I don’t even know a fraction of what people think I know. I’ve found myself to be lacking in many areas. I’ve put up a front, you see. I’m supposed to have a clear grasp on chemistry, physics, biology, calculus, poetry, writing, boxing, reading, friendships, love, and me, among other things. Truth be told, I really don’t. My sin lies in the fact that I’ve done nothing to disprove the suppositions of others. It’s expected of me to be well-rounded. After all, I am a certified gifted/genius according to IQ tests given to me at the age of 5. Apparently, no one understands how much can change in two decades, or even wants to. Anyway, I’m not going to be the one to tell them since the end result of all this could either be a fear of failure or a desire to be Superman. Unfortunately, I’ve acquired both.
See my dilemma? I have this need to save everyone and everything but I’m afraid to try. I must do something with my life so extraordinary that I will be remembered for generations to come for my righteousness, but I don’t know where to begin. Not to mention that I feel morally corrupt since my motives to do the right thing aren’t entirely devoid of ego.
Eulogy for a Friend
Why do we die? This question has haunted me from an early age, around the time of my grandfather’s death. Death had never seemed so real, or impactful, until it hit close to home. There is of course, the scientific explanation: Our bodies give out on us. Age will rip and tear at our carbon vessel until life can no longer be sustained. Maybe a disease was the catalyst in our departure from this world, or maybe some tragic accident mangled our bodies to the point where our essence quickly ebbed away into the unknown terrains of death. Bottom line, we are organic creatures, made of material that wastes away, corroding into nothingness.
This leads us to another question: Is death merely a passage to some sort of afterlife? The faithful across the board speak of “God’s plan.” Our deaths are caused by a higher purpose and our reward for being good or our punishment for being evil awaits us on the other side of the chasm. We die because God in his, or her, great wisdom has a better design for the human condition.
To look at this question from a purely emotional angle, we must consider the trauma caused by immortality and why this makes living forever unpractical. If the entire population were immortal, then life would become a monotonous routine, a maze with no exits. None would find rest from the endless grind of the day-to-day. Now, if only some people were immortal and not all, then these poor souls would have to live while their loved ones passed on, assuming of course a deep emotional attachment to family and friends. Either scenario causes emotional trauma for the immortal population, making immortality unpractical.
From an environmentalist standpoint, an immortal population would waste resources at an alarming rate, causing the simultaneous death of every other species and the environment. If we were, in fact, immortal, starvation with no death in sight proves to be an unpleasant prospect. The inclusion of death as a part of life ensures the maintenance of resource usage at a moderate rate, ensuring a longer life span for the human species. It could be said that death brings life to our children and so on and so forth.
The reasons as to why we die are many. There are countless theories and hypotheses created to explain this phenomenon. Perhaps all of them are correct, perhaps none are. The only clear conclusion to be had from all this pondering is that death is an inevitable part of life and that it will be continued to be studied and explained for as long as reason and man live as one.
This leads us to another question: Is death merely a passage to some sort of afterlife? The faithful across the board speak of “God’s plan.” Our deaths are caused by a higher purpose and our reward for being good or our punishment for being evil awaits us on the other side of the chasm. We die because God in his, or her, great wisdom has a better design for the human condition.
To look at this question from a purely emotional angle, we must consider the trauma caused by immortality and why this makes living forever unpractical. If the entire population were immortal, then life would become a monotonous routine, a maze with no exits. None would find rest from the endless grind of the day-to-day. Now, if only some people were immortal and not all, then these poor souls would have to live while their loved ones passed on, assuming of course a deep emotional attachment to family and friends. Either scenario causes emotional trauma for the immortal population, making immortality unpractical.
From an environmentalist standpoint, an immortal population would waste resources at an alarming rate, causing the simultaneous death of every other species and the environment. If we were, in fact, immortal, starvation with no death in sight proves to be an unpleasant prospect. The inclusion of death as a part of life ensures the maintenance of resource usage at a moderate rate, ensuring a longer life span for the human species. It could be said that death brings life to our children and so on and so forth.
The reasons as to why we die are many. There are countless theories and hypotheses created to explain this phenomenon. Perhaps all of them are correct, perhaps none are. The only clear conclusion to be had from all this pondering is that death is an inevitable part of life and that it will be continued to be studied and explained for as long as reason and man live as one.
Spring Break 2006
Lookit what I found guys!!!
DOTS DOTS
The CURSE… Missed flight… Luggage missing (almost)… First time it rains in 145 days…It’s SNOWING!... Agi luv da kids (Ernie helping the children)… “Melissa, what the hell?!”... Ambient noise… TRACTION (lack thereof)… “Arturo, slow down!”... “Ingrid, shut up!”... “I’m sorry!”... “I love my braids”… It’s so soft… “You messed up the snow angel”… “I have no peripheral vision”… Need to unload… Mexican convention in bathroom… Don’t slip!... Watch the curb… My side, your side, my side, your side… No more pictures… Let’s plow the road for Ingrid… “If I have to hear about Andy one more time!!!”... “Is that ice?!”... Ice on the road… ‘Sexual Revenge’… “I need fiber”… “I’m lacking my pieces”… That RED place… Ernie’s green bag… Can’t hit the brakes!... Ernie’s metrosexuality… Williamsburg, Williamstown, Williamsville, WHATEVER!.... “I can totally eat his plate!”… “Bo-ba-di-lla, ven pa’ ca!”… “Does that say FART?!”… Melissa’s automatic in bed… Static couch of DOOM… Broken water heater… Cold showers… “What does ‘bust a nut’ mean?”… “Uhhh, where is the street?”… “Hey guys, did you know there is a 24-hour laundromat in Williams?”… Indian family at laundromat… Girls sleeping when guys get back… Leaving the gas station in Williams at 6am… The children go play in the snow at night… “Give this to Kevin”… “Christina, hold my hand”… “I see it!!! Oh shit, it’s a HOUSE!”… 30-minute pissing detour… Dam Dog Challenge… Eat at the dam, shop at the dam, when are we going to see the damn dam?... SEC Champs baby!… Arturo looks like a gay Russian ballerina in his thermals… Clark Kent… Ingrid marking her territory… “I used to be your #1 camera person!”… Pissing in the snow… Lick the floor, Christopher Reeve walked right there… The quickest jump start ever… It’s time to spit on Ernie… “Come play with us Danny”… Apparently ping pong balls bounce… Ingrid’s rare pearl… Christina’s $3 surprise… Christina’s massage/spa desires… “Man, that’s a long walk to our room”… Melissa trying to take a picture of the Vegas sign… Blue Man Group… Ernie passing out in the show… Blue Mania after show (buying a bunch of stuff)… Dinner at Grand Lux Café aka “Cheesecake Factory”… Left all of the food!... Ernie molesting the statue… Christina molesting the statue… Long walks to the monorail… Taxi cab vs. monorail… Venetian gondola ride… NYNY Manhattan Express ride… The Forum Shops at Caesar’s Palace... Fountain show at Bellagio… Last dinner in Paris… Nothing, AZ… “Where are we again? Wickens? Williams?”… Eating at Denny’s in Wickenburg… Racing to South Mountain for the sunset… Finally made it back to Chandler… Ernie’s & Melissa’s dinner and Chrsitina’s pie mmmmmm…. Shocking episode of 24…
DOTS DOTS
The CURSE… Missed flight… Luggage missing (almost)… First time it rains in 145 days…It’s SNOWING!... Agi luv da kids (Ernie helping the children)… “Melissa, what the hell?!”... Ambient noise… TRACTION (lack thereof)… “Arturo, slow down!”... “Ingrid, shut up!”... “I’m sorry!”... “I love my braids”… It’s so soft… “You messed up the snow angel”… “I have no peripheral vision”… Need to unload… Mexican convention in bathroom… Don’t slip!... Watch the curb… My side, your side, my side, your side… No more pictures… Let’s plow the road for Ingrid… “If I have to hear about Andy one more time!!!”... “Is that ice?!”... Ice on the road… ‘Sexual Revenge’… “I need fiber”… “I’m lacking my pieces”… That RED place… Ernie’s green bag… Can’t hit the brakes!... Ernie’s metrosexuality… Williamsburg, Williamstown, Williamsville, WHATEVER!.... “I can totally eat his plate!”… “Bo-ba-di-lla, ven pa’ ca!”… “Does that say FART?!”… Melissa’s automatic in bed… Static couch of DOOM… Broken water heater… Cold showers… “What does ‘bust a nut’ mean?”… “Uhhh, where is the street?”… “Hey guys, did you know there is a 24-hour laundromat in Williams?”… Indian family at laundromat… Girls sleeping when guys get back… Leaving the gas station in Williams at 6am… The children go play in the snow at night… “Give this to Kevin”… “Christina, hold my hand”… “I see it!!! Oh shit, it’s a HOUSE!”… 30-minute pissing detour… Dam Dog Challenge… Eat at the dam, shop at the dam, when are we going to see the damn dam?... SEC Champs baby!… Arturo looks like a gay Russian ballerina in his thermals… Clark Kent… Ingrid marking her territory… “I used to be your #1 camera person!”… Pissing in the snow… Lick the floor, Christopher Reeve walked right there… The quickest jump start ever… It’s time to spit on Ernie… “Come play with us Danny”… Apparently ping pong balls bounce… Ingrid’s rare pearl… Christina’s $3 surprise… Christina’s massage/spa desires… “Man, that’s a long walk to our room”… Melissa trying to take a picture of the Vegas sign… Blue Man Group… Ernie passing out in the show… Blue Mania after show (buying a bunch of stuff)… Dinner at Grand Lux Café aka “Cheesecake Factory”… Left all of the food!... Ernie molesting the statue… Christina molesting the statue… Long walks to the monorail… Taxi cab vs. monorail… Venetian gondola ride… NYNY Manhattan Express ride… The Forum Shops at Caesar’s Palace... Fountain show at Bellagio… Last dinner in Paris… Nothing, AZ… “Where are we again? Wickens? Williams?”… Eating at Denny’s in Wickenburg… Racing to South Mountain for the sunset… Finally made it back to Chandler… Ernie’s & Melissa’s dinner and Chrsitina’s pie mmmmmm…. Shocking episode of 24…
Jarhead
I am the stroke of a sword
Swift, powerful, and deadly
Tearing through flesh with the will of a mob
Until my own breath is hacked away
I am the sand of the arena
Rough, dry, and blood-stained
Trampled on by a thousand sandals
Lusting for the next kill
I am the amusement of the Caesar
Cheap, loyal, and expendable
Catering to his visceral whims
At the cost of my humanity
I am not a man
Free, unshackled, and valued
Able to live among other men
With the ability to choose
I wonder if,
in the generations to come,
a man’s life will still be bound to his Caesar’s thumb.
Swift, powerful, and deadly
Tearing through flesh with the will of a mob
Until my own breath is hacked away
I am the sand of the arena
Rough, dry, and blood-stained
Trampled on by a thousand sandals
Lusting for the next kill
I am the amusement of the Caesar
Cheap, loyal, and expendable
Catering to his visceral whims
At the cost of my humanity
I am not a man
Free, unshackled, and valued
Able to live among other men
With the ability to choose
I wonder if,
in the generations to come,
a man’s life will still be bound to his Caesar’s thumb.
Negative Realm
I kneeled down tonight and began to pray,
when the question came to mind:
To whom?
Whether it be Iehova, Jesus, or Allah,
we have forgotten that their names are verbs and not nouns.
In a world where hypocrisy is mass produced
and marketed as diplomacy to eager consumers,
we have stripped “God” of job and title;
Adding one more soul to the unemployment line.
It is better to forget that we have wrenched Heaven from our hearts,
and that above us…
there is only rain.
when the question came to mind:
To whom?
Whether it be Iehova, Jesus, or Allah,
we have forgotten that their names are verbs and not nouns.
In a world where hypocrisy is mass produced
and marketed as diplomacy to eager consumers,
we have stripped “God” of job and title;
Adding one more soul to the unemployment line.
It is better to forget that we have wrenched Heaven from our hearts,
and that above us…
there is only rain.
Hide and Go Seek
You went readily into the night.
With a boyish swagger and a set bottom lip;
Armed with youth, charm, and Daddy’s words.
You went readily into the night.
Jumping rope and playing tag;
Waiting for the unknown hand that deemed you “it.”
You went readily into the night.
Catching fireflies to light your face;
Giving birth to the shadows that now live above your cheeks.
You were never ready
For the night to go into you.
With a boyish swagger and a set bottom lip;
Armed with youth, charm, and Daddy’s words.
You went readily into the night.
Jumping rope and playing tag;
Waiting for the unknown hand that deemed you “it.”
You went readily into the night.
Catching fireflies to light your face;
Giving birth to the shadows that now live above your cheeks.
You were never ready
For the night to go into you.
Don Juan de Marco
Quiet wonder seized me
Jarring sound and sense bequeathed me
By the muse of inspiration.
Knocking all reason from my head
Till it lumbered down and bled
At the mere sight of you.
Scarlet waterfall cascading
Down Caribbean shoulders masquerading
As stone cliffs.
Preventing the passage of this roamer
To the Promised Land turned over
At the mere sight of you.
Mistress of untapped desires
Heroes light their own funeral pyres
In your name.
Taking the deity’s attention
From this young pilgrim’s elation
At the mere sight of you.
Jarring sound and sense bequeathed me
By the muse of inspiration.
Knocking all reason from my head
Till it lumbered down and bled
At the mere sight of you.
Scarlet waterfall cascading
Down Caribbean shoulders masquerading
As stone cliffs.
Preventing the passage of this roamer
To the Promised Land turned over
At the mere sight of you.
Mistress of untapped desires
Heroes light their own funeral pyres
In your name.
Taking the deity’s attention
From this young pilgrim’s elation
At the mere sight of you.
Magdalena
She sits surrounded by the trophies of a full life. Picture frames, china dolls, and mother’s drapes; the postcards sent to oneself from some other world: “wish you were here”. Magdalena feels charcoal tears scald her cheeks; cheeks cut and scarred by Time’s bloody scythe. She no longer recognizes the hands that traveled the contours of her lovers’ bodies. Arthritis had claimed her gnarled tribute long ago.
Gasping, she lifts her tired limbs from that leather coffin. Magdalena’s knees burn while she limps her way towards an antique mirror in the center of the room. It was a gift from a past admirer, one of many who used to lie down in her wake. Avoiding the accusing stare from her youthful portrait on the wall, Magdalena forces herself to go through the looking glass. Standing face to face with her grandmother is enough to confirm that treasures fade. Her cross becomes heavier and the ground floods out from underneath.
“This is not my life… Take me back…”
Gasping, she lifts her tired limbs from that leather coffin. Magdalena’s knees burn while she limps her way towards an antique mirror in the center of the room. It was a gift from a past admirer, one of many who used to lie down in her wake. Avoiding the accusing stare from her youthful portrait on the wall, Magdalena forces herself to go through the looking glass. Standing face to face with her grandmother is enough to confirm that treasures fade. Her cross becomes heavier and the ground floods out from underneath.
“This is not my life… Take me back…”
Halloween
Behind the contours of this mask
Almond eyes brand your outline on my memory
The curves of your body are tattooed on the back of my desire
Drawing painfully acquired
Inked with passion’s blood
On this old hallowed night
Where fantasies materialize through costumed dreams
And spirits seek comfort in the thumping pulse of techno beats
Zorro’s sword has been bested
By the fluttering of an Amazonian Butterfly’s wings
Almond eyes brand your outline on my memory
The curves of your body are tattooed on the back of my desire
Drawing painfully acquired
Inked with passion’s blood
On this old hallowed night
Where fantasies materialize through costumed dreams
And spirits seek comfort in the thumping pulse of techno beats
Zorro’s sword has been bested
By the fluttering of an Amazonian Butterfly’s wings
The Ex Factor
I can feel that hidden love pour from you
With every squeeze of my arm and every hug that you steal
Your fingers say what you don’t dare
Fearful of the confirmation that exists
In the unspoken realm of past regrets
The torture you must have endured
When the phantom of my words
Spoken at the moment of our parting
Haunted true, echoing in your ears
“I would have loved you, so much.”
With every squeeze of my arm and every hug that you steal
Your fingers say what you don’t dare
Fearful of the confirmation that exists
In the unspoken realm of past regrets
The torture you must have endured
When the phantom of my words
Spoken at the moment of our parting
Haunted true, echoing in your ears
“I would have loved you, so much.”
Melatonin Deficiency
It is impossible to name the reasons
That keep me awake at night
Unknown captors of my thoughts
Ransoming peace for forty silver pieces
Friday, November 28, 2008
Naming Constellations
I've worshiped you,
I'm afraid.
I've raised you
so high above me.
I've made it impossible to reach you.
To touch you.
To taste you.
I can only see you
through the cheap telescope of the imagination:
A trace of light.
You've been gone for over millions of years.
I'm afraid.
I've raised you
so high above me.
I've made it impossible to reach you.
To touch you.
To taste you.
I can only see you
through the cheap telescope of the imagination:
A trace of light.
You've been gone for over millions of years.
The Butterfly Effect
Whether destiny or coincidence,
I know
I know that meeting you is an opportunity.
I've read about love at first sight, logically
it's absurd.
I know nothing about you
except,
how your hands will feel in mine,
the way my pillows will absorb the smell of your hair,
how your flip-flops will look
strewn
on my closet floor.
I know just how
your gum wrappers will line my waste paper basket
and I know
the heart-shape your thighs would take
lumped
comfortably
underneath my sweatshirt.
I am nothing to you,
now,
but I could be your happiness,
your depression,
your excuse to bar hop on Friday nights.
I could be the reason you hurry home,
your co-host for a pot-luck and
your joint bank account holder.
Your rebellion against your father,
your best friend's secret crush, your official jar-opener,
your frustration, your alarm clock,
your ride to church.
Your blanket, your scapegoat, and your last orgasm tonight.
I can be all that and yours.
Let it pour down on me, your irrational tantrums and your overreactions,
all you have to offer
and everything you hold back.
Let me weave layer after layer of you into the fabric of my life,
vibrant and rich textures to warm us
both
during the cold and dry February nights ahead.
A cocoon of photographs and stories,
decorated in quaint post-modern sentiment.
The pale halo of your cheeks in full bloom
a lamp
to light our rainiest afternoons
while Ray LaMontagne strums our story out.
We are an E-minor chord transitioning to A,
a D chord evolving into G,
we could be
anyway.
We are the definition of potential.
Join me for afternoons at the pool hall and nights at the cafe;
live jazz highlighting our conversations.
For lakeside barbecues and early morning runs.
For birthdays and family reunions featuring my aunt's nutella strawberry cake.
Let me introduce you to
a night a in Vienna,
an hour on Parisian backstreets.
Fall into my arms,
realize,
that you are genetically predisposed to fit there,
right there,
that there is no other place
where you'll be more at home.
No,
I don't believe in love at first sight.
It's absurd
But I do believe
in the possibility of you.
I know
I know that meeting you is an opportunity.
I've read about love at first sight, logically
it's absurd.
I know nothing about you
except,
how your hands will feel in mine,
the way my pillows will absorb the smell of your hair,
how your flip-flops will look
strewn
on my closet floor.
I know just how
your gum wrappers will line my waste paper basket
and I know
the heart-shape your thighs would take
lumped
comfortably
underneath my sweatshirt.
I am nothing to you,
now,
but I could be your happiness,
your depression,
your excuse to bar hop on Friday nights.
I could be the reason you hurry home,
your co-host for a pot-luck and
your joint bank account holder.
Your rebellion against your father,
your best friend's secret crush, your official jar-opener,
your frustration, your alarm clock,
your ride to church.
Your blanket, your scapegoat, and your last orgasm tonight.
I can be all that and yours.
Let it pour down on me, your irrational tantrums and your overreactions,
all you have to offer
and everything you hold back.
Let me weave layer after layer of you into the fabric of my life,
vibrant and rich textures to warm us
both
during the cold and dry February nights ahead.
A cocoon of photographs and stories,
decorated in quaint post-modern sentiment.
The pale halo of your cheeks in full bloom
a lamp
to light our rainiest afternoons
while Ray LaMontagne strums our story out.
We are an E-minor chord transitioning to A,
a D chord evolving into G,
we could be
anyway.
We are the definition of potential.
Join me for afternoons at the pool hall and nights at the cafe;
live jazz highlighting our conversations.
For lakeside barbecues and early morning runs.
For birthdays and family reunions featuring my aunt's nutella strawberry cake.
Let me introduce you to
a night a in Vienna,
an hour on Parisian backstreets.
Fall into my arms,
realize,
that you are genetically predisposed to fit there,
right there,
that there is no other place
where you'll be more at home.
No,
I don't believe in love at first sight.
It's absurd
But I do believe
in the possibility of you.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Beginnings
"It's about time." This is what I told myself as I created this blog. The fear of being insignificant and uninformed has kept me from e-publishing my thoughts for years. However, this fear has not prevented me from filling more than my share of moleskin notebooks and leather bound journals cover to cover with musings, essays, lyrics, poetry, and even recipes. The problem with this is that I've kept this prolific outpouring mostly to myself, muting my real feelings on subjects that are important to me. I believe that the most important thing in this life is the ability to create relationships with those around you. To create those connections that make life worth living. This can only be done through true communication. Meaning that we must let our defenses down and truly put ourselves out there with what we think, what we feel, what we love. Without fear of judgments and repercussions. How can I expect someone to love me without knowing me? That's what communication is all about right? I've done enough of sitting on the sidelines, watching others LIVE, with those who know neither victory nor defeat as my only company in an dingy theater of the absurd. To hell with that. To truly live every day, that's heroic, and I want me a piece of that.
There will be more later, that I promise. For now I'll leave you with my most recent poetic endeavor, because, when I wrote it, it was the most honest expression of who I was at the time. And I want you to know me.
The runway shrinks
encasing Vegas into an unseasonable snow globe,
while French is whispered loudly
across my aisle.
Jet lag joins forces with insomnia and I'm stretched
between two points
of an exhausting spectrum.
I can see her,
blurry vision enhancing sight,
tears a lens,
her Russian-doll face all dimples and eyes.
She sits on the pink cushions
of her thighs
wrapped in pink cotton Jammie pants, comfortably
alternating
between chewing gum and twirling
her hair into silken spools
on her soft fingers.
The smell of fresh laundry intertwines with Victoria's Secret
and sweat.
It exfoliates me,
pore after pore unclogged of whatever touched it last.
I wear her fabric on my chest,
a symbol of late night movies and stolen looks in the classroom,
her texture tickling my skin.
I taste her lips,
the flavor rests briefly on my tongue
and spreads down my throat,
morphing from watermelon to Toblerone
depending on my mood.
My own yawning wakes me,
Placing me squarely on an aisle seat in the coach section of a plane dingy enough to be affordable.
The stewardess slams the snack cart into my shoulder, yelling out her wares for any passenger foolish enough to spend seven dollars on a sandwich which should have been complementary with the airfare.
Now she eludes me.
Like the Cheshire cat,
all that's left
behind
are her honeycomb eyes,
until she blinks,
leaving me
without a memory to hold on to,
to fill my senses,
until the warning light turns off.
There will be more later, that I promise. For now I'll leave you with my most recent poetic endeavor, because, when I wrote it, it was the most honest expression of who I was at the time. And I want you to know me.
The runway shrinks
encasing Vegas into an unseasonable snow globe,
while French is whispered loudly
across my aisle.
Jet lag joins forces with insomnia and I'm stretched
between two points
of an exhausting spectrum.
I can see her,
blurry vision enhancing sight,
tears a lens,
her Russian-doll face all dimples and eyes.
She sits on the pink cushions
of her thighs
wrapped in pink cotton Jammie pants, comfortably
alternating
between chewing gum and twirling
her hair into silken spools
on her soft fingers.
The smell of fresh laundry intertwines with Victoria's Secret
and sweat.
It exfoliates me,
pore after pore unclogged of whatever touched it last.
I wear her fabric on my chest,
a symbol of late night movies and stolen looks in the classroom,
her texture tickling my skin.
I taste her lips,
the flavor rests briefly on my tongue
and spreads down my throat,
morphing from watermelon to Toblerone
depending on my mood.
My own yawning wakes me,
Placing me squarely on an aisle seat in the coach section of a plane dingy enough to be affordable.
The stewardess slams the snack cart into my shoulder, yelling out her wares for any passenger foolish enough to spend seven dollars on a sandwich which should have been complementary with the airfare.
Now she eludes me.
Like the Cheshire cat,
all that's left
behind
are her honeycomb eyes,
until she blinks,
leaving me
without a memory to hold on to,
to fill my senses,
until the warning light turns off.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)