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.