Oceanside Meditations

Silica gives way beneath my worn feet
As a shuffling amongst the atmosphere awakens
Freedom in a gust of salty levity.
Flaming balls of plasma perforate the heavenly darkness.

Under each breath in this fleeting silence
Hide wisps of magic, perpetuated by the spirit
Of discovery, the passion of knowledge.
A thousand questions are buried in each exhale.

Here, I feel nihilism disintegrate.
Now, tears flow of their own accord.
In the expanses, in the infinitesimal,
Hope finds its unyielding roots.

Most days, I would look up
And wonder, “Why am I here?”
Tonight, another thought overwhelms me…
“Thank goodness I am.”

Uncurl

Fingers bent in clenching fists,
We know no other than what we’re given.
Accepting of culture so natural, factual,
Actual, practical – it only makes sense.
And my how we’re quick to offer defense.

But who is to say one people is right,
And others must reform their ‘plight’?
For when culture is broken down,
The term itself means nothing more than the next.
It’s only invention, a convenient convention
Shaped and structured by each who use it.

But understanding revision is never so easy,
Tradition is not so simply dismissed.
Sometimes it’s as painful as unfurling the
Fingers long curled in tight and tensing fists.

Out of the Apartment

It’s funny all the things you miss
When you’ve lived somewhere awhile,
Like the way the shower seems to hiss
Or the tired tarnish of the tile.

I’ve lived here for who knows how long,
And yet so many things I’ve overlooked:
The worn-out whisper of the air ducts’ song
And the way the pictures on the wall are crooked.

And now that I’m leaving, I see it all:
The weary drooping of dying hedges,
The way the roof appears that it will cave,
And the chipping paint of each wall’s ends.

After many mired months I’ve ended a loan,
Now I can take heart in knowing wherever I roam
Away from this apartment, through the vast unknown,
That I’ll always have somewhere to return: my home.

Revival

Beaded

w–o–r–d–s

hang together on broken

strings, incomplete thoughts an unfinished

necklace of pearls knotted off too quickly before it

fits, choking instead of cascading elegantly, each

forgotten phrase or abandoned idea

a shackle to the progress

of newly birthed

inspirations.

The rut grows

deeper as the c-h-a-i-n

grows longer, until new ideas are

cut off  just to prevent them from

adding to the unbearable

weight of dissatisfied

stagnation.

Complacency

turns the rut into a valley where

progress is a dangerous mountain to scale, an

impossible feat to gaze upon from the

warped angles of the

comfortably flat

grass.

Ambition:

the light and the key to

reveal disappointment still weighing

on inactive minds and to set free the

chained spirits contained within

iron grips of neglected

dreams.

The climb is

not short, nor is it easy, but it

reveals the ditch masquerading as a vale, the

sinkhole hiding behind the

peaceful meadow’s

façade.

Frigid

air at the top is a

slap in the face of laziness as the broken

n-e-c-k-l-a-c-e-s of long ago are allowed to decay and

fresh revival brings with it a newfound

fervor  for the creation

of beautifully

beaded

words.

Break

Lost in the twisted cavern of a wandering mind,

her feeble ideas cage her in and depart.

Echoes of the voices that beat her down crash

against the walls. They keep coming back,

tormentors.

Decay drips slowly from the rotted branches of

impossible limbs, bars that hold her in.

How can they live in this absence of light?

If the trees were real, they would already be

dead…

But if they were dead she’d be free.

A rockslide falls heavily on her back as her

mind comes apart all above and below her.

The bitter taste of ginger fills the crack of her

mouth and the odor of death invades her mind.

Sanity returns for her, but too late.

Too late.

Her mind is a cavern and she has already caved in.

On My Way

Blood thickens over time with exposure, a life spent in frigid night.
Mine is still thin from a childhood of heat, not content in frigid night.

Was I prepared? Perhaps I was naïve, thinking the sun would shine.
It had all my life, but now the light ripped to dark, rent in frigid night.

Fingers froze shoved deep into absent warmth, quick steps echoed.
Breath swirled around numb ears, followed as I went in frigid night.

Time is of the essence, as they say, punctuality is the soul of business.
Picking up the pace, I stumble-stepped downhill, bent in frigid night.

Stillness took over. It was time to wait, but I had no time for patience.
If I jump in place will they stare? Stomping puts a dent in frigid night.

A moment of appreciation for the chauffeurs of public transportation.
I settled into enjoying the comfortable warmth absent in frigid night.

Fog on the glass reminded me I had not escaped forever. How long?
Nearly long enough to forget blackness, to not lament in frigid night.

Too soon comfort whisked away, I stepped out and bowed my head.
Despite my desire for the stars, the wind does not relent in frigid night.

At last, my destination reached, I was free for a while to enjoy the view.
Learn to drive, Ana. Get yourself a car to avoid torment in frigid night.

Sometimes

Sometimes
When the light fades away
Swallowed by a blanket of black
I unhinge my restless mind,
Wade through shallow
Surf hissing whispers
What was and was not.

Now I am disgusted,
Sick of my own shadow,
Harboring hatred,
Weary and dreary.

No more.

For I seek another,
A shrouded identity, masked by madness,
Delirium.
I seek another
Need another
Need
Scintillating
Sizzling
Someone to urge me
To slip out of the pale dusk
And into her arms.

I Look At You

I look at you, and I see

Pain. I see struggles beyond my reckoning.

I see a broken silhouette on the verge

Of despair. I see an opaque spirit praying

That light would be tangible, that the

Atmosphere would be more of a burden,

That reality could be a little more real.

I see a form begging for a soul,

A soul begging for redemption.

I look at you, and I hear

Helplessness in a cracking voice

As the edge gives way to the air,

As a stumble reaches the point of no return.

I see a free-fall with no destination, I see

Rage release, frustrations fizzle, sadness dissipate.

I see freedom from death, freedom from life.

I see the future, I see the past, the present;

I see you, I see me, her, him; I see

Miracles, with miraculous explanations;

I see expectations match reality.

I look at you, and I see

More beauty than I have ever seen before.

An Empty Bench

It’s unusually cool for this time of year. The air is crisp, and feels good as I breathe it in, heavy and deep. And though it is sharp, it comforts me somehow. It makes me dig into the realms of my own warmth for protection against the cold. I realize I am content, and that I have been content for some time now. This feeling is nice, like a certain happiness made only for me. I enjoy it when it comes. Its presence is soothing and comfortable. But like seasons come and go, so does my fragile contentment, and leaves a sort of emptiness that I don’t understand how to fill.

It never does go unnoticed, the particular change that pervades my consciousness like an odor that spreads through a room. Its presence is sharp at first, but slowly I accept it, slowly it becomes familiar, and slowly I forget what came before it. I always seem to remember eventually, though, as if I am meant to recall happier times and dwell in the discomfort of the present. Every change comes with uncertain worry. I cannot help but wonder if I’ll ever be content with my revelations, insignificant as they may be. They’re always subtle, but sure enough leave their mark somehow. Something always changes, and drags with it my reluctant will. I long for continuity. I want to know what it feels like.


The breeze picks up now and I turn my collar to shield my face from the icy air. The tree branches above me wrestle with the wind, shake and bend in violent turmoil. They, too, cannot feel the comforts of continuity, always reaching for something, growing towards it, aging all the while. But wind and rain and small children’s limbs never let them be. An acorn plummets to the ground, dislodged from its flimsy twig bearing and smacks the pavement with a soft snap. It rolls for a while into the middle of the sidewalk, into the traffic of runners and cyclists where it rocks back and forth in small semi-circles until it comes to rest.

My eyes follow it to where it lies and I notice a woman sitting across the way. The small acorn has caught her eye as well and she now looks up at me with a certain expression of childish wonder. I flash a sheepish smile on impulse, and she returns the same. Immediately her eyes shift back down to the acorn, as if our eye contact were something illegal. But I cannot fend off the peculiar interest I have in her. Her eyes are soft and forgiving, a brilliant shade of light blue that seems to shimmer. I’ve never seen eyes like that. And her hair, a modest gold, kept at bay by a simple stocking cap. She smiles again, giving life to her gently drooping lips.


No longer is she unwilling to look at me for more than a few seconds at a time, and now we sit, each alone on our respective benches, staring at each other with intense intrigue, as if to the other we both are something amazing, something we thought impossible. I think we both feel the same thing – the notion that this just feels right. But I know it’s not right. It cannot be right. Yet I have the strongest desire to stay forever on this bench, just staring at her without any idea why, and with no inhibitions about doing so.

She breaks her gaze and inside I cry out “Why? Why? Look at me once more!” The woman I know much better has approached me. She extends her hand and gently encourages me away from the bench.


“Are you ready to go, honey?” she asks, with the warm smile I’ve grown accustomed to. I don’t respond for a second or two, my gut clenched in regret, my brow bent as if to say, “I’m sorry”. I look up at her and nod without feeling, leaving the bench with difficult reluctance. My hand is damp with sweat as I take hers in mine, twirling my fingers softly around hers. The air has frozen the metal of her ring, and it stings my hand upon first touch. I look back at the bench on which that woman sat, but it is empty now, no longer in existence. Rather it was simply a fleeting moment of uncanny chance. Maybe it meant nothing.

Yet my only thought as we walk away is that one day my children or grandchildren will ask me just who is my true love, and I will not know how to give them the answer they expect.

A Rose Upon My Doorstep

I sought to step outside my door,
Escape the melancholy of this house
And find myself some happy news.

And at my feet I found a rose,
A gentle scent that filled my nose,
The vibrant red of
Patterned petals spiraling
Softly towards a crimson heart.

And I wondered whose rose this was,
This beautiful budding stem,
I looked around but only found,
The rose was just for me.

I picked it up, careful of its
Thrifty thorns and
I adored it so.
I wanted not to let it go,
I wanted to keep it safe
In my grasps,
I wanted to call it mine.

But I soon realized that
I would do it wrong,
For I have no vase to house it in,
No place to keep for so long.

So I let it go, threw it to the wind,
Freed it from my binding grip,
And as my tears did slowly drip
I watched it drift forever away.

Walk On

Distant destinations fill the mind
As I pursue the path on which I trot,
Once trodden by men much
Better than I will ever be.
I can feel their woe as my feet
Step over theirs, each step forming pairs,
Of old and new, now and then
Put together in momentary blend
Of earth and flesh, a dirty sole
Both theirs and mine.

And time becomes irrelevant,
I have no destination now,
Only a vague idea of how
I shall carry on my way,
To see the warmth of the day,
For the night is cold,
And I don't like it.
I do not.

But I suppose those men so long ago,
Those pioneers of purposeless land,
With pride in heart and empty hand,
They knew too, that each dawn
Only lasts so long,
That fiery stinging light must give
Way to pale, submissive white.

The journey never ends, it simply just repeats,
For though the city of a thousand streets
Ends the lonely man's woeful gait,
The discovery so desired by men
Always manages to dissipate,

Just there in the midst of his fickle fingertips.

The Long Way Home

An iced breeze delineates my body against the night

Ans I am a silhouette among silhouettes, moving

Shadow in a sacred stillness.

I feel calm enough to linger here

And take the long way home.

Columns splayed with dappled forms of ancient trees

Grown amongst thought. All knowing visages of an

Insurmountable strength, magnified by light.

Somehow I find a strength within

To take the long way home.

I'll wind through angular bends of lampposts as

I lift from within to remain on a length of air, suspended

Swaying through the night

I'll land wherever the unknown goes

So I'll take the long way home.

I am one among many,

But amongst the many I have won.

And I'll take the long way home.

Thinking About the Indefinite

Can you picture the place
In which you'll be
When the hands of time
Have wound the clock
With such subtle consistency?

Can you perceive yourself
As you might be,
Not now but then,
When, after you've been
Gone so long,
You are something unforeseen?

Imagine the end,
The one plot line component
No author can omit.
The gentle end, the forgiving end,
The one thing on which you can depend.

Could you perhaps undo the future
Before it ever happens;
Rewrite your supposed fate
As you see fit, and then pursue it,
Give life to your own creative wit.
And then never worry about the end.

I do wish to see you again.

A Dream Derailed

Extract the reality from the banality

That is every day, every moment.

Let’s take it back to when ideas

Would swarm, spin, reorganize

Like nanobots playing musical chairs

Or epistemological spoons.

Look me in the eye and tell me

That this isn’t a fickle façade.

The whirring white noise is

Unsettling, I’m surrounded by sound

To which my mind attributes no meaning

But my body graces with a smile.

What is continuity, what is change,

What the hell is progress? Growth?

Am I moving forward, sliding backward,

Standing balanced on my pedestal?

Knock me off, please, I want to feel

Real, raw, drained out and rejuvenated.

Please, don’t let the winds take my flesh

And leave what’s left to crawl behind.

Sweet Surrender

I can still see the invisible smiles.
I hear your voice as it dissolves into static.
My fingertips still buzz with your energy,
Conserved only deep within me.

My mind’s racing in reverse
While my feet carry me forward.
I am a continuum, I am a vacuum,
I am but a line in space.

Open your eyes, peer into mine,
Then tell me why I’m tethered
To elastic, why the dust flirts with the wind
And sublimity overwhelms me.

Tell me why my gut quivers
At the thought of walking away,
And joy is contingent upon your approval…
Tell me when sanity went awry.

Your retreat marks my defeat,
And my victory all the same.
I’m free from your suffocating embrace
That always took my breath away.

Yet I always imagined I would mean
Everything, something, anything to you.
I never thought I’d be insignificant.
No, I never thought that.

Lost words itch across my skin
Like clear ink on flaky papyrus.
And as they're slipping away,
I close my eyes and smile
At you.

Still There

It's all the same now
As it was then.
The same people,
Same circumstance,
The same uncertainty,
The same dumb chance.

But peculiarly
It just diesn't feel quite right,
Quite like you hoped it might.
And frustration inflitrates effort
As you seem unable to feel what you desire,
And find yourself debating
Whether you can't or if emotion's
Made you a liar.

Because you miss it so,
That notion like no other,
The certain twist in your stomach
And the thronging in your chest,
That one mixture of excitement
And uncertainty unlike all the rest.

But suddenly you pick up a scent,
You catch a glimpse,
A delusional moment of dejavu.
And everything comes back to you.
The butterflies have taken flight once more
Just like they did before.

And you're suddenly consumed with indefinite relief,
For in knowing that it's still there,
You're spared from dulling, dreadful, desperate grief.

Home

I cannot find a place to rest my head

Where I may repose in the quiet and feel wholly

Serene.

This place is the place in which all comes together to one

And that which does not is no matter because it will all

Heal with time.

A place to be at place in,

To belong and feel connected

To an ideal extending past your own existence,

A concept that ought to be a tangible reality

But all I find upon my search is floating away

Effortlessly.

Running underwater, I cannot retrieve what I hope

Whether I close my eyes and ignore the difference in solitude

Or whether I mold myself with indifference to the difference

If only to be somehow in the right place, at the right time.

When all is transient and untethered,

I can enclose myself in the shadows of my mind and wish to be

Home.

In Delight

One occupant of the human consciousness,
One desultory, dumb distraction,
And we are lost in satisfaction,
In loss of binding and loss of traction,
In giving up what keeps us stable,
In the thrill of living by reaction.

My, my how we can forget
The world's each and every threat,
As we float about without the slightest care,
Or worry or fear of burdens near,
Burdens far, and burdens past,
They're not here, they couldn't last

The journey from where your body stands
Still obeying earthly hands,
While you escape like feathered birds,
To a place created by fantastic words,
A wonderful, magical, blissful impression,
A haven made of your mind's digression.

And here you remain a happy soul,
Untouched by reality's toll.

Dwell in delight, until your final freeing breath.

Ek Khayaal

Zindagi ka junoon nigahon mein base,
Saason mein chippi baat, hoton pe na fase.

Kehna ho jo, kehjaaon, aur dekh meri kano ki taakat;
Ek soch ki shakti pehchaanle tu, sunle woh bekaraar aahat.

Chanchal hawa ke saat, apne sapno ke lakeero pe dhor,
Chod de bekaar ki pareshaniyan, bas yeh asha kabhi na chod.

Adhoori na rehjaye teri khoobsurat kahani,
Chootne na dena kabhi, yeh moka suhani.

Main tere samne, tu mere samne,
Dobara na mile aisa pal;
Tere palkon pe meri khwabon ko panaha miljaye:
Aasoon tere bhi tapkenge, aaj nahin to kal.

Smile

This is the quiet moment when

You are utterly still, a statue

Enveloped by those magics

Of the mind humming with thought,

That lifts up your soul into the sky

Where it catches the light and turns

Splaying rays into the promise,

The brilliance, of everything yet to come

And all that has been overcome.

Priorities

Shadows should be charged
With espionage, really.
They pry me open
Like a can of slimy
Thoughts and grimy emotions
And, engulfing them, replenish
Me with fresh foam, a warm breeze,
The faint scent of foreign salts…
Like a cheap cologne or
Expensive detergent.

A summer chill brings goosebumps
Which don’t so easily deflate:
They spread like a rash until
My skin is opaque, crystalline.
My form erodes.

I was silly, honestly,
To claim ownership of what was not
Mine; to assume that shadows’
Affinities are permanent.
I struggle to recall the aromas
Of those wisps of darkness;
I grasp in the blindness of dawn
For the hint of a silhouette.

I turn my back,
And all I perceive is light.

I am awake,
I am alone.

Capricious Delusions

Nothing ends
when everything is starting
to unravel, like strands of the tightest rope
losing their willingness
to intertwine, or the
bowel that is your
words disimpacting into an endless stream
of shit:

chasing me to the horizon,
that inexorably receding border into
happiness that I so wish was demilitarized;

coercing me to walk on solitary
thorns shielded by bubble wrap
whose incessant popping could drive this world
sane, with sculpted granite petals emerging as
cathartic, analgesic blades;

coaxing me to lands where
warmth is a privilege for those whom
you deem worthy;

crying acidic tears of
hypocrisy that make my insides
burn until I am a shriveled mass
kicked under your bed, dissolving
into the carpet and leaving a stain
that on certain days might resemble a smile;

caressing me with memories
until I subscribe to voluntary
amnesia and it all just
stops.

No, nothing ends
until I say so,
but ‘so’ resides on the other side
of that goddamn horizon.

Broken Bones

There are nights when the shadows are burning holes in a piece of paper and there's lack. Lack, of a lot of things, like bones. They hide beneath papery skin but they hold oh so much together. Until they break, and pierce through decency and normalcy. All is protruding and sharp angles and street signs are bent and streets curve confusing lines into my eyes. I am lost in nothing, too much.

I'm lying on the floor staring into the ceiling, seeing through it into the sky. I want to see the bones, all that's missed. The marrow inside bones, that hurts to find. If I pretend the stars are shining metallic spheres could I touch them and not burn, could they be real and spill upon my floor as glittering marbles and then I could be one too.

There is an absence, of you. And I attempt forgetting, filling my mind with silly frilly things that are like foam within empty walls, but they just create more space and you fill me in. I have become the ache of the sky pulled from beneath my feet, like a current from the frigid depths. I look for you, maybe you are a marble spilled among the rest, but I forget you are the air and I cannot elude you. And I miss you.

The Ethereal March

What do you want to be when you grow up?

The query is simple.

Too simple.

Too broken-down, too constricting, too…

Blunt.

We tend to limit the (supposedly)

Single-minded mental capacities of a child

By posing a question so audaciously mediocre.

My initial response:

A picture of ten different careers, sharing but

A common face.

(Maybe dissociative identities could solve my dilemma.)

I remember my gut sinking into my trembling feet

When their icy laughter pierced my naïve ears.

Twelve years later, I’ve learned to stand.

My daydreams are still “childish” fantasies…

Not of castles, nor of princes,

Not of riches, nor unsurpassed beauty.

I dream of being a pioneer,

A foundation.

I dream of being an unparalleled source

Of debate.

I dream of being the giant

Upon whose shoulders

Curiosity’s muses will find their perch.

I’m walking, not wandering.

Learn the difference.

Flashback

There's something very strange about a spark,
That brief blast of beauty
Buried soon once more;
A fiery flash-
Here one minute
Then forever gone,
But forgotten
Never.

And yet that spark lives on (in memory)-
Even after entering in
Its eternal earthly tomb-
A fading flash
Still unforgotten,
Infrangible.

There's something very sweet about a spark;
And you,
You're a lightning bolt.

My Half, Your Year

This isn’t love.

It’s not nostalgia.

It’s not even sadness;

It’s observation.

A day in the life,

A stamp on the letter,

A circled day on the calendar

Conveniently paired with another occasion

To mask the bigger meaning.

But then, it doesn’t mean anything,

At least not to you.

You weren’t the one who stayed up

Replaying bliss in your head

With that dopey smile screwed on,

Only to have it wrenched off

By the lovely assistant

You kept hidden during your magic act.

By rule of thumb,

Should not she be boxed and pierced by knives?

Though she must have been eventually,

As now I sit with her in the audience,

Watching your life in pictures

Because you never bothered

To say goodbye.

(In a year’s time.)

It’s still not love.

Still not nostalgia.

It’s not regret.

It’s merely a memory

That I have the misfortune to keep.

It’s karma,

Sealed with a kiss.

Oblivion

Blurred faces,
Muffled tears,
Empty spaces,
Silent fears.

Since when is
Ignorance the face of
Wisdom?

Forget her childhood, shrouded
By the inexorable
Folly of a once-respectable
Buffoon.

Disregard her adolescence,
Fragmented by the essence
Of ethanol so very
Bitter, but deludingly sweet
To some.

But never, ever turn your
Back
On the sobbing,
The pain,
Her agony,
That she so valiantly
Casts into the shadows.

You don’t deserve that
Luxury.
Not now, not ever.
You, who promised to be
Concrete, in a whirlwind of
Disastrous proportions;
You, who were to be an
Angel, now possessed by
Disease-ridden darkness.

Oblivion is no place for an innocent soul.
Bring yourself to light,
To health,
To sanity.
Bring yourself to her side.

Is that so hard?

My Prison

Lying in silence, I wait.
Whispering half-truths, unspoken stories
Swirl in my head.
All is dead.
The books have been read.
And all that could have been said
Has fled.

Face buried in echoing pain,
I rise to agony,
A ride of my own routine,
A self-provided prison.

Now
I hear the laughter of children.
I gaze longingly through bars,
Loosely gripping those iron barriers.
They are running,
Running nowhere,
Without guidance, without direction,
Without care.

My heart aches as she giggles,
The youngest, hardly perceiving the grass between her toes,
The sunlight on her skin.
She is smiling.
Now, the children,
Like a pack of wolves on the hunt,
Strategize their next mission
And fly far away.

Oh, how I long for those days!
Ignorance abound,
Sweet, pure gaiety all around.
They see a rock
It becomes their toy,
something to throw,
nothing to know.

I see a rock,
And the elders frown
When I hold it at that certain angle
And exclaim its beauty, its smooth features,
Rounded by the sands of time.

For the wicked age of thought and reason
Has snatched my ability to love.

For all is dark, in this shadowed prison,
As I turn, shuffling to the center of my empty heart.

The Well's End

I fear this is the end.
It's all over now.
Girls will cry,
Guys will too, though they won't admit it.
I cried, my tears soft streams
Of impulsive waterfalls
Dampening my cheeks,
My lips, my chin,
Where each drop of my
Salty soul lept from my body,
Like each memory that ran
Across my reminiscing mind.

For I took a journey
Inside myself,
I found the well of my memories.
And I looked inside the well,
I looked and looked and then I fell,
Deep inside the well,
Where musingly I began to dwell
In thoughts so sad,
And others quite swell,
Yes long and happy did I dwell
Down there inside my well.

Until sadly, abruptly, regrettably
And infuriatingly,
I reached the end.
I struck the bottom of my well,
And some strange current,
Swift and unrelenting,
Carried me to the water's surface,
As my arms, too short, too weak,
Reached out to grasp the muddy floor.

My head broke the flimsy surface
As I gasped for air,
Wishing, wanting to be back down there,
Breathless and still,
Subconsciously aware of
My life in full,
Everything for which I once cared,
And loved.
And I cried.

But I suppose this well is
Still half empty;
Perhaps it's alright, or even necessary,
To pour more water-memories down to
My aquiferous mind.

But still I think, and I believe rightly so,
That an end now would be so,
So much easier,
So less filled with pain.

Whole Again

Lyrics to a song that's going to be played at Main Library's Battle of the Bands. You should check Alex's Compromise out, June 25th at 1, yo.

Verse 1

If you can look the other way, maybe I’ll point it out

Turn your head and make you face your brokenness

Taking all that’s suffocated,

Blasphemized and hated,

Tell me how can you ignore

The emptiness you hide.

Chorus

So breathe, (breathe!)

Open your eyes (open)

The encompassing brilliance

Of freedom and forgiveness.

All the wrongs (hurting!)

ever been done (to you)

And all the lies ever spun

Will fade out, (fade out)

And you will be [free].

Verse 2

Everyone’s searching In all the wrong places,

you can’t deny Nothing is ever enough.

Everything is too much to handle

There’s an echo in the darkness

Shadowing all your mistakes

Don’t be afraid, just let it go

You will be delivered.

Bridge

I won’t criticize the way you live your life (scream)

But if you stand and fight the feeling

Of a haunting silence in your soul

Then I will try to save you(scream)

From your own blackhole. (scream)

One Hazy Step

The leaves are changing
But Spring's long since passed
And nothing seems to be in its place.
The sun won't shine, though it is there-
A perfect sphere of orange enmity,
Protruding with hesitance
Through a foggy haze.
It looks as if the source of life is
Rather burning all we know,
Burning all we ever wanted.

And there's a boy in search of
Something else.
He knows not where to find it,
Or how to find it,
If he'll find it.
Yet he proceeds onward with
The advice entrusted to him
By his father.

Each step is a mark of progress,
Another license to further explore,
But remember that it is only possible
With the step that came before.

Fault of a Drama Queen

We stroll along, hand in hand, during the blue, lively night.

We flow through time, breathing in the neon and jazz of the city.

Our love escalates to the heights of the tallest skyscraper,

Though, when the city is smoky, we are a sight to pity.

I drag you with a sudden rush of anger into a dark alley,

Where the bums and scum of the earth thrive; hidden to the extreme.

There, I grow into a rage-filled beast; it’s time for your finale.

Thus, with my claws I scrape your skin raw just to hear you scream.

But, you see, this is just your overdramatic misconception.

I have to turn your head so you can see in the right direction.

What really happened on that so called ‘dreadful’ night?

Excitedly, I grabbed your hand and started running to the store,

but, as we sprinted around the corner, you met your plight;

you fell, slamming the concrete, resulting in scrapes galore.

But, I didn’t understand why with this despicable blame

you were stabbing me in the heart -- what a shame...

It’s true you had warned for us to halt from our running,

because you truly cared so dearly about the safety of me.

But, with our feet down the sidewalk we kept on gunning.

The act of waiting imprisons us with boredom: Let’s be free.

No, I am not the one your finger of blame should choose,

for you are the one who forgot to tie your stinking shoes!

It Means No Worries

Sometimes I get these ideas
They swarm my head
Like bees to honey…
When I was growing up
And we visited the homeland
Well, it’s a dangerous place
(For the pampered immune system)
And we had to take these huge, nasty pills
So my mom would crush them up
And mix them with honey
And I’d gulp it down
Every day
Without fail
For the duration of the trip.
And that’s what you are.
A trip.
A spoonful of honey
With a nasty, bitter aftertaste.
Vacation’s over,
Life’s begun.
Red knolls beckon
Like the tolling bell of liberty.
Come sunrise,
Well, hakuna matata.
(Stings are impermanent.)
What a wonderful phrase.

Oscar

eye whites yellowing
wrinkles gathering like tablecloths
a single gray hair paddling out into the abyss
of your beard,
ebony as your irises—
how could I not say beautiful

how could I not say ecstasy
on your skin,
soft as chocolate magnolia feathers
“shea butter, baby”
smooth and weathered

your tongue folding into
exhalation’s plummet
smoker’s snores building up beneath your teeth
the summit, the ripple, the gullet   

bites bearing babies down your neck
nibbling down to silk’s leather
the hips grind, the breath’s caress
how could I not say
                                  yes! 

*feedback much appreciated!

bird watching

ghost egret,
she wades in the rivers our fathers planted
wing-wise

ghost egret,
she glides in gilded clouds our mothers cried
eye-wise

ghost egret,
she pounces on trout our brothers threw back
beak-wise

eye snare the sunset,
blood bleeding
softly

smoldering tropical sage
thunder brewing in our
stew marsh pot
wind lifting florida’s red lips
kiss-wise

ghost egret,
steward our memories
bloodlet our minds float
bone-wise

Wrapping A Gift

Perhaps she'll enjoy
This gift I've gotten.
As opposed to the icy
Facade I've become
Accustomed to.

This paper refuses to
Fold neatly over the
Suggested shape of
The feeble box.
Damn paper.
Why must you crinkle
With rebellion and
Crease in murky mischief?
I think only to thwart
My desperate effort,
For I need, I require,
I so sadly desire
That she see this gift
As perfect.

And now I tie the ribbon
In a foolish way,
In lurking loops held
Loosely by a clumsy knot.
And though it's not picturesque,
Though I'm sure she could expect
Much better,
The thing is wrapped
And the knot is tied.

Trouble Sleeping

I'm tossing, turning, thinking

About things I was forgetting

But they've come right back

To slap my face, unsuspecting.

When sometimes everything's a

Question and nobody has the answer

And I'm stuck inside these sheets

Underneath, between, below,

My limbs tangled up within a dream

Where pillows muffle any scream.

I am hanging in a spiderweb

Stretched tight across an abyss

By networks of tiny threadworks

A million separate pieces meant to

Somehow make me strong

In a delicate web that catches it all.

Too much is blowing with the wind

And my web I fear is breaking

And I can't find the threads to sew it back

Or even try replacing.

Get me out of here, for God's sake

I can't take this anymore

Because there's futility in hiding

And my subconscious overcomes me

When everything locked in the past

Comes creeping up behind me.

No matter where the place to rest,

Or the kinds of thoughts I try to keep,

Dark memories, unwanted things

Always find me in my sleep.

Rigid Roots

It's only human nature
To crave something better,
To wonder why we're imperfect,
To hate everything wrong
And glorify everything right.

And we try, we strive,
We hope and pray
And will ourselves to be
Different, we rid ourselves
Of sources sick with
Self-consciousness,
And endorse the components
Of the ever elusive euphoria
Of comfortable self-acceptance.

But though the tree may
Shed its leaves
And strip itself bare,
Later to rebirth itself anew,

The tree is still a tree,
With all the imperfections of before,
With all the beauty of before,
Still the tree it was before.

Desires Indisposed

I could be standing
(Or sitting) in the midst
Of golden monkeys swinging
From trees mysteriously concocted
To sway in harmony
Yet emulate discord.

I could keep step with
Screaming centrifugal and
Yelping centripetal forces
Making a molehill of a mountain.

I could reinvent, redefine,
Relish and refute
Everything, nothing, anything
And shine it into the cosmos
To the eager eyes of the infinite.

Yes, I could be occupied
With things incredibly worthy,
Even more so than you.
But stochastic systems
Make me circle the drain
To a gutter filled with ghosts, whisperings,
Hope that refuses to fade,
And the soft echoes
Of unsuppressed laughter.

Scatter the pulses of my impulsive brain,
The residual glop that was once insulation.
Dig out some dopamine
Please, it’s in excess,
Reacting to every syllable,
Every glimpse, like Hiroshima and
Nagasaki giving birth
In the valley of despair.

No, there’s only one notion
That continually piques my frazzled spirit:
I wish I meant as much
To you
As you have always meant
To me.

Substance

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Why don't you tell me why
The face you show me every day
Is as good as a lie?

If I break you, will it matter?
Will it change my life at all?
If I don't have any pride,
Then what's the meaning of a fall?

The enigma of the ages
That we all try to ignore
And we say it's not important,

but it's what we're programmed for-

But we're above it. And I see
That it's all trivial, at most
What's it good for?

In a decade, it's a memory; it's a ghost

An ethereal illusion
That I cannot quantify
And it's importance is not great enough
To bother me to try

My hands are like the earth, they feel,

My mind is like a fire...
And the ocean swells in rhythm

With the mood of my desire

And all this separated
From your face of polished stone
So when I face you, I'm laid bare
So when I face you, I'm alone.

Spillings

I was a box accidentally kicked over,

Whose contents spilled onto the floor.

Some rolled under the sofa, snuggling with

The soft discomfort of dust and misuse.

Some broke on impact, cleanly in two

Pieces. They wouldn't fit back together.

I was forgotten, and swept into a corner

Left cold and alone on a sharp tile floor.

I tumbled. Places I didn't mean to go,

I was empty. You don't stay stationery

When you're weightless, you know.

I lost gravity; or was pulled by something

Else. Like pressing your weight against

A doorframe, for so long and letting go.

Weightless, shaking, drifting.

Oh the places you'll go

When you feel there's nowhere

You belong, and that pure existence

Is like waking up to chains

And never seeing the daylight.

The weight of feeling pulls me under

Time and time again. Down to grit

And darkness and truth. The umbre

That lacks acknowledgement, for fear.

Feeling pulls you abrubtly around

by the shoulders and violently holds you

To stand in front of a mirror that is

A liquid pool of reflection

Where you stoop and reach down

To pull up the past to face it all.

You sit drenched in despair,

In a puddle of your own misfortune.

Bad luck, wrong turns and

All those guts you should have listened to.

But by and by I dried. Believe me,

I never thought I could heal

Surrounded by my shadows.

If you look past your feet though,

You'll see shadows never appear

Without brilliant and captivating light.

Light will paint the way with constellations,

And I stumbled along the path,

Tripped and fell a time or two

Or three, and on the ground

I found under the sofa, hiding in the corner,

Myself made whole.

Pawleys Island

nights, we would scuttle to the ghost crab shore
sands’ soft relief beneath dusk skies
singing to the moon’s rise:
the smooth copper penny glowing redder
growing to echo in the dune shells
the summer tree frogs singing heat songs
the sticky sink of earth’s marsh side,
the seaside sinking at high tide
sea oats swaying in the moon’s cloister,
glowing golden yellow

we listened to ghost stories at the fort campsite,
the voice from the storyteller glowing
as the night passed like footsteps…
I had almost forgotten to bow my head at lost lovers
to tread swimmingly in the humility of deep,
sunken as eye sockets
bone smooth as shell underbellies
rippling smile lines winking, twinkling in
universal bliss

this land is land,
granted to us as the night grants the morning heavy dew drops
its history sung to us in the chirp of tree frogs and the
beat of woodpecker bark
its ghosts scuttling like moon shells into each shining sea 

Puzzled

Like lying on your back
Near a tranquil pond,
Staring with uncertainty
At the chaos of the jagged,
Leafy branches of a tree
Grown tall,

So you are looking
At yourself.

The sky is visible,
Perceivable, tangible,
Entirely possible.
But that tender blue
Sublimity is clouded by
The barbed branches'
Twisted obstruction.

You have, perhaps,
A fraction of the puzzle;
The rest of that soft blue
Picture darkened
Overwhelmingly with
Irregular, irrational
Missing pieces.

And though it is quite daunting,
Though it appears so difficult,
Be thankful you are not looking
At that puzzle's reflection
In the still surface of the pond
You lie next to.

Hardly Just a Name

Names are merely symbols. They are really nothing more than a few letters pushed together so that we may give a title to something we are told is significant. Yet it is the name we all recognize, that word that sparks our acknowledgement of association and puts into perspective its meaning relative to things like it. It works just the same with people. They have names, which we learn, memorize, register in our minds upon the sight of their face. Many shall be forgotten, but some are more important. Their name is forever chiseled into the stone tablet that is our memory. And I say stone tablet not as a generic, insignificant metaphor, but because some things, some people, cannot be forgotten. They stay with us forever, not necessarily in physical form, but very much so in our thoughts. They’ll not be erased, perhaps worn down like the engravings in stone, but never erased. Because they’re more than just a name, and really without anything of substance a name is worthless. It becomes a placeholder of emptiness, a representative of nothing.

We tend to forget that every now and then – that there is a person behind a name. For we begin to categorize and prioritize these names. We enroll them in lists and give them an order based on their usefulness to us or the role they play in our daily lives so that eventually a person becomes a thing. Just a tool to be used when needed. But what happens when that tool is no longer there, yet its name still exists? Then that thing is recognized and taken into consideration for it really is. Sadly, the same can be said about those we know. Consider the teacher you see each day, the source of homework and burden and undesired stress; he is gone. You never realized how funny he was and how enjoyable his class could be. Consider the room next to yours belonging to that pestering sibling you never really paid attention to; it’s now empty. It’s amazing how much they really meant to you.

We have sadly unpersonalized those who we interact with the most out of an unrecognized selfish tendency. It’s no one’s fault, but it is a problem. We have turned the concept of a name into a definition explaining what someone is, while at the same time we’ve totally forgotten who they are. Only you can determine what significance a person has to you, only you can assign them meaning. We must recognize that what is really important, what truly represents something to us, is the person behind their title; their emotion and personality, charisma and individual presence, their strange, goofy nature.

Do not forget that they add something to your life that would be lost without them; do not forget that they are far more than just a name.

With Snakes

To fraternize with garden snakes
It doesn’t take much spine –
One can cross their paths unscathed,
Get bit but end up fine.
See, interest in the garden snakes
Marks fear of the unknown;
She’d rather be with something plain
Than bored and all alone.
So with her little garden snake
She’s sitting while she ponders
Of then and now, what ifs and whys
But then her focus wanders…

What is that frightful creature
Slithering with such tuned finesse?
Why, none other than the cobra
Come in search of its new nest.

Now, to tango with the cobras
Takes a hell ’a lot ’a nerve;
She mustn’t get too close
Because if it decides to swerve
Then she’s caught in the undertow
Of its commanding power.
Her garden snake is useless now,
In fearfulness he cowers.

But she forgot about the garden snake –
The cobra’s much more thrilling.
It is danger in a living form
And she is more than willing
To function off adrenaline
And leave her sense behind.

Why fraternize with garden snakes
When cobras coax your mind?

Second Thoughts

He stared at the gallant glint
Dancing on the rail in a midday sun,
And in reality he'd have appreciated
The sight had he not been on the run.

But he was in no mood for awe
Or even inner, neutral content.
His mind was fixed, rather consumed,
With the months he'd just spent.

A whistle blew from someplace
Down the line, signaling the train.
He glanced around the station,
Thinking it filled with sorrowed pain.

He fitted his hat comfortably on his head
And lifted his suitcase from it's place.
He took on the image of a traveler
Bound by a nagging, nostalgic disgrace.

The train rolled up slowly
And halted with a screech.
The platform came alive with movement
But was dead without speech.

He made his way to the door of the train
Knowing it would not be his last.
And as he entered he stopped himself,
One foot in the future, one in the past.

He took one last dying glance
Across the sullen station.
Why he did it, he had hardly a clue.
Yet there she stood looking at him
And for the first time ever he had
Absolutely no idea what to do.

Our Words

Our words,
Wondering and weaving,
Easy,
Almost like
Silt-stained water.
Urgently choking
Through a twisted hose,
Gasping and heaving,
Stuttering spurts.

We will strip down bare
While winter grips cold,
Holding hands,
And watch
As summer
Slowly
Sets us free.

Rule of Three

First, silence.
Blinded light slips through
Cracks in the window.
Inhale with inspiration,
And allow
Darkness to sweep through
With the midnight haze,
Alone.
Let go.

Now, another,
Though not quite quiet
Wave washes sullen solitude,
Fanning candles of the past,
Sparkling eyes and a hint of a grin.
The world becomes content with two,
An embrace of companionship.

But, the third,
The dirty third,
Snatching still calm,
Consuming night and
Breaking balance.
Sneering and snarling,
While they tremble and cower,
It takes a place amongst them
As they gradually
Become the beast
They always
Despised.

Violins

Violins are reverberating through me, their echoes mark the boundaries of my skin as they shiver through my spine and breathe me in. I am rising and falling to the strings, alas they reach out into my depths and pull out the bittersweet I forget. This corporeal body is turned inside out, no longer bones and skin; curving music arounf my fingers and I am an entity of emotion, or movement, of being.

There are headlights tracing this familiar path and I do not think. I am thought. I am the wind coursing through the trees, swaying branches, falling leaves suspended in the air and twisting in the light. I am the waves swelling in the moonlight, the unseen turbulence and power that will sweep you away into the deep, rippling the stars.

I know where these lines will take me, where they always have, when I smooth down their long spindly arrowed fingertips that point to a box, that I take a sledgehammer to again and again and again.

You can't stop me, no one ever could. This is the breath waiting to be taken, a million wanted words like stars taped silent now bursting through the seams, the horizon of a sun pulling itself up and over the edge of the world, catapulting into brilliance.

I am more, I am.

Decisions, Decisions

There is a flower sat a-bloom

On the table before you,

A beautiful red rose

Spiraling in the subtle sublime,

And you lose yourself in

Its entrancing intricacy.

And my god, your heart's

A-flutter, restless within your chest.

You beg it to silence but it

Refuses your feeble instruction.

Then, as your eye traces the

Peeling petal

'Round its soft edge,

A menacing thorn makes itself

Visible, a sobering reminder

Of Pain's potential.

And thus you are left Mesmerized by a rosy,

Velvet passion's fire,

But hesitant and afraid

To grasp what you so desire.

Unity (Liquid)

deep air vibrations twisting tight
hit-bump boom popping reels
and you know the way you spun
I felt you fierce and twisting too
hip-pounding, shoulders meet
her body beams brightly with her face still
rays wave out stray thumping sway with her
and you know damn well she doesn't dance
you know loud light, heavy piercing pulses
show me how to move
down and down lead me closer now
bring her to the lightning
feel her body (my body) drip, drip, flow
exude light captured in motion
her still face twisting tight in your arms
frozen bright fire, momentary flux
channel, guide, and bend the stream
my body like fiber optics, energy transposed
show her how to move

a friend's advice

he said I should go West alone
bring a knife to ward of wayward suitors
hike canyon walls and pray I never slip and fall

he said youth is the time for mistakes
for learning, for growth
I cracked the dry earth with tremulous uproars
uprooting

the campfire glow would light my face alone
bears drawn to my tent by my menstrual blood trail
would find themselves still hungry
afterward

the sequoia sunset would rattle only an island
of bones
alone, cracking to drink up desert air

Windows

He knows enough to fight me, I can see it in his eyes
I turn away, and think of other things, this time I'll let it slide
But as I'm sitting here pretending it's not obvious I know,
I see him reaching down the rabbit hole for times from long ago
The past is calling, but it doesn't understand that times have changed
All the pieces are the same, but who I am is rearranged
Just like you are, because I know that you back then was not you now
And I'm not sure just when it happened, but I think I can guess how
So you can keep your indignation, and stick to your newer way
And when ill miss you, what I'll miss will be a memory, not today.
But back to him. The lesser problem.
I feel sorry for his shell .
Cuz that's not him; just the persona that he's trying hard to sell
And his hands are in his pockets, and he's smiling when he tries,
But if he wants to hide, then he shouldn't have looked me in the eyes.

Remedy

You have your way, I have mine
But who knows where they're taking us, just hop up on that greyhound bus, and get myself away; no, I'm not here to stay, I'm here to say, that's not today
Tomorrow is another day, but who knows if that's one to dread
I wish that I could sleep for days, avoid the demons in my head
But in my sleep, I see their eyes; I'm fucked up, yes, it's no surprise
Or maybe so: I guess I see
It's obvious you don't know me
But then I know, obviously,
There's more than one that I could be
To you, it may be simple, but
It's deeper than it seems at first
I could be heading for the worst
Of times, the best may be behind
The diamonds in the sky, my mind
Is desperate, it's about to burst
No moment's peace, a devil's curse
Of constant screaming, dawn til dusk:
I need escape, a cure, I must
Keep searching, though it never lasts
The mirror bleeds with shattered glass
And in my head, my senses freeze
I need a dose of something, please
A remedy to cure this numbness,
Tell me, how have I become this
Cold? Of course, it comes with truth,
If this is it, then what's the use
Of feeling anything, a spark
cannot warm up my frozen heart, and I am done, I'll stay on ice. Alone, I'll search for paradise: a destination in my mind, my remedies can help me find a point where I can almost touch, but never reach. A sigh, and such a shame because I'll never leave; my only option is to deceive myself. And chained up in these locks, my mind becomes my paradox.

Homeless Man

Combustion and tension, a rip at the seam
Destruction that rivals the worst of our dreams
The thought that we're different, no, we'll never die!
But mortality grasps in the blink of an eye
Too busy with terror to think about pain
Material shatters; a life, down the drain
The future, the madness, I'm only assuming
Ferments in their minds: a disaster is looming
And with yesterday's fears and today, all this sorrow,
The question is dark: what's in store for tomorrow?

Wax

There were those nights lit

By that candlelight of memories

And philosophies bourne from

The crevices of age. We listened

To the blues and danced in

The flicker of serendipity.

I'll close my eyes and see

The fire of your pomegranate candles

See the glowing purple bubbling

With a metaphysical displacement

Of a thought pulled up like an

Anchor dripping from the sea.

Your furrowed brows, and flashing smile.

I'll pour molten wax into jars

left neglected to a dusty shawl

And perchance they will one day become

Burning flames of knowledge

That will seal up my secrets with a

Forceful stamp opened only for the worthy,

And I'll be able to see through the umbre

Of the night until the sun pulls itself

Up and over the edge of the earth

To scare away the thieves.

Love Is A Burning Thing

'Love is a burning thing.'
And it leaves a blissful, happy sting.
Nothing makes sense because
Love is something unpredicted,
It's a journey through uncharted
Waters that cannot be depicted.

And it makes you crazy, it surely does.
It leaves you riding a sort of natural buzz,
Carried by the flutter
Of your pounding heart,
Knocking hard against your ribs,
Begging to be released into the chest
Of its counterpoint.

Fuck that. I'm not in love.

Way Back When

Do you remember way back when?
The time when we ruled the day?
We led the pack because we were
The pack and the only rule was to play.

The economy was our lemonade stands
And the highest we had to count
Were the fingers on our hands.

And our hair was stained by the sun,
Our legs would not refuse to run.
That was then, oh way back when,
Oh way back when.

Summer felt like a permanent pal,
A supervising friend never far,
But distant enough not to bar
Us from our fun.

And we were never ever done.

When my ides ran dry,
Your imagination would kick in and fly
Us to the moon and back all before
The clock struck noon.

Seize the day, hell, seize the hour.
We were blossoming into some kind
Of phenomenal flower.

I think we never bloomed...

Letter of Resignation

Disappointment’s chokehold grips
With icy blades for fingers;
The warm spring air brings no relief,
And desultory dreams still linger.

You, who held my hand for so long,
I fail to find solace in your embrace.
Your words neither pierce nor caress,
But just dissolve without a trace.

And you, whose laughter yet resonates,
Yes, you, who so often desired aid,
Time has taught me one valuable lesson:
I’d rather leave this task for the well-paid.

And how could I forget you?
An investment, shall we say?
I have yet to reap a profit,
So I’m cutting my losses today.

And you, in the mirror:
Demons have turned your brain to shit.
Listen to the shadows, hoarsely whispering:
I quit.

Spring Showers

I am surrounded by tile,

Cool to the fingers

Steam on my forehead.

It is raining

And I see the same frame

Again and again

The past flashing strobelight

Of my nightmares magnified.

Moving, frame by frame

In colorless horror.

When I was five and sitting

In a grocery cart telling you

How you were the best mommy

In the whole wide world.

Your face cast with

A shadow of humility and shame.

And I wondered why.

Shattered glass, empty bottles,

Flies scavenging, buzzing,

Music turned up up, walls trembling,

Despising you, crashes, falling,

Spinninng laughter, wells

That never end.

I was never the rock

You thought I was,

(always trembling)

For what is left of me

Without you?

The roar of the water is louder than I,

Never in the daylight will you see me cry.

Demonization

I right myself from a wrong position,
Lying heavily on my face.
The room is spinning with inquisition
And I do not like this place.

I stand on trembling toes,
Wobbling like a baby duck.
It seems some portal has just been closed
And I'm strangely, sadly stuck.

The mirror reflects a demon,
A peculiar little fiend,
I smile, it smiles back;
There's tension that is not screened.

My hair burns and I rip it out,
I scratch my nose and it is gone.
I transform and scream and shout,
My face, my soul has been redrawn.

And I look at the mirror
And there I am, a question on my face.
For I stare intently, harder, nearer;
I'm a crimson, devilish, sick disgrace.

But my friends appear unfazed,
They do not flinch in terror,
I am the only one that is dazed
By this horrid outward error.

I suppose this means I am revealed.
These lies have ceased. My fate is sealed.

My Victory

The night is dark, but filled with bliss.
I am unseen by those in need of light.
My presence is but a shadowy
Silhouette, hidden by the night's
Nurturing blanket of dusky
Incandescence.

I let the passers-by distance themselves
From me and my delightful disguise.
I turn to the field, open, inviting,
Peaceful.
Nature's sly sanctuary.

Sprinting legs carry me across
The dewy grass to a place where
I am alone, I am me.

And I celebrate in the ecstasy of
Individuality, with myself,
For no one else could understand
The victory I have just achieved.

Sitting on a Park Bench

What are we doing here?
I don't know...sitting?
Yes, yes, I know, don't be a smartass. But this, you, me, this bench, that tree. Does any of it mean anything?
Of course it does.
What, then?
It is all simply the unique pattern, or lack of pattern, rather, spewed out by the inexplicable mysteries of our world.
That sounds insignificant to me.
It is. Most definitely.
Then why should we live if nothing matters?
We shouldn't.
Well that's easy for you to say. You don't live.
Oh but I do. I live with you.
You are me.
Yes.
Why should I even converse with you? It won't make a difference even if I figure it out. If anything it'll prove I am wasting my time.
Or, it could allow you to have fun.
Is there fun?
If you allow there to be.
How?!
Make fun.
You are impossible.
And you are insane.
Only because this world has condemned me to it. I can't figure out whether I should give up on everything or pursue what I want and only what I want.
I am here to help you with that problem.
No. You are the problem.
Yes.

Steel Box

There was a steel box I placed my soul in,

I poured out my thoughts like liquid jewels,

Arranged fragile glass hopes for the future

Wrapped in newspapers and return to sender mail.

My magic box was my only friend,

The sole provider of comfort

A neverending source of cool cloths

Upon my forehead and recounts

Of advice not listened to, that I should.

Tracing in my ear the lines of my

Future, a soft silhouette of promise.

My steel box left me.

It vanished on a Saturday,

Leaving only the imprints

Of its heavy body upon the carpet

I was left

Clutching at my heart

To pull it back into my ribcage

So it would not fly away too.

My insides were spilled in disarray upon the floor

As I piled them in my lap and arms, and stared at nothing

but chaos and the warped shadow of death.

Fall

Free yourself of everything.
Lift your feet off the ground
And take to the air in search
Of what is right.

Do not look down,
The sight will only scare.
But the thrill of free-fall is enough
To invoke indifferent
Happiness.

Yes it's frightening, peculiar, foreign,
Laced with anxiety and
The intensity of raw suspense.

Let go. Do not fight to stay afloat.
Fall.
Plummet.
Dive into oblivion

Where nothing exists but Time itself,
Where you are free to be free.
In a world untouched by the rest.

Rejoice.

Rain Dance

Cruising down the highway,
Taste the tinted breeze
Whistling
Through windows.

Harsh world hisses, shrieking and
Screaming thunderous obscenities.
Demons of dark
Crowd, bark loud until
Day’s decease.

Pushing forward, heart of storm.
Puddles plotting
Danger at every corner,
Look out!

A skid of tire and squeal of brake,
Slap and splash, water thrashed,
She halted, smashed pedal to metal,
It was settled: I had the right of way.

But as I turned away,
I thought to say
Her contorted twist of
Passion and shame,
Entranced, attractive mix,
Worried beautiful, she drove to the distance.
I captured her image in my eternal box,
And thought,
Slowly, as I rode towards the dawn of dusk,
I wish she would have hit me.

Defenseless

“Two roads diverged…”; Only two? Ha!
Dichotomies are simple.
Paradoxes make perfect sense.
Play hopscotch on a tightrope sometime,
Enveloped by its parabolic periphery,
Encircled, embedded, then engulfed
In a crystallized fractal
Of every nuance of existence.

Pull out your microscopes, folks,
Because there, perfectly suspended
Like antimatter in a vacuum chamber
Is one little speck of dust, barely sneeze-worthy,
Screaming, screeching, I am here! I am here!

And here I am, floating down a lazy river,
Drifting off into blissful slumber,
Awakening only to the sounds of a tributary
Gone awry. All I have left to do is
Pray that I wash up in a fertile
Delta, and leave the floodplains
For the faint of heart.

What Do We Stand For?

It seems there's been a shift
In the mood of our generation.
For years now I have labeled it
As 'complacent'.

But I realize now I was wrong,
That I fooled myself all along,
That we are as active as can be,
But we work peculiarly,
And the actions of our people
Are too fucking absurd.

Rebellion. Good.
Use it. Let it work for you.
Voice your opinions, yourself,
Your people, but do so wisely.
Do not comprise of rash acts
Of stupidity to prove the point
You are not to be controlled.

Rather strategize and organize,
Rationalize and categorize what it
Means to be untamed.
Show those who control that
You can control yourself,
Not just avoid their reign.

And good lord! Eat your goddamn food!
Do not refuse what is essential to
Prove you are somehow above them.
You learned what you know by
Listening and accepting.
Stubborn ignorance will get you nothing.

Indifference is good.
Rebellion is significant.
Individuality is essential.
But for the sake of an entire
Generation,
Choose your actions wisely,
Appropriately, necessarily.

Otherwise what are you but obnoxious?

Defrosted

I used to think it was made for me
I thought I had the best:
No waste of time, a reasoned rhyme
A cut above the rest.

A sun-kissed laugh, a smiling mouth

Illuminated; sweet

A silly pose, sand in my toes

And foam upon my feet.

But now it seems that sunny dreams
Can only last so long;
Your empty hands, your distant eyes
Make smiling feel too wrong

It seems a cruel, pointless trap
To keep me wanting more;
If we were going to be like this,
I wish I knew before

So let me go! Oh, don't you know?
This isnt what I need...
Is effortless the path you want?
Well, don't let me impede.

Don't touch my hand, then reprimand
And turn around and run...
There's no worse pain that winter feels
Than kisses from the sun.

Black and White

In front of me,

a person, a page

black and white

the lines are empty.

I start to color

but the blankness is quite

indelible.

I decide that I can live

in a world without color

because, after all,

who says it won't be fun?

As the days drag by and

I stare at the empty lines

black

and

white

over

and

over

I start to realize that color

is something that I may miss.

Maybe if I tell you, you'll

help me make an impact?

Good idea.

Or not.

It seems that gray is your color of choice.

Maybe my crayons just aren't bright enough.

So I leave you. Maybe you'll think about

adding some chroma.

Meanwhile, I'm left here, with nothing to do except stare

at this empty sheet

filled with only

black and white lines.

The Perfect American

Well he drives his shiny car,
That slick Mercedes Benz,
His three story brick
More than makes amends.

His hair is neatly combed,
And his tie is knotted tight.
A subtle pair of sunglasses
Reflects a pestering light.

Clean-shaven, he's a stand up guy
Doing his duty for the corporate kings.
He wears a smile of true happiness,
Patriotism the song he knows and sings.

His home is bland, yet appreciatedly so,
After all, a standard is made to be met.
There's no need to over achieve
When the minimum is what they expect.

He's never been in trouble,
Not even a simple parking violation,
He is a model for his peers,
A perfect symbol for his nation.

He loves his country, though at times
He feels a sort of emptiness within.
Yes, he lives the life, he plays the part;
He is the perfect American.

Stillness of Being

I crane my head towards the sky, frothing with clouds

Upon a blue of infinite depth, and a soft breeze

Makes the tress whisper the secrets of the future,

While the sun gently slips across the edge of the earth

Splaying orange light upon the ground,

Dancing between the shadows,

And the waves of leaves caressing each other

Falls to the sound of my heartbeat

As a bird's silhouette spills out upon the sky,

I wish there was someone to my side

So I could turn to trace the outline of their smile

And their memory would forever be etched

In this circle of beauty neverending,

And we might sit in the silence of thought

Becoming a part of the essence that is

The wind and the stillness of being.

No Birds of a Feather

You and I are two very different birds.
You and I do not share the same feather.

Yet at one time I believed
That you and I were one,
A pair of pure perfection,
Resting in the other's presence
On the same humble branch of
The same humble tree.

But time has told a different story,
For that branch grew a twig,
A scraggly, bending division
Of leafy haze that sprouted
Promptly between you and I.

Fitting.

There is no 'we',
Only you, and only me.
That twig was hardly a boundary,
But I remain on my branch
(It is mine).
I remain the bird I was a year ago.

You've since flown the coop,
To join a very different group,
In a different tree, on a shaky branch,
That sways and rocks in the
Slightest breeze.

It pained me at first to watch you leave,
But I soon realized your insignificance.
You're just a simple-minded
Pigeon carrying the message of
Compliance.

I hear your squealing chirps
Every now and then,
Those cries of imitation.

I cringe at the sound.

But I've since found another,
Who sings a soothing song of originality.

You never sang.

Better Than Me

Glasnost; an outpouring
of emotions and thoughts
and love.

It envelops me,
Shifts me, moves me,
Lifts me.

Overwhelmed by trust,
Overrun, undone,
Unlocked
I float, eyes closed,
Fingertips reaching for a hand,
But finding cracks,
Tears, rips: fragile,
But reparable, yet...
Too beautiful,
A silken web, capturing
Shreds of potential, possibility
Now impossible.
Now, it's become clear,
It's obvious what you deserve.

...That's cool too.

Thank You, Kindly

My good man,
I thank you for your advice,
I know you mean the best,
You are really very nice.

My intentions rest not far from
The goals to which you attest,
For I too have heard freedom's call,
And I shall share it with the rest.

Yet, I ask with gentle patience,
My wise and knowing friend,
That you allow me the trust
To go about as I intend.

I am confident and comfortable,
This bird is freed with dignity,
It has led me as I lead now,
Yet I shall not forget your company.

Please, good sir, do keep your restless tongue,
This matter is only mine, I believe your song is sung.

Dictator Complex

The worst part
About being wrong-
Even one little, tiny mistake-
Lies not in the being wrong itself,
No,
But rather in the questioning
At the hands
Of those who once relied on you
For help,
Those who trusted you,
Or said they did at least.

“Are you sure?”
“Are you positive?”
“I’m gonna go ask her, just in case.”

Maybe it’s the lack of trust,
The loss of purpose, perhaps,
No longer knowing
That others can count on you
When they need you most.

But I am no less than I was before,
Sure she knows some,
But I still know more.

And thanks to you now,
I’ll be wrong no more.
For if you need me, I’ll be absent,
And you ignored,
While I am blissful, botherless,
No time for your questions,
Only my own success.

Blue

You tell me that I'm blue.
A dark, dull, navy blue.
I am blue, so sadly blue,
Lying still without a purpose,
In desultory depression
Highlighted, or rather overcast,
By my darker shade of blue.

You tell me you are worried,
That I shouldn't be this way.
That a boy like me should be
A yellowey adventurer instead,
Or even an irrational, lusty red.
Something, just something else,
Maybe an envious green, like you,
But anything other than blue.

And I reply without much alarm,
That I was simply napping.
And if you'd loosen up the shades,
You'd find that my blue
Is a lighter blue, a calmer blue,
A content and comfortable,
Vibrant blue.

Now get the hell out of my room.

Taint Not the Present

“Can’t you see the soldiers running?”
She asks as we pass the perfect rows of trees,
Balded by the winter,
But still beautiful,
Captivating,
As for miles my eyes are glued
And it hurts to tear them away
When our path leads far from their territory.
Never before had I found it so hard
To leave a place I’d never been,
To part with barren giants whose twisted fingers
Made me nostalgic for a past
Known only through a stranger’s pictures.
“Can’t you see the soldiers running?”
I wonder as I peer out longingly at these morose creatures.
My heart aches to fathom
The possibility that this place
May have once not been beautiful –
Crimson-coated bodies ran, and fell, and
Stopped,
And stained these hallowed grounds
With the sickening colors of
Patriotism and treason.
What beauty is there in that?

No, I can’t see the soldiers running.
I can’t see anything but the present
And my stranger’s pictures.

Ignorance is bliss,

And now the trees are gone.

Abandon race

In every corner of this world, it is a wonder to me that so few people have realized that distinct, pure races do not, will not, cannot, and never have existed.  EVERYONE is multiracial.  Trace your family— those who call yourselves “white” or “black” or “Arab” because that is the only identity you have ever been taught— maybe your mother was born on some spit of land that some group of people once called Prussia and then called Germany, and your father’s father was called “African American”, though his closest kin include slave masters, and their parents were from France and Norway and Spain, and people from a African tribe whose name has since been forgotten, but some of them worked on plantations in places known as the West Indies, and then the Deep South, and your father’s mother was called “Native American,” and her parents were a mix of backgrounds known as “Scots-Irish” and “Nez Perce,” also known as the “Nimíipuu,” (depending on whom you ask).  What does the US government call you?  Black.  What does your standardized test call you?  Black.  What does your college application call you?  Black.  You are a human being, a citizen of the world, and you have been reduced to one syllable, often used derisively.  Maybe sometimes you are called “multiracial” or “biracial,” but that doesn’t mean much either.  My mother was born to a man of Irish and Welsh descent, and to a woman born of Greek and Finnish descent.  My father hardly knows the names of the countries of his great great great grandfathers and mothers, but one of them was probably Ireland, judging from the red hue of his hair and the spots on his pale skin.  What does the US government call me?  White.  What does the hypothetical human being whose ancestry was described above call me?  White.  Look at me with my freckle-less bronzed olive complexion and golden brown hair, and then my full-blood sister, with her fair pale skin, smattering of freckles, and white-blonde hair.  What does the US government call us both?  White.  Sometimes “Caucasian,” after a mountain range neither of us have ever even seen pictures of.  Cut us open.  Cut all of us open— my mother, my father, my ancestors, your ancestors, the ancestors of humanity— we will all bleed.  When we are dead, we will all rot, and in our rotting we will all grow to resemble universal dirt.  Death is the ultimate equalizer, revealing our true natures that were never RACIAL, but molecular.  Organic material.  Mostly carbon.  Rich, poor, tall, small, narrow-eyed, wide-nostrilled, “black,” “white,” “yellow,” “brown,” “biracial,” “Israeli,” “Pole,” Catholic, Buddhist, Protestant, Sikh, we will all become roughly the same sized pile of dirt, nutrients sucked into the womb of the earth, feeding and fertilizing new cycles of life.  Race is more than body and skin, you say?  Race is identity, culture, religion, a way of life, yes.  All ways of life have the same goal— survival and perpetuation.  What is the worth of the rules, the grammar, and the ritual that tyrannize daily activity?  The diet, the cycles of sleeping and waking, the positions of copulation and birthing, the verbal utterances all equal different viewpoints of the same planet, seen through the same eyes that only wear different lenses.  What is man but the product of time and chance?  Think back to your ancestors, this time FAR back.  Who are your greatest grandparents?  The cell, and before that, the organelle!  Your ultimate people, clan and tribe is the free-floating particle of life in the earth’s primordial sea.  And before that, who is to say?  We are not colored, we are not white— we have held onto these badges in our ignorance, in our desperation for some shard of identity and belonging in our lives.  We are the voids!  We are the gentle roar of the universe, forever united, we are oneness!  Let us be proud of our human patchwork of identity, of our arbitrary traditions, of our food and dances, but let us not forget our oneness with all living things, with our human species, and our entire family of living creatures that roam across or root themselves into the earth!  There is and never has been a “race problem,” and “interracial marriage” is impossible.  We are not different brands of products produced on distinct assembly lines!  All life is subject to change as it is based on a constantly mutating alphabet of genetic combinations.  Even specific strains of bacteria genetically engineered for given duties abandon their people— how many “race traitors” and “Oreos” and “interracial” strains of bacteria proliferate as mutations accumulate?  Now for humans, we must add in culture.  How many pure Christians are there? Christianity and all its traditions are merely the present collection of numerous ancient schools of thought.  Convergence, divergence, and resurgence are essential to life.  Let us not sell ourselves short.  Let us allow ourselves to broaden our gaze, and not for the sake of political correctness or economic expedience but for the sake of doing our amazing existence some justice!  We are not different breeds of beast.  We are not a set of commandments.  We are so much more and less than that.  We are not of  the rainbow-- we are NOT refracted and distilled!  We are the naked beams of  sun.  She, in her life-giving radiance is, after all, the reason for the differences in our skin hues— the lighter we are, the less melanin we have, so we can absorb vitamin D more easily.  We are that simple— the rays that have witnessed life for a geological millisecond— the cycle of rising and dying embers— one flicker in the universal portrait.