In Between

Smiling eyes match winking lips,
As my interest slowly slips
Into the darkness of dull dreams.

And I feign sights of imagination,
Reflective of soft resignation,
A deep voice of violent screams.

There is no compromise between to and from,
Separate halves that together are one,

And we rest, imprisoned, in between.

On Love (From a Male Perspective)

Love is fleeting bliss,
Starting with a stupid little kiss,
That you thought went well,
But she probably thought un-swell,
But, what the hell,
Ignorance is bliss, and bliss is love,
So you're already on the way
To what you dreamt of.

Now you're together,
You two will be forever,
Neither of you will ever,
Do the other wrong.
She makes you a sandwich,
You write her a song
And, everything's good,
The dopamine's workin' then,
It's workin' then,
And all that really means is a twelve
On a scale from one to ten,
But, then she screws up more than just your day,
When she starts dating the kid that you thought was gay?...

Yeah, now you're depressed,
She's just better than the rest,
And now you can't express the pain you feel,
It just won't end! and you can't go to your friends
'Cause, you'll just look like a pussy to them...

So don't fall in love, it's never ever good,
You'll just be sadder than you thought you would,
And your head will try to tell you what to do,
But it'll get you in trouble with the ladies,
Prob'ly more than a few,
It's sad but true, your love is dead
(And by the way I was talking about the other head...).

See when your lust gets lively and you expect a lot,
The only thing that happens it that you get caught
Between, going for the girl who makes your heart clutch,
And the one that always gives you a massive head rush.
I know it's not fair, but neither is life,
But what man has ever really wanted a wife?
So, just be wary of women and their tricks,
And when it comes to love, you
Prob'ly won't get your fix.

Fever Dreams

Crystal stars in velvet skies that take away my alibis,
A golden fruit
A cotton cloud
A stream of consciousness, a crowd
That rages as it moves ashore
A house of shells, a whitewashed door
Im gliding smoothly, breathing slow
A sandbank made of glass below
The cottage opens, falling out
A Cheshire Cat, without a doubt!
He grins. "Well, dear, you're not the first, come step inside and quench your thirst."
A pang of doubt. A tiny door?
This story's one I've heard before.
A labeled jug, a toothy smile
"Perhaps I'll come back in a while..."
I'm gliding on. I see a street. The waves are cool; they brush my feet.
My refuge seems to lie ahead.
A sign of wood, and painted red:
With letters stating place and name,
Announcements of colloquial fame.
I breeze serenely, feel the stares, the gossips with provincial airs.
I meet a woman, old and bent:
"Come here, my dear. My humble tent."
I step inside and utter darkness envelopes my glowing heart.
A flash of colored light, a scream...
I slip, deep in my fever dream.

Transparent

Stupid. So fucking stupid.
You, her, me even…
Damn the cardiocentric tendencies
Of a boy and a girl
With nothing better to do.
Shred the phony advertisements
Lamenting the heartbreak
Of a cruel torturess.
Set the dogs on hypocrisy.
Shatter that precious crystalline bond
That has proven so toxic
To touch (and to behold…
Despicable. Unbearable.)
And then pray, plead
To be pardoned for your ignorance,
And search out your stolen identity
Among the discarded shards.

Libertine's Lament

You have no expression.
You have no appearance.
what the hell is this all about,
your action is dead and Praxis is vitality
even the birds are fed, take up arms
...why are you afraid now?
what possibly went... stop talking about ME
Pitiful.
Stumped.
Beautiful. Fucking beautiful.
Downtrodden, your own demerit (yours alone)
NOW TAKE UP ARMS

I am your Shadow, the mind-segment you despise
throw me away but I will continue vocalizing
you are my plaything, wretch!
I am the face of your desires and failures
STARE INTO MY EYES
be still and know that I am your God
and every action you take
will. never. be. me.

Do you want this likeness?
teeth that gleam
spitting fire and brimstone
howls and blood and semen
splattering biochemicals
all over the ground,
shut up about your goddamn soul.

Why has Cynicism died?
the vision sent by dead angels,
fallen Muse—refuse your name:
“I am the Dog of Athens, Alexander!”
and shut up about your goddamn soul.

Love is dead God is dead Hate is dead
(they all say you were Stuck!)
that irrational passion, I hate it I am shaded
all the trees are flowers waiting to be sent to the sky
and each one of them sings of happiness and dopamine
but it turns out Love is dead, you hear
if it's true... set free from bonds
you may go retrieve,
decide what good it is—delve deeply
inside lies the key to nothingness, plunge
once inside you can only come Out
Hell, I'm only getting started.

now listen to my words
and find that all is right, Action is alive!
accept me the comforting Shadow
(Hyperenthusiasm.)
you have never loved my presence
and followed like a Dog.
PULL HARDER
bitch, quit telling her all this!

Be still and active now
come Out I reach toward
that raging face
“Ah, you self-centered solicitor...”
Why are you angry? LISTEN
but you see that what you call Love is not at all.
We've made it up.

Remember the time of May
recall her name
(I'm still your Muse
though dead)
Hyperenthusiasm. Hyperenthusiasm.
and confess that Love
is irrelevant.
The rightful, joyful whore?
Become the burning eye of summer.

Irretrievable

Chapter 3

A few weeks had passed since Layla’s first day at school. I had been thinking about her, more than I had ever expected or really wanted to. It was actually quite annoying. Who was she? Why was she here? And why on earth would I be the one to ‘know’ her without the formal introductions at school? It was perplexing to think of the possibility of such a coincidence. But I did not want to indulge in the search of an answer to this mystery because I knew I’d ultimately get nowhere. To say it was a happenstance occurrence of life is as plausible as saying it was contrarily a perfection of some scheme. Either could serve to explain it.

The question especially plagued me one particular day. I found myself relating everything to chance and fate, analyzing even the most insignificant details. I didn’t like it. Finally the day ended and I made my way up the track to my car. I stopped to trace a line in the track, an imperfection of the flat surface. It seemed to go forever, but then it curved slightly, pointing itself toward the field. I followed it. It ended exactly at midfield pointing towards the net at the far end. I headed for the net. I reached it, and stood inside, not really knowing what it was I was doing there. I turned around to find a few people staring at me. To think of it, I had found myself in some odd situations in the past few days. I suppose I was getting used to it.

I left the field and went towards the lot and upon my entrance a friend, one I would consider better than the rest, approached me. Banks had dark, curly hair and a definitive jaw line. He always had a distinguished look upon his face, accompanied by eyes coolly aflame with intense purpose. His natural expression was sometimes mistaken by others as anger. I knew otherwise. He was more pensive than I, and more philosophical. I think that’s why I enjoyed his company. I said to him, “Someone was looking for you earlier.” He said okay and that was the end of the conversation. The intent had been achieved; there was nothing left to say. We parted with a nod of the head and went home.

After about an hour or so of relaxation, I began my homework. I had to do four or five problems of physics. I couldn’t really relate to it and got bored quickly. I never did fully engage myself in physics. The thought of studying concepts and principles and laws that were only applicable to a fantastical ideal world annoyed me. None of our calculations would ever do us good in life, why do them? I’m fairly sure I’ll never be free falling without a parachute. And even if I was I would not think to calculate my acceleration or how fast I would hit the ground. If I did it wouldn’t be right because I was not in a vacuum, and my last act as a living man would be boringly scientific and all for naught. Homework was out of the question for the rest of the night. My dad called me into the kitchen. It was time for dinner.

I sat down in my place at the table, waiting for the food to be set down. My dad came in carrying a couple of steaks as if they were priceless. He seemed especially proud of them. I took one from the platter and began eating. The meat was good. I appreciated it. My sister asked a dumb question: something along the lines of ‘did British people think we had accents?’ I thought she was kidding for a second but soon realized she was serious as her brows were arched up slightly and her eyes seemed to be searching for an answer. A conversation was started about the differences between cultures and how Britain and America differed. I just ate.

I looked over at my dog, who often lay on the kitchen floor as we ate. He appeared as the epitome of indifference. He was promptly lying on his back with a large, goofy belly protruding up into the air. His paws hung limp over his chest, lackadaisically swinging to and fro. When he turned his head towards me his tongue slipped out of his mouth and plopped on the floor. He just left it there. When I smiled at his odd appearance, he began wagging his tail in dumb happiness. He was so oblivious to what was going on, and it seemed he did not care. Why should he, though? A subtle smile crept across his lips for no apparent reason, yet there was no reason not to either. Oblivious and delighted – what a life to live.

I turned back to the table. The conversation had somehow shifted to a religious debate. My sister was getting emotionally involved. She was actually quite annoying, even though I agreed with her standpoint. I suppose religion is pointless to debate; everyone believes they are right, and when everyone’s right everyone else is wrong. It’s an endless cycle of pointless argument. I looked back over at my dog. He had flipped over and was now concentrated on scratching his ear with his hind paw - still oblivious. I was finished eating, and I wasn’t interested in the discussion going on. I left to go to my room.

I put on some music, mostly The Doors. I became entranced in the music’s soft rhythm and grew drowsy. I could listen to the music for hours, doing nothing more than listening and allowing myself to be enveloped in the tale of a moonlight drive or the story of the roadhouse blues. Music could be better than actual conversation with people. It’s compelling yet not overbearing enough to create disinterest. It’s the perfect interaction with others, if you’re a good listener that is. I was overcome by sleepiness after a while and went to bed, left with a comfortable echo in my head.

At school the next morning it was very cold. I guess December was about the time the weather changed in Florida. It almost seemed too early, even though it was still moderately cool compared to more northern places. I reached the courtyard and sat down at a table of people I was familiar with. I hunched myself over with my hands nestled into my pockets, fighting for every bit of warmth I could retain. I looked up and observed a pattern of circular congregation. People formed unintentional circles, whether to keep warm, or just out of an instinctive tendency to include or exclude who they saw fitting. People are strange. I am strange. Why don’t I take to association?

I have always felt a sort of separation from the rest, save a select few. Banks was a person I could stand being around because he didn’t exude a need for embellished conversation and we shared a similar acceptance of the absurdity that brought us simple joys, sometimes at the expense of others. There were a few others I could tolerate, but the rest just didn’t mean much. I began thinking, for some reason I can’t explain even now, that I needed to change. I needed to embrace people and put aside my mentality of not caring.

I saw Layla in one of those circles. She made up one of six points in the sloppy circumference, but she stood out more than the others. In reality she probably didn’t, my mind was just telling me so. But for the moment she was radiant. Her hair glistened in the sun’s early morning glow, and even though she was only wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, she was beautiful. She stood out amongst the other girls overdoing their appearances with aggravatingly bright colors and unnecessary animal fur. She was simple and I liked that. She glanced over my way, but didn’t notice me. Good. I did not want her to. It would’ve ruined the serenity of her appearance.

Banks sat down and we nodded to each other. I broke my gaze from Layla and faced him. He always made for good conversation. We discussed some recent football games and their exciting outcomes. We both recounted some of the better moments, laughing and reveling at the amazing athletic performances of our favorite players. A girl chimed in, saying that football was stupid and she didn’t understand why boys liked it so much. We disregarded her completely and continued our conversation. When the bell rang we went to our respective classes, and that was the end of my morning.

In second period the same old routine was taking its course. When I arrived a small congregation of girls had gathered in the corner where my seat was unfortunately located. They were discussing a recent history test that they seemed to be upset with. I didn’t bother listening in, although I cast some looks of disapproval their way a few times upon hearing something blatantly stupid. I noticed that a few of them would change their opinion if one said something contradictory. It would usually be followed with an “oh yeah!” or a “yeah, you’re right!” that totally disagreed with their original opinion. I laughed when our teacher literally told the girls to shut up and sit down. He was a nice man, usually in a good mood, and he had a sort of flamboyant personality, matched by a goofy, warm smile.

He lectured us for a while then let us do what we pleased for the rest of the period. Layla stood up and walked across the room to where I sat. She said good morning in what I thought was an excessively cheerful voice. What morning is ever really ‘good’? Waking up is a bummer in itself. It didn’t matter, I was glad to see her. “How are you doing over here in your little corner?” she asked. “I could be better”, I replied. She frowned a bit and sat down. “Well what could be better?” I pointed at the row of girls to my right. That frown turned into a wide, understanding smile, and she nodded her head. I smiled back. I felt different around Layla, like she projected a different identity than most girls. She had a sense of individuality that obviously appealed to me.

Then she became somewhat apprehensive. “Hey, uh, I was invited to go to this bonfire on Friday at someone’s house. I was wondering if you would come with me…”, she stopped briefly but began again as if she felt she needed to say something more, “…because I’m not that familiar with town yet and it’d be nice to have someone along with me.” I asked about who was involved and I knew who they were. It didn’t seem like a terrible idea to me, although I was hesitant to do so. Sitting outside in a December night didn’t seem like a very fun thing to do. I could be doing better things that night. “Yeah, sure, I’ll go with you.” I said. She seemed delighted at my response. I felt fine. Yet, I realize now what I thought meant nothing, meant a whole lot more.

Chapter 4

Layla asked me about the bonfire on Tuesday. I didn’t really dwell on it all that much. I did feel a little uncomfortable going to someone’s house and being with so many people I was unfamiliar with, but I would know a few people, and of course, Layla was going to be there. I didn’t speculate it would be uncomfortable, it shouldn’t have been. Unfortunately, I had an important project due in math. That drew most of my attention for the next two days, at least outside of school.

Wednesday morning there was a fight in the courtyard before school. Two guys got in a dispute over something completely stupid. They were really going at it too. The one had a firm grasp on the other’s forearm as he kept his other hand in front of his face to defend from the other’s fist. He successfully blocked the blow and proceeded to tackle his opponent to the ground. With the other on his back he began throwing punches in a constant winding motion, hard enough to hurt but slow enough to agonize, a slow moving windmill of calculated pain. I learned later that the dispute was over violent solution and whether it should or should not be used. I suppose the fight had only strengthened their arguments, yet it was still so ironically stupid. How mysterious the world is.

I remember being quite reflective afterwards. Nothing went unnoticed. Every minute detail of behavior and subtle pattern was magnified by some tendency of mine to pick apart human flaw. It was intriguing and frustrating. Some worked hard with more dedication than they designated to school to reveal themselves to the world as they believed the world wanted to see them. They would inject themselves into conversations regarding things they knew nothing about, nor cared about, to project to the rest an acceptable image. In essence they shed the robes of individuality to wear the glamour of a life not really theirs, a life of acceptance. But acceptable in what terms? We were, we are still, manipulated and morphed into lackeys of billboard advertisements loyal to a voice of illogical reason. It was agitating to see people my age who were in all senses intelligent, respectable people subject themselves to deliberately acting ignorant and stupid to impress a ‘special’ boy or girl, or even their friends. They would change their opinions like they changed clothes and the motive was to be in pointless agreement with those around them, for the sake of approval.

Some faked themselves for different reasons. Perhaps they were above it all, or they were the worst of it all. Jenna was like that. She feigned her image, and it was obvious to me. I knew she was better, though. She was different: intelligent, sophisticated, cultured, beautiful. Yet she made sure with an unerring effort to be cautiously perfect, hiding behind a wall of undeniable perfection, because she was afraid. Afraid that someone, it did not matter who, would disapprove of her. She was so alone and she made it that way. It was she who angered me the most, disallowing herself to express who she was because she was afraid of rejection. She was in many respects an enchanting princess who received the attention of every male she came into contact with, but aged herself into an old queen just as beautiful, yet not daring enough to embrace affection. She was so much better than that. She could have been above it, maybe she was, maybe I was just stupid.

I suppose this was a large part of the origin of my personal indifference. It was the first, but not the last, realization that life is for the most part absurd. What good is living if you can’t enjoy the subtle humor in the lives around you, even if they are frustratingly ridiculous? Banks and I often had discussions about this sort of thing. He introduced me to Nietzsche and his supposedly terrifying abyss, and the liberating idea of existentialism. I liked it. We applied it to our high school, and the people in it, decoding and uncovering the actuality of what lied under their facades. Those were fun conversations.

There was still half the day left. It was getting warmer, and I was settling deeper into my withdrawn pensive mood. But something brought me out, almost immediately. It was practically frightening. I saw Layla walk out the doors of the main building as I was making my way towards them. I broke my promise to keep my eyes always down so I wouldn’t have to face the consequences of recognition. Damn it. I sure recognized her, and I remember vividly that I didn’t fight it. She was beautiful. A lovely spread of golden hair lay peacefully on her shoulders as she floated effortlessly towards me. Her soft lips shaped themselves into a subtle smile, such a pleasant look of happy neutrality. And her eyes, her gentle eyes, gleamed in a warming sun, letting her blue-grey irises emanate indefinitely, striking my own as picturesque. She wore a t-shirt and jeans, both hugging her body, not a ridiculous winter coat like us flaky Floridians. Her skin was tanned golden, appearing radiant and utterly pristine. I could not take my eyes off her, no matter how much I told myself I should. She glanced over and saw my eyes glued to her. Crap; that was exactly what I did not want to happen. But when she saw me her lips parted into a toothy smile and she did some sort of awkward skip-step-hop over to me that, thinking back on it now was absolutely pathetic. She embraced me in a warm hug that I truly appreciated.

“I’m so excited for Friday! And I’m really happy you’re coming with me!”, she cheerfully told me. I said essentially the same thing, but in a more calm manner. We parted after what seemed like hours of content in one another’s arms to leave for class. I watched her walk away from me, and in a brief, frightening moment, it felt as if she’d never come back, as if she were heading into that abyss, to become part of the nothingness the rest of the world seemed to be. Yet, as if she knew about the eerie doubt that had suddenly crept over me, she turned and looked back, with that subliminal, intoxicating smile and again sparked my heart into its fast paced beat. When I entered the building, and a passing Ronnie gave me a weird look, I realized I was grinning like an idiot, walking down a hallway of worried faces concentrated on nothing but the next few minutes, while I was enveloped in the moments just passed.

Now nothing mattered, nothing at all. I could not wait, did not want to wait, would not devote any energy to anything but Friday. I was so stupid. I completed my math project without much care, doing what was needed and nothing more. It turned out fairly poor, and my teacher was understandably upset with me. I did not mean to invoke that reaction, but I just didn’t care.

Friday meant everything to me. I don’t even know why. It was a fucking bonfire. What does one even do at a bonfire, besides sit in cold weather staring at a goddamn fire next to someone’s perfectly warm house? The whole thing was so stupid. I only wish I would have realized that then. But the reality was, it was Layla I was excited about, not the bonfire itself – the people, place, circumstance – it all meant nothing really. I really was excited to go, and Friday couldn’t have come faster. I convinced myself I loved this girl, that she was heaven-sent, irreplaceable. She surely appeared that way. But I know nothing is ‘meant to be’, nothing is planned. The most wondrous of happenings are mere coincidence, meaning nothing more than the existence of dumb luck. I believed otherwise then, simply because I hadn’t experienced it yet.

Friday was what I yearned for, Friday was supposed to be a night to remember. I remember it, all right, because Friday is what I’ve reflected on countless times since.

Written In A Classroom

English class is for
Really nothing more
Than the deception of the beast,
Whose sickly smile and ghastly guile
Bring us remorse at the very least.

She’ll pry and prod
And hope to God
That her work is done in vigor,
But all we know is this work blows
And requires too much rigor.

So here we sit
Pitching a fit
Of silent, subtle protest,
We’ll not lose but what we choose,
And she’ll surely spurn the rest.

Yet we smile back,
Our sincerity lacks,
But we care not of her opinion.
Hers is cruel, her smile full
Of torturous dominion.

So with a happy face
Meant to displace
The utter revulsion we reimburse,
We deceive the queen of mentality mean
With games and playful verse.

Unquantifiable

Numbers rule our world,
And our world on them depends.
When everything is measured,
The rules will never bend.

A leader is defined by
Those who have his back.
Success seems to elude
Those whose numbers lack.

Students strive for grades
As workers strive for pay,
Just numbers used to measure
The effort we display.

And numbers give us comfort
In their neatly knitted scale.
We can easily determine the
Border of pass and fail.

But although the highest number
Is where perfection holds its pride,
True brilliance is something that
Shall never be quantified.

The Recognition

“Approach the shrine, Diogenes!
That harsh stone, concealing flora
removes every vestment here...
I demand one day your body must burn
but before your departure
receive my final gift—
a blessing and commission.
Your name
which you redetermined, altered
shall wander on maniacally
like two-formed Tiresias reborn
your name transcends...
Peregrine!”

Then she left the tabernacle
unsure which path to travel first,
she appeared to Ulysses on the world's rim
and he knew her name was changed.

A Troubled Gait

Lost in a conundrum of convoluted cries
As blades pierce brain cells
And endorphins are diluted to nothing
While the little organ that could pumps away
And fills its cracks with drops of blood
Under that impervious duct-taped exterior.
Ready to run, row, rise up,
Release the stagger from a trampled tread.

Convalesce, come back to consciousness.
Leave the brackish to the beaches.
Exhale the noxious nonsense
Of a teenage existence.
Gripe at the gluttons of gorilla glue.
Steal it, slather it, skip the pleasantries.
Watch as words work wonders
When immersed in icy ibuprofen.

And then bask in a victorious,
Glorious strut, devoid of anguish.

The Necklace

You are a memory I keep hidden in my pocket,

A sigh tucked in the corner of a bureau drawer,

I keep you under my tshirts right where my heart should be.

If ever the chance comes to shut the doors,

Lock up the windows, check the blinds,

Turn down the lights, hide under the covers

Of a bed transposed, I'd reach far back

In that chest of mine, and you would emerge

Drenched in the light of your glorious smile

And you'll throw back your head and laugh.

I'll reach out to touch you, to hold your hand

So I might pull you close to me for 20 seconds

of your heartbeat again.

But it rains. the torrents blur the lines of memories

Of warms sweet pine sap and clean hospitals,

the freckled softness of your skin,

the ink of notes your song placed on the bathroom sink.

All your colors run together as they caress my face

And pull out all the tender spots that ever would be.

My world falls apart because you cannot

Hold me together with your arms.

You can't whisper wishes for a future immaculate

Nor stones upon which I should step,

and my body breaks in two without your voice.

I wipe my eyes, blink.

I open up to see you everywhere,

Captured in a frame, traced on my skin,

Lacing my clothes, hung on my walls,

Perfuming the air, draped on my doors,

And embraced by gold placed on my heart

Precisely where you will forever be.

The Football's Flight

The December night is rightly chilled,
But we stand outdoors so strong willed.
We stand, two men - age knows nothing -
Under the light of a dying lamp.

This lamp illuminates what we are,
And we are nothing but what the lamp's
Light uncovers from darkness.

You see, to us, a football is almost
A drug in itself.
It flies through the air, and hangs,
So long, in the beauty of perfection,
Perfection induced by what our hands produced,
And time is halted, amazement vaulted
In the lone image of a dim pigskin
Amongst a black abyss,
Floating, spinning, arching,
Ascending and descending in Nature's
Unmatched expertise.

And so much can happen while
That ball is in flight,
A miracle on earth or
Unimaginable fright.

Black gold made green paper, debt repaid,
Worldwide peace, all crime slayed,
Benevolence prevailed, happiness no longer delayed.

Or,

A war is engaged, taxes are raised,
All hopes and dreams instantly decayed,
Freedom turned to slavery like that known by most,
Your best friend in the world just overdosed.

Then the football is plucked by awaiting hands,
Outstretched in expectancy of the ball's
Inflated body.

Did you ever think that your entire world,
Life as you know it,
Everything for which you fought,
Could be erased in the time it takes for a
Football to be thrown and caught?

Jack be Nimble

There once was a boy, isolated and sick,
having his life flash before his eyes real quick.
He stood on one side of a slender candlestick
and with help from his friends he jumped with a kick
up and over the flame he went, just in the nick
of time; and shined brightly still was the wick
that burned and burned and burned and burned.
Never had his fears and memories so greatly churned.


Jack looked back at the melting wax of a golden hue
and watched as the spark of bad times said goodbye.
He walked away in the search of the world for the new
and his wretched moments were exiled, away they fly.

Small Talk

Engage in drunken thoughtspeak,
Babble racket with waltzing hands
Nose scrunch while eyebrows furl and
Lips seditiously curl.

Don't forget to brush your teeth after you
Regurgitate what she most astutely pronounced.
Here's some food for thought:
Bread and beliefs become one,
Snide statements scramble,
World spinning out of control,
Free falling.

Touch the ceiling with your eyes,
Release your stress with soft surprise.

White Light

I touched the sun-
It burns, it burns!
My skin is melting
from my bone

But if I seek
my sheltered cave
I'm lacerated
cold, alone

The icicles
are clear and sharp
they pierce me in
my blinded eye

My hands are frosty
lips are soaked
I wring and hang them
up to dry

My soul is dripping
out somehow
I check my chest
There's solace now

And soulless though
I have become
My body is
a beating drum

For pain and loss
a throbbing fit
the bonding that
I won't admit

They tie me here
and so amazed
The sun so far
and I so dazed.

Metaphor

I feel myself as made of soap
Bubbling, popping, squeaky clean
The softness of my frothy hope
May give the porcelain tub a sheen

The melting candle with no jar
The wax is lovely; useless, too
The wick is lucky; burns too far
To notice all the dripping stew

The mask of tears, the house of glass
Provide a shield I cannot use
I kick my own pathetic ass
What's yours to win is mine to lose

My robes of rags, my cardboard crown
I wear them with a bitter smile
My kingdom heart is crumbling down
But as the queen, I'll stay awhile

And now my calloused heart I flaunt
As on my bed of thorns I lay
The roses, what I really want,
You'll trample on your senseless way.

Ephemeral

They met at dusk
the senseless mime
and spoke the riddle
of the time

The river wide
the current slow
A story told
an age ago

The stars were bright
the moon was low
they cast their soft
deceitful glow

The grass was soft
the air was sweet
they breathed it in
but didn't speak

The music light
too soon to tell
a wasted wish,
a shallow well

A flower blooming
for the night
can stay content
until first light

Its petals fold up
with the dawn.
They took their things
and carried on.

Irretrievable

It’s funny how when one feels the notion of guilt their mind fills with bits and pieces of vivid regret, the wishes and wants to redo or undo a thing of the irretrievable past. It is a barrage of missed opportunity and regretful remorse, all sparked by that tiny shiver of uncertain doubt that so subtly creeps through the depths of your consciousness. We are an inconceivably complex race, yet at an individual level we are as minute as the flap of the butterfly’s wing…I think about Layla from time to time. I did not love her. I doubt she loved me. In fact, I often doubt the point of this memory, as it means nothing, not now, not ever again. It’s a tale been told one thousand times before: of woe and regret. But I am different. I have experienced the sorrow of unique form that strikes each differently than the rest. And of course, it has changed me, for that change is impossible to avoid. To refuse it would be foolish, to fight it is as ill-advised, to cope with it is easier, but to embrace it is difficult.

I remember those few months or so when she arrived. They were nice, I’ll admit. Yet, at the time I had just begun growing into the indifferent state of mind I have been in ever since. It simply occurred to me one day the absurdity of our daily routines. At the time I was a senior in high school. The day is still picturesque in my mind…

Chapter 1

I sat with a peculiar lack of purpose in a room full of bustling bodies striving to accomplish something. I didn't know what either of them was attempting to achieve, and frankly I didn't care. So I sat with my head rested upon the cool, unforgiving wall, feet propped nicely on the small basket under the seat in front of me.

A girl, Maddie, was obnoxiously voicing her opinion of the amount of work she had neglected for the past week and now had to complete for tomorrow's classes. What a fool. Phil sat with a dumb look on his face, unaware of how annoyed he was with Maddie's ridiculous rant. How can he just sit there and take her barrage of insolence? Jim Morrison's voice crept into my head, "Learn to forget. Learn to forget." He was right. Those two weren't important, virtually meaningless. History class at its finest.

Ronnie asked me a question, or at least I think it was directed at me. He was facing my general direction when I heard some mumbled sounds match the movement of his lips. But to be honest I didn't want to make the effort to break my silent content, pause my music and force my brain to comprehend his inquiry. With my silence, he stood up and walked to the teacher's desk upon his request.

I thought it was going to rain. The sky had a purple premonition about it, warning us not to step foot outside. The danger of rain was present. But of course each and every one of us would defy Mother Nature’s warning. And of course we would all be soaked in a heavenly downpour as we scrambled to reach our cars and flee home. And of course most would bitch about the inconvenience. Girls would cry over the ruin of their unnecessary makeup and crafted hairdos. Guys would fear for their new shoes, inevitably to be scuffed some time or another. They're all ignorant. They had fair warning.

Ronnie shuffled back to his seat, returning with a worried look on his face. For a moment I felt the heat of guilt creep up my back. Perhaps his face would not be so tense had I answered that question of his. No. That's ridiculous. Whatever he asked me could have been asked to another. He could have found his answer without me. It was not my problem.

The bell rang and everyone began preparing, on cue, to leave for the day. I slipped my backpack over my back and slowly made towards the door. A group of my classmates passed in front of me just before I reached the door. Essentially they cut me off, unaware, really, that I had been standing there. I was annoyed that I had been so casually disregarded. But they turned left as I went right and I quickly forgot about it.

Chaos. That was the hallway. Pure chaos. The erratic path chosen by each individual was utterly unpredictable. One kid cut to his right to dodge an ignorant senior much larger than him. As he cut right another girl cut left to avoid the group of chatting girls standing comfortably, conveniently, in the hallway's center. The two messy children proceeded to collide. Both were taken aback, apologized, looked at the other with embarrassed red cheeks and continued on their respective ways. I have no idea why I am dwelling on this scene. It seemed...it was poetic, almost. Those two would probably never meet again, yet the obvious connection they briefly shared was significant enough. Too bad it would not be indulged.

I stepped out the door into the gusty wind of the impending storm. My path would take me across the school's track to reach the lot where all the cars were parked, as if they themselves were forced to attend school every day, and sit for seven hours in an arranged pattern, as we all did. Of course they don’t, though.

As I had predicted a chilly wave of tear drop rain began to fall upon our herd. Some shrieked, others cursed. I remained unchanged, thinking nothing of it. A girl in front of me began to quicken her pace to beat the downpour. As she rounded the bend into the lot her clumsy legs failed to hold her up. She slipped and fell in an awfully awkward manner. She lay in a seeming astonishment of what had just happened. She was soaked in water as well as the red hue of embarrassment. I passed her, lying there, and got in my car. I left just as it really began to pour.

The drive home was stupid. The rain let up after a while but the sky remained overcast. It could have been sunny for all I cared. A rainy day doesn’t mean I should be in a rainy mood. I enjoyed its lack of intensity, the amalgamation of wispy cloud amongst purple sky, lulling me to sleep. I didn’t even really notice that I had probably caught every red light to be caught. It didn’t matter. I got home eventually and when I did I laid down on my bed. Just for a quick minute...

Chapter 2

My eyes opened reluctantly, and it took me a minute to see clearly. I found myself surveying the floor of my room. My head was pounding and I sat up to gain some sort of stability. I headed to the kitchen to find something to eat. I could feel my disheveled hair flap about as the wind’s resistance pushed it backwards. There was a note on the counter instructing me to go to the grocery store. Fine. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

The store was cold. Surprisingly cold. I appreciated the heat; it was embracing, it enveloped you and carried you in its soft warmth. The cold pointed you out like an intruder in its territory. Ironically I was supposed to pick up ice cream, but how much colder could it really get? As I searched inside the store’s large freezer, I noticed a girl staring at me. I paid her no attention. Why should I? I was preoccupied with not getting frost bite in a grocery store, anyways. Finally I found what I was looking for and shut the door, only to come face to face with that girl. She had a snaked smile across her lips. I did not return it.

“Do you know your hair looks ridiculous?” she asked. My hair? My hair. I had forgotten my nap and its detrimental effects on the order of my hair. I’m sure I did look rather ridiculous like that, but really everyone looks ridiculous, all the time, to someone. I did not feel embarrassed

“Thank you.” I replied, and walked on by her to purchase the ice cream and go home. She called out after me saying I should look in a mirror before going out in public. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. I paused as if I might say something to her, but decided I had nothing to say. She was right. And I continued without looking at her again.

At home I stayed in my room. I had no desire to converse with my family. I had things to do and they just weren’t involved in them. Although I should have been completing my assignments for the next day, I chose to watch tv. Homework could wait. But television is crap, it has no meaning whatsoever. I went to sleep. But I woke in the middle of the night because the light from the bathroom was intruding upon my darkened sleep. I saw light seeping under the door to my sister’s room so I called to her and she appeared in the hallway. I told her to turn off the light, and she scolded me for being lazy.

I was awoken in the morning in a rather unpleasant manner. My father was yelling, sort of, that I never listened and that this was the third time he’d told me to get up and I still had not. From what I recall it was the first time I’d been spoken to. I didn’t understand his anger. I did understand, however, that it was time to get up. So I went through the motions of my repetitive morning routine and not soon enough left the house. I liked my drives to school. I was alone to think about nothing. I would often let my mind wonder, conscious only enough to drive sufficiently. The rest of my mind was devoted to whatever random memory crossed it or sight that caught my eye. It’s always nice to embrace the realm of thought that is nothingness, in which you trace a cycle of ideas that ultimately lead to an inconclusive conclusion. It was a nice warm up for my school day.

I climbed out of the car into a chilly morning. As I began walking I picked my head up to see whose face belonged to the pair of feet walking towards me, as we headed from opposite directions for the track to get to the school. I recognized him, and I think he was about to say something as we made eye contact, but I quickly turned my eyes away. The wasted breath of ‘good morning’ and ‘how are you’ was just not worth it. I preferred not to talk with him. I think it was at that moment that I decided I would try to keep my eyes turned slightly down, so as not to make eye contact with anyone, just in case I knew them, forcing me to have a conversation I really did not want to have. Maybe they’d think of me in deep thought, or maybe just disturbed. I didn’t care. Just so long as they knew that I was not interested in them.

I began running at that point. I flew into a sprint down the straight away, blowing by those slowly trudging along. I thought it’d be fun to just run while the rest walked, to see how they’d react. I’m sure they considered my spectacle unnecessary, because it was, but I chose to do it. I chose to do it anyways, despite the whispers of disapproval and judgment. Yes, that was me running along the track. Yes, I knew I looked odd doing so. I felt a freedom about myself and it felt good. Indeed, it was already shaping up to be a good day.

My second class of the day was where things became of interest to me. The first class had been as dull as the last hundred. But in my second class something unexpected, something unfathomable, something completely absurd happened. There was a new student...she had recently moved from Illinois and we were “so lucky to have her with us” is what my teacher said. The way my seat was oriented in the classroom my back was naturally facing him. I stayed that way.

“Hello everyone,” rang a voice that was not my teacher’s, “I am Layla. It’s nice to meet you.” When I heard her voice emanate through the room I swear to you the hairs on my neck stood like soldiers do upon the arrival of their general and my eyes opened wide. Layla was the girl in the grocery store who told me my hair was ridiculous. I recognized her voice even though it was slightly less confident than in the store. I turned to face the rest of the classroom and my eyes fell upon her. Despite my encounter with her the day before, it was like seeing her for the first time. I suppose I really hadn’t paid much attention earlier due to my general lack of interest in the whole scene. I wasn’t necessarily intrigued by the girl herself, but more so by the mere chance that this very girl would be the same one I saw in a store because I happened to be the one in the family to go pick up ice cream. The way of the world is a mystery not worth trying to solve.

Her eyes began shifting around the room, taking in the people she’d be seeing everyday for the next four or five months. Her smile wasn’t a snaky one like before; it was more awkward and inviting. Her eyes fell on mine and they were about to pass to the next pair when she halted herself and fixated on me for a few seconds longer. Her smile widened a bit. I guess she recognized me as I had her. She gave a subtle wave and I returned it. I don’t remember if I was smiling or not. She sat down again across the room and our teacher began his lesson. I returned my back to the rest of the class. Jenna, an intriguing individual, asked me in an overly dramatic whisper, “You know her?!” I only looked at her. I didn’t confirm or deny. She seemed angry at my response. I didn’t know why it mattered so much to her. I put my headphones in to let her know I did not care.

The bell rang and I left quickly. I made my way down to the main hallway and out into the courtyard where I usually ate lunch. I was only the third person to arrive so I was the first to sit at the table. I put my head down and listened to the music. After a good ten minutes I realized no one had sat down still. I looked up and saw someone I knew. He mouthed the words ‘too cold’ to me. I noticed I was in the shade and it was, after all, only about fifty degrees outside - pretty cold for Floridians. I just put my head back down and didn’t worry about it. Yet out of the corner of my eye I saw someone sit down next to me. I was somewhat annoyed that they had sat so close when the entire table was available. I looked up to see who it was. Who else but Layla?

“Do you mind if I sit here?” she asked. I said it was fine, as long as she didn’t mind the cold like the rest of my friends. She reminded me she was from Illinois and that this was barely cold for her. Whatever. She told me I looked better with combed hair. I chuckled and thanked her. We ended up talking the whole lunch period, about Illinois and Florida, and her, not so much I. I felt no real need to discuss myself. When lunch ended I agreed to help her find her next class.

Hell (Narg)

*This, too, was originally written in Hindi. And again, I do like that version better. Anyways, here's my English translation.*

Leave me. Leave me alone.
I ask for but one moment of peace.
One breath upon which your name is not written.
One heartbeat in which your voice does not resound.
One thing to make me believe that without you, there’s still a “me.”

That’s all, my one small wish. That’s it.
And for this one favor,
I’m willing to be indebted to you for eons.
Do you accept? Tell me, you can do that much, right?

Go to hell.
I don’t need your help.
Nor do I need your love.
If life becomes hell
For unrequited lovers,
Then their beloveds, too, are demons.
They, too, have to suffer consequences.

These words come as a relief to my forsaken mind.
And then, I stop to consider:
If he burns in hell,
What becomes of me?


Original Hindi Text:

Chhod do mujhe. Akele chhod do.
Sirf ek pal ka chain maangthi hoon.
Ek saas jis pe tera naam na likha hon,
Ek dhadkan jis mein teri awaaz nahi sunayi de.
Ek cheez jo vishwas dilaye ke tere bina, ek “main” bhi hoon.

Bas, itni si kwahish hain. Bas itni si.
Aur is choti si maang ke liye,
Main tera sadiyon ke udhar lene tayaar hoon.
Manzoor hai? Bolo, yeh to tum kar sakhte ho, na?

Chule ke bhaar main ja.
Zaroorat nahin hain teri madat ki.
Naahi zaroorat hain tera pyar ka.
Zindagi agar narg ban jaata hain
Jab pyar na mile dilwalon se,
To yeh dilwale bhi hote hain rakshas.
Unhe bhi saza bhukathna partha hain.

Yeh soch ke milti hain mann ko shanti.
Aur phir, ek baat yaad aati hain:
Woh agar narg mein jalega,
To mera kya hoga?

Treatise on Romance

Love is not the answer.
Lust is.
Romance is a vicious cycle of misunderstanding.
The neural mechanisms of romantic love are not as evolved.
(Monogamous attachment in rats is rare;
the few doting species perish quickly.)
These chemicals are works in progress.
Wet paint.
Wet blood that demands a scab, scar,
new flesh.
Lust is linear progression, progress.
It builds; it plateaus, and like mountains forged in tectonic perfection, it peaks.
Climax. End. La petit mort. Life and death.
Simplicity.
Romantic love is the jumbled industrial slew of cities—
intriguing, fluorescent,
empty, constructed, packaged.
Urbane, unending, hard on the lungs.
Increases cortisol levels.
Irrevocably connected to arbitrary social entanglements.
“I can’t, I have a boyfriend.”
“We’re in a committed relationship.”
“I wish he bought me more jewelry.”
Traps.
Lust alone has pragmatic meaning.
Romantic love is meta-cognition. Intelligence to the level of idiocy.

Now friendship and fetishes—
those are another story…

--------------------------------------

This is not meant to be a poem, but more of a discussion. I am interested in your opinions.

Nothing to Adore

Would Rosie be satisfied
With her sisters of today?
Would the Sons of the past
Have admiration to display?
The truth to those questions
Is not easy to say, not easy to say.

We've grown from an adolescent
Of rightful rebellious rage
To a withered old man
Long ridden of sage.

Like the First predicted,
We're now quite unstable.
He founded and fostered
As best he was able.

Unfortunately unforeseen
We have since transformed:
Neutrality now arrogance,
Freedom now ignorance.
A treasury of gold now
A treasury of lies, of deceit
And demise, of nothing more
Than the consequence of
Endless compromise.

The Sons and the Daughters,
I should surely think,
Would look on in disgust
At their once glorious home,
Their patriotic persistence
Worn down to a drone.

For they as our forefathers would
Have expected much more,
The nation we've created
Is nothing to adore.

Love Poem

I hate you.

Even though it's just a game,

And I have just myself to blame,

I hate you.

Even though you disagree,

and think it's all just as you see,

I hate you.

Even though the walls are bright,

and you think that it's all alright,

and daytime's just a mask for night,

and I will never win this fight,

I hate you.

Fading

“Open your eyes!”
She pleads to the heavens, to that heavenly body,
To the stutter of a breath that breaks the silence.
The strength to sob eludes her,
Her tears not viscous enough to fall,
As the lips that held in her secrets
And sealed them with a kiss
Fade to a tint of ephemeral gray.

And there she sits, awaiting an elusive caress.

Utopian

I have been in love with no one,
sprayed no sputtering fields
with spilt menstrual blood
swallowed no wasted seed
spit out no shelled-out hulls.

The plants' sun has wrapped me
in her husk, promised me the
IDEA
of flowers
and that has been enough.

The Glory of Conquest

Oozing, creeping along,
Permeate the hills like gaseous lime,
Time slips down dark stairs of the hour,
Black dripping oil, curdling, sour,
Bulging, bubbling, frothing
While we cower
In a corner
Frowning pain.

Rest on weeping walls
In restless refrain.

I Feel Yah, Bro

At a light on a road
I pulled parallel with
A car driven by a man.

And this man sat hunched over,
Looking with a hardened melancholy
At the road down below.
His eyes did not move but remained dark
Holes of an emptiness I can only
Describe as a pain I don't know.

His sealed lips seemed to droop
At the corners, as I believe
He longed to be elsewhere.
Yes, he longed for something
He could not have, or possibly
To rid himself of what he
Could not bare.

And out of such internal regret,
He shut his eyes and grit his teeth,
Forging an uncooperative
Smile onto his face.
Then with great effort he held up
His head, and turned back to his right
With unbelievably honorable grace.

When he pulled away from that spot
And I spied his passenger with a
Feministic ranting mouth
And wicked, piercing eyes,
Then I understood his pain,
Then I began to empathize.

Exhaustion

I’m running, running,
Running –
Losing breaths I never took,
Gasping for unattainable air
In a place void of triumph.
My slipping grasp on the crevice of sanity
Is all that keeps me from
Total deterioration.
Exhaustion has consumed me.
Fatigue has plagued me.
There is only so much that
One pair of shoulders can bear
Before the weight of the world
Eradicates what is left
Of my weakened confidence.

I’m slowing, dragging,
Stopping.
I can’t –
I just can’t do this anymore.

The Window Pane

Step away from the window,
That little portal into now-nothing.
Trust me, it's only an illusion,
And that pane just isn't worth it.

Yes, I know you long to
Reach just a finger beyond
It's weak barrier, to feel the
Breeze of a different freedom,
Of in there.

If you must, lend it your gaze,
But only your gaze,
From time to time to quench your
Passionate thirst for its appeal.
I understand what it means to you,
What it holds behind it that
You see with the utmost clarity
That it is in all respects torturous.
It's so very torturous.

But now it is time
That this window be covered,
Its shutters closed and
Its face covered with boards.

You must do it.
For as you look backwards through
This small squared off vault,
There are doors before you,
Open and unguarded.

Amour Fou

Unbound by words
chemical bonds, molecular chains
immobilize my hands (do you like that?)
everywhere is fair and delight
guides the eyes
embrace
your Body and your Voice
(I see nobody, cry my name!)

and the pillar of air ceases its flow
gushing spill, she looks away
(I don't want you when you're away)
serene swelling pool
unconscious scent
come closer, what did you say?
so smooth a face, taste, TAKE
where will your ideals one day traverse
and who will harbor some utopia?

I laugh, she mocks a goddess
you are no Erato
no pleasing wind blows—play for me
Inanna, the warrioress of lust
(touch firmly, FIGHT)
I love your violent grasp
she bites deep and hard...
pull me tighter SQUEEZE
drag me down, your sacrifice to Hell

show me you can be a bitch,
I want to be your bitch
make me scream and goddammit
(oh, go for my throat!)
I don't demand just anyone.
baffled by the gag
come tomorrow I won't care, fuck me.

A Dream

I release myself, dazed, into the blackness.

My conceptions are warped, but I can’t show. 

I twist into the realms of a false reality;

I’m dead, nonexistent as far as I know.

A figure dressed in shadows runs towards me;

it has been resting in my subconscious,

waiting for my mind to open at night.

Anxiety crawls over my heart; I'm nauseous.

I turn around and bolt.

I run with all my might,

but I'm not gaining ground.

This must be my poor plight.

The dark cloak circles me,

as if preparing to pounce on its pray.

This is true, this is all so real. And now

I stand in a crimson puddle; I'm not okay.

Not realizing my numbness,

I react to the sight as if I were in pain.

I scream but no sound is emitted.

I am twitching; going insane.

I plummet to my knees;

there is a hole of despair within me.

What can I do; I’ve lost my strength.

I stare at the dirt as my tears flee.

As my sorrow falls, the Despised raises its sword.

As my woe meets the ground, the Despised swings it down.

A daisy grows beneath my nose. Oh Lord!

I smile and rejoice: “There is hope!”

as the Despised takes my head for its crown.

My corpse is dragged to Hell with a rope.

I awake;

a figure dressed in shadows runs towards me.

Jim and John

Jim and John were walkin'
On the eastern side of town.
They were simple fellas
With not much to weigh them down.

And as they walked they were
Disturbed by a commotion not far away,
The sound was loud and startling
In every kind of way.

People shouted and sirens wailed
Like all hell had busted out.
Jim and John stopped in place
To see what it was about.

"Shit man, that can't be good",
Jim said to John with concern.
"I know that's right, there ain't no way",
John said in return.

They walked a block and turned a
Corner to get a better view,
And what they found in their sight
Was nothin' really new.

A woman dressed in the highest fashion
Stood in tears with a face unsure,
It seems the heiress had been robbed
Of her cozy coat of tiger fur.

But Jim and John shook their heads
As they took in what they had seen.
They said nothing and walked away,
There was no reason to intervene.

"You feed the dogs?"
"I fed the dogs."
"Alright, alright good man."
"Yessir them dogs is fed,
They best eat it while they can."

"Hey, you think there's some sorta
Special smartness-improver thing
That actually exists?"

"Hehe well if it does someone
Best get it to them motorists."

And Jim and John were on their way
Bothered none by the silly crash,
They led two lives of simplicity
With no need for crap or cash.

Writer's Block

Poetry tears out your soul from

Its corporeal, cavernous dark

So that you might look upon it

With both a sense of disgust and wonder,

That beautiful confliction.

What becomes of the simply content poet?

Neither simmering in a stew of love

Nor slipping down its brick wall by the fingernails,

That slow and painful enterprise.

What is to become of my philosophical images

When I no longer feel as though my body

Is being torn apart from the inside

By a daemon of all my limitations?

If I am in the in between,

Not in pain nor in ecstasy,

Savoring my quiet appreciation of dawn,

The sweet warmth of the sun upon my skin,

And the stillness of my own existence,

Of what am I to write?

The censored speak

Words are not safe for work, and neither are you.
The revolution has climbed into your bed and soiled your sheets to the box springs.
It has ridden you nightly, beautiful hag undaunted by broom bristles,
never deigning to crunch numbers.
The prophesy proclaims you to forsake the soul the pharacutical dream sold you,
and you should know,
for it was you who fortold--
blaspheming agape, a gypsy cloaked in your revived skins--
and you who has been muttering to your broom for days
that you will undertake to sweep up and out
the remnants of your drone-riddled brain.
Because glass outside in the street is breaking
and you have hurled stones solidified in your bowels--
and bile spilled from your electorate mouth
might just fertilize a quiet forest.

In Silence

I am imprisoned.

You are the wisp of a brief,
But never, no, not ever, distant thought

Dancing about in the depths of
My longing, left empty for you.
I'd like to convey
The intensity with which the
Thought of you nestles in my heart.

But I know that can never be.

How I'd like for you to read
These words by chance's sympathetic
Presence, a stroke of appreciated luck.
But that shall not happen

For these words are my thoughts,
And my thought are unspoken,
Never disclosed to another.
Especially not you.

They are only to be read,
Never said, never relayed
With the infliction of my
Pained voice of dying desire.

We exist in Silence.
And in Silence I know you best.

Ode to Camille (The Reincarnate Rower)

They do not behold you, merely your silhouette,
Sewn in irreversibly to the grimy quilt of competition.
Looking in a mirror, your exuberance faded,
The patchwork begins to pattern your skin.
But the memory of your three-dimensional days
Are not quickly forgotten…

Tear up the stitches that chain you to mediocrity.
Break free from the motley masses.
Your ambition is a flame in the cold evening;
Your dedication a sip of holy water,
Rejuvenating the dehydrated souls of the captive.
Every bead of your sweat illuminates, elucidates.

The seams give way to the paradigm of the powerful.
Shadows regain form, memories rejoin consciousness.
The stains of yesterday are sucked up in a
Whirlpool, damned to dear old Davy.
From once-white cloth bloom water lilies,
Gliding in the currents, no match for the cohesion of our craft.

You

Exude profundity from every
Pore: it's true, you can't stop
Being you, blowing my mind
To little bits and pieces of gray
And white, speckled on the walls
Of a cracking skull, as
My eyes watch you
Go, and before my now dysfunctional
Mind can tell me to stop, I lurch
Forward, after you, running
For a cause, my heart jolting,
Thundering, aching to keep
Up, waiting for you to turn
Around and perhaps realize
That for months, I've been hopelessly
Lost, torn apart, my soul gone
Overboard, flying in your direction;
And here I lie, drowning
In a pool of my own
Numbness, unable to move
Or breathe for fear of losing track
Of you.

My Greatest Regret: Act V

Time. We molded its essence from nothingness, labeled it with importance and applied to it tangible parameters. To protect order and reason, strict frames became necessary to apply to time. Yet there are people who dare to raise the hammer of defiance, just to shatter the rules set in stone.

For not all events in life can be reasoned through.

The encounters between Ellie and I were fleeting, emotional, and never seemed to truly signify continuity. We were cheaters of clocks. We decided when the present would slow, so we could savor the good, and speed time up when interaction died away. Our meetings were mostly or entirely random, usually started by chance, continued by burning the fuel of passion, then ended with unspoken words left hanging in the surrounding air. I can't accurately tell you what she felt about our fleeting meetings, but I can tell you this: I never wanted them to begin and never wanted them to end. It might as well have been a long, scattered dream with mixed messages and meanings.

Contrary to my prior statements, I did see her again, though not on my own doing. Nor were there meetings of any kind. I may have been in the local department store, looking for some forgotten item of my mother's shopping list, or driving beside the beach. Then I would see her. Not her physical self, but her emotional essence. It lingered, and I would immediately spark my memories back up like a match against the strike strip. Though, rather quickly, the thoughts would subside and the effects wore away like an ineffective drug. It seemed like she was everywhere. But why?

Ellie herself had angel-like qualities. Her combination of beauty and intellect only added to the mystical nature of the encounters. She appeared when I least expected her to, dipping in and out of the pool of my conscious memory. Yet she was so much more than some ghostly shadow eerily looming in my subconscious.

She taught me what it meant to be human. She taught me how to embrace emotion. She was the starting match to my eternal creative fire.

She made me who I am today. Ellie was, is, and always will be my muse. We defined humanity, and its brief truthfulness. She gave me a thousand reasons to become a writer.

And she was not some idea or symbol of philosophical musings. She was vividly real! No other girl in my life has ever been such a flawless embodiment of pure, natural perfection. She was simply the ultimate queen of the angels, and all I could do was sit back and sigh with wonder at my futile quest. Why chase perfection when it is unattainable? Well, it can't hurt to try. Right? Right?

Oh, you bet it hurts. How the hell will I ever know if she longingly sighed back at my reflection? Or did she let my face fade away, rippling into a puddle of forgotten memories? Forget all. Turn away. The stone is thrown, sinking into perpetually darker depths. Now I will go to embrace the sun.

And live.

Eulogy

I offer my condolences.
I see you've lost a friend.
I do happen to despair especially,
For I tried hard to defend,
That fragile fumbling fellow,
From the pains set on by life.
I said days would soon come by,
When it would exchange its knife,
For quick smiles on on a brighter day.
It will all get better is what I tried to say.

But I'm afraid you wouldn't let it be that way.

Twas you that made the curtain call
And put that devil darkened pall
Of misery in front of those eyes
That just searched for Earth's shy blue skies.
You littered the stage with your lying props.
Yes all the pains were just the crops
Of your own pained deceptions,
To hide my joyed conceptions,
That I used as that poor fellow's shield.
But the wounds, they shall not e'er be healed,
The ones made by your manufactured strife,
Not the true horrors of life's sharp knife.

I offer my condolences.
I see you've lost a friend.
Don't be so mulish minded,
To let it happen again.
Don't let your fears take hold,
And gun down another soul.
Poor fellow we have lost...
And I despairingly fear it
Was a friend to you and me,
That friend I called your spirit.

Life, on guard!

Here I sit,

day in and day out. I am mesmerized by the reflection upon the water;

the way the subtle waves sparkle is a simple pleasure that keeps me sane. That periwinkle noodle and that deep citrine ball are a delightful refreshment to my sight, because I am dreary of this canvas always being splashed with a dull blue and a plain red.

I’m stuck, 

glued to this chair, and I reposition myself occasionally to avoid undesired cramps. Here I sit, being paid to perch over these ignorant kids having an endless time of fun. Oh how joyous I am to ensure their safety, but how bored I am to go through with it. My ears are forced to satisfy their chorus of chuckles and screams.

Leave? 

I couldn’t.... or maybe if I rise up and walk away, no one will notice. I would be unchained from that clock from across this pool! Great. It has only been twenty minutes, meaning that there are five more hours to come by; each minute, I’m sure, will take its time just to spite me. The gate is over that way..oh, how it tempts me! ...but no, my morals keep me here in this chair, this loathsome chair.

The sun pours its heart out to me and I have nothing to do but listen to him. His long and timid epic drains me. Perspiration owns me. My eyes are locked with the charming cool water and all its clarity. I swear I see it smiling at me, welcoming me, luring me. We haven't yet been introduced today. Should I give it my hand? I daringly stand up. My yearn for an icy covering is bursting within me; tugging my conscience for permission. 

I jump!

and the body of aquamarine sucks me under as bubbles trail behind me.

Is it not such a grave disappointment when the water is warm?

Planting Gardens

Planting a garden is harder
Than one would think,
For as it is realistically,
You must swim or sink.

One with eyes trained for flowers
Can see them blooming in his mind,
While another with a thumb less green
Finds the task unkind.

For precision is impeccable in
Nature's nurtured nest,
The shrubbery must harmonize
To form the scene that's best.

Location is simple strategy,
Type is chosen with intent,
The garden is always organized
As a purpose is always meant.

Obscenities are unacceptable,
A good gardener won't forget,
Consistency and equality
Always must be met.

Yes, a garden is a toughened task
To get the results one would seek,
For one rose left out,
One shrub too stout,
And his audience may turn the other cheek.

Snoot

I watch you and snicker…

My gosh, you’re pathetic

You think you’re amazing,

the perfect aesthetic.

You’re arrogant, like you

have some kind of right

To pass judgment on others…

I pity your plight

You’re sticking yourself

where you can’t place your nose

While your nostrils are open,

your mind remains closed

So please, take the stink

of your high-minded airs

and blow it right back

up your ears… no one cares.

The Artist

“It’s a process,” she tells me,

“You’ve got to keep at it.”

A handful of clay,

starts out monochromatic.

“Don’t worry,” she promises,

“That’s how it starts.”

Until I put in some effort,

I guess this is art?

And my work seems unlawful,

I’m not meant to be

so artistically sculpting,

it’s not about me.

I strive for perfection,

a problem, with this…

Because how can I find

imperfection in bliss?

As one cedes to the other,

my love starts to fade.

I can’t look at my masterpiece.

What have I made?

Spontaneity, dimming…

The lights are too low

All my work was for nothing,

what do I have to show?

Just an empty container

that knows not what it does

Serves its purpose quite happily,

and all because

Of a little bewitching…

I’ve sculpted its heart.

For the sake of its beauty…

can I tear it apart?

Unity (Trance)

Andhero Ki Awaaz - La Voix de L'Ombre - The Voice of the Shadows

*I originally wrote this poem in Hindi, and intended to keep it as such. It is loosely based on the Hindu mythological origin of my name. I translated it into English, but didn't like it, so I created a French version. The English version is also provided for the sake of convenience, but neither quite match the original.*


Andekhi, anjaani,
Woh rehti hai saason mein.

Jaise behti nadiya ke us paar,
Do aankhen dhoondti hain
Ek maya ki aag,
Waise khojta hain ye dil
Uski adhoori si aahat.

Bhagthe bhagthe, kaanto se chubhi
Woh do pair, pahunch jaante hain
Purane sitaron ki galli mein.
Tandhi hawa ko yeh saupthi hain
Ek bhooli hui baat:
Aur phir, intezaar.

Ek dhadkan, ek saas,
Aasman ki ek boondh
Pee jahta hain yeh mann.

Ab mothi tapakthi hain mere hoto se:
Mujh mein basthi hain yeh
Andhero ki awaaz.


Invisible, inconnu,
Elle réside dans l'haleine.

Comme, sur la rive opposée d'une rivière courante,
Deux yeux cherche
Le mirage d'une flamme,
Donc, ce cœur cherche
Les sons de son cœur désespéré.

Courant sans fin, poignardé par des épines,
Ces deux pieds arrivent
Dans l'allée des étoiles d’autrefois.
Elle confère au vent froid
Un message oublié:
Et puis, l'attente.

Un battement de cœur, un souffle,
Cet esprit est ivre de l'essence
De l'atmosphère, dans une seule goutte.

Maintenant perles sont à la charge de mes lèvres:
Pour en moi, elle se manifeste, cette
Voix de l'ombre.


Unseen, unknown,
She resides in breath.

As, on the far bank of a flowing river,
Two eyes search for
The mirage of a flame,
So this heart seeks
The sounds of her forlorn heart.

Running endlessly, stabbed by thorns,
Those two feet arrive
In the alley of archaic stars.
She bestows upon the cold wind
A forgotten message:
And then, anticipation.

A heartbeat, a breath,
This spirit is drunk with the essence
Of the atmosphere, in one single drop.

Now pearls are borne from my lips:
For in me, she manifests herself, this
Voice of the shadows.