Us

It was a perfect night.
One that defines a love, a friendship, and a bond stronger, more rigorous than marriage.
I used to dream about this, you all, me in the context of elation.

The laughter was tactile; smooth.
Every and any time I looked at you, smiles erupted in our guts and on our faces, all of you.
It was palpable, mutual.

I came here so unsure, my feet tripping over themselves.
And for the first time, ever, I believed that someone genuinely enjoyed my presence, my chatter, my me.
 For once, I felt no less than the one next to me.

In the spirit of the holidays, friendships bloom like the magnolias and love abounds.
Maybe it's just because it's Christmas, but did it not feel like someone gave us a golden ticket?
Maybe it was you all who gave me a golden ticket.

And gestures of affection, friendly and beyond, were abundant.
I wouldn't have, couldn't have, wished for more.
Happiness' ubiquity and Joy's vehemence rushed between us, all of us.

And when we ran off into the night, I wouldn't have, couldn't have, wished for a better person.
Any unease, hitch in the circle, quickly evaporated.

I just felt so good, for the first time in a long time.

And so my toes were screaming at me from the cold, my throat was pleading me to stop my joyful laughter, but my heart said, "No. Not tonight."

And so when the shouts of delight had subdued,
As the furious, overwhelming emotion had started to say goodbye,
I looked back, but only for a second.

There you stood. Just as always, lackadaisical, nonchalant.
But something was wrong, for me at least.
Not sad, just melancholy.
Just new.
For you and me.
But you smiled, and I smiled.

It was a perfect night, almost.

  

A Walk With You

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd show you the restless squirrels, capering and tumbling.
And the trees, leaves just starting to lose luster.
And the pain the ground bares.
And the pain I bare.

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd declare my love for you.
And we'd see the houses, ornate and regal.
Underneath the facade, silence.

I'd take you to the lake, where the fish jump and the children run to their mothers, wet and cold.
And when we turned the bend, my hand would brush over yours.
Or yours over mine.
Yet, the leaves blow away, as does this moment, this smile, these dreams.

If I could take a walk with you,
We could even sail the ocean, crystal blue, and land somewhere new.
A boat, ridding the waves of our sweet harmony, would take us there.
Then, explore, discover.
Together.

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd tell you about my dreams.
Where I want to go, where I've been, and who I am.
It would be nice if you'd do the same.

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd listen to what you have to say.
I wouldn't interrupt.
I would smile at the times you enjoyed.
I would tear at your sorrow, laugh at your humor.

If I could take a walk with you,
we would sit on a bench, and the sunset would be perfect.
Like us, lavender clouds would interlace fingers with crimson sky.
And the coffee would never get cold.
And the conversion would be abounding.

If I could take a walk with you,
I'd show you my scars, both in and out.
And I'd hope you'd hold me tight.

And when the day is done, and the sun has faded, we never thought it would,
And when I stop and my feet land on the ground, just as they always have before,
I will have taken a walk with you.

So, tomorrow, when you go walking with someone else,
it makes me wonder.
It makes me melancholy.
It makes me sad.

The people we could be...

I'm sure you'll be happy, married with kids, a house, a job, a life.
And I'll hold you a very special spot in my heart.
Not that of what you used to be, but a friend.
And I'll hear all the stories of your spouse, and your job.
I'll swallow all my bitterness, all my sorrow.
For I wouldn't burden you, my love, with that.

But burden me.
At least I can be close to you.

So if your coffee ever gets cold,
just know;
I'd love to take a walk with you.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

Do You?

Do you ever feel like you've said too much?
Do you ever not know what to say?
Do you ever feel vulnerable?
Do you ever want to shed your own skin?
Do you ever want to grow up?
Do you ever listen to your voice?
Do you ever stop?
Do you ever get the urge to slap your old self in the face?
Do you ever really appreciate yourself?
Do you?

Burning With Pride

When the wine is all but gone, still lingering on the floor of the glass,
and the all that is left of a crackling fire are embers,
it's them. They are the one place that will never leave, and where you're always welcome.

And when your girlfriend breaks up with you,
And when you lose your job.

Family, and their love for you.
It never diminishes.
It never is conditional.

A team.
Stuck, maybe.
But never for long.
Riding life's hills together.
Eternally with their arms out to catch you when you fall.

And when the trumpets blow,
And when the torch is lit, burning with pride.
I wouldn't want to be anywhere else than beside them.

A Poem Within A Poem

It starts with you.
Make me feel something, I'll make you a poem.

See, it's all about letting the emotion flow from your heart, to your fingers, to the keyboard, and into your heart.
So, make me feel something, I'll make you a poem.

And when I'm sobbing, smiling, aching, jumping, or peaceful, a poem lets me hide behind colorful metaphors, so you might feel what I do.

Sometimes, when the day has been long, and I just want someone to hold, I write.

But, it starts with you.

Green Fire

It's in your eyes, that green fire.
I can't tell if it's love,
Passion,
or hate.
But I love it.

And when the spring comes,
all that surrounds you,
all that you are
Everything is laced with green fire.

Your tears burn green onto your cheeks,
but it's so beautiful when you cry,
so beautiful.

So, then the air turns colder,
and the fire is all that is near,
encase me in your green fire,
look me in the eye,
and my heart will flare up into raging green bliss.

A Monster in Me

Let me explain.
I want the best for you, yes.
But among the flowerbed in my belly is a small pit.

Dark and black.
Jealously, rage, envy soon dribble down my lips.
I say good.
Bad, says the monster in me.

These Hills

An old man 

with a streak or two of gray, and an omnipresent, fathoming grin.

Yes. He pressed the keys of his piano.

They made sounds.

Funny, those sounds sounded like more than sounds. Like words. Like a painting.

And those sounds lifted him up to the highest hill top overlooking the lackadaisical bunch of elk.

They glanced at him, and saw an elk. 

He descended. 

A clique of aloof hummingbirds fluttered about.

Yes, very querulous they were, snobby.

But that elk tucked his legs under him as he slightly jumped.

In less time than it will take you to read this, he was a 

fully and perfectly formed hummingbird.

They gladly gave him a seat at the table.

And so on.

A horse with a majestic mane capering and leaping down a field.

A leaf with vibrant hues

A native with painted eyebrows and a melodic dancing song.

That man was.

But that the youth.

Sex, Rock 'N Roll, Drugs, Drinks

All that was taboo, frowned upon 

was that boy's to enjoy.

He ran up that hill backwards, fell, and took a drink.

He climbed that hill drunk, high.

The animals saw a panther in his eyes.

A possession.

An obsession.

Shoulders uneven, arms akimbo like he was better than rules and the

hair on his head chopped in ridiculous places.

But that boy made it to the top of the hill the same time as the old man made it to the bottom.

Yet, they helped each other.

The old man gave him a smile from the bottom.

The boy gave him a smile.

They pretend to be friends.

Like honey laced with cayenne, these hills bring us up, break us down, split us apart, pour everything out, shove it back in, and call it a lesson.

Someday, these hills will stop.

But not today.

Or tomorrow.

Noticed

It's not those rows and columns of As.
Those are
old news, repeating consistently.
No. Not when I hit a perfect low F, strong, full,
and robust.
Or when
I break thirty five seconds on my breaststroke 50.
It's when I catch you looking at me.

Those eyes.
They light my heart as a match lights a bomb.
And it will explode
into raging passion.

Cool down.
And settle.

Yes, all good things come to an end.
But for now, let's feel
that bomb's enormous heat.
Because for once
that little fat
kid is now skinny.

For once, I can breathe fully.
For once, I was noticed.

Autumn Bliss

The sun puffs its chest from behind the
already auburn leaves.
He and she leave, nervous hand in sweaty palm.
Moccasins gently crush the chestnut leaves,
and they steal glances at the other.
Cheeks painted crimson with
bashfulness and innocence.

A photo snapped in the most perfect dew sprinkled
field.
Sweet, timeless tones woven from a wooden guitar,
lost in the vast lavender expanse of atmosphere.

Go with him, you'll be forever young.
Forever sweet.
Captured in the rapture
of autumn bliss.

Harmony

What's in that harmony?

That magical vibrating sound?

Why does it radiate throughout the room like glow from a candle?

For what reason does it make us light up like candles?

It's my ear's candy, as my eyes are sweeten by harmony's smiling faces.

Like blossoming 

Does it come from our mouths?

Or our hearts?

Clean Blade

The last morsel of dessert was left on your plate.
And the air was laced with salacious gossip.
The one with the umber hair turned unsuspectingly.
Your eyes met, she mouthed a vague message.
You looked straight at me.

Before you got up from your velvet seat, you threw your flaxen hair
over your right shoulder, and that vermilion gown started to approach me.
You came bearing compliments galore; the strings started to play your favorite song,
but your concentration on me never broke.

Ankles crossed, lips upturned, and hands relaxed, you put me in a head lock, wrinkling my tuxedo, my pride.
But I won't be Anne Boleyn.
No, you won't creep into my bed tonight with a blood lust.
All these riches and luxuries I have gathered won't stop you.
Just remember.
At the end of the song, we both have blades, and mine is clean.

Precious Flame

She was tall and lean and strong and smooth.
And her flame burned brighter than the sun.
But she was unhappy.
Too proud.
Not proud enough.

It was not the that the wax dried up,
nor the time the wind blew through
but the time when she gave up.

And that precious flame.


Was out.

Answers

It's a few days since you first occurred to me.
But it feels like an era.
Your eyes, crackling with chastity, lit up my heart and sped up my breath.
And when you look at me, my heart swells with euphoria.

It was a calm summers night.
I was standing alone on the beach, peering over the water kissed by moonlight.
My toes, bare, caressed each other through the
sand,
and a placid lapping of sea foam against my feet washed away my impurities.
I thought I saw a line in the sand.
Even under the water, this line was smoothly drawn, thick and graceful.
Then it hit me;
I saw your immaculate face in the sand, and it stole my breath.

The seas rumbled from their belly, and in a sudden, a speeding jet black wave of passion, rage, enamored obsession, inadequacy, lust, greed, rapture, and devotion hit me square in the face.
And I fell on my face.
For you.

When I woke up, you were there.
But you were innocent, naive, vulnerable to my fantastic fiery fervor.
And we looked each other in the eye, and smiled.
All was sweet infatuation.
All was blissful.

But when I woke
the sun had
dried the
wave
that was
left.
You were gone.
We were gone.

What did we leave behind?
A future?
Love?

Was there anything to begin with?

If only I had kissed you.
If only you wanted to kiss me.

Have you moved on?
Or were you never interested in the first place?

One day I'll go back at night.
To that serene sea.
My toes will touch the sand.
The foam will lap at my feet.
And I'll see you in the water, waiting for me.

For it seems to me, that you forgot all about me.

If so, why not start over?
My dear, my love.
Let us love, but rarely together.
And never in the light.

Africa

Expanse of blue sky

Stampede of creatures fill plain

Spirit, Simple, Life.

Ground teeming with vibes

Searing bright light chisels smiles 

United as one.

Horizon in view

Break of dawn pierces the sky

This is Africa.

This One's For You

Now it's been some skies since I took your number.
The pen smudged a little on that scratch slip.
If not for that, where would I be.

You know the murky waters of my soul, my secrets, my sins.
You know how I've hurt others. You know who has hurt me.
Yet you still come bounding down the hall, yelling my name every morning.

I've showed you my biggest box, and you delighted at the contents.
You've set the bar much too high.
My voice lights up your face like a candle in the night.
Your voice ignites my soul and shoots me up to space.

Your Beatles shirts, our drunken sessions, and those radiant, brighter than light smiles that we give each other.
I could hug you for days; we would laugh for days, smile for years after.
Thinking of you gets me out of bed every morning, and makes me wish for hasty rest to see you the next day.
Gosh, I hope you feel the same.
Enamored with you, not I.  I'm bedazzled by you.

You know what I love, what I hate.
And you certainly know this, but just to remind you, my dear.
I

Love

You.

And the Clock Kept Ticking

There once was a clock of many colors.
Blue danced with green, fought with red, and kissed yellow.
Purple serenaded aquamarine, and dove with iridescent crimson.
Her hands spun and the hues danced.

It had been by her side all her life, that clock.
Reminding her of time past and the future's descending length.
She got very sick, and the seasons went from spring budding pansies to fall crunching leaves.
But she was still sick, and the clock kept ticking.

With no regard, the clock turned the girl into a woman. But she was sick.
Very sick.
It made her scream and rant and cry and bleed, but the clock continued her rhythmic ticking, and the sickness persisted.
Her mom cried, begged, and pleaded.
"No," said the illness, "It is not I that needs to change."
The mom built up her courage, her savvy, her shrewdness into a towering bridge, large enough to stifle any sickness. But she was knocked down not by Hate, but by hate wearing Love's mask.

The girl came inside, and she got even more sick.
The clock kept on ticking.

Well, its been a long time gone, and Hate's mask is slowly being pealed from his face.
Well, its been a long time gone since the mom has cried.
But the girl is still sick.
She was halfway over the hill, but still a girl.

Maybe she'll be a girl forever, sick forever.
Maybe the mom will stop and cry.
Maybe they won't.

But the blue, green, purple, and red will dance into eternity; the canvas of time.

Love

No, It's not that first kiss that's magical.
Nor is it a marriage of 50 years, about to shatter, more delicate than a glass vase.
Love is sitting next to people who would throw their inhibitions to the curb and sob their eyes dry with you.
They embrace you even when they suffer.
Love scents the air when the leaving is the most hated person in the room.

It's so silly. 4 letter comprise the inspiration for countless works of expression.
They are thrown around lightly, and are as heavy as an anvil.
Love cantors down the field, it's mane painting the wind.
When the last candle is blown out, she knocks you out.
You fall prey to her unstoppable power.
These people are your family.

Love starts in the throat, either with a word or a lump.
Happiness is not always at Love's side.
Love comes streaming down your cheeks
And for days she'll mock you, bringing your loved ones back in mere seconds.
It's logic that shows you these people are figments of your imagination.
Love drags you back, again, again, and again.

Love cannot exist without hate.
Sweetness is nothing if not for something lesser.
The hills and valleys glide under you, and sometimes, we need to know that they don't stop.
Roses would not be unless they had thorns.
A ripe mango, succulent and voluptuous, is not noteworthy unless there is a vapid, rotten counterpart.
Love's beauty lies in it's fleeting.

I miss you.

I love you.

Campspiration.

I'll be back in a few weeks!
Until then, my life will be wet rain boots, quickly scribbled letters, and late night pranks.
Wish me luck, and hope I bring back gobs of campspiration.

A Pulse

Beams of light engulf.
Booze, laughs, mingling in city.
Thud. There is a pulse.

The Timeless Letter

My mother wrote me a letter.

Then she folded it into two and then again. It was sealed in an envelope and all that was said couldn't be undone.

I read it before school, letting her firm instructions guide me; her reassurance embrace me.

I read it before camp. She warned me about mosquitoes, alcohol, pot, and unruly kids. She told me, even if I did get into those things, it would be for a while, and she would still love me.

I read it before that first kiss, it said good luck sweetie.

I read it before college. My mother warned me of unmanageable roommates, peer pressures, and loss. She told me I'd have fun.

I read it before my first funeral. It said to not cry unless you must, to wear black, and to be in silence. It said to make sure not to fall in.

I read it before my first shot. The letter questioned my judgment, strength, integrity.

I read it before my V card's time was up. It said be gentle.

I didn't read that letter for my second, third or fourth drinks.

No.

It had been more drinks than I could count.

I hadn't read the letter.

I read it before my girlfriend broke up with me.

I read it before I lost my job.

I read it before I went to rehab.

Mama, I can still smell the perfume you were using on the day you wrote it, and I can still see your eyes.

How do you know what to say at the right time?

I must have read that letter a million times and

I'll read it before I die.

An Instant

The snapping of an aperture.

The blinding flood of light.

That one second in time is gone, but it will always be remembered. 

Think about that.

Nothing is permanent, it can only be documented.

A lady jogging, ipod strapped to her arm, head cocked to one side. Maybe she'll quit exercise tomorrow.

A baby being born, the blood, screaming, and sheer joy. They are reminiscent and fresh in every parent's memory, yet only a picture can describe exactly what life was at that moment. 

An old man laughing; perhaps, for the last time.

Click.

I lived in the slums. 

There was no running water, no supermarket, smiles, or sadness.

Only survival. 

Life in that part of town was not life.

Even when I tried to look at the blooming lilies, their beauty escaped me.

Even the slim, buxom, or curvy woman's grace and lustful elegance seemed to dip quickly from my psyche. 

Not water, nor food; birds or stars would fancy my eye.

Why?

Because my children wouldn't see it, and I wouldn't see it again.

It was lost in time.

We're all lost in time.

There was an old man that lived not far from me, in the alleyway across and back from my flat.

He didn't have a name.

When I first asked him, he smiled toothlessly, and said, "Em names show ownership. Don belong to nobody, now, I guess."

He always wore a crimson scarf. It was the brightest crimson I had ever seen.

I was the brightest color, the only color, I had seen in my years here.

Or maybe in all my years.

I honestly can't remember.

He took pictures. 

Wonderful pictures.

He found beauty in my trash, in dirt, and spiders, and spoiled milk. 

He was in awe of crumpled notebook paper, rubber bands, and pizza boxes.

I would have never looked twice at these things.

Yet, somehow those pictures were the most amazing, wonderous, beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

One day, he gave me his camera. It was an old one, probably from the beginning of the camera. 

He told me this.

Everthing is temporary.

Them leaves grow from nothin to crisp and green and ripe, then they die and crumple and get yellow. Then it starts over again. We can't be too upset about things we can't change. Like the dyin of leaves and human and whatnot. We can change how we remember them. That's why there's this.

He handed me the camera.

As he walked down that alley for the last time, I held the crumbling frame up to my face, and snapped a shot of him from the back. Weeks later, after the film was developed, he was not in the picture.

After taking my first picture, I whirled around to see a world bursting with color and life.

But only for an instant.

Click.

 

Lightening

A boy sat on his stoop and watched as the world said what it may. With purple roaring energy, and rapid cracks of strength, and without rain; the world was silent. Purple was the boy's favorite color.
Crack!
It rang so clear.
So loud.
So bright.


So, he took himself by the hand, and the boy got up. 
He was just above the waves of mountains that rushed toward the lightening. He turned and walked the other way. He ran into the house, and pulled the screen shut behind him. He rushed upstairs with him head down, and his gears turning. 
He needed to get to this lightening.


So, he found the keys to his mother's car, a sedan, and jumped in the driver's seat.
The car had been parked outside, and he started it. He drove all the way to the lightening.
When he got to the lightening, he saw something strange. It was not purple at all, but whiteish. 
He wondered...


The boy wondered if the closer you got to the lightening, the more white it would appear. So he just stood there, in the middle of life, and looked the lightening straight in the eye and said softly, but sternly, "You lied to me. I came here to see purple, not white." 


I can tell you one thing. That boy saw a whole lotta white. 


A boy sat on his stoop and watched as the world said what it may. With purple roaring energy, and rapid cracks of strength, and without rain; the world was silent. Purple was the boy's favorite color. This time, it was just a different stoop.

Ode to Summer

Like a soft wind,
laced with lilac aroma,
and freshly trimmed grass,
summer breezes in quietly,
yet she captives everything one.
Summer means lazy hours
on the hammock keeping a lax vigil
on the cardinal's nest
in the adjacent tree.
She drags me to the beach,
and we sit until the sky's bottom falls out,
and we get sucked into the vast sky.
The cool sand under foot, and the
black waves beckon.
We just lie there; head to head on the sand, gazing up.

Summer brings life to the world.
In summer, flowers are found
in brown bowls; such simplicity
inspires us.
Summer is like a perfectly crisp apple.
Holding its waxy skin,
stalling that first, immaculate bite.
Just as the first ray of sun
 brushes your face. It is an invitation
from nature to come and play.

Summer is a beautiful woman with
long, blonde hair and a naughty smirk.
The whole world seems to melt around her.
Yet, she makes the world look so much
better than it really is.
She runs up to you, not
saying a word but jumps
into an embrace.
A surreal day in the Shopping
District, and night at the beach.
She leaves you all too soon, without a
goodbye, only a kissed skin to remember her by.

Summer is the bridge between life
and death; green, bursting buds and crisp
yellow leaves. She is life.
The feeling of looking at the calendar
and seeing more than half the summer
still ahead is summer itself.
To going barefoot.
To ice cream trucks.
To pink lemonade stands.
To lazy days.
To pleasure.
To summer.

Your Title Here

A iron drop fell on my windshield

It was liquid metal then, shortly

after, it froze up, and still won't come off.

I have tried scratching,

scraping,

yelling,

Magic wands, 

and prayer.

I can't just get a new car, or a new windshield. 

No one can.
You can turn the car into the junkyard or smashed the windshield with white knuckles, and clenched teeth.
But not get a new car.  

I was driving and a bomb exploded in front of me.

A zooming piece of shrapnel wedged itself into the iron drop.

It would have killed me.

An iron drop fell on my windshield.

But, I could still see the sun.

My Suitcase

It's already 11, and the moon's face smiles at me.
Dinner has long said goodbye, but a crumb of a roll still mingles with an iota of wine on the corner of my lip; unnoticed.
My excitement fills the room to its brim, bubbling out.
The light throws off the coloring in my painting, and it's time for me to pack.
Revealing select hangers of their cloth burden, and checking how many 3 oz bottles I can bring in my carry-on, my eyes flit from task to selection.
My contracted pupils extracting the parts of my life necessary in the next two weeks.
Heaps turn into piles;
Piles undergo riveting inspection;
My life is condensed into a few square feet.
I'm leaving what I know, shaving the edges of my comfort.
After a half-eaten breakfast, a silent ride to the airport, and a rushed kiss goodbye, you, my suitcase, are all that connects me to my past.
You become my only constant.

Now, my clothes are no longer neatly folded, but strewn about within your walls.
My own saline tears cannot break your shell; they were not meant for you. You are coming home with me.
I step into my house.
It will takes some time for it to become my home.
I come bearing gifts, remnants of my late reality.
An origami bird, that has stayed here the whole time, at my side.
Her wings are tired from flying, yet she did no work.
I zip open my suitcase, and she flattens into a single sheet.
The bird that was so real yesterday, is just flimsy paper today.
I can fill up the space in my room anymore.
Did I shed piece of my self, because it never felt this way before.
Maybe I have too much, and there isn't enough space in my room.
It doesn't feel like me.
My fingers type sluggishly, my pills stay in their bottles, and my dogs look at my like an origami bird, fragile, and inconstant.
All that is proof that I was once a part of this house, this family, this life, is what was saved by my suitcase.

Infinity

What is infinity?
Is it the answer to 4 divided by 0?
Is it in the graces and curves of our human bodies?
Is it love?

Is infinity mine to spend; to use?
Is infinity knowing that some kid died innocent, without any pain or loss?
Is infinity seeing the city lights at night, pride for your city swelling in your gut?
Is infinity a side ways 8?

Is family, together from their various abodes for the first time in years, infinite?
Is strutting your stuff, knowing everyone's watching and envious infinite?
Is feeling something infinite?
Is hearing the harmony of two flutes or violins infinite?

When I say goodbye forever, are we infinite?
When I say goodbye fornever, are we infinite?
When I take to those walls I've built so meticulously a wrecking ball, and let all of my tears, laughs, blood out, are we going to be infinite?
When I dance, pretending to be Bob Fosse, am I infinite?

When I look out the windows of the plane and see the sprawling city vista, will it be infinite?

Infinity is.
Exactly what, we have yet to discover.
But, that's an infinite quest.

Stratego

You walk down the hall.
Swaying your hips slightly, convincing yourself that you're the least bit attractive.
I know, that sounds bad.
You turn your head, your eyes are pinched as you look far into the distance.
The farther you look out, the more you see inside.
You barely see past the hallway wall.

Your sword is your shield.
No one dares oppose you for
they have seen the ruins of those who have,
but you just smile.
Flanked by the ever loyal nonthinkers and
A traitor.
Nice to meet you.

Clocks tick.
Copper turns green.
Leaves grow, crisp, and descend.
Red meets blue.
Yet, blue never meets red.
And you think it never will.
So did Trotsky.

But he plots in the dead of night, his eyes become sore and
his neck, wrung and tired as his
coup starts to grow arms,
legs, necks, feet, loyalty, betrayal.
So, when he comes around, you
don't even notice.
No.
Not yet.

Ah, but you will. Your regime
will fall, your trusted companions
along with it.
But for now, you are content to sway your hips
and pretend like your mask isn't totally transparent.

You wait.
No one buys your crap
anymore.
I'm not a follower.
Blue will meet red.
Soon.

It's so plain and clear

It's so plain and clear.

How she sits there, not wanting anyone to see.

How lonely, isolated.

How she protects herself with glass.

It is a glass door which she hides behind.

It's so plain and clear, it pains me.

Pains me how naive she is.

Pains me how brave she is.

It lights a fire in me, not so plain and clear.

Makes my face turn to fire, and my heart, to ice.

Suddenly I'm in a forest, the light green, robust flora illuminates my way. There are dew drops on the petals of the eucalyptus. They are sweet. As I tread over the lively vines on the forest floor, my feet become moist. Then I see a dear, astute and majestic. 

It bolts in the opposite direction, capering and bounding. 

My ear twitches and I hear a giggle of laughter, sweet and feminine.

The dear pivots on its hind leg to face me, its eyes squinted in a smile; its mouth, contorted in pain. 

I walk up to it.

I stand at that door loathing her.

Her innocence, passion, compassion escape me time and time again.

The dear starts to edge backward, away.

Good. Go.

But it stays, apprehensive.

A gleaming stone of agate catches my pupil

I pick it up and some of the red powder falls against my hand.

I chuck it at the dear.

The door shatters into pieces

Just as she was about to turn the handle.

She stares at me for a second, her mouth open in disbelief.

Nonetheless, she turns the handle and a butterfly with broad wings painted every divine color.

The red dust from the agate is still on my hands.

A Dance

A Dance

A dance can mean the world.

The start of something succulent, sultry.

A dance can shock inspiration awake,

And its ever trailing companion, jealousy.

When I put my hand on your hip, the look of your eyes, the way you bite your lip, when we start to dance, flowing into each other, fluid, in sync.

A dance can be the greatest tease.

Your eyes stray for just a minute, but that’s all it takes.

As your voice, low, sweet, and laced with taunting, whispers in my ear halfway through the dance, “Stay here.”

You fall from my grasp, and you, with a slight grin, ask him to dance, his outstretched hand a sword, about to stab my heart as you take it.

A dance can be a storm.

As it starts, it speaks to me. It dares me to show you how I can dance.

It sweeps me up and the music devours my desire, steals my heart.

You look at me, wishing you were a part of this storm that is downing,

So I snatch your wrist, bringing you down under this sea of ecstasy and bliss.

A dance can be a denouement.

Your hips sway gently in my palms,

And a diamond sprouts from your icy eye.

Your feet don’t respond to my feet like they used to.

We both know it’s the end.

A dance can be a discovery.

A glance stolen from halfway across the floor,

We both gasp as our bodies respond to each other, no talking necessary.

The magnolia in your auburn hair, your maroon lips, full and twitched into a grin, your smooth face and fingers, I push a lock of hair from your face.

A dip, we stare at each other, overwhelmed by our proximity, and the spicy Latin beat.

A dance can be something new.

A dance can be something old.

A dance can revive, like spring rain to the crocus.

A dance can crack, sever, dissolve..

“Dance with me.”

Ode to the Mug

Ode to the Mug

Oh, Mug

You hug my morning tea,

Making sure he stays at

Just the right temperature.

Your rounded edges

Fit the contours of my

Palms perfectly, as I

Wrap them around you,

Feeling your warmth

On a frigid, snowy day.

A mug, so simple in design,

Yet it brings me happiness

That has no end. Seeing

Your magnificent body,

I can’t help but wonder

As to why I’m this fortunate.

This lucky to fill you with

Darjeeling, honey, and ice.

You make my mornings bearable,

My afternoons less tiring, and

My nights more rejuvenating.

Your brim, lipped and lined in

Ruby red paint, sparks memories

Of kisses, long and bittersweet,

As I sip. The exquisite flora’s creator,

A brush, gracefully glided along your

Skin, introducing orange to violet,

 scarlet to olive,

Sunshine to moonlight.

You bravely endure the

Merciless dishwasher for me,

To serve me, to continue

To hold my liquid energy.

And, once, when I dropped you,

Chipping a piece of white porcelain

From your fair, radiant shell,

Not a word of distain was thrown from

Your mouth, not a resentful stare was

Shot from your eyes.

Oh, mug, your

Glorious finger hold.

It sprouts from high on your build,

And expertly dances its way lower,

Twisting, and wrapping,

Dipping and rising.

At the end of this crimson

Wave, there is a ceramic flower

Painted in creamy yellow and powdery white

More elegant and full than any

Other to grace my gaze.

Oh, Mug.

Your days are endless,

Your beauty, boundless,

Your enduring, relentless.

Oh, Mug.

I’ll leave you here for now,

With the remnants of black tea

Staining your belly.

But when I come back,

The sun will be tired, as will I;

I’ll rinse you out, and restore

You to your throne,

Close the cabinet door,

And drift off into paradise. 

For Today, and Whatever He May Bring

To Today.
To blossoming sky blue morning glories, up with the crack of dawn.
To making a pot of coffee thrice, until its aroma dances toward you nose.
To giving a stranger your best smile.
To crying.
To hot, thick soup, whose steam paws at your nose and cheeks.
To making up with a friend.
To actually listening.
To spending five hundred dollars on the best dinner of your life.
To living.
To smiling.
To building some half finished building.
To writing poetry.
To knowing that someone is in pain.
To those tragedies that are never timely.
To playing the guitar, outside, in the rain.
To singing the same show tune that you've been singing in the shower for 20 years.
To ripping.
To turning off the bad news on television.
To Today, and whatever he brings.

How a Boy Becomes a Man

As his time nears her

She lures him in, promise of

bliss, serenity.

But her iron bars hold him

His brief childhood stolen.

Regret

Regret strolls slowly along the lakefront on a briskly frigid night, pondering what to do about her boyfriend. She has soft, velveteen blonde hair, which is cropped short. Regret works as a secretary for a company in South California, always wondering around the hallways, not doing what she should.
Regret hates baking, but bakes anyways. In fact, she mostly just stares at the cookies are they burn in the oven, not caring to rescue them. Why should they be rescued? Regret sometimes passes me by; she steps on my foot and mumbles some half-hearted apology. Regret lives in an old Victorian house on the top of a hill. She doesn't take care of it, though. There are cobwebs and cracked window panes.
Regret sometimes calls in sick, but instead of going out on the town or a spa, she just sits in her room. Regret falls asleep in the shower, and when she wakes up, she regrets letting herself do that. But, she'll do it again tomorrow, not having the will to break her own habits. Or the will to do much of anything.

Stairs

Stairs

Most people look at me

 Seeing what they want to

              But I have secrets too, like

                Unopened boxes, dusty. I

          Always stuff them down stairs, until I

                                 have the muscle to bring them up

                                                  Sometimes people get a peak into my

                                                Unspoken, undealt with guilt and shame

                                                                If they pass by as I’m closing the door, but for the

                                                                 Most part, I just smile, slipping the key behind me.

                                                                      Someday, I’ll open up the biggest box of all, and all of the dust

                                                                       Will explode in my face, asking me why it’s been here so long,

But for now, I can keep my unwanted boxes down here, holding parts of me that aren’t meant for others to see. For now, I can just close the basement door shut, sigh, and put that key back into its spot, where it is constantly reminding me of that, which I have put aside into darkness. Maybe one day, you or someone will descend into this darkness, seeing what a collection of cardboard boxes I have. I have boxes big and small, full and nearly empty. However, each contains a part of me. Something that it embarrassing, humiliating, hurtful, or shameful, but nonetheless, a part of me. Coming down here is not a small task for me. I hear the begging and pleading of each box, begging me to release its contents, which are so determined to sever the box, if they need to.  So, for now, I’ll bring up a box that has been down there a long time, waiting. It is a sizable box, full and heavy. I have gathered the courage to slice open the seam, and I’m prepared for whatever rushes out at me. 

Perpetuum Mobile

Perpetuum Mobile

It starts slowly, softly

Then, a musical phrase chimes in

It is steady, regular, and embodies a dream, before that dream has been spoiled by reality

And the music changes one

The rhythmic, steadfast tones inspired awe

They open one’s eyes so that one can see forward into the past

Melancholy nostalgia rises from the gut

And one gets lost in the music

It brings one back to summer days

To lemonade stands, when three dimes made one rich

 Getting up on Saturday with a bowl of sugary cereal and morning cartoons

To life

And it tells of all that is gone

But the memory lingers, like wine on a white tablecloth

Yet it’s perpetually moving

Never staying long enough

But the notes that one craves

The sounds one begs for

Come back to play

They are forever young

Years pass, smiles get lazy, tears fall

Who picks them up from their grave?

Not a savior, not a slave

A song, a melody, eternally poetic

It never satisfies, but one comes back for more

And each time, they leave feeling sore and broken

Filled with regrets,

Why does one come back?

The faster one’s fist closes, the faster it gets away

The more it leaves one standing, waiting

The closer to perfection it is, the harder it is to listen

It embodies what one hasn’t done, what one misses

And it leaves, not sorry it didn’t stay

There are children with innocent minds, willing to embrace its pace

And one stands there, jaw open, heart stabbed

It’s perpetual

 You are not.

Sankt Marx Friedhof

Sankt Marx Friedhof

Blink.

And a flash of hues, an explosion of passion, and multitudes of grief and sadness will pass you by.

And that is all he was.

And that is all you can ever hope to be.

And yet, millions have and will flock to this very spot

And you will try to gather the pieces of your shattered dreams

And you will try to pry open an eternally shut door

And you will try to extract meaning from a life that had minimal pertinence to yours.

And the cold, gray dust will unhinge your heart

And cerulean, olive, magenta, lavender, scarlet, indigo and violet will come gushing out.

And what are we really? An insignificant fly, scrounging for dinner, or the last ash left in the stone fireplace, cold and overdue.

And you will end up here one day, maybe tomorrow, maybe in 20 years.

And you refuse it!

And you pound your fists on the earth

And you scream until your voice cracks

And you understand that you can’t fool yourself any longer.

And you know, however consciously, that the less you accept your fate, the darker, the scarier this place becomes.

And you try your hardest not to blink.

And why him?

And you understand that he was a wrecked, beautiful ship that was ready to sink.

And a smile starts to peak out from behind your lips, ever so slightly.

And you comprehend that you're only human, that is all what the world is asking for.

And doubt creeps back, slowly.

And you wonder, what did he do?

And there is no answer.

And we all hope to have people remember our past greatness.

And we all hope that someone will commemorate it with a small flower bed, a half built column, a devastated angel, a few water logged candles, and a whole lot of tears.

And you will start to cry, perhaps out of happiness, for you realized that you have blinked.

The Bravest Person I Know

The Bravest Person I Know

Ring.

The bell sounds and the halls flood with kids

Rushing to get somewhere.

She keeps close the wall, always touching base in this shark tank.

Insults stitched across the back of her shirt by giggling girls

As she unknowingly has returned to the scene of the crime,

For reasons that are beyond me,

She is here and I admire her for just that.

Books on my hip, and a powerful friend on my shoulder,

I could easily corner her.

So small and vulnerable

And without a shield.

Then I come to the end of the hallway

And a cynical peer puts a sowing needle in my hand,

Instructing me to do the deed with piercing eyes.

Why do they despise her so?

Actually, she is the only person to survive

Being different here, in the shark tank;

I try with all my might to follow in that path,

To be righteous, to be unique.

But my peer hisses in my ear,

Telling me how easy it would be.

Just one simple sting of a needle

That she’ll forget before next period.

That’s a lie, we all know it

And the ones would acknowledge it,

Deal with it.

I set the needle down on the ground, step on it, turning it into metallic dust.

I have chosen that path before,

But I’ve regretted it even

Before the consequences have come.

I continue, thinking about how the

Right decision will cost me.

I find out later,

A few dirty looks and a snide remark, stitched into the back of my shirt.

It was worth it; I did it for her.

She is the bravest person I know, a Mino diving into a shark tank.

I glance backwards, seeing the remnants of the needle,

And I look forward, having the strength and integrity to walk onward.

Reverence

Reverence

Reverence works in accounting, in the low building on the street corner with cubicles and gray dividers. Reverence carries a worn backpack to work every day; the same one she’s used since Kindergarten. She knows everyone’s name, their spouse’s name, and how much they make, but no one, not even Bashful, who works next to her, knows her name. Reverence has pictures of faraway places on her cubicle wall, Brazil, China, Thailand, which only Fame and Arrogance get to experience. She has large, circular brown eyes, which are always brimmed with tears.

She walks with her head down, counting the ants, jealous of their inability to be emotionally hurt, or kicking the same stone; it goes ahead, but it waits for her to catch up, unlike the rest of the world. Reverence sits facing the corner in her apartment on sunny days with a cup of tea. She always looks up when speaking to someone, but no one speaks back to her.

Reverence loves lighting, gone in a second, but changing the world forever. She wants to be lighting. Friends are simply not a part of her life; they do not excite her. Now, changing which frozen dinner to have on Wednesdays, that is exciting; that is reliable. Reverence is pale. Reverence hums a tune her grandmother, Nurturing, taught her, as she wraps up her sprained ankle in a bandage. Then, Reverence closes her eyes in her impeccably cleaned white tiled bathroom, and she belts out the last note, totally off key. Reverence smiles, and she proceeds to bandage her bruised ankle, shaking her head in disbelief.

Disappointment

Disappointment

Disappointment is rude, that much is clear. He comes in the place of Jubilance, uninvited, after I’ve already lit my favorite candles, poured my favorite wine, and sprinkled crimson petals over the bed spread. Disappointment is a regular, but I look forward to the days were Gratification or Appreciation come in his place; I live for those days. Disappointment wears leather, and he punches me in the stomach almost every time I see him. And when he doesn’t, he shoves his face into mine attempting to intimidate me; I can only just avoid him. He links his arm with mine, laughing and shouting as we walk down the street; I, bashful of his presence. When I ask him, in a whisper, to stop yelling, he looks at me, grins, and throws daggers fashioned from words at my heart. Then he shows everyone what he did to me, like game he just killed.

Disappointment doesn’t have a job, and for that I pity him. However, when he comes to my doorstep, mumbling something about needing a place to stay; I have no choice. None of us want to host Disappointment. He is never late, never on time, always early. He is awkward. Some suspect that he killed Sanguine. I know he did; her sanguine blood still lines my basement walls, reminding me of something that I had, but can’t have.

Disappointment plays with his food, not knowing what to do with it, much to the chagrin of his mother, Misery. He’s brusque, that’s for sure, only stopping for a short time, but staying for a while. In fact, most of the time, we are taught to except him. But all of us hope to be the one that doesn’t have to house him. That’s why we keep living, keep trying. He sends little parts of himself, fingernails or hairs, in envelopes or through the phone.  Disappointment is a road end, telling you that either the main road is a ways down, or that you took a wrong turn. Disappointment likes Shakespeare, and he reads Shakespeare while wondering the streets, bellowing verses like everyone can hear, like anyone is listening. Sometimes, if the sun is in the right spot, and the wind blows in your direction, you can hear him sobbing, sipping bourbon, and asking “Why?”