October 25, 2005

He woos with poetry not of his own
Gleaming words from long dead men
Shining marble across a carefully tended plot

His emotions, though tender, do not fuel my heart
It stays cold and unused, preserved under glass.
A plaque remembers its once warm heat and soft pulse
at times flushing fair skin; those times long past remembering.

In stasis, in waiting, in between time, in between space
in between what once was and what now seems
Out of love but wanting, out of hope but dreaming.
Without cause, force of will; sight of shore, sight unseen.

April 11, 2007: There are cats fucking fighting in my front yard.. Seriously y'all...

It's just an idea, but I suggest you get over your shit.
And you might bitch and say it's not that easy, but
when the shit comes down, it really is. The world doesn't
revolve around you, life could actually be much harder than
you experience on a regular basis, and it really isn't
that hard to make a fucking decision. But you want
to have your cake and eat it too. Or at least, have an
alternative plan, when the bitch goes crazy, and you're drunk
at a party, and things could be better if you weren't so alone.
But you're always alone, in your head, and there's not a beer
or pussy in this world that can change that. You knew that already,
but after a few, it's much easier to forget your better judgment.

An incomplete prose rant with the following disclaimer: Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

November 12, 2006: Maybe it's the moonlight or crisp dark leaves that makes me..

or maybe I am full of shit, caffeine, and a whole night of unresolved issues.

You drink women like cheap boxed wine,
And trust me it's never worth the hangover.
They pour fountains of that generic combination
of yeast, sugar, and water; still, it does the trick.

They love all the way down your throat until even
the trickles cease, but with a little stale cigarette smoke,
the sharp, tart flavor may linger in a stain on your shirt.

It has never been a habit, though a regular occurance,
for you to pick up a glass, or two, perhaps to spite
your last. The bitter finish never fails to disapoint.

And... when I figure out how it ends, I'll let you guys now. For now this is it.

November 8, 2005: [In progress: class]

Run your tongue along that rippled pad,
perhaps again, your thumb and index finger to match.
Slide your palm down the crease, the place when you last
put me down. Spread me wide and gaze upon me. Look longingly,
would you know my secrets? Would you know the depths of my
pages, or simply caress the vellum that you hold, now,
between your fingers. You hold the world.

Tangle your fingers in my sheets, you've got ten fingers,
You can probably mark all the good spots. Would I outrage you?
In my world, I make the rules. But I suppose you could put me
down, again, perhaps on your rigid lap as you search your brain
for answers. Don't you know they are held within my binding?
Thread as long as I, reaching through all of me to the other side,
making sure I do not fall apart at an inopportune time, say, the middle
of a chapter.

Oh yes, you will look at all of my words, take each chapter at length.
You can categorize me, make me safe enough for you. Hide me among my brethren, still mourning their lovers' touch. We are not enough for each other, though shelves we may fill. The wilting covers of those well-read, threadbare and faded, titles long ago worn away, gather dusk as you would keep us, stacked away.

November 8, 2005: Open books...

Are far more useful than those closed.
Closed books are paperweights and doorstops;
Open books are imaginations flooding pages.
I could take a closed book and sling it at your head,
but to open it up and fling it at you like a frisbee might be more fun.
The pages would flutter and ripple, the sound would dimple
the plane of tense silence. Open books make time for laughter.
The rich smell of an old book is staunched by its closing,
To open it releases its age, the textured worn pages, the
grocery store receipt left in it months ago, or perhaps a letter.
Open books have yet surprises: one can not look at all
a book's pages at once. Though cracked and creased
the binding may be, paragraphs broken by pagination
spill, and roar through chapters, water chasing broken pieces
of levies. Let me spill and roar, let me take words, paragraphs,
chapters to explain. I would be an open book, any day, rather than close my pages, so surely removing myself from the mind's eye.

May 7, 2005: Once more, with feeling

When heaven is dropped in your lap
and you say it's not perfect enough-
When you can look into eternity
and you say it's not long enough.

When you go around ranting about love,
you come off as such as nice guy.
You won't fight for the heart that loves you;
somehow, it's just not easy enough.

Promises are never without risk.
Even those written in blood can be broken.
Fear is a lonely bedfellow; it leaves
before morning. You always wake up alone.

May 7, 2005: Goddamn, caffeine is a god in an ant kingdom by the sea

This is Hope, my friends, literally. By George Frederick Watts.

There is no answer in a smile; enigmatic sayings,
no better than that fortune cookie you got
at that Thai-fusion place down the street.

And what if there were, what then?
Pray tell, should we get all the answers,
What stupid things might we do with them?
Perhaps it's better we stumble blindly.

Not so we might truly see, what, with our eyes,
remains cloaked in secret. Forget that!
But blindly, we leave certain responsibility behind
And retain the ability to shrug at fate's intrigues.