When we first met,
a balloon inflated in my chest,
squeezing the air from my lungs
and pressing all my innards
against my ribcage so hard that
I thought I might burst.
And I don't know why.
When we first kissed,
static shot through nervous nerves.
Even my hairs were so shocked
that every last one leapt away
from my skin and my brain
had to reboot. But in that moment,
when I came back, I found
my lips had only brushed yours
and when we touched a second time,
I died all over again.
And I still don't know why.
When we are apart,
I feel a hundred million stings
tingling through my endless maze of veins.
My thoughts get lost in the meandering streams
of consciousness and dreams that
keep sleep from sharing my pillow.
And as I wander through my wonder,
I am amazed that your face has been placed
on the mantles of my mind where I feel most safe.
I discover you where I least expect to.
And I may never know why.
I guess one can never really see this kind of thing coming.
Is there such a thing as an expected surprise?
That being said, before you begin to to dread
that our future conversations now have expectations,
I've seen that the less I look ahead, the better.
Still,
maybe I
can discover why
my life is being painted with colors
I had completely forgotten.
But,
I mean,
Anjuli,
I only really want to
if you want to.
And if I may,
I'd love to say:
I want you.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
I used to have a lot of bartender friends.
Even tipped them when I could.
Then I stopped missing her.
That girl I thought I had met in a former life.
That line works great by the way.
I used to know a lot of drug dealers on a first name basis.
Still do, I guess.
But I haven't memorized their numbers.
Everything's a distraction.
Still I prefer to hang around chefs.
Get in with them and you're set.
My ex used to say, "a good meal can be better than ***
I'd have to agree with her there.
In the long run,
if you calculate the cost of dinner,
***** endless packs of cigarettes,
diapers, engagement rings,
plan b pills, condoms, apology flowers,
razor blades, caffeine, kitty litter,
mortgage payments, and ****
doing the party's dishes
after gorging on some homemade
hueso de chuleton al chimichurri
is a lot cheaper.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:05 AM UTC
There is nothing
written worth reading...
No films worth watching...
No music worth listening to...
There are no men or women worth dating,
******* marrying,
or buying a drink for...
Not a single story
dreamt or witnessed
worth acting out
in dreams or actuality...
If you pray,
remember,
no god is worth praying to,
dying for, killing for,
or living for...
As long as you have breath
in your lungs,
know,
deep down,
that nothing you have seen,
smelled, tasted, heard,
touched, or thought
is really all that great...
...until you realize that
everything you read,
watch,
listen to,
live,
dream,
or think
is limited to human nature.
We're all pretty stupid
when you think about it.
And that is precisely
what makes living so
god ****
exciting.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
I am wading out knee deep into the evening's drinks.
I let my eyeballs take a dip as my wallet plays the breaker.
You'd think the woman had tourettes the way she tries to wink.
She flirts no better than the sisters who oft walk god's acre.
Maestro, another!
A black suit hammers ritzy tusks somewhere across the bar.
The waves upon the wires lap across my eardrum's shore.
My lonely, daydream doll is finally called off from afar.
I'm far too low and far too blitzed to enjoy another bore.
Maestro, another!
When I recall how we met, I transubstantiate my veins
with hopes to find a fertile mound to plough to rude degrees.
Too many furrows to recall, but still your name remains.
So, still I hunt for lonely moths who dance beneath marquees.
Maestro, another!
Why does every truth align with all the stars at night
only to scatter just as broken glass when morning breaks?
Every wholesome oath I swear to cherish all my life
melts with every dewdrop my lawn's unkept blades shake.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 3:05 AM UTC
Oh, golden glare of night, be still my art.
Without nightmares, I pray upon the moon.
The lamplight breathes new life into my heart.
Beware of She. No lover is immune.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 3:03 AM UTC
She watches the collision from a distance
because compassion is resistance,
because somewhere inside,
behind the elder-blossomed petals,
in the broom closet of her holiest of holies,
I found the soiled shards
of an old, abandoned mirror.
And when I put it back together,
my frame was no more captivating
than it appeared in my younger years.
So I broke what I had repaired.
And I ensnared what bits I thought would sell.
Oh, to be lost within a fractured self.
Adrift above puny parallel worlds
just long enough to catch myself blink.
Bored, and with a growing fear,
I let them disappear beneath the lid
of an alley dumpster.
Freed, they left my mind's eye
roaming aimlessly,
scraping moss from surfaces forgotten,
leaving a trail for me to follow,
meandering off into tomorrow.
And as the flakes of rain, turned stem and stalk,
have drawn the dreamers to that path,
the mats of woven plants they lay
betray our wishful thoughts
to trace the trails of yesterday's greats.
What it would mean to find that sacred place
abreast this body molded
from the darkest parts of space.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 2:31 AM UTC
I think I'm pretty hot ****
most of the time.
Humility has it's place,
and it's place is in the podium.
Used to meter smiles and sighs and double talk,
with hopes to fill the ballot box.
See,
the heretics will tell you,
"You have so much more than we,
share a bit. Especially with me."
**** those ******
I don't fall for
concerned,
condemned,
condescending
conspirators
of the big philanthropist in the sky.
Intimidating,
masticating,
wishy washy,
woe-is-me,
cross carrying,
brother burying,
evangelical,
superintendents
of self-deprecation.
Where does my wealth of mental health come from?
I take pleasure in peace, that is to say,
the lack of both pleasure and pain.
And yes, I feel I get "It" with a capital I.
Because, you see, there is no "Why"
only I and I.
These eyes have seen 22 calendar years,
through bouts of laughter and selfish tears,
but these eyes have the years behind
the comprehension of Your minds.
I am older than time.
I am younger than those yet to be born.
I have had the wealth that comes with scorn.
I have thrown my back out beating corn.
I've had lover's lost, and love retained.
I've dissolved my brain, yet remained sane.
Every song, every people,
Every plant, stone, stick, or bone,
sceptre, crown, yoni, or throne,
are composed by moi so apropos.
You
are all deluded to deduce separation from each other.
You have spent lifetimes slaying the Other.
But then, again, so have I.
Sin is separation. To feel the disconnect,
whether by sense or intellect,
is to lose yourself within your
Self.
When the I is so infinite, what need is there to share?
Teach a man to fish...
Grant him his wish.
We are all we need to be.
"I" is all you need to be
Take this moment as it is.
Don't ask permission.
Don't apologize.
It's your right to breathe
It in.
It's your right to take that step outside your comfort zone
and wander off into the unknown on a whim.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
She and he went looking
for a place where God can't hide.
They found a quiet gallery
set upon a hillside.
She took nothing but a picture frame
and with it, houses became
monuments, stone timepieces
stood still
until the wind changed.
But trees became cardboard cutouts,
like a fourth grade
book report.
Curious, they walked
through endless halls
where on each wall
there hung a different name.
(I saw them flirting by
the water fountain)
After a good belly laugh,
she filled her lungs with the after math;
intricate, rain-soaked
veins branched out
toward a sky that went on forever.
By morning, however,
her breath could no longer be seen.
The night between her
and the art collector
had only been a dream.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
Above the waves, beneath the scorching eye of summer,
I watched them bathe in the babble of accursed acquaintances.
Floating backwards, lounging on inflatable recliners,
they blew hot air about their co-worker's dietary habits.
But as they loosed their string bikini straps,
I felt wrinkles of resentment fade from my face.
They asked the time, I had no reply.
I couldn't care less whose name they'd disgraced a minute past.
Some ethics fade as easy as tan lines.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
Bill from No Man's Land:
No change, nothing to report.
Could use more blankets.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC