Jan 2014
The definition of a human being is:
a man, woman, or child of the species **** sapiens,
distinguished from other animals by superior mental development,
power of articulate speech, and upright stance.
Now, in order to have understood that
you must have reasonable cognitive function
and the ability to decipher words and syllables
created by 26 letters and the use of punctuation.
It is easy to comprehend the human language,
but it is increasingly more difficult to comprehend human nature.
The question of who I am
is still a question unanswered.
Although I have many theories on who I would like to be
this cannot all be contained within the parameters of a few lines of poetry.
The English language is neither phonetic nor forgiving,
so I apologize for any misinterpretation.
Parallel lines never meet,
always side by side like they are walking on opposite sidewalks
but they are never allowed to intersect.
But other straight lines intersect once,
meeting for a brief moment only to never meet again.
And if I had to choose between being one line or the other
I would choose to be parallel
so I could walk side by side with someone just like me
even if I never got to hold their hand.
Lines of poetry are never really lines at all
they are always pictures or emotions or actions
strewn out in different ways to provoke an involuntary response.
Spoken poetry is even worse than lines
because if I speak these words
they are more likely to curve or swirl or zigzag.
Straight lines are what I was taught to follow.
Drive between these lines,
walk these lines in the hallway or we have to start all over,
use a ruler to draw this straight line so your picture is perfect.
Perfect.
I was taught to be perfect,
that perfect was a reasonable expectation and must be fulfilled.
But who I am is not perfect.
Who I am is not a straight line,
but rather I am zigzagged,
I am curved and unbalanced and maybe a little bit falling apart.
I like the sounds of Claude Debussy and Mozart in the morning,
I like driving on the highway,
My favorite sound is the person I love, breathing,
And I love to paint and write and draw things that make people think.
I’ve been a vegetarian for five years
So I don’t eat anything that could have looked at me,
And I know worms don’t have faces but I don’t eat those either.
I like to travel because there’s something about following those lines on the map
that makes everything more adventurous.
I think that there is nothing rational about Love,
Love is clumsy
Love trips over its own shoe laces
and there is nothing logical about cutting out the most important part of you
and putting it inside of hands that shake,
that tremble,
that crack like a Haitian sidewalk.
But these lines of poetry can’t define who I am,
they only allow room for interpretation.
And again, the English language is neither phonetic nor forgiving,
so I apologize if any of that came out wrong.
a man, woman, or child of the species **** sapiens,
distinguished from other animals by superior mental development,
power of articulate speech, and upright stance.
Now, in order to have understood that
you must have reasonable cognitive function
and the ability to decipher words and syllables
created by 26 letters and the use of punctuation.
It is easy to comprehend the human language,
but it is increasingly more difficult to comprehend human nature.
The question of who I am
is still a question unanswered.
Although I have many theories on who I would like to be
this cannot all be contained within the parameters of a few lines of poetry.
The English language is neither phonetic nor forgiving,
so I apologize for any misinterpretation.
Parallel lines never meet,
always side by side like they are walking on opposite sidewalks
but they are never allowed to intersect.
But other straight lines intersect once,
meeting for a brief moment only to never meet again.
And if I had to choose between being one line or the other
I would choose to be parallel
so I could walk side by side with someone just like me
even if I never got to hold their hand.
Lines of poetry are never really lines at all
they are always pictures or emotions or actions
strewn out in different ways to provoke an involuntary response.
Spoken poetry is even worse than lines
because if I speak these words
they are more likely to curve or swirl or zigzag.
Straight lines are what I was taught to follow.
Drive between these lines,
walk these lines in the hallway or we have to start all over,
use a ruler to draw this straight line so your picture is perfect.
Perfect.
I was taught to be perfect,
that perfect was a reasonable expectation and must be fulfilled.
But who I am is not perfect.
Who I am is not a straight line,
but rather I am zigzagged,
I am curved and unbalanced and maybe a little bit falling apart.
I like the sounds of Claude Debussy and Mozart in the morning,
I like driving on the highway,
My favorite sound is the person I love, breathing,
And I love to paint and write and draw things that make people think.
I’ve been a vegetarian for five years
So I don’t eat anything that could have looked at me,
And I know worms don’t have faces but I don’t eat those either.
I like to travel because there’s something about following those lines on the map
that makes everything more adventurous.
I think that there is nothing rational about Love,
Love is clumsy
Love trips over its own shoe laces
and there is nothing logical about cutting out the most important part of you
and putting it inside of hands that shake,
that tremble,
that crack like a Haitian sidewalk.
But these lines of poetry can’t define who I am,
they only allow room for interpretation.
And again, the English language is neither phonetic nor forgiving,
so I apologize if any of that came out wrong.
