Humans,

who are we?

What are we?

Habitats for microscopic life-forms?

Fertilizer for spring blooms?

Animals, incessantly foraging for sustenance?

Polluters of the Earth and its atmosphere?

Killing machines with insatiable appetite for war?

Yes…Yes, we are all that and more.

We are poets and dreamers,

truth seekers and love makers,

scientists and prophets,

heroes and villains.  

We are the ****** and the blessed  

inhabitants of a lonely planet.

(this is another throw-back - a piece of writing, from high school, used in my Yale applications)

I pound the pillow, curse the clock and mock injunctions to rest.

The sun finally rises and its rays slantwise fall through the curtains as I dry my hair.

A meal, like a forced dose, we soak ourselves in wasted, nervous time.

Finally! We arrive at the competition...

Tension is here and tireless pressure.

The players waiting stiff as straw, tongues playing over dry lips.

Teachers and coaches unapologetic in their pallor.

Music drifts behind us and occasionally gasps, as imperfections play like daring circus tricks.

The sparkling prodigy returns disappointed, grimace of a smile, stricken, he stares away as we search for words, oh! clumsy, unrepairable prince!

Suddenly, its time and I wonder why we are hurrying, feeling weak, momentarily frightened to go there.

On this stage in this great, hushed hall, enormity suddenly dawns with mass enough to crush me.

At last, I sit before this odd Steinway music machine - my dearest mechanical friend.

A tremble resisted - the reward of mortal afternoons - endless practices fruit.

Eyes closed I prepare my best self - pushing all fear, all doubt, to the margins - and begin.

I hope, to recreate, one note at a time, Chopin's ancient impact - with hands flying, like tethered birds, I hammer out his timeless melody explosions, his streams of crazily exact math exam fiery semiquaver motions.. then, almost suddenly, I'm done.

I stand, joyously, nearly crying.. The world hasn't ended.
.
.
Songs for this:
12 Etudes, Op. 10: No. 4 in C-Sharp Minor by Vladimir Ashkenazy
Part of Your World by Emile Pandolfi
We gather together by Emile Pandolfi

     Chilly August night
with fog, mist, rain, and wet ghosts:
     sleepwriting haiku.

Square white canvases
          painted brown--brown aroma--
                    yellow pool fish--flush!

The melancholy sound of a trumpet seeks refuge in the night,
as a snare is brushed gently and cymbal tapped light,
the far away strum of a guitars soft dreamy strings,
playing the music that compliments what a lone voice sings.

Cigarette smoke hangs heavy like fog on the old river,
the ****** sit at the bar sipping bourbon hand delivered,
the romantics dance on a floor that whispers charms,
planning their moves with the lover held in their arms.

The street light barely penetrates the grubby glass,
the bar winds down as yet another night goes passed,
customers sway at tables as they embrace a cloak
of the heady scent and high effect of marijuana smoke.

Heavy day shifts,
and comes the lonely night shifts.
Breathe the pheromones, the body tones,
ashes in a cloud—before we experience yesterday's rain.
Purest skins, and innocent eyes of the dirtiest brains,
thinking I'll do in myself, soon after doing you in.
Love has you sore in the chest; swept you swiftly with the
bruises on your knees.

Love is the air,
in the atmosphere of what we breathe daily.
Carelessly blowing in the wind; pieces stuck in your hair.
Like written messages on the wall, surrounding the
room's resting memories in crayon. You could count them all.
In deep chasms of emotions—I'm not only falling in love,
but also floating in the air. Love is the air.

It grips me by a click,
pointing at the sounds of my mouth without words.
Without too many girls, to express how I feel.
Or the dues to pay for new love experiences of someone
who could fit the bill.

She's in the air, along with the Heavens,
the birds and the bees. The mountain views, and the
closet reach I have to my dreams. Love is in the air,
but I wonder how far I'll have to jump to reach her,
(kiss her) My love remains stuck in the air.

the red light distorts the cigarette smoke coming out of your nose. in the haze, i’m caught up writing prose with a bottle of coke in my left hand. trying not to choke on the heavy smoke ruminating throughout the suffocating room. your eyes the same shade of blood red as the lights. i’m boarding windows claiming i need no fresh air in my paper mâché lungs. pollute me more.