(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist.)

intensely greased
plastic hair
secondhand green day
coldplay in the rain

i love the sound
that waxed paper
deli sheets make
and i could choke
on a glassed reflection
of celery salts and windex.

(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist
because when i look into
my eyes i see someone else)

i'm not catholic
and do not
understand who
st. peter is

but i wonder if he won't let
us into heaven because we're
failures or if we're failures
because he won't let us into heaven

(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist
and questioning how
bad hell can really be.)

too quiet for a saturday
i wrote the word
decaf so many times i
forgot how to spell it

decaf
decaf
decaf
decaf

(does decaf
have two f's?
because i don't have
two f's to give anymore
i mean i would but
i can't even find
vowels much less
extra consonants)

when i was a child
i always counted in
mississippis
now that i'm older i
find myself counting in
cappuccinos

i dreamed my
legs were bleeding
and i remembered
that they're not

i want so badly
just to sleep in
a bag of crystallized
ginger and swim
in a mixing bowl of
tasteless tea.

(i can't tell what's
real anymore
but i'm 42%
sure that i am not.)

(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)
jeffrey-lebowski:

Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
jeffrey-lebowski:
Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
(via phatphilosophers)
“
These are the days that must happen to you.
Walt Whitman, from Leaves Of Grass (via violentwavesofemotion)
(via phatphilosophers)
18 HOURS AGO / LARMOYANTE
axiatonal:

Canola Flowers Field, China
axiatonal:
Canola Flowers Field, China
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)

whatisadvertising:
What would modern technology and social networks look like if they were vintage ads
This is a post gathered Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, Skype, iMac, Nintendo Wii and Sony Playstation as if they were vintage ads.
(via thebronxisburning)
aplacetofindlife:

Someone Should Start Laughing
I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: How are you?  I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: What is God? If you think that the Truth can be known From words, If you think that the Sun and the Ocean Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,
O someone should start laughing! Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!- Hafiz
aplacetofindlife:
Someone Should Start Laughing

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
How are you?

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
What is God?

If you think that the Truth can be known
From words,

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean
Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,

O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!

- Hafiz
(via cosmic-rebirth)

meditationsinwonderland:
Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, We Should All Be Feminists
How could I not reblog this?
(Source: bakongo)
1 day ago – 234,004 notes

artismyempire:
gentledom:
A wonderful analogy.
What I shall do today.
(Source: boyqueen, via thebronxisburning)
1 day ago – 30,054 notes

(Source: maryhadalittleblunt, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 81 notes
beachsloth:

SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
beachsloth:
SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
(via bluishtigers)
1 week ago – 74 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
1 week ago – 78 notes
maymonsturr:

My mantra.
maymonsturr:
My mantra.
(via cosmic-rebirth)
1 week ago – 568 notes
foxxxynegrodamus:

***
foxxxynegrodamus:
***
(Source: lnpfeed, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 1,635 notes
cosmic-rebirth:

Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
cosmic-rebirth:
Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
(Source: cookiecarnival)
2 weeks ago – 22,305 notes
“The point is not to pay back kindness but to pass it on.”
– Julia Alvarez (via cosmic-rebirth)
(Source: amandaonwriting, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 275 notes

(Source: diawf, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 2,799 notes
bl4ckhippie:

Fly.
bl4ckhippie:
Fly.
(Source: rootsrukkus, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 750 notes

(Source: lizzlizzcomics, via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 110,456 notes
meditationsinwonderland:

ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
meditationsinwonderland:
ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
(Source: vegan-hippie)
2 weeks ago – 139,177 notes

(Source: jrich103, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 4,848 notes

pleoros:
Helminadia Ranford - Guilin,China
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 329 notes
designgather:

Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
designgather:
Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
(via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 286 notes
miguu:
don’t be afraid.
lean into your genius.
let your own brilliance support you.
you are something
we have all been waiting to know.
please.
(via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 339 notes

odditiesoflife:
Amazing Jabuticaba Tree
This is an incredible tree that bears its fruit directly on the main trunks and branches of the plant, lending a distinctive appearance to the fruiting tree. The jabuticaba (Plinia cauliflora) is a fruit-bearing tree native to Minas Gerais and São Paulo in southeastern Brazil. Otherwise known as the Brazilian Grape Tree, the jabuticaba is grown for its purplish-black, white-pulped fruits. They can be eaten raw or be used to make jellies and drinks, including juice and wine.
They are wonderful trees to have and are fairly adaptable to most environments but they grow extremely slow. Jabuticaba flowers are white and grow directly from its trunk, just like its fruit. The tree may flower and fruit only once or twice a year, but when continuously irrigated, it flowers frequently and fresh fruit can be available year round in tropical regions.
Common in Brazilian markets, jabuticabas are largely eaten fresh; their popularity has been likened to that of grapes in the US. Due to its extremely short shelf-life, fresh jabuticaba fruit is very rare in markets outside of areas of cultivation. So if you are ever in Brazil, be sure to try the incredibly tasty fruit called jabuticaba.
source 1, 2
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 1,462 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 118 notes

(Source: rorycwhatsyourthesis, via samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 130,113 notes
oecologia:

Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
oecologia:
Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
(via samsaranmusing)

burningveins:
multicolors:
benskid:
Know where you stand.
Wow
This is kinda creepy..
(via hungryforworld)
“
Do not think you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment.
Zen Master Dogen - (1200- 1253) AD (via samsaranmusing)
2 WEEKS AGO
101fuymemes:

COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
101fuymemes:
COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
(via roslynoberholtzerbddd)

itscolossal:
Planetary Structural Layer Cakes Designed by Cakecrumbs
“
Do not resist events that move you out of your comfort zone, especially when your comfort zone was not all that comfortable.
Alan Cohen (via raeraenjma)
(via awaveofbliss)
4 WEEKS AGO / THE-HEALING-NEST
so apt
so apt
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)
treewellie:

"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
treewellie:
"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
definitelydope:

BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
definitelydope:
BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
(via awaveofbliss)

Birth by Alex Grey
Birth by Alex Grey
(via receptive)

(via bluishtigers)

(via awaveofbliss)
“
There is a time and place for decaf coffee. Never and in the trash.
(via 17yr)
(via hungryforworld)
1 MONTH AGO / MIDWESTRAISEDMIDWESTLIVING
surreelust:

Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
surreelust:
Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul,
of the soul.
Rumi, from Who Am I?   (via bluishtigers)
(via bluishtigers)
1 MONTH AGO / VIOLENTWAVESOFEMOTION
xpudding:

xpudding:
(via cosmic-rebirth)

(via thebronxisburning)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
treewellie:

La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance
treewellie:
La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance

itscolossal:
Mirror City: A Kaleidoscopic Timelapse of Chicago, San Francisco, San Diego, Vegas and L.A. [VIDEO]

(via cosmic-rebirth)

awkwardsituationist:
gmb akash documents the 350 kilometre journey from dhaka to sylhet, bangladesh made by those who, unable to afford the price of a ticket or find room to ride inside, risk death by traveling atop and between train cars
(via suntochukwu)
purpleaggregates:

White Tara The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune When I see the signs of untimely death, May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara; And, having destroyed the Lord of Death, May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body. OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
purpleaggregates:
White Tara
The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune

When I see the signs of untimely death,
May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara;
And, having destroyed the Lord of Death,
May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body.

OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA
OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
(via dancingdakini)

(via guerrillatech)
hungryforworld:

Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.
hungryforworld:
Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.

(via awaveofbliss)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Internal and external are ultimately one. When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently. Love and compassion arise, and they affect the world.
Eckhart Tolle (via samsaranmusing)
(via suntochukwu)
1 MONTH AGO / SAMSARANMUSING
malformalady:

The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
malformalady:
The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
(via deeperthansoul)
polaroidsf:

Welcome to Eden
polaroidsf:
Welcome to Eden

(via bouddra)
“
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of
meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for
your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me

rain
mud and grass
common prayer
good weather
good people
art
and umbrella bags
because who wants to
get wet?
unless it’s with you
I could
I would
jump into the lake
for that rock
sew
cleanse
initials made in sharpie
and unclamp
we run
around the park
the afternoon surrounds us
the woman in the bikini
passes
and we laugh
iced tea
decaf coffee
cake without teeth
and that airstream camper
you always wanted
I could live in your
backyard
I could live somewhere
not here
in silver
prostrated
with my back to the
moon
like dead
like a mummy
like a mirror
and life would make sense
life would be beautiful
like this run
with perfect amounts of sweat
and conversation that runs
waves in the sand
and tells the squirrels
goodnight, tractor
see you tomorrow
and the land that billows
is dug up
and chewed
like a goodnight poem
this run with you
takes rest
on my soul
and I crack my ribs
to take the spring’s
twilight
aroma

Can you smell the decaf
in coffee breath

or palpate the aesthetic in
clothes bought
secondhand

the former amidst
those groaning to work
praying to caffeine gods
to jolt nerves into existence

the latter walking through shopping malls
spying the guise on mannequins
without frays and tears
mocking the Dickensian reflection.

Is the placebo
the one without the caffeine rush
and the credit card debt

or is it the one
who believes it will all
make them happier in
the end.

You are who jumpstarts
And completes my day
And I love how
You wake my heart up
With a simple "Good morning"
And "Hey."

You are who soothes my nerves
And calms my mind
In the morning.
You are the warmth
That I seek
When it starts raining.
And you will always be
Like my favorite drink
When I am happy, down,
Or when I can't think.

I think...
I think I love you
The way that I love coffee.
Doesn't matter if it is hot, warm,
Iced, blended, with milk, without,
Sweet, pure, brown, black, bitter,
With chocolate or raspberry,
Single or double shot,
Even decaf.
It doesn't matter.
I love coffee because
It is coffee.
And [I think], I love you...
Because you are you.

You have good days and bad days.
And days when you lose control.
You are generally sweet and gentle and funny
But there are days
When your patience wears thin
And I see that a lot with you.
You have an active mind
And a creativity of a five-year-old
Your stories blow my mind
And are out of this world.
Yet there are days when
Your stories are sad.
And I still love you for that.
You are caring and protective of me
And loving and genuine and sincere
But sometimes you lie
And sometimes you hide
And your fear of questions, and your paranoia
Kind of offends me.
And even in days when you could be
Like a ticking time bomb
Waiting to explode
About to lose control
Believe me, it doesn't matter.
I am willing to take the blow
And I would try to defuse you.
But even if you hurt me
I think...
I know...
I would still love you.

Because you don't love coffee
Only when it is sweet.
Or creamy.
You love coffee if you get to appreciate it
In all its bitter glory.
And I want you to know...
I want to see the best
And the worst parts of you.
And I know...
Even then
I will still love you.

But I have to remind myself
To take it easy.
Because I might burn my lips
And my tongue
From your intensity.
But even then...
Though it hurts.
I will still be able to enjoy you.
I know...
I have been burned by coffee too.

As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.

But I was talking about the picture.

The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean,  came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,  
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.

Right, the picture....

It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.

But, the picture....

It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.

The picture...

It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?

I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.

Foam cup, remote control
Foam heart, recycle me
Please
Trash it, bag it
Fill me to the top
She drank my heart
She ate her feelings
One foam cup of decaf, black
My entire life has changed
Gain my contol back

8am.
the sun is still waking up.
groggy and rubbing the night out of her wide eyes.
stretching her wings to wrap around the great earth.
or atleast america...
i switch on the espresso machine.
she hums loudly as if to say,
"just five more minutes, mom!"
i know, i feel the same,
my dear espresso machine.
oh goodness.
shiny mercedes whipping around the bend.
into MY parking lot? i wait to see...
yes. my parking lot. my shop.
haughty lady all in a rush,
can't stop and enjoy the morning for one second,
the pretty morning.
"um, yeah. i need a blah blah blah blah blah. and make it snappy. i have somewhere to be."
are you sure you dont want me to add a splash of manners in there for you?
no? okay. have a nice day.
it's too early to deal with this ****.
the sun's still waking up.
i haven't had my coffee yet.

You're just like
good decaf coffee
because I can
enjoy all of you,
every nuance and
subtlety without
the fear of
getting too wired,
too anxious from
the stimulus.
No, there's
no regret in
enjoying you.

heated blanket wonderland
bath bomb heaven
fruits and veggies all the time
go to sleep at seven

vitamins on the counter
decaf in the cabinet
yoga mat across the floor
gotta start new habits

research by day
snoring all night
gotta get this figured out
before you are in sight!

It's a small bar,
with old wooden tables
and no music:
I like to get a break sometimes
and I come here every Sunday
after my CBT sessions.
The waitress smiles.
She is Spanish too but
-it's that white mist
taking over my mind again-
I can't articulate
and I just speak English,
hoping she doesn't notice
my accent.

When she brings me
a dark decaf coffee -even if
I have asked for a decaf tea-
and I taste it,
and it tastes horrible,
I lose balance and stumble
for a moment
("you are going to fail",
and "this is all your fault",
and "just let it go, don't move,
it'll pass").

It is such a small detail
in the grand scheme of things,
but this decaf coffee, this black mist,
makes me feel that
there is something wrong with me.

I look through the window:
across the road, a student residence,
all windows and shining glass.
A girl goes up the stairs
with a blue basket in her hands;
she is probably making the laundry.
Another girl leans on the sill,
and smokes. I invent a life for them,
and it's a good life - a life to praise.

I want to go back to Uni, I think,
and for a moment I feel safe, and warm.
("Nevermind,
I'm too old, after all").

I pay for the coffee and leave.
In two hours, she'll have clean clothes,
and I don't know where I'll be
(especially on days like these,
when my mind feels heavy,
and weak).

I am thoroughly addicted to you
And I have been for years
Much like I am to coffee.
But you're analogous to the kind that's decaffeinated...
I guess I just like the taste.

A well-rehearsed dance,
the waltzing waitress tosses The Times
on table 1 as if she’ll actually finish
the Sunday crossword this morning.
She won’t.

Grease lined lights flicker on one
by one.
Like spotlights on a stage.
It’s show time.

Twostepping while taking down chairs,
she flows to the rhythm of ritual,
across a worn checkered dancefloor.
No applause.

In a dining room of Astaire’s and Rogers
she is the coffee choreographer.  
Pirouetting to the ***,
then a sidestep, quick! Quick!
Slow.

Warming up now, she stretches.
Switching on the metal machinery.
It grinds and growls as if it prefers
decaf.

Rings from rusted bells
hanging from the door chime
to the beat. This is her
cue.

I used to be espresso
Til you watered me down
Now I'm hardly anything
Anything at all

round and round
they go

counting, counting
so long....


1.
hardly time to eat
let alone a coffee-on-the-go
yet always make an effort
for two or three daily suspended-cafés
a poor soul will pop in later

no time, no time...


2.
emails by assignment
work-related crap
for this assiduous pair
very* far apart
alive and available
yet caught in
formulae and science
holding sway above chit-chat

no time for play
just punch in digits
and calculate
always counting
without accounting any real loss

computing life-time
for
success


3.
then, one day
by sheer chance
he sent her an Einstein quote:
"Not everything that counts can be counted,
and not everything that can be counted counts."

in her tiny office cubicle
she suddenly saw flowers
of all colours
blossom before her
erstwhile
unseeing eyes

she didn't understand....


4.
for one full year
they swopped more than equations:
         deep reminders of life
         such gems of worth
         paradoxical beauts
all encapsulated in
the vessel of silent words

he loved sending her quotes
      to uplift her quiet spirit
she repaid his efforts
     in heart's core poems

PC keyboard playing postman
while
heartbeats monitor
new algorithms

then, they saw it ....
they finally understood.


5.
work progressed
and presentation due
project done

although never met nor seen
       they felt growing synchrony
       and developing emotions
they battled to chase it off
as they both were
born of discreet essence

they agreed to meet in a year
at the fountain near
the oldest tree in Paris
at the
Square René-Viviani
in the fifth arrondissement

oh, so very long to wait...


6.
many weeks were spent
in daydreams
of delicious crêpes-suzettes and strawberries
with maple syrupy strips
and super-strong espresso
at bistros on
cobbled-****** squares

and munching baguette
with Emmenthal and salade
         walking in parks together
         lancing wish-pennies
         and getting portraits near the Seine
blue skies in dream-eyes
with birds in elm trees

deeply into each other


7.
then....
some shock was revealed
which would spin
e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g
so wildly out of orbit
for her

fate was playing games...
and laughing so wickedly
awarding such onerous toll

she understood....


8.
the time ticked by
mails became sporadic
he wondered why

the rendezvous time was close
to meet springtime love
and it took him
enormous trouble to get there

she didn't show


9.
he sat
waited
had a decaf
alone
despair settling upon him
like an overgrown and heavy wintercloak

but the sweet footfall he wanted
did not approach

that's when he assumed some ...truth
she didn't love him
she couldn't
not after this stand-up

he didn't understand....


10.
she had really tried to tell him
but ran so ungently
out
of time....


he understood
but only
some weeks after that day....
when postman delivered
to his door:
algorithmic package


11.
now, in her inbox
lies a Mother Teresa quote
which remains eternally
suspended:

“Yesterday is gone.
Tomorrow has not yet come.
We have only today.
Let us begin.”  


little counts now
so long....



S T, 2 July 2013

I learned that it's always ok to die, to cry, to fly, To fill the emptiness inside with stupid lies, to Hate, it's always ok cause it's your faith
It's ok to struggle with your pain
You are numb, but you are in the same way
You feel, I feel but, we bury our feelings in the same field
Encouraging  they sound, they just want you to Jump from the same height
You know it's ok to be afraid from the light
Cause you were born in dark times
It's always okay, but when will it be ok to be okay?
When will i have a good day for the whole day !
Cause I'm trying to embrace
I look all around me, and i see rehabs
Them people need a decaf
This is where you are trying to put me at
But I am going to put you at it, amma show how to be a drug addict
But this is what I’m trying to do, write my Feelings down so i can beat you
You're being unresponsible
But the funny thing is, you are who helped me grow, but I still know Im weak inside but wont let it show, won't let them stupid people know that i still have hope
And just want you to know
I always let the door closed, just for you to sketch your feelings and go.

Twenty classless, eight cigarettes. 
Fighting over the radio at the 
Inpatient Mental Health Facility, 
A broken sense of belonging, 
And a dearth of veggie burgers. 

Listless with his lists, of course. 
Angst from the Anglophile, unable to 
Put a stopper in the pouring, 
Bleeding emotions. 
Open hands 
Stained red, and brown. 
Three breaks a day, scarring his 
Broken knuckles, they paint the walls. 

Code Smoking Gun, 
Code Smoking Green, 
Manic man, loading his shoulders with his 
Father’s burden, too big for Atlas’s arms, 
Or his mother’s shunning palms. 

Three breaks a day, 
Knee, shoulder, hip. 
The coffee’s decaf 
But your calves? Well, 
They’re just sore. 

They dish the brick every 
Other evening. But living, for 
No light, only serves to lessen your 
Love of life and make you 
Light-headed.

Broken beds with rock-solid
Pillows. Three breaks a day to
Remind you of your regression. We
Want you here as much.
Why’re you whining?

Busy doctors bust the doors, thank 
God for the freedom, the 
Fluorescent finish to your odyssey. The 
Flowers and grass greet you in 
Shades of pink and green your 
Greedy eyes hadn’t seen. 
Exhale. Ghost out your grieving.

She serves, serves as. Her body-is-home-is-nation.
She does not dwell, she is dwelling.
She keeps the lights on. She fluffs the pillows.
With child, eternal. She is so very...blessed.

She is the pilot light and the pile of ash.
Savior, safegaurd, scapegoat.
She is flambéed, micro-waved,
she is pressure cooked in social sweat,
and then told that she looks “radiant.”

Idolized, pasteurized, tranquilized,
she is bottled, sealed and brought
beaming to your doorstep each morning
for a reasonable monthly fee.

Her hearth fuels all creation, destruction,
and consumption followed by decaf coffee
and polite chatter in the living room.
She is so excited to welcome you into her...home.

She is incontinent. Incontinuous.
A swollen, slacken gesture towards a self.  
She is wet clay laid again on wheel,
awaiting to welcome the coming
divine, un-declinable gift from god.

A fist to the gut, from beneath.

This time next week, I hope I will be breathing the air that I’ve been gasping for. I didn’t realize that four months could feel like four broken bones, two arms, two legs, all secretly cracked, only felt under the weight of my own invisible dread. It’s okay that I went back to being sixteen for awhile. It’s not what I wanted, what I planned for, but it’s what happened. I woke up with butterflies in my stomach and the rug ripped out from under me. My car sits in the driveway and I don’t drink coffee anymore because it makes me shake and I don’t know how to handle the shaking like I used to. I never used to worry about sharing drinks yet today I’ve washed my hands fifteen times and still don’t trust them. But it’s August and I’m twenty-three again. Or at least I will be when the key slides into the lock and I take that big gulp and pray for it to add a few years back that were taken away this summer. Everything is a circle cut in half, alternating between hollow and whole, snaking through time with hysterical pseudo endings and beginnings that are really just doors leading down a different hallway in the same ******* infinite hotel. Sometimes Wes Anderson’s, sometimes The Shining. I don’t have to listen to the yelling for the rest of my life if I don’t want to. I don’t have to be so unhappy if I don’t want to. Maybe next Saturday I will drive to the coffee shop on the corner and order something decaf and sugary and thank god that it’s over. It’s over. *******. The leaves will be turning orange soon. I almost forgot.

After my first hospitalization I began writing. I signed my name, about five times, proving to the staff and myself that I was ready to be discharged. The envelope held against my chest contained reading material, a diagnosis, and copious sheets of paper with lightly drawn animal sketches. Two weeks in a hospital, sitting at a desk by a caddy-cornered television, holding a styrofoam cup of decaf coffee, I'd sit listening to news stories while skimming through piles of xeroxed copies of coloring books. This became the precursor to many more manic months that would eventually and periodically follow.

Adolescent behavior is uncertain, but a child that runs off into a wooded enclosure to scream until collapse is significantly more uncertain. More often than not, when a child screams, an adult comes running. But when the source of the scream is just as misplaced as the child, it will only become an echo lost to the wind. When feeling lost becomes a constant what else is there to do but draw a map, or in this case, animal sketches.

Have you ever cried hysterically while laughing? Not producing tears from a belly ache caused by momentary elation, but two conflicting emotions? Imagine dowsing yourself in gasoline and running into a burning home to get a drink of water. Picture yourself flying through the air, wind caressing your face, but you can't fly, and right before you hit the ground you only just realized that you jumped. No child can prepare for this, as much as an ignorant parent can help their child clean wounds that will not scab over. Medication will become a bandage, and if the wound can never heal, the bandage will eventually be ripped off.

Art therapy before therapy was introduced was sitting on the bedroom floor, fashioning little cut-out rectangles, hole at the top, and string pulled through and wrapped around my big toe. A blanket pulled over my face, just to know what it was like to rest in peace. But you know, kids will be kids, or so they say.

Aspirations to be an artist should have been the first clue that mental illness had come and was here to stay, but the dreamers of the world ruined that. You start painting happy little trees, and two months later you're medicated in a hospital room with the faintest idea of what a tree even looks like, let alone the fact that because of these unimaginable trees you are able to breath. But you are breathing, and slowly you are able to grasp a pencil, and soon after you are able to draw these trees, these happy little trees that you not so long ago had forgotten about. And you lean your face down, nose touching the sheet of paper, and you inhale. You feel reborn. Not exactly home, because, well, you're not home, but you're comfortable in your new skin. This new skin leads the doctors to explain to you that you are manic. You nod your head, obligatory nodding, seeing as how your mind is elsewhere, many places in fact, thinking of all of the ideas you'd like to put on paper. And soon enough you're signing your name, multiple times, being discharged with your diagnosis. This is your enlightenment you're told. This is the first day of your new life.
But it's not. The cycling wasn't explained. And you failed to read the paperwork given to you that was sealed in the envelope. Instead you tore it open to procure your drawings and discarded the rest of the contents.

Those drawings lead you to college. To be the artist you know you are.
You bleed for your work. Figuratively, at first. Until you decide to find a new medium. You put yourself into your work. Red smeared all over a canvas. Curled up in a ball on the floor, losing blood quickly, eyes slowly closing. And when you wake, with tubes in your arm, and hands secured to a bed, you wonder what season it is. And what the trees look like, whether they are barren or blossoming.
Then you smile.
You smile because you remember what trees are.

If only you could find a pencil.

Vanity stole me
Vanity corrupted me
Vanity tranquilized me
Vanity disrupted me

These lines have me thinking wrong thoughts, thoughts that are of uncanny nature and vain thoughts of selfishness and unhealthy erotica.
Vanity took all the sanity away from the head, and left me alone, not even therapy can stabilize me, I rebuild my soul.
I'm out of my mind, and I'm yellin' out, vanity
...
Like a drug itself, these lines are like decaf and vanity is my addictive curse.
Addiction not to the drug, but to the feeling of such an intense self love, it eats you up inside, you take the substance to escape the sinful feeling.
Logic, and proportion, all dead.
Losing myself,
Get out of my head.
Get out of my thoughts.

I hope that your the one.
Accompanying tomorrow into today.
The time shared from one conversation to the next.
Painting vivid pictures in each other's eyes.
The moments where time stands still, sitting in each other's embrace.
Rushing to get to the phone, hoping that you'd pick up soon as it rings.
Relaying different thoughts, new things to think about.
How much I've missed you, when could we meet again. Do we require permission to do the things we keep to ourselves.
The smiles that reveal how close we keep each other in thought.
The way you look wearing my favorite color.
The start of our imagination getting the best of us.
Spending time with you, becoming my favorite habit.
The smell of my cologne staining your shirt.
The times when all you need is a look. A slight procrastination that leads into different topic of conversation.
The comfort of voices revealed in low tones.
The perfect day dream, your head laid on a pillow.
A random date somewhere out of the ordinary. Drive in movie. Arms stetched out, pretending  to fly like we're kids again.
Big head pretty girl pictured perfectly in my dreams, a pack of starburst filled with pink wrapping.
Real life situations seen as practical. Late night conversations, the need to vent.
Not a thing to do but listen to you speak your mind.
The build up of stress from work, fake friends, the perfect invitation to relate to your favorite vice.
Not everything has to be about ***. I want you for you.
Imagining you walk from one room to the next.
The spark of intellectual stimulation, aspiration, the reasons I miss you as much as I do.
The fragrant aroma of your skin lingering, an incense of thought wrapping around the senses.
Waking up finding myself still in a dream.
A kiss to wake up to. Ensuring the future.
The sun peeping through closed blinds, the wiggling of toes.
The smell of decaf. Coffee in the morning.
Fitting perfectly inside the cup of my hands, the swirl of cream, a couple tablespoons of sugar, swirling about in perfect motion.
This is how I picture us together.
All in perplexed but interesting truth.
The simplicity of it all

I spent Easter at Denny's.
It was 11 at night.
It was crowded and noisy, a baby was screaming.
There was a fly in my water, it tasted metallic.
I drank half of it.
Across from me was a table filled with adolescent boys and girls,
they were laughing at their own faces.
Next to me was a pair of kids, one of whom was freaking out.
"I can't sit here! I need to move! I don't feel safe here!"
They moved.
A pair of rugged, poorly dressed Mexicans took their place.
One sipped ten single serving creamer cups before his decaf
coffee arrived, where he added three more.
The other kept looking at me, and shaking his head.
I got the jalapeno Grand Slam.
There was nothing Grand about it.
The eggs were cold and the taste of jalapeno gave me a headache.
The whole place smelled like loneliness.
The whole place felt smelly.
I haven't been back since.

Spring morning
23 degrees
7:13 AM
heavenly breeze
a walk to work
smell of ochre trees
flowers
grass
wet dirt;
birds dancing
singing
cold sunshine
touching my skin
...
Goodmorning barista
primo decaf, please
the girl wiping the floor
smiles, good morning sir
...on the bench
eyes closed
inhale, listen , smile
weird pose
the moment freezes
a sip of coffee
plays back memories
...
beep, beep, beep
health watch:
2km 2053 steps
7:55 AM

Slowly options are being restricted
My body tells me I just can't
I must find alternatives to my habits
And I just wish that you could understand
It may seem trivial
To mourn something so little
But its not as simple as it seems
I'm angry
I'm sad
I feel helpless
As this illness takes more away from me

Why I ever lamented
your advertisement
in the NY Times
Your sickly look, it's she you took
swept off her feet
I know how it feels
Found her again on the internet
while you were desperate
In Haifa, a million miles away from English without an accent
You hunted her down

A clown you are
She, editing dime novels by candlelight
manufacturing romance for the racks of Walmart
Next to the car mags and tattoo girls are those things
women read
gotta make a living somehow

So she can fill in the spaces between your attention
with her imagination, stoked daily from corporate romantication
She can live in her bubble world and see what she wants
eternally and think it's real

So she's better for you than me
because your love isn't real, never was, never will be
Both of you from the land of fake nobility
Prep schools and Ivies that lead to jobs
in sparkly NYC lobbies and decaf mochachinozeenos
with a side of 100 calorie pastry

Before dinner at the Italian restaurant
where you can show you are loved and love

And you, with your fakery
You shallowness, can collect your trust check
And work just a little, and blow the cold coals of her love once
in awhile to get the corporate machinations again in her head
to spin a fantasy romance

I'll look for it at Walmart.

“Hello. Get me a regular, cream no sugar.”
I am the thief, the slave, and the beggar.
“No, not decaf, thanks. How much?”
I am the pillager, the terrorist, the serial killer.
“Keep the change.”
I am the human centipede and the necrophilic, cannibalistic undertaker.

“Oh hey whatcha reading? Hmm? oh, no, I just got coffee.”
I am the Roman general crossing the rubicon, proclaiming loudly that the die is cast.
“Yeah, I think it has something to do with how they roast it; just makes it better.”
I am Plato; discovering the realm of the forms and discussing all things with all people.
“Yeah, that’s true...I don’t know why I can’t make it that good at home.”
I am the ascended one; making spiritual love to the soul of the universe and seeing all things.
“Somewhat remarkable isn’t it?”

My shelf holds worlds;
  bending under multi-colored,
peeling teeth; paper raked by pupils.
  Cream clenches then spreads,
like a jogger's lung, and I say,
  This is why I normally take it black.
  
Something Steven Spielberg presented
  is strapped to my wall, reminding me of
  my childhood that has left my memory
faster than I hoped it would.
  There's a decaf tin holding mini-presidential tombstones.
I keep a picture of a woman
  I don't even know because
she looks happy and I envy that.

This room is hermetically sealing
  3 AM insomnia and daydreams.

The warmth inside me smiles
As I greet the cashier
Her face lights up
Relaxes
Appreciates
As I say
How is your day going?

The happiness inside me smiles
And a fast food clerk
Smiles back
And laughs
As we joke together
About noisy office girls
Chattering over Christmas presents

The desire in me smiles
As the barista bends over
Her shirt unbuttoned below her apron
What would you like sir? she asks
An awkward silence, as if deciding
A grandé decaf I reply
Lying, with a smile

I never thought I’d be one of those people
the ones who sit in coffee shop's on Bay
readied note pads in hand, sitting with engraved pens
bought by mothers with high expectations
of their child drawing out the new future

But here we sit, a collective sum
drawing out pathetic fallacy’s
peoples right arms
someone else's future in poetic prose
finding details in the blur
of business men rushing past
so green is a theme in these woods

Grande Decaf 2 Sugars 2 Milk
and a shot of espresso
I stayed up late finishing a politics paper
What’s keeping you up “Todd of TD Bank”
Your extravagant 2 bdrm 2.5 bth on Bloor?
Or the realization your wife cheated on you
with a younger college drop out
i don't actually care Todd
i just want to write a new **** poem

Satchels hang from wooden chairs made by moroccans who get paid bottom dollar
I sit drinking over the sweat of latin americans picking coffee beans in a summer heatwave
the music plays to mask the confusion i feel here
displaced
my sperrys muddy and unkept
i am a large flaw in this small system

i'll keep my pen gliding
finding the answers to my questions
hoping when my words meet they shake hands in agreement
they are thoughts but not entirely
thoughts are questions short lived
and often unanswered

it turns out theres no answers in my silver pen either
engraved with an edgar allen poe quote
to a poem my mom never bothered to read
she wants me to draw a future
yet doubts me in every step to achieving one