I couldn't compare
The way your light brown eyes
Light the whole totality in me
As if nothing the light couldnt touch
It's filling up the darkness in me

And stop giving me the smile
That stops the ticking clocks
No matter how i beg to be in your forever
As i couldn't resist the tempation to live and let die in your embrace

I wouldn't want to trade
Your chilly touch
With a burning ember
Or any comfort for change
Let the frostbites seal me in your arms so i can stay and please, just stay

Its the way you move
And the way you talk
That takes me on a joy ride on my mortality

This is how your beauty is immortalized
When it is no longer in existence
Or when it is forgotten
By me or by you
At the end of the day
It is not how the moonlight
touches your enthral scars
Your best beauty is
How it brings out the best of me
Within you

Pigeons shake their wings on the copper church roof
out my window across the street, a bird perched on the cross
surveys the city's blue-grey clouds. Larry Rivers
'll come at 10 AM and take my picture. I'm taking
your picture, pigeons.  I'm writing you down, Dawn.
I'm immortalizing your exhaust, Avenue A bus.
O Thought! Now you'll have to think the same thing forever!

                                                New York, June 7, 1980, 6:48 A.M.

you did nothing for me
and yet i'm still here immortalizing you
why can't i give it up?
i held on to loving you for so long
but now i'm just holding on to hating you

let me let go

all the poems i wrote you were exaggerations
to make up for the love you never gave me
i can admit that now

sure, the 'i love you's were on your lips
but your kisses tasted like, '*******'s

you never listened to me
you never listened to the songs i asked you to
you never set up your ******* voicemail

you broke up with me over text. while i was with my family. in utah. having panic attacks every day. telling you about them. see above: you never listened to me.

i'm sick. sick of you. sick of this.
you're over it. my mind is over it. why isn't my heart?

i'm done coming up with metaphors for you
for how much you took and never gave
i'm done making excuses for you, and taking the blame
and i'm not going to do the 'just friends' thing with you
if you're going to tell our friends to cut me off
and smile at me like nothing happened
smile like two years took nothing from you

and i guess they didn't

There was once a rich and powerful man, known throughout the globe
for his accomplishments, for his wealth, for his power and his vision
He built his empire from sand and dust, with blood and bone

One day he desired to become immortalized in a fine painting

He wanted it to be the finest painting ever conceived -- painted by the hand of a god
He wanted people to look upon the work with tears in their eyes, staring at the beauty
that they beheld

He scoured the nation, looking for the artist that would create his masterpiece
day after day, lines formed at his estate as he took each one in
and sampled their artwork, and their sketches.

Weeks passed

None impressed him.  He became distraught

"Is there no man in this world who can possibly create the wonder that I desire?  Is there no man who can immortalize me in such a way that words could not describe the perfection?"

A voice crackled behind him.

"Well...no MAN can.  I, however, am not a man"

He turned to see a short creature behind him.  It was short with blue skin and orange eyes.  It's sharp teeth gleened as it smiled.

"What on earth are you?  Why are you here?"
"What I am is no matter, though you can call me Velnard. What I'm here to do is paint you"

The man frowned

"What is your cost?"

"I only ask that you never leave the painting that I've created"
"I would never leave it anywhere!  If it's as wonderful as I hope it to be, it would stay with me for eternity!"

Velnard smiled.

"Then we have an agreement!"
The man smiled and extended his hand, which was grasped firmly by a claw

Suddenly, a large canvas was hanging from the ceiling

The man looked around

"Where would you like me to stand?  Have you no paint?"
"Ah!  You can just stand there for a moment.  The paint will be ready shortly"

The man stood, regarding the small creature.  His hand was itching after shaking on the deal.  Minutes passed.  Neither party moved.  The man became impatient.

"Are you going to start?  I have other things to attend to today."
"I think you'll find that this is more important"
"Well then get to it already!"
"I already have"
"You've done nothing the entire time we've stood here!"
"No, the paint is nearly ready"

The man had lost his patience.  "This is ridiculous", he spat, as he derisively flicked his hand at the creature, motioning him to begone.  He heard a splatter on the floor and looked down.  On the ground, a foot or so in front of him was a droplet of pinkish-brown paint.  He looked around for the source, to no avail.  He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he looked at the creature.

"What are you playing at, Velnard?"

Only then did he notice something was odd.

His chin felt wet.  He pulled his handkerchief and wiped it off and when he looked down, the white cloth was covered in a similar pigment as what was on the floor.  He looked at his hand to see it was covered in paint.

"What trickery is this!?"

He wiped it away, only to find more.  He frantically wiped more to see the pinkish tint turn to red.

Velnard piped in

"It would do you well to stop that.  That's blood.  Well, actually it's paint...but it was blood."

The man was livid.  "What have you done to me!?"

"I'm painting" was the curt, rather emotionless response.

The man felt the oozing moving up his arm and to his chest and looked down to see his clothes starting to drip, no longer as fine cloth.  He lifted his leg, and it made a sickening sound as it peeled from the ground, leaving a black imprint on the ground.  The rest of his body was beginning to look like the Sagrada Familia.

He tried to yell, but his teeth and tongue were becoming more malleable by the second.

"WHAT HARVE YRU DORNE TER MEER"

"I'm immortalizing you, my dear friend!  You're just about ready!"

"THRSRSNORTWHRTIWRNTD"

Velnard cackled.  "Perhaps not what you wanted, but what you agreed to.  One should always read the contract before shaking hands with a strange creature."

The man started to cry, but his tears only served to smudge his eyeballs, making it difficult to see.

"Oh dear, you're going to smear your colors if you keep that up.  Anyway, we're at the moment of truth!  The canvas is ready"

The man struggled to stay upright as his knees slowly were softening.  His breathing became ragged as his insides started melting.

"You have a choice, my friend.  You can either stand here and melt into a puddle of you-colored paint, or you can use the last of your strength and jump into my canvas.  You will be immortalized and people will gaze upon your beauty and cry tears of joy.  Is that not what you wanted?"

The man's mouth was drooping as if he had heard some rather shocking news, his body now looked like a failed attempt at pottery.  He knew another minute and he wouldn't be able to move the few feet to the canvas.

"Tick tock" chimed Velnard

The man, in despair, willed his goopy muscles to make one more movement.  He dove towards the canvas, splattering himself across it.  A giant human-shaped splotch mark was all that was left.  The room became quiet.

Velnard walked up to the canvas and touched it.  The ink shifted and splayed until it became the man.  

He was glorious.  He was immortal.

Just as he was promised.

What happens when an artist falls in love with another artist?

She felt as if she wasn’t in love with another artist, but rather, a form of art. He was the kind of art that made artists think that their brains were the ones which conceived the idea of his existence. He was the type of art that made artists pray that their hands were the ones which molded and could touch his face. He was the category of art that made artists wish that their hearts were the ones which loved and could exhibit him to the world. He was the subject of art that made artists realize that their eyes followed him wherever he went.

It was nearing the year-end cold season. Tree leaves were turning a rusty color, ready to peel themselves off from the branches and fall, as the season suggests. This was her favorite time of the year: her being able to wear her autumnal wardrobe collection and her feelings relating to the descending movement of leaves. It was fall. And fall she did as well, for the boy who took up the featured gallery space in her mind of an art museum.

On one of the stone benches across the building of their college, she positioned herself, plugged in her ear buds, pressed play and closed her eyes. The playlist, dedicated to the boy who was a year younger than her, amplified the emotions she felt for him once again.

No, it isn’t strange to like one who’s younger than you, she thought. He is, after all, still towering at least nine inches over me. Crazy how the height of a person could make you tremble yet feel secure, and not to mention, could make them seem older.

He didn’t give the impression of an athlete, especially those fond of outdoors sports with sun exposure. He was pale with a soft glow, much like the first rays of the early morning sun around the time first period starts. He looked fragile with his thin stature. At least that was how her eyes saw him. To her, he was like a prized antique porcelain from the Orient—-a tall, thin, pale jar that held volumes of substance.

Her eyelids snapped open. Like a jar? How absurd, I can’t believe I just compared my crush to a jar, a nonliving object-

Her thoughtful monologue evaporated as soon as it condensed, for there he was, exiting the building. Since she sat directly across the entrance, it seemed as if he was walking over to her.

He was alone. This was her chance. She had pondered on this moment and had planned it out for months. After a bin of crumpled papers, two used pens and a tired brain and heart, she was done with writing her note and poem for him. The papers lay inside her bag, fragile and pale as the person she wrote to and for, yet to be exposed to the outside world.

Letting her eyes float over him, her senses flooded her being as her mind began to swim in the depths of what-if’s and maybe’s. She knew she was as frozen as arctic waters, and she hoped it was the breeze that made her shiver and not his gaze as he scanned his surroundings—her included. She hoped she wasn’t too obvious, at the same time, she hoped he wasn’t too oblivious.

But she could never tell if he was looking at her then. A sun ray peeked out from between the tree branches above and settled on his face, making his eyes disappear almost altogether, like the waning crescent from her favorite moon phases. He raised a long, bony hand to block the glare and soon, he was of her arm’s reach in search of a place to sit.

As much as she wanted him beside her, she didn’t want him beside her in that way. She didn’t want him to sit next to her just because there was space beside her. And she didn’t care if she was being too picky about the scenario. If something is meant to be, it will happen; one way or another.

After seeing her place her bag next to her on the bench (which took up the space he wanted to sit on), he averted his narrowed gaze to the crowded pavilions right behind her and moved on.

Was it a mistake? Was this the chance I missed? Was I supposed to let him sit with me and talk to me? The sudden invasion of such assumptions made her head spin at the reckless act. Now he probably thinks I’m selfish. He might even think I’m reserving the space for a friend. He might even think I’m waiting for my boyfriend, which I don’t have at all. Unless…

This was no time to think up a joke about adopting him as her boyfriend, though; she held the unspoken rule of “paycheck before boyfriend” close to her heart. Soon enough her thoughts settled as he took off his red backpack and sat on the newly vacated stone bench a few meters beside hers.

There it was again: the chance that returned for the second time because it pitied her heart that yearned to get close to his. And there was no denying that she did want to go up to him and introduce herself.

To any passing stranger, both of them seemed to be waiting for someone; perhaps, to be even waiting for each other without them realizing it.

Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t do this. Not right now, not yet, maybe not ever. She didn’t want to disrupt that peaceful life of his. He was the quiet type, and she didn’t want to embarrass herself in case she wouldn’t shut up once she said hello.

Writing in her journal during these unsteady moments made her hands calmer and more focused. Thus did fresh black ink for the boy blossom on a pristine page that very instant. Additionally, because her mind was in turmoil, she penned in expounded bullet forms.

- I want to know him. A lot. I want to know him because I like him.
I like him because I want to know him. I like him. A lot.
- Suddenly, school at 7am doesn’t seem so bad after all.
- He is wearing his navy blue, I suppose knit, pullover. It makes his shoulders wider and makes him taller. He gingerly took his phone out of his pocket, with those careful hands of his. I can imagine him holding my heart the same way. But my heart is the heart of a stranger, so would he be as gentle? I doubt so.
- I’m wearing my navy blue crochet pullover. This is too much of a coincidence. He pulls the navy blue top look off better than I can/do.
- A face like his belongs somewhere else but it seems as if his heart belongs here.
- I don’t care if people think he’s all I have on my mind this very moment. I want to write about him. They might think my writing is useless because it may seem like I’m immortalizing him. But they don’t realize that I write to express my feelings. Yes, my feelings for him will be magnified this way. Yes, my feelings for him will overwhelm me, the more I write about him. Then, before anyone knows it, I have already stopped thinking and writing about him. But for now, I am flooding my head with him. Because one day I know I won’t be able to contain another drop of him. I am flooding my head with him, only to drain him out of my heart in the end.
- I hope he doesn’t know that what I write and listen to have fragments of him. And I dedicate Taylor Swift’s old song Stay Beautiful to him because he deserves it.
- Superficial as my admiration of him may seem to be, I wish we could be friends (?!?) So I can admire him for real. And maybe get him his favorite snack on his birthday without the awkwardness of strangers.
- Wow. He’s looking in my directio-

No way. Is he looking at me? She held her breath again and casted so much of a side glance. It can’t possibly be me; he must have been looking at other captivating girls around me anyway.

The vibration of her cellphone made her tear her eyes away from him; she received a message from a friend whom she was to have lunch with.

Almost there, where are you?

His movement from her peripherals pulled her back to his presence again. He’s packing up? Already? But he just got here a few minutes ago, as much as I want to leave, I want him to stay… if that even makes sense…

He picked up his bag and stood up to walk over to her bench. One step, then two. His long strides were getting to her faster than she thought.

It was too soon. She felt it was still too early. It wasn’t time to get to know him.

Meet me at the carpark, she replied to her friend.

He was making his way to her with his impassive expression thanks to those eastern Asian eyes. Those same, tired eyes which caught her very own two years ago.

In the following seconds she was making her way past him. She held her head high and her shoulders back. He froze in place, confused if she made a mistake in missing him or if it was his mistake into thinking of her wanting to speak to him.

Today was not the day. Then and there she decided she wouldn’t talk to him, give him her note and poem, nor her attention and time. She didn’t even think of the imaginable future, which was unusual of her, if she would give him her number or even her heart in the time to come. One step, then two, she counted; I am walking away from you.

This was as far as she could get close and say hello to him—a walk-by and a silent goodbye.

I'm sleepless in your soothing arms tonight
Immortalizing this moment as I write;

I'm not sure
not quite
but I'll admit
It feels right

I take a sip of black coffee
It sits resting in the ceramic mug next to this typing space
The liquid rushes down my throat
This fifth cup of the hour brings joy
Is it a crutch, for I miss my usual companions of mind expansion?
Or is it a common cultural ritual of casual importance?
Is it a tool to fuel the fire of prolific inspired thoughts?
Or is it an illusion of harmful dedication to fulfill the need to write?
I feel it helps,
Though, naturally, it is not necessary.
Just as wine to wet the palate of flow,
Or an herbal cigarette to get the picture on the roll, the scroll, the holy goal
It simply is a habit - an extra step to the top floor of Creation.
I've been in the fields - the plantations
I've picked the coffee bean with my own hands for hours upon hours on end,
Leaving nothing but sticky hands and a limp paycheck to help me continue on my way.
Where am I headed?
Only the sky knows the answer to that question.
I try my very best to listen to its whispers
And imitate its words with action
I try and follow the orders of the divine to the best of my ability
But I am human,
And with that fact, I am hindered by natural law
And so I sit quietly on this lazy sunshine afternoon, sipping my black coffee
Recalling the days of sticky hands and limp paychecks in the humid fields of fate
And laugh at the craziness of my existence.
When I was born, did I think that I'd be here today, recalling such things
And forever immortalizing them in word and symbol?
I can't recall.
Perhaps I did , but perhaps I didn't.
They say that you choose your family before your come into this world.
But did they also say that you’d pick your face and desires?
Did they say that you’d be exactly who you wanted to be?
I’m not too sure who “they” are, but I don’t really care
As I poured the coffee into this mug,
I also choose what I want to do, who I want to be, and just how I shall love the world
As a human, we’re born free
The mind creates whatever it wants to base its perspective on reality off of.
The grounding
The lock of gravity to keep us from floating away
Even when you’ve had a drop or two of ol’ Sandoz, you’re still kept from flying from the world
Words can fly, though
At least spoken word.
The words carry a vibration, a soundwave, which continue throughout the cosmos for eternity,
Unless eternity doesn’t exist in this universe,
In which case, they shall bounce off the walls of Space and Time and ricochet back to their source
Oh holy game of Sound Tennis
Free us from thinking you don’t exist
When the game is being played, its easy to forget that its just a game
It is only a game
Sitting in the sunshine of afternoon daze,
Sipping away at coffee and dreams
Life seems more like a blessing of bizarre circumstance and genuine interest in formful comfort
As opposed to a game with no more of a meaning than to finish it and try win in the meantime
Something seems fishy
And it isn’t the cat or the caffeine
Its the bare existence of existence
Perhaps I’m dancing around in circles, getting nowhere
But is there actually anywhere to go?
Sure, I’d love to be on the beach in ninety degree weather in the Cayman Islands rather than the cold of This northeastern mountain range of poor old troubled Amerika
But such is life
Perhaps one day I’ll be back on the beaches, dreaming easy of nothing, for the dream has already been Fulfilled, oh what a dream
With a farm up the hill from the coast
With fresh gardens and fruit trees and cannabis and coconuts and a shack of humble gratitude
With rivers and fish and goats and chickens
With sunshine and warmth and light and forever blue skies
With a woman of love and peace and art and intellect and wisdom and smiles
With the quaint knowledge that everything is always alright, regardless of circumstance
With the security of not needing security
With the freedom to laugh without pausing out of courtesy to not wake the sleeping
With the ghastly beauty of not waiting in line to ride a roller-coaster, for the mind is more than enough
With twists and turns and self-inflicted burns
With the crazy catch of tomorrow while still being here today
With nothing less than paradise awaiting the caress of self’s heart
And the holy notion that there’s something even greater on the other side of this life
Om, tranquil being
Pour more coffee, must stay awake - no sleep in days
No sleep in weeks
How do those speedy speedsters do it?
I wouldn’t even want to try
I enjoy my dimethyltriptamine inspired voyages across unforeseen holographic landscapes of the Subconscious
Oh, I’m conscious of that
I wonder if it’d be possible to bring the totality of the subconscious mind to full conscious awareness
I suppose it wouldn’t be the subconscious anymore
And thus there would be no way to measure if it worked or not
I think it’s already working
Poetry
Yep, it’s working,
At one-twenty-eight a.m. It’s working. From noon to night. Life is still life, and it’s all alright.

If I'm being honest
I'm tired of being a poet.
I'm tired of findig meaning in everything from the lines of the sky to the cracks in the side walk
I'm tired of using extended metaphors to explain how overwhelmed or angry or sad I am 
I'm tired of immortalizing the people I love or hate in half assed lines of poetry
For once I would like a good day just to be a good day or a bad day just to be a bad day
A landscape to hold no higher meaning than to magnify the glory of existence
For the people I know to hold no cosmic significance in the fabric of time
I would like to sit and be quiet
To write and be at peace
For the storm to pass over
And to find some relief
This is not a game for me this is how I breathe and I am tired of having to hold meaning in every crack and every crevice
My poetic nature has become a menice in my tired skin
I'm tired of letting the light in
But this isn't something you quit
This is something you breathe
This is something you are
This is something you need
Even if it doesn't make sense all the time
This is the one true thing I know that's mine
My sense of rhythm and my sense of rhyme
And it isn't easy all the time
Because these days life moves faster than I've even known
Faster than I can process what I've been shown
These days it's easy to feel the weight of all of my time spent alone
My mind isn't home
I'm chilled to the bone
These days I'm tired of being tired and tired of writing about how tired I am
Like I'm six feet under but I'm not yet dead
Using poetic devices to say what's already been said
I'm tired of playing this game
Imortalizing name after name
I still feel the same
Even though I still keep writing
So what I'm trying to say is that I need poetry like I need water but sometimes if you drink too fast or you drink too deep you feel like you're drowning
Out to sea in familiar surroundings
It's astounding how tiring being a poet can be.

My mother orders a smaller size
for my leotard so I ***** in the gym
bathroom, in the last stall.
Later, I put on the outfit: small, shiny,
with cutouts for a fashion statement,
but I draw red circles around those patches
of flesh--mistakes to fix.

Every day in the car, Mom gives me a lunch
she packed: two rice cakes, peanut butter measured
to exactly one tablespoon, carrots and ranch dip.
Accepting her boundaries seems weak, so I never
eat at all, my only spot of control set against
the nightmare of a needle spinning around
numbers in a sickening game of roulette.

She kneels in front of the stage during
all eight routines that thinned me into a figure
worthy of her photos, immortalizing
me with vague curves, a slim face replacing
pink round cheeks--
but that was enough for my mom
because I know she sets the scale
five pounds above zero.
Inches disappeared, until that needle,
sharp like her eyes, aligned
with the big 85, causing mine to
open in a room with blank walls
and sterile-smelling sheets, the place
of rest.

i have no tragic epic to force out of my palms for you
i gave you a blank page and
you chose not to be a part of my narrative
i will spend the rest of my life trying not to blame myself
for my bad editing skills
and red pen i miss you marks
maybe these letters would feel more natural
if my writing was neater,
my words were easier to read
or they sounded nicer falling off of my tongue

i write and recall and revise
and try to come up with a story about
how i could’ve made you stay
if i gave you a pencil
and some paper
would you put me out of my sonnet-style misery,
take the blame out of my cramping hands
and tell me there was nothing we could’ve done?
let me stop searching for words that are
synonymous to the way you looked at me when
i told you 
i loved you for the first time
take these cliches off of my fingertips
let the writer in me learn to
grieve its muse
instead of immortalizing the pain of loss 
and tell me
we never even had a chance

I’m watching you from the top, as I’m
Sitting down on the floor, where I
Did most of my talks, in the
Past turbulent months, I think

From the way you stretch, and the
Funny way you flinch, to the
Way you act after meeting
New friends – they call it creeping

I’m immortalizing you, as I’m
Writing all about you, while I
Sit way across the room, but I
Can’t help but look, though rue

Oh, all our idiosyncrasies, though I
let mine fuel my eloquence, though I
Don’t know you super well, but I
Think that you might be the same
As me like the
caterpillars in my garden, who are
urging to thrive and bloom

I write about you, till the
Evening sun has to cut through, and I
Can’t catch a clue, I can’t see anymore
As the
Sun dies to let the
Moon breathe
In the night

there's frost growing from my fingertips like prickling moss and i can feel it stinging on my lips, the heat of my body lacks aggression, as do I, and so the cold things grow, immortalizing me in their crystalline life.

a name engraved in soft grey rock
immortalizing the remaining award
the door is shut, the key is gone
the thing inside, safely forever stored
once a grand and favorite treasure
it outgrew its use once adored
only a mistaken sense of memory
makes it the stone's favored ward
it is nothing but misplaced hope
that one day it will be restored
but it is simply barren ground
that is lost without its lord

I tried
With all my heart
To weave together
A poem worthy of
The life of which
You have happily lived.

But I failed
For I do believe
There is not one
Living poet today capable
Of immortalizing such vibrancy
Within permanent black ink.

-ARI

Each time I say it,
She brushes off my seriousness
With a careless laugh,
But I swear her body
Emanates this enchanting waft
That comes from no other.
It's exclusive, it's divine,
The language of her apocrines,
That's mine,
Just mine to understand.
And if I could, I'd take all that fragrance
In my bare hands,
And securely I'd preserve it,
Immortalizing in my possession,
Her- in all her glory
Her- in all her heat.

Every once in a while, it becomes clear to me
that I've been walking a mile with a horse by my side.  
A symbolic journey, with my pockets filled with Trojans.
Perhaps prepared to protect myself and take risks in
my love life.

At times, I might have felt confident and ready for excitement
a couple of nights before, attempting to shake things up
and still maintain the stability of my love affairs.
A delicate balance, like walking a tightrope between
passion and commitment.

There is a cause for concern underlying my seemingly
carefree facade; pretending to own my emotions and
express them through words, yet I owe so much to truly
convey how I feel.
It leaves me quietly standing with a muted passion, akin
to a jacaranda tree with its purple blossoms. I am trying to
defy time itself, hoping that my thoughts won't easily be
blown away like your hair caught in the wind.

It's not in my nature to capture every moment with a camera, constantly immortalizing you in photographs. There's an underlying insecurity within me, wondering if any of those snapshots would truly capture the essence of our connection. Yet, deep down, I yearn for everything to work out in the end. Even if we may appear to have vacancy eyes, who's to say that we'll see it all working out until the very end?

Perhaps, when I say "I love you," it feels easier when I say it
as if I'm expressing my feelings to a dear friend.
When I profess to "always protect you," it is reminiscent of
how I would watch over a little sister, ensuring their safety
and well-being.
When I claim "I can't live without you," I compare you to my
bed, a place where I find comfort and solace. In this comparison, I acknowledge that if I were to lose you, there would always be another place for me to rest my heart.

Despite my attempts at navigating love and relationships,
I find myself entangled in my own mess. It's a mess that I continue to explore, experimenting with different connections and learning more about myself through my interactions with others, particularly women.

Do you think
I am immortalizing you too much?
Do you want to rest in peace?
My hands want to rest as well
But the heart never stops.
To me, the one grieving,
Nothing can ever replace you.
Not another person,
nor your favorite song.
Not a picture nor a place.
Not your sweater
nor your favorite weather.
Neither your favorite book with
the highlights of your favorite quotes,
nor the words
I speak of you.
Not even more time,
nor the memory of you.

we left early
couldn't've been half-past
6 o'clock in the morning
the dawn gray left dew-dripped
melancholy on the foggy front lawn
beyond your mother's portable home
we drove down I-4 singing Anberlin's "A
Day Late" and took the back route down
A1A to the secret place where

the waves whispered languid lullabies
as heat rays traced your skin and harmonized
with the ancient anthems of the Atlantic
as it hummed its gentle cadences

beams of light filtered through sandy
tresses on that solitary beach in the
middle of April
lens flares immortalizing sly grins in ways
i thought only celluloid could deliver
yet you were corporeal and immediate
a fragment of an inch from me

film clumped in loose spools around us
wasted shots used and then discarded
we lay on our sides
exchanging joy in silence
and mirth in sideward glances

barefoot along the boardwalk
beneath the shadows of mangroves
trespassing in the backyards of the bourgeoisie
feet kicking toes dipping minnows nibbling
in the brackish Indian River

J.B.'s Fish Camp was slow
that time of year
we gave manatees fresh water
watched the dolphins' distant dance as
i debated whether or not  
i should try to hold your hand

you drank lukewarm beer as our star
sank over your sunburnt shoulders
and a blues musician played
somber tunes of lust and loss that
carried us away as we ate coconut shrimp
and the breeze blew in from the bay

you wore a baseball cap with
the Atlanta Braves' crimson A and
sported a matching jersey of your
little league softball team and though i may
not quite remember every little thing you said i
can't shake the way you caught
my eye and blushed before turning your head

boats drifted past and
the sun tucked itself to sleep
and you made me promise
to let you read every ****** poem i'd ever
breathe into existence

you said you'd value them more than gold
prize them always cherish the memories
even when you grew older but
the sun had already set
its absence left a chill in my bones

I love how this town empties out at night.
How the buildings take on a life of their own.
With all the people gone they can
Breathe
And finally so can I.
Ironically
I feel a lot less lonely when I'm alone.

I wonder if someday I'll turn to stone,
Like Lot's wife turned to  a pillar of salt.
Only, I imagine it would be a bit less dramatic.
More like falling asleep and becoming part of a park bench.
In any case, I think I'd like that.

I wonder why I write these things
And who I am writing to
Immortalizing my thoughts here
In black ink on the back of a used
Envelope.
I guess I hope someone will find it someday.
I just wish I had something more profound to say than

That tree had blossoms on it last week
And now they've disappeared.

One, two, three, persist.

Spin, spin, spin, retain;

Under our spotlight of Exception,

A standstill of colors occurred-

So vivid, it was almost blinding.



Amidst the hollowness

Seeped a shadow,

Reaching out to every

Memory locked away.



Familiar Stranger.



Tracing lines of comfort,

Running down heaven,

Dropping weight on unknown territory;

An interminable candle is lit.



A leap of faith.



A thread connected two points-

One side smiled, the other feared;

Two paths were walked on-

Only to become the beauty they call Sunset,

Or  the terror they call Tremor.



Collision, destruction.



Fear enveloping, merging into darkness;

Silent night screaming, absorbing the emptiness;

Finding tranquility in expression

And freedom in escapade.



The thread is broken.



Search for ignition,

The stars have only just begun to shine;

Search for boundlessness

Sedating every boiling point,

Aggravating every sparkle,

Immortalizing intervals.



Transience is defeated.

I am used to everything being difficult. For quite a while, I have accepted that I am not like others who find it easy to find love here and there. The people that I had fallen for were so good, so electrifying, but never quite right for me. Still, falling under difficult circumstances was the only thing I knew; winning the affection and approval of someone who does not love you back felt like the only way to go.

That is why when you came into my world, it felt like a beautiful, terrifying surprise.

For the first time in a long time, there are no worries and fears. At least, there are no real fears. For the first time, I did not enter someone's life with fears of being uninvited. You reached out for me, arms stretched wide and open I was beginning to wonder if they were arms or gates to the home I had never known before. For the first time, I do not want to speak in the language of flowers filled with poetry; I am scared that immortalizing you in exaggerated love sonnets would make you only a figment of my imagination. Your laughter and jokes and the way you wrap me in your warmth are far better than any poetry I have ever read; I do not need them anymore because for the first time, what I am experiencing is real.

You are not making me fall in love with you. Falling means landing on the cold ground, bruises and wounds all over me. Instead, I feel like I am walking into you, perhaps even crawling, in a slow and careful but steady motion. You do not make me feel like I am flying; I am standing on solid ground with my heart flying into the skies and my head blissfully resting on your shoulder. You make me happy, far happier than I thought I could be, but I do not feel like I would lose myself without you.

You found me and for the first time, I am not falling. I am walking.

Mark Kozelek sang about it for his first album as Sun Kil Moon, to remind himself of lost loves.

So did Modest Mouse, probably in a methed-out spark of inspiration.

And Neil Young, immortalizing Kent State.

And Damien Jurado, going back to love.

What is the draw for Ohio? Is it the landscape? The memories? The people?

A couple of friends of mine moved there not long after getting married.

She is from Cincinatti, he's from Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

Oh, Ohio! Maybe one day I'll visit you to try to understand your lure
Why so many musicians write about you

But I'll have to come in the late spring or summer, otherwise
Your winters will be a ***** for this Louisiana boy.

It is safe to say you have unraveled
In a way some may view as cumbersome
I can only find brilliance
for what remains is just short of divine (carefree?)

As your head touches down
the moonlight plays its infamous part
Of bathing the admired in a immortalizing glow
while the nights symphony lulls  

Anxiousness no longer lingers your brow
And your hands lay luxuriously still
While dreams take your eyes
to what I hope to be safer shores
than those I know you to have already traveled

rummaging through the ruins
of the landfill, his sole fellow explorer
a cur, content when his snout sniffed mold
blissful when he discovered a can

his aspirations grander than the canine,
he hoped to find artifacts of the ancients,
and digging deep he did, an Apple, one of Job's
first magical machines, the monitor
dull but without a solitary crack

then a turntable, its diamond stylus
long turned to nub, veneer half peeled
by the blade of time--its final symphony spun
eons ago, or at least two dozen years

finally a Dr. Pepper sign, an old as time,
its 10, 2 faint but still there, its 4 long gone
the masterpiece's artist never lamenting
its weathered fate: he too had his time
his labors filling his pockets, pleasing
his eyes, and immortalizing him
in the open bowels of the earth

I feel trapped inside
My own
Existence,
Totally unable to escape it
Unless by doing the unthinkable.

I take a package of
Sticky notes to work
And steal a few precious
Heartbeats to commit my thoughts
To paper,
Forever immortalizing them.
These notes decorate my fridge,
Monuments that will long outlive me,
Reminders of those heartbeats
Where, during the pumping of my blood,
I was actually alive.

I clean up everyone
Else's messes
And thus I make my living,
But can it really be called that?
A living?

Day begins.
Breathe in.
I make the coffee, and attempt
To open my eyes.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Off to work. To the broom
And the dustpan
And the beats of my heart
I will never get back.
Music helps, but it's not immortal.
Even the best of playlists gather dust.
My job is important, they say.
I don't believe them.
Maybe if I could just see what difference it makes,
Who my work impacts,
That there is proof that I am doing something right
Other than an empty pat on the back
And an obligatory paycheck,
Maybe then, it would be worth it.
Maybe it wouldn't **** away my soul
Like it does.
But maybes don't pay the rent,
And they certainly don't replenish my soul.

Only words make me alive.
But it is too late for that.
I was born with a gift
I'll never be able to use,
A sanity I'll never be able to reclaim.
I was born a few centuries too late.
Or maybe I was born with a soul
In a soulless world.
Where has life gone?
How can anyone live like this?
How can they exist
Rather than actually live?

Why am I here?
I can work such magic,
But there's never anyone to see.
So what does that
Leave me with?
A head and a heart full of
Words and a world that has
No place
For them.

There's nothing that makes me quite so insecure as
a photo
immortalizing a moment's imperfection-
the one curl bumping out of place, a shirt that emphasizes all the wrong places,
under-dressed, over-done-
posed smiles with dead eyes
and none of the character charms I rely on to make me
pretty

That girl in the picture isn't me
All that's left in a photo is a memory of the truth

I want to take you to an art museum,
but I'll spend the entire time looking
at you because you'll be the most
breathtaking thing in the room.

Once we're there I'll try and memorize
every curve and every line of your face
as if I were a sculptor and I was assigned
the lofty task of immortalizing your beauty.

I'll come home and dream about you-
your profile engrained into my memory,
and the image of your smile soft
and sweet enough to banish my nightmares.

I want to take you to an art museum,
and I want to hold your hand the whole time,
feeling your reaction to each piece before us
and letting it resonate within me.

Pick a painting that intrigues you and
we'll stand in front of it; I want to know
what about this art compels you
so that I may learn to do the same.  

We'll stand quietly, together, side by side,
because this is a space where we can
share our silence- I want to be guided
only by the pull of your hands and eyes.

I want to take you to an art museum
because once we walk outside together,
I'll have fallen in love with you
and what more could I possibly want?

last week a man took my picture,
his grin stretched ear to ear.
i glanced over and mirrored with
a smile like cheshire cats,
and he took another.
i wonder what brought him
to our table,
to me.

last week a man drew my picture,
his mouth set rigid in focus.
i noticed his anonymous glances
but i carried on my way,
not knowing who the girl his pen
was putting on paper was.
it wasn't until i passed
and they told me our bangs
were the same and she
wore glasses like mine
that i recognized her.
me.

there's something about strangers
anonymously immortalizing you
in art that makes you realize
how empty your eyes are.

Breathe, a poem for a newborn love
Jessika Malo Valentine

Breathe so I can breathe

For the wind that is stifled by a cloud

Breathe for the sun that has been bitten by the moon

Breathe for the amnesic river

For the tree that in its growth grows rather apart



Breathe for the dry words on my mouth

The futility of the morning dew on my cheeks, sometimes I rather not call them tears



Breathe for the ribs that cannot stop heartache

But hold the shattered pieces in patience



Breathe for the smiles that catch traveling dandelions and falling stars

Then print them on a lover’s wanton lips, immortalizing them



Breathe young love

Breathe, for nobody likes a stillborn…

Everyone is someone
In some way, shape, or form.
And everyone has been through hell
Or survived a storm.
Some made it out better than others.
Some didn't make it out at all.
Some were thanked for their bravery
By immortalizing their names on walls
But even if their names
Aren't on display for the world to see,
Everyone has someone
live in their hearts.
Even you and me.

two pairs six works
input, beginning
output, ends of things
subject: to the seventh
the beginnings again
concept of the egregores
hundreds of thousands
emerging independently
united but seperately
casting jungian archetypes
the most beautiful pottery
a Hyperborean hero
the Lord of Darkness
immortalizing himself
again but with the face
of absolute Man and Woman
gone away already
Together with Another
who was waiting
at the edge of time
the minds of gestalt
wonders above,

“Truly, how can you, oh thoughtful reader, look at the shadows on the wall and see anything other than the script of a movie unfolding before your eyes?”

I see only absence in his eyes
where love should be

I wonder sometimes
if it would have hurt more
had I grown up
immortalizing him in memories and stories
knowing that had he been there
he would have loved his baby girl
truly and deeply
or if watching him
fail to love me
day after day
year after year
is as painful as death

Why is it that love and suffering makes poets of us all?

When suffering,
we are told to get rid of what makes us feel so horrid
and we do,
but hold onto the memory for its sheer poetic beauty

And love?
Love *****.
It's a whirlwind of emotions that you can't exactly pinpoint
and even though I am guilty as well,
I have yet to understand why we would want to subject ourselves to the pain of writing it all down,
of immortalizing it.

Why is that love and suffering makes poets of us all?