When the lights stop flashing, my countenance sinks. I feel an ebbing life wisp through the air, ruffling my mind. Someone's granddad just died.
When the lights stop flashing, I sigh as I drive. I'm heading somewhere important, but my presence lags behind. Someone's wife just died.
When the lights stop flashing, I hear my mom's voice. Her sensitive lilting irritates my conscience, and I rage it away. Someone's mother just died.
When the lights stop flashing, I think of my youth. I wonder when it left and adulthood came. Someone's child just died.
When the lights stop flashing, a smile tugs at my cheek. A profane contentment warms me within, and I feel gratitude. I am very much alive.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Iceberg
On the other side of the mirror is an iceberg where backward souls have come to roost. The ocean streaks her fingers across its belly every chance she sees, catching the tireless beneath her fingernails and scraping them down to her palpitating chest.
Resignation is in their stranded hearts as they indifferently loiter, their idle fingers aimlessly doodling in the sun-burnt snows, and no cry of fear or remorse escapes their thickened throats.
It is their accusing eyes that shiver back at you from the icy glass as the freezing waters fill their lungs and stain their onion skins blue. It is their blurry faces that haunt your murky reflections and disturb your jealous admiration.
The iceberg is slowly melting under the sun's reflection. The freezing waters have begun to rise--are now flooding through the mirror, urgent and crystalline. The ocean throws her whole weight behind the supreme flow.
She carries forgotten bodies through with her, littering living rooms, an undignified intrusion. They float on the currents, bleached debris, and are pitched to the floor like frozen lumber where they infect the carpets and stain the furniture.
Resignation is in their stranded hearts as they indifferently loiter, their idle fingers aimlessly doodling in the sun-burnt snows, and no cry of fear or remorse escapes their thickened throats.
It is their accusing eyes that shiver back at you from the icy glass as the freezing waters fill their lungs and stain their onion skins blue. It is their blurry faces that haunt your murky reflections and disturb your jealous admiration.
The iceberg is slowly melting under the sun's reflection. The freezing waters have begun to rise--are now flooding through the mirror, urgent and crystalline. The ocean throws her whole weight behind the supreme flow.
She carries forgotten bodies through with her, littering living rooms, an undignified intrusion. They float on the currents, bleached debris, and are pitched to the floor like frozen lumber where they infect the carpets and stain the furniture.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Gray Skies
I love the gray shroud that buries the head and demands nothing. Sunny days boss one around like a perky supervisor. You can't meet its eye because it blinds. It hands you a schedule with a million tasks on it. And I always forget to clock in.
I love the unappreciated sludge that weighs down the active and buoys up the tentative. Its lethargy compliments me. It doesn't care whether I stand or sit. It doesn't bash its yellow boots through my windows if I choose to stay indoors.
I love the nonchalant vapor that banishes the clear blue with moody gusto. For blue is too innocent a color for me to live under. It smacks of senselessness. Give me the clouds' loaded pollution, and I'll inhale its harmony.
I love the low-lying, slothful miser who is both willful and stubborn. It is like a bruised old man who refuses to die in order to dismay his vulturous offspring. He knows he'll never get a proper funeral, and so he intends to live indefinitely.
I love the unappreciated sludge that weighs down the active and buoys up the tentative. Its lethargy compliments me. It doesn't care whether I stand or sit. It doesn't bash its yellow boots through my windows if I choose to stay indoors.
I love the nonchalant vapor that banishes the clear blue with moody gusto. For blue is too innocent a color for me to live under. It smacks of senselessness. Give me the clouds' loaded pollution, and I'll inhale its harmony.
I love the low-lying, slothful miser who is both willful and stubborn. It is like a bruised old man who refuses to die in order to dismay his vulturous offspring. He knows he'll never get a proper funeral, and so he intends to live indefinitely.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Banners
Banners are unfurled,
Marked with hasty ink,
And brandished above the mob.
Banners are unfurled,
That lead the way,
To blood and change.
Banners are unfurled,
Whose meanings are felt,
But rarely understood.
Banners are unfurled,
By thinkers that yelp,
Like hungry dogs.
Marked with hasty ink,
And brandished above the mob.
Banners are unfurled,
That lead the way,
To blood and change.
Banners are unfurled,
Whose meanings are felt,
But rarely understood.
Banners are unfurled,
By thinkers that yelp,
Like hungry dogs.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Rust
A sinister memory,
Wrenched the reins,
From the driver's grasp,
And sent the horses mad,
Foaming and shrieking,
Eyes rolling.
And then I was off,
Lashed by odd feelings,
Menaced and moaning,
Assaulted by the senses,
Whose refined weaponry,
Had hurriedly displaced me.
Old and undone,
I had lost my way,
In a conjurer's fog,
Where the sound clotted,
Where the light bled,
In hazy eddies.
Something,
Was sludging,
Through the murk,
Dreamily detached,
Druggedly vacant.
Something,
Was wandering,
Senseless,
Directionless,
Emotionless.
Something,
Was suckling,
Through the baleful swamp,
Studied in despair,
Steadied in step.
Then the Rust,
Lodged in my nostrils,
Stopped up my ears,
Coated my eyelids,
And coarsened my throat.
Wrenched the reins,
From the driver's grasp,
And sent the horses mad,
Foaming and shrieking,
Eyes rolling.
And then I was off,
Lashed by odd feelings,
Menaced and moaning,
Assaulted by the senses,
Whose refined weaponry,
Had hurriedly displaced me.
Old and undone,
I had lost my way,
In a conjurer's fog,
Where the sound clotted,
Where the light bled,
In hazy eddies.
Something,
Was sludging,
Through the murk,
Dreamily detached,
Druggedly vacant.
Something,
Was wandering,
Senseless,
Directionless,
Emotionless.
Something,
Was suckling,
Through the baleful swamp,
Studied in despair,
Steadied in step.
Then the Rust,
Lodged in my nostrils,
Stopped up my ears,
Coated my eyelids,
And coarsened my throat.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Blessed
The world's face is a strange motley of comely and homely features whose reality betokens barbarism. The blemishes are repugnant and distracting, but the amiable qualities are equally arousing. Here is a face to be loved or hated. None cursed to behold it may feel indifferent or in between for long. The world's face is such.
Those who hate it view it closely--mere inches from its posterior. Their pupils dilate as they register all the grotesque imperfections their detailed inquiry yields. They process data individually, weighing and judging piecemeal using sophisticated instruments, then move on to the next subject with the thorough precision(though not the detachment) of a scientist.
Those who love it view it from afar. They relish the figure as a connoisseur would a work of art. They are able to appreciate the whole because they do not linger on the specific. They use their emotive senses, absorbing the world's face in a breath and letting it fill their bodies with the most sanguine appreciation.
Society requires both haters and lovers in order to maintain balance. For all skewed societies are totalitarian in nature. This is undeniable.
The world shows its face to few. Most people will live out their time compartmentalized, with no inkling that such a thing exists. As a result, the blessed(or cursed) minority face the hardship of isolation. It is the individual's constitution that determines whether (s)he will overcome or be overrun.
Fewer still are those whose nature forces them to transist from love to hate or vise versa. And once set, the transition is by no means permanent. But during the reversal's timespan, the feeling is absolute. These are the most dangerous of the gifted because their temperament is a tempest. They are fiery hosts to absurd bouts of irrational behavior. They shift from each extreme whenever their plagued reason wills it. This is because they have viewed the world's face from both angles, and the knowledge has driven them mad.
Our peace is a whorish mistress. We are ever searching for that gray purgatory that lies between ecstasy and despair. Our exhausted brains are on the verge of fainting.
The fortunate pitch their gypsy tents at the crossroads between both worlds and are swept to each extreme amidst brief periods of meditation. We sell our wares to rash travelers. Yet we see them off with a dark knowledge brooding in our hearts, with our souls imploring them to flee.
We are the ones who will never find comfort in the words, "Thy will be done."
Those who hate it view it closely--mere inches from its posterior. Their pupils dilate as they register all the grotesque imperfections their detailed inquiry yields. They process data individually, weighing and judging piecemeal using sophisticated instruments, then move on to the next subject with the thorough precision(though not the detachment) of a scientist.
Those who love it view it from afar. They relish the figure as a connoisseur would a work of art. They are able to appreciate the whole because they do not linger on the specific. They use their emotive senses, absorbing the world's face in a breath and letting it fill their bodies with the most sanguine appreciation.
Society requires both haters and lovers in order to maintain balance. For all skewed societies are totalitarian in nature. This is undeniable.
The world shows its face to few. Most people will live out their time compartmentalized, with no inkling that such a thing exists. As a result, the blessed(or cursed) minority face the hardship of isolation. It is the individual's constitution that determines whether (s)he will overcome or be overrun.
Fewer still are those whose nature forces them to transist from love to hate or vise versa. And once set, the transition is by no means permanent. But during the reversal's timespan, the feeling is absolute. These are the most dangerous of the gifted because their temperament is a tempest. They are fiery hosts to absurd bouts of irrational behavior. They shift from each extreme whenever their plagued reason wills it. This is because they have viewed the world's face from both angles, and the knowledge has driven them mad.
Our peace is a whorish mistress. We are ever searching for that gray purgatory that lies between ecstasy and despair. Our exhausted brains are on the verge of fainting.
The fortunate pitch their gypsy tents at the crossroads between both worlds and are swept to each extreme amidst brief periods of meditation. We sell our wares to rash travelers. Yet we see them off with a dark knowledge brooding in our hearts, with our souls imploring them to flee.
We are the ones who will never find comfort in the words, "Thy will be done."
Friday, February 12, 2010
My Negatives
This is a list of imperfections I have found in myself to date. As time marches, the list will be modified as I address my flaws and divine new ones. This list was made for the purposes of self-improvement. I have tried to be as honest as possible with myself and hope to grow accordingly.
1) I am an alcoholic.
2) I set standards for people that no one, including myself, can possibly meet.
3) I push away everyone that loves me, then feel sorry for myself when I am lonely.
4) My sexual experiences have been unsatisfactory because they occur infrequently and because I have been too drunk to cherish any of them.
5) I am an escapist by nature. I throw myself toward anything or anyone that can divert my attentions.
6) Sometimes I am overly confrontational. At other times, I shy away from it.
7) I am often arrogant to the point of intolerance.
8) I play video games too much.
9) I am overly critical of my own as well as others' actions.
10) I find it difficult to apologize, even when the fault is mine.
11) I have dandruff.
12) I am dissatisfied with society but am too jaded to do anything about it.
13) I am one to hold a grudge.
14) I have ascetic tendencies.
15) I take too much pride in my own intelligence.
16) I never read contemporary authors, always sticking to the 'classics.'
17) I let minor things irritate me.
18) I place too much stock in other people's appearance.
1) I am an alcoholic.
2) I set standards for people that no one, including myself, can possibly meet.
3) I push away everyone that loves me, then feel sorry for myself when I am lonely.
4) My sexual experiences have been unsatisfactory because they occur infrequently and because I have been too drunk to cherish any of them.
5) I am an escapist by nature. I throw myself toward anything or anyone that can divert my attentions.
6) Sometimes I am overly confrontational. At other times, I shy away from it.
7) I am often arrogant to the point of intolerance.
8) I play video games too much.
9) I am overly critical of my own as well as others' actions.
10) I find it difficult to apologize, even when the fault is mine.
11) I have dandruff.
12) I am dissatisfied with society but am too jaded to do anything about it.
13) I am one to hold a grudge.
14) I have ascetic tendencies.
15) I take too much pride in my own intelligence.
16) I never read contemporary authors, always sticking to the 'classics.'
17) I let minor things irritate me.
18) I place too much stock in other people's appearance.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Meaningless
The Meaningless,
Is a culmination,
Of abused privilege,
And fallen ideals.
Its shadow,
Makes one shiver,
As it pricks the pride,
Unnaturally.
It lives above earth,
In our upright institutions,
And in minds that smile,
Pointedly.
The Meaningless,
Is a culmination,
Of abused privilege,
And fallen ideals.
It inhabits,
Drunk bedrooms,
On pale, empty mornings,
Whispering drowning oaths.
Its honeyed despair,
Winks from the eyes
Of The Meaningless brain,
Slumping smiles.
The Meaningless now bang,
Their bloody knuckles,
On the underground's,
Velvet door.
And already a fool,
Has cracked it open.
Is a culmination,
Of abused privilege,
And fallen ideals.
Its shadow,
Makes one shiver,
As it pricks the pride,
Unnaturally.
It lives above earth,
In our upright institutions,
And in minds that smile,
Pointedly.
The Meaningless,
Is a culmination,
Of abused privilege,
And fallen ideals.
It inhabits,
Drunk bedrooms,
On pale, empty mornings,
Whispering drowning oaths.
Its honeyed despair,
Winks from the eyes
Of The Meaningless brain,
Slumping smiles.
The Meaningless now bang,
Their bloody knuckles,
On the underground's,
Velvet door.
And already a fool,
Has cracked it open.
Stranded Eyes
My hand,
It likes to be forced,
When it hovers,
Indecisively,
In the vacant air.
To reach a dead end,
And backtrack,
To the remaining path,
Is the surety,
That evokes the security,
To press on.
Why look back,
When all paths,
Have been explored?
Forward,
Is where stranded eyes,
Must stay fixed.
It likes to be forced,
When it hovers,
Indecisively,
In the vacant air.
To reach a dead end,
And backtrack,
To the remaining path,
Is the surety,
That evokes the security,
To press on.
Why look back,
When all paths,
Have been explored?
Forward,
Is where stranded eyes,
Must stay fixed.
Carrots
They lay in the plastic,
Helter skelter,
Destined for consumption,
Blurred in containment.
I open the packet,
It stretches and gives,
A jagged tear gapes at me,
And a baby root beckons me.
Its moist body,
Chills my lips,
As it juts,
From their pursed bouquet,
Like an orange cigarillo.
With a dry crack,
The stem is snapped,
Severed beneath the pressure,
Of my dutiful jaws.
Sweet crunching bits,
Rotate about my mouth,
Rhythmically churning,
Like snowflakes in season.
They disappear en masse,
Sinking into my gullet,
To be melted down,
An automatic reflex.
Such nutritions,
Are released,
Dormant,
In the womb,
When nature's goods are compressed!
Helter skelter,
Destined for consumption,
Blurred in containment.
I open the packet,
It stretches and gives,
A jagged tear gapes at me,
And a baby root beckons me.
Its moist body,
Chills my lips,
As it juts,
From their pursed bouquet,
Like an orange cigarillo.
With a dry crack,
The stem is snapped,
Severed beneath the pressure,
Of my dutiful jaws.
Sweet crunching bits,
Rotate about my mouth,
Rhythmically churning,
Like snowflakes in season.
They disappear en masse,
Sinking into my gullet,
To be melted down,
An automatic reflex.
Such nutritions,
Are released,
Dormant,
In the womb,
When nature's goods are compressed!
Monday, February 1, 2010
My Universe
Why do you sigh, Universe?
Your icy breath scatters my stars,
And upsets my sense of time.
Your motherly chest is hollow,
What once was robust is now concaved,
And I am afraid for the future.
You are standing slumped,
I can feel your dejection,
You look tired, Universe.
But you can't rest yet,
You mustn't collapse now,
I still have many questions.
I hear your sigh, Universe,
Yet you are hardly of age,
And your flesh is ever renewing.
Come and take me by the hand,
And I will stroke your troubled face,
And divine the dire terrors,
That shine from your bottomless eyes.
It is time for me,
To undertake the burdens,
That cause you such distress,
That whip your wounded harmony red.
Now your blood flows coldly,
As you shut the rolling windows,
That shrink from your gaunt face,
While your fainting heart beats less.
My poor, poor Universe,
Your confession has cost you dearly,
But your death smile projects peace,
Onto your frame's beaten brow.
And as you dissipate,
You gracelessly untether,
Those loving knots,
That once bound me to you.
Your icy breath scatters my stars,
And upsets my sense of time.
Your motherly chest is hollow,
What once was robust is now concaved,
And I am afraid for the future.
You are standing slumped,
I can feel your dejection,
You look tired, Universe.
But you can't rest yet,
You mustn't collapse now,
I still have many questions.
I hear your sigh, Universe,
Yet you are hardly of age,
And your flesh is ever renewing.
Come and take me by the hand,
And I will stroke your troubled face,
And divine the dire terrors,
That shine from your bottomless eyes.
It is time for me,
To undertake the burdens,
That cause you such distress,
That whip your wounded harmony red.
Now your blood flows coldly,
As you shut the rolling windows,
That shrink from your gaunt face,
While your fainting heart beats less.
My poor, poor Universe,
Your confession has cost you dearly,
But your death smile projects peace,
Onto your frame's beaten brow.
And as you dissipate,
You gracelessly untether,
Those loving knots,
That once bound me to you.
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