I am lonely without really knowing the meaning of loneliness.
Like the second-to-last Dodo Bird was,
or the second-to-last Giant Panda will be.
I have friends who I love dearly.
I could pick up my phone this very moment
and call them
and between the lot of them
one of them would surely come to me
and keep me company.
But that company would only stem the tides of loneliness
that would come back to me again
with the friend's looming
and always imminent
departure.
Like the second-to-last California Grizzly Bear,
I don't see what I have.
Maybe,
like the second-to-last California Grizzly Bear,
I won't ever see it either?
I have a woman for whom the sun rises each day
and who for me hangs the very moon.
I could go to her now, to her warm embrace.
Enclosed from the world in a bliss
that is
the child of the activity of making children.
But that moment would pass,
and I would have to face
the looming
and always imminent
departure
yet again,
in would wash the tides,
flooding my mind with the fact that
I am alone.
I am lonely without having reason for it really.
I have a dog and a cat that adore me,
and they are special creatures,
in tune with the good vibes.
Sadly, like me,
they will have to die alone,
alone.
It's not being alone that scares me.
It's not being alone that makes me sad.
It's being lonely for some reason
when I am only the second-to-last
California Grizzly Bear.
I need to find my den mate.
I need to find my soul mate.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Tobacco Ash
Six burnt little
pieces of tobacco
lie in a bowl
that never dreamed it
would become
an ashtray.
Each burnt
little piece looks
to the one next,
whichever is least
burnt has the
envy of the
rest, and they
are all so jealous
of the cigarette
thats lies, unburned,
next to the bowl.
The cigarette
dreams of fire.
pieces of tobacco
lie in a bowl
that never dreamed it
would become
an ashtray.
Each burnt
little piece looks
to the one next,
whichever is least
burnt has the
envy of the
rest, and they
are all so jealous
of the cigarette
thats lies, unburned,
next to the bowl.
The cigarette
dreams of fire.
The Structure
It was a beautiful morning. The morning we exchanged the words 'I love you'.
There was beauty in saying the words together, there was magic in having admitted we were ready to be elated, bemused, vulnerable, crushed.
If what we had were the building of a structure it would be astounding. It would be spires and towers, libraries and murals. Bright colors dashed against wooden frames, stacked one atop of the other, reaching nauseating heights. People would flock from near and far to read the words and inscriptions of the lovers that had paid homage to the walls of our structure. Stained glass illuminating Persian rugs, stairways leading to rope swings, slides that take you upwards, baths that make you dirty. This place we have created is awesome, baffling, gorgeous, cosmic.
But as I look around I notice something missing. This place has everything, what could be missing? There is a zoo and a kiosk. A photo stand and a drive in movie. The whole place is powered by bloom boxes and the cafeteria serves cravings. What could be missing? Then all at once it hits me! It's so obvious. There is no where to sleep!
In a world where the the home is best built on love, where the home is love, we have not built a home! The structure we have built is grand, but it is not a home.
This was sad realization at first, for if we were not building love in this world, what were we building? Then I realized that was not the real matter at hand, not at all. It serves no purpose to fret about the lack of us constructing a home or love! Not at this point! Not yet!
In a mere five months we have built towers, bridges, cut glass, quarried stone. Tamed beasts large and small, learned to fly, lassoed the moon. The structure we have built is fucking monumental! Who cares if it's not a home? If we haven't proven thus far that we are capable if not gifted architects and builders than nobody was watching. We are building as we speak, and if a home is necessary: some closets, some bedrooms, a hearth, a sofa, an island kitchen, a doghouse, stools. Then we will add on. It will be an easy task.
As for right now that idea seems far less fun than going back into our structure and building a few more things we haven't thought of yet. We have time and resources in abundance, we need not rush.
It was a beautiful morning the morning we exchanged the words 'I love you'. There was beauty in saying the words together. There was magic in having admitted we were ready to be elated, bemused, vulnerable, crushed.
But saying the words doesn't build us a home, it merely marks the mutual desire to begin drawing out the plans.
There was beauty in saying the words together, there was magic in having admitted we were ready to be elated, bemused, vulnerable, crushed.
If what we had were the building of a structure it would be astounding. It would be spires and towers, libraries and murals. Bright colors dashed against wooden frames, stacked one atop of the other, reaching nauseating heights. People would flock from near and far to read the words and inscriptions of the lovers that had paid homage to the walls of our structure. Stained glass illuminating Persian rugs, stairways leading to rope swings, slides that take you upwards, baths that make you dirty. This place we have created is awesome, baffling, gorgeous, cosmic.
But as I look around I notice something missing. This place has everything, what could be missing? There is a zoo and a kiosk. A photo stand and a drive in movie. The whole place is powered by bloom boxes and the cafeteria serves cravings. What could be missing? Then all at once it hits me! It's so obvious. There is no where to sleep!
In a world where the the home is best built on love, where the home is love, we have not built a home! The structure we have built is grand, but it is not a home.
This was sad realization at first, for if we were not building love in this world, what were we building? Then I realized that was not the real matter at hand, not at all. It serves no purpose to fret about the lack of us constructing a home or love! Not at this point! Not yet!
In a mere five months we have built towers, bridges, cut glass, quarried stone. Tamed beasts large and small, learned to fly, lassoed the moon. The structure we have built is fucking monumental! Who cares if it's not a home? If we haven't proven thus far that we are capable if not gifted architects and builders than nobody was watching. We are building as we speak, and if a home is necessary: some closets, some bedrooms, a hearth, a sofa, an island kitchen, a doghouse, stools. Then we will add on. It will be an easy task.
As for right now that idea seems far less fun than going back into our structure and building a few more things we haven't thought of yet. We have time and resources in abundance, we need not rush.
It was a beautiful morning the morning we exchanged the words 'I love you'. There was beauty in saying the words together. There was magic in having admitted we were ready to be elated, bemused, vulnerable, crushed.
But saying the words doesn't build us a home, it merely marks the mutual desire to begin drawing out the plans.
The Map
I am the offspring of a rhyming couplet and a death threat.
The perfume that surrounds me as an aura smells only slightly of flowers,
the high notes are of a bears musk: sweat, earth, blood and intensity.
Crouched in a corner in some nameless, faceless room I await temptation.
I don't answer the phone when it rings. I don't answer the door when it knocks.
And I most certainly don't turn on the Aramanic entertainer that sits across from me in the nameless room, beckoning.
I am a juggler of knives, apples, and bean bags.
Depending on the order of which I fumble, I will either: bleed, feed, or carry on.
The thirst I suffer from most often isn't that of liquid, but love. Not the acquisition, the definition.
A visionary prompts me to be hopeful from the darkest place of my brain. She lives there because if her light weren't there to illuminate that otherwise darkened portion of my brain, all would be lost.
They made a list on the very top story of the skyscraper that is humanity. The authors of this list aired toward brevity. The list read: obey, consume, die.
I made a list the other night in my room before I went to sleep. My room is located underneath the boiler room of the human skyscraper. I too aired toward the side of brevity. My list read: reinvent, give, evolve.
I said before that I was the offspring of a rhyming couple and a death threat.
That may have been misleading. Allow me to interpret.
The world is a lost as a whole it is dying, and humans wrote the map.
Before we forget the concept of trying, let us all fill in this gap.
Rewrite this crap.
The perfume that surrounds me as an aura smells only slightly of flowers,
the high notes are of a bears musk: sweat, earth, blood and intensity.
Crouched in a corner in some nameless, faceless room I await temptation.
I don't answer the phone when it rings. I don't answer the door when it knocks.
And I most certainly don't turn on the Aramanic entertainer that sits across from me in the nameless room, beckoning.
I am a juggler of knives, apples, and bean bags.
Depending on the order of which I fumble, I will either: bleed, feed, or carry on.
The thirst I suffer from most often isn't that of liquid, but love. Not the acquisition, the definition.
A visionary prompts me to be hopeful from the darkest place of my brain. She lives there because if her light weren't there to illuminate that otherwise darkened portion of my brain, all would be lost.
They made a list on the very top story of the skyscraper that is humanity. The authors of this list aired toward brevity. The list read: obey, consume, die.
I made a list the other night in my room before I went to sleep. My room is located underneath the boiler room of the human skyscraper. I too aired toward the side of brevity. My list read: reinvent, give, evolve.
I said before that I was the offspring of a rhyming couple and a death threat.
That may have been misleading. Allow me to interpret.
The world is a lost as a whole it is dying, and humans wrote the map.
Before we forget the concept of trying, let us all fill in this gap.
Rewrite this crap.
The Golden
There are things called poison arrow frogs.
There are things called golden arrows.
The deadliest of all poison arrow frogs
is called the golden tree frog.
One can Imagine that if you were to
dip the tip of a golden arrow into the skin
of a golden tree frog, the recipient of that
arrow's point would die a golden death.
There are things called golden arrows.
The deadliest of all poison arrow frogs
is called the golden tree frog.
One can Imagine that if you were to
dip the tip of a golden arrow into the skin
of a golden tree frog, the recipient of that
arrow's point would die a golden death.
The Dreams
forgetting almost everything would be the best way to make it go away.
no longer do we wait by the phone, are phones wait with us.
i strip down to my boxers and stand in front of a mirror, only then do i see myself as i feel myself, almost completely exposed.
when i sleep i dress the imperial janitor of my mind to look sharp. I put him in his nicest blue jumpsuit, with a gray tie and shiny leather shoes.
during the night he is more a curator than a custodian.
everything is in order just before i wake up. Spotless.
forgetting becomes easier as i try harder.
sometimes the janitor is a bellhop,
sometimes the bellhop is a sea captain.
the bellhop delivers flowers,
the sea captain delivers flowers.
i strip myself even further now. i am naked to the walls of my room.
yet i am still not myself.
i lay down in my bed, my very comfortable bed, and i sleep.
sleep has never came easier to the restless.
and then the dreams, the dreams, the dreams i must forget.
no longer do we wait by the phone, are phones wait with us.
i strip down to my boxers and stand in front of a mirror, only then do i see myself as i feel myself, almost completely exposed.
when i sleep i dress the imperial janitor of my mind to look sharp. I put him in his nicest blue jumpsuit, with a gray tie and shiny leather shoes.
during the night he is more a curator than a custodian.
everything is in order just before i wake up. Spotless.
forgetting becomes easier as i try harder.
sometimes the janitor is a bellhop,
sometimes the bellhop is a sea captain.
the bellhop delivers flowers,
the sea captain delivers flowers.
i strip myself even further now. i am naked to the walls of my room.
yet i am still not myself.
i lay down in my bed, my very comfortable bed, and i sleep.
sleep has never came easier to the restless.
and then the dreams, the dreams, the dreams i must forget.
The Canoe Enigma
Every time I try to type something. Canoe intercedes.
He lays his rust colored tail over the keyboard, and tries to stop me.
Then he loses interest and chases: dust motes, invisible beings and insects.
The window sill is his hunting ground, he is not to go outside.
He knows squirrels, and raccoons, and oil, and asphalt.
How well he knows these thing I don't know?
He is a mystery to me. I see him as some sort of enigma.
His tail just swished back over the keyboard.
I lost my train of thought.
Now he is on his window sill perch.
Never losing his train of thought, or, never having one?
He lays his rust colored tail over the keyboard, and tries to stop me.
Then he loses interest and chases: dust motes, invisible beings and insects.
The window sill is his hunting ground, he is not to go outside.
He knows squirrels, and raccoons, and oil, and asphalt.
How well he knows these thing I don't know?
He is a mystery to me. I see him as some sort of enigma.
His tail just swished back over the keyboard.
I lost my train of thought.
Now he is on his window sill perch.
Never losing his train of thought, or, never having one?
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