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Stephanie
04/22/03
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Must I wait here love?
While you cast about
In the myriad depths of your mind
For softer ways and lighter days,
When ghosts of memory chased us down.
What is it that I dream?
Of you.
Fairer than Juliet,
More sweet than honey.
I wait.
For the stillness of your touch.
The sunrise of your smile
Gentle spirit,
Where are you.
Dazzled, surely
More alive in your eyes
Than the infants first breath.
I would search beyond the depths
Into the warrens of your soul
Just to walk a simple step,
Hand in hand.
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Nero, Atlantis, Mundane Monday
02/23/04 |
Is there nothing so mundane as a Monday?
I was just pondering on that,
With the whiskers of my cat brushing
Along the fogged of windowpanes
From a passing storm.
Which came first, mundane or Monday?
Are they related in some back woods frosting kind of way.
Two roads, one to boredom the other to despair.
But I diverge.
Perhaps I should have been born in Atlantis.
Where their was no thought of the first day of the work week.
Work was letting the winds fingernails caress your spine.
Or drinking celestial beams from heavens and dancing drunkenly.
They knew nothing of beginnings only endings, which is I suppose
Why the came to such a tragic one. If only I could dredge them up
Perhaps I could put my own shipwrecked dreams to rest.
I bet Nero didn't mind Mondays.
The ruler of all that was comprehensible. A stern brow,
And perfectly plucked eyebrows. With a hint of insanity.
Nothing would make beginning sweeter, than the rusty taste of blood,
And the flecks of dirt the coliseum must have had. I bet Mondays
Were rhino days. Tanks of the old world, lumbering downhill
At screaming Christians who were flesh eaters anyway.
This is the way to spend Mondays.
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Euphoria
04/02/05 |
What is sweeter than honey? And stronger than a lion? We are raised in a web of deceit. I have watched her, from all angles, all sides, I have seen her stretch vainly, the summer dress clinging to her and light attach itself to her. I have capsized, and grown smaller each day, in the raging torrent of her eyes. Love, like a small thorn starting from your thumb and pressing down towards your heart. I keep a picture of her, locked away in a cabinet drawer. Waiting from the beginning, for the end which is my own. When we are newly raised to the world, lungs full of fitful crying, we are looked upon as the future. In the end, we lie down with the dead, to hear what they are saying. The language of the living has died for us, it has taken up residence, outside of our spectrum. We are blindly caught in it's web, waiting to be devoured. My insides have been emptied, drained by her liquid smile. The sharpness of her teeth, when she clinks them softly against a wine glass. I wait here, in the emptiness between myself and the living, I wait. She has said too little, or perhaps I have gone too far. So I need to go back, to the beginning. To the wailing lungs of that first breath, when life came back to me. Where I was snatched from the grave I had been lying down in, afraid of what the dead were saying, that I could not translate. She was like the liquid moonlight, beaming down upon the vast waters of my emptiness, filling me with a riddle. If tonight is our end, my end, my beginning, the beginning, I must start there. So let's depart from the cold lamplight, the burned out candles, and the attenuated tones of violins, the sunflowers sitting gracefully in a vase. The windows that peep out over the torpid river, which seeps slowly by unconcerned with the things of men. If ever I have loved, let me tell you the story so that you can judge for yourself. Tonight, be the judge of my own end, as I sit here with the drapes pulled, waiting expectantly for her slightly crooked smile, soft red lips, her black pants that hug her hips. She has become like a vision that has ensnared me in my own weakness, how terrible I can be, or how wonderful.
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Cursing In Another Word
07/06/05 |
I must have sat like that for at least an hour. The sunlight dripping through the drapes curled up on the floor with an obtuse look attached to my face. The carpet underneath me was slightly orange and if you leaned close enough it smelled quite distinctly of urine. I could not remember the last time I had used the bathroom but I was still fairly certain of my continence. Sometimes when we had guests over I would mention that the people who owned the place before we did had owned dogs, hoping to head off any discussion before it started. Years later I realized that it smelled like urine because that was the peculiar stench of the shampoo the carpet cleaners had used. But today, I didn't have any visitors. In less you count the mosquito hawk on my wall, just above the picture of a lonesome tree. I sure don't, so I squashed the scary bugger.
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Something
07/22/05 |
The stars reduce and collapse, evening falls sharp, discordant, like a curtain falling, quickly over the remains of an often rehearsed and poorly reviewed play. Every star seems to plummet this way now, as if everything is descending, and I am decreased, to well, I guess nothing matters now. I can see just over the white plastic fence of my house over the water, thick and full of the night. A seagull wings by with moonlight passing through his feathers and how full of life this instant, in all its temporal inglorious haze. The bench outside is sitting slightly askew, one of the legs has been warped over time and one must sit down effeminately in order not to be thrown off of it. Well, and if you asked me, “sum up today, what did it all mean, the twenty four hours and the 12240 minutes?
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Untitled
09/15/05 |
There comes a time in a man's life when he realizes that he truly has nothing to say. Nothing original, no feeling, or thought that has not already been contributed by one with more talent, acumen, or more well endowed. At this moment, an epiphany occurs, I might not have anything original to say, but at least I'm saying something. This something quickly devolves into a romance novel in which the two main characters are alternatively panting at one another for three pages at a time in which the author accidentally fell asleep at the typewriter and later, being too lazy, or disingenuous to fix it, made it a fantastic orgasm scene in which three pages are full of nothing but o's. Now, many of his friends might scoff and say "You sold out" "You could have been a writer,” But whoever tells you that Hemingway is a writer and Steel is trash is just upset because their pseudo-intellectual novel about squandered love, disenfranchise parrots, and drug abusing step-sisters has not gone to print yet. Though I read a bit of it and it's really quite wonderful, if a little skimpy on the sex scenes. So when the storm gathers overhead metaphorically speaking of course, when a man realizes that he has nothing to say he has reached a true catharsis. He ceases to try and impress and write something fantastic, paint something beautiful and says “Hey Thomas Kinkaid is really onto something."
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The Gaps
09/30/05 |
The gaps are interminable. Water stretches in spaces between the silent rocks on shore. The rolling hills of waves last for miles and come to rest, and I to listen to their elegy upon stone. The reality of stone and water engaged in an endless stare. Tiny grains, of fallen rocks are stuck in between my toes, and hawks swirl overhead, like hang gliders, red and green, which slowly dip and sway in the wind, while the ocean entertains a buoy. Water and sky, almost touching, here on the horizon almost becoming one. I am so tired of the birds gliding overhead, of crumbs on the old red picnic bench, whose faded paint reveals the original implacable wood. The ants congregate in a dollop of jelly, soldiers, mindlessly droning on to unknown tasks. The sky is pale blue, the sea is an endless meadow, how nice to drown in both.
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