His entrance à cheval suggested a certain familiarity with romance novels. Had he also donned a blonde wig and clutched a tub of butter-alternative, his beloved would have likely fled his overzealousness; but today love drew her forward. Twelve suns would rise and fall before the mounted hopeless romantic would learn that his equine companion had, in that moment, usurped the heart of the only woman he would ever love.
Oblivious to the slate tearing into her bare feet with each step, she sought him à corps perdu along the entirety of the riverbank. Nearly an hour had passed since Chad jumped from the ragged cliff hundreds of feet above the rocky shore. His fragile body's pounding against the rocks during his descent had broken her spirit in the same way that she was sure it had broken his bones. The echoes of silence were her only companions, and she clung to them to avoid a reality she could not face.
tendency to remember an uncompleted rather than a completed task
George's inadequacies were largely imagined: he had graduated at the top of his class and was rapidly climbing the corporate ladder. Still, his zeigarnik accosted him at least once a day--transporting him back to a time years earlier when his nervous fingers had marred his first piano performance. While his parents had long forgotten the error--if they had even noticed it initially, George would never forgive himself for disrespecting Bach.
1. thepartofthehousein which thewomenandgirlsofafamilyaresecluded.
On those days the men insisted on planting themselves in front of the television and consuming immeasurable amounts of food from dishes they had no intention of cleaning, she dreamed of life in a zenana where testosterone only pervaded the premises briefly and for good reason. The men might have agreed with such an idea, had she revealed her thoughts to them.
is this the same as before?
the same torrential waterfall of heat and emotions?
nothing stopped me before
and i hopped on that horse and rode into a sunset that quickly rose to high noon.
i walked away from that duel back then, unconcerned about the outcome
but could it be that the bullet hit me and i've been bleeding ever since
and my subconscious maneuvering to staunch the flow
has led me down the same path?
I've been wanting to try some Dada poetry, but wasn't ready to completely give away control on this one. I wrote down words, cut up the pieces of paper and drew them out one at a time...but couldn't let go of the reins so ended up throwing scraps back into the pile when the words didn't please me. Maybe one day I'll do a true Dada poem, but in the meantime check out my first baby step toward the goal. (And yes, I realize I have more fonts than I need. Maybe a weekly Dada-esque piece will justify having downloaded all those typography packs...)
tired of being empty
watching the tank drain
and doing nothing to refill it
i can't complain
when i do nothing but complain
i cannot move
if i do not move my feet
i can only blame the external things for so long
before their forces crush my frame
where am i
in this undefined mush
Too afraid to stand and fight;
Too much pride to fly away.
Egos lacking skill to play!
Games of conflict can’t be played
By those afraid to deal a hand.
Flightless birds avoid their call
Ostriching heads in the sand.
Thanks, Trifecta for the prompt, which requested an animal name be used as a verb. I figured I might as well ignore the dictionary and make my own...flightless birds have always intrigued me, anyhow.
why does my body hold you
when my mind named you an obstacle
before your hurdle was laid in my path?
i know you're unnecessary --
an expansion pack I don't need --
yet you still linger in my cells
(like a dormant pathogen)
after all this time.
it's been a year almost
and your mystique still enchants me
and i hope without Hope's blessing
that my essence sleeps
in your subconscious too.
awakening when you least expect it
and impeding your momentum
when forward is the only option.
we hold each other stagnant;
by clinging to the hypothetical
we distance ourselves from the plausible.
our coloring sheets were never intended
to be more than black-and-white.
why do i cling to the possibility
that "us" entails?
i'm addicted to you though i've never partaken.
Only half of my brain is ready to succumb to sleep. There’s more to complete before I close my eyes! This is all very strange because I’m on vacation – seems I need a vacation from my vacation. I’ve composed a list of interesting panels for an upcoming geek convention. I’ve a list of books to read. Also a list of people to visit, a list of places to see, a list of stores to visit, a list of songs to practice on my parents’ out-of-tune piano, a list of thank-you notes to write…and only a finite amount of time. (Zzz.)
Thanks to Velvet Verbosity, in spite of her decision to close the link hops I am just now getting around to posting. Sigh.
busy busy, always busy
running from point A to C.
what's an oreo without the creme?
or bookends on an empty shelf?
hyperopic eyes focus on the horizon,
never dropping to see the dashes on the road.
reminiscing's fun but regret's widespread
when we will life to take on lunar gravity
demanding it leap when it should crawl.
why can’t we be content with today?
must we always live one step ahead?
there's value in the quotidian,
truth in monotony.
unembellished breaths propel us forward
in ways hyperventilation never could.
put tomorrow’s rabbit out of your head, turtle of today.
when nature holds her breath
the skins upon the mast fall flaccid,
their tapestries' richness untold -
words withheld to punish
her unshared whispers.
Nothing given, nothing shared.
homicidal waves shore simple rafts
unprepared to leave an ordered existence,
unprepared to float away as driftwood.
how can one hold onto herself
without trunks beside to bestow meaning?
Mutability of form veils similitude of locomotion.
you left your oars in a boathouse on the mainland;
mine were lost along the way
along with my rebellious spirit.
scarlet flames fizzled as they fell overboard,
fiery fingers never fated to reach the Red blaze.
My revolution became intangible at 179 degrees.
i smuggled a glowing ember onto an imagined isle.
i cannot bring myself to extinguish its life.
it promises a future laden with violence and heartache,
whose progression i should halt with vigor
but must i discard the scraps of memory?
Cookie-cutter philosophy leaves the territory outside its borders unexplored.
were we to smash doughy remnants together
would they remember having been divided
and focus on differences?
or would they recognize their similarities
and acquiesce to homogeneity?
i asked you once to cook for me
you probably don't remember
such a minor conversation
but i do.
and you did.
let's put significance where it doesn't belong
like a cheesy romance
and pretend it means something
when it's just sustenance
but isn't hope the same thing?
and isn't faith just confidence that things will be ok?
and they are.
we're not an entity;
we'd never have added up right.
besides, i've already used my plus-sign.
(and multiplication is imminent)
perhaps the division was necessary for a while
because now the shavings of graphite have blown away,
but i can't handle subtraction with you.
some say that death mars life
but life surely reciprocates this enmity.
as we wink into existence
we fault death for pain and misery,
blinding ourselves to the truth.
surely such large concepts are common
to matter and antimatter alike!
temporality does not observe the states of being
that we establish to bestow meaning to our days.
time passes: we live; we die.
we fabricate checkpoints to interrupt
the stretch of personal existence --
birth to maturity to matrimony to birth --
and with it another stretch of years
segmented into arbitrary units of time.
(astronauts' observations confirm
the calendar's dependence on orbits,
but they're of little import to
those of us relegated to lives
on these hunks of orbiting rock.)
but death is mankind's only landmark:
eras and dynasties divided with scarlet.
the hourglass runneth over with blood!
yesterday's carafe has been refilled
drink now of the deceased.
there is great wisdom in death.
(yet how inadequate the time afforded us
to peruse the funereal guidebooks!)
subsume their wisdom into your vessel,
enhancing its flavor with that already inside.
life is forever accompanied by death --
ignorance of this partnership marks a fool.
yet allowing death to shadow life marks an imbecile.
live well, die well
and breathe for the space between.
temptation you are
even if you have no desire to be desired
so you are the same.
your presence plagues me
at the same time that
your absence pains me.
how can i stop that
with no true origin?
you grew hydroponically
despite your lack of traditional nurturing
here you are.
do you know where here is?
i didn't designate a plot for your crop
but you're here all the same,
like a seed whose germination point
lies far from its parent stem.
what do i do now?
you've infiltrated my compound
without any intent to do so.
you've sowed discontent,
although i've never spread your seed.
if you're not involved
if you're not to blame
how can you be involved
how can i make YOU part of the equation
that only involves me + me.
my imagination takes me down many roads
and this time i tread yours
without your permission.
can i make myself turn away
or revert to the true course
or retrace my steps?
you are not part of this.
i am only attempting to enlarge fantasy
without realizing how irrelevant it is to reality.
i am a ventose ventriloquist at times --
i blow wind through others' tracheas
and move their mouths like muppets.
my imagination served me well in childhood
but these days it's just as likely to betray me.
obviously there are other gears in motion
though i'm not sure if mental illness
or hormonal disturbance is to blame.
i suppose the pills for one cause the other
so who's to say which side of the bridge i began on.
there are so many planks missing between
a photographer from a higher altitude
might develop an advertisment for a dentist
(the "before" picture, of course) .
who's to say how i got here
but i'm here and i've got to
find another path to sanity
because neither side of this bridge lands there.
The young representative fought the urge to roll her eyes as the most senior member of the assembly slowly rose to his arthritic feet. While he might have something worthwhile to say on the topic, the ventose elder would inevitably say it at least five times during his speech.
The humming from the microphone echoed and Kristen's shaky legs threatened to give out on her. How was it possible that she could spell twenty-letter diseases and speed through the lexicon of French cuisine yet flub a simple "i before e except after c"? Sweat had already begun to bead up on her forehead when the grating buzzer sounded to signal her failure.
"I'm sorry; that's incorrect." The facilitator stated simply. "You may return to your seat."
Eyes focused on her feet, Kristen made her way back to her folding chair. Part of her was shocked by the cold of the grey metal seat, but it was buried so far beneath her disappointment that she her body didn't react to the stimulus. How upset her would parents be to rece-ive a loser from the bus stop that afternoon!
She struggled to raise her eyes to the imminent spelling champion as he approached the microphone. As he began to spell the word that was to become her terrible legacy at Shady Elm Middle School, he turned a glimmering eye to her and gave a simple wink. "Receipt. R-E-C-I-E-P-T."
The boy turned away from the microphone and began to walk back to Kristen before the buzzer had even sounded. Kristen could barely breathe -- he had thrown the game! She didn't know whether to be elated with her renewed chance to win or angered by his actions. What could have been going through his head to motivate this young boy's self-sabotage?
When Gary returned he selected the chair directly behind her own and managed a few words before Kristen was invited to stand once again: "You're welcome."
She studied her face in the mirror in lieu of more expensive
amusements. Why spend half of her paycheck at the movie theater when she could
admire her own enviable bone structure for free? Sure, a night at home wouldn’t
get her any closer to the pedestal of celebrity, but at her pedestal sink, she
could unabashedly pluck stray hairs from her face! She ran her fingertips over
the curve of her jaw and lamented her inability to capture its beauty on
canvas. Shrugging off what could not be remedied, she loosened the cap of her
mascara and began to hum. She stopped the applicator wand midway to her lash
pondering the lyrics beneath the tune – What
is the hipbone connected to?
Jane clutched her leg and bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. Her friend, Jessie, was panicked enough without adding four-letter words to the mix. It had been stupid of them to think that they could skip third period without consequence. They had spent weeks planning this day, but deep down Jane knew that they couldn't get away with it. They'd made extensive plans to ensure Jessie's sister's rusty sedan was available for their escapade and its owner far away on a field trip to the city. They'd brought changes of clothes (even their swimsuits, just in case Mother Nature decided to gift them with a preview of summer by the lake). They'd packed enough food to feed half the football team (because who could say for sure which of three sandwiches they'd be craving at the end of their long day). But they hadn't anticipated any broken bones. Nor had they fully considered the double-edged sword of an escape from civilization -- their phones were merely expensive paperweights this far into the woods. As she watched her friend generate new phrases to express her escalating frustration and anxiety, Jane knew that she would have to take matters into her own hands. She winced as she manually extended her injured limb and braced herself for the pain that would come as she dragged herself back to the car -- once their savior from a boring day of school, now the symbol for their failure -- forever linked to torment.
moving moving always moving
my mind more than my limbs
my limbs more than my mind
can i truly move both simultaneously?
i forget what i am to remember
when i move my mind elsewhere
i stumble when i am to dance
when i mistake one foot for another.
i can only prepare for missteps
because they are inevitable
and i cannot anticipate everything
or even the smallest fraction of things.
my admission of flaws is flawless
and i do not omit my tendency to omit
the important nonsense in my life.
can i exhale everything i inhale
or will i always hold back a bit?
i try to cripple your strength
by talking circles around you
talking with my pen
as my vocal cords cannot compete
with the muscles in my fingers
and those in my mind.
despite my strength of mind and digits
i cannot confine you to a space.
most days i feel that this intangible fence
has fooled me into ignoring you
just long enough for you
to escape through the barbs
and just long enough for me
to stop caring so much.
but other days,
when noise is insufficient to shut out
the incessant emptiness
i hear you again.
i know it's not truly you --
just my imagined you --
even so, i am transported
to a place where you are central
and i cannot stop wondering
who you really are
and why you had to leave.
i have the wind to spruik
but do my words hold meaning?
i often become lost in my own embellishments,
never coming to the X on the map.
do i live tangentially,
never fated to collide with my point?
i float in a universe of stars
eluding their gravitational pulls.
it's a peaceful life
but what good does it serve?
an astronaut's birthplace becomes irrelevant
when home is light years away.
do i need to reconnect with myself
to disconnect from myself?
or would a step backwards lead to a pit?
surely i cannot stand still
or if i do i will green as a sloth.
i like green but not that kind.
In my adolescence, I rolled my eyes during my father's lectures. These days, we exchange minimal words -- what I wouldn't give to be beside him as he spruiks. I can't say I ever truly knew my father, but I haven't had the opportunity to try and decode his cipher for years.
he loved me...
and i could never make myself feel
anything beyond platonic.
once i cleared the cobwebs
of an (adolescent?) (naive?) idealistic happy-ever-after
i could see that
he was not my prince charming
it was i who charmed him into thinking
that he could play that role
and it was i who opposed his valiant quest
and it was i who played the villain.
now that i've ended things
i feel like i'm inadequate
(and fear that i'll feel the same forever)
because i had this man
and instead of doing the honorable thing
and talking things out with him
and maybe working to fix things
i ran into the arms of another man
but i know deep down
that without this encounter,
i'd never have worked up the resolve
to go through with it.
i learned passion,
i learned...so much about myself already
and i think i've been changing everyday
even though i tried to hide it for years
i think the butterfly i thought
i was becoming a few years ago
was flying on borrowed wings.
but i'm okay -- more than okay --
with being a caterpillar again.
some days i feel insecure
flawed wrong somehow.
other days i get out of bed
and feel like i can do anything
(nothing can break my stride!)
...unless i break that stride myself --
with self criticism
by denying that i am good enough
strong enough enough.
i am truly and always...
a person of integrity
(though -- like anyone --
i've had my stumbles along the way)
but i let others determine my path
all too often.
i let others' uninformed words
affect my outlook on the world
(and subsequent actions).
but time and again,
i reach a point
to break off...
despite my failure to plan ahead
my lack of whistling ability
my stage fright (when singing, mind you)
i am optimistic
and give of myself deeply
(oftentimes, toomuch ...
too soon...) i am working on changing my tendency
to become a mat that's walked all over...
straining to improve myself
as i learn about myself and my inner workings
and the world
do i grouse about work
because i hate it?
because i hate my coworkers? because i hate my customers?
because i hate stagnation.
because i hate not living up to my potential
by accepting mediocrity.
i realize that most people are average
and to be a part of this crowd is no shame,
but i -- like the ginger mermaid --
want more for myself.
curiosity will not kill me
as it did the poor feline.
on the contrary, it keeps me alive.
keeps electricity surging through my nerves.
sameness and stability,
while good in ways,
are not satisfying.
i need to dare to risk failure
in order to truly succeed.
i must risk crashing to the ground
if i wish to soar.
i fear my inactivity will result in a pyknic future self
a self who would rather indulge in calories and sedentary life
does this path begin with mental atrophy?
after graduation, the grey matter is rarely challenged
we get into "habits" of doing things
and employment is never varied enough
to prevent atrophy of the body and mind
and once the limbs are devoid of muscle
and the mind free of stimulation
it all becomes automatic
and we eat whatever is placed before us
i fear my adulthood is that of a robot
whose abilities are stripped of meaning
because change has no place in a rigid box
no longer a maze, this life of mine
carrots, celery, tomatoes...
but wait, those don't fit the category!
i understand the seeds define the classification
but i still link tomatoes to the salads they decorate
more than to the fruits they pass in the street.
am i strange that i see divisions between objects?
they're both edible -- shouldn't they be equivalent?
but they're not.
two things may be interchangeable
but they're not identical.
just because both fill the same blank
doesn't mean they fill it the same way.
different clothes for a different man.
Observing her brothers from her bedroom window, Sam lamented the superfluous furcations of her family tree. She was confident that a forthcoming nut shot video shoot would correct this oversight, effectively removing her siblings from the gene pool.
no chains hold me here
but i appertain to you all the same.
by signing our names side-by-side,
we've both agreed
to share ourselves with one another.
you are my keeper and i, as yours,
plan to push you toward your dreams
(but not too hard)
and pull when i need you close
(but not so often you 're forever exiled from solitude).
giving and taking through ups and downs,
i hope to share the work and the play
for all time.
life is not a babbling brook
or profluent river reaching for the sea;
it is more a waterfall,
splashing upon rocks
and wasting of itself
to drop to lower heights.
it is a rapid,
any who dare cross its path.
there are short spans of tranquil waves
where the only ripples are made by
waterbugs on the surface
but nothing is so mutable as
the current of existence.
wisdom lies in chaos --
a fact i've learned by my waning naivete
across the axis of time.
the more trouble i endure,
the less it troubles me.
all things come and go with the wind --
be it light whisper or hurricane --
and all i can do is stand my ground
as it softly whistles in my ear or bursts my eardrums.
am i a sapling, torn from the earth after germination
or am i more invested in the earth i occupy?
i am content, today, to be a dandelion,
giving of myself to enrich the world around me.
oracular / aw-RAK-yuh-ler\
, adjective: 1. Ambiguous; obscure. 2. Of the nature of, resembling, or suggesting an oracle. 3. Giving forth utterances or decisions as if by special inspiration or authority. 4. Uttered or delivered as if divinely inspired or infallible; sententious. 5. Portentous; ominous.
Sometimes I suspect sentences encased in fortune cookies are assembled in the same random way as Dada poetry with the same oracular effect. Wisdom lies in chaos, it seems.
did i cause it?
are they responsible for the division?
maybe i should be less obtuse.
by playing both sides
was i causing a rift?
maybe i am equally suited for both
but i made my choice --
perhaps i did so without fully considering the other side
and yes, i didn't have the opportunity to examine you
when he was filling my vision
but i need to accept the choice i made
even if there were unexplored options.
there will always be lands i haven't seen
but i got greedy?
or did my curiosity just get outside of the bag it was allotted?
i want my puzzle piece to align with your own;
at the same i know my piece has been aligned with another for eternity.
so we're both going our own ways
but you need to stop looking at him with those eyes
and i need to stop looking you you with any eyes.
i feel presumptuous when i think i made such an impact
but at the same how couldn't i?
you were vulnerable
despite having been away from your lady for so long.
and i should have seen that.
what did i see?
just puzzle pieces fitting together
and -- at the time -- he was not confident
and he lacked what you possessed
and i was drawn in
even if you hadn't meant to lay the trap
and yet neither can be blamed
even though we both can have hate within the desire for one another.
and i'm afraid to mention it to him
because i know that would widen the gap between
and i regret putting your friendship before my contract
but it's true all the same.
"bros before hos" they say
but i don't think that applied this time.
if only you had a "she"
but you threw her away.
was that my fault too?
i don't even know what your grey matter is trying to say
though you're talking in another direction so it's not surprising
that my satellites wouldn't pick up your sounds.
perhaps i should numb my brain with other things.
part of me aches to kiss your face
but another part just wants amnesia for us both.
can we backtrack to last year and forget anything ever happened?
he's in the other room
and my eyes are closed
even though they should be looking ahead of me
my closest friend is 500 miles away
and i feel like the lack of estrogen coded to my own
is making me miserable.
though, to be fair, miserable is not the word.
i don't know that a definition exists
to explain the lack
i don't have anything to want
but i want it anyway.
it was only two months
(was it that? did it truly happen or was yesterday someone else's past?)
i feel like i need to cover my tracks
but if feel like doing so would camouflage who i am
i am weak
and not because i am a woman;
i am weak because i breathe
and i must rely on inorganic molecules to survive.
how strange that the organisms that rule everything
are so ruled by everything.
God only knows that i am devoid of purpose
or do not admit to knowing it.
if i had your contact information
i would contact you
and then be upset at your lack of response
you don't give a shit
(and why would you? i have not proven myself to be more than useless and faithless and unloyal even if nothing has really happened other than a little groping because sometimes that's what it takes to find your footing when you're climbing a cliff -- a natural cliff, mind you, with no neon-color-outlined grips. why haven't i gone to Atlanta Rocks! yet because that would be a great workout? and why hasn't my husband come to see what's going on here? do you figure he thinks I'm asleep or has he drank more than I (just a single tall can of 12% alcohol). is it ok to use parentheses inside of parentheses?)
and i can't get that through my brain.
why am i still typing?
i need to go to sleep or do something productive
like fucking him until i can't think of anything else?
it is bad that i'm using orgasm to tune out the truth?
is it truth for the long-term or just what i want to see for the moment?
i can't be sure.
does my libido exceed my wisdom?
i am often distracted by sex and stimulus.
does the effect of the cause justify the motivation of the motion?
how many times have i posed the question?
is there any point
or it is only echoes?
the plurization of english words is confusing sometimes.
who are you?
where are you?
i see you skulking around online every so often?
or are you skulking in troth?
i doubt my thoughts align with reality,.
you're on another stepstone miles away.
meanwhile, i only hope to hop closer
and you're gaining some solidity to your existence
at the same time that mine crumbles to dust.
and he doesn't know.
i don't even know if i'm not uninhibited.
this alcohol opens my eyes at the same time it opens my tear ducts
truth be told, i don't cry often
and when i do it's for stupid reasons like movie reels
but when i do cry, it's cathartic.
perhaps i need to cry and in so doing, release you.
you need to be free
and even if you're not cognizant of it,
i am holding you here.
my desires have chained you to this existence.
can we ever be free of ourselves?
it sucks that i think about you when i know i shouldn't.
you're a waste of my time and don't give a shit about my time.
and yet i think about you nonetheless.
natheless, if my smart blog had a say in the matter.
why do you occupy my thoughts when you've not occupied my life for a single second this past month.
has it only been a month?
i seem to have lost the grains of sand that represent your time away
or perhaps my own.
i tell myself it's just concern for a fellow human --
are you alive? are you well? what's new?
surely any stranger could pose these questions.
but i'm me and you're you.
and i can't help but phantasize about what could have been
or could be.
my mind is an open book and the pages all blank
and the only pen is held in my own fingers
and God only knows if you have any concern
flowing from your side of the abyss
I could very well be talking to a black hole
and you're not listening anyway so what does the receiver's identity matter?
i feel very high-school
in that i'm concerned with pettiness
and i remember that night when i snogged with chris on the couch
as the other (elitists? or so i thought back in the early-2000s) puffed on their hookah pipe
and it felt good and i could let go for once
even if i knew he had another life
(and, as it turns out, a girlfriend)
but i really didn't care because it felt good being touched and kissed
after so long without a connection with charles.
is it strange that chrises pop up in my life so often?
chris sommerfield (gay, might i add)
chris duffy (ugh. "if you've got time to clean, you've got time to lean?!" who makes their own catchphrase, really??)
chris "goat-boy" -- why the fuck can't i think of his name right now?
i know i have a beanie baby that resembles him
but can't remember which came first.
i think it's the egg,
or perhaps the chicken.
someone said the latter
but my mind tells me the former is more logical --
though said logic is based on the Bible
and despite what the Chris says,
i don't know exactly how valid its points are
why am i listening to trance?
damn, you've managed to tunnel your way into my psyche
the termite image was not incorrect.
if only i had my phone to prove to you how long ago i thought of the metaphor
but then again, my phone doesn't tell you dates of my memos
unless you go deep inside to the coding
which i really don't know how to access.
perhaps i should use this colt45 to my advantage
and rekindle friendships online with this facebook shit
but i can't seem to get myself re-entangled with the yarn
that i really only cared about on the surface before.
i feel like i've typed enough to make the scroll bar a small square
but it's still a rectangle
and i still haven't bought blair crimmins tickets
even though conan seems to urge me in that direction
where is max weinberg when you need him?
apparently right behind you, if your name is bruce springsteen!
that is a funny joke that i'm about to post on facebook.
is it bad that i filter out my bullshit
to come across some fool's gold?
you'd think i'd be screening things for REAL gold
but i can't promise that. sometimes it's more fun to have something that looks like the real thing
because the real thing is too expensive.
is life too expensive to be real?
is the matrix accurate?
perhaps i should watch that again.
it just occurred to me that i'm online
and can do that from the computer
but now i'm remembering that i'm listening to trance --
something you seem to think you led me to.
and yes, you led me to the term...
but as it turns out, i've been drawn to the genre since before i knew its official name
what are you up to these days?
are you alive?
are you well?
i really want to know how you're doing
even though i know that would open a can of worms
perhaps he'll fill the hole
even though there shouldn't be a hole to fill
why is there a hole to fill?
shouldn't my hole be full
(though, of course, it can't be because i'm not a porn star
and even they sleep from time to time sans-dick.
i used to fear i'd get stuck to a man if we fell asleep...
i know that's silly now
or do i?
but i still don't want to fall asleep inside one another
though to be fair, you're not physically inside me
and him psychically.
how did we get here?
when did my eyes open the door
that you strolled into?
did you take advantage
or did i GIVE you advantage?
perhaps i've always stood here waiting to be taken advantage of?
the Whitest Kids You Know joke that "she was asking for it"
(by wearing purple, she was enticing "The Grapist")
maybe i really wanted you to come my way?
maybe i waited until you were available
(you were technically "available" ever since your move north
but not fully available until you realized she had moved on).
and then we played games
(candyland or clue when it could have been twister?)
instead of following the path ahead of us --
who wants six pegs in your back when you can be free until the end of the game of life?
and i continued on my pre-destined path
and you walked on your alotted path
and we hurt each other
even though we wanted something else
we settled for the convenient, instantaneous...
all the while, we knew there was more.
when will our peninsulas meet?
are we fated to be separated by blue water
or will we admit to our failures?
but then again,
perhaps i'm wrong and we are just me and another person who doesn't give a shit.
my phantasies don't work if i can't imagine you in them
but they're only phantasies because you're not there.
how can i be liege to my heart
when its rhythm shifts without warning,
responding to instinctual impulses
that threaten to overcome the established hierarchy?
the collar 'round my tiny finger marks me his,
but is it enough?
any good animal tamer knows
that i a cage or collar need not be too restrictive,
as such means of control establish a monarchy
rather than a mutual agreement based on trust.
my ring is like a spring,
allowing me to look away for a moment
so long as i spring back to where i belong.
he trusts me to return to home when we meet again,
but do i?
the flesh is weak when prodded by the id revealed;
can i keep my baser self repressed
so as always to base my life around him?
i fear my tendency for flowery speech
often comes across as a cant.
i'll admit to frequent indecision --
i do hail from the lunar court, after all
(as my moods testify) --
but i don't wish to repel others
with a lack of assertiveness.
my inability to assert my needs and desires
to all but my closest friends and family
it seems my speech fails to encapsulate
the fullness of my written compositions.
what encouraged this disconnect
between text and talk?
it is silly to hide behind the screen of the paper
when spoken words are so much more efficient...
but i cannot abandon the introspection
available on the page...
cant / kant \ verb: 1. To talk hypocritically. 2. To speak in the whining or singsong tone of a beggar; beg.
cant / kant \ noun: 1. Insincere, especially conventional expressions of enthusiasm for high ideals, goodness, or piety. 2. The private language of the underworld. 3. The phraseology peculiar to a particular class, party, profession, etc. 4. Whining or singsong speech, especially of beggars.
Speak plainly and divulge your requests without hesitation; canting will only decrease my desire to help you.
one cannot simply follow exotic paths with a hircine eye seeing sex in every shadow. fertility's inherent to life -- even those deemed barren can create ideas that grow, split, reproduce -- and it's true that sex is never just a means to an end -- even puritanical peoples cannot deny that fact to themselves, much as they declare for utilitarianism. but sex without depth is empty and meaning is required to make reruns desireable. sweat and breathlessness are well and good but if there's no one there sweating and panting with you that you can admit your vulnerability to, what's the point? if you settle for emptiness, you'll learn to accept it and acceptance of nothingness is a barren field.
do i surf the waves of desire
or am i destined to drown in its depths?
it seems my libido is all ages and none --
mature or naive?
am i bound to the grains of sand in the hourglass
or unfettered by its glass cage?
do i stand on the shoulders of giants
or follow footprints i can never hope to fill --
a child wearing adult's shoes,
aching for more years under her belt?
i must set out on my own, barefoot,
forging my own shoes as i go.
my steps my cross another's or walk along it for a time
but only while we talk to one another.
it seems impossible to teach the dead
but by making your students their students
and interpreting old words with new eyes...
hircine / HUR-sahyn\ adjective: 1. of, pertaining to, or resembling a goat. 2. Having a goatish odor. 3. Lustful; libidinous.
The old man's long list of misfortunes guaranteed all people encountering him would feel pity. While no exception to this rule, Judy's sympathy was blended with disgust as a result of the hircine suggestions he mumbled whenever she passed his alley of residence.
please don't take offense during our silly tiffs
as we bandy light insults over Hostess cupcakes.
our love lives in the laughter,
(drawn from arteries?)
even if strangers perceive our arguments as abuses.
i'll never forget the shock in old friends' eyes
when our bickering offends their sensibilities.
we're rougher than others i suppose
with our games of "punchbug"
and our pet names that qualify as animal cruelty
sometimes the raw emotion in those four-letter taboos
is what i need to express the savage, primal quality of our connection
i feel attached to you in a way far-removed from this false system of etiquette
and if others can't accept the blood that beats within my veins
and the biting words of my affection that sometimes loose a stream of red
so be it.
i fuck you;
i love you
you fucking amazing man.
opinions as fixed as the turns of the tide
i sometimes expect to be swallowed by quicksand
as i rarely stand on solid ground
there are a few fixed boulders within this quagmire
(you, for example)
but should i seek to blend aggregate into this soupy life
so i am more resistant to the pressures of feet treading on me?
or do i move my surfaces to another site with fewer, lighter footprints?
do i change myself and adapt to my environment
and the stream of abuses and forces that flog my being
or do i change habitats to better suit my species?
change is imminent -- but from within or without?
bracketed as an editor's note --
never intended or foreseen by the original author
but simply added sometime thereafter
to better fit the aims of the regurgitator.
am i this blurb, commenting on and skewing
another's genius and only interfering with the original intent
or am i serving a more altruistic and admirable purpose --
to extend the reach of another's wisdom and share its impact
by demonstrating its applicability to a later generation?
parenthetical addendum perhaps
comprising a note readers may choose to overlook
but holding value that only a select few of motivated
am i confining myself to parentheses,
tacking the self-worth to assert my own value, quietly inviting others
to glance my way?
i often undervalue my talents,
discarding or setting aside my claims to more.
i need to demand respect and prove
without a doubt or a second of hesitation
that i am a powerful person in my own right
and even if my words may be bracketed
or embraced by parentheses on paper,
they are important enough to shout out from the page.
i am an authority
and i will scream with my words.
you will listen!
whether you truly hear as your ears bleed
is up to you.
plenum / PLEE-nuhm\
, noun: 1. A full assembly, as a joint legislative assembly. 2. The state or a space in which a gas, usually air, is contained at a pressure greater than atmospheric pressure. 3. A space, usually above a ceiling or below a floor, that can
serve as a receiving chamber for air that has been heated or cooled to
be distributed to inhabited areas. 4. The whole of space regarded as being filled with matter (opposed to vacuum).
The proposed plenum would more effectively and efficiently heat and cool Robin's multi-level dream home, but the upfront costs far exceeded her very-real available funds.
an ad rem approach is nearly impossible
when your mind percolates more than starbucks.
simplistic's easier to digest, to follow
but lacks excitement, vivacity, doesn't it?
i find it hard to eliminate even the "ums" --
they testify to the inertia within my skull.
still, i ache for brevity sometimes
(my complexities often overwhelm even me).
even when my gears are turning at lower efficiency
i still fail to speak simply.
even when no words exit my lips,
do i truly stop speaking?
eyes and breath say so much
i cannot staunch the flow of ideas from this vessel.
can i ever be empty beneath a waterfall?
external drops of water upset my equilibrium
but internal chaos is productive sometimes.
Stu clenched his teeth in what he hoped passed for a grin as his blind date set off on yet another thinly-veiled, boasting tangent. His maximum bench press weight was as ad rem in their discussion as BDSM in a Sunday School class. Almost.
do my thoughts bespeak my status as a writer
or just a human?
does hearing symbols' cymbals evidence my literary voice
or just my standard eardrums?
does my eloquent self-doubt imply confident expression
or just simplistic oblivion?
who am i, wearing two shoes?
fit they well, a pair of equals that carry me down the same path of physical space-time
while they tread with dissimilar rhythms --
one swaggers while the other skips.
cursed i am to stand so close to falling
or am i blessed in this imbalance?
bespeak \bih-SPEEK\ verb: 1. To show; indicate. 2. To ask for in advance. 3. To reserve beforehand; engage in advance; make arrangements for. 4.Literary. To speak to; address. 5.Obsolete. To foretell; forebode.
Jerry's three-piece suit bespoke his promotion long before the new reached the water cooler.
i oscillate between praise and blame
do i vilipend you for scrambling my eggs
or do i thank you for upsetting my boat?
two sides of the same coin, i suppose
and little matter, considering
i've eaten the eggs and lost sight of your wake.
vilipend / vil-UH-pend \ verb 1. To regard or treat as of little value of account 2. To vilify, depreciate
Jess took every opportunity to vilipend Valentine's Day -- popping heart-shaped balloons, defacing greeting cards, dismantling expensive flower bouquets. Part of her ached to be caught, if just for the opportunity to vent her frustration with her pitiful love life.
cordate / KAWR-deyt \ adjective 1. Heart-shaped. 2. (Of leaves) heart-shaped, with the attachment at the notched end.
A dozen discarded pieces of red and pink paper encircled him and stood testament to his failure. Puffing in frustration, Tony attempted once more to cut a perfect cordate for the prettiest girl in class.
exoteric / ek-suh-TER-ik \ adjective 1. Suitable for or communicated to the general public. 2. Not belonging, limited, or pertaining to the inner or select circle, as of disciples or intimates. 3. Popular; simple; commonplace. 4. Pertaining to the outside; exterior; external.
Brian ignored the exoteric caveats against credit card dependence and handed his Visa to the cashier. Bankruptcy be damned, he would have that new flat-screen TV.
auscultation / aw-skuhl-TEY-shuhn \ noun The act of listening to sounds within the body as a method of diagnosis.
One of my many childhood aspirations (however fleeting) was to become a veterinarian. I remember visits to a friend's playroom and hours occupied examining teddy bear patients. Given the brevity of my youthful attention span, I would quickly grow tired of imagining heartbeats to auscultate. Our mothers, interrupting our diversions to deliver snacks, were actually more likely to find the plastic stethoscope pressed to our own chests as we spoke in silly voices and squealed in delight.
i need to call the trash company today but i can't muster up a screed
even though they've left the recycling bin behind for four consecutive weeks
and their negligence is detrimental to my unspoken resolution to be greener
do i let too much go and accept too much by being laid-back and carefree?
should i foster darker feelings and trade my tranquility for spikes in blood pressure
so i can stop middling and accepting mediocrity and require more of myself?
am i thinking way too much about something so little?
i think it's time for me to call the trash company and get it over with.
Stan's screed on responsibility quickly made his young daughter regret her neglect of Patrick the goldfish. It would be another fifteen years before she tended another aquarium -- and that at the request of her own son.