Born from blue:

Barack Obama.

2008-11-04T20:32:00.000-08:00

For the first time
and certainly not the last

I am proud to be American.

what might you?

2008-10-28T12:55:00.000-07:00

these shoes

and i take off my hat to cry
for people i will only know
when my time comes

keep the window open
because nighttime is when
youthless men come flying as ballasts
i balance this

on the end of a pin
where the name of a cloud is inscribed,
sans mensonges.

as the music fades
we may have to wake to
a dawn less conquered
and a soul less seen than
emboldened by ray
and hand of morning.

homage

2008-10-15T15:59:00.000-07:00

i want to point something out.
something about the sun and
how when it's setting, it seems to speed up
something about the way trees grow
at first tentatively, then enormously
until their branches are reaching right into
the clouds, holding on to water droplets
not yet formed, and the minutes it
takes for the sky to move
something about the way the sea feels under
parched toes, how it washes away all the
sand that dried and the flecks of
dirt that were there before and at times,
how it soothes the smallest scrapes
i want to point out
that those somethings are real and
that they were real before your expensive car
they were real before
your six-figure paycheck
or your fancy shoes
more than anything that can be bought or sold
they are real
they are more real
because they were there first
they are more real
and it's because of them,
not the things you could and might own,
that you are too
but only when you take the
time to notice.

broken lens

2008-10-01T19:31:00.000-07:00

seriously, i miss my camera now.

strike yourself necric.
this is the rattle of a train passing through life

get your bags, let's go.
it's time to get out of this city

and ravage a new one.

Humans!

2008-09-29T01:06:00.000-07:00

I don't normally write about life here. It's odd.

those who touch
touch themselves
more often than not

those who breath
breath in the same air they exhaled
more often than not

those who listen
listen to themselves
more often than not

those who don't
they are usually dead.
more often than not.

Sun Symbol, Alchemal Gold.

2008-09-29T00:33:00.000-07:00

In regards to the past, I am the future.
In regards to the future, I am the past, or something at least in some way vaguely similar.
I spent most of today in my room, thinking about writing but instead watching the new Micheal Moore flick, watching halves of Dexter episodes, eating tostitos and salsa, and writing on my window. Yes, you read that right, I'm afraid. I'm the writer's equivalent of Russel Crowe in the earlier part of "A Beautiful Mind," minus the schizophrenia, insane need for mathematical fulfillment and many fewer government conspiracy theories that cause my to slice open my arm looking for blacklight activated codes. Oops. Spoiler Alert.
As I feel that a select few read this, I am going to take the risky chance of saying things that I might not say otherwise despite the obvious risk of those possibly mentioned reading it if they get into me enough.
I'm perplexed by women. One girl in particular. It's not that she's perplexing me, it's that I'm perplexed as to what it is about her that I really like. She has many if not most of qualities I would look for in a woman, but I still find myself questioning because it feels too ephemeral. I have a constant sense of being okay with not seeing her for extended periods of time when I'm not around her, but when I am, it's as though I were a proverbial barnacle on a ship that is very difficult to dislodge. Why, oh why must I endure such odd spells of emotional flare?

This is pointless, although I'm comfortable with that, I need to start writing a lot more than I have been. November is around the bend (not too mention Halloween and the etcetera) and I plan to take on the immense challenge of writing a novel in the span of 30± days.
These have been my ideas of late:
None, thus far I have a bit to work on, apparently.
I'll keep each and every last one of you, which is probably just one of you, up to date.
Wonderful.
Great.

Fatherhood.

2008-09-22T01:29:00.000-07:00

Things like this make me cry. They make me remember that I'm not treating my dad like I should, because there's a day when he won't be there anymore, or a day when I'll have to take care of him. I really need to love who he is now, because when the time comes and he stares off into space with some willing to remember, it won't be him anymore. I love him more than I love most things in life, and sometimes it takes a jolt to my system to realize this. I am scared of the day when I can't call him, see him or touch him. I am what he made me, and I love him all the more for that because I love what and who I am.

these winter days from summer weeks
cold bones and foreign languages
joking, smiles and "juegos de mano"

they are what is keeping me forward
i can not live without
what has made me grow

i am only monument if you are my base
i am only legend if you can built me up
i am only leader if you tell those behind to follow
i am only
if you are too

i will be this man, resolute and strong,
only
with you always at my back

Te lo prometo, mi amor y mi admiraçion para tu nunca dispareçiera.

Did you know?

2008-09-21T11:55:00.000-07:00

The whole idea American kids had about digging through the earth to get to China doesn't really work. The only part in the Americas that you'd be able to dig straight through and get to China is the southern portion of South America. Take that United States children!

farce

2008-09-20T13:14:00.000-07:00

this writing reminds me

of a lesser man

with a bigger purpose

a man without a purpose is divine

a man making his purpose is a god

a city burning blue

2008-09-02T14:52:00.000-07:00

goading, the stares I gave those around me
they were all me,
senseless and sleep-deprived,
yet still in line.
the new subject emerges,
centric and valiant
withholding and armory

goodbye before a greeting
so that everything
needs not be lived in fear of an ending

hardly.

picture all people
they found the sun,
as though in their palms lies us,
and we were born through a process of reverse psychology
in which we were told
expressly
that we have no right
to advocate our possible purpose.
by this, we rose
defiant, like
all clay soldiers do
in deep ruts of red earth
in waiting
in somnolent wonder
in anger

picture all people
with fingers; twisted toward
their own ends
and noses deep in worlds

picture people, all of them
in the fingerprint of existence,
decidedly festooned with assailant artillery
intermediates

picture us, the people
finding our direction
and obeying the unspoken

picture us, the people,
against a grey sky,
holding a light to the swirling gas
for a firestorm to take us under

picture us, people-less.

Taking too long

2008-07-18T13:16:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry I haven't written anything here in forever. Honestly it's because no one is reading this, so there's not really a point.
Goodbye. I might write again in a while.

a new name for the season

2008-06-22T22:38:00.000-07:00

no progress or reason
a sunstruck time of year
what we live to choose
we aim to forget

when i extended
like a pack of wolves, in all directions
probing for a weakness
she became a brushfire
encircling me in flames
reversing my intent

i sat across from her
at the table in the kitchen
and wrote furiously
trying to ignore the rationale
incumbent upon me

"it's the past you will learn to hold dear,
for there is only one way to learn"

her words, shaped like fishing hooks
caught my earlobe, pulling me in
and my pen stopped.
this morning,
just past the turning of a day,
there is a new name for the season.

spirited, no lack

2008-06-12T14:53:00.000-07:00

when we ran the beach
our burdens became our freedoms

she ran, and looked back
to make sure i was following
and smiled
the water lapping at her feet
her, lapping at the water

i stopped
took a photo
and kept pursuit

she conquered rocks
and defeated waves
with a push of her legs
the air moved
there, in her maw
exhaling
as she mused upon the shore
i mused upon her
and the shore held little regard
for either of us

simple sandstone
on a dwindling lake
alone, today
i've seen no one but her
reveling
in the glory of a sunbeam
or the visceral voices of grasses
as they said their part

with a flick of her tail
she dismissed both
and went back to sleep.

i love you dearly.

"the earth and a beast's understanding aren't to be discounted
but admired, for they are ephemeral as the edges of clouds"

-anon

liberts sumus

2008-06-06T21:40:00.000-07:00

a wind
finds its way between me
my finger wrapped around yours
stationary
and comfortably immobile
and
complete

i divided me by me
and saw the result,
a complex of insults
and analysis at the edge

my vulcan, beyond eruption
i've seen the result
and the flames,
licking,
follow.

a straight face
bars none
when brought to judgement
literal license
in place of the former devil;
deviation

ink-bound aviaries
filled with song
they lack the force
it takes to bring one to tears

i hear them only
when i pay attention
which i've forgotten to do lately.

lasiter

2008-06-01T14:40:00.000-07:00

she sits at the restaurant table, a lipstick-stained smile on her over-white face. wrinkles pollute her aged skin, her hands shake nonviolently as she reaches for the menu, trying with strained eyes to read the text. she can't seem to read it, but she forgot her glasses at home. she holds the menu at an arms length, then closer to her face, trying and failing to find the focal point at which the words describing the food start to make sense. her smile jitters like the morning coffee addict, feeling disappointed in herself for seeming like such a hopeless case. she's wearing a white shirt and some white tennis shoes to match, but she doesn't realize that the socks aren't the same because the pattern on them is too faint for her to see anymore. a disheartened blush spreads along her skin, and she feels woefully vulnerable to a snickering, obvious observation. glancing nervously down again at the menu, frustrated, she can make out the words "CALIFORNIA ALT" typed in bold. the menu shakes in her hands. she orders it and looks away, saddened, embarrassed. she picks up the newspaper already laying on the table, and the thin paper flaps loudly in the quietness of an empty restaurant. her lips jitter again, and she starts to flip through the pages, glancing at blurry pictures of disaster, famine, love, money. she tries to will her hands to stop shaking again. they don't, and her heart sinks just a little bit further.

she keeps a soft face for me, though. she smiled at me through deeply rouged lips and asks for more ice tea. she thanks me, her lipstick flecked teeth visible for another moment before disappearing again into her mouth. she's miserable. old age has broken her. it has taken her pride, her spine and her will. she sits, ashamed and wanting to leave, waiting for a meal that takes too long to arrive. her wrinkles betray her imitation happiness, describing ruthlessly her internal emotions. i feel sorry for her. i want to cry for her, tell her that it's alright to be the way that she is, that everyone ends up this way, that she's just another example of the effects of age, that she is no less beautiful because of her uncontrollable motion. i can't bring myself to say anything, as the words choke my throat, taking a u-turn at my trachea and forcing themselves back down. her white apparel burns itself into my retinas, along with all the other helpless people i see.

she is no less beautiful, but i do nothing.

re: distance

2008-05-30T00:21:00.000-07:00

chance and perfect timing walk hand in hand.

vex

2008-05-24T21:55:00.000-07:00

the circle song
of loaded levels
and lesbian lovers late at night
speaking of sex
stand stolidly
as a comparison
of composition
and a command

triple constant
her corona
constipated captains
as they captured the coast

the boat rocks rigid,
cavorting capellas
streaming banners,

rise,
Miss. Erie,
rise.

scratching of fingernails
against the exponent
the artificial surface
plastic chairs holding them still
yearn for the shore

pinion him down
consolidation
fear the facts
for they forge fenced fortresses.

distance

2008-05-22T22:23:00.000-07:00

no.

what if the pain took too long to get used to? it's going to be a long-term adjustment. my war isn't over. i'm still fighting the better cause. my eyes aren't tear-filled, there is pressure in the bite of a storm. a swirling chain of events with an arrow straight down. his heart stopped, and they rushed to save him, hands full of syringes and scalpels.
she's so beautiful sometimes i feel like i'm going to jump out and tell her. she reached out and touched my hand once and all i wanted to tell her that the only thing that had crossed my mind the entire day was kissing her. brushing lips. thin skin against thin skin, her eyes closed as she sees sparks, just like television. but that's just imagination, it's not going to happen, it's not going to take place, not here, not now, not for a while. her smiles break sunrises, each hour of every day somewhere new. i want to be the land she looks at, she shines upon, in the morning, whispering comforting feelings.
she broke me with the knife edge of her glance.
there's nothing like good acting to remind you that someone's not in your life.

quickdraw

2008-05-18T22:09:00.000-07:00

the behemoth awakens!

I'm not entirely sure why, but watching every second of this was completely worth it.

episode

2008-05-18T16:44:00.000-07:00

stasis in the bathtub
as the water sloshes

these things go without saying
a murder weapon formed from a needle
my eyes find ways around its extremity

two days and the world is gone
no more victim
a new face on the clock
turns the skin blue
like nitrogen is in movies

i pretend
she defends
we dissent
and when the photos are developed
her finger is twisted around mine
as if to say
meaningless words
that are as sharp as razors
but as soft as the breeze.

dayne

2008-05-16T15:40:00.001-07:00

i can stutter, i can break speech.

i become the walls around me every day.

i can pretend, i can falsify,

and yet today i stand an epic.

the pots and pans

seem to hold hands

they strike the meaning dull.

an older voice

such meaningless choice

and burn the house in full.

driftwood becomes monuments.

by and by

2008-05-14T19:08:00.000-07:00

it is more than overcast
the sun is simply gone

on the news:
once fraudulent phrases
no longer pollute the atmosphere
there is nothing left to hate or resent
than a gluttonous politico
with cold feet at every idea

finally, my music is loud enough
to drown out the sound of the teleprompter
completely
i can enjoy the sun on my face
as it reflects from the clouds

imagery flashes on screens
i am ashamed of my specie
all they do is yell
and point accusations,
like guns,
into one another's faces.

infuriated conversation stops
when we talk around a barrel
we calm
and focus on the lips of our control

alarmingly

2008-05-13T22:45:00.000-07:00

my lazy pupils
and an ashtray
or kerosene lighter fluid
yet no one uses
such dangerous objects anymore

the darkroom
or the morgue
the wind blew in
eviscerated by midnight
every tree in the woods

the all-consuming stump
keeps its trees underground

the past:
flames like laughter
stand-ins
for more intelligent suns.
they licked at the heels of oaks
and spit on the toes of pines
telling them to uproot
and dance

the soreness of their spindly legs
in constant transit
started to seem
like an elegy

yes.
it was an elegy.

the morning,
after the blanket firestorms
compounded the fracture
or dehydrated limbs

they consequently broke
and the giant had combed one patch
a circular, saddening send
too goodbye skies
when the burnt tree
roots itself in a cloud.

asunder

2008-05-12T18:27:00.000-07:00

dadaist thoughts atop a horse
liberate the captor
and fuse both elements
to each their own.

the bastard child and the mother
the steed and its crop
atrophy in all present
and they fall like an empire.

riding vapors
disconcert the follower
their leader is a liar
their ideas are aspired
a mercer acquired
what can't be desired

the smell of bremlin
ascent of ephemera
incensed, a soldier
who pushed the boulder loose
only to discover its origins
were lacking.

effaced, the mother's face
a thought of the meal to come
no longer the aviary
or a harlot defined

every night
the friction burns her thighs
and she conceives
plans for escape
with the meager coins she makes

donc, ceci, ça prend trops de temps
et il n'y aura pas d'explication
pour leur dèpart.

her bastard sun plots revenge
bright eyed,
quick witted.
decidedly a visionary
that illuminates past the age of five.

thus the illegitimate dawn rises
at the sound of wicked touch
kissing toenails
and whistling tunes
with a blade palmed
towards the enraged footman
between his ribs.

in this way a child
makes the fool his purse.
and a flight from
tears unshown

Fast cars

2008-05-11T15:37:00.000-07:00

symbol of people
red and blue lights
sirens no longer at sea

bystander complex
drives on,
watching and nothing doing.

crumples of steal
a drivers life
like a thief.
up, blue bright
sirocco winds out of place.

home they don't know he's gone yet
home they are still waiting too long
home he's still not answering calls

eyes averted from earth
towards the nondescript
a maybe smile
what the body will miss most
the mind has not yet grasped

he will not wake
with a beating heart.

bridge

2008-05-11T09:41:00.000-07:00

the cavalier
douses the spark with compliments
and carefully lacks subjection
interjecting
on the origin of circles.

a camera lens captures the act
tabloid spin
and burn out the eyes with cigars

the introspective eye
is that
which pollutes a fluted mind.

suntoucher

2008-05-11T03:10:00.000-07:00

is this customary, an introduction?
it is 6 in the morning
i lack sleep
but lack feeling
and all my thoughts
revolve around loss.

the windmill of dawn
wakes the wandering
and remains in motion.

lo, i fall asleep to birds