The Flying Goat

The moment you're standing at the urinal

2011-03-15T00:50:00.000-06:00

and you realize your underwear is on backward,
the fly is in the wrong place,
(or the right place, if you were in the stall sitting down,
instead of standing at the urinal
which is where you are).

You fumble around in there until your best friend
sidles up,
realizes you're having trouble finding your penis
and laughs--
makes a joke about tweezers
and a microscope.

And it's not like you can explain to him
that your boxers are backward
even though you've known each other since you were boys,
sharing a urinal in the neighborhood park
swordfighting,
and it's not until now that you think about how weird that was
and how weird it is that it wasn't weird
because it would totally be weird now,
wouldn't it?

You're already in the eleventh grade,
and boys aren't supposed to play like that
(with other boys)
anymore.

Those toys are for
the girls,
even though you've only been to second base,
that one time in the dark closet,
when your friends dared you during truth or dare
(and you can't back down from a dare,
and you don't want to anyway)
and you both sheepishly walked into the closet,
knowing that you wanted the lights to be on
because you had never seen what a girl
covers up with her shirt
and she had never seen
what you tuck into your swimsuit.

The bell rings and you're late for class,
so you fumble some more,
your friend still laughing
his ass off,
even though he knows you're bigger than him,
and you rush out without washing your hands
or saying goodbye to the memory
of swordfights and dark closets.

Bitterness

2010-02-27T18:13:00.000-07:00

A single mug of coffee
steams from the table
the smell of morning drifting through
an empty household.

A lonely soul sips the bitterness
of the day ahead
scowls at the bite, then smiles,
for something has prickled his ears.

The mug reflects a distorted desk,
a small lamp, laptop,
a cell phone ringing all too infrequently,
friendships sliding down the table,
through the floor,
into the very body of the Earth
where they can be easily forgotten,
ignored, vilified ...

We can dance on the graves
of our memories
until sooner or later the pipes burst
and worlds once separated--
by cold metal words
fences or righteousness, glory,
or conflict or peace--
flow together as one
to carve out the rock
into the pattern of our lives.

A single cup of now-cold coffee
lingers, lonely on the table,
for an alert and bright mind
has left the building,
and dropped into the fleeing river
the distorted desk and computer,
in a world made slightly less bitter.

Fame

2009-11-22T21:40:00.003-07:00

All of the beautiful art in the world
can't compensate for a broken heart
beaten down by dejection,
degradation a daily routine
until the straw breaks.

Face it:
we want to be shared
we shout spurts of wisdom
tweet, blog, digg, and stumble,
and we build a reputation,
build a nation of believers
in snippets of understanding.

So I will continue to shout,
140 characters at a time,
from the rooftops;
continue to publish 500 word essays
adding, ever so slightly,
to the digital body that records the human experience.

*Thanks to twitterfriends.org for inspiring this piece of corporate art

Together

2009-11-07T10:15:00.000-07:00

All the honesty I ever need
is written on the face of a criminal
caught in time
stuck with the clock's tick-tock
and the rock of the floor
when the warden click-clangs closed
the door to an adjacent cell.

And the smell is horrendous:
the stench of rotting days
and wasted time, of burned potential
and burdened families coping with
the incomparable loss
of faith in one's own loved ones.

People are all created equally capable
of committing countless horrors,
the chilling reality that we are most defenseless
against the depravity of our own minds
and strangers light the way
for other men to reach their end.

Until there is a
stop
to nonsense,
and dastardly deeds no longer need undoing,
when love replaces lust
and the last star is burned to dust,
can we rise together and face the world and say:
We were Here,
and We changed Something.

Yom Kippur Is Late

2009-09-27T20:50:00.003-06:00

The elders say that tonight is a special night,
for tonight our God on High
seals the Book of Life,
the record of all those chosen for life,
happiness, good spirit, love, wealth,
poverty, hate, war, famine, lust,
greed, honesty, gluttony, peace,
until not even God knows
how to separate the Heavens from the Earth.

But what if our high god
becomes frightened of the awesome power
and dread unleashed?

And how can we know what kind of happiness
waits in store for us?

Perhaps it is the joy that comes
from the discovery of a new idea,
or the excitement upon discovering
a new source of love,
or perhaps the glory of basking
in the beauty of the Earth.

Perhaps it is the kind of happiness
that comforts a mourner
in the calm, dark hours after the tears stop falling,
or the pride in having overcome great odds
to make a difference to a single person,
or perhaps it is merely the comfort in knowing
that even the deepest of tragedies
has a greater Purpose.

Come Watch The Sunrise!

2009-09-27T20:37:00.002-06:00

Why is the alarm clock
so loud this morning?

And why do sneakers squeak
so loudly on the pavement,
pondering the persecution of souls
in far-fetched fantasies,
distantly wondering
how to believe in a god
who believes in Damnation.

And who could believe
what was witnessed today?

Spiritual fitness is hard to come by
when the remains of ragged
rugged memories,
like handcuffs that tighten with time's grip,
threaten to pull the Dreamer
into the Pits of Hell.

It's hard to be a dreamer
when the alarm clock is buzzing
so loudly this morning,
when the pools of darkness
collect silently together
and the heaviness falls on the eyes
and the eyes see through the World;
where exhilaration at the prospect
of impossibility
crashes into clouds and kings and kangaroos
who tell tall tales about adventure:
love Life
and God.

The clouds gather,
a storm brews
hot tea on a winter morning;
waiting to overwhelm the world
with the whistle of boiling, downpouring water:
a whistle that cannot be perceived
over the persistent nagging noise
of an impatient alarm clock.

The Astronomer

2009-09-23T22:20:00.003-06:00

In the beginning,
there was darkness:
the ultimate ignorance of the Universe
exploding with white light
expanding infinitely;
definitely;
resolutely;
everything that is, that ever was
that ever could be in range
of a telescope
or an astute eye scanning the Heavens.

The limited vision of the astronomer
digitally enhanced upon a screen,
the lights deflect, reflect,
dance upon his face,
and now he is crying out to the Universe to save him,
but the Universe cannot hear him.

So instead he sits alone,
scrunched between a desk chair
and an illuminated rectangle
that contains all of the secrets of the Universe
if only he can learn to speak Her language.

The more he works,
the farther he seems from his goal:
will we ever unlock the secrets?
Why are we here, and how in Heaven or Hell did we get here?
Can you make someone love you?
How many stars are there in the night sky?
Is there a Creator?
What happens when we die?

Overwhelmed by the questions,
the astronomer falls asleep,
his mind begging for rest,
but instead creates a hazy sub-world
where demons play tricks from the clouds
and nothing is defined by the laws of physics:
a pure anarchy of the mind,
as he sees a ladder before him
and climbs
and climbs
and climbs
without knowing quite why
or how he reached the top cloud
and there is the Angel
waiting to wrestle.

And He knows what he doesn't know
and nobody knows why
they're on the top of the cloud
grappling, screaming, writhing
hoping, wishing,
praying for the victory.

But there is no end, no blessing,
for the dream is over before the astronomer knows
what has happened to him
and he continues to explore the depths of the Heavens
and the skies continue speaking to him
as he tries to learn to listen:
What happens when we die?

Whoa! He speaks!

2007-03-29T21:16:00.001-06:00

This is probably the first time I've ever written in prose here.

And it will be my last post at this address. This site has given me a wonderful creative outlet, and it will stand as a body of a lot of the personal work I did during high school. This was a place where I could write anything; sometimes, a select person even knew what I was talking about. It's been an absolutely wonderful ride, and I continue to try to evolve as a writer and as a person.

But the years of the Flying Goat have faded, and I have combined my prose and verse into a single blog at Time Undone. Thanks to everyone who has visited here and commented; I hope the new site continues to please.

***UPDATE: 9.27.2009***

As you can see, I've begun publishing to this website again. It was easier than starting a new one. I hope that we'll watch some of my writing evolve as my life does.

Imperfection

2006-02-05T00:38:00.000-07:00

Each sunrise,
dark reds and purples penetrating black skies,
fleeting in beauty:
a daily loss.

For, though perfect as we were,
we know not how to capture
overpowering hues of red.

How much I wanted one instant in time—
one soft, reflective cloud,
to hover,
and not burst.

Alas, though memory and photograph
reflect one instant eternally,
a continuous moment in time,
the wind must blow;
the sun must rise.

And yet—we may still find the sunrise beautiful
though only in distant memory,
so too are we a remembrance
on gray, sunless days:
perfect memories the silver lining
in a darkening sky.

Breaking Chains

2006-01-14T17:57:00.000-07:00

A muted TV mumbles
behind a door
as if from a motel
empty but for weary bodies
looking for repose
and fleeting pleasure.

A preacher, fearing divinity,
the early morning creeping up,
red ready to streak the unborn day,
witnessing countless immoralities
through the blind camera lens.

Lest we forget why
we are groping the dark walls
in existence's cave,
we extend meaningless banter
and poorly delivered speeches
beyond rationality
and selectively forget phrases
we wish to ignore.

Regardless of sorrow,
apology or joy,
or simply intolerable attachment,
we lose that which we try hardest
to protect and prevent loss.

O, how irony surrounds us,
the human mind fickle:
a deceptive villain,
hiding behind Reason and Conscience
and the fallacy of the heart.

Subject to the whims of synapses,
we drift between happiness and fear,
never remembering the question
while groping desperately for an answer.

Mutual dependence:
a single-sighted beast,
beating Reason into submission,
failing to understand the more complex,
animal instincts,
inborn desires reign
leaving only two answers.

Can we continue down a path
of rocks and tar,
a road paved in pain
and pocked with teardrops,
lined in white,
dark uncertainty creeping inward?

Or must we swerve,
leaving behind rocks and tar,
shattering the bright lines of Conscience,
and asking the most basic of questions?

No, no.
We do not dare break Love's chains
for they,
like Satan to his Maker,
define Reason and Conscience.

Then must Conscience
become like a muted preacher’s picture,
delivering a predictable, silent message
to the masses of conflict and pain
that invariably dwell within.

After the Rainfall

2005-07-25T19:38:00.000-06:00

The sweet smell
of recent rain
and wet pine
drifts heavily,
creeping through
not-quite-shut windows,
crawling underneath doors,
thousands of scented insects
preparing for the invasion of memory.

Perfection: life
reflected in a shattered mirror,
shards of memories
sting wandering souls
lost forever in the forest of the past,
never knowing
that reliving yesterday
is but early death.

Never again to forget
that dusty trails
and less-traveled paths
remain so for reasons
we have not access to;
Convention: more than a net
to catch a falling heart,
but a close confidant,
eager to stroll intertwined
and revel in the sweet smell
of recent rain.

Lost Shadow

2005-04-05T17:48:00.000-06:00

A sulking shadow
lurks on the wall
not to be disturbed
and never to dance.

The silhouette of a hand
holds a pen
able only to scribble
a few words
of conflict and grief
before resting on hard darkness.

And within a short period,
the shadow loses its form
molding itself into new shapes,
never forgetting its first figure.

Memories of past experience
carry dull feelings
with sharp lessons,
for our real teachers
are the shadows
of past pain and pleasure.

If we choose to forget--
to repress that which hurts to recall--
catastrophe lurks,
and unlike the lost shadow,
our forms remain constant:
hard, unwieldy, and dark.

River

2005-04-02T21:05:00.000-07:00

A small, dimly lit room
houses a broken soul
in a city
where even sunsets
seem bleak, dreary, and foreboding.

Silent confessions breed
no forgiveness
as solitude's empty forest
echoes with fading footsteps
two paths beaten in
with but one exit.

Tangled masses of web
trap unsuspecting, helpless victims
in Nature's merciful harmony
the ebb and flow of Truth
shapes a formless rock.

Even if we find a way out of the web,
jumping over the riverbank
and running from Natural harshness
we end up cold
in a dark room
watching a dry sunset.

Soft Silence

2005-02-11T09:42:00.000-07:00

Soft silence peeks
from dark corners
come hushes of nothingness
squeals of despair
and the pang of lost love.

Four letters with little meaning—
the focus of many lives
the joy and sorrow of a million songs
and the cause of a thousand aches.

With every benefit,
a thousand stabs of lost bliss,
a world of painful reaction
to silence.

Conclusions may not be reached
when questions dare not be asked,
fear of discovery tatters
Truth's resting place.

The only certainty
is that beauty and pain
eventually fade,
and tears cleanse only
that which may be cleaned.

Lost

2005-01-27T20:34:00.000-07:00

Cold hands grip tightly
that which none will take
the fear of revelation
terrorizing meek minds.

Harsh winds carry words
sounds of broken thoughts
travel incessantly
stopping only where
damage may be done.

A dark, colorless sky
shrouds public sin
and magnifies pain reflected inward.

Stars fail to penetrate
the dark cloak
where the twisted wretches rule
and fear is the law.

The doors ahead are shut in terror
those behind lead to cold light
and shattered memories.

Trudging ahead, wondering
questioning all that is dear
fatigued from introspection
lost in a labyrinth of thought.

Icy words
leave festering wounds
for healing is impossible
when the source of pain is lost.

Walls

2005-01-23T16:38:00.000-07:00

A soft ballad
welcomes warm feelings;
dejected memories
flood a river of dreams.

Rising voices
gather the songs of ghosts,
bring forgotten emotions
and elusive spirits
alive with vengeance.

Fear overpowers all
words of courage,
but flimsy walls
set up only to fall
provide the comfort of boundaries.

The last melodic note
rings heavy with
absolute, vivid truths,
and the songs of yesterday
are but cardboard walls
guarding against the future.

Wisdom

2004-12-28T22:27:00.000-07:00

A dream
takes by surprise
an unsuspecting victim--
specific events elusive
while emptiness remains.

And pain sits on her golden throne
probing, scratching, tearing
but, cleverly, never reveals the source
of her great power.

Poets and dreamers sit idly,
rarely create but for themselves--
but what of their understanding of the heart
and their easy access to beauty?
Must we always shun
ones who know less?
For ignorance is bliss
and only the content may be wise.

The stars swirl around us--
lose us in their frivolous importance,
and without the night sky,
on what foundations
could we build our dreams?

Sometimes

2004-12-03T20:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I sit in coaches of clouds
and ride the wind
from tears to radiance.

But the breeze is not always gentle,
nor are clouds forever soft
when lightning crashes,
white changes to gray,
and I free-fall from the Heavens.

Landing hard,
I cannot nurse my wounds forever,
for dwelling on the past
is a living death--
a festering pile of memories
marked with a skull.

And sometimes,
all I've left is a pen and paper
accompanied by clear, crisp thoughts,
and broken bones.

Heavy Dreams

2004-11-19T21:49:00.000-07:00

The year's first flakes
open my eyes to the beauty surrounding me;
the soft padding of paws
and shared warmth--
shields from the soft storm.

Crisp crunches outside
anticipate your arrival,
but every time I throw open my door
for a warm welcome
and quiet celebration,
I'm greeted by the hardest of silences,
empty hugs,
and the songs of whimsical dreams.

The happiness of the fantasy
weighs heavily on my conscious mind,
a nagging reminder of impossibility
and permanent unfulfilled desire.

While hope, need
desire, lust, and pain
converge in one stinging moment,
the gears continue their work,
metal teeth grinding, locking,
then snapping apart.

The tears of tomorrow's lost possibilities
purify present pain;
finally allow me to rest
and listen to the soft patter of paws
enveloped by smothering silence.

Heroism

2004-10-25T11:06:00.000-06:00

There's nothing epic about one battle,
nor something heroic in one act,
nor something so inescapably tragic
that the pace of life
even slows minutely.

Those we love to hate
come back to haunt us;
not for their wrongdoing,
but our own.

Only the truly wise--
the mighty verbose heroes
with white beards
and brighter eyes--
will ever direct us.

Then, the only dilemma becomes
how we decide to listen.

Upstairs

2004-10-17T11:49:00.000-06:00

An old needle circles a warped record,
memories of simplicity, anxiety, and love
pour into a dark room;
reminiscent notes fill the emptiness.

Downstairs, he swirls his glass;
the more he tries to forget,
the more his troubled, uncontrolled mind
has to flog him with.

Familiar weapons in expected places,
quick moments of unintentional,
powerful understanding,
as our eyes accidentally meet
over and over again.

But upstairs,
the same distorted sound emanates
from dry speakers
and falls on weathered ears,

Until he can take no more,
and his tears weigh on the vinyl,
twinkling stars on the black sheet,
they grind the wretched sound
to a final, sandpaper stop.

Party

2004-09-26T17:40:00.000-06:00

Ghosts loom in the darkness
dancing above my head
waiting for the key moment
to pound the tambourine.

Freezing to feverish in five seconds,
I throw the covers off
and pray for a restful sleep,
free from the taunting gathering.

But my ignorance and denial
would keep me unconscious during the day
if I could somehow make these dreams go away.

Until I talk to the ghosts,
quiet each individually,
I'll be forced to watch
their horrible, happy party,
and listen to the jingle of the tambourine.

Missing Piece

2004-09-12T13:27:00.000-06:00

What you tell me can never,
never effect me as deeply
as when our eyes meet,
and a smile crosses your lips.

For how can one describe
something as natural,
and as magical,
as a painted horizon at dawn?

Nature has produced much:
soft evening rains,
dense green forests,
cool flurries,
and quiet thunderstorms.

And Her foresight,
Her perfect plan
has let me hold your hand
and watch the rain fall,
feel the thunder roll through both of us.

Though the sunset is fleeting,
and her beauty unique in perfection,
She may always be summoned
in memory and photograph.

The sun finally falls,
and I gaze at the stars
in your eyes.

My heartbeat slows
and your smile,
like many nights before,
tells me what words cannot.

Upward Plea

2004-09-05T21:58:00.000-06:00

So natural to sit,
staring up into impenetrable black,
until the first star screams,
allows it's unfiltered light
to flow freely through my dreams.

What jealousy,
what desire burns!
That I can see its light,
but it knows naught of mine.

I've met the learned astronomer,
and we spoke until the sun rose,
and even he could not help
but marvel at the birth of dawn.

And, as you well know,
the new day brings
another chance to finally shine,
and blind the dark
with brightness.

Then, and only then,
may we look at the night's first light,
listen to her cries,
and love her profound,
twinkling ignorance.

Before and After

2004-08-29T20:12:00.000-06:00

Is there not one place on Earth
yet unseen by one Man?
Could there be but more--
more miraculous jewels
or pools of untapped knowledge?

Is there not one way
to explore the depths of the heart?
For we know drastically less
about what we write the most.

Is there not one rule
upon which we may all agree,
though we find it hard to believe
in what we have not created?

Can we yet see
the glaring light up ahead,
which blinds us so profoundly
that we still believe in sight?

And yet,
it seems we now have all of the answers,
but only some of the questions.

Paradise

2004-08-28T21:34:00.000-06:00

The moon rises
long after the sun has fallen,
and I finally breathe
the new night air.

One cannot help but think
in such a paradise.
One cannot help but believe
that nature is perfect,
and her children may someday follow.

Now, even the most stubborn,
ruthless pessimist admits to
fond memories of autumns past.

And One finally closes his eyes
as he becomes whole again,
growing into the Earth
and reaching toward the sky
in absolute, final
perfection.

Starlight

2004-08-15T22:27:00.000-06:00

Shooting stars cut
through the otherwise perfect,
dark sky
and for just an instant,
she bleeds silver.

Driving down an empty road,
mesmerized by the abyss,
a vacuum up ahead,
and nothing worth mentioning behind.

But such things aren't worth remembering,
as no matter what road we take,
we all eventually make it home.

In the meantime,
some of us are lucky enough
to watch silver drip
from a blank sky.

Reflections

2004-08-13T22:17:00.000-06:00

Blazing, he reddens,
cools as he slowly falls,
losing his grip,
sliding down the sky.

Before leaving,
giving one last hurrah,
a slew of every color,
lightly brushed
onto the darkening sky.

If we only knew his secret--
if we could just rise and fall,
but be remembered
and sung about.

If our reflections could but touch
satiate one burning desire
or quench a raging thirst,
we should be so lucky.

And as we roam the dark,
endless hallways of our defeat,
we forget the sunset,
and must be satisfied
to wait until tomorrow.

Companion

2004-08-10T18:26:00.000-06:00

Slow jazz fades to a quiet stop
just as the memory of your words
and smile will soon.

Each raindrop pelting my window
reminds me of a shared moment,
and I'm desperately searching for a rainbow
in a darkening sky.

My thoughts wander aimlessly
and I'm left to sit and wonder--
wonder how this all happened so fast.

There was never any doubt;
we just jumped hand in hand,
and now we're wondering
how the ground came up so fast.

Love in the fast lane
just didn't work
and I guess starting with love
wasn't such a good idea after all.

If Only

2004-07-22T22:44:00.000-06:00

If we could face Yesterday
with Today's experience
we would invite
daily, divine miracles.

For we are only treading water,
trying to move forward
while constantly forced downward.

If only we could truly understand,
and fully use our experiences
instead of being weighed down by them,
using them as weapons against demons,
demons we have not yet met.

We can make the choice
to whip or be whipped by our past.

But by looking to Tomorrow,
we can face Yesterday
with Today's experience.

Starting Over

2004-07-22T22:41:00.000-06:00

As each day creeps by
each minute chiseling away,
breaking apart a healing heart.

They say what doesn't kill you
will eventually make you stronger,
but I'm on my knees--
weaker than ever--
wishing for Death's sweet release.

And I'm here praying
yearning for a clear signal,
and a guided light
in this pitch black forest of despair.

Clutching about randomly,
I waited for what was coming to me
but fell asleep while waiting
and a dream cloaked my mind from what is
and what can never be.

Maybe now I've seen what's up ahead,
or maybe I just made it up,
but at least I know what I want now.

I want to rip the clock off the wall
smash the glass
cut up my fingers
bleed and scream into time
then delicately spin the hands backward
a million times or more.

And then We will be again.
Then I can look into your eyes
and flash you a smile
as if our past doesn't bother us
and our future doesn't worry us.

Loneliness

2004-07-11T17:47:00.000-06:00

The sun bleeds over mountains,
plays with red shadows on white walls.

Soft music and white light
outline a cold room
with a small table
graced by one candle,
one plate,
and two glasses of red wine.

The only sounds,
apart from the symphony,
are the shuffling of two feet
and the striking of silver on delicate china.
Fine white linen sheets cover
soft, perpetually tidy beds.

Now red fades to purple
and finally turns black,
as the stars peek out
but are still seen only by few.

The symphony's soft melody escalates,
reaches toward Heaven--
falls--
As the world daintily sips
the sweet nectar of slumber.

At Least

2004-07-08T19:37:00.000-06:00

Your last cold embrace,
our painful parting words
bring silent blessings upon you,
eternal wishes for good things.

Nothing cold can stay,
for long, at least,
and at long last,
I finally think I understand.

But how much more can there be to comprehend?
We're both still finding our way,
hugging the endless cold walls
of a dark and foggy tunnel.

We were there together,
facing the world,
taking it on
one piece at a time--
What I see now
and should have seen so long ago
is that we're facing opposite ways
against two different worlds.

So maybe we weren't together in our aims,
but at least I had your hand to hold
and your arms to hold me.

Simple Questions

2004-06-20T20:54:00.000-06:00

Hands work diligently
on a task learned long ago,
Never pausing to reflect
never thinking to ask.

Outside, the Sun bakes dried out Earth
mud turns to dirt,
dirt goes to dust,
until the next succulent rainfall.

Floating through our daily lives,
we hardly have the chance
nor even the desire
to wonder anymore.

And when any question of significance
is answered by twelve more,
at what point to we give up?

Enough already!
This cycle of futility has baffled the best of thinkers
and wandering minds alike.

But a pale pair of hands
attached to gray eyes and hard features
works without thoughtful interruption
or meaningful interaction.

While the answers to the simplest questions
are found right there—
below our noses
staring us down
and laughing.

New Chances

2004-06-14T18:32:00.000-06:00

A fresh, lighted face
greets me as you pass
and warm summer eyes
burn off storm clouds.

I've never met one so like myself
and yet so new—
so utterly different
that "us" is unbelievable.

But why shouldn't we be happy?
Our company invaluable
and eternally enjoyable.

Now memories flood back
and I cannot remember a single time
when comfort has so reigned
and precautions have simply observed.

Love—
it's a silly thing
four letters used to describe the unknown.
No more than a black hole
into which we all must fall.

So, I guess,
if all else fails,
we can start with love
and move from there.

That’s OK

2004-06-07T13:35:00.000-06:00

Calling after you,
Yearning for an answer,
Begging for a phone call
But all I get—
All I see
are swift feet
and flowing hairs.

Getting to sleep,
Wondering if you’re alright,
Pondering possible situations
and just hoping for the best.

Alright, so I overstepped my bounds.
Looked you in the eye
and leaped over the edge.

But you know that I’d not jump
for just anybody.
Only those whose love
Devotion
and Companionship
has allowed me to confirm
that my efforts are not wasted—
And nothing is ever wasted on you.

My heart bleeds
a hundred times per minute
Ninety-nine when you’re gone
One-o-one when you’re down.

Everything ends in a final,
Cathartic moment.
Life is a series of climaxes
and mistakes
with forgotten Nonsense in between

Love, action, will
bring us to our highest points
and beat us down to our lowest.

And I’m below ground now,
Pleading desperately to hear
two little Words
followed by three more
in an eternal poem,
Pure drivel written by dreamers
and believers.

A pile of worries a mile high
puts no strain on solid ground,
But the wind blows one grain of sand away
and all comes crashing down.

For two words,
acting as paperweights,
or steel and flint
reset my priorities
and allow me to finally sleep.

Love and care
Pain and sorrow
Hope and despair
Will all return tomorrow,

when the ghosts of memories
and songs remembered
haunt even our deepest fears
which two quick words
can once again suppress.

And I, looking for closure
slam my head on the pillow
and listen.

High Notes

2004-05-30T21:47:00.000-06:00

From the back alleys
behind the jazz and country clubs
echoes of the pain of past love
flowing from apartment to mansion
singing to pewter and gold alike
in persistent, eternal greeting.

A whisper of air
carried on dark wings
toward a mysterious end.

Peaking high notes on a lone sax
desperately wail to the willing
and bury warmly in the sand.

The music ceases but its memory remains
tormenting those craving more
thick silence devours a street where
Darkness is broken only by the occasional lamp
or neon sign over a man quietly working
in a shop that’s long since closed
leaving a city to ponder.

I Can't

2004-05-29T17:23:00.000-06:00

I can wake you up
But I can’t make you walk,
And I can open your eyes
But I can’t make you see
Things you cannot see
I can’t force you to believe my words
Or my unspoken emotion.

I can love you
With all my heart
But you can’t return that love
Or, at least,
You can’t admit it.

I wish I could fix things
Be your handyman with a magic wand
On a white stallion
With a suit of armor
And a brown tool belt.

Of my heart, at least
You hold a piece
A piece which I cannot live without
But which may eventually,
And not without pain,
Mend itself.

My eyes water—
On the verge of tears
And my heart aches for what is
What isn’t
And what can never be

I can’t make you see
What I want you to see
And I can’t always say
Anything
You want to hear…

But I can always love you
Be by your side
A pillar in your crumbling life
Until,
From neglect,
I begin crumbling too.

Music

2004-05-27T14:26:00.000-06:00

The planet spins
In time to the music
Syncopating with the sun
Harmonizing with the moon
Pouring souls out to the stars
A movement of the present universe
A mere note in time’s eternal song.

In relation,
We are but ants who think
Ourselves kings

But what we know is verified only by us
What we see limited by sense
We are but bacteria in the science lab
Of the Gods.

Emancipation from hell desired
Every minute one step closer to
Final,
Oblivious,
Eternal
Bliss…

Sealed Lips

2004-05-26T21:43:00.000-06:00

To hold in the heart
What cannot be known
Pains the bearer of a
Wonderful,
Terrible secret.

The chains of necessity
Restrain violent urges of declaration.

What I want is unclear
I want what I cannot have
In a way I cannot have it
In a place where
Chaos reigns and only Ache remains.

I have to tell somebody
Anybody, but
Alas, it cannot be
I must bear my burden a bit longer—

For now,
the Wind may carry my secret to the crickets
And the sun may whisper it to the moon in passing
And that is all.

Each holds inside of himself
A tiny, sunless sprout
Waiting to blossom and grow
Or suffocate and whither.

He must decide the value of his rose
If it should die, it must be allowed—
If it is to live, then let it be watered
Secretly
Out of body
Out of sight
Out of mind.

But when the sun whispers,
The wind howls
And their presence will not be ignored.

To love is to lose
And to have is to suffer
For now, only Patience
And the moon may advise me.

Healing

2004-05-22T10:51:00.000-06:00

Row by row,
My life orders itself
And its image
Before my distorted eyes

Each little event remembered
Each speck of dust in my eye
Each cool breeze
Each feeling of entrapment
And each fleeting freedom remembered

Then—each of our conversations
Long nights on the phone
Warm afternoons by the pool
Your smile warming my winter heart

But discoveries fire at me
Too many at one time
Contact between us
Surpassing toleration

But I know for sure that I still love you
Anger and pain scrub at encrusted,
Time-tested love
And only time will heal its wounds.

And somehow I know you still love me
Everything else aside
Hard, motionless features
Can’t remain stone forever.

How to Read a Book

2004-05-19T17:24:00.000-06:00

Turning the pages
The story writes itself before my eyes
Ink flowing mysteriously into white
Filling empty space with defined presence

And the next page brings continued surprise
Truth is shielded by crumbling black ink
And cunning emerald beauty.

The story alters its course
Rising and falling
Waves breaking on beached rocks
Oblivious of human action.

Just when all conflict appears resolved
A new twist re-ties
Long untangled knots.
And new pages promise new conclusions.

Learning the ending becomes a necessity
I want the story resolved
Skip a hundred pages and read the end…

But the end is confounding
And less quenching
When one flies over the story
Instead of hiking through it.

Pain

2004-05-12T15:14:00.000-06:00

Replay the conversations in your head
Remember the sound of a voice
Your voice

Smile to your friends
Wave to your enemies
Cry to yourself

Open your eyes to the vast wasteland
What we’ve left for ourselves
And our friends

Tattered personalities
The pages of life fraying
But the librarian just keeps putting the book back.

A warped tape plays
but joyful Sounds seem foreign
To pained ears.

Opening eyes to the new day
Rush of happiness quickly blindsided
By the truck of pain.

Sleepwalking,
Looking into your blank eyes
Yearning for what once was
And what can no longer be

Scorpion tears
Crawl down my face
Make their way to the next victim

No more. It’s completely done.
Scars of pains past pierce the heart
My lovely candle has been extinguished.

Stopped

2004-05-10T20:36:00.000-06:00

Reading words of feelings past
Learning lessons of loss
Opening my eyes to new tears
Lost years of time remembered.

Paging through yellowing notebooks
Staring up at the moonlit sky
Questioning moments of wonder
And pondering moments of questions.

Purging to anyone who will listen
Putting my grief for all to see
Wearing my heart on my sleeve
Waiting for it to be struck.

A circle of people closes in
They each lend a hand
To lift up he who has fallen
And make the circle whole again.

But the circle divides once,
Twice my eyes cross
As the eternal dance unfolds
And the heart keeps beating

Each beat one step closer to the final
emotional heart attack.
It feels like life cannot go on—
But it does, painful moment by moment.

The darkness quickly lifts
But only to mock its bearer
Sneaking away, it deceives
Only to break back in.

We’ve stopped questioning
Stopped caring about our dearly beloved
Started wondering and wandering
Stopped hoping. Just stopped.

Nature’s Tease

2004-05-09T21:09:00.000-06:00

Blooming before God’s green Earth,
Opening her gorgeous eyes
to wink at humanity.
Blushing, she fades into deep purple.
Darkness envelops her mystery.
The despair of losing her
broken only by the assurance
Of her next visit.

Old Friends, New Sorrows

2004-05-08T22:08:00.000-06:00

A drying pen writes words of solitude—
Blue ink dancing on the prematurely yellow paper.
The memories of forgotten feelings,
And the spring of Hope rising within.

Paging through an old notebook,
Opening letters that haven’t been sent,
Replying to people who no longer write,
Smoothly glistening over a sea of words.

Picking and choosing what to say
And how to express lucid thoughts
in blue ink on yellow paper.

The days pick and choose their times—
Calamities and joys, excitements and Sorrows.
And cruel fate turns the world on his ear
With her feminine charm.

Old friends and new sorrows
They sleep in every alley
Behind the perpetually locked doors
Our past surprising us with
Stealthy swiftness.

And a drying pen
Spreading blue ink on yellow paper
Does the talking for the walls.