Friday, September 26, 2008

11 Years-Plus
11 years ago
came the day
the last time
i was important to someone.

11 years ago,
i shared a love,
a love like woah,
that swiftly left
as we outgrew each other.

11 years ago,
she was lost
to be found once again,
as a friend,
but only to be lost
once more.
Each time gashed an everpresent scar
in their unique ways.

11 years ago
came our time.
And it was love while it lasted.
And happily left
in the past.

Lamented is shared love,
the vacancy of symbiosis
where my nerdy, liberal, psuedo-artistic self
met her intelligent, quirky, hyper-brilliant essence.
Because there was no her.
Or if there was,
there was no me.
Or if there was,
the seasons were gravely different
on our planets.

11 years of a beautiful life
experienced primarily primary.
Solitude was champion
in the tournament of wilted roses.
A man emerged from the garden
comfortable in his own glory -
no matter how self-indulgent it was.
Content. 10 years and months to spare
equate contentment.
But 11 years plus does not.

11 years-plus means that
the man knows nothing of love -
at least the love transcribed in adulthood.
Thus.
The void.
Where basks the sincerity of companionship,
of the connection of two souls,
felt in the romantic sense?

Ulam cooked @ 3:25 PM

 0 of the headscratch variety

stomach problems
day one had the stench
of fresh, organic
peaches -
sitting in the heat.
the aching discomfort
sucked.

day two may still have had remnants
of the peaches.
maybe the mints that soothed my mouth
cast battles against
the sanctity of
the easy-feasy daily stat. quo.

day three and four
still had inklings of the nasty feelings -
maybe more peaches. maybe a few day old beans.

but day five had a different ill will.
the empty stomach and
and the triple dosage of caffeine
and parmesan cheese contributed for the physical.
but the sad songs, the yearning for connection,
the hope of the "finally, this time"
with you,
with you again
leaves my stomach the most disturbed,
the most discontent -
from you again,
for the same reasons, again.
I'm sick.
I feel sick.

You.
make me sick.
sleep deprived, worst way to end a good day,
can't fall into slumber
due to disappointment.
avoidance of the next day
when i have to deal with you -
and your mixed messages -
and my illogical decoding -
for a full day.
and another.

accepting hope
meant the barriers were weakened.
this week i saw your eyes.
i saw your happiness.
i saw you vulnerability.
i emerged. i emerged from my shell.
the cheesey, stupid, disgustingly
sentimental
and foolishly hopeful,
charmingly cavalier me
said hello to the world
because i thought you were ready to say
hello back.
finally.

but not.
not. again.

and now i'm sick.
over you.
because of you,
because i can't get over.
you.

Ulam cooked @ 2:15 AM

 0 of the headscratch variety

WTF?
Is the internet crashing or is there something wrong with my computer or internet connection?

Ulam cooked @ 1:57 AM

 0 of the headscratch variety

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

floating
*** floating ***

I.
listlessly aimless
drifting in the dreaded
darkness,
the purgatory for the
once hopeful,
for the once unrestrained
pursuit of happiness,
for the once believed
happy ever after
to this common story.

said in jest, the ideal of contentment,
maintain sincerity.
it's difficult to believe
in rays of hope
when the sun shines brightest
on all planets but yours.
or at least, it seems that way
from the audience's side
of life's cinema.

but when asked to confront
the realities of a spirit without its compliment,
without its guidance,
without its motivation
to be something to someone for eternity,
this beat,
this heart,
this man
is substantially
incomplete -
a crossword puzzle
with no clue
or space to fill.

this man,
like the words of the puzzle
eager to make its home
on the paper,
is floating -
listlessly aimless,
drifting on a sea of
dark-directionless-dread.
when once, this man
flowed like his verses,
is now -
incoherent fragments,
so much so that poems speak to him less
than elusive romances do.

II.
but there is one poem. this one.
this current amalgamation of lost thoughts
of being lost in world gone undetectable
by a monochromatic soul.

the dark shades hiding my iris fear
the sight.

she smiles.

dark brown illuminates the eyes,
the dull, dreary gaze diminished
with the polish of her pleasantness,
the zeal of her encouragement
bring shine back allowing clearer vision.

she smiles.

the frozen gray and purple lips,
thaw and feel warm -
and come alive achieving their natural
mixture of brown skin tone and human flesh -
like moth
eagerly wanting to land
on the fiery life force of the thriving flush
of her
living lips.

she smiles.

the dry, arid contours of his cheeks
like the Badlands,
so thirsty for nourishment,
get fed.
moisture replenishes like her lips
were the first rain filling thirsty marshlands
welcoming back the season of life.

she smiles.

melting the hardened clay of a mask
worn on escapades unfinished
and journeys never launched,
the glimmer of possibility,
of an opportune glance returned,
of a deep breath taken and held
hoping that it was aimed at his spirit,
reflects on his newly freed face.
he floats.

he smiles.

- r4 09.16.08

Ulam cooked @ 1:23 AM

 0 of the headscratch variety