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| Why I Love You, and Why You Hate It |
| 12.04.04 (9:11 pm) [edit] |
It is possible for you
to abhor
my absolute love
of your lovely, prudent self.
After all, my only aim
is to cure the rupture
in my sexual activity,
and bring you into
my command(this,
at least, according
to you,
is why I worship
your every muscle,
every inch of your
skin, and everything
wonderful about you,
your heart, and your
absolutely beautiful,
sexy,
alluring,
and fantastic mind).
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| Imaginary Cigarette |
| 11.28.04 (8:10 pm) [edit] |
I'm trying to think of something:
an idea for a book,
or a painting,
or something.
I pace around the room smoking
an imaginary cigarette;
it makes me seem so much cooler,
and being cool makes thinking easy.
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| Absentee mind ballot |
| 10.31.04 (11:14 am) [edit] |
The world flies
around my head
like a ghost
on wheels.
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| Existentialism is cliche |
| 10.30.04 (2:55 pm) [edit] |
Reading an article by sartre,
I repeatedly reach for the dictionary,
and wonder,
"Is this what existentialism
is really about?"
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| Wrong, wrong, wrong! |
| 10.28.04 (9:25 am) [edit] |
Your decisiveness
in this matter
was quite daring --
it was an intense
choice, and you were
determined to go about it
in exactly the wrong way.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Indubitably," you replied,
and proceeded to fall
down the hole.
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| What makes me happy |
| 10.23.04 (9:19 pm) [edit] |
Rain
and
Coffee
and
Music
(which is such a Charming Hostess)
and
Sweaters
and
Blankets
and
a good Book
and
Solitude
and
Pitter-Patter
and
the Dog
and
Splish-Splatter
and
Slippers
and
Drip-Drop
and
Pillows
and
Everything good
that comes with the rain.
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| The Crossroads |
| 10.19.04 (11:20 am) [edit] |
At the oily crossroads
You hesitate;
held back
by a stalwart dominance of fear.
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| Autumn Comes |
| 10.19.04 (11:19 am) [edit] |
Summer is giving way to autumn
Frost forms on the pools in the stream,
Though snow refrains from falling just yet.
The scent of spices waft, cooking in pumpkin pie,
And I am adamant about staying inside
With a cup of hot apple cider,
To watch the leaves fall from my indoor sanctuary.
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| Not-so-good love poem |
| 10.14.04 (6:38 pm) [edit] |
I am less than proficient
when it comes to love.
for those I am with
I am less than sufficient.
My pride is porous,
rough, and unstable,
And my desire
doesn’t feed my actions
very well..
I am less than proficient
in the language of love.
I don’t know how to write with it,
and so I just indent..
Indent...
Indent...
until I can find a spot
to start my sad story.
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| Punishment for the Rapist |
| 10.08.04 (12:25 am) [edit] |
I insist that you perturb the masses,
and hang your guilty aftermath from the transom;
see them watch the execution of your soul in horror.
It is the least you can do to recoup
for my own embarrassment,
when your hankering was taken ten steps too far.
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| Ode to Richard Brautigan |
| 10.04.04 (4:04 pm) [edit] |
Your San Francisco bus-related poems
speak to my San Francisco bus-related problems,
if only you substitute 30 cents and two transfers
for 1 youth and 1 adult MUNI fastpass.
You can read the poem I'm referring to here
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| 'nother poem |
| 10.03.04 (4:26 pm) [edit] |
My mother was a classic sort of matron.
"Don't dally," she would rebuke.
She would never dicker with father,
and she would always flaunt her bosom.
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| A little plot...(a poem) |
| 10.03.04 (4:25 pm) [edit] |
The cabal of
Learned men
(a token black
in the mix)
Have extreme plans
to oblige you
to revere them
and the bombast
used (like that
in this poem) by
their esteemed members.
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| Europe photos |
| 09.27.04 (11:25 am) [edit] |
Only the first few pictures, I didn't have much time.
London Booths
Manni outside the National Gallery in London.
Our first night out drinking. Can you find the doctored part of the picture?
Lamp outside of window in Paris
Our window in Paris. I dunno.
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| A prose piece that comes from reading too much tom robbins |
| 09.20.04 (7:15 pm) [edit] |
"I love you."
Those were the three words that made him stop short, that made him take a breath, and that set his head spinning with too many questions in too small a space.
"But...not in a lovey way!" Her clarification just made him more confused. She went on.
"I love you, but it isn't in a smarmy way, or a sickening way, or even in a passionate way. I love you in a way that is clear and comprehending. In a way that keeps me happy. The way I love you makes me breathe better."
Breathe easier? He didn't understand. How could loving him making her more relaxed or anything that could make one breathe easier?
"No, not easier, not that at all. Just...better. Fresher, crisper, faster, deeper, shallower...you make me breathe with my emotions, and let them take the forefront of my brain and feeling and...better, that's all. And the way I love you makes sounds stronger, and each individual noise is distinct. Each smell is distinct, each sensation."
He still didn't get it. It didn't fit into his definition of love. He didn't realize that something so great should not be defined, because definition is limitation, and love should not be limited, no way, no how.
She kissed him and smiled. Oh, he would know. he would feel it too.
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| Giving my dead muse a jump-start. |
| 09.19.04 (7:14 pm) [edit] |
I am a soul traveler,
a long-time babbler.
I think myself
a speedy car
to get myself
to where you are.
I am a soul traveler,
a long-time unraveler.
I spell out my emotions
and think I'm with you
and I go through the motions
that long-time lovers do
I am a soul traveler,
and that's pretty much it
I will keep you in mind
until we are together again.
Which, by the way,
will be never.
Keep your hopes up, girly.
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| *CLING* |
| 09.08.04 (1:57 pm) [edit] |
I am the spiderweb you run through in a panic.
I am the clothes come fresh from the dryer.
I am the small child begging to be held.
I am the celophane on your sandwich.
I am the dust on your T.V. screen.
You are rubber, I am glue,
no matter what, I'll stick to you.
I need to get me away.
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| New poem - rough |
| 09.05.04 (10:30 pm) [edit] |
Prompt: three words -- ambiguous, incorrigible, caustic.
my ambigous heart
will love you and hate you
exalt you and look down on you,
and will not make up its mind.
your incorrigible lust
will pursue me and kill me,
smother me and leave me wanting none,
and will not let me be
my caustic glare
will burn you and break you
scold you and bring you down
and will kill us both
in the end.
Help me! Critique! Critique!
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| Inspiration is false |
| 09.04.04 (10:13 pm) [edit] |
Imaginations run dry.
Pens scritch and scratch
at the blank page,
tearing up the paper
and leaving no notable mark.
What good is inspiration
with no content?
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| Random. |
| 09.03.04 (9:56 pm) [edit] |
Inspiration comes,
and I don't know
what to do with it.
If you want to know
what's in my heart
look at my face,
and know my soul.
If you care about
what's going on,
hear my cry
of joy.
Love and stuff,
what do I care
for anything
but pure, simple happiness?
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| Magnet Haiku |
| 08.27.04 (11:25 pm) [edit] |
A brilliant breath
of must, and you celebrate
all the universe.
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| Magnet #3 |
| 08.26.04 (6:12 pm) [edit] |
Winter was
together with you
in the white sun
whispering dreams
of what I am.
Asked,
Which way?
Told,
Under or over.
Went
Through,
because there was love.
this was in the "Kids" kit. Hm.
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| More Magnet Poetry |
| 08.26.04 (5:46 pm) [edit] |
I hurry to
ugly love,
an unusual fad
for manics.
“Use me and
never ask how,”
we say.
Exhausted,
I rush out of your
dark dream.
this poem was from the "New York" kit. Is it fitting?
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| Loneliness |
| 08.24.04 (8:49 pm) [edit] |
Mine is a very specific loneliness. Their memories linger on in the back of my brain, and there is a longing that cannot be quenched. This is no blanket solitude, no all-encompassing feeling of loss -- it has a goal, and it has an aim. And it is never completely forgotten. Once in a while I find myself among friends, and thus able to push the feeling to the background -- there, I let it steep until it is brought to a boil ever so slowly as I am left alone. Pulsing through my veins, and firing my every sense so that they burnt and dulled after the initial thrill.
Mine is a very specific loneliness. I miss you. Come back.
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| Magnet Poetry |
| 08.24.04 (5:51 pm) [edit] |
Another girl,
innocent and easy,
charmed by your best vow.
delicious goddess in bed
could not be a child;
come drink his drop.
Is love a promise we endure
for the moment?
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