Filed under: Uncategorized
It’s a cold November morning
and, like me, the sun is having a hard time getting out of bed.
Robert Ullrey’s encouraging voice echoes in my ears
to the soundtrack of bland techno.
He’s 43, you know?
He lives in California.
And on his 43rd birthday, he decided he wanted to start running again.
He tells me this three times a week right before I decide to torture myself.
Filed under: Uncategorized
So, all this time, I secretly had another blog which I updated even less than this one. It’s meant to showcase a bunch of short stories which all take place in the same town. I just finished up one called The Georgian. So go there if you want. I have two stories up and hopefully I’ll put in some more sometime this century.
Filed under: poetry
I dream of water festivals and windy beaches
I dream of brisk walks in bare feet
I dream of blackberry jams and crisp peaches
I dream of juice both soft and sweet
I dream of holding hands and exchanging glances
I dream of gentle brushes of the lips
I dream of warm and dark intimate dances
I dream of smiles shared over drinks between sips
I dream of sleeping in a pile of limbs and laughs
I dream of quietly watching you think
I dream of reciting you poetry and rough drafts
I dream you’ll love them even though they stink
I dream of living each day as if it were new
But most of all, I dream simply of you
Filed under: poetry
The sky is dirty cotton
Everything is slightly damp
And I light my too dry and too crumbly month old tobacco in my pipe
Which tastes a little like sweet tar, tingly with nicotine, and filled with flavor
And a little like burnt paper
I’m out here to read
Something
But my mind is too busy being depressed
Thinkjng about all the girlfriends I never had
All the genius that’s leaked out of my skull all these years
Eaten away by hours and hours of brain melting entertainment
Which corrodes one’s psyche until it’s left a calcified lump in
The stubbornly knocking engine atop your head
The future feels distant as the green wisps blow the wrong direction
Into my eyes
So distant, in fact, that it feels like a fictional world
Fame, fortune, family, and Santa Clause all have lunch on the beaches of Never Neverland
They share a sushi platter and a particularly tomato heavy salad
While the buzz sets in
I’ve accidentally inhaled too much
and now I’m too focused on not getting sick to be depressed
My wishes and my tobacco have a lot in common
I think I’ll stop smoking and just let the damp make my face all sticky
Filed under: poetry
You remind me of a bookstore on a rainy day.
Rooms full of earthy tones:
reds, greens, and a million shades of brown.
Haunted by the smell of paper both ancient and new
whisping through the air amidst the fragrance of coffee and hot chocolate.
People mill about or sit relaxed in big chairs
all in hushed reverence of the invisible worlds surrounding them,
pockets of possibility just a flick of the fingers away.
I slide a book, delicately, from its home in the shelf,
admiring the cover which fruitlessly tries to convey the universe within.
Then, with a turn, I slither inside,
enraptured by imagination transferred to word:
images, people, places, smells, and magic,
all captured in tiny squiggly lines
scratched on a page.
I could be here forever.
Filed under: poetry
I’m stuck on you like a skipping record.
I run the race of life over the black mountainous surface
as fast as I can.
Then a thought of you comes along.
And I tumble and fall,
a mess of clothes, spittle, and hair,
rolling and rolling,
as your name echoes through the air,
floating through the room over and over again,
massaging the ears of the listener who sleeps lazily on his comfy-chair,
knowing he’ll have to get up and reset the record eventually.
But for now, he’s satisfied with just hearing your name.
Filed under: Uncategorized
He sits on the steps adorned in a red coat and hat
A hero dressed as a hero who hates himself
In his hands is a chipped axe and bloody baseball bat
His old uniform sits folded neatly over his bed on a handmade shelf
His shaky fingers run quietly through his blondish hair
He faced his darkest side and killed it with violence
For the rest of the day he sat on that stair
And looked off at the trees rustling in the silence
Am I a superhero or a vicious killer?
An emblem and a costume or a scythe and a hood?
What happens now that the best becomes a blood spiller?
What good is strength? What good is being good?
When deep down you’re just as bad as the worst of them?
What does it mean when I saw myself as evil and then I killed him?
Now before anyone freaks out about any deeper meaning to this poem, I’ll just go ahead and explain that it’s about an imaginary character that I invented in a comic book I have yet to write.
Filed under: poetry
“I don’t know” is a phrase I use quite often.
What does the word “obstinate” mean?
I don’t know.
Who was the first mayor of New York?
I don’t know.
Who ruled Russia in 1861?
Ne znaiyoo.
When did Japan invade China?
Wakarimasen.
What is the capital of Paraguay?
No se.
What are your plans for the future?
Where is God?
Why are things so difficult?
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
Why do you write poems?
Now that one I do know:
Because they’re short.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Bellicose means belligerent or pugnacious.
And belligerent means warlike
While pugnacious means prone to fight.
I have several xenophobic acquaintances who
Wallow in their pugnacious attitude towards outsiders
While basking in their blandishment
To bolster their fragile egos
While their homogenous ways threaten to shatter before their eyes.
These grandiloquent friends
Pick and tease at my feeble vocabulary
Fit only for a penurious beggar
Or palatial pauper.
But I consider their overweening
To be a bit overzealous.
They have no right to ostracize me based off of loquaciousness alone.
I consider them reprobates,
Repulsive in manner and soul.
And hopefully they’ll experience retribution
At the hands of the Divine.
Filed under: poetry
This is a poem about nothing.
It’s simply words written down on a computer screen.
Poignant, prolific, poetic, alliterative words
which are hopefully brilliant and entertaining.
It is meant to make you think about the mysteries of the universe,
to dive, dive deep into the memories of emotions
sitting like ducks wading on the surface of your heart.
It is meant to dig itself into the back of your brain
like a botfly munching away at your flesh
making itself bigger and bigger,
almost completely hidden from your perception
except for the slight pangs of pain when you move suddenly
or think of something which reminds you of it.
It’s supposed to nourish your hungry stomach
and water your thirsty soil.
It is supposed to drive you to fight
and raise your fist high up over your head,
a triumphant banner waving dangerously in the sea air.
But, alas,
all it achieves is a self referential glory,
worthy of only a slight chuckle and a sip of coffee.
