There are those that say, “It’s better to have loved and lost,”
but they have no idea what they’re talking about.
The truth is that ignorance is bliss.
That love and lost shit really has no clout
I’ve always been afraid that I’m really unimportant,
and this seems to confirm my every, awful thought.
When it feels like I can be just brushed away,
nine months of commitment turns into putrid rot.
All the good memories have turned into ash
Painful reminders of what I’ll never again have
I should have seen it from far away,
and I did. I’m not that blind.
But broken hope fed my desperation…
You know, I haven’t cried like this in a long, long time.
Everyone has good days and bad days.
Sometimes you look at yourself in the mirror
and say, “Damn, I look awesome!”
And, sometimes,the reflection runs away screaming.
And then, of course, there are the other people.
Some of them, regardless of the day, look so bad they burn the eyes.
Then the there’s the folks who look so odd
that you can’t tell if they’re real or you’re dreaming.
Then there’s a whole other class of person…
it’s a little hard to explain.
Let me go off track a little here
and, hopefully, you’ll catch my meaning.
Do you ever wonder if we see the same colors?
I mean, you might see blue and I might see blue,
but my blue looks like your yellow and your green my orange.
And it’s secretly completely different even though you seeing exactly what I’m seeing.
Okay, so now for that other class of person, of which you are an example.
You think you have both good days and bad.
And you, on those bad days, say that you look, well, pretty bad,
and if somebody says different you really aren’t believing.
However, you see, my blue is different from your blue.
And, even though you think you don’t look good,
you’re just simply wrong.
Because, even on your worst of the worst days,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Some people refer to Ireland as Róisín Dubh
which means Little Dark Rose.
But I’ll tell you, Ireland is no mere rose
and little and dark are way off.
Ireland is a sunflower in a field of drab imitations.
Ireland is precious and as beautiful as sunlight in the rain.
Bright and gorgeous,
a splash of yellow in the wet green fields
under a strangely blue sky.
Ireland changes the world you’re in.
She inspires poetry and song and the shaping of things with your hands.
She inspires every human male.
Once you step foot in her delicate soil,
if you don’t think you’re simply the luckiest man on Earth,
then you have no soul
and there is no hope in Heaven or on Earth for you.
When I hear Róisín Dubh.
I think of Ireland
and I think of my beautiful, bright sunflower.
I once heard that Romeo compared Juliet to the sun and its light
in that famous Elizabethan play by that famous Elizabethan bard.
He said that that yellow dot, like her brought beauty into every man’s life,
but I can tell you that he stopped short by far.
I know a girl who isn’t just the sun; she’s the entire sky
full of clouds and birds and wind and a never ending stretch of blue.
With her all of that sun crap just really wouldn’t ever fly.
Compared to her beauty, the sun, the stars, and even the moon wouldn’t do.
You see, her eyes are a Hawaiian ocean and her smile could launch a fleet of ships.
Her hair is a sunflower in the Spring rain and her face could brighten the darkest day.
You’d cross a desert just to hear your name escaping from her lips
and when you’re near her, you’d forsake the entire world just to stay.
Now you may ask who could this angel with a golden laugh possibly be.
Everyone should know who she is. She’s erin (with a little e).
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.
