Wednesday, December 31, 2008

I have died too many times while she danced with strangers in nightclubs

"I don't drink often,"
she explains,
"I'm not supposed to
I've been distressed
Another, please,"
she requests.

he responds with
no concern,
as he pours her
another drink.
I've heard it before,
he tells her
with his

"I mean, I have
these problems,
you see."
She continues to tell
her story
to the only person
who'll listen.
"And that's why I'm drinking

His back turns, as he
pour drinks
for others.

I don't even want to drink,
she tells herself.
"I don't even want to drink,"
she exclaims.
"Well, I'm going to stop
after this
One more, please --
for my troubles,"
she tells him.

"It's just that,
I have reasons, you know.
I have them,"
I have reasons.

"Just one more, please."

Her Logic by Calvin

It is much more pleasant to hear your name whispered in the dark.

In the dimly lit room
I had a brief glimpse of bliss:
sight of your naked body
like a god reclining.
That was all.

Quite unaware
you got up to get your clothes
just naturally
while I shuddered
like the earth split open by lightning.
Vision of your Body by Daisy Zamora

Sunday, December 28, 2008

When it pours I'd much rather get wet than to shelter my thoughts from the rain

i think that your wings would go well with my tail.
so don't ask me what's keeping me warm.
just remind me
this ain't the time
for falling in

yours is the song that's engraved in my head
whenever i think out of tune.
so won't you remind me
this ain't the time
for falling in

now i've left my teeth marks all over your neck.
it's a habit i can't seem to break.
for your eyes they once asked me
could this be the time
for falling in
Phantom Of My Organ by Slowblow

I know I have lost.

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
and the
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
the young man watched
the snow through the
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
that it would always
stay beautiful
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
he heard the other
of other things,
or they were
attempting to
they had not
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
pretended to
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
the sound of the
in the
Nirvana by Charles Bukowski

Saturday, December 27, 2008


Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than wasting it in asking riddles that have no answers."

Where are my friends?
Where am I for them?
I am at the end of the fact:
Nothing lasts forever, again.
The Dead Salesmen

I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard. Mockingbird wish me luck.

I met a genius on the train
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and we both looked out the window
at the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
"It's not pretty."

it was the first time I'd
I Met A Genius by Charles Bukowski
all theories
like clichés
shot to hell,
all these small faces
looking up
beautiful and believing;
I wish to weep
but sorrow is
I wish to believe
but belief is a
we have narrowed it down to
the butcherknife and the
wish us
No title by Charles Bukowski

Thursday, December 25, 2008

I watch the horses run by and it seems meaningless.

Security is an illusion,
a manifestation of ego.
And what, exactly,
are you attempting
to secure yourself against,
old age, sickness, death?
Better to face the truth now:
It's hopeless, dear one,
completely hopeless.
Security by Littlebear

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

The Master said, He who sets to work on a different strand destroys the whole fabric

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
too late.
Oh Yes by Charles Bukowski

So rested he by the Tumtum tree, and stood awhile in thought.

Happy holidays, everyone, and be safe!

In the room I had seen a possible life.

things that shake in the shadows

I hope it's the first of many (Happy Valentines Day)

During the darkest hours of the day
(the loneliest of my moments),
I sit at the edge of
my bed
and stare at my locked chest.

Sometimes I sit there
as time passes by
just waiting for
a sign.

But usually, I am overwhelmed
and I (willingly)
open this locked secret of mine.
Stacks of piles
of memories tease me,
laugh (and
cry), and tear me apart. But something
(something deep)
inspires me
to keep on digging through my childhood
(this misery, that heartache,
my demons).
And in one particular pile
(of a stack),
I come across
your heart.

My body hastens (my pulse
roars, my breath beckons, my muscles
tighten), and I
open your heart.

I am reminded that, at one time,
I truly was

I close your heart,
lock my chest,
and breathe deeply
now knowing
the remains of my day
will exist
with a smile.
Opening Your Heart by Calvin

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Stones from my enemies

And it's hard to want to stay awake
when everyone you meet
they all seem to be asleep
and you wonder if you're missing your dream.
Bixby Canyon Bridge by Death Cab For Cutie

You move awfully quiet now and I still feel you everywhere. You told me this has always been worth living, but what's really worth living anymore?

Sunday, December 21, 2008

The audacity of her sleep

She will stop and stand still when the train
passes by. She will listen to the wheels turn
and grind on their tracks. She will be wearing
a raincoat, dirty and used, although she is
well aware of it's physical state. Her hair is
frizzy and damp, but tied carefully in a bun.
And she hesitates when the rain taps her
shoulders; they will be more gentle than any
touch she's ever felt. As I come into view in my
brightly-lit cabin, I will look. Our eyes will
gather images of each other, and I will pass.
She will say to herself, "If I could afford that
train, I would, as well, pass by."
She Will Stop and Stand Still by Calvin

[response to comments: thanks, forgot to write my name]

I know that starting over is not what life's about, but my thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.

find more at Katuwapitiya.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

All I wanted to do is exist in your world. Just one person, would take time to actually see me. Help me find a way out.

It's about time
for some more

I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I don't know how much wine and whiskey
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?"

the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.

while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horny cowboys.

well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.

rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.

Beer by Charles Bukowski.
what are you doing with all those paper
napkins in your car?
we don't have napkins like
how come your car radio is
always turned to some
rock and roll station?
do you drive around with
young thing?

dripping tangerine
juice on the floor.
whenever you go into
the kitchen
this towel gets
wet and dirty,
why is that?

when you let my
bathwater run
you never
clean the
tub first.

why don't you
put your toothbrush
in the rack?

you should always
dry your razor

I think
you hate
my cat.

Martha says
you were
sitting with her
and you
had your
pants off.

you shouldn't wear
$100 shoes in
the garden

and you don't keep
of what you
plant out there


you must always
set the cat's bowl back
the same place.

bake fish
in a frying

I never saw
harder on the
brakes of their
than you.

let's go
to a

listen what's
wrong with you?
you act

She Said by Charles Bukowski.

Monday, December 15, 2008

I half smiled, but I was sure she could still see the sadness behind my eyes.

If you board the wrong train, it is no use running along the corridor in the other direction.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Sunday, December 14, 2008

The first thing in the human personality that dissolves in alcohol is dignity.

At days end, is anybody happier because you passed their way?
Does anyone remember that you spoke to them today?
The day is almost over, and its toiling time is through;
Is there anyone with a kindly word of you?

Can you say tonight, in parting with the day that's slipping fast,
That you helped a single person of the many that you passed?
Is a single heart rejoicing over what you did or said;
Does the man whose hopes were fading - now with courage - look ahead?

Did you waste the day, or lose it? Was it well or poorly spent?
Did you leave a trail of kindness, or a scar of discontent?
As you close your eyes in slumber, can you look back and say,
"I have earned one more tomorrow by the work I did today"?
Author unknown

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

le temps passe, et chaque fois qu’il y a du temps passe, il y a quelque chose qui s’efface

Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.

Peter Pan

Thursday, December 4, 2008

When I was little, I used to feel bad for the sock I didn't put on first, so I would tell it nice things.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!
Do not stand at my grave and weep by Mary Frye

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Remember me and smile, for it's better to forget than it is to remember me and cry.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
not fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

i carry your heart with me by e.e. cummings

True love doesn't have a happy ending, because true love never ends. Letting go is one way of saying I love you.

Good morning, on July 7

Though still in bed, my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us - I can live only wholly with you or not at all - Yes, I am resolved to wander so long away from you until I can fly to your arms and say that I am really at home with you, and can send my soul enwrapped in you into the land of spirits - Yes, unhappily it must be so - You will be the more contained since you know my fidelity to you. No one else can ever possess my heart - never - never - Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves. And yet my life in V is now a wretched life - Your love makes me at once the happiest and the unhappiest of men - At my age I need a steady, quiet life - can that be so in our connection? My angel, I have just been told that the mailcoach goes every day - therefore I must close at once so that you may receive the letter at once - Be calm, only by a clam consideration of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together - Be calm - love me - today - yesterday - what tearful longings for you - you - you - my life - my all - farewell. Oh continue to love me - never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved.
ever thine
ever mine
ever ours

Ludwig Van Beethoven 1827

So when I tell you I love you, it doesn't mean I know you'll never go, only that I wish you didn't have to.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

in which there is no I or you
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close

Sonnet 17 by Pablo Neruda

But there must be a reason some people stick around.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008


Look, I know I may never see you again... but we are intrepid. We carry on.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

since feeling is first by e. e. cummings

Hello. And, goodbye.

I never really thought that I'd spend as much time in airports as I do. I don't know why. I always wanted to be famous and that would mean lots of travel. But I'm not famous, yet I do see more than my share of airports.

I love them and I hate them. I love them because of the people I get to watch. But they are also the same reason why I hate airports. It all comes down to "hello" and "goodbye." I must have mentioned this a few times while writing my stories for you.

I have great difficulties with saying goodbye. Even as I write this I am experiencing that pounding sensation in my heart. If I am watching such a scene in a movie I am affected so much that I need to sit up and take a few deep breaths. So when faced with a challenge in my life I have been known to go to our local airport and watch people say goodbye. I figure nothing that is happening to me at the time could be as bad as having to say goodbye.

Watching people cling to each other, crying, and holding each other in that last embrace makes me appreciate what I have even more. Seeing them finally pull apart, extending their arms until the tips of their fingers are the last to let go, is an image that stays forefront in my mind throughout the day.

On one of my recent business trips, when I arrived at the counter to check in, the woman said, "How are you today?" I replied, "I am missing my wife already and I haven't even said goodbye."

She then looked at my ticket and began to ask, "How long will you... Oh, my God. You will only be gone three days!" We all laughed. My problem was I still had to say goodbye.

But I learn from goodbye moments, too.

Recently I overheard a father and daughter in their last moments together. They had announced her departure and standing near the security gate, they hugged and said, "I love you. I wish you enough." She in turn said, "Daddy, our life together has been more than enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough, too, Daddy."

They kissed and she left. He walked over toward the window where I was seated. Standing there I could see he wanted and needed to cry. I tried not to intrude on his privacy, but he welcomed me in by asking, "Did you ever say goodbye to someone knowing it would be forever?"

"Yes, I have," I replied. Saying that brought back memories I had of expressing my love and appreciation for all my Dad had done for me. Recognizing that his days were limited, I took the time to tell him face to face how much he meant to me.

So I knew what this man was experiencing.

"Forgive me for asking, but why is this a forever goodbye?" I asked.

"I am old and she lives much too far away. I have challenges ahead and the reality is, the next trip back would be for my funeral," he said.

"When you were saying goodbye I heard you say, "I wish you enough." May I ask what that means?"

He began to smile. "That's a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone." He paused for a moment and looking up as if trying to remember it in detail, he smiled even more. "When we said 'I wish you enough,' we were wanting the other person to have a life filled with just enough good things to sustain them," he continued and then turning toward me he shared the following as if he were reciting it from memory.

"I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish you enough 'Hello's' to get you through the final 'Goodbye.'"

He then began to sob and walked away.

I wish you enough by Bob Perks

Saturday, November 8, 2008

And the intent of whomever wrote it

Executive Mansion,
Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.

Dear Madam,--

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.

I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.

I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully, A. Lincoln

Thursday, November 6, 2008

The cling and clang is the metal in my head when I walk

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;

An excerpt from All that is gold does not glitter by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Us and our allies. A coalition of the willing.

He sat me down
at a cafe
with a black coffee
and a legal pad

“Look Bruce, you’re 34, you’ve got to
get serious about your future.”

“OK,” I said

“There are only four foolproof ways
to create unimaginable wealth in this world.”

He made a list:

1. Build a successful business

2. Buy and sell real estate

3. Invest shrewdly in the market

4. Inherit

There was a long silence
after the list hit the
legal pad

This was going to get
and we both knew it

He sipped at his coffee

I slurped at mine

A blue 1972
Volkswagon Beetle
pulled into the
parking lot outside

I stared down into the
oily black in my mug
and imagined
managing employees

Hemingway walked in
and ordered a hot reuben

I thought of the
NASDAQ Composite
and how I might
learn and earn

Emily Dickinson was at the
cash register
staring directly at me

I broke her gaze
and remembered all the
great real estate books
available at Amazon

Van Gogh stumbled out of
the bathroom glancing
our way as he passed

I knew there was no check
coming in the mail from a
distant uncle wealthy and forgotten

Sylvia Plath was standing
in the kitchen oddly close to
the oven, her hand on
the cook’s shoulder

The clock over the counter
ticked off the minutes
the hours
the years

It had been long enough

“Look, thanks for your
concern, but my advisors
have all this handled already,” I said

He didn’t like the sound of that

And he would never

So I threw three bucks on the table
and walked out the door behind
who turned
handed me a pair of dice
and walked away

The sun was high
and blinding

Storm clouds
were forming
behind the ridge

I shook the dice
in my hand
and turned

Four Foolproof Ways To Create Unimaginable Wealth In This World by Robert Bruce.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Friday, October 24, 2008

Suburban adultry

The only thing saving me

I did not see my dad much after my parents divorce. One of my enduring memories of him was when he came over to help me carve my pumpkin. After he left, I lit the candle myself and set my jack-o-lantern on our porch.

I could hear the older neighborhood kids laughing from my room as they stomped it in.

That was 36 years ago.

Anonymous e-mail message to PostSecret (Week of Oct. 19th, 2008).

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

And it feels so much lighter since I met you.

"Who told you this would be easy?" she said, eyes glittering like sea-wet stones. A flush, gentle as rain, rose in her cheeks.

Nobody, nobody, the voice in his head clamored, I'm sorry, sorry, my love, it is blessed, it must be; I cannot ever deny love.

At that moment he met her eyes and it occurred to him that we live only in moments, arranged as it happens. Someday we shall live entirely in nothing but a single kiss.
Kyle Parrish

And we shall cling on tight.

In the cold
Dark winter night
Under the frozen stars

We keep each other warm
With stories of the deepest
The highest
The furthest away

As the brightest light
Shines from within
And we cling on tight

So tight
We almost burst

We never
Let go

A Fantasy by Marcus Edward John Cross

Monday, October 20, 2008

"I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help and bother!"

in such a loving voice that
everybody felt quite hopeful again.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

O human child!

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a Lamb!"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again;"
So I piped: he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:!"
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read."
So he vanish'd from my sight;
And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

Songs of Innocence by William Blake

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

...but a whimper.

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us — if at all — not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer –

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

So when your time comes












Thursday, October 9, 2008

And when we started, we started from there

When a man is in love
how can he use old words?
Should a woman
desiring her lover
lie down with
grammarians and linguists?

I said nothing
to the woman I loved
but gathered
love's adjectives into a suitcase
and fled from all languages.

Arabic Poetry
Poem #333,

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Saturday, September 27, 2008

You can't watch your own image and also look yourself in the eye.

It's natural to be afraid of the dark. But don't worry, I'll light a candle and hold you safe in my arms until morning.

She walks in beauty,
Like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,—
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

CLXXIII. She walks in beauty, like the night by Lord Byron

Monday, September 22, 2008

"We must not think too much," cries Euripides' Medea. "People go mad if they think too much."

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

If by Rudyard Kipling.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

How can a man like me remain in the light?

I sailed a wild, wild sea
climbed up a tall, tall mountain
I met a old, old man
beneath a weeping willow tree
He said now if you got some questions
go and lay them at my feet
but my time here is brief
so you'll have to pick just three

And I said
What do you do with the pieces of a broken heart
and how can a man like me remain in the light
and if life is really as short as they say
then why is the night so long
and then the sun went down
and he sang for me this song

See I once was a young fool like you
afraid to do the things
that I knew I had to do
So I played an escapade just like you
I played an escapade just like you
I sailed a wild, wild sea
climbed up a tall, tall mountain
I met an old, old man
he sat beneath a sapling tree
He said now if you got some questions
go and lay them at my feet
but my time here is brief
so you'll have to pick just three

And I said
What do you do with the pieces of a broken heart
and how can a man like me remain in the light
and if life is really as short as they say
then why is the night so long
and then the sun went down
and he played for me this song

Chinese Translation by M. Ward

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Everything you thought is lost in this space.

some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.

then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
overfed whale.

some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.

Some People by Charles Bukowski.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Even your knees are nice!

A-Ha's Take On Me featuring Karl Kling (RAC mix)

Tokyo Police Club's Sixties Remake (RAC mix)

Friday, September 12, 2008

Once more to the afterlife

"...Semiconductor have brought together some of the sun's finest unseen moments. These images have been kept in their most raw form, revealing the energetic particles and solar wind as a rain of white noise..."

This is true to me but for you

I don't know if this is true to you but for me
sometimes it gets so bad
that anything else
say like
looking at a bird on an overhead
power line
seems as great as a Beethoven
then you forget it and you're back

a moment by Charles Bukowski

Monday, September 1, 2008

I had hoped they would see through my numb, dumb face to how I meant well, and be grateful.

I do not resemble your other lovers, my lady
should another give you a cloud
I give you rain
Should he give you a lantern, I
will give you the moon
Should he give you a branch
I will give you the trees
And if another gives you a ship
I shall give you the journey.

Love Compared from Arabic Poetry

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

I think you're a tad late with your apology.

I'm finally going home tomorrow, and I'm glad. Why? It'll be comforting to be in the right company again. And I miss just about everybody. I miss you, in particular, a little bit more, though.

But, I'll miss just about everybody. I'll miss you, in particular, a tad bit more, though. What never happened never happened, and I guess we'll just have to leave it at that. Apologies are never too late, as they say, although yours was, unfortunately, too late.

Meanwhile, slums and blighted areas in the centers of cities rot.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.

Dear My Dearest One,

It's not that we don't know how to let go, it's the mere thoughts written in the past that we had come to cherish & can't stop living in. It's somewhat true that people might never change but it's also somewhat true that people grow up. Growing up doesn't necessarily mean someone has matured, growing up can go either way. Look deep inside yourself & search the meaning as to why a person can't leave your thoughts, to why he still lingers in your dreams, & why he still walks to the beat of your heart? Is it really him that you can't let go? Is it really him that you can't come to stop dreaming about? Or is it simply the idea of him that you had engraved in your head in which you cant distinguish the truth from a thought?

I used to once love a person who never once threatened her love for me, but just as the leaves on a cold autumn day withers away, our innocent infatuation came to an end. It took awhile for me to realize that who I missed, who I longed for & who I still held on to so strongly to was not who I once knew. The love that we had for each other was a beautiful portrait in which neither I nor she can deny, but it was later on that I realized is best to savor those moments instead of allowing it to destroy me. It's best to remember her for the person she once was & not the one who I simply can't let go of.

You see, there's a big difference to whom he once was to you & to who he is now in which you cant stop seeing in your dreams. Even if you had the chance to hold his hands again & to feel the beating of his heart next to yours, will his heart still play the same melody? Will his fingers still tap to the same beat? The innocent love that you once had, do you seriously think that it would remain the same? The years had gone by & many branches on a tree have had different leaves grow on them year in & year out, nothing stays the same. The only thing that you can do now is cherish the good memories & accept that this is now, today is what is important & not yesterdays broken promises.

Litre Of Tears by Aya Kito.

Monday, August 18, 2008

I am a fugitive and a public threat, I am an abomination of the able, I am an exception to the accepted.

If you ask where I have been
I have to say, "It so happens..."
I have to talk about the earth turned dark with stones,
and the river which ruins itself by keeping alive;
I only know about objects that birds lose,
the sea far behind us, or my sister crying.
Why so many different places, why does one day
merge with another day? Why does a black night
gather in the mouth? Why are all these people dead?

If you ask where I come from I have to start talking with broken objects,
with kitchenware that has too much bitterness.
with animals quite often rotten,
and with my heavy soul.

What have met and crossed are not memories,
nor the yellow pigeon that sleeps in forgetfulness;
but they are faces with tears,
fingers at the throat,
anything that drops out of the leaves:
the shadowiness of a day already passed by,
of a day fed with our own mournful blood.

Look and see violets, swallows,
all those things we love so much and can see
on the tender greeting-cards with long tails
where time and sweetness are sauntering.

But let's not go deeper than those teeth,
nor bite into the rinds growing over the silence,
because I don't know what to say:
there are so many people dead
and so many sea-walls that the red sun used to split,
and so many heads that the boats hit,
and so many hands that have closed around kisses,
and so many things I would like to forget.

There Is No Forgetfulness by Pablo Neruda.

Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Anxiety had me up early... but I watched the sun land on her face. And optimism slowly crept up, and took hold. So I laid back down.

I miss you.

It’s pretty much
as simple as that.

And I think I miss you
the most when I head
out into the city.

I walk around with my friends,
and we pass the time and walking
with small talk and the illusion
of being sixteen years old again.

We watch the light traffic
work on its stuttering problem,
and I think that it’s been trying
to tell me the same thing
for the last seven years.

We go to the mall in time
for them to mow down the book store
and put up another urban shoe place.

We go to the movies,
pay ten dollars at ticket,
and complain about the way
there’s nothing good out anymore.

We go to Wal-Mart
to try and beat our time
for getting kicked out,
and I watch people spending
money they still don’t have.

We go out to dinner
at one of the three hundred
thousand chain restaurants
that are available in the area,
because the local places
went out of business in the late 90’s.

And I listen to people talk,
and I listen to my friends talk,
and I listen to the news that somehow
manages to howl in spite of the mute
button running the show.

I listen to everyone talking about
taxes, college, a new car, money,
other people’s children, music,
money, war, money, music, God,
war, sports, sex, money, sex, films,
sex, war, money, racist jokes, money.

I listen,
still manage to talk a lot,
and think about how I’ve been tired
of all this for a very long time.

And anyway,
even when I’m right there,
babbling on with the rest of them,
I’m actually about three thousand
miles away.

I’m in California,
or wherever you want to live,
and I’m getting ready for bed.

And I’m thinking about
something you did earlier
that really pissed me off,
but I have to admit that
it’s not really bothering
me all that much anymore.

I’m just glad that it’s really
easy to drift off to the way
you fall asleep long before I do.

You’d be amazed at how much
good you can get out of the sound
of long, steady breaths.

I think about that.
I think about not knowing
when I’m going to see you again.

That’s when someone usually
asks me if everything’s okay.

And I kinda smile,
unless I’m in the mood for self-pity,
turning forty-seven in 2012.

The usual things I do
to keep myself amused.

I smile helplessly
and start making fun
of someone’s stupid haircut.

I still miss you,
and I’m still depressed
by the fact that I’m really
no better than anyone else.

5:30, california time by Gabriel Ricard

Thursday, August 14, 2008

The darkness of the room was like sunlight to me.

When it all started I felt illuminated.
The light was small but I was a well-oiled machine. Churned, and cranked, and burned so bright that I gleamed from behind your shiny eyes.

We were growing strong and fast and without consequence when the first wrench got thrown into the gears - an insult in one of the ears. A cold steel hunk of a word, whirled in and nearly knocked me out flat.

The kid that threw it, I doubt that he was even aiming for me.

I got by, just some added resistance. The gears, a little rusted now and make a sort of rhythmic chink-chink to a beat. I... almost like it, but I know that with every turn-around it's wearing down, bit by bit.

Later, you fell in love, or got confused, anyway, and the gears reeled and stuttered and our bulb went white and hot and pissed until it finally cracked. And everything went black.

Now the light that burned bright is chipped and dim. The energy I burn to make the gears turn gets little in return, so I try to take it slow, keep just enough light to see my way around.

No sense in sweating to see a little further, right?

Maybe sometimes we'd rather stay in the dark.

Light Headed by Andy DeVries

I can never love again knowing love and pain go hand in hand, and I can't do it again.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Monday, August 11, 2008

(These are my disclaimers, I use them often.)

I heard a winter tree in song
Its leaves were birds, one hundred strong;
When all at once it ceased to sing,
For every leaf had taken wing.

Conceit by Mervyn Peake

Sunday, August 10, 2008

All I have left is one awkward embrace -- my last chance for a smile on your face.

How bare the backs of elevators are, unbeknownst to us.

I've experienced something these past few days which has left me numb and disinterested to all of my surroundings. I'm feeling down, and I'm down. I don't believe I've ever felt so held back. So withdrawn from what I want. This distance, this distance.

You're there, you're there! I know you're there. And I would like to be so much closer. Those moments we spent together, and how vulnerable I make myself by saying this, but those moments...

I haven't quite felt like that before. I don't know what it was about you that made me feel so certain of what I wanted. So sure. And when you held me, so comforted. Your shyness, your shyness. The way you stood against the railing on the edge of the deck, peering into the ocean, our last few moments together, the way you stood. The words we shared, the thoughts we conquered. My goofiness, my kisses across the length of your arm, your reaction. And when I held you, and when I held you! During those moments we shared together on that (oh so comfortable) couch, and I felt infinite. Our hands clasped so tightly, that warmth between us shared, the moments passing. What I'd give to hold you again, what I'd give.

So infantile this may sound, for it lasted only days. But I just haven't quite felt like this before. And I hate knowing I may never see you again. And I hate knowing I may never feel this again.

I know this will pass. I know I will grow away from this, as will you. And it hurts, it hurts. But you are so much more than a to-be-forgotten memory, so much more. So for you, I can't let it all go. So for you, I give you this: some writing to remind me of a time when I was with you. A time when things were real. When my feelings were raw, were genuine. When my life was full of real human emotion. When moments were full of heartfelt intimacy, when holding someone was for more than to just be held back, when a single kiss on the lips was felt throughout the entirety of my body.

I miss you.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Sometimes, when we were talking, I would stop, and sigh, and close my eyes. It's then that I knew and felt what was to come.

I am back, I am back. And how things have changed, oh, oh how they've changed.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

It's four in the morning, I'm still sitting outside, and I just now realized that it's because going to sleep means forgetting more about you.

I will sing to you of greater things: money, gold, and diamond rings.

What happened to all the nice guys?

The answer is simple: you did.

See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He’d tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn’t feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.

At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were “just friends.” Besides, he totally wasn’t your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn’t know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.

Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren’t the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you’re single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, “What happened to all the nice guys?”

Well, once again, you did.

You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive “just-a-” friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren’t really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you’re upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he’d have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.

Fact is, now, he’s probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I’m sorry that it took the complete absence of “nice guys” in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.

So, if you’re looking for a nice guy, here’s what you do:

1.) Build a time machine.
2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass.
3.) Take a look at what’s right in front of you and grab ahold of it.

I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don’t really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you.

If you were five years younger.

So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you’ve fucked yourself over. You’re getting older, after all. It’s time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn’t want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn’t fucking want you, now.


A Recovering Nice Guy

The Best of Craigslist

Thursday, July 24, 2008

I'm going to Las Vegas to see some old friends.

Traveling across the country - A time lapse video.

These day dreams, these day dreams, these day dreams.

A beggar-man crept to my side
One bitter, wintry time;
“I want to buy a drink,” he cried;
“Please give me, sir, a dime.”
If he had craved this boon forlorn
To buy his family meat,
I would have passed him by in scorn,
And left him in the street.

I tossed a dollar in his hand,
And quoth, “As o’er your wine
Within the tippling-room you stand
Drink thou to me and mine.”
He let an earnest “Thank ye” drop —
Then up the street he sped,
And rushed into a baker’s shop,
And bought a loaf of bread!

I know not why it was, and yet,
So sudden was the blow,
I felt emotions of regret
That he had duped me so.
Yet, had the hungry beggar said
That he was sore in need
Of that necessity called “bread,”
What man would pay him heed?

Human Nature by Eugene Field

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Lowdown, cheatin', ain't no need for repeatin'. Hurtin', beaten, ain't no need for repeatin'.

The Man was very sad. He knew that the Cat's days were numbered. The doctor had said there wasn't anything more that could be done, that he should take the Cat home and make him as comfortable as possible.

The man stroked the Cat on his lap and sighed. The Cat opened his eyes, purred and looked up at the Man. A tear rolled down the Man's cheek and landed on the Cat's forehead. The Cat gave him a slightly annoyed look.

"Why do you cry, Man?" the Cat asked. "Because you can't bear the thought of losing me? Because you think you can never replace me?"

The Man nodded "yes."

"And where do you think I'll be when I leave you?" the Cat asked.

The Man shrugged helplessly.

"Close your eyes, Man," the Cat said. The Man gave him a questioning look, but did as he was told.

"What color are my eyes and fur?" the Cat asked.

"Your eyes are gold and your fur is a rich, warm brown," the Man replied.

"And where is my fur the darkest?" the Cat asked.

"It is darkest along your back, your tail, your legs, nose and ears," the Man said.

"And where is it that you most often see me?" asked the Cat.

"I see you... on the kitchen windowsill watching the birds... on my favorite chair... on my desk lying on the papers I need... on the pillow next to my head at night."

The Cat nodded.

"Can you see me in all of those places now, even though your eyes are shut?" the Cat asked.

"Yes, of course. I've seen you there for years," the Man said.

"Then, whenever you wish to see me, all you must do is close your eyes," said the Cat.

"But you won't really be here," the Man said sadly.

"Oh, really?" said the Cat. "Pick up that piece of string from the floor - there, my 'toy.'"

The Man opened his eyes, then reached over and picked up the string. It was about two feet long and the Cat had been able to entertain himself for hours with it.

"What is it made of?" the Cat asked.

"It appears to be made of cotton," the Man said.

"Which comes from a plant?" the Cat asked.

"Yes," said the Man.

"From just one plant, or from many?"

"From many cotton plants," the Man answered.

"And in the same soil from which grow the cotton plants, it would be possible that other plants and flowers would grow? A rose could grow alongside of the cotton, yes?" asked the Cat.

"Yes, I'm sure it would be possible," the Man said.

"And all of the plants would feed from the same soil and drink the same rain, would they not?" the Cat asked.

"Yes, they would," said the Man.

"Then all of the plants, rose and cotton, would be very similar on the inside, even if they appeared outwardly very different," said the Cat.

The Man nodded his head in agreement, but didn't see what that had to do with the present situation.

"Now, that piece of string," said the Cat, "is that the only piece of string ever made of cotton?"

"No, of course it isn't," said the Man, "it was part of a ball of twine."

"And do you know where all of the other pieces of string are now, and all of the balls of twine?" asked the Cat.

"No, I don't... that would be impossible," said the Man.

"But even though you do not know where they are, you believe they exist. And even though some of the string is with you, and other pieces of string are elsewhere... even though some pieces of string are short and others are long, and even though your ball of twine is not the only one in the world... you would agree that all the string is related?" the Cat asked.

"I've never thought about it, but yes, I guess they would be related," the Man said.

"What would happen if a piece of cotton string fell onto the ground?" the Cat asked.

"Well... it would eventually be covered up and decompose into the soil," the Man said.

"I see," said the Cat. "Then perhaps more cotton would grow above it, or a rose."

"Yes, it would be possible," the Man agreed.

"Then the rose growing on your windowsill might be related to the string you are holding as well as to all the pieces of string you do not know about," said the Cat.

The Man knit his brow in thought.

"Now take each end of the string in one hand," the Cat ordered.

The Man did so.

"The end in your left hand is my birth and the end in your right hand is my death. Now bring the two ends together," the Cat said.

The Man complied.

"You have made a continuous circle," said the cat. "Does any point along the string appear to be different, worse or better than any other part of the string?"

The Man inspected the string and then shook his head "no."

"Does the space inside the circle appear to be different from the space outside of the circle?" the Cat asked.

Again the Man shook his head "no," but he still wasn't sure he understood the Cat's meaning.

"Close your eyes again," the Cat said. "Now lick your hand."

The Man widened his eyes in surprise.

"Just do it," the Cat said. "Lick your hand, think of me in all my familiar places, think about all the pieces of string, think about the cotton and the rose, think about how the inside of the circle is not different from the outside of the circle."

The Man felt foolish, licking his hand, but he did as he was told. He discovered what a cat must know, that licking a paw is very calming and allows one to think more clearly. He continued licking and the corners of his mouth turned upward into the first smile he had shown in days. He waited for the Cat to tell him to stop, and when he didn't he opened his eyes. The Cat's eyes were closed. The Man stroked the warm, brown fur, but the Cat was gone.

The Man shut his eyes hard as the tears poured down his face. He saw the Cat on the windowsill, then in his bed, then lying across his important papers. He saw him on the pillow next to his head, saw his bright gold eyes and darkest brown on his nose and ears. He opened his eyes and through his tears looked over at the rose growing in a pot on the windowsill and then to the circle of string he still held clutched in his hand.

One day, not long after, there was a new Cat on his lap. She was a lovely calico and white... very different from his earlier beloved Cat and very much the same.

Zen Cat by Jim Willis

Friday, July 18, 2008

But you don't have to worry darling, frozen hearts leave see through scarring, and no one else will know unless you tell.

A soft spoken gentleman sits at the table across from me in some unrecognizable cafe. I don't feel out of place, though, for a sort of familiarity rings about from everything. The location, the man in front of me, the conversation. Is this a dream?

He says to me, Look. Don't give her a chance. She's no -- well, she isn't her. No one ever will be.

His words seem to awaken some forgotten trouble of mine, but it isn't apparent to me who he is talking about.

You're only fooling yourself.
Listen, if that plane leaves the ground and you're still with her, you'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.

His final words begin fade to the sound of familiar white noise. I'm dreaming, aren't I?

The electric heater rattles to the rhythm of her shivering, frozen-cold body.
Familiarity soothes my temporary sleep-amnesia as I begin to realize where I am and who I'm with. Noticing her troubles, I reach down from under me and pull out part of our shared blanket to give her a little more of my half. Her body shifts. Did I wake her? Her head lifts away from the pillow and turns slightly, holding it's posture there, as if someone spoke to her and she's waiting for another attempt at connection. The silence responds.

Her body cramped, she turns over to refresh her side and notices I'm awake.
Through her shivering lips, she softly breathes into me, Oh, sweetheart. It's so cold! I finish covering her with part of my half. Thank you.

Half awake, half dreaming, I respond wordlessly. Mmhmm. What was that man in my dream talking about? I'm so tired, I can't focus.

Her eyes whisper to mine. This place is dreamy, isn't it? She seems to be wide awake, now. Mmm, I'm so much warmer now. It's so great that you're a romantic. Thank you so much for bringing me here.

I figured a compliment like that deserved a worded-response. Anytime, slim.

That man was still on my mind. Say, I just had the strangest dream. You want to hear about it? She nods, cupping her chin in her hand and placing her elbow on the pillow, scrunching her cute face. I was somewhere I've never been, a cafe, yet it felt like I could have grown up there. And, and there was this man there, well, more like a gentleman. And he spoke to me as if he knew me, and I felt as if I knew him. He knew about -- well, he knew about events in my past.

Her eyes began to slowly close. I continued, And he was talking to me about my future, like he knew what was going to happen. And so did I. I mean, I felt it. I felt what was going to happen.

I could tell this dream was too complicated to explain to her right now as she looked as if she was already back to sleep. Well, I guess it doesn't really matter. It was just, I was just feeling some pretty painful emotions... familiar emotions.

Her eyes closed, still resting her chin on her palm, she looks as though she's asleep and her mind is on autopilot, and she mutters, You're so good to me. No guy has ever treated me as nice as you do.

I let out a smile in the dark. She continues, I feel bad for you, though.

The cold of the room starts to get to me. Frozen shivers running down my spine, I mindlessly respond, Hmm?

It's going to hurt like a sonofabitch. Someday you'll understand that. Now, now... here's looking at you, kid. Her elbow collapsed and her back turned to the bed. She fell fast asleep.
By Calvin

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Comfort doesn't always come in glasses, but perhaps tonight I won't be the only one with blue headlights.

Boys don't want to be princes.
Boys want to be shepherds who slay dragons,
maybe someone gives you half a kingdom and a princess,
but that's just what comes of being a shepherd boy
and slaying a dragon. Or a giant. And you don't really
even have to be a shepherd. Just not a prince.
In stories, even princes don't want to be princes,
disguising themselves as beggars or as shepherd boys,
leaving the kingdom for another kingdom,
princehood only of use once the ogre's dead, the tasks are done,
and the reluctant king, her father, needing to be convinced.

Boys do not dream of princesses who will come for them.
Boys would prefer not to be princes,
and many boys would happily kiss the village girls,
out on the sheep-moors, of an evening,
over the princess, if she didn't come with the territory.

Princesses sometimes disguise themselves as well,
to escape the kings' advances, make themselves ugly,
soot and cinders and donkey girls,
with only their dead mothers' ghosts to aid them,
a voice from a dried tree or from a pumpkin patch.
And then they undisguise, when their time is upon them,
gleam and shine in all their finery. Being princesses.
Girls are secretly princesses.

None of them know that one day, in their turn,
Boys and girls will find themselves become bad kings
or wicked stepmothers,
aged woodcutters, ancient shepherds, mad crones and wise-women,
to stand in shadows, see with cunning eyes:
The girl, still waiting calmly for her prince.
The boy, lost in the night, out on the moors.

Boys and Girls Together by Neil Gaiman.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Citizen Calvin

I go out walkin' after midnight
Out in the moonlight
just like we used to do
I'm always walkin' after midnight
Searching for you I walk for miles
along the highway
Well that's just my way
Of saying I love you
I'm always walkin' after midnight
Searching for you
Walkin' After Midnight by Patsy Clin

Monday, July 14, 2008

We have maintained a silence closely resembling stupidity.

I'm reading on the couch
when she calls, asks for me by name.
I smile at her scripted intimacy,
imagine her cubicle with photos of pets,
the long bend of light
on her lacquered nails.

"Listen to this," I reply,
"David kissed the soft inner banks
of women’s thighs."


"Oh, there's more," I say,
"Thighs like loamy earth
that cup the rivers, or lilies
blooming in rose and mint."

"Is this a bad time for you, sir?"

"Is it for you?
Tell me something," I insist.
"Tell me anything."

A quiet unfolds between us
as though we'd spent our breath
on withering arguments
or lost it
in the scented air of sweat.

Finally she says,
"I'm in Lincoln, Nebraska.
Outside, leaves are turning
in the cold."

Telemarketer by Brett Garcia Myhren

Sunday, July 13, 2008

As near as I can tell she wished for this moment to last forever.

I knew from the glance she threw at him, her eyes shining like I'd never seen and the sweet smile dancing on her lips, that she was in love with him.

I have nothing to say (I have so much, so, so much inside).

I was lying in bed. I felt the soft vibrations against my pillow from the music humming out of my computer. The lights were off, my eyes were closed.

Time ticks slowly by. Ticks, ticks. What time is it now? Does it matter? I'm still here.

I'm crushed. I detest reality. My mind was racing. When will my dreamworld come alive? Thinking about it surely won't make it come any quicker. Ticks, ticks, ticks.

I wish that I could forever live in the book of my own writing. Ah, the loveliness. I just can’t wait for my life to wane into darkness and oblivion. I will be forgotten soon, make no mistake.

Suddenly, I felt something echoing in the room. I tried to focus. I felt a swollen pulse breathing life into my ears. Is that my heart?

Why do you enter my mind every night? Do I want you, do I want you? Ticks, ticks, ticks. I know when I see you again I'll be torn apart.

I jumped from situation to situation through my mind. How could I have done this better, where was my mistake here, was this the best choice? Vanish, vanish, I say! Thinking of you won't do me any good. Do I need any good? I raise my head and readjust the pillow, seeking a colder, more refreshing side.

I know how the world treats you. I wish I could take the pain away. I wonder if you ever wish these same miracles for me. Does it matter, though? Ticks; the clocks, they tick. A bad day only leaves me more time to sulk in my own grief. More time well spent, I say.

The shadows of the morning began to age inside my room. Another night spent up. Another night thinking. I detest reality, dreamworld. Where are you? I'm so hurt inside. All I can hope is that you remember me.
By Calvin

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Once more to the afterlife

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone by W H Auden

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

I'm not really into relationships anymore. Well, I, uh, I loved a girl once, you see.

If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it's better today.
I'm content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion-I've used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last,
If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.

I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don't need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I've found a safe mooring,
I've just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.

Being Boring by Wendy Cope

Sunday, June 29, 2008

I miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms. I miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world.

At 12 between dozing and dreams
She saw the most fantastic things
A slumber adorned
With razor-edged thorns
That erupted in bloom at the seams

At 3 between dreaming and rest
Her thoughts brought a bright-colored pest
It nibbled just at
Where the thornbush had sat
And summoned its friends from the nest

At 6 between resting and dawn
The odd vermins’ menace was gone
They filled up balloons
And watched the buds bloom
From their spot by the oak in the lawn

At 9 between dawning and rise
She wiped out the salt from her eyes
She tried to start thoughts
On the things she forgot
But nothing remained in her mind

Monday, June 23, 2008

She told me that she's afraid she won't be able to find someone who loves her unconditionally, and it was just about the saddest thing I've ever heard

Human relationships didn't work anyhow. Only the first two weeks had any zing, then the participants lost their interest. Masks dropped away and real people began to appear: cranks, imbeciles, the demented, the vengeful, sadists, killers. Modern society had created its own kind and they feasted on each other. It was a duel to the a cesspool.

I was naturally a loner, content just to live with a woman, eat with her, sleep with her, walk down the street with her. I didn't want conversation, or to go anywhere except the racetrack or the boxing matches. I didn't understand t.v. I felt foolish paying money to go into a movie theatre and sit with other people to share their emotions. Parties sickened me. I hated the game-playing, the dirty play, the flirting, the amateur drunks, the bores.

Excerpts from Women by Charles Bukowski.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

I stay away from you because I'm lonely, so I'm sorry if it bothers you. I just wish... well, you know what I wish for. You've always known.

The softest thing in the universe
Overcomes the hardest thing in the universe.
That without substance can enter where there is no room.
Hence I know the value of non-action.
Teaching without words and work without doing
Are understood by very few.

Lao Tzu

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

When I waved goodbye to her as I left her room, I knew, despite all the promises we both made and meant, that I would never see her again.

To be a poet is no ambition of mine. Simply a way of being alone.

I know, I alone
How much it hurts, this heart
With no faith nor law
Nor melody nor thought.

Only I, only I
And none of this can I say
Because feeling is like the sky -
Seen, nothing in it to see.
I know, I alone

Monday, June 16, 2008

What have you told us at all?

...And us, too, are we not lonely?

No - wait, what do you mean? We have each other.

You said, you said that all you read is loneliness. People send in their thoughts - their stories, their poetry, their art - everyday to you. And, and you said that all you read from it, the only common theme among all of their pieces is a single emotion: loneliness. It's like, babe, it's like the whole world is here to spill their thoughts to a person like you. And, I mean, I just don't get it.

You don't get it? What is there to get? They are sad. They look for some sort of release, and I just give them that.

But, no, I mean... does it matter if they are sad? They could be living with strangers in an alley or... or well-going in their Fifth Avenue apartment; some people are sad in either situation. What I'm saying is that they all look to you. They've created you into something, like, like an all-knowing god, or a an ancient hero, you know? They've made you into this being - this creature that can listen to their thoughts and sum up some kind of response. All you do - and I've heard you say it - is just respond in some general manner, something that a lot of people can relate to. But that's all they need! That's all they want. You see, what I'm saying is that, they look at you - some god, some hero - like you know what the answer is. Some cure, some miracle cure that gets them out of that funk they are going through.

Yeah, yeah I know. A lot of the time I'm just writing from a specific personal experience I've gone through. It doesn't matter what I say. They just want to know they've been heard.

Exactly. But, the point I'm making, babe, is that they don't see you as who you are. Just the image they've created of you. They don't see the real you, the reader, the girl I know. You're just one of them - I'm just one of them! We're lonely, babe, we're real lonely. So I'm saying, when it comes down to it, they need you - the you they've created. I understand that. But why is it you? You aren't a god, as far as I know, and you aren't some mystical hero. You've got problems just like they do. So, what I'm really saying is, who do you talk to? Who do you go to, babe, when you're lonely? Because it's clear to us both that what helps them isn't what's inside you.

Well, every once in a while I write in anonymously. So I guess I talk to myself. I talk to you, I talk to them, all of them. It's just, it's just one big thought.
By Calvin

Thursday, June 12, 2008

In reality all is here and now and all is one. Multiplicity and diversity are in the mind only.

Wisdom tells me I am nothing.
Love tells me I am everything.
Between the two my life flows.

Nisargadatta Maharaj

But as daytime takes hold, these thoughts are repressed.

I had a dream that I met a girl in a dying world.

It was all coming apart. Hairline cracks in reality widened to yawning chasms. Everything was going dark and light all at once, and there was sound like breaking waves rising into a piercing scream at the edge of hearing. I knew we didn't have long together.

She grabbed me and spoke a stream of numbers into my ear. Then it all went away.

I woke up. The memory of the apocalypse faded to mere fancy, but the numbers burned bright in my mind. I wrote them down right away.
42.39561 -71.13051
2007 09 23 14 38 00

They were coordinates. A place and a time, neither one too far away. What else could I do? When the day came, I went to the spot and waited.

As it turns out, wanting something doesn't make it real.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Genius, Love, Art, Triumph, Tragedy - Over eighteen years of life taken with a Polaroid camera.

I don't know what is more saddening

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were---I have not seen
As others saw---I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov'd, I loved alone.

Alone by Poe

Loneliness is the worst thing in the world. It's the only problem where you don't have others to comfort you.