New Beginning

Waking from an endless summer I stand

ready to move, to create, to live, to replace.

Waking from the eternal slumber I grin

ready to embrace, to take, to give for fate.

Years have trickled without a sound

Years have gone and I wonder how

Years have wasted without count

'til I woke to see them now:

years of suppression

years of fear

years of anger

years of tears

years of affliction

years of pain

years of love

gone away.

The summer sets into the night

I wake again by morning light.

Grumbling, shaking, I open eyes

step into the wronger right,

reach out my hands to take hold

reach out to God as knees fold

rise again to a world spinning

rise to face my new beginning.

Looking...

I find myself looking,

waiting for the break.

I find myself staring

hating what it takes.

I find myself longing

for the man across the lawn.

I find myself wronging

making everything undone.

How does it happen?

Feelings being sprung

from feelings not yet undone?

Listening to that voice

Seeing that smile

Holding my breath

As he drives me wild?

I find myself wanting it to end

so he can find his own peace

Instead of fulfilling mine.

I find myself hoping it will stop

just so he can lives his life

and I can go on with mine.

But instead,

I find myself watching

and longing, and waiting

for a chance, a ray of hope

to never, ever, 

maybe, possibly

come.

Hookah Circles

Lines run in circles

As we pass the pipes

and the smoke clouds 

the way back home.

Home.

It resonates with a different resonance

than what it did just yesterday 

when I feared to return each night

for the utter lack of assent from that bitch

who now seems like a distant dream

that I sorely wish I could have again.

Mom.

It's odd that now that I'm away 

she seems like such a saint

as every package brings a taste

and hint of that far away place called home.

I miss 1000 miles of memories

And will make 1000 miles more

Because I sit around this circle

Smoking in the great outdoors.

The End.

I wish I knew how this would end

but then again, I don't think it will

Because you'll always be a part of me

in my heart, in my life, in my dreams.

We may separate and never again meet

But still the love will never fade

Because a piece of my heart

belongs to you forever, always.

I wish I knew how to say goodbye

without hating myself for it

I wish it would not make you cry

When we realize this is it.

But this is it – the end.

And I'll miss you more than you know.

But this is it — the end.

So, for that reason, I must truly go.

Goodbye, my dear,

But do not weep.

For the future is bright

And you'll always be right

beside me, behind me, 

in my mind, in my life.

Even though this is it

The end of my time here,

Do not worry, do not fret,

For I will always love you, my dear.

Feelings

These feelings overwhelm me

and I cannot sort through the turmoil

to distinguish the overpowering sensation of leaving

from these muddled emotions that hide my pain

in the veil of a thousand different thoughts 

which blaze through my mind like a wildfire

tearing me apart from the inside.

The tears boil beneath the surface

heated by the flames of anger

even as I'm cooled by relief

and dripping anxiety

over the waterfall of excitement

even as I weep the sorrow

that hacks away at my joy

and dismisses my fear

of the unknown yet to face me.

I anticipate the future

I remember the past

but I cannot feel the present

Because these feelings confuse

and confound and block out

everything that there is to know now.

It's hard to think straight

when everything is being swept from underneath

And no one cares to put it back or hold it down

as the wind picks up and the summer fades

to those lonely autumn nights when no one dances

by the moonlight and no one holds me close til the daylight comes.

I want to break down and cry

But these feelings get in the way.

Summerset

The days are growing shorter,

the nights colder,

the winds stronger,

my resolve weaker.

The summer is ending

and I see that we are, too.

The season was summer,

when the butterflies began to flutter

through the air and now I shutter

as I take wing across this great expanse

and leave to be alone taken the chance

of not being able to make it on my own...

Alone.

Lost in the blur of the city

of the thousands of faces

but utterly and hopelessly alone

without you there to guide me 

without you there to lead me

without you to give me a home.

In your arms I found bliss

In your house, in your kiss.

Now your arms have gone away

I feel empty, nothing to say.

The summer is setting

The sun sets beyond the horizon

And the moon begins to shine above me

As I cry for the loss, cry for the pain

Cry to know there's no more dancing

Cause I'm headed out on my own

Leaving this place that I call home

And awaiting the sunrise

But knowing it won't be reflected in your eyes

But still over you and me, darling.

The summer may be setting

but this love will never fade.

There will always be a place in mind

and body and heart and soul

Just for you, just for us,

just for the summer we shared.

For today, for tomorrow, forever.

Summerset.

The Boyfriend Bin sneak peak

Prologue

“This is Elizabeth Renée reporting live from New York.
“Last night, the heart of a young boy was found in the garbage receptacle you see behind me here on the corner of Broadway and 47^th Street.

“Police have yet to release any more information concerning the extraordinary circumstances of this startling discovery. They have, however, released that the heart belonged to a young male between the ages of 16 and 20. These findings were based on preliminary tests performed on the heart upon its discovery.

“The heartless individual has also yet to be found. However, scientists hope to discover the owner of this missing organ through a series of extensive experiments.

“Leading psychologist Francis Netal signed on as the project head early this morning and is expected to arrive in New York by this evening to begin in-depth research.

“Mayor Chandler Kinsman – who usually refuses to comment on such issues as this – announced in an unscheduled press conference this morning that this case should be top priority.

“‘The city that never sleeps now has a reason for its insomnia,’ he said. ‘None shall know rest until this case is solved. No heart will be safe while this terrible foe still lurks on our streets – whatever this terror may be.’

“In response, the New York Police Department has blocked off all traffic from entering a five-block radius of the crime scene so that the NYPD can perform a thorough search for evidence.

“Much to the chagrin of thespians and theatre-goers alike, several Broadway shows have been put on hiatus until the scene has been cleared. Spring Awakening, The Little Mermaid, The Grey Gardens, Avenue Q, and Wicked have all issued rain checks due to the current situation. Avenue Q, currently in its last season, is discussing a series of encore performances to make up for the time lost during the course of the investigation.

“To quell the already-loud murmurs of a theatrical strike such as that of late 2007, Mayor Kinsman has agreed to reimburse the theatres for the loss of performances this investigation incurs.

“Kinsman’s uncharacteristic charitable actions concerning what one New York paper has already referred to as the ‘Heart Bin Case’ has lead to some politicians questioning the sincerity of the long-standing Mayor of the Big Apple.

“Opposition claims that Kinsman’s charity in the wake of this horrendous travesty might very well be a ploy to win votes in the impending elections.

“However, some also offer that this could finally be the soft spot of the Brick-Wall Mayor’s stone heart.

“For either case, more information will surely arise as this investigation continues.

“As for the unfortunate boy whose heart was stolen, we offer our sincerest sympathy for the family and friends of this tragedy’s victim – whoever he may be.

“We will continue to keep you, the viewers, well informed on this horrible crime as the day and investigation progress.

“Until then, keep your loved ones close and lock your hearts away in a safe place. Make but one key and be cautious to whom you grant it.

“Live from 47^th Street and Broadway, this has been Elizabeth Renée for Channel 3 News.”

Reasons

There are so many reasons to stay here































I just can't think of them right now

Sanctity

Sanctity, sanctity
Wherefore art thou, sanctity?

Hidden behind the cross
where underneath the priest
went beyond your bounds
and under the shirt of a little boy
that cried for sanctuary
in the comfort of the Word,
but was denied by him
and by your empty promise?

Sanctity, sanctity,
wherefore art thou, sanctity?

Lost in the crossfire
of a thousand young soldiers
fighting for "freedom" and "country"
over the irreversible mistake of a man
too ignorant to foresee the penalties of such
actions as you had wished him to take
in your sake, in your honor, to protect you?
Sanctity in the hellfire and damnation
of so many innocent lives on either side
of border and brother and kind?

Sanctity, ha!
I laugh in the name of sanctity.

Your provocation of righteousness
in the land of the unholy sickens and taunts
As I fearfully strive to reach thee and thine.
But this kiss of death upon his lips end it tout suite.
We somehow violate your definition and tramp upon tradition
by wanting some bit of joy and unity that they have but we haven't.

Sanctity, sanctity,
Wherefore art thou sanctity?

Behind the sacred traditions long kept under steeple
Where happy couples march toward doom and despair
For hours after the final bell tolls, the wedding unfolds
and the veil unravels to show something lurking deep within.
A five hour marriage, yet we're the bigger sin?

Sanctity, sanctity
How does love taint thee?
How can we who love the same
Be the ones to kill you, the ones to blame?

Sanctity, sanctity,
wherefore art thou, sanctity?
You've been gone too long to blame us anymore.

Leaving

Every time I look at you,
I somehow see tomorrow.
The look hidden behind your cheerful eyes
still weeps of your sincerest sorrow.

It isn't so easy,
keeping my mind at bay
As the months fade to weeks
and weeks turn into days.

We have but a limited time
left 'til I am leaving this place for good
But we'll make the most of it,
I want that clearly understood.

Today is our moment,
tomorrow our promise,
and the future is so very far away.
So let's embrace the time,
the magic, the memories,
the promise of each remaining day.

I'll hate myself tomorrow
but today, I'm enjoying it as it is.
Today, I'm leaving it all behind.

Not Poetry

This is not poetry, but it's my only completed short story.

"The Death Camp Chronicles" was a history project in 10th grade. Here's the story:

August 18, 1943

Each morning, I wake up to the same hell: I see the same miserable faces, the same drab grey walls, the same disease, the same camp: Auschwitz. I have been here for what seems like a thousand days, an interminable stay in my own hell on Earth. This is what my life is. I live only for an absolution that will never come. I am Wilhelm Pilecki, a prisoner with the pink triangle branded beside the Star of David on my sleeve. I am physically 17, but hell ages the mind rapidly…

Each morning, as the roll call sounds as the sun rises over my prison, I ponder the rhetorical question: will I survive; will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare? We, as men, are all lined up and demoralized anew every morning before we are sent to our separate chores. This morning, I am to accompany men into the woods to chop wood for the fires of Auschwitz. This morning, I am going to stoke the fires that will kill my childhood friend. This morning, I am going to murder hundreds.

We return to the main camp as the sun beats down directly overhead and as the sweat drips down our tired, worn faces, the Meisters continue to push us towards the camp as they leisurely walk behind us. We are on our way to lunch, to molded bread and disgustingly inadequate soup. Now, I’ll be able to see my mother for the first time today. We’ll possibly be able to talk. Well, we would be able to if she could. Ever since my aunt was taken from us, she hasn’t been the same.

We arrive in the tightly packed barracks and are allotted our spoonful of soup, our piece of bread, and what water was brought up by the prisoners here. I scan the room for any missing faces; at least 100 have gone to Birkenau today, I would be sorting their belongings by tomorrow. I find my mother in the crowd but I cannot get to her. The rest of my family is gone. My father was sent to another camp as was my older brother. I am here alone with a despondent parent, therefore, I am alone.

I sit beside people I do not know, new faces that will soon also fade from my memory as all else has. We do not talk much and if at all, only in hushed tones. We do not reminisce on our old lives, they are gone, we cannot have them back. It’s all small-talk in Auschwitz: “At least the weather’s good,” “At least I have someone I know here,” “What’s your name?” “Am I going to survive?” It’s monotonous, it’s quiet, it’s forbidden, and all too soon, it’s over and the little comfort of the day we had in each other is now gone and we are each once more lined up and divided into different workforces.

I am once again sent to retrieve firewood, but now my newest ‘friend,’ Tadeusz (Tad, as I call him), accompanies me. It is his first day and he, too, is all alone though he still caries the fantastical hope of his family waiting on the other side of the barbed-wire fence. Yet, I do not have the heart to tell him that the adjacent camp is not as friendly as this hell-whole.

We work side-by-side for the remainder of the evening, not daring to speak to one another, but always watching so that the other doesn’t mess up. We cannot afford to mess up here; we cannot afford to be sent to the Kapo; we cannot afford to be beaten with the chains, the hoses, the bars. I have not suffered the abuse. Yet, I see every night next to me, two boys, younger than I, who sleep on their stomachs to ease the pain of their backs. Hell is hard enough without back-aches.

As dusk begins to descend, Tad and I silently heave a sigh of relief at surviving another day. We head back to camp, herded down the fenced-in lane like cattle, beaten if we begin to drag. As we walk down the iron alley, Tad and I exchange nervous glances. I have been here for over a year now, yet the barbed wires still make chills run down my back and the hairs on my neck stand up.

Tonight, we have final roll call after a dinner exactly the same as our lunch and we are forced to retire to our barracks as the sun sets. I am stuck, once more, against the wall yet I find comfort in that my new bunkmate is none other than Tad. It is the only comfort I have as I drift into another restless slumber, knowing not what tomorrow would bring.

August 24, 1943

My eyes flicker open and for a moment; I still live in the land of my dreams; I am at home: free. But the steady drill of the SS Guard’s morning roll call wakes me from my fantasy and I come to the realization that I am still here, still facing death.

Tad stirs beside me, he is tired. His eyes fail to open even as I nudge him to get up. He groans as I elbow him in the rib cage but still doesn’t have the strength or will to wake fully. Suddenly, his eyes blink open and he stares up at me, the piercing blue orbs looking through my scarred face and into my soul. He sees the genuine concern I feel for him and finds new hope in my dim light.

Today is the same as any other, but it is warmer. I feel as though I now have a reason to live past Auschwitz, past the death that surrounds me. I have a friendly face every day to act as my beacon, I have someone to talk to before a fall back into my fantasy land.

Today, we sort through the clothes of the new arrivals, common Poles with lives and histories that I will never know. I once would have shed a tear for them but my tears are gone, my sympathy disappeared when none was given unto me.

I sorted through piles of clothes, watches, glasses, and shoes looking for the best and discarding the others. Somehow, Tad had managed to be assigned in the same group as I am we managed a feeble conversation when the guards weren’t around.

”At least it’s not hard labor,” he said to me, managing a weak smile. His eyes were worn and tired and the bags under them hinted to his transformation. His once beautiful face was now fallen and worn. Five days in hell is an eternity. Five days…just five days have done so much.

“You’re not sad?” I asked him.

“What is there to be sad about? I have seen this every day, I have lost all my family to the flames that now pollute the air we breathe. I have seen one thousand go in before me and only 20 come out alive. I have seen the death on the battlefront, I was a soldier of the Soviets, drafted. I have seen a hundred lives dead on the battlefield. I have seen my father’s last breathe leave him as he clings to my dead brother. My tears are dried, my sorrow is too deep to show. I am stone, I am dead.”

We did not speak for the rest of that day. We did not have anything else to say. We ate in silence, we worked in silence, and we were finished.

September 1, 1943

I wake up next to him again yet we have another bed mate. He is small, he is young, and he is sick. We sleep as close to the wall as we can, keeping him on the edge to prevent the spread of his flu. A sickness in a death camp means death, a sickness is the ultimate weakness. It will soon spread if he is not disposed of.

“Is it his fault?” Tad asked me, his eyes piercing mine once more, a look of concentration on his face.

“Do you want to die or do you wish to survive? Do you wish to be beaten while sick, do you wish to work while sick?”

“I am already sick. I am already infected,” Tad retorted, anger crossing his face. “We are not worthy of the decision to kill someone. God will let him die when it is his time. God will see us through.”

“God has abandoned us! We are in hell!” I yelled, disturbing the quiet of our barracks. We were alone during the mealtime; it was our special place to get away from everyone. It was our bunk but it has been contaminated. “There is no God in hell! There is no God on this earth! Heaven has forsaken us and we must make the decisions. We must have some control on what Satan does to us!”

“Do not blasphemy, do not forsake the Lord!”

“Why? Has he not forsaken us in the prison? Where was your Almighty God when your troop was captured? Where was the Exalted One when the fires lit in the furnace and the gas poured from the showers?”

“In our hearts, giving us hope!” Tad said, grabbing me and pulling me close to him.

“NO!” I said, snatching myself from his grasp. I ripped the Star of David from my arm, leaving my Small Pink Triangular mark still intact. “The light of David has faded. God has faded. All we have is each other. All we have is hell.”

Tad didn’t have anything to respond to that, but I knew that he was beginning to doubt the power of God. I knew that it would not be too long before he, too, blasphemed and cried out the rhetorical “why?” to the heavens, not expecting or receiving answers.

Our bunkmate died that night while we slept. IT was a terminal illness of which there was an easily gotten cure if the SS Guard had wanted it, but they didn’t because they didn’t care whether we died or lived. We were numbers, merely the numbers tattooed on our arms. I had fallen asleep that night looking at Tad then to his number, then mine. One number off.

September 23, 1943.

We are still alive but I begin to see the effects of the disease on Tad. I see this new virus, this epidemic. It’s what each prisoner fears in their darkest nightmare.. It’s what I call the Grim Reaper. Tad is sick and pale. His eyes are slowly fading to a dull gray and his words are short. He works in the factory with as much effort as he can manage but it is not enough.

He was beaten 25 lashes by the Kapo today. I knew he would not sleep nor gain rest that night. He needed the rest. He needed the painless slumber, the dreams of better times. Yet, they would not come to him so I stayed awake with him to offer what comfort I could.

We were still alone in our bunk. We were the fortunate of the camp. I laid my hand across his chest and gently brushed the sweat from his brow. “Get better for me. Don’t leave me in hell.”

“I….won’t….leave you…” Tad struggled to say. “I…..love….”

I pushed a finger to his lip a whispered the same in his ear. I could see the life leaving him and I gently leaned to kiss his forehead. “I will always…”

We did not sleep that night but the next day, fortunately, we were once more in the clothes factory sorting. I allowed Tad to nap as I worked and woke him if I heard a soldier coming.

It was the same day as it always was, a redundant cycle of hell and each day faded into the next and I lost count of the days. The only thing that kept me on track is this journal. I write the dates in the back, I tick off the days as they pass and mourn the loss of all hope.

October 6, 1943

Tad has gotten a little better, but not much and I have slowly digressed to his state of misery. The disease that has been breaking my immune system down slowly has now taken over and I write these last words with the last of my sleep.

My breathing is heavy, it is midnight. Tad’s is fading fast and I cling to him even as I write.

”I’ll never let you go, Tad,” I said to him. “I’ll never let you go.”

“Never…” he said feebly.

“Do you remember the clean waters? Do you remember proper showers and Water Closets? Do you recall the sounds of birds, the taste of real meat? Do you remember the gentle caress of your mother and father? The happy embrace of a lover?”

“Never…” he repeated.
”Will we ever make it out alive?”

“Never…”

“Will you ever forget, will you ever leave me alone?”

“Never.”

And he died on that final parting word. He died in my arms as I clung to his scrawny, feeble body. I felt his final breathe brush across my face and as I smelled his last bit of life leave him, I closed my eyes and watched as the scenes of my life flashed before me. I remembered the trees of my little Polish town, of the small pond that I used to swim in. I remembered how it felt to be free, how it felt to believe in a greater good, in God.

And I know I will go to a better place than this. I know I will awaken somewhere better, even if it is in hell, it will be better than this. I open my eyes to the broad ceiling and gaze out a hole above our bunk.

“God,” I said feebly, “please forgive me. Forgive me.”

And whether he heard me or not, I shall never know. I have not the strength to write, nor the will to live. I will part from this earth before the dawn breaks and I will cling to Tad’s limp frame until the sun rises and the carts come to carry our bodies to the furnace.

“Goodbye, my love. Goodbye, my life,” I said. “Goodbye, my hell: Auschwitz.”

Little Butterfly

"Do you remember the story about the butterfly?"
How it soared way up into the eastern sky
and the wind took its delicate wings across the ocean;
a wish fulfilled to be free and alive on the other side,
away from this, on the other side
of these every-changing tides.

"Do you remember the story about the butterfly?
I always thought I could go anywhere alone.
But since I met you I've realized I'm weak.
I can't fly all by myself.
I can't go anywhere without you anymore."

She said it, Hinako Takanaga,
I read it in a cute manga
And fell in love with the concept
that we could be butterflies, you and I,
and we could fly together and defy everything
and care about nothing but each other at the same time.

The season is summer, my dear,
as Takanaga said...when the young butterflies
are just beginning to flutter through the air.
The season is summer, my dear,
when we break from the shell and flutter
through the lazy days like nothing could stop us....
anyway...the season is summer and we're together.
So, I can fly.

Be my little butterfly, won't you?
Because I'm afraid to fly on my own...
Especially now, when I am at home.

L_VE

Listen t_ me
_h, h_w I wish it c_uld be
Very plain t_ see
Everything and m_re
L_ve.

Something's missing, though,
something deep in my soul,
somehow I have to find a way to let go,
somehow
I just have to...
...know...
Oh.
O.

I just realized what's missing
The realization of how the constalations aligned
just for us, just for the two of us
for this one summer together
under the stars, wrapped in arms
as we chase away tomorrow for one more day
and hope and pray that these feelings stay
close together and forever and linger long after
I'm 1000 miles away from here and there and you...
and I realized that something's budding in my soul
Something sudden, somethings suddenly so new.
I think...I hope...I wish...I'm starting to L_VE you.
O.

lOve.
I forgot how it felt this way
how you take my breath away
When I just want you to stay
and I just hope and pray
that somehow, someday
We'll be together this way...
O.

O is the sudden realization I've missed this
And I could have missed you
And I suddenly found you
and everything is okay...for now.


Maybe this is love,
But who knows?

Oh...
L
O
V
E.
Oh...I get it now?

New Hope

He said it in the sweetest way:
"I know we only have three months,
but let's make the most out of the time we have."
Here's to the memories we'll make, my dear.

Your beacon of hope shines out of the void
I had made for myself for this last cold summer
You give me new hope in the darkness
That bright days are still to come
and there are memories still to be had
and there is life still to be lived
here in this little place I call home.

I find myself pulled
in all directions now
Waiting for him
Waiting for her
Hoping for the best
and stopping the stir
I find myself pushed
in every possible way
Going to there
Leaving from here
Hoping for something to last
and dreading the whir
of those voices
and faces
and places
and times
1000 miles away
but oh so close to time.

But I pause from all that
for these brief summer months
Because you give me hope
You give me hope for today
for tomorrow
for every day after
That we can be together
And, for at least the summer,
Stay just that way.

A new hope for love
a new hope for life
a new hope for us
to watch days go by.

Here we are,
those sweet days of summer.

You said it in the sweetest way:
"I know we only have three months,
but let's make the most out of the time we have
Live for today, dream not of tomorrow,
relish in our joy, and escape into our bliss.
We've got a summer, let's make the most of it."
Here's to the hope you gave me,
Here's to the memories you made me,
Here's to us, my dear, here's to my final summer here.

Stuck

It's a good thing I'm leaving
because this place is driving me mad
With its insane notions
of what is good and what is bad.

But here I am
stuck in the middle
of being here
and being there
and in this perpetual state
of denying anything here
so I CAN and WILL go there.

August 23 is a deadline
by which my life must end by
and begin again after that day
but until then I'm stuck
in the limbo, the purgatory
waiting for heaven
and hoping to avoid these flames
all the while suffering the solitude
that goes onto to obliterate myself
in its vicious cycle of taunting and teasing
because I am alone.

Goodbye my hell.
Goodbye my heaven.
Hello purgatory
and the weightless waiting
in which I find myself
crying sometimes
and hoping the rest will go better
and someone will find me floating
in the limbo between here and there.

Until then,
all that remains
is me: stuck.

Just Fuck It

They sit at their table
with cigarette aglow
in the hands of one
too young to even know
how to ignite the flame
of passion that should burn
even into the darkest nights
of a relationship that's meant
to last into the end of time and beyond.

I laugh and pretend to care
about the one with the fag
as I long for the one with
the one with the fag.

Just fuck it, alright?
I scream inside
as they walk into the night:
another couple
I long to belong in
but find myself the third wheel.

Just fuck it,
I scream and look downtrodden
As I'm pushed out the door
And asked is everything alright.

Of course it is, just fuck it.

I wish I could see them,
the faces the make
As I walk away
down the cold lonely street
and pause to meet and greet
A slut and a girl I barely know
but somehow reads me quite fluently
as I look at him and smile
realizing he realized I existed.

Me.
Existing.
Just fuck it.

I walk away again
Walk away from him
Walk away from the hordes of hims
The unavailable, gay men.

Just fuck it.

Recession

My life is like the stock market:
hopelessly lost in the stir of New York,
I teeter on the edge of going under
all the while wishing for a peak
which I will never quite reach
because somehow there will always be
some greater height to reach
that is just out of reach
and so fucking hard to follow
because it goes up and down
so rapidly that I get lost in the blur
of faces and names that mean nothing
unless they crash like a meteorite
into the poor, pathetic negative
in which I currently reside.
My recession.

Beauty from the Beast

It was the image of perfection:
ruby red paint
sleek curves
and the power of a beast
contained within its compact form.

I named it Baby Red -
for the color -
and loved ever minute
behind that 0-60 in 3.75 seconds
2000 Honda Civic.

It was the envy of every man,
woman, and child in my small town
and on the campus of my 500 population
school that I sped to as I ran late
every morning from the moment
I bought that slice of heaven on earth.

Then, the gravel came fast to chip
the paint from the side
and the road met window
at 55 miles per hour
as my stack of Compact Discs
bombarded my head as the world
spun around in circles
going so fast but so slow at the same time
like a careening airplane
that's sure of death but no longer afraid
of what is to come as it
plummets so quickly
to the ground that there is no
turning back from what
is going to happen.
Then it stops.

I am sideways.
Hands at 10 and 2.
The car groans its protest beneath me.
I push up against the passenger door
that is suddenly so much heavier than
it ever seemed before.
Gravity's a bitch when you're trapped.

I land on all fours on the gravel road
and cry int the headlights that light both
my feet and my contorted face
as I stare blankly at the carnage
of my once beautiful Baby Red.

I scream out into the night
"Help! HELP! Oh my GOD!
HELP! I just wrecked my car!
Won't somebody help me!"

I cry out in vain at the lonely farm house
and to the rustle in the bushes.
I scream not for the aide but for the comfort
of screaming when the world
has come back to full speed
and the impact finally hits
that my car is not my car
but my pile of scrap metal
for all I know or care:
this is the death of beauty.

The cell phone lights from inside
and I scale the car once more
to reach that heavy metal door
and fall through to the other side,
where my journey both ended and began
once more, to dig for that beacon
of flashing hope beneath the gas pedal,
beneath the black rose pedal that killed
a love and gave birth to a new love
all at the same time.

"Help me! I. Wrecked. My. Car!"
I pant between sobs

"Huh? Dude? What?"
He says in shock and awe.

"I. Wrecked. My. Car."
I repeat for affect.

"Woah. Are you shitting me?
You're late man, get yo ass here!"
He retorts, hoping to see
some way passed my joke
that isn't really a joke at all.

"I. Can't. I. Wrecked. My. Ca-a-a-ar!"
I scream and squeal
and thrash about
until he appeals
to my cry for help,
for him to come my way!

"We're on the way."
Thank God, you're on the way.

Headlights blare from both directions
parents come last, as usual,
but the friends are their pushing
and holding and hugging and praying
that nothing is broken.

But something is broken:
my big-headed pride,
my over-sized stride,
my love of myself
I could not deny.
Until that very moment
when it was all gone.

They came to push it back upright
and there I beheld that horrendous sight:
My Baby Red turned into the Red Beast
the devilish gravel held its devilish feast
on that shiny red paint and that smooth sleek body,
why did this happen to that smooth sleek body?

That night was a daze
The next day a drag
I sat on that bus
and wailed and sagged
in the seat as it bumped
along that same gravel road
where my car marred the surface
of a patch of roughness in the otherwise
quite bumpy road that should never
have been traveled.
That will teach me to speed
on loose gravel!

Two weeks later,
the Red Beast was back
but the stares were of another
sort than the stares of before.
These were of sadness,
pity, and remorse
for the loss of cart
for the loss of its horse!

They wept at the loss
of such superficial beauty:
the red mixed with white,
the ash to douse the flame.

"It was so pretty
But then you had to go
and wreck it all!"

Why do they make me take the fall?

I drive it still today
Some two years later
I drive it still today
But it's become something greater:
A legacy I leave behind
to top my "Tops in Texas"
because long after that
trophy is forgotten,
they'll still remember me:
the boy who rode the gallant steed
That broken piece of former beauty
turned into the ferocious beast!

I leave behind a legacy when I move:
the legacy of Baby Red turned to Red Beast,
the legacy of legend to say the very least.

Wherever I go, people recognize me
But it's not by what I've done
Or who I know
Or what I will do.

Wherever I go, people recognize me
because I'm not afraid to tame the beast
and ride it into the night,
and on through my life.

My Son

You have not yet been born
and I doubt you ever will be
because I won't give you the chance
to turn out just like me.

You see, my son,
I disappoint the world
despite what I have done
and what I have accomplished
because I am not the man they see
in headlines across the front page:
the winner of the great event
the mastermind and the sage.

You see, my son,
what I have done
is left a trail of tears
from day one of my openness
to the last man I left behind
me as I moved on and she won
and I conquered my own desires
to silence them for some time
until I would be free again to feel.

You have not yet been born
and I doubt you ever will be
Because the thing I fear the most
is you'll turn out just like me.

My Mother

Her.
It.
She.
Bitch.

My mother, oh how I love her
when she's not tying me down to this hell
I call home in the middle of nowhere,
the middle of a hole I cannot seem to get out of
because she's got me held in place by
chains of the past and chains of the future
and finance and finality of her piercing words
that cut like a knife through my heart
because she cannot love me for who I am
but who she wants me to be: someone
who is utterly and entirely not me.

My mother, how I envy her
for the power she has over her own future
and of mine, for that matter, because who am I
but her precious son? The success of which is all
hers, I assure you that, because how could I have
come to this if not for her love and support in all things
I did right and her proper admonishments when I did not
and her loving insight into the world that is naught?

My mother, how I loathe her
for her archaic beliefs that God didn't create Adam and Steve
he created Adam and Eve, but guess what, Mommy Dearest,
He also created the Birds and the Bees and the wind in the trees
that blew those bees together and those birds apart and that love
in one another that just began to start. That boy met that boy
down by the bay and in the sand they did play as the night faded to day
and the clouds rolled away and the sun shone so bright on his behind
as he took hold and I took flight and I learned to love a man, mother,
a man who I loved so dear as he took hold and took me there.
Guess what, Mother so dear, he took me there. He took me there.
Guess what, dear Mother, you're son's a QUEER.

Mother, I love you.
Unconditionally.
Mother, I support you.
Unconditionally.
Mother, I adore you.
Unconditionally.
Can you say the same for me?

My Father

I miss him,
my father,
like no other
in the world.
I want to kiss him,
my father,
like any other
boy or girl.
I want to hold him,
my father,
to be kept safe
from this turmoil.
I want him,
my father,
to come back
into this world.

Although he is no longer here
I can still hear him in my times of need
speaking from within me, looking back through
the mirror that shows both his reflection and mine
as I gaze into my past to find the man that bore me
and raised me as a child to know what was right from
what was wrong in this world that he left me all alone in
without the influence of a man to shape my mind and body
into something more than this poor excuse for a man that I am.

Although he is no longer here
I can still remember his voice because it is mine
and the words that escape my lips are borne of what
he taught me to believe in even before I knew I could believe
in anything or nothing at all, because he is the one who instilled in me
the principals of life that I am still living by to this day and to every day henceforth.

Although he is no longer here
I remember him fondly from days gone by
when he took me to the lake and made me fly
on the wings of a speeding boat that sliced through
the waves and stood afloat above the expanse of blue above
and blue below and blue in my eyes that stared into his as I weeped
the tears of joy that pour from my face now that he is with me forever
in my heart and in my mind and in my body and in my whole being because
My father is, no matter what, always going to be a part of me.

What would he say if here were here?
My father, my father, who I hold dear?
What would he say if I were queer?
My father, my father, still love me dear?

I miss him,
my father,
but we'll meet again.
I love him,
my father,
my dearest friend.

Hotel Room

Hotel room beds are like prostitutes:
Every night a different man, woman, or child
spends hundreds of bucks to have the best night
of their lives when they are away
from their husbands and wives.

Hotel rooms are like homes away from home:
A bed, a tv, a broken remote control,
internet that doesn't work,
and an ill-equipped bathroom
with a toilet that only flushes once
every five times and only if you jiggle
the handle just right and force the lid
down while standing on one knee
bent over and whispering lines out
of the Bible that can be found in the
bedside table but is rarely ever used.

Hotels are like one night stands:
there forever if you want to go back
but rarely as good as the first time
because someone else has been there
after you but before you this time
and has defiled the best parts and stolen
something that made it so much more
the first time around when the night
was the best and the memory
even better because the memory
is of a time before that middle-aged man
came and let loose his terror on what
was once a decent place but now
is just that memory of a one-night stand.

This city is asleep but stay awake
avoiding the siren call of the prostitute
as I roam the corridors of my temporary home
before returning for a one night stand in this hell
of a place that I once loved before I altogether realized
I'm just here for the night, anyway.

Remembering You Amounts to Nothing (RYAN)

What we had is spent
in the aisles of black roses
that lines the garden of our Eden
behind the picket row fence of our home
in the depths of Suburbia in which we fed a hunger,
a desire so deep for one another that the world wept
as we rose to the occasion and blacked out all else but
your body and mine as our worlds intertwined into one single
being.

What I need is broken
and tattered and torn in the sheets
of that sweet dream I recollect in times
when I need you the least but also miss you
the most I have ever missed and ever wanted before:
these times when I shouldn't to save you from the wake
of a terrible blade of sorrow and dispair that will blacken
your amber skies as I say my sorrowful goodbyes and head into
the future and away from you who I hold so dear to me now and
forever.

What I want is you
back in my safe and loving arms
that lie cold and frozen without you
and yearn for the warmth of your body
as our lips touch and our cheeks blush a scarlet
so deep that the blood from one razor blade or fourteen
that cut through my heart and yours could never even hope
to compare because that blush is so deep and that hurt even
more that I could never dare dream you could come back to me
because who am I but this poor excuse for a man who left you
alone.

All I wanted was
to stay with you
and hold you
forever
but never could
abandon the dreams
I have or will have
to sacrifice for another
the life I choose to live
and the dreams I dare to give
to none but myself and my own being
even if it means being all alone forever.

But somehow in my sleep
you always come back to remind me:
All I want right now
is you.
All I need is everything
but you.
All my world screams I
miss you.
And in my every dream I
love you.

Evolve

The barrier between here and there
is like an insurmountable wall that all others
begin to look at with utter terror and absolute fear,
but not you and I.

We are the ones that evolve from the dust
that settles on their head like the aging gray hairs
that will eventually replace it as they remain in this place
far after you and I are gone.

We are the ones that surpass this pack of mindless
drones as they drone on day after dreary, long, weary day
in their same old routine that never seems to bother them
but makes you and I weep with despair.

We are the ones that want to revolutionize this institutionalized
city we find ourselves currently trapped in behind these jail-cells
of brick prisons that we go to for so long every damn day just to see
that you and I do not belong.

We are evolving from this provincial little world that seems so vast
to the young and ignorant people who remain young and ignorant
even to their deathbeds because they fear what the world can hold
beyond their little homes, but not you and I.

We are leaving this place behind. We are evolving from this time.
Darwin may have been an utter genius and a fool all the same
but he was right about one thing on that controversial theory of his:
We do adapt to our environments, or else you and I move.

We are not meant for this place, for this tar pit of a world that traps
and taunts and bogs them down into their quiet lives that should not
be shaken by their planted feet so that the dust may fall off of them,
but you and I are meant for this world, do believe me that!

You and are bigger than this small space we call life
Because this small space is merely a fraction of the life
we could live beyond the borders of this city of sin and hellfire
and damnation to all but you and I.

You and I will break free.
We. Will. Evolve.

Where We Were

We have all been there once or twice before
The purgatory-like meadow with a grassy knoll
surrounded by a sea of thorns that means
the only way out is up or down and the only
real feeling is being there and being scared
of what lies beyond the ring of thorns
that daily closes in at us
beaconing to choose
between this life
or another.

Where we were yesterday
is very much the same as today
but somehow different,
like time can make a difference
even in small hourly dosages that
bleed like a pinprick on my finger
as they draw blood from the depths
of my very being to pass on to another:
the only blood I will ever pass to another
be it through loin or vein for I am not sanitary
in their sense of the word for I've lain with another
of the same kind like the bird and the bee and the bee
who stuck to his hive to find a friend in bed and a friend
in head like the lost wasp found a mate among the hornets
nest that swelled and stirred and thought it a jest that someone
other than a bird would ever dare step foot inside their
humble
little
home.

Where we were when I said to you
I cannot be your boyfriend
and I cannot be your boyfriend
and I cannot want your boyfriend
or want to be your boyfriend
or relish in the boyfriend
that I was of yesterday
or forget the places
that never go away
Where we were there
I am no longer there today.
Stoic.
Emotion-
less.
Gone.
You
From
My
Mind.
GONE.
Feel that?
Good.
Bad.
I don't care.

Where we were when I sat alone
Where we were when I sat at home
Where we were when the hours ticked by
Where we were when I felt you cry
Where we were when the votes came in
Where we were when we committed our sin
Where we were through those warm fuzzies
Where we were through those broken lies

Where we were is gone
Where we are is here
in the middle of that parking lot
Staring at the starlight
Waiting for the world
to change and being
that change in the world.

Where we were is nothing compared
to where we soon shall be!

Chivalry Was Found Dead in the Bottom of a Bottle in His Cold and Dreary Hands

What did it take for you to realize you were wrong?
The whirl of the lights or the sound of the throng
of people fleeing the scene in a haze initiated by the
foggiest notion to think to stop to take a small drink
out of that barren draught of false hopes and promises
of respite from this world we call our own but hate to think
about the future of this world that so long stood alone
and undaunted except when this race we call man
took up and took a stand against all that was good
and clean and safe and fun and truly memorable
to forsake it for this one-night-stand with a bottle
in hand and a haze settling in over body and mind.

Chivalry was found dead in the bottom of a bottle
in His cold and dreary hands that took hold of the wheel
whose tires peeled on the pavement as the brake lights
roared into life to light up the night
on that cold and harsh evening
when the cops chased them way
into the night
where courtesy took respite
in the brightest corners
where those roaches dare not wonder
into for fear of being caught
in the blinding stare of reality
as it slaps them in the face.

When the bottles are turned up
and the cuffs turned down
and those once happy faces
turned all into frowns,
Then they will realize
the black they are wearing
is because of that night
when the fools took flight
and didn't know who that was
or when to respond to the lights
that illuminated cold asphalt
as they came to a sudden stop
that sent others on ahead
and dropped them dead
to the grass when their bottles
now lay upside down and empty
like their hearts.

What does it take to realize you're wrong?
The note in the bottom of the bottle
or the voice of the song
at the funeral of a friend?
Is it enough for one night
or all the nights til the end
to see them all suffer
at the loss of your friend?

Is it enough to lose all
and let one another fall
just for one night of fun
none remember -- at all?

Chivalry was found dead in the bottom of a bottle
in those cold and dreary hands
that clutched the wheel
that took the life
that felt surreal
as it sped off into the night.

Chivalry sped into the night.
Chivalry took off in fright.
Chivalry stood dead with a knife
With a knife in the shape of a bottle
The knife that took his own life
In the night.

Our Assets

The polls are open at 8 a.m.
and the folks line up to commit their sins
On the tiny computer screen that decides who wins
the future of America.

The banners wave,
The flags suspend
in the air and on the wind
and here we go to cast the vote
for who we think could take the toll
of answering a damned phone
at 3 a.m. when the polls are closed
except at the White House he or she is in.

I do not count him or her out
based on race or rant or creed or passion
But I do not count her or him in
just because the news says it's in fashion!

A Black, A Woman, and a Republican
walk into a bar in north Texas
and the mud flies through the air
as the Amazonian Lady-in-Waiting
Flies towards the Presidential Dream
representative of the female species
And the mad black man roars over
barstool and bench and table alike
to scratch out the eyes of Mr. "I did
not have sexual relations with that
woman" himself as the old man settles
in to watch the chaos that ultimately
will lead to his not-so-surprising victory
over the people that built America behind
the scenes:

The woman with dreams
and the black who slaved
to save the dreams of those
who gave their lives before
to build a nation that might
embrace in its arms the thought
of a man of a different color
rising to power -- but who also
must realize that his death
is only a majority away
and then who's to blame
for the tragedy of a nation
falling so shortly after
the election of a man
who stands for what
America always has
and never again will.

With liberty and justice for all
But not for you, or you
or you
or you
or you
or you
or me.

Parking Lot

Our voices echo over the empty concrete
like a chorus of grackles, but more cheerful
and far less daunting than those pestilent
gruesome creatures that dwell in the backs
of our minds bearing the mark of yesterday
and the promise of doom on the horizon.

But for the time, our minds are elsewhere:
in the hands of each other and in the realm
of stars that we look to as we press down on
the cool earth and it stubbornly pushes back
up, reaching for the stars that are so far away
and so impossible for it to reach, but not for us.

Because out there in the parking lot
We are the stars that make up the sky
and shine so brilliantly with the silver light
illuminating our footsteps as they fall behind us
as we ascend into the heavens to yell out into the night
that we are the immortal souls who will linger long after

these nights and days together are spent and we no longer

exist here in this abandoned parking lot on the edge of this expanse
of nothingness, loneliness, despair, and ultimately the humilation of
life trapped inside the confines of brick walls that don't press so
much as oppress the minds of those poor, ignorant children who think
they are learning when all the learning to be found on earth can be
found not in the walls but out on that lonely parking lot.

We yell into the night
because we know it listens.
We laugh into the night
because there, we know no cares.
We hold onto the night
because there, we belong together.

On the edge of the parking lot,
In the middle of the world.

Warm Fuzzies

What it was is not what it is
and where it went is nowhere near
the place it will come to be.

I've got warm fuzzies in my mind
and in my heart and in the pit of
my stomach that ties in knots
every time that he comes near
and every time I suddenly hear
the words from his lips that melt
and then drips over my body
like the ice that thaws over my
torn
and broken
ugly, hopelessly
slain on the cutting room floor
heart.

I get warm fuzzies that slowly find
a way into those broken pieces
and they begin to melt the steel
and weld it back together
and stay there forever,
leaving fuzzy little fragments
to remind me that he existed
and to cheer me up when he no longer does.

What it is is not what it was
And what it has come to be
is nowhere near where it went.

Lies

They get easier,
these lies about my life.
With each

I lie to myself
to fool myself
to believe in myself
to avoid my true self

A tortured, scared
little boy afraid of the world
and wanting to be cared
for by some nice boy or girl
and waiting for this rare
gift to suddenly appear
out of some magic lair
that holds it so very dear
inside its black hole of a place
where there is no memory
of a lover's broken face
or of that of the empowered enemy
who tore apart my soul
within this painful recollection
of a time before he took hold
and everything was an image of perfection.

I lie to the ones who bore me
because I can't let them know me
Because who I am and what they see
are two opposites never meant to be.

I'm not what you wanted
Not your perfect little son
Who made the grades
and never had any fun.
I am not this innocent little boy.
I am not your eager little toy.
I am not your
rag doll, throw-around, play with me,
little insignificant ball of clay
so you can mold me in that special way.
I am my own stone figure
that gotten much bigger
than you and your tiny homestead lifestyle
out in the middle of this desert
halfway between civilization and ruin:
nowhere good to be!

But I will not lie to them
because I am friends with them
And everything I know, I tell them
Because they're NOT with me 'til the end.

There is safety in a friendship
that may last one more day
because things don't go the right way.
There is safety in a quick trip
down a memory that no one else knows
and where no one else goes
because it's that one quick dip
into the most important part of past
the most influentual moment cast
in my mind
and shared with those
left behind,
who never were close
enough to be permanent
in my life.

I lie to myself
to save myself
I lie to those who bore
To save them from more
But I never lie to a friend
cause they're not with me in the end.

Truth builds the bridges I will burn
when I'm on the other side.

Recovery Pt. 2

They say the quickest way to being happy
is to remember what makes you the happiest.
They say the quickest way to freedom
is to do the things that make you feel freest.

They also say the road to recovery is long and hard
and you can travel for miles and miles and not get very far,
But they also say the opposite; that happiness is a step away,
But if we all take the road less traveled, it's all ends up the same.

So here's to that simple step to recovery
The laughter found in the closest friends
And the bond that's shared that bends
but never breaks
and always makes
it easier to live for
just one more day.

Here's to that first footfall towards success
And the striving goal to reach the best
and the drive to make up for the rest
of the time
lost in rhyme
and reason:
thinking but never doing.

Here I cheer for fear of mere insecurities
that can easily be overcome
with the help of those most dear.
Here I wail for failures of well-laid plans
that never came true
because something or someone bailed.

It may be a long road to recovery
But the first step is the worst.
Cause the blades get duller
and the feet grow stronger
with each passing day
With each pressing blade
against the bare souls
of uncovered feet of an old,
tarnished life.

It may be a long journey to recovery
But just open your eyes and see
That no matter the pressures
or pain or sadness or rain
The first step is the hardest
and the first step is fifty paces back
And five fathoms below where you are now,
Because look to the world around you
and happiness can so easily be found.

Just open your eyes
to the happiness inside
each and every last
one of us.

Box of Smiles

I carry around a box of stickers
that smile up at me when I lift the lid.
I call it my box of smiles
And every last one is mine to give.

I pass a golden star
to those who simply shine
And I stick a silver heart
to the loves of my life.

I share my happiness through
these paper, sticky things.
I give some rays of light
and hope new wings.

I carry around a box of stickers
My way of showing the world I care
Because even though others are quicker
I like to stick them here and there.

I carry around my box of love
And I hand it out freely.
I carry around my box of faith
and hope to believe it really.

The world tells you to succeed
One must think outside the box
But when I think about the world
I only think of how it blocks.

So I like to think inside my box
And keep my smiles in there
Because without the stickers
I just don't think I'd care.

The Happy Poem

I call this one the happy poem
Because it is THE only one
that can ever make me happy.
I don't write happy,
but who does really?

It's all
RaInBoWs
and
Blue Skies
and
Smiles
Just
little lies.

Happiness is a warm gun
It'll go off in a flash
and be gone until you reload
the endorphins in your mind
that help you unwind
from the stress of this
everyday
ho-hum
life.

But this was meant to be a happy poem
About those little rainbows and blue skies
And the things that make it seem alright.

Too bad I'm happier when the sky is gray
And the sun won't shine while the clouds stay
and I'm happier when the rain pours
than when the light shines down to spread colorful spores
of that disgustingly morose representation
of a culture that really can't be described in a rainbow
Because who the fuck is comparable to that?

Every color is never duller
Than when it's put into context
around this concave, convex
mirror that I stare into
and hate the rainbow-bright
starry-blue-eyes
glaring back
through the night.

This is the gay poem
The happiest there is?
This is the way poem
...just the WAY it is.

Here in my mind I find shelter
from the thoughts of the world
and the thoughts of my mind
when I'm exposed to that world
and the right that I'm wrong
because I don't love the girl
The way a man loves a woman
in that silly story of boy/girl
that started the mindset
that led to the hate
that burns my bridges
and makes me late
for this "fairy"-tale life
that I was promised
when someone told me
about one
Gay
Poem.

This is the happiest poem I'll ever write
Because I'm not good at happy, it just isn't right.
Cause who wants to take the time
When they're at the peak of mind
that defines the happiest moment of life
To sit down and write?

I live for the experience
and experience the life
So I'll pause when I'm brooding
Or seeing an insightful sight.

But as for the moment,
This is the gayest piece of poetry babble
That has ever "come out" of my life.

These Places Remind Me

Every memory has a scent
Every scent has a name
And a face and a time and a place.
Every moment has a memory
Every second holds a life
and a person and a place and a time.

Every place reminds me
Of a time and a life and a memory of
the things we had and the things we shared
and the times we spent and the way we cared.

Every scent reminds me
of a different time and a different place
and a different body and a different face
and my closeness to the world and all of you.

The axe cuts through my mind
Taking over, back to a time
When you cared for me and me for you
and all we had was the moment,
the rhythm, the rhyme.
Raspberries remind me of your lips
of that time in the alley
And that one, long, intimate kiss.
Downy reminds me of those soft times
when I would cry when you left me alone.

I can never drive by that big screen
without looking into your eyes all over again
As you fastened those shells around my neck.
I can never cross that stage
without feeling your arms around me
pulling me through the curtains, out the back.
These places remind me of those happy times
When we held on tight and promised to fight
To never let go and to somehow survive.

These places remind me of
what we shared
and what we held
and how we cared
and where we fell.

You weren't so bad as a first
And certainly not the worst.

But these places
don't remind me
so very often
of you anymore
Not like they did
a short time before.

Cause these places did remind me
To never trust you so much again
To guard my heart, marked with chagrin.
These places stand as monuments
of where we failed--where you failed
And I don't think I'll go back there again.

Inspiration

Art is the visual
or sometimes audible
form of inspiration
with a combination
of your imagination
Running wild
as brush strokes canvas
as flash over lenses
as fingers on plastic
typing in the rhythm
of the soul
pouring out the feelings
so damn old.

Film schools
and art schools
and writing schools
Specialize on schooling
persistent pupils
on finding unique perspectives
of this perpetually changing planet
on which we currently coexist upon.

That's why I read
Frost and Poe
Browing and Kippling
Everything from
Shakespeare
to the vampire queen herself
Miss Anne Rice

Because reading
is like speaking
out the truth of lives
that were never really
discovered until
opening a book
and finding perspectives
on someone else's lives.

Inspiration
builds upon my imaginations
and toy car mats turn
into something that represented
a bigger portion
of my life
than I ever let
myself realize
it truly did.

Everything links back together
like the legos that built my house
for my tiny little family
That I always thought was
perfectly normal
even though there were
no girls in that little window
And they still had a son
And a lovely home
with picket fences
and a lego car to boot.

It is how we were raised,
where we lived that truly defines
what we see when we wake up
and open our eyes.
It is that exposure to whatever
is already out there
that DEFINES what we are capable
of discovering on our own.

Because a picture is worth 1000 words
And if a picture contains 1000 birds
Then a picture is worth 1 million words
and the pictures contains 1 million birds
Then the cycle grows stronger still
and learning comes against our will
Cause the world is ever-changing
and the artist is ever-learning
The new perspectives
of a blind man seeing
Everything and nothing at all

Recovery

They say the quickest way to being happy
is to remember what makes you the happiest.

So I write in recovery
of a broken heart
of a failed attempt
to capture a heart.

A heart made of chocolate
Cause at least it tastes sweet
and on those late nights
When I cry all alone
I know that with chocolate
at least I have comfort
Like the feeling of being at home
Back when I had no worries
because gay was a word
we giggled about because
no one knew it didn't mean happy
because a gay gay is just an oxymoron
waiting to happen
Waiting to not happen
Trying to defy the moron
and put oxygen into a broken heart.

Kickstart my heart with the power
of the double-As in my remote
that say they keep going
like the energizer bunny
But that bunny sometimes rests too
But it still has enough power
to jumpstart my life again
When the sting is gone
from my broken heart.

Fortunately
Only three months left
Until this hell is gone
and I'm on my own
(in the good way,
the way I want to be)
INDEPENDENCE.
Graduation
Liberation
Gratification
Exultation
3 months.

Acceptance is a bliss
felt only once
or fifty times
in these meager
lives of ours.
Acceptance is going
to a place so
very far away
that no one here
can bother me there
unless I want to
be bothered
by you
and yours.

My future is bright,
even if my love is dim.
Because right now
I'm not setting up love
in a place I'm only
squatting in.

I'm on the way to recovery
But it'll be a while 'til I'm ready
to say that final goodbye.

So if you want to love me
I'll be happy to oblige.
But if you don't...
well...
The chocolate's the best
Kind of heart there is.

Who's to Blame?

It's not that I hate you
or that I'm mad
Because how could I be
when the one to blame
Is ultimately me.

It's not that I'm angry
It's just that I'm sad
Because how could you leave me
even if the one to blame
was ultimately me?

Who's to blame
my dear?
Who's to blame
for me being here?
Who's to blame
for me for you?
Who's to blame
why don't you choose?

Like you chose to listen
When I told you to go
Like you chose to love
When I told you so
Like you chose to leave
When in my heart I know
that I never wanted
to feel this entirely low.

Who's to blame?
The instructor or the student
for the A+ paper
and the whole systematic legitimacy.

Somehow,
It
All
Leads
Back
To
Me.

The Breakdown

I try to keep my distance
from those happy couples
walking hand and hand
and sharing life together

I try to keep my poise
and I try to maintain grace
When I look around
and only see his smiling face.

But for some reason I cannot
get over him. At all.
I tried to just move on
but the drawing board is
always revisited
and it just doesn't work out
the way I thought it should.
The way I knew it would.

"I'm sorry.
I don't know what to say."

Neither do I
It's frustrating...
and stupid
and it COULD still
be the way it was
Nothing changed
between us
it was outside of us
beyond us
Above us
Controlling us
Separating us

I told him to move on
that I would be okay,
that I would move along
just please don't stay.

He listened so well
and so suddenly he fell
from where we were
to someone else
his love.

I told him to move on
but what I said
was wrong.

Poetry flows through my mind
faster than I can type.
Faster than 90 words per minute
Faster than flying fingers
fumbling, flailing, flicking
keystrokes on a broken
connection between
past and present.

I try to keep my distance
from those happy faces on pages
of long lost romances
that I'm sure never engages
me again.

I try to keep my distance
from those happy couples
where I once belonged.

It's funny now
that I don't cry
But I want to
cry a thousand tears
just because you're alive.

I'm happy for you,
but as for me,
not so happy.

But I'll wake in the morning
and go on with the life I choose to lead.
I'll wake up in the morning
and smile as I mundanely succeed.
Behind this mask
Behind this joy
Is this quiet
Helpless boy.

I told you to move on
But I was wrong.
I told you I'd be fine
But I just get along.

Poetry flows through my mind
faster than I can speak
But that's not for you to know,
because you cannot really care.
Because you're not here
And I'm not there.

Thanks for listening...

His Voice

Testing?
Can you hear me now?

I can hear you. I don't know.

Testing
Testi-

Are you there? I don't know.

Testingtestingtestingtesting!

I can hear you. Take it slow.

We are like the broken connection
of my rundown computer late on a Sunday night.
We are like my hand on the mic dock,
gently pushing one against another and never giving up
Even though the pointlessness of this
is driving me insane because it won't just repair.
It's easier just to start over.

Can you hear me?

I can hear you. I don't know.

Good. I missed you.

I missed you, too.

I can say it time and again
But it never means the same
When I hear it from you.
Cause you may miss me
and your voice says the same
But it's not your voice anymore.
It's not my voice anymore.
It's His voice
coming from your lips.

Testing?
(Can you care for me somehow?)

I can hear you. I don't know.

Figures.
You only heard the first part.
Bad connections to your voice
Bad connections to your life
Broken connections
On a lonely Sunday night.

He's Your Boyfriend

He's your boyfriend
and I'm just your has been.
And all of this is so confusing
And I want it all again.

But he's your boyfriend
And I'm your has been.
Has been yours
Won't be again.

Apparently...

Illusion's Noose

Despite the angelic little wings
Cute diapered bottom
And rosy cheeks
Cupid is a fucking demon.

Who wants to be hopelessly devoted
To an image that could so easily fade
And so easily fall out of reach and mind.
Who wants to be so helplessly in love
That the only thing that matters is him
And the only thing that you can't have is him.

Cupid, you bitch.
Live vicariously through us all
Because you yourself refuse to fall
Aphrodite never wanted you
Because what were you
but some little bug
buzzing around deities
that never paid heed
to your tiny arrow
or you one strong need?

Help, I've fallen and I can't stand it
And I can't give in or get out or live
Without HIM.
I can try to start anew
but the only thought is you
GOD...you....

What an illusion.
2 weeks of fabulous fantasy.
2 weeks of being so carefree.
What you gave,
I can never give back.
What an illusion.

How real it felt
What a deal you delt
When you kneel, I felt
I fell. I dove. You impaled
My heart.
My
<3.

Less than three...
It's odd that I always read it that way
even when I finally figured out how to say
I HEART YOU in condensed form
Because that's all love is nowadays
Just a condensed form.

We meet.
BOOM.
We greet.
BOOM.
We kiss.
BOOM.
Pure bliss.
BOOM.
You go down.
BOOM.
I fly up.
BOOM.
We make love.
BOOM.
We fall in love.
BOOM.

Like an atomic bomb that falls
We split like those atoms
And we never looked back
Because there was NO back
No way back. No turning back.
No back way, no easy pay.

But for some reason
Cupid keeps me in illusion's noose
and I long, day and night, for you.
Because I don't want to loose
the man who took away my youth.
I burn
forsooth
And hope
for you
to return
to me

A fool's dream
ends in death
but we always
awaken before that.
We always awaken before the noose
tightens around our necks and chokes
us with our own precious illusions.
Before we drown in the dream of delusions,
We awaken.

To bad WE don't exist anymore...

Ring Pop

My brother and I used to play with cars
On a giant mat six times our size.
We had an aversion to Matchbox
and an odd obsession with Hotwheels
that stemmed mainly from
his entrepreneurial desire to
later sell those childhood memories
when he got too old to play.

Back then we always followed traffic laws
That were enforced
by six inch, pint-sized
Police officers of our own devising.
Funny how it seems to still apply today.
We had to tick-tock at every stop sign
And allow the right-of-way to the lone motorcycle
that never had a rider
but who we always imagined was the coolest
kid in that little schoolhouse
at the edge of the map.

Our ideal town has two ponds and a factory
It had 1-point-7-5 mansions
Two farm houses
And the promise
Of Utopia
emanating from the circle around
one lone farm house in the middle
of urbania, devoid of neighbors
and alone in the center of that tiny
Hotwheels world.

We would play for hours on end
with our imaginations running rampet
as I became the poor man with a single car
and my brother took the mansion with his slew
of high-end automobiles that really didn't matter to me
Except that they looked really cool
With their sleek little curves
and silky-smooth textures
of bright red and moody black.

I loved my little Auston Martin
because it was a convertable
That would never convert back
from its wind-in-the-hair,
celebrity appeal of having the top down.

Funny how my brother never grew out of cars
And I never grew out of the idea of cars
He's still fascinated by the gentle hum of the engine
that we once made by vibrating our lips at supersonic speeds
And I still care about the way those little toys felt
as I brushed infantile fingers over the waxy surface.
The pure beauty of sculpted curves taunted me
when I looked down at the blob of skin
which blocked the view of my feet.

I still crave that perfection
And get closer every day
He still craves the attention
And gets richer in some way.

But it's funny to think
that they designed those cars
To be so small
Like the ring on a ring pop
You're meant to grow out of
But sometimes, you never do.

Silly little hourglass

Each grain of sand is like a millisecond
Passing from one side to the next
Like the river that flows between
the lover's bossom,
The Nile tearing apart Sudan
and the Ethiopian children
Who starve despite
The fertility of their basins
Despite the constant nutrients
That flow from this tiny grain of sand
To that immense desert on the bottom
Of the glass that tells me my life
Is merely waiting for the grains
to finally run out and all time
to stop
to fall
to fail
to cease
to run out.

But here I am staring at this silly hourglass
Waiting for the moment when the grains
mean something more than what I'm waiting for
Waiting for someone to flip it upside down
And turn all those shattered dreams
Into something of this realm of realities
Because if I could go back
I could repair the mistakes
I have made and realize
That I am something more
Than
these
tiny
grains
of
falling
s
a
n
d
.
.
.
.
.

Something more than a silly hourglass
Which assumes I will bend to its tiny fate
That I will perish when it runs out
and contain a life like this within its tiny bounds
That I will sit around and wait
just to see if all this is true

I'm more than a
silly
insignificant
hourglass
I am more than a
ticking
time
bomb
I am more
than
this
More than the grain of sand
But less than a desert

I
fall
some-
where
in
between