I'm Sorry We Never Met

this is the land between sleep
Dreams come to die
drowning in the deluge
Asphyxiation
blinding day
Even moon fears the light
he hides away
Exposing
great expectations
That grow weary
under the sun
Memory remains
life's detritus
And you
the memory that never was
My dream
eternal.

The Book of Faces Experiments

So, to explore Facebook's possibilities, aside from its overall uselessness, a couple of friends and I experimented with collaborative poetry. The main idea was to compile a poem based on wall posts as they appeared, in consecutive order. We could not review the chain as it progressed.

What learnings did I pull from this?

1. I'm a complete loser for finding this exciting.
2. It doesn't work when the other parties involved are actually cool; therefore, my nerd levels far surpass theirs.
3. Nothing good comes out of it aside from sophomoric ramblings.
4. I'm totally doing this again.

Just let me be
but for a lifetime
blissful

But the disdain ceaselessly
drips
from
my
brain

Apathetically pooling around
my unworn feet

It makes no sense
but I like it

Creating swells
breaking the shore
without sleep this chimera endures.

Another Morning After

Lyrics hum "hip hip" on the radio.

Her heavy head

still

turns

from twirls

of a Saturday night.

Pouring fiascos,

sipping sunrise,

indescript dive,

and his eyes

water

forms beads

outside.

He's inside

her

bed.

Another lazy Sunday.

The Breakup

Assailant!
you at my birth
a somersault into the light of this world
the shadow ere my body

Baptized, nee Addict
a moniker for the masses
your bastards
my anonymous kin

Elusive thief
you coddled me, fed me
wasted beauty
at your corrosive teet

Duplicitous nonpareil
carpenter of destruction
physician wielding vials, potent vials
40 milligrams: submission

This crawl from you
meek and weak
tomorrow, when I can run
discovery of the free form from the fog

La Vue Sur la Rivière

Vincent van Gogh, "Starry Night Over the Rhone"

River roving, rarely reversing
remembering running ragged routes
righteous roars, reticent rarities
rolling rhythms rival rooted rocks
rowing releases ripples reflecting reality
riding Rhone

Untitled Prose

Aged wood cautiously cradles the detritus of my day— cookie crumbles, coffee residue, and blissful rumbles from a mound of cat. I call these, Newtonian Days: the kind that leave a hangover when the road no longer jettisons each moment skyward, because tomorrow can go no higher. The sun rises, and so with it, my eyelids. Lashes unveil what is viscerally evident: you left. Sometime in the night the gravity pull, which I cannot harness, took you from me. My lighter clicks and the cigarette’s smoke ascends, preceding the ashen cherry’s careless fall toward yesterday's remains.

Regret Me Nots

On the road
to Los Angeles
for change
to find my lost soul
windows down
remembering
what I've left behind
no regrets
because I've wasted years
on my island

I've cried, my tears
create the swell
and the tide carries anew, a new
vessel ashore
exposed, naked
this is me
now. Exchanged the surf
for this turf.
cement under tires
turning, taking me to the Angels

Fire ravaged, arid roads
a linear highway
spinning stories of tomorrow

Eating Easter, Radish

Shave you thin
nibble you raw
little, happy
sharp, bite
Oh! Radish

The above, is my little ode to William Carlos Williams', "This is Just to Say." I'm trying to cultivate an original voice, but sometimes it helps to practice with the masters. Thanks Williams man for inspiring me with your plums!

The Majority

As the world watches
you
in a fish bowl
God shook
you
to smite
me
into reality
to see
into the looking glass
and like a dream hybrid
this nightmare begets the living

Where death eats life
beggars thieve
we all dine
at this wretched table
cannibals smirk
beggars all
our monocled deity watching
the Lush sneers through her surfeit stemware
eyes aligned with
you
in your quaking fishbowl

In Robert's Woods

Every day, alight.
Under the sun, above.
Remembering
deplorable decisions.
Diverging roads
in yellow woods.

One: monochrome Truth.
One: full-palette Fiction.
I wrote
language of our lives
seeded by color.

You never told me
all novels end
so with it, my story
of you.

Searching again
these woods
for Truth.

a lesson from the french, mockingbirds, a little bag of cocaine, men on yachts

I'm pretty sure it's time for a return to my commitment... this blog.

With that said, I'm starting fresh with a few of my favorite poetic argots.

1. I wish I could find Philippe Clay's bewitching performance in "Bell, Book and Candle," but it is absent from the Web. Instead, I can only offer this performance.

2. Rives
Rives remixes TED2006 | Video on TED.com
Next, we have Rives. I sometimes wish that he was my entourage of one. I could command his extemporaneous genius at any moment. It would be awesome.

3. Regina Spektor.
Vocal manipulation, brevity of dark subjects, depth in simplicity, smoking, loving, feeling, being.

4. M.E.N.
Performance is lyrics is music is philosophy is art is coalesced.

5. YACHT
I suppose that if I post M.E.N., then I should include YACHT for the same reasons. Same, same, but different.

So, there you have it. A nice breather from my amateur additions. Enjoy the ocular and aural feast!

Stories From Them

My mind is at capacity. There are some days when inspirational muses are planted in every direction. Today was a harmonious day, which is always fun. It was one of those days where one, seemingly inconsequential, conversation is suddenly the apex of all other moments in the 24 hour cycle.

Today I cooked. There were purple pickled eggs; anchovies and zucchini bathing in lemons; red rose petals complimenting red cupcakes; olives, breads, and St. Agur. After the feast I caught up with another Rose, of the human variety: Charlie Rose. His guest? Jason Epstein. Le topic du jour? Food and writing: the perfect coalescence of my two favorite things.

To top it off, Neruda's been popping into my radar a lot recently, as I've been thinking about a certain someone with that giddy affliction common of pre-pubesents. No, I'm not in love, I'd hardly even call it lust, but I'm more affected than usual by my favorite linguist. So, with that said, my two favorite quotes of the day are from:
1. Jason Epstein: "Recipes are essentially stories."
Simple and sweet. Thank you.
2. Pablo Neruda's Tonight I Write the Saddest Lines: "Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long."

I have so many threads of thoughts that I need to gather my spool and weave something fabulous. This takes time, my devoted little readers (of one:)).
Salut!

The Lost Archives

(Unsuspecting Spaniard in a tiny town near Jaca)

So, I had a lovely and blossoming collection of ramblings, poetic meditations, etc. from some Spain and Morocco adventures, but I left it all in a hostel in San Sebastian! Now, the only DNA that remains is here, thanks to... Facebook. So, thank you book of faces for recording a sole stanza.

It's a bit out of context, but it stems from an abandoned village at the base of the Sierra Nevadas.

Hollowed ghost town
Pregnant with foliage
Gorging on the ruins of man's infestation.

Te he, it's a bit base, but I still like the imagery of life's natural cycles continuing, regenerating and thriving even after the brief, yet forceful, human presence has come and gone like an angry tempest.

Brevity and Gravity

I lie with Erebus
beneath the Barred's grave calls.
Strung out, social cessation.

Pale and lifeless
a bloated corpulence afflicts my abdomen.
A request for one last breath.

Inhale
SlowlyTurningRegrettingForgettingWeathering
FreedomsAbusedTinyUsed

Exhale
CigarettesLoveLanguagePleasurableSun
A feast of life, abandoned

Inari: Haiku Diary of the Bay's Vegan Sushi

wee plump pocket
singularly sweet salty
lovely little you

On the Eve

Calling Kerouac as white lines blur beneath the bumper
of the vehicle
Symphony of silence truncated by
the passing of strangers
intermittently.

We sleep in a haze laced by the
Tamborine Man.
Nightmares scare away the
orgasm that still lingers from
a brief encounter.

15 minutes

till sunrise.
Eyes wide open.