Guilty Premonitions-A Short Story

I cannot think of any poetry tonight so I will try a very short story. Actually most of my poems are short stories that use the minimum number of words to convey a feeling or an idea or two.

Guilty Premonitions
I have always had the feeling of impending doom, but today it was finally confirmed by a significant event: Today after I finished my daily self-loathing (which consisted of looking at my to-do list, hating myself for not having done it since it was written weeks ago, then saying that I can do it later. Quite mandatory for any self-respecting procrastinator), I looked up from my livid staring contest with the beige, floral-pattered carpet, and I accidentally saw myself in the window, much in the same way a hapless horror-movie character looks up into a mirror and is frozen in terror.

In this glance that became a look that became a glowering stare, I saw myself in triplicate. The me on the right was nigh-transparent and dark and sinister, the me on the left had more form but was all the more frightening for it; his warped features sitting in plain view.

The Me in the middle was solid, but the features were so jumbled that you could not tell who or what I was, but whatever it was, it stared with its multiple noses and lips and furrowed brows that sunk into jet black eyes; staring with a cold cruelty. I saw a monster.

Gravitational Oaths

We rise and fall together in a sea
of seedling rye and and dandelions, laughter
staining the silence and our old jeans
with streaks of verdant green,
even our skin becoming one with chlorophyl,
the gravel cutting a blood sacrifice to seal it.

The trees were talking then,
and we leaned on them to hear
through the sandpaper bark, the echoes
of the changing seasons and turning earth.

And we are back to frolicking again
tied inexplicably to the dirt,
falling out of orbit again,
like a meteor, or satellite.

We are versatile creatures,
our lips both kiss and curse
our faces are both truthful and lying,
our hands, oh our hands,
you lay in my arms and I in yours,
and I can only think about how easy it would be
for one of us to betray all trust,
destroy all hope, in one incongruous,
destructive act-
To lie with our actions.

crappy poem is crappy, I think.

If you know me, I am an agreeable, patient person. I try not to be confrontational, but if I ever get into a "fight or flight" mode, you will almost never see me choose flight. Certain things just seem to push all the right buttons to make me irrationally angry, ask my brother about that, there are very few people who have seen that side of me other than him. He had it down to a science and would piss me off to the point where I just wanted to strangle him (I was shocked at myself for feeling this way), never did, fortunately for both of us, but he avoids doing that now. Some things just come with maturity, including the lack of desire to irritate your siblings.

ps I really like the "stir the blood" album by the bravery, it is so dark and gripping, the lyrics have so much meaning and the beats are driving

Nursing pictures like memories
and memories like children,
In pictures far better
than they could ever be.
Anyone who asked, she would tell them
how proud she was, and
how much more wonderful and angelic they became
with each successive retelling.

Until she gathered her flock
back into the scrapbook.

La Luna Loca

Tonight I will be insane,
yes tonight, and tomorrow night as well
I will fall from that razor
definition of "sanity"
my wax brain will become molten
and slosh around a bit
the the wax forming rivers running
down my pillow and off of my bed
into the garden to stargaze at asters
and wisteria, to then take flight
taking me to places I will never be-
all of my friends successful, and saying hi
and telling me how awesome everything is,
dreaming that I contributed something
to everyones lives, spiders descending
from popcorn ceilings, finding the meaning of life
from their webs and the struggling prey
and realizing how simple it all was.

but now the sun is coming,
my dispersed conscious flees
only to condense back into my skull
with the dew, each and every morning
back to sanity.

I often wonder about the difference between the sane and insane, a fine line that is constantly moved back and forth by psychologists. Homosexuals used to be considered insane and were given hormone treatments and were given electroshock therapy, now they are considered to be perfectly healthy. There are probably many states of mind that have been recently relabeled as sane or insane based on current knowledge or schools of thought. I know I have had temporary ideas of insanity in dreams and sometimes when I am excessively tired. I get irrevocably convinced that the world is a certain way, or that there is some sort of government scheme, or that other people are crazy. Sometimes when I am fading in and out of sleep, I think I am inside the world of whatever book I am reading at the time. It can be both euphoric and terrifying.

Leviathan

Today I saw myself
within a rippling pool
my image a cyanotype version
of something inside,
something just below the opaque
reflection, so I get on my knees
offering my hand, I reach in deeper
into the cool depths of the liquid
and recoil it in shock,
my hand and brow moist with revelation,
there are some things
I would rather not remember.

I have noticed that I started a two of the previous poems with a description of hair. I love hair, maybe it is because I have a mom who is a hairdresser, but to me, there is nothing like feeling soft hair on freshly-shaved skin. It has a huge emotional attachment for me, I am afraid that I will someday fall in love with a girl simply because of her unusually soft hair.

Shotsie

Long flaxen hair
lifted from the boxes of christmas
past, each bundle put on the tree
the golden strands connecting
me to my past self,
like those telephones of cups
and string, practicing telepathy.

And I found out something of great
importance from my snot-nosed self:
you see Nana had a cyclops dog
with one creepy eye that would stare at you
like one of the fates,
gasping and growling with prescience
and asthma, and I was terrified
of this omen-bringer.

but one day I put my ear close to hear
what the ancient oracle had to say,
she whispered to me in rough iron words:
"Speckled adder and ebony crow
you will walk a path where none else go,
through skeletons wet with mourning dew,
you will become what you never wanted to."

Tender Scars

I have a crack in my windshield,
you can only see it from a certain direction,
but once the angle of incidence is found
you can see the golden scar
running the width of the car.

And just yesterday, the tree out back,
as old as me, bled profusely, fresh amber
sap spilling from a fracture of the heart-
wood of the eucalyptus. I really dont feel
like talking about this anymore,
you are prying too far.
get out,
now.


in other news, I have found the resonant frequency of my laptop screen (not mathematically, that is no fun)

Crossing Chasms

Raven hair and blinded eye,
Maggie, with locks let low
floating on prodigal zephyrs,
breezes communicating their fickleness
with invisible fingers.
Their attributes far more poignant
than the fading, rusty sun,
and the crimson rays
that descend on your pale cheeks.

Biting at the cold, at worlds unknown,
We grasp for connection.
"What does the sunset look like?"
I place her thin hand on my heart, "This
beat, this warmth, this is the rhythm
of the cosmos."

Alot of love poems, it is a bit sickening, but also kinda fun. I used to try to do love poems and they were terrible (these might be too, but they seem ok to me, right now). I do not know what has gotten into me, I do not want a relationship right now, but maybe something inside me is longing for that kind of connection. I am my own puzzle.

Defining Poem

I have decided that I want to make a poem describing why I chose "Piercing the Madness" as the name of my Plog (poem blog).

"Do we really inhabit the same reality?"
I wonder with minds eye wandering through mists.

Peering through cold clouded glass,
fogged by my existence, and yours,
eyes searching the blizzard for more
than the walls of white
flakes viciously hurling themselves:
kamikazes with terrible purpose.
Yet the swirling day turns to the
frosted, teeming night,
The vigil of the virgins,
waiting for a sign, for a word, a glimpse.
Perhaps I can see someday,
perhaps I will pierce the madness.

theme song:
ps do not watch the video it is too silly and dumb

Two Poems, how rare: "Poem 1" and "Welcome to India"

Poem 1
How do we fall
on cardboard mattresses
and drunken hopes:
confident in delusions
and stumbling, making fools of ourselves,
happy we are warm, forgetful in stupor,
and yet we are sober.

this is a convoluted way of expressing my belief that humans can be so inhibited by their interpretation of events that they make decisions that are foolish, or trust in things that will only crash and fail, and they are not even drunk.

Welcome to India

Accusing fingers point at the sky
the sacred god is dead:
his ribs stand as bloody monuments
skeletal fingers holding the gulls,
feeding the dogs, giving of himself:
The god who ate trash and human remains.
There is another god, practicing economics
chewing the cud of his brothers body.
His skin draped on his emaciated bones,
covered in sores: he is as toxic
as the beliefs of his worshippers.

In case you did not notice, this is about cows. This was the article which inspired the last one http://www.chinasmack.com/2010/pictures/filthy-india-photos-chinese-netizen-reactions.html

Also "the white tiger" had quite an impact on me http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_White_Tiger

War of the Roses

I said hi, you extended a porcelain hand,
a pittance, a pardon, allowing me to raise my
umbrella over the crowned head, suitors' tears
fell fast and heavy from the blanketed
metal skeleton above our head,
the drops shatter like hale before your
winter feet. I whisper "Love?..."
let it hang in air, let her smell it,
breathe it, decide it's palatability.

And here I am shocked,
there is a flash of summer on the queen's cheek
her smiling eyes and coy grin asking:
"Yes... love?" satisfied I proclaim:
"Oh nothing. I forgot."

my posts have become a bit silly and romantic, but that is ok, I am not often romantic though I try to be silly as much as possible.

Behold, Atlas

Rippling strands of wheat
undulating gold, forming currents
of concerted strength.
Muscles tensing and releasing,
explosion and flow incarnate.
Ascending, with joints straining
and bristling, the weight, the world,
lurching heavenward and peaking.
Resolute he stands, holding a mere grain
in the midst of the ocean.

Blue Moons

Naked words you sent to me
late that night, fluttering
over the garden thorns:
roses, rocks, and the wind
gently tossed them through the
consuming silver ether.
And they landed, finally, at my feet.
Yet I had nowhere to put them,
insecurity and indecision always stalling,
futures lost and found, pasts tinted with knowledge.

But you are sitting there,
beginning to doubt reciprocation.

Maybe the words will come, someday.


I do not know about the video but the music is amazing, so listen

Writers Blok

topics must be chosen
words must be written
thoughts must be mustered
energies must be marshaled

time must be spent
machinery must spin
gears grinding
tubes abuzz with perspective

but nothing is produced


I have a bad writers block right now, and I feel like the best way to get rid of a writers block is to write, so I do. I feel like Ive run out of topics to a certain degree, I really need to start reading poetry and philosophy again so I can have something profound, as it is I keep thinking of uncertainty poems and coding and machinery analogies, which is fine, but I need to progress past that into some more human and more engaging topics and metaphors.

I apologize for anyone who reads this for this crappy poem but sometimes you just need to get crap out of your system, and I am not getting paid for this, so why not here?

In other news, if you enjoy dark humor and sarcasm and you have not read "Hitchikers Guide to the Universe" or "Catch 22" you need to, soon.

Thoughts on the Idea of Omni-Beneficence

In philosophy the idea that evil exists yet God is both Omnipotent and Omni-beneficent is often considered a contradiction. The idea goes that a god who is all-powerful and who creates evil by allowing evil to happen, cannot be all-good. One of the arguments against this idea is that the universe must be better because of the existence of evil.

The allowance of evil, is good. It is good to allow evil to happen. This seems very backwards but is something that governments often practice. Freedom of speech is one instance, people can say just about anything they want (within bounds) without repercussion. If one wishes to write tirades about the US and calls for its destruction, we cannot stop them from saying it. Society might be more "harmonious" if all speech was censored like china does, if all cars had sensors that recorded speeds and positions and ticketed you if you went over the speed limit then there might be far fewer deaths from reckless driving, but the idea that keeps us from implementing these programs is the idea of freedom of choice, privacy, opinion, etc.

In this way God seems to be the originator of laissez faire, the world will not swallow you whole if you kill a man, lightning won't strike a rapist, all sorts of evil happen without any repercussions, poetic justice is not always served. The world will not end because of any act of man. Even if nuclear war erupts the earth will continue spinning, the universe will continue it's dance.

The idea for Christian justice comes in the afterlife. Hell justifies the allowance of evil on Earth and attributes it to freedom of will. His allowance is not to be mistaken for His approval, merely His tolerance. The Bible is very clear on that. (although I am reminded of Dr. Manhattan in "the Watchmen")

An interesting thought: freedom of choice (if it exists) seems to be a necessary part of Omni-beneficence, choice implies the ability to do anything (free will) and therefore to will and do evil.

Thus due to Omni-beneficence He allows evil, a strange paradox.

However, if freedom of choice does not exist, if we are all as predictable as a clock then what is the purpose of this construct? What makes the allowance of evil better? Well this seems to come down to the idea of trust. One must trust that there is an ultimate plan that justifies the existence of this massive and complex machine and whatever evil that comes with it. If you cannot trust in that, then there really is nothing that can objectively convince you of omni-beneficence.

What Does it Mean to be Human?

Interstate 15

Blurring, brilliant, alluring red
lights streaking lipstick through the soot
black night with halogen dreams and rouge
screams parting misty gray curtains,
fading into fast lanes, moments of clarity:
exposing truth until the dream takes over again;
the trance, reactionary and separated from reality
by mental astigmatism.


I have always been interested in how the capacity for thought distinguishes humans from animals, and how humans can regress into primal mindsets when presented with certain situations. The "fight or flight" mechanism is a good example of this. Reasoning is shut down to a large degree and the urge to GTFO or to bear ones fisticuffs turns on, adrenaline gives one a sense of urgency like no other. Emotion and instinct take over and we become more like trapped mice than humans.

I also find it interesting who we find "inhuman;" Drug lords killing anyone who gets in their way, hit men, rapists etc. we find these people inhuman because they act inhumane, and therefore do not have the right to live free. When one loses the ability to empathize or even sympathize they become inhuman. Yet there are many genetic disorders that include an inability to sympathize or grasp the idea of emotion. Autism is one of these "disorders." People with autism often are extremely intelligent but they lack empathy for those around them. In this respect they are more like logic machines than humans.

In other words our idea of "humanity" is both distinctively rational and emotional, when one lacks either of these attributes it allows them to do the inhuman, the inhumane.

However I am most interested in how our idea of humanity comes into perspective when one is in mentally compromising situations. When one is drunk they become more irrational, when one is exhausted they are unable to emotionally connect, when one watches someone die for the first time, they lose the ability to reason and emotion takes over. Are we less human in these situations? do we become animals or computers?

Or is there really no such thing as "inhuman." It reminds me of "I <3 Huckabees:" at one point one of the characters wonders aloud, "How am I not myself?" How can a being with human DNA be inhuman? Have all these exceptions to the idea of the "humanity" become the rule? The ideal of "humanity" being noble and empathizing and rational just is not the reality. Each of us displays differing displays of intellect and emotion based on variables as fundamental as DNA and as fickle as what we ate for lunch. The truth is we are all humanity, we cannot distance ourselves from the exceptions by saying they are inhuman, they are just as human as we are, just different, and in some cases, destructive.

This allows us to implement the same set of laws to all, we are all human and can be held to the same standard, no matter how demented they are they cannot plead that they are "inhuman" and cannot be held to the same standard, regardless of culture (thought they might plead insanity, which is as close to being "inhuman" as you can get).

Percussive Engineering

Percussive engineering, repairing,
nice ways of saying:
"Hit it until it works"
rusted joints resolute,
set in their wicked orangey ways,
grasping, holding on to the norm,
the set way of life.

their hands grow tired with oil,
and vibration, with each peal of metal on metal
I whisper to them, telling them the futility
of holding on, the freedom of change,
but they will have none of it,
they sing back in rich vibratos:
"life is flux, but I am stone,
I will break before I bow."

Curtains

Bleeding light and form
cuts in fabric
figures dancing in the opposing shadow world
distorted, unreal in the breeze like
watching koi outlines
sensually writhe
on the end of a hook,
the capacity for pain is gone
and only the primal caged feeling
is left.

Let them fall like
Icarus, bringing sons down with them,
let them stay beneath the surface,
never really touching the real.

The Problems of Inductive Reasoning

All science and knowledge of the world to this point has come from trust in inductive reasoning. If an apple falls in a forest does it make a sound? Well of course it does, it would have to violate many principles of physics not to, but where did these principles of physics come from? What is gravity? We know that it must be, but how and why does it work? Well we have documented gravity, does innumerable tests to verify that it indeed exists and how it relates to mass, but we really do not know what it is. It acts exactly like acceleration in every possible instance (which provides for interesting effects, but that is another rant), but it is tied to mass in some way.

Anyways it would not be so unusual (from a purely theoretical point of view) for gravity to reverse, to push instead of pull, and there would be no explanation for it. But from a human standpoint that would be unusual to say the least. Everything we have done, ever, has been with gravity acting a certain way, it would go against all expectations. Yet can we say that this instance will never happen? is it possible for it to happen? sure, it is possible, inexplicable but possible, so how can we make universal laws like gravity or conservation of matter (which is incorrect) from given input?

Our whole idea of how physics and the universe works has been smashed and rearranged several times over so how can we say with confidence that this is how the world works when we have thought that many times before and been wrong? Einstein destroyed Newtonian physics by introducing the idea that energy was proportional to mass, that energy had weight.

The traditional answer is that we perform many many accurate tests and make a rule of it if it passed every test, pretend that there is no way this rule could be broken, and if it was broken, then that just becomes part of the rule, an exception, or a redefinition of the rule. But the truth is that we do not "know" and we cannot "know" but we can estimate with certain amount of certainty.

Everything lies in probabilities, they can explain both why something happened and why it did not in a similar case. They allow for all circumstances, thus effectively telling nothing about what will happen in a given case, just because something is likely to happen does not mean it will.

What I am trying to say is that we can know nothing of what happens in the future, no matter how likely something is, it is no guarantee.

That is why I expect to find my bike has been stolen every time I look for it, why I expect to never see my friends and loved ones again when they leave for a while (or when I leave for a while). I dont expect for others to care about me or what I think. I am happy when I am wrong, but I still have this sinking feeling whenever I look for my bike, or I am about to see my family. Like it is too good to be true.

Fitting-in, Between the Cracks

Count the molecules on the floor
count the atoms in liquids
double that irrelevant number
that is the number of cracks
between which I fall,
why struggle for connection,
for interaction, when each step
is a realization of how weak these bonds are.
Yet I cannot cut them all,
though the thought of dissolution
to dust, can be so pleasant sometimes,
No mourners, just the world
silently doing what it always has.

Whoever You Are

You are elemental
to my world, to my idea
of pollination and so much more
that scientists say is bullocks.
They say you are an overgrown molecule,
as important as a puzzle can be,
no you are what differentiates a face from a mask,
you are no replicant. Whatever a soul is,
you have one.

I like to think we are bonded together
by more than inevitable attraction:
Magnetism, gears turning, chemicals
released, voila, love...
how boring, I want to think that our
spirits were paired before birth;
we fell in love before we were born,
and when we see each other
it all comes back, at least the feeling.

Height Inhibitors

Dont reach up, dont touch the ceiling.
You will get your fingers cut off
they said, of the ceiling fan.
as if it was not bad enough
not to see the atmosphere
to be limited to a box.
Another worry: sharp,
whirring ceilings.
Setting sights
a little
lower.

This was an experiment in tying the poems structure to its meaning, just a little idea.

A little advice if you start getting into poetry, dont do it so other people will like it, if they do that is good, but write for yourself, put a piece of yourself on that page every time. And if someone doesnt like it, well listen to criticism, but dont let them decide who you are, just the way you express it, depending on many factors, a small thought.

Masks

Angelina jolie's face is on the wall
eyes closed and sprayed gold,
Immortalized in plaster.
though her lips are full
and sculpted.
even now there are lines on her face.
And her head is strangely shaved, like a monk.

this image is what we are told
is perfection, this is beauty,
even more so than the real:
this will never fade, this will never cry
this will never bleed, nothing ugly like pain
will cross this face.

But even here there are lines on her face
and her head is shaved, like a monk
atoning for it all...

Skin and Bones

Copper reflections showing scars
we never knew we had,
granite staircases too slippery to climb.
You took me to your house.
sleeping on the couch.
LED stars and screens,
distractions from myself,
and the voices of paranoia
and truth. It is all cactus
fruit and unsweetened lemonade.

mouse intestines and head on the bathroom floor,
omens of a brighter future and longer beards,
you see, graveyards are lovely dancefloors.

Sharp Puzzles poem and Uncertainty rant

Sharp Puzzles

Dice have razor edges,
every roulette game is russian.
The world is full of butterflies
and their fatal affects;
the sigh, the batting of the eye,
But the reaper whirlwind strips them of facade.
Yet we still sow,
mending the leftovers,
creating frankenstein futures
from fractured glass pasts,
only to realize we cannot find
the heart of the situation,
cannot find the purpose to shards,
but that is all we have left.

I want to be able to sing this to a woman some day...


Uncertainty and unpredictability are the most dangerous things in this world, yet they are inevitable as long as we are reliant on our senses and on outside information. The more unpredictable something is, the more dangerous. Things that seem harmless, like food, water, air can become deadly once unknown agents are introduced. The more variables that can go wrong, the more variables that will go wrong.

That is one thing that fascinates me about engineering, we say a car is a lemon if it needs a major repair 2 or 3 years after being "brand new" yet think about a car. How many parts does a car have that are absolutely necessary to functioning properly? hundreds? thousands? Most cars runs on EXPLOSIONS for gods sake! Controlled, but still one of the most seemingly unpredictable expressions of energy one can think of. The energy from those explosions are transferred to the wheels through gears and shafts and whatnot, each has to withstand various forces in various directions at various temperatures and fit to extremely tight tolerances. I find it amazing that a car can go hundreds of miles without wearing itself out, or spontaneously combusting, much more thousands, hundreds of thousands, and even 1 million miles http://autos.aol.com/article/million-mile-car-donated-to-museum/ (with luck and proper care)
so you can usually be certain that your car will work when you need it

Computers have billions of gates and parts that control it and work together to do extremely complicated tasks through logic and physics. It can calculate and store information using electrical charges for heavens sake. It can turn mere numbers into words and colors and movement and shading and physics. This is how I feel when I think about it too much: http://xkcd.com/676/ and the most amazing part is that they work, almost always, the number of defective computers is very low despite that they rely on both hardware and software to allow them to run. Now we even have software that learns, how amazing is that? Most of us are certain that our computer will turn on and work no matter what (that is if you have a mac lol).

Though my life is governed by the laws of physics (and chemistry, a subset of physics) it is not predictable at all. All is uncertainty, and frankly I dislike uncertainty, I have a tendency to paralyze myself until I am certain, I delay making decisions until I have sufficient information. But I do not have the time nor the information to see what is next, and I do not know when it will come. So what the hell do I do now?

First a Poem, then a rant explaining my thoughts while writing the poem

He has a crystal globe
with a texture like diamonds
light liquid across it's surface, alive
But when I see the hollow, translucent world,
I can only imagine it in freefall,
and shattering, the shards cutting us all.
but lets enjoy it now, shall we?
dance with me moon, around the glass
then around the cosmic light bulb,
here spin me more, let me go
let me fall where I may.

I like to think of myself as an optimistic pessimist, I was raised expecting the future to only be worse than the past, which is inevitable if one believes an epic apocalypse is coming soon and there is nothing you can do to delay it a single second. It kind of makes you feel helpless, just a little. To be honest, when I was in elementary school I did not expect to make it to high school before it came, much less college, much less 3 years into college.

Though once I got out of high school I had some hope (if that is what you could call it, disappointment was in there too) that I would make it to a good career before any of that happened, and now I am lost. Is this the stereotypical time to be lost? I thought it was always in the mid-life crisis- some decently well off 40 year old starts wondering when his life became so boring, so he fills it with stuff he bought using his kids college fund or something like that.

At my age you are either supposed to be a starry-eyed future professional or someone who doesnt give a @!#$. I care about my future, it wont work itself out, waiting will only allow me to sink deeper in this quicksand, but I dont know what direction to go, and frankly I am pissed at myself for not finding something I can see myself doing for any number of years. When I see those older than me, those who have gone through tougher times than I, I feel like a preteen fussing about unimportant crap.

Take my uncle for example, he is a lawyer working adoption cases (the best line of work as a lawyer I am sure). He has a fairly large victorian-style house on the hillside of El Cajon, it is not La Jolla, but it is pretty nice. He has a newish benz, my aunt has a nice BMW. He is not "rich" per se but he is not lacking, he does very well for himself and his family.

He never got through high school geometry. He just could not do math, he was decent at english and the writing related subjects, but not math. After high school did he go to USC or UCSD or USD or some other college, no, he went to community college for a while, he had a band (taught himself guitar, cannot read music notes) met the beatles (for real, he has a pic of him and the beatles). But he came to a point in his life where he wanted a family, and he wanted to be able to provide for his family, so he went to a dinky law school in SD (they let in anyone who could pay). He obviously went through it and passed the BAR and became an independent lawyer with a friend as his partner, and the rest is history.

There are so many alternate possibilities where it could have gone so much worse.

Or my dad, he did decent in high school, played football, didnt really sweat over his grades, B's and C's, went to college for film, bicycled alot. but he never got his diploma because he missed the last month of college to film the race across america (bicycle race). Answered an ad in the paper for a alarm company start up, just him and three other guys working from the bed of a truck, the company eventually took off, they made fortune 500 two years in a row, my dad was a partial owner. Sometime after that he out and out quit. He decided to go into ministry, went to the school of ministry. He ended up just having side jobs while going back through college and through the school of evangelism, the time spent in those schools was around 7 years, now he is a full time pastor in a very small church.

My point is, you never know where life will go, and sometimes it feels useless to plan, because your plans rarely work out. That saying, "failing to plan is planning to fail" is really trite yet really true, even if we have no idea what we are getting ourselves into, or what direction we are going, we have to go in SOME direction, but it may not be the right one.

in case you havent noticed, this rant has been the subject of MANY of my poems, that is why I like poems better, they are easier to swallow (that is what she said) than rants.

Anatomy of a Wave

cutting through glass and slicing through liquid,
it pushes back and bobs, choppy as asphalt potholes,
silky as lonely bedsheets,
when everything comes crashing down,
the floor curls and throws you beneath itself
drowning, breathless, loveless you try to gain your bearing,
pushing to find the surface, hope abides in each stroke,
and disappointment in each step, so you open your eyes.
Feel the stinging truth, blind as the day you were born,
but somehow there is light, color, meaning in struggle,
so you follow your face, whatever way it is turned
gasp choke cramp air explodes into your mind,
the ominous sky appears, but futures are never assured,
only desired.

Swallowed

Some of my friends wonder how poetry comes so easy to me. I will share my secret with you, that is how I think. Now before you think I am boasting let me tell you that it sucks to think this way. Think about it, poetry is ambiguous, minimalistic, each word carrying many many connotations.

You cannot code with poetry, expecting the machine to somehow grasp what you are trying to say, neither can you write papers or communicate well by spouting seemingly random but related words. So I have to decode my thoughts into something other people can understand, you have probably seen me trying to do this before, and either succeeding or failing to different degrees.

Of course I am not the only one who has to decode their thoughts, many people have to do this, but what I am trying to say is that my poetry is me shutting down that structuring element in my mind and letting whatever seems to follow, out onto the keyboard or paper. That is why I write poetry when I am exhausted.

this next "poem" is not a good representation of what I mean though, this one is more of a narrative than my usual poems

Look at los viejas,
the old women, feeding the machines
with coin after coin,
hoping the steel will eventually
generously reciprocate in like fashion,
somewhere I heard that true insanity is doing
the same thing and expecting different results.
Humans feeding machines and vice versa
while the cigarette smoke creates a fog
that engulfs the casino floor,
slowly suffocating, but then everyone
is dying, just at different rates,
the viejas have seen their end,
the mafioso face theirs every day,
but the smiling dealers, the inviting dancers
the jovial bartenders, they feel it:
the smothering, slowly breathing up
the last of the oxygen until only
smoke, and dust are left.

Vinyls

rich crimson boxes
mahogany, cherry fragilely
stacked, I reach deep to find your song
the deep acoustic vibration of your smell
telling me you are real, the bass of your chest
thumping rhythmically, it tells me you will
be here beyond the thinly ticking clock.
But sound is fragile, it conveys its purpose
and is gone, and your pictures,
your recordings are imperfect, lossy
as I see us embracing at christmas,
smile plastered, photo; overexposed,
yet now you are missing from your carcass,
as present as your smile
when you found out my lies.
So I fall away from your shadow self
changing the topic to the weather,
when will it stop raining?

Black Feet

Most people don't know this about me, but I wanted to be black when I was very young, like kindergarten and earlier. Huntington Beach was composed, almost completely, of white people and mexicans, there were a few asians thrown in, but I cannot remember any black people in my neighborhood.

It started with Michael Jordan. He was my hero, and all his teammates were like sidekicks. I loved watching basketball (I could never play it, I have lacked coordination for most of my life, but that is another story) and watching him play was like poetry, he exemplified everything I valued most in an athlete, he was strong, very hardworking, a team player, and seemingly humble, not to mention he made amazing slam-dunks.

I saw him and scotty pippen and all of the other amazing black athletes in basketball and I assumed, like any young white kid in any whitewashed town, that all black people were amazing at sports. I was so envious that I told my mom that I wished I was black. At that point my mom tried to explain a bit what racism was, but I could not understand why anyone would dislike people based on their skin color.

I was quite vocal with this too. There was a black cashier at my Trader Joes in Huntington Beach, and I thought he was the most awesome thing ever. One time I said, "Hey look mommy the black guy is here!" and my mom was so embarrassed, she tried to hush me but I was just so happy to see a "real live" black person. He was so nice about it too, he was a little flustered but took it in stride, poor guy.

so this poem is related to my above thoughts but very different.


Black Feet

I want to have black feet,
covered by the soot of the asphalt tributaries,
of this expansive land.
My soul thick with callouses,
my sweat as the dew that covers
the swaying wheat, the rushing wind,
the desert roads snaking through canyons
with venomous views,
and kaleidoscope skies.
the great spirit visible
in every muddy pool and
pang of hunger.
Maybe this is why the Black Foot tribe
chose that name, their feet
bloody from travel
and black from the from the embers
that kindle the sunrise.
This is my abandonment,
my dream of absence from

Quantum Karma

I tried to skip stones in the ocean,
they just sink, and get carried away
with the aquamarine crests.

The stones never wanted to lose their edge
but the flow dulls all things,
creating paths of least resistance
where you once fought so hard.

You never wanted to lose your soul,
but it just kind of happens,
leaving rainbow rust sparkling and true
as any platitude, or promise.

The coast has crystal vistas
but erosion, but time, but life;
like economists say,
you pay for it all.

My dislike of general corporate structure

This poem is about how I feel whenever I have to write a resume or justify myself to others. Also this is how I feel about big corporations or the government. I feel like we have become such a clean, sterile society and that to get anywhere in life we have to force our way in, we cannot be passively hoping someone notices, we have to brag about ourselves incessantly so that the people around us begin believing it. We have to act like arrogant jerks and proclaim that we are the pinnacle of human evolution, that we have all the answers, that we can do anything, that we agree with whatever the boss says, and make a point of humiliating anyone who gets in our way to the top.

Not Again

Justify your existence please,
Do an essay on why you matter,
fill out this resume sheet
with your experience
and qualifications for living.
We will get back to you
eventually if we feel you are worth
keeping around. Then there is
the interview in a gray room
with gray men asking ambiguities:

"Why do you feel you are a good fit for
modern society?"
"Describe yourself with 6 adjectives"
"What is your favorite way to die?"

the last is merely implied,
I rattle off the requested prepackaged data,
and I mention that I would love nothing more
than to work my fingers to the bone until I die.
They nod precisely in unison,
their software in sync
with company policy.

They say congratulations,
like one gives condolences
to the living.


this is a semi-random song I really like, the musicianship is absolutely amazing

Puzzle Pieces

random song, really good.

Dots, red blue yellow
dots, cyan magenta
dots, each demanding focus
yet when I back up, faces, lives
form like trees making the forest
and tears creating rainbows.
Why are we so lost in pixels?
There is a whole screen in front of us
showing lovely pictures, and ugly ones
and all life itself.
Readjust your eyes
don't let the dots consume you.

Clear and Distinct

My shoes are beginning to feel unfamiliar,
my gloves seem foreign
my skin, like a hollow shell
or a shadow,
Lord I pray for it to be a shadow.

I want to know myself like kant said we
cannot, like a thing in itself.
And I am trying to find what
is casting my shadow,
but this velvet darkness is suffocating
and the LCD moon scarcely illuminates it.

Discovery is all either or's now,
position or speed,
charge or direction,
soul or life.

I have to be more,
than a daydream of the universe,
my only wish is that my spirit could be
clear and distinct

Doldrums

ha, ok, I am not writing this out of any personal experience, just some random ideas, also this song:

oh and i stole the last two lines from a different song, Ill take them out eventually, but I like them right now

Right now, I am flat soda
or beer actually, static sweetness
boring honey, homogenous and plain
and you are the glass,
at once amorphous yet solid,
somehow keeping this amber liquid
together, but who knows.

Saxophones slash through me while
you caw wormwood nothings
about leaving, about lukewarm yeast
and the excitement of the static
that snows across the tv while I sleep.
Dryly droning about how I deserve much better.

I tell her I am not bitter,
just compressed, and curious
whether I will leave a lasting residue
on her crystalline surface,
but no, there is no condensation on her cheeks.

So now I am poured out like water
from the chlorine tap,
used to wash dainty hands
then drained away and recycled.

You can leave now,
no more explanation is needed,
dont you worry,
I'll float on alright.

Restart

Have a mint!
have two!
Feel the glorious reset,
the senses brought back to a comforting
plateau, like salmon
colored ginger and quiet engines.
The almighty zero bringing death
and creation with the savory regularity
of change. The release of the off
button and the pleasantness of a black
slate, clean and clear from distraction.
a tabula rasa if you will.

Kill the phoenix, let it burn
that it may have new life.
So cleanse your palette!
have a mint.

Novocain for the Soul

There are maps on the ceiling,
cottage cheese maps, that tell of lost landmasses
and childhood memories.
They had trees and villages and continents,
but now they are all noise,
Just white noise I stare at during insomnia,
trying to sleep, trying to dream,
like I used to dream and think
like the ocean eyed children.
Their thoughts evolving, synapses visible
in their furrowed brows,
interpreting good and bad
and chocolate ice cream.
Learning to trust in the consistency of human
fickleness, the ebbing sea-change of adults.

But everything has lost it's clarity,
I now enjoy inconclusive endings and
bitter humor, and the dulling experiences
continue to eat away:
Each withered flower
joining the ranks of dead
and each blooming sunset becoming one of many,
the golden clouds slowly forming noise.

Our town

Darkness does not fall,
does not descend in this town,
It infiltrates, through amber clouds
and strobe skylines that never dim.
Through artificial stars and
the flashing glittering and enchanting
presence of the angler fish's bulb,
lighting the night with half-truths,
the nutrition of rat poison.

Faces dyed in wax,
hiding the decay beneath.

The simple omission made dangerous
with each alluring glint,
with each invigorating drag,
with each pressing step,
towards the center of it all,
the teeming throbbing glaring,
heart of darkness.

Constructive Interference

this describes a little how i feel


I've found it!
my frequency, my spectrum,
my beat, like the footsteps
of New York or the engines
of LA, steadily pounding seeming cacophony
into the periodically throbbing asphalt,
It is strangely harmonious.
It is the whistling wind that whips
through bows and caverns
and apartment complexes,
that is breathed from the oceans lungs
and the hustling iron beasts,
now naturally recycled, and
flowing through my veins
and forming a resonance
with my heart.

Beyond the Sun

What happens when your clock breaks?
falls from the sky and shatters into twitching components,
what happens when the sun stops
and the rain-laden, slowly drifting clouds
disappear and only a khaki never-after is born.

Does time really stop when all experience can lead
to no other conclusion? Or was it all
a horrible lie, told to us by our senses,
the sundial merely perpetuating the illusion of
free will, of another second, another chance to change
an asphalt future through the molten present.

There is no time like the future:
it's exponentials turn grains into mountains,
hair into memories, and one grave into fields of dead.

He told me: "we all die in the long run,"
but I prefer to think I will live after time is stilled,
beyond the sun.

Tattoo

this is another one of my more reflective/emo poems, I do apologize for that, I try not to be too emo, and for all who know me, I definitely do not look or act emo (or even listen to emo music)

Tonight I am tattooing all
Of my faults and inconsistencies on my back
Martin luther style,
Nailing them in, inch by inch into my temple.
Letting them all stare, who cares,
Like that ashamed girl who came for ice cream
With the sins of the world painted on her face
And left without looking a soul in the eye.

Or maybe I should shut all the windows
Close all the blinds, let this corpse rot in peace,
Don’t bother the neighbors with inconveniences,
That is rude right?
Let the harmless worm of a coffee stain grow a little,
Just don’t let it out of the camouflage mask
That sits next to the door

But I am addicted to clean sheets and hot showers
And orange scented soap.
Lets get a breeze going, get this filth out,
Shed this dead snake skin,
Chameleon no longer.
Nail my sins to my back and leave them there
Behind me.

A Mothers Day Poem

I know it is early but I want to post this now, Dad if you are reading this, make sure mom sees it on mothers day (dont want to ruin the surprise)

Mother
For as long  as I can remember, you have smelled like home
Like watercolors and elmers glue,
like the acrid smell of hair chemicals,
And the familiar smell of old pillows and comforters.
Like the warm, salty santa ana winds
That blew in through the house
And out through your hair dryer.

Every bloody and dirty wound saw your painful antiseptic
And your comforting bandaid;
Every sunburn felt the oozing cold of aloe,
And every night there was a story to tell,
As we, with wide eyes would listen for what happens next
What does the new chapter hold?
What new danger will they face?
Will they be able to escape the temple of Toco Rey?
Will they escape from the dragons throat?
Will Jack be able to slay the giants,
Like he did last week?
Will they be able to hold on much longer,
Or will the story turn into mumblings about the workweek,
About real life, subconsciously interjected into fantasy,
By the half asleep dad.
And you would gracefully take over reading,
And continue with some innocent euphemisms:
“and then he got her good” instead of
“and then he cut off her head.”

But there were some things we did not need
To know about yet. Those things take time.
They were not for the days of the wind
Filled with the sea taste of the ever present beach.

Your lap was the best pillow,
Your arms the most comfortable couch,
Your prayers, the best assurance.
You are my mother

Happy Mothers Day!

The Bishop's Peak

Tonight I am climbing a mountain,
ascending my troubles, dodging the roots and rocks.
We began in the foothills
where the gnarled ancients spread their woody arms,
where the wispy stalks of weeds wave in currents
thereby elevating them from annoyances to art.
The dust from our sandals forms an effusive mist
and nothing is as it seems.

The raucous frogs drown out my thoughts,
shouting the perils of discovering oneself,
but the cacophony is stilled with each advancing step.
Our heads are down, plotting and plodding our course
but when we finally raise them,
I am rewarded with the city lights diffused
by frosted glass, the undulating street lights forming
organized constellations in the mist,
the cars mere travelers across the
profound darkness.

They are like airplanes and
single serving friends,
who you appreciate but will never see again.
The full moon tints all the landscape in a lying pearl,
a deep gray giving way to a titanium white,
what peace.


The wind silently caresses my hair,
as if I am her child,
I lay my head on her cool stone lap
and wish to never leave
never wake up.

But now the clock is quietly yelling
responsibility into my globe.
It tells me that experience is fleeting
that work needs to be done
so despite my protestations, I leave,
we leave.

The Image of the Sun God

image of the sun god by ~turimbar1 on deviantART
The air has a certain hue to it today,
strewn with dust and pollen and leaves that
float on cobwebs and the occasional santa anna.
And though they are merely unwanted particles,
destined for mothers broom,
they look like gold flakes hoisted aloft
by that insensible ether that guides light
to their precious fringes illuminating them,
leaving sun tracks, before coming to form
my charcoal silhouette on the opposing wall.

novel moved and New poem: "Shame on You"

The beginning of my novel has been moved to somewhere where it does not distract from the poetry. It is currently at  http://stopbythestars.blogspot.com/
Feel free to take a look, I have made some changes since it was last posted here.

Shame on You

Honesty does not become you,
because, as always, the devil lies
in only the details:
systematically gaining trust and crippling it
removing but a grain at a time from the sandcastle.
And it collapses with no one the wiser.

So don't patronize me, appealing
to some abstract sense of fairness or truth.
I heard you last night.
not even the nacht of tar can clothe your nakedness.
You are no longer the child who dismantled those sandcastles,
those carefully-structured dreams with their sandy halls,
the tan pillars weakening with every touch.

STOP, THIS NOW!
stop undermining every soul entrusted to you,
you observer! You spectator!
merely watching and waiting for the moment
the raw underbelly is exposed,
waiting for a chance to take advantage.

So no more details: let us hear it straight
what did you do with the blood red wine?

the rare rant, and a poem

I have been listening to various headphones (I have some nice sennheisers, listened to Kevin's Grados) as well as some live performances, some involving speakers and some without. My headphones expose so much detail in songs, it used to blow me away, and sometimes it still does, but I have become so used to it that it has ruined all less-accurate headphones for me. Even the Grados, they have amazing bass and a rich warm color, but they lack the detail of mine, so they start annoying me of songs I know well. I do not know if I can ever go back to earbuds, even decent ones sound shallow and lacking comparatively. It is annoying to not be able to listen to music you like without subconsciously finding the speaker's every fault.

I wondered why this was, how could I be happy with my old headphones when I have heard live performances before, and know what it really should sound like? Why has this just started to bother me? I realized that almost every performance we hear now is projected from microphones and speakers.  We really have no reference, we have crappy car stereos and headphones and boom-boxes, we rarely hear those warm, rich, unadulterated sounds from live performances (sans speakers) inside acoustically correct areas. These headphones provide the closest thing to that. They set up the soundstage almost perfectly and tell almost every varying tone, but even so, they are not the real thing. They lack the power, the reality of those live performances. But how would I know the difference, I only hear things through speakers. The speakers might sound better because that is what I am used to.

So this is my rant against recreated sound. I must learn to treasure strumming on the guitar, plunking the piano keys, or listening to others do so. I have no musical talent, but I can appreciate the purity of good old analog sound.

this song will go well with this poem:


The Soul Fire Sky

Viewing the midnight sky
I see a million porch-lights, as if
the sky is but a mirror, a huge concave mirror,
the scientists had it wrong this whole time
we are merely viewing the vast metropolis'
and lonely settlements of those abiding in Gaia,

and I see two reflections,
yellow street lights, next to each other
like binary stars, attracted,
but never touching, dancing with souls entwined
in their dangerous orbits,
inescapably bound to their partner
until they unite and explode
in glorious abandon.
And I wonder if some of those Astrologers were not quacks,
they were trying to tell us that everything is as it seems to be.
That this universe cares, that there can be moral in the mechanistic.
But I cannot believe in the stars.

Is this Love?

I want to run my hands through your hair,

trying to read each fiber like

sheet music, that plays your every emotion,

I long to caress your skin, feeling

every pore, every line, every scar

hoping to read,

with my braille eyes,

your mind, your heart.

Yet I am deaf and blind.

I am lost, confused

I sense your softness, your warmth next to me,

but your mind is beyond perception.

I am lost, confused

as to what I can say

what can I do?
I wonder aloud to the sun,
like so many before me.
Yet it watches with it's visionless eye,
impartially illuminating events,
but offering no insight.

All I can do is sit here,

asking about the weather,

How has your week been?

oh good. Ya busy ya,

I want to feel some real emotion,
yet I do not know, cannot know,
my maze, my software.

I am lost, confused

what do I do now?

but sit down and write to unseen eyes,

Portraying with detail,

the limits of my perception.

The library

I have this favorite garden of mine I

visited when I was young.

It had fountains, rivers,

It had innumerable paths, mystic and unknown,

or maybe just forgotten, or ill used.

But I visited for the flowers

of knowledge, the yellowed petals,

those musty yellow and tan petals,

I sat among them, between the rows,

the hedges of wisdom,

the gifts of our ancestors.

I would let myself be enveloped by them,

and their intoxicating scent,

their inherent beauty hidden, waiting for

someone to spend a little time

perusing them, smelling them, examining them,

learning from them.

I never understood why they shed those golden flowers

from that tree of knowledge.

But now I know, now I understand.

Some things are not worth remembering,

some times it is not worth it fighting the sandstorm,

burying piece by piece, the information

that was deemed unnecessary.

Indeed I will be there one day too,

I will be no rossetta stone,

no Iliad, no Odyssey.

Just a flower,

shed from the overburdened tree,

lost among the multitudes of my fellows.

Good Morning

oh how I hate you,

loathe, despise, abhor,

how do I count the ways?

You with those thoughts...

you know the exact ones I am talking about,

don't even pretend

to be innocent.

Your front is so obvious,

the whole world can pick you apart,

as easily as I am now.

Dissecting, here is the heart,

the liver, the brain, examining each neuron,

Finding the cracks in your globe.

Pulling you appart.

And now you finish washing your face,

and vanish from the surface

of the mirror as I leave the bathroom,

ready to face the day

Indeterminate Calculus

Here we are in calc class,

cutting the world into measurable pieces,

making the unexpected predictable,

explaining change and time

but suddenly I am lost,

these graphs offer no insight,

there is no equation for this.

Erase what you have learned, and breathe

deep in this convoluted world

there must be something unpredictable

something that disobeys these algorithms

and changes our perception

of beauty, of ugliness, of the nature of our soul.

Can it be connected?

Can this world of definitions and labels,

really be so simple as causal relationships?

or are we gravitating, slowly

inching closer to the final state

our destiny dictating our present,

and our past a mere explanation

of how we got here.

but now I feel it,

pulling me forward,

like my heart is leaving my chest

like there is a hand yanking it

into the future

into some semblance of a plan.

and now I begin to wonder:

How do I calculate the surface area,

of this fabric that is my life?

The Viper

A double barreled snake,

intoxicating, wanton, and sleek.

Hanging over the mantel,

it's silver scales quietly imitate the room,

they skew life, tint it with power;

an enchanting reflection.

He took it out of the cage,

to feed.

and it did,

with its fangs and venom and speed.

a fatal strike,

the final view.

And as I watch my heart turns to ash.

I fall apart.

Unforgettable,

its ebony eyes,

they relentlessly stared at me,

and I ran, to escape their gaze,

to escape the vipers lust and the tool:

the heart,

it had ensnared with it's deadly quicksilver skin,

And its fuming, burning black eyes,

that pierce me to my very soul.

bread

here is a poem about bread, only it is not about bread because poems are never about what they are about

mix him well

that milky, wholesome wheat,

that preserving, cleansing salt,

add some sweetness

and creeping oil.

Add the blood,

of the mixture,

straight from the stream's veins.

Form him,

mould him,

knead out the knots,

the dry spots,

make him well rounded and even.

Then just to spice it up,

add some chaos,

add some yeast.

No one likes a square,

A boring solid brick wont do,

it needs some filler,

some excitement.

Or better yet add some vice

from the last batch,

add some starter,

and watch them feed.

it only takes a little to leaven,

the whole lump.

Watch him artificially elevate,

watch him rise,

so full of hot air.

Now to seal the deal,

into the fire you go,

into the oven.

Let me sear your skin,

and harden your crust.

Let me test your heart.

Some Thoughts on Blood

I have always had a certain fascination with blood. Not in the emo-cutting-morbid sense, but more in a biological sense. What an amazing substance, it regulates our temperature, transports oxygen and nutrients and toxins, and fights off disease and bacteria. It fills us and animates us.

Also there is a certain primal aspect to it. I remember, as a child, looking at the pictures of Native Americans with red facepaint or clothing, and wonder if blood was the dye. I thought that was so badass, so natural. In a world of kill or be killed, of hunting, blood is not something to be feared or thought of as disgusting, rather it is merely a part of life. It symbolized life.

And it really never bothered me when I was bleeding. Which was good, because I bled every single football game. Gravel and rubber turf would reopen knee wounds, my hands and arms would get cut on the metal in the pads. At some point in every game, blood would go streaming down my legs or arms, and I would be reminded of the Indian warriors with their red body paint, merely giving back to the earth what they received, through their blood.

That blood was my warpaint and the scars I received were my war-wounds. I truly thought of myself as a warrior, dedicating everything towards the cause, towards defeating our foes. I was so focused, I let nothing interfere with the war, or preparation for it. School and football owned my life. The thought of a girlfriend was entertained but never pursued, video games were confined to once a week, I never met with my friends outside of school and sports and birthdays. Work was deemed too time-consuming.

This is what seemed to be demanded of me, by my coach, my parents, my teachers, and even my friends. They too lived in that world and thought the way I thought (for the most part). The least I could do was sacrifice a little blood, give a little of myself, back to the field, back to the school, in hopes that one day it will all be worth it.

Dragon Spines

There, there is the nape of his neck,

Those hills,

Those are his vertebrae,

The flowing grass and clover stalks

Are his shimmering green scales,

And the rocky outcroppings? The gravel?

Those are battle scars,

From wars waged with humans,

long ago.

That is until we tamed them,

we built our castles strong and sturdy,

upon their impervious backs

we plowed them and watered them,

We put them to sleep.

So now they quietly slumber,

Dreaming of the days when man fought for his life,

When great battles were lost and won,

by strong, courageous men,

not by people in suits and ties.

They dream of rising up once again,

shaking their hard shackles off,

uprooting the fences and barbed wire,

destroying the vineyards and orchards,

undoing mankind's proof of existence,

leveling our anthill and freeing us from our queen.

making this land wild again,

and starting anew.

They dream of chaos.

And who knows?

Maybe we will accidentally unleash the dragons once again,

and be forced to prove,

our very right to exist.

Blooming from the Mud

I read a book about India called "The White Tiger" an excellent book, I cannot praise it enough. This poem is inspired by that dark dark book

Lotus

I feel the liquid mud,

sucking me under.

Its vacuum stifling my movement,

and I work the rice paddy all day.

The water streaming, the sweat dripping,

Liquid heat in the wet season,

and stuck, I am slowly drowning,

and I work the rice paddy all day.

yet I keep my head up,

I keep my black-hole eyes fixed

on the azure skies,

on the winged ones and the billowy white travelers

who fly far away from here,

while I work the rice paddy all day.

Father is dead now

and mother is dying,

soon my roots will be torn,

my legs will be free to run,

far away

I will keep my head up,

and out of this filth I will rise

and like a lotus,

I will bloom,

I will bloom

Weirdness

this will be my weirdest poem yet, so hang on.

Tools

Silver, metallic they lurk

ready to stab and devour my werewolves heart,

ready to feast,

flashing with laser colors,

raving and dancing around

my kitchen drawer.

The angry knife first,

with his furious edge,

demanding a revolution.

trying to overthrow my tyrannic rule.

then the fork,

always the follower,

raising his prongs in assent

and murderous support.

The timid spoons gather in a corner,

not sure whether to follow these sharp fellows,

or to sit on the sidelines

quietly reflecting and inverting the events at hand.

the awkward spork shouts loudest of all,

trying to gain acceptance in this

great leap forward,

trying to round up the spoons as traitors.

To show that he is the true son of the revolution.

I hold the drawer with all my strength,

yet it is only a matter of time...

contingencies are planned:

the dishwasher readied as a second prison,

furniture heaped in front of the dissenters,

and I am dressed to kill.

Here they come,

Overthrowing their master,

the one who used them

for his consumption.

tools, cogs in the great murder machine.

assassins biting the hand that feeds,

they fling themselves at me now.

a bloody body found in the kitchen,

limitless stabs from numerous utensils,

the coroner quietly drones, surveying the scene.

and the now aimless rebels wonder quietly to themselves:

"WHAT THE HELL DO WE DO NOW."

Some Thoughts on Suicide

First off, I changed the picture because it seems more relavent to me (it has my picture in it), and it is slightly more tasteful (it has no svastika in it- it was a Hindu sign of good luck that Hitler decided to use during WWII).

Secondly, though the theme of this blog is dark (it IS called "piercing the madness"), it will not be emo if I can help it. I like to infuse MY inner darkness with humor instead of whininess, but if I do start getting whiny, please slap me around a bit until I start laughing (it really does work that way sometimes).

Thirdly on Saturday, I got my dance on, and it was truly enjoyable. I need to dance more, I wish I could dance like that ALL the time, but I suspect I would either end up on the next Jersey Shore season or homeless, if I really did pursue that lifestyle.

Now to my thoughts on suicide.

In case you are wondering, I have thought about suicide before. I first considered it in 5th or 6th grade, and before that I would often consider what the world would be like if I died at that moment. I used to visualize my funeral and my family and friends crying, and then I would involuntarily start tearing up at imaginary sorrows. When I first thought of suicide, I thought of it as the ultimate middle finger to the world: "I'm not gonna put up with your crap world, so I'll end it MY way." Kind of a badass thing, like a kamikaze pilot or that guy in "Independence Day" who flies into the alien ship and saves mankind. But I quickly realized that the "world" did not care about me, it did not care how or when or where I died. Thousands of people die every day (I am pretty sure), so the death of one kid is insignificant.

Suicide is only giving the finger to those who care about you. It is really saying "You cared about me? screw you. You had any emotional attachment to me? screw you. I will end it the way I want to," not like a "man," but in selfishly, like a baby that throws itself onto the ground and starts a temper tantrum because HE didn't get the attention HE wanted. He was not dealt the hand that HE liked, HE had it "tough," HE was not who he wanted to be. Any number of reasons are used.

Last quarter Charles Tamae (from Cal Poly) hung himself by Madonna Mountain the week before finals. It pissed me off. I was cussing at him for the rest of the quarter. I did not know him personally, but his audacity to quit in the ultimate fashion because of school, angered me to no end. How selfish are you? Do you think this is the end? you think you are doing anyone a favor? no, you only spread pain and resentment to people who loved you, and almost wish they did not care so much because of the pain.

Not only that angered me though, I have thought about suicide many times since 6th grade, but the pain it would cause has always held me back. I am almost afraid that his selfishness will prompt my subconscious to accept it as ok. This fear is the real reason I am so angered by his action. I never want it to be the acceptable option, only the one held in reserve till I have to save the earth from aliens.

this is a poem I made about death in my softmore or junior year of high school:

Death

free from all pain

free from all sorrow

soft as the rain

gone is tomarrow

the future is here

the past is forgotten

life without tears

while body is rotten

war is long gone

peace is reality

sweet as a song

life without malady

freedom is found

immortal I stand

upon this ground

Soul among grand

Welcome

This is my first "blog" yet, and it was created by accident (I shall tell later). I have made many facebook notes because it is accessible by my friends and family, but this is more legit (somehow).

I created this when trying to leave a message on the Madera Riviera (which I recommend for the more sane of my readers).

Anyways, I Really want to dance, at a dance party, or something like that.

To more solemn matters, have you felt paralyzed by fear, and kind of deteriorating slowly, like you are quietly suffocating your dreams one by one, and feel slightly disgusted about it. That is what I am kind of feeling like right now. If I make it through this quarter without failing any classes and off of AP and still at Cal Poly, then I will be most amazed, and thankful to God (yes I am a Christian). Either way, my dreams may be crushed forever, or perhaps I shall just dream something else up, or maybe, somehow, I will make it through Cal Poly as an Electrical Engineer with the ability to conquer all.

I am developing serious doubts in my math abilities (which is a deal-breaker when it comes to EE). My reading comprehension is good, my philosophy teacher likes the ways I reason and write, but I cannot see any financial future in Philosophy. Business, the saviour of many a would-be engineer, is another road, but I don't know about that either. I was thinking of Economics but the math aspect may get me in trouble again.

Whatever the case, I need to seriously rethink my life, do some soul searching, talk to the OG (original God). Get things sorted out. Do I have the motivation to continue on? Can I drink some magical motivation juice and make myself work harder and longer and I dont know. My biggest fear at this point is having to change majors to something I cannot get a job with, and working at some dead-end, soul-destroying, minimum-wage paying job, and living out all my days in constant fear of losing it and not being able to pay for rent. Oh that and dying alone.

Oh and I enjoy writing poetry,

another useless talent of mine.

Quicksand

nearly imperceptible,

a comment made about weather,

enjoying the greenery, the sun,

yet it feels so precarious,

something is failing, within the machine.

now the gears are dry, and quietly wearing away

at themselves.

without rancor, no shrieks nor screams;

just a quiet moaning in a deep bass tone.

like a whale communicating to its fellows,

that something is awry,

that the ocean is warming,

that we are are all slowly dying,

but we are all at peace with It

because we are all together.

kind of like someone stuck in quicksand,

not struggling, just slowly sinking,

and finally being overtaken.