Musings from September

Mostly boredom populates the brief and fleeting moments between endless worthless toil, the steam powering another man's train of dreams.

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I don't care about peace. or war. I prefer tranquility, in little things, in my life around me
I wish for people to be free, happy and fat but I am not concerned with making the world my own personal fiefdom following my rules and existing in accordance with my principles again,
I'd prefer it but i am not preoccupied with bringing the world into line
this is not my place
this is a waste of energy

I am not concerned with wine unless it sparkles white like thunder or the waves in moonlight
I lust for beer at times, though not often
I drink no coffee. I want only chocolate
I have disdain for people and addictions though without doubt, I have my own
they may not be in nature as nefarious or insidious as cocaine or nicotine, drink, or gambling but in that they are addictions, they are equally disgusting, I feel.

One must lose the addiction to being right or rather parading one's rightness around for all to see at all times
one must let go of delusions
lose all illusion
one must know what one is and know that it's pointless to try to understand the world around him
the world around him and its chaos are a great source of his discomfort
lose that, and the sought after tranquility comes some distance closer
paradoxically, that which is sought after is disturbed and obscured by the very acting of seeking it

I don't know what's going on and I refuse to pretend that I do

your inhibitions are an atrocity
I need to be reminded of my sanity
put me back in touch with my rational mind
twitter is the death of mystery...perception...insight

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is there no solace is there no reprieve
you must acquiesce
surrender all claims to dignity and self-respect
all appeals to reason and logic

god gave you a wicked heart
I wonder if maybe that were true
it's as plausible an explanation as any
I vacillate between complete admiration and total disgust with regard to women
I look at her and marvel at how such a creature so beautiful could ever have been created in this flawed and evil world and then I'm made to realize exactly how this can be so
for in her dwells a wickedness or something that will insist that I cannot know her love, which is just as good as wickedness


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“There is a woman stuck between my eyelids. I would tell her to get out if I could. But there is a woman stuck in my throat.”

every performance a birth, every curtain a death.

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the words that sing to my soul as if they had leapt to the page from my own pen

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There is no tomorrow. Girls in LA get tattoos of Chinese symbols and don't know what they mean. Girls in NYC get tattoos of TS Eliot quotations on their backs.

Again And Again, However We Know The Landscape Of Love

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.


--Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Stephen Mitchell

the self isn't enough to justify anything

the self isn't enough to justify anything other than inertia
love must be attached to freedom
obligations smother the freedom that lets love blossom

why have I climbed over generic space to build you castles out of everything I can be?
everything I have?
you say: that's a nice castle. I'll sleep a night on the futon, but I think tomorrow I'll be leaving; I shan't be returning.

I demolish my castle and contemplate the sleeping stones
shedding a tear for all whose purpose has abandoned them

when things burn they cannot come back
when rain comes it cannot be turned back

i act only out of reflex

we act only out of mimicry
nothing is authentic and that's okay
everything is a symbol for something else which is yet another symbol down the infinite regress where a little light that burns as the heart of all things is nothing more than an illusion

all of this is pretend
we play at life
to embrace the pretense and make this your artform is a superior mode of being
(and leave life to the actors, the ones who don't believe in their own fraudulence)
they think they wrote their own lines and that their lives are their own

we know better

every word of poetry was made for you

any sweet word of poetry would be happy to know you and
even the cold words, the words of vomit giggle at the thought of you

I missed my own anniversary

on April 30th. Which is kind of like missing your own birthday, or being late to your own funeral. No matter.

Heed these wise words from Kundera:

"It was futile to attack with reason the stout wall of irrational feelings that, as is known, is the stuff of which the female soul is made."

Already impatient for summer, I also weep for its flowers, knowing they must fade.

In a little under 7 months, I finally turned the last page on Saramago's The Year of The Death of Ricardo Reis. Best thing I've read in some time. Sad to see it go. I think I'll read Fernando Pessoa's Book of Disquiet next.

Spiderweb Stanzas IV

where do you remain hidden in photographs
dancing between what the light has captured forever
and what shrinks from view as if timid with shame?
be enigmatic
be desired
be the wished for
the dreamed after
the lone star
that blinks and disappears
within the breadth a whisper
before it dies

This passing shadow

"And because they are so sure of what they think they know, it will never occur to them to ask him, Doctor, is the palm tree a tree. One day they will go their separate ways and the fundamental question of whether the palm tree is a tree because it resembles a tree, or whether this passing shadow we cast on the ground is life because it resembles life, will remain unanswered."

- Jose Saramago, The Year of The Death of Ricardo Reis (298)

Spiderweb Stanzas III

and when singers wearing summer hats
bound through rustic high grasses in fields
plucking the daisies and marigolds
i want to wear your smile on my sleeve
and kiss you goodnight
under the crush of the beaming sun

Spiderweb Stanzas II

my words are old men who hide behind
shades pretending to play dominoes
cards or chess on
benches in parks
while they silently scheme
on swimming the waves of your rambling breasts

2 Days After Valentine's Day Playlist

Enjoy.





1. Marvin Gaye - Funk Me
2. Steve Arrington - Last Nite, Nite Before
3. Isley Brothers - Choosey Lover
4. Harold Melvin & The Bluenotes - Hope That We Can Be Together Soon
5. Minnie Riperton - Can You Feel What I'm Sayin
6. Bill Withers - Let Me Be The One You Need
7. Ken Boothe - Look What You've Done For Me
8. Patrinell Staten - Little Love Affair
9. Babyface - Whip Appeal
10. The Whispers - Say Yes
11. Luther Vandross - Love Won't Let Me Wait
12. Isaac Hayes - Ike's Rap III/ Your Love Is So Doggone Good
13. Love Unlimited Orchestra - Baby Blues

Spiderweb Stanzas I

my poetry is a dreaming devil
shortsighted and sensuous
hoping only to grope your hand
and perhaps your innerwrist

To be thy lips is a sweet thing and small.

Thy fingers make early flowers of
all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings, saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear, we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
Always
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
says; singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

To be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death, Thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing, it shall not stop kissing).

- e.e. cummings