Purging the Thick Sticky American Plight

It's been weeks since I've watched the explosions
plume into petals, blooming crimson and pears
like soft spears, cape and muster
this cup of sour mash whiskey
that holds glaciers cracked and hollow,
shell-like frozen cases,
pools of bitter dandelion yellow swirls
fall down past my tongue, until my spine cracks
and I wish I was elsewhere.
Too coherent for a night like this,
and here I am writing.
Typical.
I need a gun, and some sultry music.
Pretend we were back in the hallway,
trading looks, maybe morals.
Too late, for I am already molded
into a steel that only bends in the backseat.

Seoul food.

It's not the patterns on the shirt,
it's the type of fabric.

Don't let anyone touch your hair,
they'll bite you way too fast.

If you wonder about her state,
you will need more bricks
to grind your teeth on.

I will stop thinking about the surge
for we are becoming too weak
to hold our hats on our heads.

I should ditch her more.
Be a real man. Wow, that's
pathetic.
She believes in shitmen.

I write to get clean.

How it happens

I need a few things:
coffee, silence, peace
rest and study.
To become a scholar
you must first pretend
to be one.

Smiling Towards the Swamps of Jersey

I often think about drowning
in the black arms of the ocean,
with icebergs obtuse and unforgiving
enough irony to blind a rescue team,
ice stitched shut harbors
no echo
no
echo
"Echo?"
No echo.

Sondays

There
is Here,
without the tea,
watching saucers
among scholars
stir and squirm
dissipate like sugar,
brown and colloquial.

New Beginnings

This will probably suck
my senses dry.

Permanence
against my will,
more aptly,
Torture.

The Pain of Originality

Finally woke up.
Rings of something,
small and un-cliche,
not dancing, not sitting,
not doing anything predictable,
proximate,
not to my eyes,
nor my hands,
or lips,
unsuspected location,
of which will later be
pinpointed,
not described,
but just there.

Clear and Simple.

Starting to Understand the Patterns of the Clouds

The sky spreads like butterscotch,
all I can ask is
how long have we been here
and yet know nothing
of the air escaping
the horizon?

The breath I sigh now
will reach your lips
in 11 days.

If not lifetimes,
what else do we have?

I'll meet you again
when we're both eggshells,
hatching sister
chickadees.

I believe in shyness

For Raffie

Every morning
over here,
it's cold and gray
I wake like
the shoreline
wishing
we shared
the same pillow
or at least
the same
dream.

To quote FSF

"I would give you my life, if you gave me yours somehow."

In the Morning

My waking life is just
a series of dreams
connected by strings

I was a teenager once

4th floor stories

I'll write you down
until the letters fall
off their chairs,
staring off,
wishing you were a little less
like them and more
like me,
but in any case,
I'll buy the next round,
but I don't want you
to talk about it.
Just drink it straight
down, 130 miles south
till the flowers come
sprouting through
this window I've been
watching for hours,
counting all the silver seconds
we've shared.
Not nearly enough
as I presumed.

I was once alive

Each time I stop to think about how beautiful life is
I wonder about all my potential,
then tangential thoughts come pulling me off the tracks,
and I realize I lack the stamina,
Devotion is my neighbor
but all I savor is the experience
and the idea,
not the planning,
And theory is great,
for someone who sits alone at his desk
waiting for remarks of late to manifest themselves
in action, or inaction.
Now my mind is just mumbling,
like a studious schizophrenic,
I panic at the though of me losing my dreams,
when all the seams of the bubble clouds burst into nothing
but pockets of air suffocating me with all the fresh scents
of heart breaking reality.
It took me 20 rounds to realize life was a play
I will always be the same character,
except you can't joke when your turn comes,
'cuz you need to be serious, seriously
look at how the dice are rolled,
who controls the turning of the board,
Lord have mercy on me,
I'm wretched and I'm tired
but I want to play
I beg you,
fix my broken legs and we can pretend
like nothing happened,
and that only the flowers were coaxing me
below the dirt, and I will always remember
this old familiar smell
of dust and hurt.

Snowflakes

I know you
have no memory
I could never stick
like the pictures you loved.
Only I recall,
the night when
the sky was dark purple
and the snowflakes flew
straight to your eyes
magnetized by the beauty
of the poles
I kissed you
because your eyes told me to.
And I breathed my deepest,
deep enough to suck
the life from your lungs.
Your heart through your lips
vacuumed clumsily into me.
Held it in
resuscitating you with winter
wind romance.
Just a lonely couple
of minutes
then it climbed its way out
tugging on veins,
strangling my vitals
scratching inside.
Pulling its mirror
organ out with her,
mimicking the owners.
Still missing.
You don't remember
how hard I held you,
how sweet the air
between our lungs
was passed.
You only remember
the night
and how the snowflakes
left those cute violet
smears around
your eyes.

Spilt Milk

Words are funny
The way they taste like honey
When they exit the mouth,
The sound is born 2.8 centimeters south
Of the epiglottis, and all the rhyming
Formed in the brain is sent downstairs,
Until it’s at the tip of your tongue,
The bottom rung of the ladder breaks,
And you would have hoped
The latter was stronger,
Perhaps more profound,
But each time you look,
You’ve found the same answers,
Thoughts are just electrical impulses,
Or dancers, skipping, prancing,
Around the corners of the squish,
And you wish there was more
To it than this, but when it’s all there,
It’s still as vague as this,
But that’s the point,
Sense is for the senseless,
One more blink
And I’m done with this.

Forgetting About

Taking pulls from a warm flask
Of Jack in the passenger’s seat,
Bottoms up, eyes closed,
Swerving through lanes at the grocery
Store my fondest memories
In the baby blue envelope you mailed me last
Sprayed with your sweet and familiar
Plum and coke perfume,
You, me, and leather seats in summer heat,
Chugging chocolate bars at Barnes and Nobles,
Before we race to my car in the crowded parking
Lots of times you could have stayed at
Home instead
We spent nights memorizing movies and the lines
On each other’s palms, and the glass
Globes on display, at the mall
We used to rendezvous at the same corner
After you got off work and your high heels
Turned your feet blue and cramped, crammed
Your hands in my pockets when you forgot
Your gloves in your room
Needed a new light bulb, bright and florescent like
The moon you said and smiled and
Laughed whenever I tried biting your ears
Always got cold first and last
Year was the best year for falling
In love and life was meant for accidents like this
Was what I waiting for
A long time to tell you, “I can’t
Say it, so I’ll write it,” in the loudest pen I have
Only one sheet left-
Handed scribbling:
Goodbye, Goodbye
Goodbye
Good
Bye.

Nothing to do on a Sunday Afternoon

The door opens on its own,
and I continue to count the hairs
on my leg.

Six and half days

The daylight shivers when the clouds hang low,
they exhale softly, through my frame, like the leaves
swirling around me, the pollen floats
in synchronized, diagonal fashion
across the field,
across my face,
bombard me gently
like feathered bullets
in nature's playful barrage.
And now I can see the sun
peeking through
with a wide grin.

Six days

The day is cold
but my hood is long enough
to cover my whole face.
Sitting on the back porch steps
trying to figure out
how to capture the beauty
of this morning moment.
Well,
that is the dilemma
of the senses.
Use truth and detail.
Lies are also composed
of vivid details.
Do you see how
complicated this is?

You would make a great secret if I could keep you.

Armor

Check your watch,
circle the dots,
barely enough time
to kill
with all these
broken clocks.

A Cup of Theory

Personality is like a set of teeth.
We can mold to a certain shape in our younger years,
but only with some guidance.
After we come into place, we tend to stay that way permanently,
or until we just fall apart.

Some Nights Need Two Moons

Glowing orbs wrestle
like demons
taste the jalapeño
leaking from the leaves,
corners were made for
squares like us,
loitering, slowing
the pause to a drop
undripping,
pouring back
into the sky
like spring births
flowers, hours
upon hours,
hurting their backs
click into place
and yet the night
is only safe
under streetlights
and cigarette smoke.

I read this in my physics book

"The universe is not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we imagine."


I think that statement aptly sums up the incomprehensibility of the nature of our world.
Don't take the complexity of the world for granted!

I'm gonna make that my personal slogan.


I would also like to quote my fellow day tripper, Arash, in his beautifully simple claim on understanding our existence, "Life is trippy."

Yessir.

The Breathing Room

Woke up this morning,
Confused and coffeeless.
Sun snuck into
My room through the cracks
In the blinds and broke
Into yolk yellow rays
On the wooden floor.

The taste in my mouth
Was unusual.
I realized
The air was spring, and we
Breathe the sky,
In deep blue gasps
Until it snaps our lungs open
Like balloons. Without thinking
I put on my shoes, bit my lip,
And walked for miles
Down the shoreline.

Didn’t stop until
The sun was behind me
Sinking to sleep fast
Beneath the dull
Red edged horizon.

And I sat over the end
Of a lonely pier
Dangling my feet
Overlooking the sea
Wishing more of me
Was made of water
Or air.

And I thought,
If I exhaled long enough
Eventually my lungs would
Parachute themselves
Out my mouth, begging for a drop
Of wind.
And it finally happened
But I wasn’t awake to see it.

And when my eyes opened
The sky was made
Of dark blue bricks,
Waiting to crush us,
And the clouds were low
Enough to reach up and peel
From their permanent positions.

And although my arms
Were not as long as I thought them
I tried anyway.
I fell short and into a cough
Of sorts, throwing me backwards.

Breathing is funny, the way it just happens
Without our consent.

On the edge of that lake I stood, for what I am not certain,
But I imagined that I would have perhaps
Been better as a soft-shelled creature,
Scuttling and shuffling about the sand,
Under the surface of blue and green.

Sitting in the sand is the cheapest form of therapy,
Drawing circles around my feet
With a carefree hand.
I realized that there were other shells on the shore,
You just have to sift through the sand for a while
Until you find a good one.

Evening Lens

At 3:00 a.m. I decided to walk
To the diner down the street.

The waiter watches me
At the black and white checkered table,
As I stare at a glass of water
With the meniscus calmly sitting
At half-mast.
I gaze steadily for a few minutes
And then he asks me,
“So, is it half-full,
Or half-empty?”
Startled, I shift my glance to him
And answer politely,
“Sorry,
I ordered a strawberry milkshake.”

Righteous

So I guess I'm going to start this blog thing. I must say Arash Amini has inspired me to do this.

I have a lot of things to say, or write, that is. If anyone is out there, and cares, please take a gander.

Is this thing on?

Testing...