Devising a Time Machine

You never know how much you miss someone until they are gone.  I feel defeated today.  I miss her eyes.  I miss her lips.  I miss her laugh. I came to the conclusion that you can’t really force love.  It is a spontaneous event and when it happens it’s beautiful and made of all the colors on the spectrum.  But when you force it…disaster.  You see, I love this girl but because of my own personal dilemmas, I let her down.  If she were here right now I’d dance with her.  We could listen to Earl Greyhound and sing along.  Man, I haven’t felt this pain in so long.  It’s not so much a physical pain.  It’s rooted deep in the stomach; and it spins and spins as a flood of memories play like a silent movie in the third eye.  I think of how we used to cook together and make up our own recipes.  Man, one day, we’d open up a late night food business and call it Drunk Food.  We would be rich in pockets and wallets and we’d travel to Italy just so that we could drink wine in the vineyards.  Or maybe Seattle to feel the drizzle from the west coast breeze.  Or maybe we’d get down to Argentina and pretend like we speak spanish.  Her own business would be a world renowned company and the food business would just be a fun investment.  We’d say, “Remember that time we were in your old kitchen getting high and conjuring up the greatest plan to travel the world?”  And we’d dream big and do big and never have to worry ever again.  We’d look into each other’s eyes and wouldn’t have to speak.  No.  Not at all.  She knows sign language.  And I would spell out my love to her.  But, again, I’m just a meager poet with dreams the size of continents.  And if a man can’t dream then I don’t think he can live.  I would live for her.  If she were here I would sit her down and massage her hair just because she loves it and whatever she loves I love.  If she’s happy I will be happy.  She just wasn’t happy with me.  Not her fault.  I was…not man enough.  I was too young minded for a woman like her.  She is a woman.  A strong beautiful woman.  Strong enough to know that I wasn’t anything of significant value.  Not yet, at least.  I admit this now.  A little too late.  But it’s better to realize your faults than not realize them at all.  Late, yes.  But the world will spin another day.  Even if the sun doesn’t exactly shine in my direction I know that she’ll have blue skies in her smile.  I’m just grateful that she and I were at one point a union.  I think I let fear drive my impulsive decisions.  I want to create art with her.  I want to read her poetry (beautiful writer).  I want to hear her talk to me about designers and SEO marketing.  I want to hear her speak anything to me.  I could listen to her gentle voice for days, months, years.  I could listen to her because she’s my favorite instrument, my favorite song, my favorite lyric.  She is my favorite smell, my favorite novel, my favorite movie.   Damn, you really don’t know what you’ve had until it’s gone.

I will walk into the night alone, thinking of how to build a time machine to try to get back to the summer when we first met.  Things would be different.  O’ things would be just as they should be…

Ouch.

Karma is vicious.

 

The Back Down

Back down, Who Waterloo.  Just give up.

She thinks you less of a man.  Less of a human.  An animal, maybe.  But she clearly will not settle her eyes upon you anew and stare deep into the blue rivers of ancient past lives and watch your burning gut tell a story of the artifacts that composed your tale.  You see, Who, some women strengthen a man and some women give up when your licking dirt and struggling to get off the ground.  Who Waterloo, you may choose any direction, destination, and path…you may choose to live your life worried about the one who you thought was the one slip on by, but then you’d be giving up on yourself.  Your intuition is making all sorts of noise.  What does it say, Who?  She, the love, the lost, the wandering angel you thought you could sweep away.  You are mistaken yourself.  The world is a bit more harsh than you anticipated.  The gift comes and the gift goes; so now what to do?  Stare out at the West Coast mountains and breathe in the goodbyes you feared.  Happiness comes in seasons.  The little treasures in her eyes will be for someone else, sooner than you anticipated.  Surrender yourself to it, Who.  The inevitable downfall of human existence is the desire you so tightly gripped.  Surrender yourself to the end and breathe anew…

The Existence Of I (A VIVID DELUSION)

I exist with loud voices culminating into a laughing mania
with snow capped sidewalks and reflecting traffic lights
of studious artists re-creating the miracle; of life, of genius-
a desk of Yoga sutras, Jay-Z decoded messages, and Explosions
in the sky, an overcast grayness that blankets upside fish
glimmering stars faint as a distant memory
penetrating the conscious when fluttering into swirling mind wave.
I offer personal journey of personality journal with a brain connection
similar to networking sites, receptors of cultural influence
drunk, drugged, fucked, and whored–we become a menacing conclusion
a feature for the internet blogger to conjure up schemes,
articles, and anecdotes of misconstrued beliefs — we are all ego driven
riding on a horse to a destination of vivid delusions…
To defeat the mind, we must confess our deepest gratitudes
toward the mischievous thought; let it stroll peacefully
into the darkness.

TRANSCENDENCE

 

To transcend the misconstrued tellers of a society that advocates the wages of war;

To eclipse, those who follow deceitful leaders to the pitfalls of humanity; 

To overcome the deepest darkest depths of a fiery hell;

To rise against suffering, torture, and great violence;

To exceed beyond such giant beasts with fervor;

Is the one who has manages to control the center of the third eye;

Is the one who Om’s the esteemed tonal chords of the universe.

Is the one who will never destroy with fist or rage;

Is the one who builds anew with golden silence;

Is the one who elevates as a harmonious sage.

Of Relativity

 

 

 

In storms at sea, O’ I see

how the world relates to me

and how the world relates to me

is none that you can see

we are meant to be

with separate eyes

with separate hearts

in rooms

as separate parts

with the sea as ferocious

as a precocious 

lion; I’m lying alone

staring at the winter sky

a voyeur to Orion

with only one thing on my mind:

 

I’ll miss you.

 

When We Shall Fall

 

 

I’ve seen many friends pass

through the surface of earth

reborn as flowers

that stem from spring time.

 

I know not my last breath

of this whimsical day.

 

It’ll come unexpectedly

charging on horses

kicking dirt on those

who love me.

 

I’ll be remembered

as a journal

black ink,

with all memories

tattooed on the ankle.

 

My mother will cry

My father will cry

My brothers will cry

My sister will cry

 

 

My friends will

mark my journey

drinking wine,

telling stories of my

indecent past

as the humor

will last a lifetime.

 

They’ll speak of me

as a living memory

 

If I should be 

the last to fall

I’ll recognize the fallen 

as the greatest 

leaders of them all.

 

They have taught

me the art of living

the lesson of learning

and the spirit to recognize

that no dream has an end.

 

To The Books Scattered Around My Room

 

The eternal universe is one big novel ready to be explored;
     epic like a Tolstoy or Dostoyevski story (long winded too).
An epic hurricane, a monster storm, a lightning bolt of intensity;
     all words concurrent to the massive galactical library -
Of poetry and science and philosophy or law
     of history and art and cinema too…

All the calculations and findings of a novel
     represented by the letter and the form

has taught me unconditional love,
     the ways of inner peace,
society and its function,
     altruism,
artifice,
      edifice (a constructive poem),
art and spice
     all the necessary ingredients
to conjure up a meal
     to fill the belly full;
I eat the language-
     It is the flavor of the open sea
an abyss of fish and plentiful stars
     And who am I to indulge in the
great allegory of the mind? 

     Who Waterloo, the great explorer;
of worlds,
     of minds,
of the great culture of human existence
     I ask, who are you?
      

You and I can be free
not the free they sell us at Starbucks
     but the free of the Moby Dick sea,
or Walden Pond
     or the open road of the beats.  Streets,
Stumbling alone, maybe…
     solemnity offers prudent reflection
the art of internal inspection
     sometimes the only art worth having-
not even love offers second chances
     it’s a fact, I’ve been there and done that
weeped a thousand tears
     prayed to Venus
The goddess of  love and beauty
     but like hell, Venus is a runaway flame;
burnt the edges of my lips
     with kisses
and realized that I’ve learned
     the greatest tale of them all

Sacrifice involves a deep gratitude,
     a multitude of the pounding heart
like rudiments on a snare drum-
     an honest assessment of who
you are; perhaps a deep secret,
     a novella with a chanting rhyme
that speaks of the universe
      made from thematic elements
and theatrical lines

     we are all performers on the great stage
we are all characters with great names
     we are all our own solar systems
with enough energy to light a city…
      Call it spontaneous prose of existence
born out of illuminating consciousness
     With endeavors to pursue biologically
our forever gleaming purpose.
     What will remain in the end?
A personal story or two provided by great friends,
     A genetic composition,
a skeleton with the once mystical vision
     to become a legend
like the ones scattered around my room.

BLOW THE TRUMPETS

 

 

For this nation must lead through adversity ,

where innovation is the tool that strikes the anvil.

My brothers, we all deserve a chance to live, to choose, to dance.

I am but one man, but with this poem we can destroy anthems;

or swallow the deep dark seas, for with this we must strike the fury large;

to bequeath a vision for Africa and ease the pain in the Middle East

(that which we created; we become the beast).

 

We must break down idiotic walls of superior ideology.

Grasp the hands of those who falter; for we are one entity

displaced in a galaxy that is far too experienced & old.

We as a species are merely adolescent.  And in our adolescence 

we have managed to dye the rivers red and strip the earth of clothes.

It’s lying naked, barely with breath.  Poor soul.

Dusk will soon appear and when it does, slowly gather your neighbor; 

thousands of stars,  wild and great, as hot as fevers

will shine against a blue horizon; as a distant metaphor 

of what could’ve been.

Sagitta The Arrow

Sagitta the arrow
pierced universe
tears rumble
earth’s crust
stars sprinkle dust
I’m pure lips 
to soil