Poetry

I can't write poetry unless it is about nature.

Is that bad?  :-/

I need to try to break that habit.

With Fists of the Ocean -reflection-

There was once a time when I thought I had it all figured out.  The graduation, the job, the home, the family, the future. I never considered anything but the most optimistic outcome of the past.  Despite all my faults, my wrongs, and my innocence, it would work.  I would make it work.  I would outlast the change in you.

There was once a time when I would have given myself completely, even if it wasn't presented in return.  The self-sacrifice, the devotion, the unrelenting desire to make you happy.  I couldn't see myself in the looking glass, the man, worn, hollow, and sickened by fate and the inevitability of his actions.  The man who would do anything to make the looking glass shape into the image he longed most for.  I wouldn't see it, the man bending the glass with his melancholy eyes and heavy steps.  I would do it.  I would do it for you.

There was once a time when I could leave you behind.  Left behind.  Alone.  Waiting for something at the window like a dog waiting for his master to return home with food, toys, and love.  I meet that need and pushed beyond the call of duty to build you into something more.  Much more.  Sometimes, I would wonder if you even saw yourself achieving the goals carefully laid before you.  Was it just to appease my exhausted pleas or did you ever really want something more for yourself?  I would look for it.  I would find it for you.

There was once a time when I would light your fires of passion.  The kindling neatly stacked, the logs ready to be devoured, neatly topped with some magical copper flakes.  Yet, day by day, week by week, month by month, and year by year... I began to take on the task of preparing the rite of flames.  My hands became charred, my face dark with soot, my body resisting the ritual I had come to know.  Is this all?  Is this my role?  I would finally come to see.  I would finally stand alone.

But the moon is with me.

The time now is spent in quite reflection under the dark sun.  Am I selfish?  Am I thoughtless?  I am standing at the edge of the cliff over-looking the ocean and raise my fists, the fists of the ocean.  I am restless with worry and spend the night turning own myself to find what it is that I want

Suddenly, it is there, as bright and brilliant as the moon itself above.  We are not alone.

There is a sense of peace and I am free to rest in the tides.

Finale

4.  Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.

                                                                                                               -Dalai Lama 

I Like It Rough

1. Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.

                                                                                                               -Dalai Lama

Crossroads in the Badlands

dust settles on a sign
                       that groans and whispers:
" non omnis 
                moriar "
                      - Not all of me 
                                        shall die. -

sand dances on chalk stones
                       while a weathering step sounds:

" crede quod habes, 
                            et habes "
                                   - Believe that you have it, 
                                                                      and you do. -


mold on a deathly dry toad
                       cracks and grumbles a thick prose:

" aut viam inveniam 
                             aut faciam "
                                   - I will either find a way 
                                                                      or make one. -

song sparrows, muses of the desert wash, cry out, " Quid, quid faciam? "
                                                                                                                                                          
                                                                - What, what shall I do? -

Classwork - Spelled with a capital A-S-S

You know the feeling... when you just want to die and let everything fall apart around you.  OK... I don't mean it literally.  I mean for school work.  Like, when you have one of those moments where you say to yourself: "I'm done." or "I'll just never be able to accomplish this." Then the teacher comes over to either save the day or watch you melt into a pile of you own sorry ass self who couldn't put it together.

Right about now, I just don't want to to any of this work.  It sucks.  I don't want to do it.  I never wanted to do it.

I have to admit that being with a bunch of 7-8 Graders is pretty entertaining, but there is just way to much going on to enjoy those moments.  It feels like the teachers are just begging me with their twinkling eyes and less-than-believable smiles: "DON'T DO IT.  TURN BACK!  TURN BACK!"

I even had more than one teacher say that to my face.

"Why did you want to become a teacher?"

I don't even know how to answer that anymore.  Does, "Because I need a job to prove I can survive in the real world" count as an answer?

I mean, that's what I thought it was all for.  My father wasn't particularly happy with a few of my major life decisions, so being a teacher would prove to him that I could do it... right?

Well guess what.  Now that I don't have my father's support I feel like a hurricane that's gone too far inland.  The warm-water drive from my father is gone.  The gentle push of "Way to go Dudester!" that lead me up the coast faded away.  The currents of his happiness at the signs of my imminent success at something influential has left me swirling into the landmass known as reality.

And I am losing steam.

They say that student teaching is all about the students.

"Don't worry about us, just plan the lesson according to the student's needs."

Well guess what?  I don't even do what I plan on doing on some days.  Heck, I spend so much of my time worrying that they will do well on these assignments that I forget to even take care of my own needs.

Do you think that being a Youth Director helps any of this?  I'm working 5 days a week to try to educate these kids on the research paper, THEN I have to plan and accommodate my lessons for my youth on the weekends!

Maybe I'm just destined to be a teacher.  That's my hope speaking, right there.  Keyword: Destiny.  It helps to dull the pain when it is something inescapable.  Like death.  We don't think of death 24/7 (or... I hope you don't...) but we all understand that it is a part of life. 

Is being a teacher like death: inevitable?  Can I stand against the currents of the world and try to rebuild the support from my father to blow myself onto the path I want to follow?

Maybe we all need to blow our own storms.  Maybe we all rely too much on others to blow them for us.  The rain sure does feel nicer when you know that it's coming.

But isn't that just pessimism talking?  Rain.  Storms.  Hurricanes.  Death.  All this negative emotion. 

Don't worry.  I'm fully conscience of it.  I am aware that it is taking over my life.  That's why I made a change to the plan.  I went "out-of-bounds" as they say. 

I knew that I needed to make a change or die trying.

And so I did it.  Once a day, every morning, for the next 3 months.

Life seems more promising when you have a routine.

Friday, Friday, Friday... Oh how I love thee...

There are so many great things that happen on Fridays.  It just happens to be the greatest day of the WHOLE WEEK.  It's jsut one of those days where you need to have fun... because Friday and fun boh begin with an F.

In fact, let's make that a CAPITAL F in Fun.

Ok, sometimes there are conditions that might prevent an individual from reaching that capital F on a Friday. These include, but are not limited to:

Car Accidents, Major Surgery, Divorce, Root Canals, Spoiled Lunch, and Weekend Homework.

Even then, some of the items on this list... heck almost ALL of them could have some potential good in them. 

OK... maybe not the homework part.  Unless it is FUN homework.

So now we are at Friday.  The best day of the week.  My mediation is obviously working better than expected (and I didn't even have to get enibriated to enhance the effects!) so let's just keep talking about Friday for as long as I can.

I think that being in school is what truely makes Friday's worth it.  Everything about Friday seems to come from the school system.  I mean, you could always work on the weekend, but you NEVER go to school on a Sunday.  Even Saturday detention doesn't quite count.  That's basiclly for the people who don't want to be in school... or jsut want to be part of the Breakfast Club.

I know there are some people out there who are itching to blurt out: "But...but... I still enjoy my Fridays and I don't go to school!  Why would say that?!"

Let me fill you in on all the perks.

First, being in school is actually a good time.  WHAT?  Did I jsut say that?  Ok, let me clarify.  I'm not saying being in school 24/7 is always the best thing since sliced bread.  I am saying that you kind-of-have-to-be-here-anyways-so-make-the-best-of-it.  Where would you have met all of your friends from school?  Around the neighborhood?  If your neighborhood is anything like mine, there's a bunch of old folks locked in their homes and two toddlers who run around with their heads cut off from 10AM-4PM (on the non-rainy days).

To be continued... back to school...

The Big W

What is the big W?  It could be one of a variety of things.  I prefer to make it simple.  Identify the problem and attack directly. 

So where do I begin? 

It all started when the big W became something more than a special talent that I figured could carry me a while through my education and future careers.  It was more than something that I found lying on the side of my garbage.  It described me: the past, the present, and the unobtainable future.  It was something I could use for my own success, but I never meant for it to get this way.

The tumultuous W that has invaded my life has begun to grow like a stale weed in my flower bed of dreams.  It is growing out of control and is choking everything around it.  There isn't enough weed killer in the world to end it. 

It just won't end.

Chicken Parm on Wednesdays

There once was a time when I would have given anything in the world to go back and change everything.  How original right?  Who doesn't have that dream?   I'll tell you who.  They're known as the "I'm going to be happy with the way things are" people.  Alternatively, they are known as the people who need to feel better than YOU to move on with their day.

Maybe I'm just pessesmistic.  I use to think of myself as optimistic... most of the time... alright maybe not.  Maybe I was one of those people!  I needed to make you all feel terrible about the world so I could feel better about mine.  I guess I just confessed something to you.  More like to myself really.  That's how it feels sometimes.  Like writing is for the self.

I don't believe that writing for the self truly exists.  Somewhere in my head, I hope... no YEARN for someone to read this.  Why would I post this online on a blog in the first place?  That's what makes this exciting.  The fact someone might read this and say to themselves, "Hey, that guy has a point!" or "I wonder why he feels that way?"  or "Why should I give a damn?!"

Well, I hope you give a damn!  That's the point of this post.

Well, that's not true either.  This post is about me.  Selfish, need-it-all, me! 

This would be a good time to describe myself as the fat, lazy, pimpled, 4 eyed, computer freak that everyone would be stereotyping as.  It doesn't really matter if I'm a boy or a girl... but I sure do sound like a bitch!  That's all that counts right now.  My voice.  My son-of-a-bitch voice that you are putting up with.

 If you've made it this far and you've survived the ranting, I am surprised!  I almost want to give up right now and spare you and myself the horror of what waits in this post.

But that wouldn't be fair.  Not now.  Not that I've made it this far.  That's what separates me from what I would consider a failure.  A miserable failure.  Lurking in the abyss of my bed sheets and crawling out to gasp a brief breath of bologna on white before diving back to the depths.

It's not really that bad.  There's chicken parm with Mom in between on Wednesdays or Thursdays... if she feels like it.  When I really get spicy I might cook up a chicken breast in oil with spices... it's really my fault that I don't eat as well as I should.  I just like the company.  Food + People = Meal.  I would eat just the bologna if I could eat it with someone else!

I think that's the primary reason for bitchiness.  Loneliness.  It's an interesting word to look at.  LONELINESS.

Not a very lonely word.  Lots of letters!  Maybe it's more about the spaces in between the letters... like the number of spaces between the L's and the N's and the closeness of the S's.  It seems a little wierd at first.  But just look at it!  It screams symbolism!  Do I need to spell it out for you?!

Ok, maybe I'm taking your knowledge for granted or imposing my ideas on your brains... maybe that's a little too aggressive.  I NEED TO BE AGGRESSIVE.  Where am I going to go if I'm not aggressive? 

One sec... gotta pee.

Alright, bladder's empty.  Time to keep going.

I wonder what people would want to know about me?  What would I want to know about me?  I'm not sure I want to answer that question.  I don't even want to know me anymore.  I'm just sick and tired of that guy!

Maybe I want to change myself.  I want to change myself.  I want to enjoy myself I want to be in the presence of myself I want to be able to mediate with myself.

Damn that's selfish!  But I need more me time that doesn't involve a 12+ hour nap and a 5AM wake up call.  Even now, sitting with the laptop on my knees in front of the television at a friend's house so I could focus on my project due Friday at midnight, I still feel like I could drift off to sleep at any moment.

...

... alright that's a cue.  Time to log off. 

It's been fun posting.  I hope I can do it again soon.  Maybe.

-K

The Meadow Song - draft

Along a whisper of prairie grass,
a bellowing pitch of a merciful raptor driven to unbend the earth.

She cries and cries for the meadow song,


The split holly tree hangs itself in reservation.

Never forget.

Happy Birthday,

The light at the end of the tunnel... is a crossroad?

I am slowly running out of gas, as usual.

My drive to write poetry has been squashed by depression and ruined dreams, tired and angry fits, selfish and selfless acts that seem to blend together to form a word:

Sacrifice.

It is almost 12PM, the day before my classes inevidably start again and I try to make myself pull together the workload I've waded into these past few weeks.  Being a teacher nowadays is more of a mathmatical process than a creative art of learning.  Trying to cram in standards and look professional while putting on the mask that screams: I DO CARE.  A LOT.

The terrible dreams of terrible things and the angry feelings I muse over between classes and headaches make me wonder why I'm not a drunk wasting myself on cheap Budweiser or Mike's Hardcore-Drinks-For-Studs making a fool of myself, alone, and desperate for something I couldn't and cannot seem find.

The trouble is being certainly uncertain when driving down the road with a tank of gas that whispers softly how $40 isn't going to get you anywhere.  But it takes some cash to be different in my '95 Wrangler.

Being different isn't so easy as cash, but being difficult... now there is something that most people find easy enough.  It kind of looks like a child being told it's wrong and watching the tantrum build into a fountain of torture.

But something is missing amidst the pangs behind my eyes, between the pages of the stories that flood my head as I drive aimlessly to my destination, listening to soundtracks that promise escape isn't too far away.  What am I missing... What am I missing... nothing seems to fill the void besides the sloppy pile of papers strewn about my bed like some lover had come to take me in the night in the form of some crayons, notebooks, and packets.

It's really gross.

Like a reflection of my brain, disected across my room in the form of clothes, bags, and wires I am not ready.

I am not ready at all.

Send me in... I dare you.  Because right now, it wouldn't even phase me to fail and cross my name off the chalkboard to escape into the sweet bliss of namelessness and zombie brain.

Surviving being educated is an adventure in itself.

Slivers of Oak

Slump soft and heavy across the threshold
sounds the basket as it hits the floor, dull and thick
sheding the musk of some contaminated oak.

the reek of endurance.

Clicks and hums automatic with babble echoes
generate that faint easing ring that permeates

dead eyes and salt water lips from-                                                                                                     

a man

locked in discord;

alone with slivers of oak he holds

a face
whittled kind and cruel
from the edges of a wind shank
taking care to preserve some texture
while etching off wasted skin.
 
Beneath reveals a bare distortion
red with scars and ruby with flesh
that gasps at the rank fumes.

the beauty of the scene.

beyond life,

the inescapable depression in the dirt.

The Yellow Paper (working title) - to be continued...

 

 

Thud.

The cat jumps angrily as the bag hits the floor rolling aggressively, spilling the contents across the floor like the entrails of a fresh kill.

Dammit.

For a moment, it looks as though she just might collapse on the bed right then and there, but then again, she argues to herself, it would just lead to that awkward period of listening to the nearby computer clicking every few seconds and the sounds of the cat ruffling through the contents of the bag.

Some higher power puppeteers her down to the floor where she awkwardly cleans the new mess. The cat watches silently from it's spot on the bed as she crams the assortment of notebooks, make-up, papers and small electronics back into the bag unceremoniously not seeming to notice a few pieces of laundry caught in between.

She hovers across a path on the floor into the desk chair causing it to hiss softly with her weight. Fingers begin to work at the keyboard even before the screen comes to life.

The world flashes in brief LED blips reflected on her glasses. After a few minutes her pupils suddenly dilate.

DAMMIT.

Piles of books and clothes fly through the air as she dives for the bag, tearing through it. A soft alarm sounds from her computer at just the same moment. Without looking she hits the keyboard and a woman's face appears in the corner of the screen.

“Hey lady! Are you there? You weren't answering your phone earlier.”

She ignores the voice as she tears through the few remaining things left in the bag.

“WOMAN. At least say something so I know you're alive...”

An angry growl erupts beneath a nearby pile.

“Wow, you sound a little pissy today Lady. What's the matter? Did Geegee get into your box o' nasties again? ”

Suddenly she emerges clutching a very disgruntled looking piece of yellow paper and rushes to the desk.

“I've really got to come over there someday and get that place straightened out. You'd be much happier without all that crap around. I'm sure Geegee wouldn't complain either.”

Without looking up she begins to rub the yellow sheet across the corner of the desk in an attempt to make it look less neglected.

“Anyway, did you get that video text I sent you? I almost died when I saw that thing walking down the street. It was H-U-L-A-R-U-S hilarious!”

“It's spelled H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S.” she mutters, now looking for a writing implement.

The woman doesn't even notice the correction and continues, “Lady, it was so funny. It was like watching an elephant from Dr. Seuss go Gothic. I thought I was going to vomit it was so disgusting! It's one of those things you just have to watch once in your life to be complete.”

Having found a pencil she began to write furiously across the paper.

“So, what ARE you doing over there? Did you forget to hand in your paperwork again? I told you yesterday the deadline was today. Don't you ever listen to me? Sheesh. I handed mine in weeks ago.”

She reached for the half-emptied bag, nearly tossing Geegee in the process who had decided to fuss with the remains of the bag while she was preoccupied.

“Val, can you feed Geegee for me?”

“Sure Lady, whatever you say. I'll be over right after-”

“Thanks Val.” She interrupted, turning off her computer and rushing out the door in one swift motion.

Thud.

The door slammed shut and she tore off down the street with her bag in one hand and the yellow sheet in the other. An angry meow from her bag nearly made her jump in the subway station.

“Geegee... What the hell...”

She thought for a moment of dumping the cat right there in the station, but was interrupted with the train's arrival.

FFXIV - Adventure Pics!

Here are some images I took during Beta...
Enjoy!

Ghosts in the Posts

I believe they are what makes it worth while...

Though I do enjoy listening to toads when I write poetry :)

Summer Class Poetry:

Alright, so here is what I've been working on this whole time.  Let me know what you think!

(I think this is all of it... but I might have missed one or two...)

Insecticide Armageddon

How serious for the ant

to be lost and sense

for itself.

It's the only ant left

from my invaded garden,

circling in panic to find

traces of its kind.

(My foot twitches as it nears

toes curling inward, ready

to smite the thing.)

The colony is life,

a worker predetermined

by genetics and fate

desperately trying to survive

when there is nothing left.

I crush it and leave

a smear on my walkway.

Nothing deserves this.

 

Late.

despite an eternal devote, I

cannot note: nothing beyond haste

was made to the empty institute

where the air bag questions remain.

ask father to be with me, but

eighty percent fail the course

life treats them, I wonder now

what happens to the other twenty.

hurrying inside only to see

a wife begging for one last

valentine’s surprise we won’t

regret.  Instead: a box consists

of husband attire.  Waiting.

in five hour minute increments

perhaps maybe the surgeon

won’t lie.  perhaps maybe

sons of adam will be forgiven

and the floral gates of eden

relinquished to us, to an non-

existence in a Madagascar.

whispers in madness cast stones

at my eyes to crack in shame

the ongoing sinus infection that

plagues behind my face despite.

too Late.  He is

now reposed at five twenty five.

brother embraces mother while

man embraces man, holding on

to the seeping warmth within.

fingers run along departed roads

the cruel feet holds, my hands caress

ignoring the chalked right hand with

a gaping maw my God left behind.

      my eyes show the scale at less

                    three fourths an ounce.

Shark 

One slides towards the surface in circles
weaving an uncertain path before
silently breaks the surf using only

a tip of it's tail and the white of the crest
that sounds itself until, predetermined
sea fowl irritate the curious fish, enough

as it sinks beyond view an uprising above
sends a wave that erases the dark vision.
It doesn't mind where it swims, it just swims.

We catch it, You buy it

I own that thing, that creature in the bag

Still stiff and still alive.

Somehow, I manage to salivate

As the water boils up foam white

To kiss the flames.

Mercy kills are between the eyes, I read.

Silence follows the shuffle of drawers

And there, an executioner amidst them.

There is no response from the bag.

Inside, the creature stares me down.

Black moon eyes give sideways stares.

It shows no thought, no emotion

But in its place,

Cruel regret.

'Soft Death Courier'

How can someone do this?

Now it rustles in the bag,

It is a convict in rubber band cuffs,

to stop it from salvation.

Still no sound.

I place my head to the bag.

I am in session with

Me, the creature, and myself.

It refuses to speak,

Only to stare solemnly.

I put forward some evidence, including

my stomach and taste buds,

but the creature is relentless.

Still, I decide if it lives or dies.

I own that thing, that creature.

My carapace to a sarcophagus.

August 31st

an old bear,
       caught
          grazed groans root by the rare
rhododendron... distraught,
       in the saffron garden.

claws rake deep,
       rough
          gorging the weed and creep
the old garden can tough,
       it receives some pardon.

to the Brush,
       home
          the red wood leaves and hush
calm the beast with dark chrome,
       prone and slow, to harden.

 

Barren

In the chamber of dry bouquets

wakes the dead water damsel

holding her pale asian display

to become my garden grave

among the name tag rebels

the red dress, classic death scene

revisited by a blinking motel

who wants the girl to go?

a girl in heels, hoeing seed

deep to root and remind

reason for synapses to cease

sending her draperies to climb

across the oculus blind

blooming dreams unclaimed

when the threads disentwine

dawn yawning across the crows

cackling to earwig decay

left behind on bed sheets

barren as the last bouquet.

 

The Third Voyeur

Dusk rushes across the olive husks

Sending fields to bay softly

Against two stubborn willow trees.

The fields often wail in thick tongues

You can't say or sing or scribe or sign,

but to realize would be fiercely native.

Abrupt stillness sent from the horizon

leads to a chorus of one thousand sirens

and a single toad.

                      Moving slowly, I try

To be bent into the earth and grass

For a chance to touch the rare song.

There is a vacuum in the tenebrous air

as light peers through holes in the veil

that is the world's emissary to amuse observers.

Moon breaks silent through to a uniform hue

that unmasks the stranger of discord,

the white noise.

Now, only the toad sounds a solemn moan

letting me know I am not the third willow.

Sealing the Slate

I finally got around to trying the new template designer!  I love it so much that I think it might be time to start a new blog.  It will help with the writer's block I've been having and hopefully promote writing more often. 

I hope to make my next blog a log of my daily activities.  Where the epitaph is a record of the past and a splat of writing... I wonder what I shall make for the future?


A journal? log?

I want it to be focused...

I'll be brainstorming and looking for help!

Sunny days = What online class??? <(O.o)>

So that about sums up how it's been for a while.  I've been doing lots of activity this past week with boating, beaching, and running around topless (in my jeep wranger)!  Ofcourse it is fun!  But then I remember, I have that summer class... something about poetry right?  I should get onto that...  maybe...

Can't stand writer's block much more...

I've only had to work on a few poems this semester in ENG 305...

BUT EVERY TIME I GET WRITER'S BLOCK.  and you know what happens to poems written during writer's block...

THEY SUCK.

It is driving me crazy.  In Spring Semester, I could at least come up with something half-decent.  UGH!  My brain is retaliating and is going to give me a basic B in my poetry class...

In other news, FFXI updated and now I'm lvl 76 (max is 80 now) so I've been having a good time (with whatever time I have had in the past day or two) doing that.  Also, I got my brother Little Big Planet... and it is fun!  (also within the last day or so...)

But most of my time is doing school or work or home or some of the above.  I'll try to be a good blogger and post some blog stuff sometime soon.

I'm just really tired. :(

I want to escape!

February 13th

Late.

despite an eternal devote, I

cannot note: nothing beyond haste

was made to the empty institute

where the air bag questions remain.

ask father to be with me, but

eighty percent fail the course

life treats them, I wonder now

what happens to the other twenty.

hurrying inside only to see

a wife begging for one last

valentine’s surprise we won’t

regret.  Instead: a box consists

of husband attire.  Waiting.

in five hour minute increments

perhaps maybe the surgeon

won’t lie.  perhaps maybe

sons of adam will be forgiven

and the floral gates of eden

relinquished to us, to an non-

existence in a Madagascar.

whispers in madness cast stones

at my eyes to crack in shame

the ongoing sinus infection that

plagues behind my face despite.

too Late.  He is

now reposed at five twenty five.

brother embraces mother while

man embraces man, holding on

to the seeping warmth within.

fingers run along departed roads

the cruel feet holds, my hands caress

ignoring the chalked right hand with

a gaping maw my God left behind.

      my eyes show the scale at less

                       three fourths an ounce.

February 13th (unrevised edition)

Late.

the last time

I would ask

-do you love me?

with him

horrid wait only

in the end a

-lost

air bag question.

now reposed

at five twenty five

-I had to

be sure

and what

cruel foot

chalked hand,

gaping maw, my God

-I am sorry.

my eyes

show the scale at

less three fourths

an ounce.

Incoming Poems #2

So it's been a busy summer... lots of work with just life in general and tons of crazy things happening.  In the end, I have completed and revised another poem!  I will post both the old poem and the revision in my next two posts!  Yay blogging!

August 31st

an old bear,
       caught
          grazed groans root by the rare
rhododendron... distraught,
       in the saffron garden.

claws rake deep,
       rough
          gorging the weed and creep
the old garden can tough,
       it receives some pardon.

to the Brush,
       home
          the red wood leaves and hush
calm the beast with dark chrome,
       prone and slow, to harden. 

Nocturnal Affair

lethargic in the wind, lilac catches

some of the moon's insomniac spores

driving them into soft ovaries beneath lumps

that carbuncle and azure sparks synthesized

by weaving each gilded finger on its base

the pattern reminiscent of an awakening.

clovers in the organic formation rest

soundly distant to the manifestation

taking place above in the contra-grove.

INCOMING POEMS!!!1!

Yes I'm lazy, but be prepared for not one, but TWO poems!

To distract you from my bad posting habits, I present to you: Pokemon Starters Generations 1-5!

did it work?

(On a side note I think the new starters look much better next to their cousins than by themselves!)

Summer beings, Summer ends

Summer school starts monday.  Yay.  That was a great week of summer!  Good news is that I managed to paint two rooms, a door, organize most of my crap AND move into a room in the house!  Bad news is that I'm not moving anywhere anytime soon.

In other news, I'm excited to begin my second ENG 305 class on monday online.  I haven't stopped writing poetry... I'm just having a lull.  I've been trying to work this neat idea about a symbiotic weed / tree poem and an insomniac lilac but I just haven't had time to punch them out.  I also do better when I actually read good poetry. (Found an old poetry book I bought from Barnes and Noble like two years ago on a whim... and I now realize how much that books sucks...)

Also, since I've been so busy working on the house and at work I haven't had time to play many games (online or offline).  I felt horrible the other day when I remembered I hadn't been scoping the new for FFXIV news in two days.  DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY LEAKS COULD HAPPEN IN TWO DAYS?!  Apparently the whole WORLD MAP was unveiled during my two days off... it won't happen again... >:(

YESSSSSS

I've also decided to resubmit my application for the FFXIV Beta since Alpha is looking to be ending soon and my computer won't be able to handle the uber beta graphics. (Apparently they are revamping the graphics in the beta test) So I've had this special FFXIV beta code lying around for a while and decided to use it.  It is from my PS3 version of FFXIII and is suppose to guaranty me access to beta testing (and more once the game is released) so I'm done taking chances.

On a side note: I HAVE A TON OF BOOKS.  I made it a point to never sell any of my english novels from class (they only sell back for like $2.00 each anyways) and that has made me quite a library!  I'm thinking I'll need an actual bookshelf soon so I can find a reread the ones I like and hide away the ones I don't... *cough* Beloved *cough* ...

My grades for the semester were great as per usual nowadays.  Hopefully things will keep cruising at this speed and I'll be out of school in no time... and straight into Eorzea for the next 8+ years of my life.

Windows 7 - Activation FAILED... for the last time...

So I finally wiped my computer for the um-tinkth time trying to get Windows 7 to work like new again...  So I've given up and reverted back to Vista.

I can already feel my computer screaming at me.

I wish I had an extra Windows 7 key right about now :-( but I don't think it's worth $200+ dollars.

Atonement Harvester

No one seems to notice the dandelion that grows
in the cracks of downtown Gano Street.

It lives on despite the odd lights cast from the nearby river
under the inconsistent flashes from a crosswalk box.

The artist by the walkway paints the cracks in the road
but ignores the growth, a stain of yellow on the asphalt

hanging on the edge of the concrete curb, as if
to flag a taxi ride to Wickenden Avenue.

The nurse reads a note while waiting at the light
and doesn't notice the weed leaning on her shoe.

Not one seems to notice the dandelion that grows
in the cracks of downtown Gano Street.

Rain, the dandilion dances the bobbing buoy
while the slick cars spray the civilian heels.

The architect mumbles angrily under the umbrella
crushing the dandelion with a size 5 1/2 shoe.

No one notices the dandilion grows
in the cracks of Gano Street.

A pauper boy sits alone by the crosswalk box
and notices a wilting weed covered in a sphere of hope.

In faithful silence, the dandelion sacrifices itself for a wish
scattering off to fulfill the dream of a vagabond.

Medicated Mondays

Glass doors shift, a quick glance reveals

a man cautiously clutching a box to his chest.

Life support? No.  As he approaches

it clicks and hisses at the register.

The smell of hand sanitizer filling my eyes.

Never in all my days at Rite Aid...

Radio is responding.  They are coming.

Must escape.  Must find shelter.

Wait, can't leave.  The cameras will see.

A boy wearing a disguise.  Looking too eager.

Standing by the register.  Smells of fast-food.

He can't be saved.  Brain washed so young.

Making eye contact, he backs into Aisle 5

"Do you need help finding something sir?"

Rushing past he brushes against my uniform

mixing the stench of dust and sanitizer.

Alone in Aisle 5.  Glass doors shift.

Didn't even make it to the Pharmacy...

Bright lights outside.  Must go home.

Must get to safe house.  By the water.

They don't like water.  Doesn't taste good.

Cars pass quickly.  Highway becomes deadly.  

Must be feeding time.  Must go home.

Close to the water.  They don't like water.

Toad Chorus and Fowl Play

Then, a woman from the wilderness

meanders over curiously

to haunt me with deceptive glares cascading

over the living embers between us.

Shift, the moon casts momentum on the shadows.

Soon she will begin the rite of spring

interpreted as a steady matador with a troubadour

composing a violent dance past finesse.

Onward, firefly dances amidst smoking pines.

There she weaves a path of ash

during the flotsam landing on magpies

who sit on nearby branches, silent voyeurs.

Twilight, the grey morning bruised dull

from the soft cracking coals that smell of sulfur.

Give me one more tomorrow night, feral gypsy.

One more lush breeze to breathe me a trance

A chance to vanish into the nirvana of satisfaction.

NOTES: Edited version of previous "Rite of Spring" poem.  Didn't like title.  Didn't like epigram.  Changed end stanza and wording throughout poem.  Changed title.

Lost Friend

Why talk so much, like Socrates
pulled into a whirlpool of thought last August
only to drown in an iced December?

Your blood: now tainted with bits of ink
smelling of purple-violet-violet and yellow-yellow-green
Your hands: now a bruised dandelion thicket
digits missing the flowery tops
because you had to pick them all off?

We miss your beautiful earthy hair filled with foreign stems
the days in April when you begged to dance in the rain
without finishing the ripe pear I brought you.

Now, nothing but November.  The leaves
clinging to your scarred thighs and neon lips: whispering
This scab is all I have.

WARNING: NEW BLOG APPROACHING

DON'T PANIC!  It's not the end of the epitaph!  I just wanted to warn that I've started another blog to hold all of my poetic writing to make it easy for me to access it through the other stuff I post on this blog sometimes.  The website is called: Epigram of a Poet

www.epigramofapoet.blogspot.com

Check it out and follow that too if you want!  I will be posting new poems on both sites, but the other is mostly just for organization.

The Rite of Spring

“In order to create there must be a dynamic force, and what force is more potent than love?”

  -Igor Stravinsky

Then, a woman from the wilderness.

She meanders over curiously

to haunt me with deceptive glares cascading

over the living embers between us.

Shift, the moon casts momentum on the shadows.

Soon she will begin the rite of spring

interpreted as a steady matador with a troubadour

composing a violent dance past finesse.

Onward, firefly dances amidst the smoking pine.

There she is weaving a path of ash

during the flotsam landing on magpies

who sit on nearby branches as silent voyeurs.

Twilight, the grey morning bruised dull

from the soft cracking coals that smell of sulfur.

Give me one more tomorrow night, feral gypsy.

Give me one more lush breeze to breath.

Give me one more primitive trance to vanish

into the nirvana sea of satisfaction

surrendering the you and me.