Woman has no equal
When it comes to a vehicle
For harsh reflection
and true humiliation.
From Boy to man
The Casualties Of True Love
True love is not gentle, calm, or casual
It’s the harshest, most demanding, and arresting
Occurrence of the human experience
It tackles the heart with the force of a whisper
And in an instant can raze the landscape of your past
Sending tidal waves of pain, joy, doubt, and change
To wash over the loved ones of your former life
There will be casualties
Such a shift cannot happen smoothly and
Death cannot be avoided
There will be many deaths of a thousand different shapes and hues
Deaths of lesser loves and simpler lives
Of easy answers and unforgivable crimes
With the terrifying leap of faith into a world of true love
Comes the risk of disappointment and the inevitable
Severing of now unnecessary support lines
Frivolous interests and anything incapable of measuring up to love
I cannot claim to have been a saint or
Even to have acted respectfully to all involved
But I have acted out of love
Intermittently misplaced as it has been, is, or will be
And I know no other way to live but through a life of sacrificial love
C is for … Change
Change is either neither good nor bad or both good and bad; your perspective, your choice. That’s the subjective nature of reality, as I see it. It could be written with your own loving hand on tear stained paper, or casually revealed as a piece of a movie montage. The life we choose to view in any given moment only illuminates the path perceived by peering through one pair of spectacles. But if we dare to peek outside that singular frame of reference we see we’re suspended in a sea of spectacles, each one just and true within themselves.
Whatever way it’s viewed, the one thing change will always be is inclusive. Change touches everyone every way; from the trivial to the tragic. A misplaced appointment can scramble my synapses and hijack my intention of health; a simple call from a sibling cancertainly stir dreaded thoughts of mortality from the silt in my soup-kettle soul.
How should we view this? Where should we turn; to friends, family, and loved ones; to God above; to the God within; to hell with this victimizing bull-shit and write our own story with depictions of realistic immortality?
…
My world has changed.
Although, as much as my melodramatic imaginations would blind me to the fact, her’s has changed more, with less sense or sympathy. Why would a brother be denied his only life-long friend; mothers their sleep; or a son his mother’s milk, all as she is forced to believe in heaven while bounding through hell.
I cannot see the glory through the gloom,
But yet I pray, for my dear sister’s sake,
This cancerous cloud will, like my nimble mood,
Have need enough its own great change to make.
…
loss is real I cannot hide from its harrowing harangue fear is real failure is not a frivolous feat but an unfortunate profundity I know these things from my experience of them, and yet my knowledge of them suggests a medium more ethereal than real; and yet the attachments to these trivial things; these disdended details of the day to day; these life altering trivialities can, with the encouragement of our will, seemingly subjugate our lives as a mouse on a throne of lions.
I’m Trying
I’m trying to love my hate
I’m trying to be myself
I’m trying to fit in
I’m trying to stop doing that
I’m trying to make it
I’m trying to keep moving
I’m trying to keep up
I’m trying something different
I’m trying not to try
Unique I’m trying to be
I’m trying to forget that
I’m trying to learn something new
I’m trying your patience
I’m trying to kill fewer bugs
I’m trying newer drugs
I’m trying yoga
I’m trying to explain myself to my family
I’m trying not to care about that
I’m trying to make a living
I’m trying, but …
I’m trying to find my way
I’m trying to find my niche…(s)
I’m trying everything I can think to try
I’m trying too hard
I’m done trying.
The Recindment of Woe
Writers Almanac – Sunday, December 9th, 2007
On His Blindness by John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: ‘God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.’
When I consider how my light is spent, seeing the willful constriction of action in favor of a petulant indulgence in wanton emotion, I feel the familiar shackle of shame clasp itself round my mind and begin to sink. But what is a man if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed; consigning his thoughts only to base reality? If Milton had resigned himself to the life of disability that loomed about him, Paradise Lost would never had been written and one of our most significant writers may never had been known. I do not intend to equate myself with the 17th century icon, but his admirable tenacity can be transferred to our contemporary context. Therefore, I resolve to maintain my mental momentum and not permit a recession of action on this “day of rest” nor any other.
Advice
Here’s a little advice for all you kids out there … be a happy, broke-ass gypsy, carry all your possessions on your back, and
NEVER BUY YOUR OWN DAMN HOUSE!!!
Artists
The level of mastery that these performers seem to have over their craft is truly inspiring.
An overdue epiphany, that if artists wish to survive (not to mention thrive) in this changing world of entertainment, youtube, myspace, and any other internet based advertisement must be utilized to make what we create available to the global community.
Fall
The leaves sift gently to the ground
Cradling her with dry, vibrant arms of yellow, orange and red
Arms oft welcoming and caring now settle
Tis her nature to calm
And so it does for those needing warmth
But its calm stirs calamity
Pitted in the moth of a wandering fire
Amongst the leaves it lingers
Potential
Nothing more
The moth dances with the leaves
Fearing the heat from the flittering red-orange facade
But it never comes
Never stirs
Mutual mediocracy is reached
As the moth dances on through the falling autumn leaves
alone
Ineviable Day
Envy
Longing
Scrutiny
Money
Depression
Money
Zeitgeist
Meaning
Altruism
Joy
Money
Depression
.
.
.
Why
