The Dandelion

the dandelion

No. Untie the strings. Withdraw your nets. Try to snare me, and all you will catch is sand, which slides swiftly through your fingers.

I am not here to be caught. And I never meant to catch you.

These wings are unclipped, made restless by the sight of horizons not yet crossed, worlds not yet seen.

You are a kind, sweet, thoughtful sandbag. I am an ascending hot air balloon. I don't want your weight. I'm bailing ballast as quickly as I can. The last thing I want is another sandbag.

I don't want to hurt you. But I don't want to keep you, either. Less still do I want to be kept.

I am a fairy tale, a pipe dream. As beautiful and as constant as a bouquet of dandelions on a windy day.

A Thought

A Thought

too dark for you?
perhaps.
I wear her face,
a birthmark,
a death mask.
who are you
to see past it?

eyes, it's said
are the windows
of the soul;
and believe
when I say:
these blue windows
are closed.

you are a stranger
and I am stranger
than you know.

--------------------



Not meant to be quite as emo/angsty as it sounds.

Many people, one in particular, got a glimpse of my "dark" side today.
Perhaps the perpetual tinge of strangeness about me was further explained.
Perhaps further mystified.
Who knows.

The addressee of the poem is a generalization.

The Coffee Vigilante

The Coffee Vigilante


1. candlelit

gleam of glass
fades into black
flickered light in windchimes
echoing, silent, from the blinds
swinging forward
swinging back
a night owl's vigil
knowledge seeking
stormwaiting
pencil-reaching, hesitating
ever restless
never sleeping
at the window,
watching, waiting


2. the insomniac

an alien resides inside this body
it stays up late drinking coffee
and writing poetry
sometimes restlessness overcomes it
and it leaves the apartment
and wanders around,
meandering through shadows
and pools of light
some cool, rainy sunday nights,
it leans against the balcony rail
and watches the weekend wayfarers
wend their ways through car lots
with arms full of laundry
and slowly exhales
breaths of cool, dark, dewy air
sometimes it stands and stares
at its glass reflection
as though trying to convince itself
a little alien is normal
unknown who named the word
or how it corresponds
to hyper-caffeinated consciousness
and an alien's insomnia


3. into the dark

I did not watch the candle die
one moment it shimmered,
flickering merrily
on the ghost of a wick
the flick of an instant
the bat of an eye
and there was only glass
reflecting longingly
the extinguished light
of an ebony wick
a wisp of smoke in the dark
into the night like a sigh


4. empty glass

a drop runs dry,
fleeing the black depth
of one empty vessel
for another

--------------------



I am often restless at night, a longtime insomniac - and I have a habit of compounding the problem by staying up and consuming excessive amounts of coffee.

Nimbostratus

Nimbostratus

giants in the sky
I saw your picture yesterday
in silver and in humid air
I knew you were coming
this morning I woke
to the sound of your footsteps
through water and dawnlight
to my open window
I was awake and waiting
in the windchimed stillness
hello, good morning
I've missed you

--------------------



I woke one morning to the scents of rain, ozone, and laundry-fresh blankets. T'was lovely.

No Strings Attached

No Strings Attached

left followed right
in a day made of April
thoughts flowed
as sunshine
on magnolia blossoms
river in the bed
so nice
just to talk
like escapees far
from backwards
worlds tied up in strings

Unswept

Unswept

waiting
pointless
time frozen
in motionless brick
waiting for what?
something that won’t come
garbage in gutters,
by buildings,
in corners of the night,
waiting like me
to be swept up
and forgotten
the eternal sweeper sleeps
we rot, molding
in our filthy corners
putrid shadows
filth and human waste
blithering drunkenness
wander the streets midst
clattering heels
and black-jacketed
mini-skirted couples
sucking face
this fucking place
smoke-choked light
mirrored back
in stagnant puddles
against the black
ancient stains
unpainted
dried beads
of nervous sweat
brain clenches
stomach wrenches
sleep will not come easily tonight
broken, tainted
if it comes at all

Golden Arches

Golden Arches

empty cans
empty bottles
stale air
the stench of
human perspiration
party’s over
guests lie prostrate
lifeless
beer bellies peek
between buttons
one-hole sock
snores on the couch
our gracious host
is downstairs
fucking his sober girlfriend
cotton mouth
sweating
clammy
cold
molding in crevices
and dark corners
where night
sleeps tonight
I can’t
car keys jingle
get away
just want to escape it
can’t fight it
can’t outrun it
it pulses and shakes
the apartment walls
dirty
sickening
unclean
we are rolling in it
the saints
are masturbating
in the back room
semen stains
on reputations
leering eyes
in smoke-filled
alleyways and
entrances to buildings
we are rolling in it
fucking rolling in it
bits of leaves
and trash
and cigarette butts
clinging
to sweaty bodies
as they grind together
garbage
molding
rotten
filthy
garish flourescent lights
the empires unite
over their trash kingdom



--------------------

Too much to explain. If you want to know, ask.

Testing

Testing

a two-person dance
'round a long, metal sink;
he needs this jug,
I need that bottle;
paths intersect,
arms cross,
hands collide;
agitation forgotten
in an awkward,
unspoken,
unmeant tango;
the body reacts,
a half-hearted,
automated reply;
but it's as though
I'm not at home;
perhaps because
I am.

--------------------



The flint was struck, but the wood was green.

Lemoncide

Lemoncide

I’ve gotten sharper since we went our ways;
perhaps someone put a contrast filter on me.
I speak, half to shock you,
half to make you realize you never knew me
half as well as you thought you did.
Nor I you.
I expect your reactions to the sharpened statements;
the lemon sting of a more foreign-seeming tongue,
but when your lips proverbially pucker
at the sound-taste of unbarbed words,
I sometimes find myself stung.

Mad Avenue

Mad Avenue

caught in the mindless rush of 9 a.m. traffic
feet, like herds of cattle, trample the daily roads
lambs to slaughter. destiny? pretentiousness.
someone shut off color. shattered glass. the world went gray.
from human cattle and ugly rooftops rise
clouds of smoke and curling steam
nicotine-rich, to join the gray.
apartment steps of aging wood
groan as though they share this morning’s hangover
under their festive litter of bottle caps and cigarette butts.
doors seem to lean one against another
weary, yawning in the morning gray.
number eight is gathering dust; it has a lovely collection.
last door, second floor, the porch light waits for no one
its eye has been put out.
mis amigas se van
I envy a stable life, a social life
mine is work and class, confusion and uncertainty
and the empty gaps that lie between
like city silence in an emptying apartment

Reminiscence

Reminiscence

comfortable shadows
disturbed, eaten
by cold, accusing flourescent light
far from guitar-strummed,
lamp-lit silence
how I miss the evening quiet
of foreign mountains,
like fingers reaching up to touch
the face of a star-strewn sky

--------------------



I miss the Alps.

Soledad

Soledad

Reclusive figure spinning on the outskirts of stars, flung from orbit to orbit. ¿A dónde vas? The stars grow brighter, moving out and away towards their gleaming metropoli. The entity cannot follow, cannot keep up. It is not on the inside, has never really been. Solo, solo. Hay todo. Soon, it seems, the nebulae will have forgotten it altogether, save for midnight phone calls to keep intact a thread of touch. Hay nadie. Desperately it needs; not a binary star, but a binary entity. Hay nadie. Solo. Siempre solo.

Sand and Stone

Sand and Stone

There is nothing of me in the grains of sand held in a grasping, albeit gentle, hand. An unspoken bid on a well-hidden stone; a mere pipe dream of words, cannot alone lay claim to its heart, whose secrets drew you in. The lead is not the pencil. The ink is not the pen. The illusion, though alluring, is neither all nor enough. For it is that, not the truth, that you are enamored of. The truth, the stone, claims nothing, which in turn claims the stone. Ever-rolling, moss-free, and, by nature, alone.

The Doppler Effect

The Doppler Effect

the sound of footsteps falls away,
but they follow where I go.
you're the one they've left behind.
not me.
not this time.

A-Z

A-Z

Z has lost sight of the music
All he seeks is glory

I hadn’t seen it before
I was a glory-seeker myself

I am A and earning it
Doing my best to live

Always in the music
Let no one, nothing, draw me out

Be drawn in
Let no one, nothing, draw me out

Always in the music
Doing my best to live

I am A and earning it
I was a glory-seeker myself

I hadn’t seen it before

--------------------



This poem isn't super great, but it's conception was kind of interesting. Initially, it was about "Z" - someone in the music department where I go to school who I had felt had lost sight of his priorities - his aim was glory, not music, beauty, or truth. I began writing this poem in my Spanish class - I am left-handed and Leonardo da Vinci is one of my heroes, so I often write my poetry backwards - and this particular day, I decided that I'd write my poem upside down as well. I read it back, inverted from the way it had sort of spun from my mind - and ended up kind of having a revelation about myself.

So the first part of the poem is as written what more or less spun from my mind, and with the pivoting line "Be drawn in," the poem flips over and inverts itself.

Homecry

Homecry

I want to become
the green grass,
lying, resting, beneath the night
I want to become
one with the moonlight,
the grass, the air
I don't want this human shape,
crushing the grass,
creating monstrous shadows
and frightening the rabbits
I want to become
the cool dew
hanging in the dark air
constant, changeless,
emotionless
I want to take the road
back to all these,
back to the power that is in these
I am weary of
human artifice
and of my part in it
please take my hand
lead me home.

Untitled

Untitled

sarah sarah good
dependable, expendable
angels apprehendable
demons reprehensible
say hi diddley diddle
sarah good is in the middle
condescension's angel
scorns your lot loved little
hidden back surprises
sweetest nel
white in worldly
the bastard child
nineteen



-------------------

This poem is kind of old, but still conveys the uncertainty of nineteen.

The Gardener

The Gardener

I confessed to you sweet secrets, blossoming in the darkness of my soul, where such blooms were thought never able to grow again. And I told you that you were the seed, the sun, the rain, the flower, and the vine. In secret, this hesitant, shadowed garden grew, spreading sweetly, discreetly, like ivy in a silent wood - beautiful, alive, and green; but also stifling that which it oerspreads. So I came to you, ivy running wild, to show you the sequestered garden that you had planted and nurtured into life. I told you how often I had tried to prune the vines, but that, alas, it continued to grow with vigor more renewed each time. You did not wish to enter or to claim the garden you had planted. But still your sun shone upon it and your rain came down. And the lovely flowers budded, blossomed, bore fruit, and withered on the vine, wasted, untasted, and unwanted, like the thousand other gardens that have lain barren within my soul. And now, I fear, you have forgotten altogether this painfully flourishing garden, now producing thorns. The gates lie open, my soul lies bared, I sit in the garden swing and wait. I’ve long forsaken the hope that you will change your mind, or that time will change your heart. But the garden will not die, and it is just as well. For the twisting vines and unforgiving thorns of this abhorrent garden are better by far than the aching emptiness of barren lands and a barren heart.

Pearls

Pearls

my hands are clammy,
but they hold no pearls;
your hand holds hers,
but does hers hold back?
I am an extra
in your life’s grand sort of play:
valued some,
for conversation,
a stand-in, even,
when the leading lady
is occupied
with her leading man,
but as easily expunged
from memory
as she strings you on.
pearls on pearls,
your hands hold nothing -
encased in a milky shell.

Fruity

Fruity

time with you is like a ripe fruit
pluck it from the vine
savor the flavor
don’t sour it, don’t let it fall
or taste before its time
it may not be your favorite
but it is one of mine
I savor the sweet glucose of its memory
long after I’ve licked the last juices
from my fingertips
delectable and dear
catch it falling from the vine
no five-second rule here

Käj

Käj

today, I caught a glimpse into your world
and now find myself intrigued
by your life's internal poetry;
the words are as familiar as your face,
thoughts I know, but cannot place.

--------------------



I wrote this last year as well, for a friend of mine. I'd met him for the first time, but felt strongly for some reason that I'd met him before.

Evening

Evening

evening falls
the kingdom of Morpheus
descends in scenes
painted in colors
from Artemis' palette
silver and shadow
beauty and peace
within a sphere
dreams slowly unfolding
like gossamer spun
upon a continent of shadow
in a sea of moonlight
beautified now,
the world of the weary
slumber and dream,
dear mortals,
slumber and dream

The Gulf

The Gulf

looking back
across this abysmal gulf
at the self I used to be
looking back at me
breathing the ashes
of the bridge I burned
wishing memory
and self-reflection
weren't too tenuous a bridge
to hold my soul's weight
trying to recapture
those things I've lost
I'm not that person anymore
in losing, I have gained,
but in gaining, I have lost.

ready, set, write

Here goes nothing - hopefully I can get these all posted pretty quickly.

a purpose?

I had intended to use this blog as a place to put some of my photographs online - a photog-blog, if you will - but for reasons of formatting difficulties, am finding this to not work out as nicely as I'd hoped. So I think I will use my Xanga account, which is currently my poetry blog, for photo posting, and begin the long, somewhat tedious task of transferring all of my poetry to this account. This could be interesting.