I'm sitting outside, the sky is overcast,
reflecting the orange-glow of the street lights,
trapping the days warmth and humidity ─
intensely aware, that the waning crescent moon
is setting on the eastern horizon, over your house,
worrying at the metaphor this presents, while
drinking and giving myself over to the random play of
music on my mp3 player ─ disconcertingly poignant,
love songs and life songs ─ and all I'm thinking
is that I want to kiss you and not stop here...
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
11.27.2010
11.20.2010
Twisted Clichés and Misunderstanding
In the story ─ I didn't write ─
there's a clearing ─ a campfire ─
occupying the cardinals ─ four figures sit ─
Beauty at the North ─ Age at the South ─
Reason at the East ─ and here my analogy breaks ─
for love and every emotion ─ is born in reason ─
seemingly obtuse ─ seemingly irrational ─
ultimately utilitarian ─ perfectly practical ─
in scientific jargon ─ I've captured my moral ─
punctuated equilibrium ─ wave–particle duality ─
nothing mystical ─ no pretense to high artistry ─
9.04.2010
A Meta-Story
It will be winter soon, that will be an easier time for me. I won't have to struggle against happiness, consigned instead, to the drizzled-upon contentment of the season, which is the lot of those who live in the pacific northwest.
Life is, what you make it. Or, some such bullshit. I wonder what would happen if I ever managed to give myself over to some particular philosophy- fully embraced some stereotype. Geek or Goth or Emo or Hipster; then I might, at least, be able to tell you who I am.
As it stands, it's late summer; which isn't a metaphor, of any sort. Nah, I'm 26, it's maybe late spring/early summer. I'm too old, regardless, to be so wracked by indecision. Hell, I don't even know where this story is going, if anywhere.
I'm in a restaurant.
There's a cute girl, at the next table. She keeps making eye-contact, the darting sort, like maybe she's coy, but interested, or something. But, she had a ring on the wrong finger, it looked like it was probably costume jewelry, but there it was.
I could be a brilliant anti-hero, bitter and jaded. That would make for a good story. But not some misanthrope. I'd need some motivation and some compelling twist. I could be gay, or black, or atheist, maybe Muslim. All of the above? Hell yeah!- if I were a Black-Lesbian-Muslim-Agnostic trying to reconcile all that shit, that would be the most compelling mind-fuck of a story ever. Or I could just be a 30-something virgin or whore, that would tweak your sensibilities too.
All of that conflicts with how I began my story, with a cogitation intended to lead to a challenge of masculine stoicism.
Besides, I'm him and the rest would be him, even those of them which you think may be you, are in reality him. Sure, they may have your eyes or he may have borrowed some of your mannerisms, just superficial similarities, to mask some aspect of him. He could be a her, but it's the author regardless and in this case, it is him.
So, here I am, a self aware, do-nothing, slacker of a character, analyzing my roll in this story, which isn't a story at all. This is pointless self-indulgence, I suspect. A self-portrait.
The girl left. I followed, readying a cigarette, so it looked as if I were heading out just to smoke. She stopped at the counter to pay, I continued on to the outside.
Moments later, she emerged and I said “Hey,” then inhaled from the cigarette. We chatted a couple moments, she took off the ring surreptitiously, which I'd not have noticed, if I'd not been intensely aware of that jewelry.
Eventually she said, “Well, I've got to go. Maybe next time, you won't be so shy.” And it seemed to me, the right response would have been to kiss her, but I didn't. There was a pregnant pause, before she hugged me. During the embrace, I was hyper-aware of the warmth of her breasts pressed firmly against mine, I think it was deliberate on her part.
She pulled back, smiled, then frowned, before she turned and bounded into the night.
Anyway, the Star of David was chained around her neck, so she's probably Jewish. And the verb-tense is all wrong.
Life is, what you make it. Or, some such bullshit. I wonder what would happen if I ever managed to give myself over to some particular philosophy- fully embraced some stereotype. Geek or Goth or Emo or Hipster; then I might, at least, be able to tell you who I am.
As it stands, it's late summer; which isn't a metaphor, of any sort. Nah, I'm 26, it's maybe late spring/early summer. I'm too old, regardless, to be so wracked by indecision. Hell, I don't even know where this story is going, if anywhere.
I'm in a restaurant.
There's a cute girl, at the next table. She keeps making eye-contact, the darting sort, like maybe she's coy, but interested, or something. But, she had a ring on the wrong finger, it looked like it was probably costume jewelry, but there it was.
I could be a brilliant anti-hero, bitter and jaded. That would make for a good story. But not some misanthrope. I'd need some motivation and some compelling twist. I could be gay, or black, or atheist, maybe Muslim. All of the above? Hell yeah!- if I were a Black-Lesbian-Muslim-Agnostic trying to reconcile all that shit, that would be the most compelling mind-fuck of a story ever. Or I could just be a 30-something virgin or whore, that would tweak your sensibilities too.
All of that conflicts with how I began my story, with a cogitation intended to lead to a challenge of masculine stoicism.
Besides, I'm him and the rest would be him, even those of them which you think may be you, are in reality him. Sure, they may have your eyes or he may have borrowed some of your mannerisms, just superficial similarities, to mask some aspect of him. He could be a her, but it's the author regardless and in this case, it is him.
So, here I am, a self aware, do-nothing, slacker of a character, analyzing my roll in this story, which isn't a story at all. This is pointless self-indulgence, I suspect. A self-portrait.
The girl left. I followed, readying a cigarette, so it looked as if I were heading out just to smoke. She stopped at the counter to pay, I continued on to the outside.
Moments later, she emerged and I said “Hey,” then inhaled from the cigarette. We chatted a couple moments, she took off the ring surreptitiously, which I'd not have noticed, if I'd not been intensely aware of that jewelry.
Eventually she said, “Well, I've got to go. Maybe next time, you won't be so shy.” And it seemed to me, the right response would have been to kiss her, but I didn't. There was a pregnant pause, before she hugged me. During the embrace, I was hyper-aware of the warmth of her breasts pressed firmly against mine, I think it was deliberate on her part.
She pulled back, smiled, then frowned, before she turned and bounded into the night.
Anyway, the Star of David was chained around her neck, so she's probably Jewish. And the verb-tense is all wrong.
7.01.2010
Tempting Fate
I knew it wouldn't work, not with her. There was no obvious reason, and I think that's why I pursued her, I had to find out why. And I did all the chasing, altho she never ran, never hid, never made any effort to deny me, in fact she encouraged me.
i
The first time I saw her was at a coffee shop, something melodic and 80's was playing. I'd been reading through abstracts on the web, nursing an iced tea as an excuse to use the wi-fi. She came in and I barely looked up, catching a flash of ginger hair and a white tank.
A few moments later, she was standing outside, taking off her backpack. The movement caught my and I looked up, our eyes met and she flashed a smile. She looked so young and innocent, I decided no to acknowledge her, instead diving back into my reading.
The first time I saw her was at a coffee shop, something melodic and 80's was playing. I'd been reading through abstracts on the web, nursing an iced tea as an excuse to use the wi-fi. She came in and I barely looked up, catching a flash of ginger hair and a white tank.
A few moments later, she was standing outside, taking off her backpack. The movement caught my and I looked up, our eyes met and she flashed a smile. She looked so young and innocent, I decided no to acknowledge her, instead diving back into my reading.
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