a candle and you

This image is the fascade of the Neues Museum, resplendant with unsuspecting tourists.

MAJESTIC REDUCTION
It was rather majestic,
And became a public point of interest.
The coasters I hoarded,
Bob's camera recorded.

They formed a tower,
Taller than he thought I could build,
With a portion of coasters,
On which empty glasses had been filled.

But the most majestic thing,
That occurred after the construction,
Was when the thing crashed down on the bar:
Not its having been built, but its reduction.


DORIAN GRAY
When ashes blow, these times I know,
No other than myself to live,
I find that low undiscovered self,
Hath for myself it's hurt to give.

For I, the man here passing by,
Doth outlast all mere mortal form,
If one love hast caught on my eye,
I can only postpone the torment, forlorn.

When one knows one's love will lie,
In a mahogany box, while I live, not die,
There lays a disconnected ambition,
Which comes from surviving life's attrition.

My picture, it torments me from the wall,
Not for its length, nor the way its shadows fall,
But for the truth it knows for me,
That my loves will be rendered in pictures, similarly.

Somebody asked me why I write poetry. I write it because I have a sentimental tinge to me which wants to reminisce over memories I find poignant. I remember most of these things in vivid versions, but some I like to bask in the Sun next to. The Sun's rays, however, allow me to clearly see the expression of what I've just experienced, and that expression, if set down on paper, clearly delineates a set of words which could be called a poem, with their subject a part of my history. I only wonder if it comes across as meaning anything to anyone else, but then I'm not really sure that actually matters at all...

O, SEE TREE-TREE
Oh, see tree-tree, wondering what will befall,
The very essence of your being after the magistrate's call.
On what you consider natural and blessed,
Your prosecution's case will rest.

To disallow the proclivities of a body,
Is to distract the mind from pure pursuit.
This creates mannacles, strong but shoddy,
And provides derision too incalculable to compute.

And there are many like you,
Oh, see tree-tree, who wish they wouldn't
Catch the eye of the magistrates too,
But for defense: none are as articulate as you.

For the purposes of a line,
You've passed, your imagination somewhat steadied
By the manuscripts you left behind,
Into which our own ideas are levied


I was a bit unhappy went I went to pick up a sandwich, because my favorite sandwich maker was not working. Quite frankly, I'm glad he's not because it's Sunday, but I missed my usual fix of entertainment. I very much enjoy watching him construct the sandwich. He is the most METICULOUS sandwich maker I've ever come across. It gives me shivers, quite like goosebumps in waves, to watch him do it. This feeling is very pleasant to me.
I have experienced it in other places as well: in a quiet office when someone, with swooping penmanship, is filling out a form in front of me; or when my Mother runs her fingers through my hair to be followed by the trimmer to make my head look less mop-like; or on a warm evening when a resonant voice tampers with my eardrums; or from the intimate finger grazes of a lover. I can't really pinpoint the experience to a set of causes which are related. They seem rather unrelated, actually. And any hypothesis I could manage to equate them to a specific stimulus, however, would surely be thrown off balance by the introduction of this new situation the making of a sandwich by a meticulous food preparation dude. Who knows.

Last night, I stupidly left the sunroof open, and the weather played a hydrating trick on me and drizzled. Today, I drove to work perched on a raincoat, and laughed at how easily I confused the coldness of the seat with the wetness of my ass.
Just went for a walk, as I can barely stand the office anymore. I mentally went through airflow models to optimize the drying of my car, but out of laziness and lack of desire to conjecture further, I went with the both front windows rolled down. The task of checking periodically to ensure that the weather does not screw with me farther will aid in my escape from this dungeon. Good thing too...

Among the many toys I encountered, perhaps my favorite is the pool noodle. It's long, thin foam tube for the beating of brothers when pool-bound. A distant cousin to the pool noodle is even thinner, perhaps a bit shorter, and constructed of harder plastic. When held at one end and spun like a rogue garden hose, the air across the opening creates high-pitched, breathy whistles. I haven't touched one since I was young.
The faucet in the bathroom down the hall makes the same noise when the water is turned on. The water pressure is, at first, worthy of being called a faucet. Yet progressively, the water flow dies to a trickle. It is during this decrease in flow rate that the breathy whistling occurs, and I am brought back to my childhood every time I wash my hands. I've never enjoyed going to the bathroom so much!

establish where I am
peace and quiet of the dead i find comforting

one day i noticed an older chick open lift the latch, and close the door as if she wouldn't want to rouse the dead from sleeping
go...

LET MY OWN FIRES BURN
Twas was fair and bright and sunny day,
Amid the stones, on grass I lay.
Each stone had carved upon its face,
The name of bones boxed under its place.

The solitude does comfort me,
Like a walk in the woods, or a climb in a tree.
I stop here often, to hear quiet sounds,
And lie amid stones, on the grassy, green grounds.

The sun began to dip and bow,
I pondered if I should be leaving now.
Then came a small click, followed by a creak,
As into the silence the gate began to speak.

From its gaping mouth, there came a shoe,
Followed by an ankle, then a dress of blue.
About this old woman, the gate had quietly spoken,
And her entrance had the silence barely even broken.

(She seemed as a mother, entering a room,
Where a child sleeps in bed, on the floor her toys are strewn.
Then the toys are put away, and with the broom the mother sweeps,
For her desire is to let this precious baby girl sleep.)

She replaced the latch, then pivoted 'round,
Slow to make her way, 'cross the grassy ground.
Then up to a stone, like a ship to a distant shore,
On a path she had known, and traveled on before.

Her lips began to quiver, her face in great inquire,
As her imploring eyes belied her long-held desire,
To be with this lover, as he lay in the ground,
Amid the stones and the candles, and the flowers planted round.

It was sometime before she turned and departed,
Perhaps a little relieved, though still broken-hearted.
To experience the living talking with the dead,
Fills the mind with longing, and very rarely dread.

I noticed I was again holding my breath,
As I witnessed a love, unshaken by death.
And I vowed I would love, let my own fires burn,
Then I left there that day, never wanting to return.

i've seen many beautiful things

description of the candle, and you, and how i like it?
how I can't stop it? how I

A CANDLE AND YOU
I've seen oceans of warm, placid, aquamarine blue,
I've seen sunsets and rainbows, and fall colors too.
I've seen beauty which captures and burns in my eyes,
I've seen lilies on the land, butterflies in the skies.
These things have me roused, almost too much to handle.
But they pale when compared with you, waiting for me, beside a lighted candle.

I'm rather pissed that I had to squeeze the last one out like an extraction of the large intestine. Hopefully a change in sensation and another look at it will allow me to edit satisfactorily.

THE PARTY NEVER ATTENDED
He must have fought hard against the snow,
Freezing from the swirling wind, and the ice below.
He may have seen inside that fateful night,
As the guests laughed and toasted, and the fire burned bright.
My door was sealed tight,
To keep out the snow and the night,
The next morning, what I saw made me fall to the floor:
My best friend, lay dead and solid, just outside my door.


I can't really believe myself, but I got tired of reading, and I wanted something mindless to look at. The dude in SDO had the football game on! How perfect! I enjoy the vernacular, but it's funny watching imbeciles fall down, stand up, and fall down again. I know they're getting paid more than I am, and perhaps have larger social circles and better sports therapists, but give me a notebook, and a view in the mountains any day.
The funniest is their quick spurts of celebration, whether at a touchdown, or after a good sack. Very few touchdown dances are very memorable, but there are some which deserve mention. I won't mention them though. The post-sack slapstick is hilarious: football players don't wear helmets for protection, but to save cerebellums from a celebratory smack from a teammate! These hits seem to be the most vicious. I just did something well, what the hell did you just punch me for! But I'm assuming this is the adopted celebratory method. I'd probably try to execute a back-flip, or something else worth remembering, rather than socking my valuable teammate. Oh well.
Luckily, while in this office, I remembered that there was popcorn and a microwave in that office. I ball parked the cooking time based on the girth of the bag, and was rewarded by something like 98 percent perfect pop: none burned, and only a few un-popped kernels. Needless to say, my hand quickly developed a film of butter as I ravenously dove it deeper and deeper into the bag. I'm fully awake now, and it's a rather fine 5:28 in the morning.
I have successfully resisted the urge to decorate the adjacent wall with a creation of post-it notes. But I think a waste of perfectly good, sticky, yellow paper. Furthermore, removing them from the wall would warrant a trashing, because I could not adequately replace them on top of each other in a uniformed fashion. Screw it, the post-its are staying in the drawer. Goddamn right!
Goddamn these computers are too slow! Again I'm thwarted by placement. I'm in the freaking basement, so any launching of computers out the window would not cause too much damage to the offending instrument. Curse holes and the filling of them with structures of cement!
I'm going to go revisit that crap about some hot chic and a candle. I have the image in my head, but it's not coming out on paper!