poetry 4 hire

2 scoops of ice cream

2011-12-13T21:08:00.000-08:00

I’ve prepared so long for this moment that it feels as if I’ve studied into seconds, which then turned into light years for this test to come. I consumed every detail of each step. It took a lot of forward sophistication and dedication, with fear generations behind me, to succeed. And then came the moment of truth; what is truth? What definition lounged inside my cranium of this word and its meaning? Is truth asphyxiating other’s opinion only to prove to them that my opinion weighed heavily over theirs? Or is truth the opinion’s of others we hold so dearly close to us that by no means we could think would do us any harm to believe? I sharpened myself to a fine point on a pencil that when the point was flipped upside down would rise and lengthen outward, creating a slug like streak behind it, with a vertical replica of itself forming in the shape of a cone. A cone containing two scoops of ice cream; two scoops of ice cream! To whom I present, my father and I.

I would like everyone to sponge like and soak in the ending sentences of the first paragraph before continuing into the Broca’s area of my understanding.

I present, my father and I. Both well-raised men with ethics and spirit, both bold men with responsibilities and stubbornness. Both placed on a cone, both a scoop of ice cream. Created by my imagination, nevertheless understanding why both of us were an ice cream scoop nor the comparisons made to each other, the moment had to come where I had to separate from it all. The moment had come, and it came at light speed, collapsing us into reality as I pictured it, held by faith’s fingers and the unsettling rumblings. I had felt myself uneasy and dripping. It was a sunny night, as the gust of uncertainty and pure chance shifted my entire future. The foundation felt unsettled as the cone shifted towards three o’clock, clockwise. Here I was, having felt myself slowly unlock from the identical DNA patterned other half of the other scoop of ice cream. Begging for the feeling to stop, I had hoped it was all a dream, a figment of the imagination. It had fooled me into actuality. It felt as though all of the practice and years of lessons and moments of truth when I cried out “Father, I need you’re help!” was slowly being ripped apart. I held on long enough for the sun to shed the tears from my skin before I became fully unstuck. After two seconds into the future, I was alone in the air, dropping. My thoughts had fell back from light years away into the formula’s that generated its speed, back into the infinite numbers that created time, into the seconds that had ticked to keep time going, and wondered how? How can two flavors of the same shape, ingredient, and taste be apart from each other? As I fell without a parachute in sight, I collided past gravity into the ground and became a different form.

Thanks dad.

who is the next Marilyn Monroe?

2011-04-08T08:57:00.000-07:00

“To try and set an example is to lead with confidence and assertiveness at any moment. Therefore, when a woman is taken out of her skin and is still herself, she becomes powerful.” Through out history we have had our share of seduction. A generation consumed of women that have paved the way from your local street corners into the white house. A combination of looks and wit with a fragrance of deception, is what escorted women to their survival. So who’s to be named the next Marilyn Monroe? Who’s sex will invade into a position of power without exploiting it all? Is it the Maxmin top 100 that will direct our attention towards choosing the next hot babe, or is it a concoction of strategic planning and blonde hair and blue eyes? Neither, it’s the moment when women separate themselves from girls to reclaim what they want. Women are figuring out ways in how to sustain their postures and be less eager to fall victim to vulnerability. And thus, that power comes from fucking virginity and entering into a world of pleasure. Marilyn Monroe didn’t have an attraction for powerful men because she was into politics. Monroe like many other women had understood to give was to get, and then use that gift in return for anything they wanted. It isn’t the thought of being called a slut, the fear of talk around the neighborhood, or the bragging rights of what guy enjoyed their company. It is escaping the embarrassment of the small bullshit and self-confidence issues. It’s growing up and putting on some red lipstick and your favorite prom dress and grabbing what you want by the balls, without worrying about what others at the funeral are saying. Women have graduated, and in about ten minutes graduation is about to start. They have passed the innocence and sassy attitudes into brave thin stockings and five-inch heels. They have covered themselves with glamor and make-up only to overcome sex education 101. Thus, the opportunity of fulltime jobs goes to the sluts, the stuck-ups, the bitches and divas, who spent 4 years getting what they deserved. And to those women that have figured out how to use themselves as an advantage without rendering on emotions and regrets before sophomore year, set your watch back 16,000,000,000 years and welcome yourselves to the moon; Marilyn Monroe will be your host. To become like Marilyn Monroe is to forge her signature and use her feminism as a means of buoyancy and influence. There is a Marilyn Monroe in every woman. The question is how far will you go to enjoy a lifetime full of luxury on the house.

I have Writer's block

2011-03-24T11:43:00.000-07:00

I have writers block. Consistent thoughts merged with ideas and formulas within inches of a solution. I have writers block. A cancer with no antidote, searching for false hope, but at least my breath is inhaling and exhaling. The ingredients to a well prepared dish without patient’s, leads to chaos. It all leads to jotting down useless sentences about corporate entities, basketball players, rappers, and this A.D.H.D. My thoughts are all over the universe at the moment. I have writers block. This is so fucking annoying. I can imagine if Leo Tolstoy entered his nine hundredth page in War and Peace and just froze. What a waste of time. This effort is minor to the detailed explanation of a topic I could have written about. But where is it? I have writers block and I have to let everyone know about it. This tedious mind of mine breaks and loosens up its blood flow just to encounter this worthless typing. I’m centimeters away from you, my topic, my discussion, my conclusion and thesis. No luck. No signs of recovering this time. These words seem to just slip away into unresponsive ears as the sun starts to burn. It’s quite late but dreaming is something of a treat right about now. And I will not allow my mind to feel its comfort until something spills out. Relaxing down stream into an ice cream filled pond with a spoon in my hand can only be a hallucination I’m having. So let me escape this dreadful thought and enter into a topic. Fuck! I have writers block. What am I talking about, ice cream filled ponds? I’m better, more constructive, and expensively intricate with syllables in intervals when I enter into an empty word document. Let alone the fact that I enjoy the satisfaction of my writing without regretting the tones in my voice. I’m entering into a writer’s mind, a labyrinth I cannot overcome, that I cannot fully fixate. With a little bit bold typing, spontaneous sentences, word play, verbs and adverbs, structure, grammar, and a mixture of scattered thoughts, I have to say this is quite interesting. However, isn’t that what writer’s do? We type away into novels and fiction, nonfiction and short stories, poems and biographies, to comics and law, and literature, into what makes sense to what doesn’t make sense. We enter into the minds of our readers to capture an emotion, a feeling, and some sort of a reaction. So to the readers, the critics, and myself, I suppose I have but one more tittle to add. “I have writers block”.

The break up

2011-03-23T01:28:00.000-07:00

A viva attitude towards a breakup always leads to endless encounters of provocation. There is always an enmity between the two break ups. The antagonizing truth is we have to move on not trifle about our feelings. To her idiotic slurs to her friends of why it didn’t work out to his enthusiastic denial that things still may work out. Scalding one another like a guarantor with false hope is not quite lucrative. Therefore, enamor your space and allow the other to breath. Then the heavenly aroma of freedom will waft into the air. Or you can quintessence back to the origin of when you first met, and neglect the possibility of sharing the first kiss. To perturb one another, would be to furiously engage in war and allow the amphora to fly across the room into the cracks of your sheet rock. Appalled by this decision can only enrage both characters. So light up a potpourri and talk it out, and forget the anarchist demon inside of you. Time heals all scars. Embezzle the communication you once shared without syndicalism, children! No one is to pontificate into a secrete society and dogmatically share one another’s secrets. Both parties will look cretinous. To escape mediocre embarrassment recalcitrant from friends that you encountered during your relationship. To forget your past is to forget who was in it. Also to equivocally answer questions about the relationship to acquaintances will place a picturesque image that may stain the other person. Keep quiet and hold your tongue from evil. The hubbub surrounding the borough you live in will be quite difficult to escape. Torpedo into a new lifestyle or face being a reclusive gaoler in your own environment. It’s obligatory to remove telephone numbers and any social networks still with an active account. You have to become eccentric rather then kind, this always allows for space and freedom. The melancholy feeling will eventually confide past a scoundrel mind state to being open to new challenges. Escape the ilk boring wailing because of a break up and break up like a prosector; well you know what I mean. Your reprisal falls on deaf ears and your furtive confidence is unheard when you don’t ostentatiously sublet yourself to someone new. The exhibit of your new character should be a hodgepodge of good behavior, confident behavior, and smart behavior or suffer the gallimaufry of the same shit, the old shit, and the worst shit. To sashay into a new relationship is to create a pseudonym smooth criminal and slowly moonwalk your way into new lust without facing a labyrinth situation. Call up some friends and have some fun, it’s a Wednesday.

In her own world

2011-03-21T22:33:00.000-07:00

In a world where the users that follow the lead introvert online dating and Wi-Fi, a woman becomes queen. The lipstick smudges across faint damped lips and blossoms as a kiss is blown. It’s easy for a woman in the 21^st century amidst all the technology and knowledge to conquer. Women posses what men will never have without them, Pleasure! A combination of vibrant melodies intertwined with physicality. Neither money nor control can overcome the timeline of the sensations women clutch within their grasps. If man will ever rule the universe a hundred times over and become god without the presence of a woman, he will not feel complete gratification. I would trade in the creation of Microsoft and Google for a kiss from a woman’s lips if ever molecules became instinct. What slips from the history books and the bibles and the Quran’s is the power women unveil. The fear that one-day their presence will be felt is something men and generations after us will obscure. “I take it that you know why you are here,” the man mummers. And before a sound can come in the form of the woman’s exhaling breath, she smiles and whispers, “I’ve been here my whole life.” And thus the translation commences and women all over the world hear its call. Without you women, men do not exist.

What if man, had a Diary? (pt. 1)

2011-02-13T19:03:00.000-08:00

What if a mans thoughts, written by a woman’s hand shattered onto a piece of paper, created a self-portrait of his own secrets? It would mean that a man could only gossip throw up of his past experiences and crushes until those memories could one-day surface. Would man be faithful and express his imagination, where colors are evasive enough to stick and capture the truth, or, will he swipe his credit card and forge his signature, just to get by? It’s captivating, when activating that piece of mind. It’s like stamping information onto an envelope with your full address and government name. It’s likely, but I feel it’s too personal. But when ones hobbies and stories are baked to the highest temperature, one can only put on his mittens and take it out the oven. I would say let it simmer down on a piece of paper and let yourself brainstorm your words dry, as if you were squeezing out a wet rag. A mans stature reflects his vulnerability, right? Because men are suppose to be tough, strong, powerful! Aren’t they? Why not tough it out, without exposing your mortgage APR (average percentage rate), your hard days at work or your long explosive weekends. Why not expand to the night you forgot to put on a condom, or the days where you juggled three women at once, or the time you got embarrassed because your friend wouldn’t let you borrow his porn collection. Why not men, what do you guys think? It’s not more of what you think it’s how you can express your emotional rollercoaster without intentions of bleeding your tears onto a page you so forcefully filled up with “the truth.” Take a deep breath, and allow your waves to form currents, until a tsunami strikes the reader that ever stumbles upon those pages. I ask you of one thing, have patients when the ink is pacing and accept the fact that you’re a man. And what you are about to write may fall into the eyes of your potential wife. Welcome to your Diary.

A taste of the white beatle

2011-02-11T06:47:00.001-08:00

I measure it as a step into a butterfly filled stomach with anxiousness and anxiety waiting to explode. My mouth waters as great news spreads fast. I take the first step. From the opening encounter the smell of fame is a sand road away, into the deep sea of celebrities. I audition thanks to a close friend of mine. I fail. Then comes along the second step. My hopes are centered towards a sun filled state with “The running man” controlling it. But as my thoughts scramble the spatula flips me over to the other side. Where dreams can evaporate only to condense back into the form of a cloud nine. Where Marilyn Monroe and John F. Kennedy can finally spoon under the remixes of Afrojack at 1 oak in New York City. Only if I can visualize something so cool, I can take narcotics back to its essence and bring the chemicals of which it came from and marinate it with my DNA. I’m just stating the obvious. I want you so bad fame. I want the t-shirt time and all the housewives into the world of Skins’ and HBO specials. I will sacrifice my boardwalk to achieve an empire just to give it up for a golden globe award. You never give me much but I can feel you present. So here I am, once again in front of you my love. The camera. As the copper filled snake oozes under my shirt towards my collar, I check, one, two, one, two, and then I begin. The moment ends with a game of Russian roulette; I survive. Here I go with my third step. Success! I’m a little far from it but the taste numbs my gums. I inhale through one nostril with closed eyes only to open them to a view of camera’s rolling. Fuck! This feeling is so fucking good… I’ll take this over the sun any day. That’s the sacrifices I'd take, which leads me to step four. My head is six feet off the ground and an edge is present at the tip of my sneakers front bumpers. What do I do? It’s simple ladies. When you hunger for a primitive male you get a gentleman, when contemporary throws up like trash you get stuck with a stuffed douche bag. I’m what you call history in the making. Am I clear? To answer your question, what I do is jump. Jump off this cliff that has no relevance to my weight. I’ll take the risk of dying only to rewind my self like a DVR recording. I guess I’m not dead after all. The fifth step is indulging in lunch with Michelle Obama. Unfortunately, that has to wait because I haven’t landed yet.

Surviving a socialistic technological conversation

2011-02-08T23:47:00.000-08:00

This is one way how you have fun, right? Whoever can embarrass themselves the most enjoys the company of others? Well not exactly. For a 25-year-old male living in the heart of the world; New York City, I must say its quite challenging to stay on top of your news. With socialism at its peak, information is at ones fingertips. A recent night out at a place named Black bear in Hoboken surfaced my curiosity of how challenging it is to stay relevant. To my credit, my stories have kept me interesting, you know the he said she said, endless drunk nights at Atlantic City, One time at 4am, etc. However, with her cell phone in hand, with fingers sporadically typing away, the little voice within my conscience became speechless. Blowing me out of the spotlight, references and photographs were surfaced at her disposal. Men have a long history of telling personal stories and supplying smiles all around. What do we know on the crisis in Egypt and the Gaza strip? After all, it does seem interesting, if we just cared enough to know about it. To my expense, the conversations drastically switched from a humans well being to how the government should take action towards women’s rights. Why haven’t these conversations facade before? Personal technology has given the freedom of being able to talk about anything and everything. My interest grew heavier towards these topics. At one point during the course of the evening, I had a cell phone in one hand and a chicken wing in the other, my appetite became full of facts; Facts that with a little bit of searching, had a ring that captured each ear around me. We penetrated into full-fledged royal conversations. The night had come to a conclusion as my mind was stuffed with valid information. We are in a world where technology is alive. Search it, if one is in disbelief. The next time your out enjoying ones banters, take your cell phone out and search “pyramids”, and see how long the discussions last.

A couple of crucial steps on the weekend (A mans guide to fulfilling his urges)

2011-02-05T22:46:00.001-08:00

For those nights when skiing up your nostrils (cocaine) is in the air and you have a Brittany Spears look a like in your peripherals, it’s quite easy to see how a conversation can go from a truck into Optimus Prime. But for those who enjoy a couple of long island ice teas and have self-confidence issues, one can see where the problem lies. Consider yourself a gentleman. In a world where shivery has vanished and the only way to bring it back is to open up a strangers door and let them out, only to expose them to a good time (or a magic trick if you’re a fucking magician). The key lies with time. How one uses it to his or her advantage given the right signs and clues is up to them. Now I’m not implying one to throw a drink at someone to get a reaction from him or her, I’m only asking to consider a sign. A wink of an eye, a smile from a distance, an eyebrow raised to perfection, a friend’s friend, and an introduction by a friend, a drunken slur, something one can adjust and work with. A woman in an alcoholic bubble on the weekend gets approached on an average of at least 5 – 15 times a night. The odds of landing on her runway is slim, unless you’re Chesley Sullenberger and you can land on fucking water, good luck! It’s really not worth it, there are a million fish in the sea, get yourself a better hook!
The End.
Ok, for those readers that gotten to this point of my discussion without flipping the page and are brave enough to have at least some balls to walk up to women. I will explain to you how to behave accordingly around hot women (and of course how to hopefully engage in a one night stand). It all comes down to ones appearance and fragrance and a little bit of paying attention to the type of woman you are around (detail). The aspect of appearance at my age (an 80’s baby) is to escape as many buttons as possible. I know Jay-Z made a PSA to wear button downs but it’s been about 3 years now, what the fuck are you people still doing? The simple classy look is what captures attention and makes you stand out. When is the last time you went out on a night out in NYC and haven’t seen a trillion ironed collars? It’s not likely, so the key is to stick with colors that work for your skin tone and to make sure those colors are somewhat solid with small logos. Consider a t-shirt or a v-neck; believe me the simpler you are the further the conversation will go. If you’re a tanned male, your colors are of dark decent (black, brown, and once in a while, pink). If you’re a bale ghost or have a dark complexity lighter colors will adjust to your skin just fine.
A bum once asked me for change and by the way he smelled, I gave him 50 cents. With ones look comes his scent and that scent has to equal up to his look. The right fragrance is the solution. For marketing rights and copyright infringements, I cannot disclose any fragrance names (laughs to himself). Although one time, for about three straight weeks back in 2009, I wore the “very sexy” fragrance by Victoria Secret (Ops! Sue me!) To understand what fragrance is, it’s a smell that one can fully be comfortable wearing no matter the consequences or whether the delicate scent is for men or women. If you like the tang, make sure you’re wearing it with some buoyancy. Spraying, is very critical with the recognition of limitation. The back of the ears, forearms, and chest are the settings where fragrance should fully hibernate on. It is not a contest of who can guess the brand. Keep it fresh and classy guys, without taking a bath in your favorite Bleu de Chanel (my favorite).
There are three different types of weekend women out there. The first kind is “The Loner.” She is the one with the jacket still at hand wondering around “looking for her friends,” which translate to, I need a conversation type. Then comes the “Flash Mob.” She is the girl that has all her friends out, determined to stay by their sides at all times. And the third kind is the “Mega Ball.” She is the hottest stuck up in the place. Intrigued as I once was, I always had a hard time approaching women. I always hollered at them as though they were animals. Results did vary, always in my room whether it hit the napkin or the floor. You may ask yourself what it takes to get women like these, and here are a few solutions:

“The Loner” – The conversation has to be short and brief as you introduce excitement. Make reference on seeing her walking around alone, with a little bit of a concern (in a funny manner). Key is to focus on only “you” and “her.” Do not ever ask whom she’s with and why she is alone. Offering a drink is out of the question as well. End the conversation with where your whereabouts of where you are going to be if she needs you. Let some time pass, most of the time if a woman enjoyed your approach she comes to your rescue. If not, then after fifteen minutes look for her. The ice has already been broken, if she likes you or not, the doors have already been opened.

“Flash Mob” – Approach only (when she is on the dance floor) with another person or a group of friends. This is not a one-man mission. Escape the cliché of having drinks in your hand while on the dance floor. When innocence fills the air, women will embrace it. Advance towards the most unattractive woman in the group and dance with her, while locking eyes on your sincere goal. Let your wolf pack know who your target is and allow them to try and dance with her. Only to give her up in about two minutes (time is crucial). Then give the signal and have your friend hand her to you as you hand your woman to him. Less talk more dance, enjoy each other’s vibes. When comfortable whisper to her and ask if she would like a drink.

“Mega Ball” – Is the most difficult to get, but not impossible. The trick is to stay consistent in verbal intercourse. Meaning, constantly approaching her with a line or two from your favorite “top 5 lines” a man says to a woman. Rejection is typical in these situations but don’t be discouraged. The more appearances the better her memory serves her. Always use the “friend” rule. Execute into small conversations with her friends and stay close to the action. The moment her reaction turns from ordinary to completely ripped, your time has come. Most “Mega ball’s” have insecurity issues so when the “remi's in the system, aint no telling, will I…” well you get the point.
Enjoy!

a new foundation

2010-11-30T01:27:00.000-08:00

Just to give you some insight, and another side of me of which you may not know of, I write poetry, abstract poetry, slash short stories. I’ve been doing this for about 7 years now. And it all started with lyrics resembling hip-hop and transitioned into poetry, If one wants to call it that. I don’t consider, myself, a writer. I feel as if the definition of a writer is one who follows guidelines, structure, punctuation, grammar, etc. I feel as if writers have to filter their work. I don’t follow any guidelines nor have a filter of any sort. Truthfully, I sometimes don’t even understand what I write, but during the course of writing something, a chapter, as I call it, it tends to make sense. So I just write. I am “write”, the simple, no sentence, neither noun nor verb attached word itself, write. I’m (right) write.

This next chapter is called, a new foundation.

The title comes from the separation of my parents roughly 2 years ago. The reason the title being “a new foundation” is because I feel as if my mother was the old foundation. She was the one that kept the family together, in a sense of always reminding us about birthdays of relatives that we may have missed, to bringing together the family on holidays. She was basically the Conductor of the orchestra. And as my parents extracted from each other I felt as if the family collapsed. And here I step in; using the title “a new foundation” as if I’m it. In this chapter, the soil resembles myself, as the seeds resemble my family.

Here we go…

My skin is of a soils texture, redeeming its place along side fabric, which happens to be the seeds masked under it. For I am naked before the sun’s warmth, exposing myself upon the seeds that are buried under me. A family tree left for exile, for its time has come. But through aggression, intellectual depression, and masterfully monitored by intentions to let go, I prevail, and let go. As if tears have been squeezed from a dry sun, onto my seeds so they can feel my emotion. So they can feed off my pain. It is impossible not to love you, so I continue too. Love who you ask? I love you, my poppa and momma, their poppa their momma, my brother, my uncles, my nephews, my cousins, to their future lovers. Please excuse my accent for I am new to these fertilizing duties to further imply to you that I will not fail this time. I am not really sure what this is about, when winds are crashing down, and the surface starts to tremble. But I have been taught well; well enough to engrave each of my heartbeats into your stomachs, so you can grow into the family tree I once remembered. Just the thought of your branches waving, leaves flaming, free from hatred and separation I engage, faithfully into our newfound bond. And we shall grow, through blizzards and snow, through waves of heat, until the earth buries itself. I stand above you my seeds, explaining my mission, so you can breath within with ambition to leave it to me. Just listen…

Selfish

2010-11-02T23:36:00.000-07:00

I am Selfish,
As I sip first on the only cup of smoldering tea,
The last of its kind
Burning my cores outline before its soul cools down,
As I finally allow your lips to feel its stroke
I am tender and selfish,
Conceded in highlights, with bright lights firing
Stylish hydrogen, I create oxygen with life within
I can never let a generation generate innovations
Of something my era has already created
I am, Selfish!
For asking for favors, from friends that favor to save “us”
From a 9am to 5pm career that’s soon to face us
I am selfish,
Because your tears aren’t enough for death to drown,
So I flood the raw condom that is your morale,
And fill you with the truth before I let you go out in that tight skirt,
And slave your inner beauty to hungry STD’s
Yes, I am selfish
And for that I self persevere to think of myself first,
Before anything can adjust and do worse,
To you
Selfish? That I am..

Seduction

2010-07-11T23:47:00.000-07:00

I whispered as her insides molded into vibrant sensations. I used only but one word, one short mouthful of air until I reached her equilibrium. You see it took control and mental discipline for ventilation of her orgasmic senses to have reached its zenith. I’m calm, and in an instant I had placed myself in unison with her moans. I stretched until my muscles fully eradicated all possibilities of the impossible. "It’s going to happen," I said, as my sounds ripped through her soul and captured her wetness. I said but a few syllables, a few letters that when placed together formed goose bumps throughout her entire outline. “Can I fuck you,” and then I exhaled, and then I waited. The feeling was as if time had frozen over and her reactions were of a mild dissatisfaction. But when lingered and marinated, recollection of what age we were in, it was extremely potent. I could have felt her lips with intent to slip in at any moment. But when experienced, it becomes monotonous for routine pleasures, so why address them? Penetration is a mere lasting orgasmic passion without spontaneous actions, so I asked her. “Can I induce your emotions with luscious lust, fainting love, where your insides are eloped into explosive contractions, where the tip of my mushroom is inserted deeply into your molecules like an atomic thrust heading into the core of your g-spot. I will finger lick those lips with a whale’s tongue, and with hell’s heat I will grasp your skin with my claws and rip until pain is elevated into parallel motions connecting your moans voices. I want to… breathe venom onto your fibers and scream with my eyes begging you for more. I want to tear the living fuck out of you and I will not stop until time asks for forgiveness and you breathe in me begging me to stop.” Graphic! But welcoming as she inhaled the first breathes of her life, as if life had just been given to her. Her pupils dilated as her eyes rolled back and her lower jaw fell like gravity. Her emotions were flabbergasted out her thoughts onto my sweat. I felt as she felt, when held to a climax without intentions of coming down. As time had continued to tick I heard a “beep" sound as if my alarm clock shouted it out with its inner voice. And as I glanced to my side, after a long night of fucking, she was staring into nothing. Seduction!

ironing away

2010-02-17T11:25:00.000-08:00

A smooth stroke, a loose wrinkle waiting to be pressed against a platform that is steady enough to carry its heat. It breathes as if it pedals air itself. I’m amazed, and as well as in control. The heavy metal ego springs steam out its lungs, waiting to straighten out everyone’s problems. In this case the victim. The emotions of the victims are reflected by the colors they vibrate, from light colors resembling happiness and dark ones pain and agony. There is no cure but a mere short lasting of satisfaction that covers the skin before it is again damaged. I create, an image so beautiful and flawless it could guide itself past the gates of heaven onto g-d’s skin himself; for a limited time only that is. You see, when in motion, the oceans are flattened and currents are absent. I become time as fabric becomes mine, an epic journey through its cotton fields, its wool dreams, and its silk imagination. I am, therefore, I control. A miscommunication of a pattern could alter faiths for ages because without perfection you are age and I am ageless, therefore I contain it. By the looks of theses angles, from the start to the end, I am able to witness its birth before the steamed semen is pressed onto the fabricated egg. I become one as if it was my own skin pressed to fit into this so-called “perfect” world we strive in. Picture one with age, lost in space, where seventy years ago has spoken his first word, covered by an outline of a models prospect, ironed by my hands controlling a heated plate. Do you understand why I iron? A piece of cloth can cover scars and regrets and obsolete skin, it controls what you see and how the victim feels. I feel well-balanced, thank you iron. I shall return soon.

A woman once told me...

2009-10-10T16:59:00.001-07:00

so what do I claim to know about you?

well for a start you are very traditional when it comes to family. you love kids and they love you. you have respect for your parents something I don't see in many guys these days.
keeping the house clean is very important to you and even though your room can be messy at times you are a neat freak and you are bossy..
you can't be alone. solitude is difficult for you... you have to be around friends, and people in general. you love people. you love ironing :)
you love tea with honey and hate coffee, you love TV. Moreover..when its your favorite show...I don't think me standing naked in front of you will even make you look toward my direction! when it comes to your favorite show. You usually never finish what you have started because you get to board to quickly. You worry about money a lot, but perhaps its the current situation that causing it, you can be a bit selfish without realizing it. you need someone to take care of you in a way of giving support and fit back. you love beauty and fashion, take care of your appearance. you are a drooler ha ha..that was a tough one, you love coconuts, you lick your fingers when they are dry or seem to be dry, you love rap, dancing and technology. you cannot lie... :) you have values... being updated in whats going on in the world is very important to you.
you are spoiled a little bit...you hate cold weather. you love white color...hate dark ones.
the list can go on and on...

my reply?

... I Love You!

“I’m a detective!” I said...

2009-08-25T12:00:00.000-07:00

The detective is defective,
“So long ago I have changed,” I said.
It was a stormy afternoon, flushed with anger and gravitational screams that echoed from ear lobes to the mouths that captured its air. The puddles had a depth that can swallow a whale and my shoes were crocodiles with their fangs facing a foot ahead of me. I had entered a dinner the shape of a bullet, its light green outline had filled my eyes with blindness. Inside were a group of political savages that didn’t believe in tooth ferries, but believed the money that had been placed under the pillows of children, were theirs to keep. I fled through the doors as if I was a kamikaze strapped with an atomic bomb. My stomach had busted internally and all I can think of was, which way was the bathroom. Startled, the group of men without hesitation pulled out their guns. In that split second I had been erased from their image contemplating of which toilet to extract my waste into. I had failed again but the feeling of losing about 3.5 kilograms was priceless. After the thin sliced toilet paper grazed my skin I had flushed with anger, ready to get back to business. The mirror in front of me had appeared to be defective; it reflected uncoordinated hair lines across my scalp. There was no way in heaven I would appear in front of those savages with a bad hair day. Embarrassed and in control, my fingers became combs trickling up and down my scalp. After seconds past my image was of a models prospect. I had refreshed my mouth with a spray of mint. With a deep breath I had remembered all the times of preparation before the long nights that were ahead of me. It took a smile or two to regain confidence. Although I had not been fifty years of age with bowing arrows and enough power to defeat an entire infantry of 100,000 men, I felt like Rambo. In an instant, after that thought of being Rambo had escaped my mind, the walls of the bathroom started to close in, and there was only one way out. I grasped its location and fully plunged my weight onto the door knob and turned it gently. I then disguised myself as a drag queen and slowly whistled out the door leaving trails of fragrances no man can neglect. As the sky felt my presence and I was embraced by the environment outside, the savages quickly got out of their seats and continued towards the door. Outside, I was loaded with enough cavalry and fire power that can blow a hole in the galaxy itself. As soon as their outlines appeared in the scope of my trigger finger, I unloaded.
“Dead! Dead! Pow Pooww!! They were gone,” I had explained.
With a bewildered look she had turned away from my services and left the bar. At that point, all I can think of was, where had my story gone wrong?

if ever my Heart was stolen...

2009-08-25T01:06:00.001-07:00

Foolishly I’d thought I was stronger in every sense possible but I have been followed by strangers. Ones who were marked with deception, adultery, lament and fed up with their self image. I had intensely tried to emerge away from their shadows as they came near. Importantly enough the jealousy and hurt reflected in their eyes. They wanted something so pure and free they would withstand the utmost agony to claim it. The one thing which had followed me all my life had finally set upon my yawns and cries. Other people in my position would have fallen like the molecules that have been carried by the unwanted rain into the earth’s soul, but I wouldn’t let them take it, as war has claimed me. At that moment, control was a past tense and fear had set in. I had felt my vessels being torn apart, where pain, like a smile away from a good toast to its creator, had vanished. There was one voice followed by multiple fingers. Though my heart had an attention deficit disorder, doubtful to communicate at the time, had been aware of its surroundings. As the claws pierced my tissues and expanded them into the air, I had felt a voice scream. “I shall leave you for a split second my friend and it will last you an eternity to get me back,” my heart cried! So I cried back, pathetic and missing, bewildered and petrified. Without reaction, I reacted; acting into an image of myself I had been always craving for. An appetite that was past due; an immediate way for change had identified itself. I had picked up its wireless significance as I grabbed hold of my heart. Still breathing, the accent was reminiscent, and at that point I had felt what my heart had meant to me, in the palms of my hand. As my fingers gripped its bloody body, I had felt as a mother would, when seeing a dead carcass of her child. As terror struck my heart it had slowly took its last breath with an uncertain look into my eyes. I had now understood why this had happened, let me explain. May the heart stay in its place for it has nowhere else to go, to forget it’s there, is to forget it all. My own fingers had grasped what I had not comprehended, and had stolen it all, from me, the creator. I had myself taken out what had controlled my every emotion, the heart. For I am sorry my friend, may you accept my apologies for I will never do it again.

Dear, Silence

2009-08-09T23:54:00.001-07:00

Sunday, August 9, 2009

I own that I understand very little about all these details of socialism and reaching out right about now; what I know is that since the voices became quiet all that is heard is my heart. I am sure, feel that I have no desire to become apart of this let alone become it. It is no one more or less than, I, that control this. Ah, dear friend, you are fortunate to have my ears and lips, but I will own to you that, in spite of your extreme racket, my departure from your cries has been a great feeling for me. Above all, you have taught me patience and grief, along with endless nights of still air as if I have been lynched to my last breath. I know very well of your courage and commitment, your poetic and pure intimacy fulfilling so many souls, souls that grant no permission to enter. So young and burdened with this hell, to what temptations will be exposed? Mine? Do not let us seek to penetrate your quietness, for we will! A thousand thanks, dear friend, for the work you send us, and which is all the rage where you are. I have unconfined my lips and slowly entered into the terrible and scared secrets of your speechless galaxies. I know very well that, I for once will break your silence with pleasure full extremities and remedies where only letters can formulate, at this moment, some type of communication that can be watered and raised under your sun. My respects to your creator and my compliments to the silence you have distilled upon so many. But I for once will no longer embrace you as I love you, and forget your memories.

P.S.---Let us hear you.

Grandpa, may you rest now

2009-05-06T23:42:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

I cant explain how my tears can dry up in pain
Nor how I can smile through all of this
I’m trying….I’m trying.. grandpa!

I am not afraid and I will not bury you inside my heart
I will bring you to life through words… through spirit!
I have so many unanswered questions! Why?

Why were you so strong,
And how did you raise such a great man like my father
I want to learn…

I have so many heart beats left,
G-d, Why couldn’t I have just given him some of them?

May my prayers come from the air of my grandfathers last breath
And may g-d’s ears open to hear these words…
“I want him back, Please!”

Please… please .. ..
take whatever you want!
Just bring him back to us!
I love you дедушка Миша!

May you live through us,
Every step of the way

And may you be as proud of us
As we are proud of you.

Thank you.

pleasure

2009-05-03T20:44:00.001-07:00

Sunday may 3, 2009 11:20pm

I wrote with words “we wish dessert was slow and painful!”
Healthier then fast and forgettable
Feelings lasted a second ago,
and now!, The future has no extensions at all!

Emptiness, left evidence by my'stake
I mean mistake, intake, all the journeys that we face

Engage we shall, and swallow slow
Chew and wonder off into tastes unforgettable

Assist instructions into inner indulgence
Inner explosions, winners, we are all it!

Indicate ways, where we integrate faith
Innovate hate, into smiles we create

A lesson, is less then a sentence long...
That forms our expressions
For as long as we sketch them

One who seeks, believes!
One with reach, is at ease
For thee is no longer blind to see

elephants tusk

2009-03-29T23:36:00.001-07:00

Today at 2:31am | Edit Note | Delete

I tremble like mushrooms that create boom,
that wipe hair lines until it fades wounds
a smile last is always first introduced
the truth I curse has lost its proof
tick I fuck, tock I lust, ohh clock!
time is rough when responsibility isn’t enough
my messages are clear ocean thrusts
rusting away waves, oblivion I must
my minds enthusiastic behavior is short of brain dead
O behave less, lesser then what they said
a cookie monster, baggage snatcher
a political crook are like after hours
sleep and open eyes,
are as close to each other as religion and hope in mind
I’m sensitive!
and my neck is like stairs with giraffe hairs
(waiting for their reaction)
illuminating their stares like who cares

a prayer

2009-01-20T00:24:00.000-08:00

my lord see the damage and the pain
see the flames in between the rain
show mercy and grab hold
of each soul that controls his own
and if ever thee is weak, lift them up
show them the way and don’t give them up
a slow burn is a scar earned
and these heart beats are what I call home
breath my air, show me light
control my fears, hold my life
never see the blind, always see the lies
always remind me twice to read in between the lines
I am yours, forgive my sins
that rise without reason that are committed within
I am, so be it, in your hands
forever faithful, always a man, amen

what the fuck Is going on?

2009-01-18T21:37:00.000-08:00

(Edvard Munic's - The screamer)

I am blazing high into the night and fitfully illuminating my thoughts. Fuck you! The seven letters hemmed in by the dark sigh that followed after the letter u. In truth, I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. A candle had been lit at an evening dinner at about eight o’clock, before I had driven nude and skinless through the snow without any clear thought of what the fuck was going on. I roared and laughed, disappointed by reality. I have forwarded this so called reality to a fiction state of mind, edging into some type of understanding. Thus sped this demonic feeling along my course of thought, until, quivering among my own face gestures, I had realized I didn’t know what was going on. I knew the tune; it was a familiar one stored in the back of my mind. The feeling of confusion. Maddened with despair, I laughed loud and long. Did my mind grasp any of this, at such a rate that I seemed to fly past its course rather than to walk or run it through my head? What the fuck was going on? Driven to the deepest road where my imagination lingered uncontrollably, I started to express myself. Changing as the seasons would, the coldness overgrown my thoughts, and within hours, the fire slowly came into the picture. Back to the candle light dinner when things were the other way around. The candle resembles fire and the snow, well its snow ladies and gentlemen, and she, well she deserved the “fuck you!”

I see whats goin' on

2008-12-01T18:22:00.000-08:00

skep & abbadon - I see whats goin' on

the party is here

2008-11-18T21:53:00.000-08:00

There was a short silence followed by a horrible nightmare. It all happened at a point in my life where I had finally realized who I was becoming. Founded on a curious disbelief of always blending in, I knew I’d acted along the script's never ending lines. The luxuries of this feeling had erupted inside of me. I was those mildly depressed somewhere 20s people who spent most weekends in search of a good drink and a little something on the side. I had simply grown accustomed to this lifetime; a one night stand with my favorite drink. Surfing through endless conversations and blank stares, working my way up (after a few drinks) from a minor chat to landing a kiss. The patterns triumphs had short fits of suffocation before they regained consciousness; a state of mind I was used to. It was only later, after continuous nights and late mornings had I naturally imprisoned this satisfaction. A taste for urges only a woman can provide and alcohol can accommodate. There could be no question to why these moments, including my actions, have occurred. Startled at times, The locksmith had always left the key to these festivals at my disposal. And so I had thrown myself into this position, failed to be rescued by decisions. A more emphatic attraction slowly turned into cramped space, between the hypocrite laughs to shy intentions, they all began stretching and puffing up. The sounds and tunes instantly translated, by way of commissions, into a fulfillment placed on a bar table for the astonished and delighted ones that appreciated a coaster for their beer. By contrast, I did not relish the fresh me, I just moved on. See you guys tonight!

my frist piece

2008-11-09T14:27:00.000-08:00

My dreams horizons are flat moments
the sun is cold and these roaches are still walking
still morphing in motion looking like abortions
my actions are characterized and sanitized
I amplify the sound through the speakers eyes
with combined wings analyzed to fly
what kind of man am I if I choose to die
revolution is a loop looped without revelation
just entertainment so payments can be paid in
though our generations racists
burning our pain as if we were painless
like useless paintings watching its paint drip
my eyes see the views but I'm starting to get blind cause of it
so much noise I feel god is def through all of this
feel like the Cain I grip can’t hold the body I'm with
and everybody I'm with got they skin touching they ribs
ejaculating through napkins while they cover their tears
compare us to them it’s nothing we fear
just scared of death cause death aint scared of us
death is here for us, smiling trying to take care of us
as soon as we live life we are afraid to fuck it up
A bunch of fuck ups who fuck it up

March 27, 2007 @ 11:16pm

2008-11-09T14:16:00.001-08:00

Hell
Weakness
Revenge
Drugs
Confusions
Hate
Spitefulness
Envy
Greed
Enemies
jealousy and tendencies with thorn severe penalties
of lost destinies placed together with the wrong identities
evolves into stress to breath with less to see
a minds soul strengthens to conquer it all
when revenge is left on pause without an extra loss
proficient like eclipses with combined visions
triggers blown like kisses until thee fit in
into a position when god starts to listen
the objection here is without rejection
as it becomes affected like affections
injected with passion as love ashes
and lets it all just capture us
Confessions
Actions
Truth
Laughter
Happiness
Health
Excitement
Companionship
Money
Death

spit it...

2008-11-09T13:30:00.001-08:00

never came across the things I love
always had to break them up and such
in a distance, the price and them tickets
fell in my hands like the mic and her kisses
important, message distorted
front row seats to watching talib perform hits
ohh im just, bopping my head, this
feels so unattractive considering I’m headless
the mathematics, the plus sign addict
I’m in a division where I upscale average
a member since, the pen been inked
it seems everything I’m in, my aims within
the telescopic, views are monotnous
a spark in the fuse got me loose when I spit

murder!

2008-10-08T23:21:00.001-07:00

Aloft in the air, the aroma happily made its way down into my stomach. A well prepared and marinated dish immediacy became gazed with a cry of satisfaction. Murder is a hard thing to digest, unless one has drowned in it’s own flavor and prepared it for themselves; the way they like it, the way I like it. The two voices speak but only one listens, conversing soberly as they both draw near. Neither the loud outraged or the low and calm voice can hear each others tone. There are screams with silent thoughts, a plot of some sort, thrusting forth yawning inside my head. Grief, rage, and terror was yet piercing this feeling, which must have been a few yards of “the murders,” my hiding-place; but when? The tiptoes stood still, pulling aside clues and prayers. I will kill tonight! Faith has chosen to go after thee, discovering so aptly that the arguments seemed rather useless at this point. Thus a smile emerged as the traveler continued traveling. Fading into far-off laughter, my shadows were swept away, leaving only the clear and hushed blade to cut into air like it would into flesh. Willingly I’ve become unfaithful with no one to blame, no one to offer this responsibility to. A high price had to be paid for this, a reality called life. I have whispered my deepest sins without wind and have felt, which, perhaps, must be faith. For I am guilty of intelligence, and above all, intelligence forbids fear. What if our beliefs were threatened and life had continued beyond deaths ears. Where death on a winters night had no longer held it’s windows open. I will yet stand firm against death, applauding thee strengths, only leaving it’s heart dripping in my palms. The last breaths of many before me, and none after. I have murdered death.

check, please!

2008-09-23T01:02:00.003-07:00

Wrapped around achieved goals, I am cooked. I have slept in one room inside my head, on an old white copperhead floor. Though I have not packed, the gallery of awkward thoughts flash be forth me. Immortal and absolute the infant shouts, “be calm! And allow desperation to assert it’s self.” The face in the mirror is still, in a sort of a portrait manner. Given time I will travel for the first time through that glimpse and swirl, somehow even indomitably of a boy, past the half-open door, but where? Cursed with a platinum spoon and the silver cup sitting on the cleared dining-room table beneath the clouds light, I leave it empty. Courage had never answered my calls. Blackened by the freedom and peaceful and ever defying perfection, this place has gotten to me. Only remembering the good times and steady laughs. ‘Even my clothes!’ loud and outraged to a perfect fit has felt ever so rubbish. Each heart pulse is rewarded with each breath it captures. ‘When will my heart stop?’ I realize now that there was less and less of the cry’s, the screams and the nightmares and terror, which for me had never existed anyway. I want change. Still heavy, these chains are not equipped to coming off anytime soon, as innocence has filled my soul. If truth had just opened its pours for a little mistake, I would eat it in front of him. The strange man with endless hands controlling our beliefs allowing hope to linger. My stomach creaked with the lack of saturated fat, for I was starving myself from health. A soothing yet complicated correction has acknowledged error. But the only satisfaction I could get was from watching myself escape. I had said too much. I can feel his claws and furious jerks, sickening me so that I couldn’t balance or even keep track of time. He made a flash and dip, and hardly even broke the rhythm, but I heard his tune. He exists, therefore I am his.

5 excuses

2008-09-23T01:02:00.001-07:00

My reply was “hey I’m tired, I’ll talk to you later, goodnight. (1)” I stopped and thought for a second for I was full of energy. Thought of all the times it happened to me and decided to think ahead. So I erased it. I paused and started to brain storm as if there was a storm coming. The feeling erupted again. It has nothing to do with you, its figuring my self out. The question is how do I reply now? How do I answer to something so simple as the word “hey” reflected upon me. I couldn’t, so I started to write (2). Along came this word excuse. An excuse worth giving for it is deserved. An excuse so innocent I felt as if hell was appropriate for its actions. I wasn’t in the right state of mind so I decided to question my mind. Question its thought process. Blank! I am, and nothing else can interrupt, but this one memory. This memory that feels as if it was left to starve. I’m hungry again for that feeling, but not hungry enough (3). I toss and turn and blink repeatedly. What am I going to do? Time is moving and seconds are shifting and excuses are past due. For it is expensive to express your mind these days, we have a lot to loose (4). The reply I had thought of sending faded as the sheep came in, I must have fallen asleep thinking so much. “Five!” I spoke, Five! Five! FIVE! as I smiled my last smile for the morning. That would make it the fifth excuse. At last! I thought to myself, for I had not understood why my mind had gotten to this point.

the question

2008-09-09T14:57:00.000-07:00

Now before I explain this feeling. I want my audience to just take a deep breath. A deep breath that will last a lifetime. A world inside out where we question. This question I speak of. Your pick. Choose one. The one question that cannot be answered. Awake. At a scene far from ordinary, where not even you have the answers to, for they have their own legs and intellect, and at times run away from the questions themselves. I’m speaking of the questions, that is. A question inside a question that is questioned if that question was ever a question to begin with. Are you still with me. Il slow it down a notch. Question! The results at which you got to just to come back to the scraps you left behind. The daydreams. The wonders. Stop! Please don’t escape reality without saying goodbye! And fall back into it and say hello! For my grass is a different shade then yours, but who’s to question it? Questions. This allowance we earn just to spend it on the joys that keep us sane. For the sun is questioned everyday. Are we going to see you again? Why do you leave us for darkness? And what is that energy that breaths off of you that we enjoy so much of? Question! This is not about which question to ask, it’s the question itself. The thoughts that are going through its head. The thoughts that have been cluttered up for just a split second, that can last eternity. In a space where space is limited. A place where the only breath it shouts is, let me out! Question! May you end it with a question mark or a smile, for it may not harm you, it’s only a question. Exhale. Thank you for asking the question.

crickets

2008-09-09T00:57:00.001-07:00

The loneliness is starting to settle in. Still children, they start learning ways to imprison attention. Implementing sounds in locations where they know survival is vital. A cry for help and need. Their last trace to an endless season before the warmth invades. A perspective ceased by merely closing their mouth, if they ever do, but they can’t, and they shouldn’t. In the surrey they would be better off, for we do not welcome them here. Conquered by our silence they had grown and adapted, unwillingly becoming tired under our supervision and neglect, not fast enough to realize our personality, along with sleep patterns –the tall and endless wall of dense dreams. I can not imagine them counting each star just to forget what they look like in the morning, well I could, actually. Their melodies prickle our ears, while their souls dissolve just to be heard, not clear or loud enough but unfriendly as well, without getting to know us. Strangers in an area familiar to us and feared by them. The night’s age is a hundred wrinkles past the hour as their echo’s flame to life. Burning inside, desperation endures virtues of their existence. I attend to their calling, though I cannot recognize their pain. Nameless, these mortal beasts and their voices are distilled into the air, where no women nor men of all ages can deliver their cry’s. Innocent or perhaps evil, I can not judge, for I only come forth to them with one question, “to whom can I speak to, to end your annoying fucking sound?”

a drunk phone call away

2008-09-08T13:09:00.001-07:00

Juxtaposed between the phone and my words, I paused. Letting out a breath of whisky on my tongue, enjoying it’s aroma. It had already started. Concentration was a sip away, about five hours into the first gulp. The feeling was dissolving as the pages turned and the time kept ticking. It seemed this night was like an ordinary night. A welcoming to my return. My sights started rifling into endless streams of dizziness. The floor had always been my support for unwanted weight as I fell uncontrollably. I was not heavy but rather light, light like the feet that had carried me. As the phone swelled up my ears began to quiver, calling for it’s dial tone. I provided reason before I inherited speech and carried out my words, but was never clear about things. My lips were filled with lust and jealousy. In an instant the irresistible memory had been broken into orgasmic participles that filled my senses. I was intrigued and ready to say anything to get what I wanted. It ran in my knowledge before I ever saw it, but it never happened as I planned. It was as if the word rhetorical had been replaced with a question mark. Why doesn’t it ever happen on a drunken phone call? The infinite waste of contacting that person. For why was I so foolish to think they would want to cotton up their dreams for a feeling of wetness. I called, no answer.

graffiti peace

2008-09-07T13:11:00.001-07:00

Being fearless is attempting to press the cap down and allowing the paint to drip. Being nervous is what keeps the heart at peace. For adventures lure on walls of unsatisfied color. Empty inside with no remedy. Before I explored each horizon, the scenes became clear. An inch closer to relaxation. Where angles are memorized hand movements creating life. We project an image parallel to our views and touch up on them in our minds. For before we even paste it, we have already set its mood. What feeling do they get when they look at you?, the art that is. And what does that feeling mean to me? A reflection of self identity in terms of design. An outline triggered by creative anxiety that explodes only when we have not finished our work. You’re a one dimensional advertisement that speaks of many languages, one I have learned to understand. For our relationship is about timing and timing is all I have. I will start with the color black and end it with your point of view. See you tomorrow.

Télépopmusik inspired...

2008-09-07T12:04:00.003-07:00

Allow me to drift away from poetry for a second and introduce a sound I have become familiar with. Télépopmusik is a French electronic music group that allows my thoughts to stick to paper. Songs like 'brighton beach' inspire me to add in that extra thought that was left behind. They place me in a state of wonders, where only I have control of my own feelings. I know I'm hyping them up a little to much, but their taste is flavorful and its worth the bite. Check them out.

Album of choice: Télépopmusik - Genetic World (2002)

walking on eggshells

2008-09-07T01:57:00.001-07:00

I would like to start an argument with myself. One that will place me in a position where I can explore my own thoughts. A feeling of misunderstanding and vague. I would like for Eduard to point out all my insecurities and mistakes one day, but not today. For my boundaries are caving in and I’m out of legroom --it's my turn to exhale. Being afraid of the type of reaction I’m going to get, I speak louder, LOUDER!, I said. For only the air is molded with ears that can inhale my noise. I will explain scriptures that only I can encrypt. This language of mine that I have kept hidden from him. I am almost there, I gently whisper. This silence that has been laid away for Armageddon. You see, reactions are critical in Eduard’s chapters. He plans ahead as if everything had already happened. Don’t capture it Eduard, let it surprise you. I am not here right now, but when I arrive I’ll be sure to let myself know your listening in. Break through your selfish ways and think of a time when a smile polluted your skin, and then, only then, allow me to open up your mind. For Eduard once said, “I inch deeper for affection to feel my presence” and had never again repeated himself there after. I enjoy his company as if it were my own. I hope that by being very vigilant in all that I say and do, his inflated behavior might be reduced or avoided. I have to go now, for Eduard has just snapped back into my head.

shadows

2008-09-06T00:47:00.002-07:00

Another day has passed where you don’t look back, wondering if your shadow is still there. The only thought in your head is whether to appreciate the darkness behind you or turn your back to the sun, allowing it to follow in front of you. You pause, you wait, and fall into a trans of hallucinations. Be calm, stay still. Imagine yourself perfectly balanced. "It's not you," you say, it's you, the outline that fell deep in love with black, the filled up space that calls for no attention, but your own. Connected to the feet it spreads its mark like water pastel. You smile. It reacts with a blank face. "Take me for a walk," the shadow whispers, "through a dessert filled with fish and oxygen." Random, No!, it’s just a hallucination. Each movement becomes a mimic worth seeing, so symmetrical, so revealing. This is your only chance to find your self. Fall. And allow gravity to take its part. But be careful, your shadow might not like your company, for it has never truly felt your presence.

my keyboard

2008-09-06T00:47:00.001-07:00

My keyboards are my keys with a pianos grace combining thought and reason. I have forgotten the last time my fingers felt this relief, this satisfaction, this awkward hello. I have become its touch. Nothing left but scattered letters all alone at darks end. Make sense for a change. Your 119 keys apart. Half awake you glance at patterns in my eyes, wondering what I’m going to express next. Still and motionless, I forget. And then begin breathing again. A thought surfaces, well maybe a letter, at which point the strokes of each finger vibrates. I’m it’s perfect feeling, It’s way of enjoying gravity. But to me it is a friend, just a friend and nothing more. “I’m sorry” it writes, as I type it in. Well who is sorry then, me or you? Awkward I felt, but never the less I continued on. As each minute passed, it called for attention, hungry for the texture of my fingertips. I’ve never looked away, I never smiled, I just followed each letter to the next until it all made sense, until the letters appeared parallel to my views with the color of clouds behind it; on a sunny day. Enter. Sent. Still waiting for a reply as my eyes catch the spaces in between each key. A space crammed with air, where only they can feel its breath. A place of wonders wrapped around small pieces of metal and plastic. I could only imagine the satisfaction it’s getting, the type of orgasms it’s receiving. I pause. Allowing my index finger to get stuck on uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu……….

the moon

2008-09-06T00:47:00.000-07:00

I’m going to get there without a blink of an eye. The pleasure of its texture will keep my heart competing. Across its rough textures I will float mile by mile until I come to an end. There is no end. But how am I going to do it? Simple. Imagine. Take a deep breath and enjoy its company for you are the source. “I am the source,” you utter to yourself. Allow it to digest through endless streams of noise as it tumbles, but don’t move. Stand still as if you have just seen god. Puzzled. Now continue to move slowly into it. Into what? You know what. The frustrations. The fear. The countless heart attacks before each step you take towards responsibility. I am here. No, you’re a inch away. An inch so thick it can extend to the moon and bypass gravity. For we all fall, but then again some do get up. But then again some don’t. Are you ready? No!, well no one is. Push yourself to the edge and relax. The winds are calm but not friendly. And your conscience, well your conscience is pathetic. For you believe, but you don’t react. Sparkles are ones enlightenment of lights combining to sooth the eyes. What does this have to do with anything? It doesn’t. Continue. Foresee the explanations and doubts, the screams of dissatisfaction, the calls for failure. Embrace embracement and childhood extremities for you are not a child to any further extent. You are the creator and not just it’s character. Listen to your stories but don’t number your chapters, for they are very sensitive when placed in a category. Dream, and eventually it will become reality. Find yourself, and make me want to get to know you. I have to blink, I declare. “So blink!,” the moons says. Welcome….