Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Love, Me.

I can’t command your tears to stop flowing
I cannot demand that your soul stop weeping

I can only pretend to not see it
Or see past through them
And offer only
A stony silence in response

So that through your blurry vision
You only get to see the stoicism
I borrowed from the girders
Of this city I so love

Donning their cold facades
Their reticent heights of pride
Vicarious expressions are
All I permit myself before you

They stand proud for me
And I do the same for you
It’s the way they show the best that can be
And I offer all their best to you.

Love,
Me.

Friday, February 10, 2006

Living Like Gods

Morning searing
Of tea-table talk
Eyes jabbing
My delicate heart
My soul itches
In rapid flashes of motion
A silent sip
Of brewing emotion

His naked thighs move
Mountains of air
The bath water yearning
In steamy despair
Seconds pass in moments
Of time
My quivering lips lusting
Divine

Tasting the pungent
Warm vial of life
Drinking like wine
The dark opium of night

My twisted tongue
His succulent spine
My burning palms
Our legs entwined

This morning waits
Its jealous turn
To see, to sin,
To lust, to yearn

His flesh-laden secret
Between those thighs
Drenched in decadent bath’s
Violent cries

The love is too large
For the walls of this home
He must ascend to the heavens
And demand God’s throne

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Nature's Song

On ebbing crescents
of silver waves, I see
memories gathering
percolating
crashing

It's mournful sighs
whispered to pearly pebbles
like faded stars twinkling
slowly
swaying

Every blue memory reflected
every stony silence rejected
it's gushing sounds
echoing through Van Gogh's clouds
in muffled hearts
weep a lover's Psalm

Mine eyes add another drop
to the torrent of his saline tears
my hands reach out to grasp
his soul
sinking
in dark nights of fear

Under the grey moonlit mantle
A sad river reveals my passion
water-colored paintings
of pearly smooth pebbles
with every smile for your thoughts in me
the river stops a moment
to sigh with me

Monday, January 09, 2006

God Was Having Lunch at the Picasso

When beams of rapid brilliance
sliced through the belly of heaven
It stood still in shocked reverence
And the clouds
grew giddy...
Languorously crawling
Their lowly bodies,
Their meek spirits
Hugging the cold skin of sandblasted glass
Writhing around swollen girders of vertical dominance
Their long necks breathing in the misty fog of pride
And yet their knees bent
Touching the earth
They worshiped the hallowed ground
Where the waters pucker their lips
In anticipated frenzy to kiss the waltzing breeze
And humbly bowing - they knelt
In revered homage to royal countenance
- God was having lunch at the Picasso -

Stolen Music

One day he offered to crystallize his love disguised as pain onto a flat disc.
With such timid eyes and anime smile he spoke of the mountains and valleys, and streams and rivers, and cascades and lakes, jolted alive by the beats of his viscera -- rhythmic, pulsating, modulated vocal stresses that named the emotions gone unspoken.

He gave it to me.

I held it for a few moments, contemplating all that this flat, round piece of plastic contained.
I was distantly shocked at the brutality of such a manifestation: of seeing all that is so pure, and so benevolent, and so profound, being bound and burned on this disc.
Nonetheless, the moment I pressed a little button, it all gushed out with the force of a storm and assuredly subsumed my being.
I sat looking at nothing, but looking still, staring... like as if I saw those mountains and those valleys and those streams and those rivers, and those cascades and those lakes... I saw them all before me.
And he stood above them all, like the glory of a messianic second-coming, he stood -- his hair still a moppy mess, his anime smile and timid eyes.
I wondered, is this possible?
I know its not a dream because I'm not asleep!
I know its not real because I'm here in my home.
But what is this state of membraneous time warp I find myself happily trapped in?
The vision lasted for as long as I could hear the sound of his love.

What does love sound like?
Like this, I thought:
Like the sound of his heartbeat in your ear even when he's not around.
Like the whisper of his breath that you can hear even in the midst of a storm.
That is what love sounds like.

Soon, the vision was blurred until it fully disappeared and I was transported back to my drab living room couch.
I turned to see who was sitting next to me, and I saw a different person.
He sat perplexed and enraptured, like as if he had witnessed the exact same things I did -- or did he just see them reflected in my eyes?
In any case, he must have felt some enchantment from that experience within himself, for he slyly paced around contemplating what his next move should be.
He waited stealthily and patiently in the glare of bright daylight,
for he knew he shouldn't be so obvious of his intentions by lurking in the dark shadows.
And when the time seemed right to him,
he grabbed the rivers of melody with his bare hands,
shrouded the radiance of its tormented love,
and left without a word;

Stolen forever...
mountains and all.

Silhouette Romance

This morning,
I didn't know if you were preparing for battle,
Or just accepting your victory.
You woke up early and quietly walked to the threshold,
Dragging my sleepy gaze behind you.
I saw you looking out at the sun
With such careless disdain,
Like it was some silly joke.
Its blazing flames
licked the edges of your skin,
Taunting you,
and burning you.
But you were so much brighter;
And yet I could not see your face,
Nor the details of your naked body.
I only saw the shape of your angular form
Standing defiantly at the edge of sunlight
Sheilding my eyes from its stinging rays.
I held my gaze
In vacant stupor
And witnessed the delicate orchestration
Of light and shadows
Conspiring to create this burning effect;
A seductive silhouette.

Feasting on Seconds

Moonlight dripping quiet fog
hovering shadows never letting loose

In the vastness, I walk...
in s l o w thinking movements
crushing the tired grass
ripping their hearts

I ponder the ominous air
And swallow the timorous sky

gulp in...
breathe out

The wind is mocking me
its taunting laughter
its foreboding cries
close to my ear

I open my lungs
blanket the wind
and smother its density

They watch me bare my chest
my bleeding heart...
I know they see
with salivating eyes

In hungry patience they await
the silence of my being
to smell my decaying body
to gouge my succulent eyes
and drink from the vial of my glands

I look right back at them
with eyes as terse as steel
but my thumping heart
rises in decibels deafening my ears

And they see my shivering limbs
their tongues
lick off the streams of my seeping blood
Their low rumbles reek of impatient greed

Only seconds more... I think

The moon watched in embarrassed silence
And hid her sadness behind her curves

Let me not know the manner of my death
I pray

Only seconds more...

Your Eyes

You try to hide your love under those long lashes
That shyness flirting at the edges of your eyes

That innocent glance we hold
Giving voice to all unspoken words
Broadly smiling at me in gay abandon

It beckons me into the satin-cool fabric of your woven dreams
It sweeps me into a fragrant world of beauty and peace
It kisses life between our moments of breathlessness
It tires me with an unending ecstasy of timelessness

Any longer... and I shall die
Any shorter, I’d rather not live.

A Lover's Death

Along with every passing minute
As you lay still on stranger’s bed
I stood watching,
With scales for eyes,
No room for emotion
Not any more.
Only attempts at inadequate expressions.

The emaciated hands of that clock on the wall
Peeled away an hour, and then another
I felt every deliberate pull of time
Tearing tiny fibers of my heart.

Maybe you noticed,
Or maybe you heard the soft sound of muffled pain
Because you mumbled something.

I jumped at the feeble sound of your voice,
Anchoring the possibility of my life
On the very strength of those words –
Every breath you took
Pumped air into my lungs

I focused on the rhythm of your heaving chest
And learned the art of survival.

I never loved you more as
I had loved you then.

In some time,
You woke up and looked at me.
It was a curious gaze –
Like one would look at a fish in a bowl:
Not important enough to contemplate
But fascinating enough to stare

Perhaps it was the scales in my eyes
Or perhaps that is how I always seemed to you:
An object of simple fascination.

I should have known this day would come.
But how could I have seen the signs through my scaly eyes,
They reflected nothing else, but you.

How could I have heard the sounds of the siren,
When I was drowning in the depths of viscous emotions?

While time had further bruised my tattered heart,
You struck the final blow –
And no, not a loud and violent blow. No.
Just a sharp, precise, and gentle sting.
Like a needle in the hands of a surgeon,
You pierced my heart – so expert your actions that
I had not even felt the blood oozing.
In fact, not blood, it was
Love oozing from my heart.
Pushing out through that tiny hole you made,
Slowly but surely it kept flowing.

And then the slow poison of indifference
Crept into my head
It was only then that I noticed what had happened
I had felt no pain – just the void where love should have been
I felt indifference where burning passion should have been

The blow was struck
And I had not even known.
You had drained all the love in me
And I had not even known
You killed me so gently,
You did it so lovingly.

Mundane Morning Commute

You broke the morning sun
On a flat non-stick pan,
The searing sound hissed in my sleep
Your milk and eggs,
Or, your health and strength
Such discipline you demanded
Even the yolk knew better than to seep

In my dreams I wondered
How your hair would look today
Not that I cared too much,
Or that I could care at all,

While you stepped out the door
Into the bathroom, I walked
Squinting at that sleepy-cute face
Admiring me watching myself

The cold breeze kissed you Good Morning
The cold water slapped me wide awake
You walked a short distance,
Carrying the earth behind you
I dragged my towel across the floor

I did not wonder, only for a moment
Where would you be?
Would you be waiting for me?

You couldn't wait
Nor could I wonder
So, I thought,
how is the weather?

Did you have your jacket on?

Surely enough, as I stepped onto the train
And caught your glance glancing at me
I knew why the morning seemed much brighter
Your hair told me of the dream I had
Your warm jacket invited me to your corner

So I sat with you,
Tightly huddled next to you
Our separate mornings had just ended
Our silent poetry had only just begun

Pasha

Pasha. That was the name he was given. He never really cared much for his name; he believed names were so arbitrary. What is more important than a name is that there is something to be named. Existence and above that, life was his highest value. He had always had an indifferent awareness of his own life as important and as necessary, to someone, to something, or maybe to his own self.

Today, he stood looking out the glass door of the train at evening lights of the city through which it advanced slowly. His one arm was bent at the elbow, resting on his hips, while his other arm gently touched the surface of the glass door of the train. He did not notice that his patrician posture betrayed a callous pride in the way an emperor would seem as he surveyed his kingdom, satisfied with what he saw. He felt this was his kingdom; infact more intimately, he felt this was his own living room.

The deep rumbling of the slow-moving train did not seem to bother him as it gingerly navigated the spaces between tall towers. He thought it was only appropriate for the train to be so cautious in its movements, as if showing respect to the pantheon of gods standing proudly all around it, as if entering into the hallowed space of a cathedral and being overwhelmed by the large pillars supporting an arched ceiling.

Pasha got out onto the platform at Quincy. He walked down the stairs of the station and onto the street; he walked like he had a definite purpose and knew where he had to go and the place he had to be. But he had nowhere to go. His purpose was simply to walk the streets of this city that he loved so much. He took such delight in that simple purpose, like walking alongside his old friends and delighting in their company.

The last few rays of the evening sun reflected off of the glass towers and onto the narrow sidewalks, crowded with busy bodies hastily buzzing all around Pasha. But he gaily walked down the empty sidewalk, knowing through some form of knowledge that he was the only one at this moment walking through this city -- it was a love affair that no one else knew about, and no one else could share.

His slender neck was slightly raised so that his eyes could meet the highest point of each building as he passed, as if that were the only most appropriate sign of respect and homage he could offer to the nature of what he saw before him.

Nowhere else did he feel like the way he felt right now. There was no human interaction that could replace or even match the clarity of understanding Pasha shared with these buildings in his city. Humans, he thought, lacked the simple honesty that these tall buildings portrayed. These tall structures of steel and concrete, of glass and stone stood in naked display of their ornamented pride and utilitarian purpose. There was no hiding of their conceit, nor was there any hint of shame in their function.

Pasha wished he could be complete in that way. He wished all humans could atleast have a shred of that innocent pride and frank nakedness. But he was keenly aware of the fact that people hid behind more layers of ostentatious facades than the buildings they erected.

As he was walking down the streets of the city under the evening sun, Pasha felt the distant thoughts of Jardin beginning to rise in his mind. There were times when Pasha felt he had no capacity to communicate. He knew the language, he knew the words, he knew how to string them together to make coherent sentences, but for some reason, the meaning of his words were either lost to his listeners, or he was unable to grasp the meaning in the words they had spoken to him.

Pasha was better at reading people than listening to them. He understood a lot more about people by watching them. Silence, he thought, should be the barometer of effective communication.

Pasha enjoyed his moments of silence with Jardin -- the only friend he had with whom he felt no need to explicitly communicate. Jardin was more than a friend to him. And now, as he felt the soft glow of lights from the buildings fall upon him as he passed by, it seemed only appropriate to him that this experience of serenity was matched by the warm thoughts of Jardin.

He had sat across from Jardin at the restaurant table during his lunch hour. Jardin had made it a habit to take his lunch break with Pasha as often as he could.

"How are you?" Pasha asked.
"Good," Jardin replied.

Both knew fully that neither the question nor the response was obligatory; that they had no need for such casual talk between them. Every instance of verbal communication that they exchanged was a real manifestation of their thoughts - genuine and sincere. Their words were not grappling vacuous space. They both had a clear but implicit understanding that no purposeless words should ever be uttered by their mouths; that language has a necessary function which is to communicate, and it is only to that end that words should be used.

Pasha despised people who used language not to communicate a genuine message but to escape from the responsibility of having to be genuine. For them, language was a like a filler that took up space, occupied their empty minds, and sheltered them from the reality of their discomfort; like a balloon filled with air but empty nonetheless.

Jardin sat back in his seat and looked around. He was glad to be sitting down, finally.

"It was a long day at work today. And I yelled at one of the workers," If he was frustrated, he didn't show it. He said that as if he were telling a joke.

And Pasha laughed in response. “So you have started yelling at people now? I'm surprised you even care that much!"

"I don't. I only remember that I yelled at this guy. I can't remember what he did or what I said to him. You don't expect me to waste my efforts at remembering those inconsequential details, do you!?"

"No", Pasha smiled in reply.

As he raised his fork to his mouth, Pasha for the first time became aware of the sounds around him. It was like a chorus of incessantly senseless chatter.

"I'm on a low-carb diet now," said the woman sitting diagonally across from Pasha. She spoke through the half-chewed piece of juicy steak in her mouth as she reached out to sip her Diet Coke. Pasha noticed how easily she had spread herself on her seat – like some thick liquid spilled onto a chair, having the tendency to flow over but being restrained by its own thick viscosity.

Pasha quickly looked away and tried to focus on Jardin. He could see words all around him in this restaurant. He saw words being uttered, propelled into the air like shooting darts, bouncing off of peoples faces, finally falling onto to the floor. Every word fell with a clang -- like a hundred empty vessels hitting the restaurant floor in quick succession.

No one really bothered to pick up those words. Everyone had taken up the task of simply spouting more words in the hopes that if enough were produced, there would be a better a chance of someone actually grasping it, understanding it.

Pasha and Jardin always picked up each other’s words. In fact, it was in the perfect trade of unspoken words that they had discovered each other. When they met in person for the first time, the words they had exchanged became the faces they beheld. Their meeting was merely an extension of their conversation started long ago.

And today, at this table, the conversation of their life together still continued:

"I know there is a purpose to life," Jardin said, "and I still feel some remnants of the innocent joy I had as a child. But I am losing it now, Pasha. My life seems to be slipping out of my hands, and trying to hold on to it is hurting me too much." His face was numb and expressionless.

Pasha knew that such stoicism could only mean a pain too profound to bear any physical expression. In that moment of intimate understanding, all the chatter of their surroundings dissipated. A giant chasm suddenly ripped their table apart from the rest of the world; the people around them rapidly sank into the descending mud, while Pasha and Jardin rested solidly on a narrow pillar of elevated earth. It seemed like the only sentient purpose of the booth they sat in was to protect the lonely intimacy of these lovers.

Jardin spoke quietly, in slow sadness. His whispers echoed through space like a prophecy come true on judgment day. Jardin felt an odd distance from his words, like as if they were not his. Like as if he were not capable of uttering such emotions. Pasha made no attempt to mitigate the pain in Jardin’s voice. The greatest insult one could hurl at another in such a situation would be to descend into an elaborate pretense at empathy, and utter the greatest lie of all; that everything will be okay. That is the surest sign that the fellow cares a damn about you.

Jardin clutched the napkin in his hands; holding on to it like it would slip away. The plain, white napkin was marred with faint blotches of red sauce. He looked down at his food, thinking how strange it was that he was eating - feeding his body - to what end?

“I cannot go on living this life that I find so disappointing. Shouldn’t I want to demand the best, and live only that? How can I live and hate my life at the same time? Isn’t that a particularly repulsive kind of dishonesty?” Jardin said, so feebly, feeling at once ashamed of himself and angry at his shame.

“You can only demand that which you should deserve, Jardin. Demanding the best life is a demand that you make upon yourself. Fulfilling that demand is infact the process of living.”

“But it’s clearly not worth it.”

“Should your life be worth anything more than itself?”

Jardin did not answer. He did not have an answer. Everything Pasha said made sense - rational sense. But Jardin could not shake off the instinctual feeling that life is not always rational, and things do not always make sense. Humans are not unfeeling, unemotional robots, he thought.

“Right now I feel horrible, and it is only rational for me to want to end it – whatever way I can.” He could not bring himself to say those words.

Jardin raised the fork of salad over to his mouth – and a pang of guilt pierced him. His consciousness could not handle the massive contradiction before him: His body acting in self-preservation while his mind contemplating and desiring non-existence.

Pasha picked up on that momentary hesitation, and knew what Jardin had realized. Both of them knew nothing more was needed to be said – the choice had been made.

***

When Pasha walked his innocent gait that evening, the twinkling lights of the city danced down the streets with him; each the harbinger of a happy day, singing a glorious surrender to his youth, a joyful laughter at the inspiration in his eyes.

Pasha smiled back.

He smiled at the men who built this city. He smiled at their pride and their spirit - to the testament of their power. For this one moment, Pasha wished there were a God in heaven, for that Highest of all Beings would have lowered His head in quiet homage to Man.