Standing on the Edge… (beginnings)

Standing on the edge of the abyss, predisposed to failure, I step confidently forward. I had warned me…

We communicate in a given language. We have loosely agreed on gestures and symbols, Through Television, Literature, Film, Life, (and other over-directed productions) we have built the skeletal framework of mutual expression. We have not, however, achieved mutual understanding. <this is crudely overstated, I know> We have adopted a stylized system of grunts, rumbling and feeble flailing that vaguely share our needs and wants with others. These words and actions have been distilled over time and instilled in us.

The way we each personally view the world, our own internal musings, and the way we make sense of those things is highly stylized. It is not the same for any two of us. Our values are different. Certainly, our experiences have been different. The nuances of our personalities are Wholly Peculiar. It is naive to put too much faith in the casual understanding we feel through mere coexistence. Communication is not a function of logistics, proximity does not breed unity. Some things are just too important to be taken for granted. Just because someone reacts on cue – does not mean that they have truly received us.

Our interpreted existences do not mesh as neatly as you think. We are going to have to work at this people. But if we do… just perhaps we will touch.

Anglo-Cristo (a poem with teeth)

Such a White Man

Blue eyed, trimmed beard, robes on

A small lamb in his arms

He’s knocking at a door

 

His face benign, omniscient understanding

The look both Mormon boys showed hours before

When their staunch white shirts

Left shadows at my door

 

Though I clench my teeth still tighter

Yet, that picture image lasts

As a pox on the existence

Of this Iconoclast

 

For I’ve seen your personal version of God

In the shoebox you keep on your shelf

He’s a two-dimensional black-and-white fraud

And he looks a whole lot like yourself

 

Step back from your homogenizations

Don’t distill your God down to you

Don’t revel in weak illustrations

Untie Him and let Him come through

 

Language Troubles (dissecting of speech)

I am having a little trouble with language.

Specifically, the term “Bi-weekly”. You see it means BOTH twice a week and every two weeks. So, when my hot new girlfriend says that we should make love bi-weekly – I’m flummoxed. Now granted, we are just getting to know more and more about each other (and things are flowering nicely, thank you) but if she wants sex with me twice a week… I’m very excited about that. If she meant every other week… I’m thinking that maybe she’s a prude.

Again, there is still much about this woman I don’t know. Is she a clever shopper – or does she ‘Buy Weakly’? Maybe she shops, only, every Saturday which means that she Buys Weekly.

What if her sexual orientation is not what I assume, and she is ‘Bi’ Weekly – or every other week in which case she would be ‘Bi’ bi-weekly. More confusing yet, would be, if she’s not very good at being ‘Bi’ but intended to keep working at it. So, for the present time she is ‘Bi’ bi-weekly weakly.

Does she even know any bisexual people? It is hardly a common ‘getting to know you’ question. I really never thought to ask. She certainly never asked me. If you don’t know anybody in your social network who is bisexual can you solicit that sort of behavior? Perhaps rent the experience? Is she the kind of woman who would buy ‘Bi’ bi-weekly’? And if her purchasing skills are inept… again she would buy ‘Bi’ bi-weekly weakly.

Fact: Dating is tough.

Just a few short paragraphs ago I was getting laid twice a week by a dynamic and eager new love. Now I’m thinking that every other week I’m getting set aside in a uni-gendered tryst of ambiguous proportions. One week I’m happy as a clam. The next it’s: “bye bye, I’m off to buy ‘Bi’ bi-weekly weakly. Love you!”

I could revise my previous ‘Fact’ statement into: “love is hard to come by” – but the homonyms I could twist out of that one could warp my suddenly fragile ego.

Bye!

The Ogre (a poem)

So, it’s over, and you’re leaving – I can handle that

I think you’re gonna be surprised how strong ‘not knowing’ has helped me be

Because it’s hard to have doubts when you love someone

But harder still when fear, becomes reality.

 

I don’t so much mind the mess my life’s become

It seems a mess is more-or-less what it’s always been

But I noticed at the moment that my world fell in

I heard a most penetrating scream

And I kinda think that scream came from me

 

So, it’s over, you don’t love me, and you’re leaving

I’ll just cuddle up tonight beside my insecurities

I’ll mend the tattered fabric of what was my dreams

Then watch the darkness rush in through the seems

As I wake up sweating from my only dream

Awakened by a penetrating scream

 

Every person has a demon they hold on to

Me, I’ve got an Ogre, he lives beside me

If I turn my head, quite quickly, I can spot him

He’s not as hard to deal with, as he used to be

But every now and then that Ogre Screams

And the people turn their heads and look at me

I tell them life quite often’s not the way it seems

And it isn’t turning out how I thought it would be

 

It’s been over for a year now and I’ve dealt with it

I’ve been tossing placid pebbles – across a caustic sea

And if I catch your eye, won’t you say “hello”

As I mumble to myself, shuffling barefoot down your street

When you left it brought a change in me

Brought on by a penetrating scream

Now things aren’t quite the way I thought they’d be

But I’m pretty sure they’re not the way they seem

 

And every now and then that Ogre screams

 

Quintessence (a love poem)

 

With Zeal I sought the Camelot

Quixote like it seems

My heart unfurled, as senses whirled

A world alit with dreams

 

Her kiss inspired, my senses fired

The dream became a form

The shape of she, it is for me

Quintessence soft and warm

 

I thought I’d found a love profound

A soulmate to adore

But boundaries formed – and I forlorn

Pressed in, and pressed some more

 

I did not want a nonchalant

I dreamed in ‘future tense’

The zealots find, heart swept and blind

Is: I’m a fool, with little sense.

 

I love her face, her wit and grace

Though ‘flawless’, she is not

Sometimes ‘embrace’ needs be more space

But hear her – I did not