A Brief History of Beauty and a Plea to Her

All people were beautiful once, until we started to ask why,
Then the haze was new, since we learned to use our eyes.
Judges, self-righteously choosing standards, only served to separate.
When we were beautiful, we were together: a massive conglomerate.
But now, full of scorn, we backstab and chase lofty ideals
And are scared and shocked to find we’ve forgotten how to feel.

Ugly is word of serious connotation,
And is a weapon of sure destruction
When it’s used to further separation.

Beauty please come back, we can learn to hide
Those dastardly lies created in our eyes,
Just open the skies and rain a little fire down,
Burn us back into huddled masses
And bury the haze back in the death charred ground.

The Doomstone

The Doomstone spoke with such vicious clarity
From the pulpit we had built from pessimism.
And I hated every word spewed as it shaded my summer,
The bleak blackness it painted clotting the sun.

Why did our delusions create the Doomstone,
That mass of panic and grief, with reason supporting?
Wasn’t there hope for reprieve in skill or augmentation,
Something to quench the hunger for emptiness and void?

Where are the champions, uncloseted from delusions
And the faulty idealism that diverts ultimate reality?
Where is the stolid optimism, still true to the actual,
But positive enough to eventually conquer the Doomstone?

They cry every time they think of friends
And lost good times made in their social concrete.
I lamented while I feather flew
From fence to fence like a finch,
But second thoughts show I never cried when I left.
I cared, but I never cried.

I am comfortable here,
Keep what you can and go.
I’ll be fine anywhere,
And my next memory
Is the one I’ll wait for,
The one that waits
Is the one worth waiting for.

Why linger on things that are gone?
You can’t have it all anymore,
As much as that might hurt.

The Sweetest Things

The rosen mush of tomato innards
Rushed down from her pursed lips
And bloated cheek pockets,
Both working to keep the rest in.

I'd summoned a guttural emission:
Deep laughter that infected upward
Until her freshly filled mouth
Was distracted enough to oblige.

I have a forte for conjuring smiles
When we steal away in summer
To find a field full of ripe and ready
Plunder that we consume, always delighted.

In these moments I am satisfied
With the joys of Earth's providing heath
And a heart warmer than the rays that
Cast brazen glares into our young eyes;

Her laughter and our summers are
The sweetest things I ever hope to know.

Dancing Like Radicals

I danced like a radical
And assumed I was free.
I let the beat take hold
And the rhythm carry me,
Death to the awkwardness
When I danced in your arms;
Such a plush little girl
Wrapped in such strong arms.

I give you my motion
In exchange for your scent,
Now let our bodies mingle
And share every grinding bit,

Of this song's burning secrets while we
Scrape at the night, and then throw away
The primal thing we made…

Until, at least, the next song is played.

Lingering Lover

I scratched,
retching,
flinging flesh from my arm,
searching desperately
for that vein I knew contained you!

You would be out!
I would be free!

But now, only the mess
and no bloody little you
to throw out with iron stained dregs…

But, the satisfaction
Of knowing and understanding
You would never be out!
Or at least were never where
I could easily find you…

(Someday I will
finally bleed you
away from me!)

Computer Clock

Almost obsessively I check the computer clock
Homed in the right, lower corner of the screen.
I believe it, but check my cell phone time piece…
It agrees. I smile. All is right in the universe.

Powerless

Should I have mentioned
how soft sad your eyes looked
that evening, like you’d been scalded:
a small dog guilty of some human
transgression you didn’t understand yet?

You carried yourself like you were hurt,
but hiding it; you were hiding in yourself.
I could have found you, if I had asked,
but there was no hint that you wanted me to.

You smiled and chatted, but inside
you were a shadow, made larger
because the light behind you is bright
enough to remember, but far enough
away to remain unreachable.

You were not happy, and I,
quietly pushing you along,
was powerless to comment,
powerless to save you at all.

Venting from Frustration

I respect your opinions and will think you wise
But when I hold my theories or musings,
Know it's because I won't have them dragged
Through your unrefined mud of argumentation.

You're too analytical without the tools to analyze.
I understand you are articulate and have opinions,
But I am not impressed with this as the layman is,
It just makes you seem closed minded
Even in your half-promotion of inclusive ideologies.

Talking with you lately has made me tired
So I'll stop for a while to rest.
You disrespect my views and shrug me off
Like I was naive and undereducated.

I am a good friend,
I refuse to point out your disgusting
Arrogance and sanctimony.

You, skating

I noticed you skittering along the cold ice, impersonally,
Trying to find your own space to hide in
Even though saturated in the crowd, whirling around.
Your sad eyes tell the story that your sagging head confirms.
I asked if you should stay on the carpet, you declined
With all the fury of a Joan of Arc or doomed sailor
Facing the angry side of a perfect storm.

You know you are unnatural and awkward on skates,
You should have avoided the ice.
We could have stayed home, now I will have to nurse your pride.
Your stubbornness in the face of failure is beautiful though,
And you have such a vulpine way of being contrary to sense.

A Stranger

I am a stranger in the foreign student computer lab
And dissolve into the screen in front of me
For all the diligent studiers who'll never meet my eyes.

When I stand to leave they'll see through to the walls
And I'll be gone like an unwanted poltergeist,
Finally exercised for some semblance of peace
And a comfortable slice of familiarity.

Goodnight

You watch the clock,
Eye stalking 1 a.m.
like your cat would a shadow.

It sees a shadow crouching in the corner
And stresses back on its haunches.
Your cat stores violence and energy
In the spring ready quicks of its legs.
When the shadow darts the cat attacks,

Nothing dies and Tiger lounges, licking his paws,
Left with only the satisfaction of preparation.
His feral fix left fettered for now.

So you watch the clock and wait for the morning.
Counting your quirky little technicalities
More steadily than the slipping seconds.

You’ve waited and then celebrated,
Keeping me awake with you.
There is nothing different here at 1 a.m.
Your morning is dark and there are no birds.
There is just the still remembrance of yesterday
hiding in the air, begging to be called night,
And unnatural in the skin of tomorrow.

But you deny that and sleep all morning then,
Left with only the satisfaction of staying alive
Through the entirety of your night distinction.

Good morning,
(You make me say it,
But honestly, good night)
I love you,
(Yes, and Tiger too)
Sleep well.

Ocean Eyes

I challenge you in a thousand little ways,
I am the grains of sand hiding on your body
Or in the folds of your clothes after you leave the beach.

My favorite accost: staring into your eyes,
Seeing past that social gloss,
And getting to see into you;
The real you after the uncomfortable
Instant that tells your eyes to glance down,
Or to look away, because the combined force
Of both our gazes cannot be contained
Any longer in the moment.

The current of our energy is too strong
And the connection is gone with the tide.
I let the charm dangle in my blue ocean eyes
And dare you to do the same with me,
But I’ve had practice and am a harder
Oyster to pry; I suppose my pearl is worth it.

I Have Changed

The something else you needed
You could never describe,
And all that searching amounted to nothing.
What you did find you could not make fit.

I would give it all to you, now,
Had I found it,
But the chance is gone
And I would not know where to look.

You searched for so long but failed to find it,
So you faded back into obscurity.
It was the searching that had attracted me,
But failure is a put off so I left.

However, I would help you now,
And that means that I have changed.

Library Coffee

“All beverages must have a lid or top,”
The sign at the library reads,
But as long as I’m drinking,
I’ll read the sign thinking,
That coffee is still best uncropped.

The way the heat swirls,
In caffeine black curls,
Is only beaten in beauty
By the ghostly steam rising
From the bitter tasting whole;
Always surprising when the cup is full.

How, then, sinful should it sound
To cover that art when books are around,
And every thought is in need of inspiration?
Using white plastic lids soundly forbids
The experience of that visual sensation,
And libraries ought not to house such hostility.

On Your Birthday

Your teeth will grind against each other
like your inadvisably high heels do
on the sidewalk as we stroll down Second Ave.
(or is it Second Street?),
to the Bistro to meet with friends and family.

You will be nervous
and will flicker just as frightened
as the candle flames reaching for the safety
of the ceiling from our table.

Your spirit wobbles like the chairs with uneven legs.
Why do you falter every time I gather love for you?

You tie your hair back, out of your face,
like it was the first time I could glimpse
your forehead, and I forget
if you are even trying to impress me anymore.

I would ask you to dance if I knew that you did,
but you never dance; not with people around.
I’ll ask later, at home, with the shades drawn,
and when you are in a pair of my old sweatpants,
my discarded gym couture.

You will be in a thin cotton tank top
asking if we have any ice cream.
We do, but I’ll only scoop it after
we dance, because we have all of your
favorite records and all night, too.

Questions on Weakness

When is it acceptable to admit a weakness? We strive to be such stolid columns that any sign of decay, the ebb of cracks on our polished marbled surface, can send even the most solidly constructed of our numbers into despair. When that abstract standard of normal is broken how long should a victim wait before admitting they are not perfect? Which still is the harder admission, the admission to self or the admission to those around you who have potentially help proliferate the weakness? Why are quirks even called weakness? Do they not define person and individuality? Are we not all collections of varying weaknesses? Why is it important for everyone to be strong? Is not strength a comparative quality? Can I, in my perceived weakness and rife with society's deemed flaws, provide the strong with a postulate of what to avoid? In my acceptance of my weakness do I not make more room for the strong? Do I not inherently submit to be conquered?

Silence

Silence shatters sound as shamelessly as the relation reversed,
but more powerfully;
silence soaks the life from sound completely.
Chatter's broken neck lies as limp as the ripped hope for discourse
In the piled awkward of silence's hidden corners.

Eye contact is glamorous but so cursed
when accompanied on either side by silence,
A din of lead in could provide all the passion,
but when eyes meet without context
the moment has no soul.

This is what silence does during its sinister
reign over our tongues with forced second guesses
from our yearning-to-communicate minds.

Little Light of Mine

I don’t let my little light shine anymore.
I did once, but I have put the flame out.
Only lonely hearts welcome lights that keep them awake.

I’d rather take a long, refreshing sleep.
I’ve grown weary and deserve my rest.
There’s plenty of time to blind myself relighting it later.

Legs

All that was left of you
when I burrowed from the trap
of your comforter,
sprang upon me
in a moment of playful capture,
was your legs.

They smelled like lotion and vanilla
and the shine of them sent streaks
of reflected ceiling light
toward your framing knees and ankles.

I had fallen from the couch
trying to reconquer the blanket,
and had landed, defeated,
at the alter of your feet.

I love when your legs are freshly shaven,
still juicy from hints of moisturizer;
such a sight for freedmen’s eyes.

Elders

I had an idea once
But I sold it to the elders
To help with their productivity.

Their ancient smiles wrinkled
Their gravel eyes
And the sandpaper stubble
Around their pale, fleshy lips
Bounced with their laughter.

I help to hide the power of the youth.

I did my job;
I helped with their productivity.

Flowers for Smiles

Her diseased breath rolled out of the car and onto all of the flowers,
It was irresponsible of her to ruin our day trip,
the floral field I had found was for her.

Her sundress was new,
wrinkling in the leather of my passenger seat.
I hated the print.

She had asked for a surprise
and her eyes told me not to ignore her this time.

I wanted her to leave me, desperately,
but I wanted her to smile more.
She deserved it.

But we fought on the way out to the daisies or posies;
they were not roses.

The argument made her horrible
and I hated her again.
When she is angry, I assume she is sick.
She was terminal then.

The trip was ruined and crumbled
into another failed attempt to remind ourselves of love.
I’ll suffer through her cancers until she smiles again,
that might give me the courage to leave.

Perhaps I’ll just surprise her with a vase of flowers next time.
That might not upset her as much.

University Blvd.

Mockingbirds mimic, yet I am not fooled,
The breeze-in-the-leaves song also soothes.

Rubber soled shoes grind steadily on the gravel,
But leaves bustle by busier than my shoes or I.

Streets are filled and emptied on a stoplight's whim,
I stop walking until the crosswalk sign tells me to start again.

My chest bounces from my gate and steadily hardy breaths;
The spring swells the shops with hopefully rich clients.

Spirits wither and raise, falling then up, until the night calls in,
Then they soar until the sour taste of morning begins.

A stanza

Freed from the rigors of meaning,
Man can now assign his own.
What use is there projecting hope
Into isolation, loneliness, and cold?

For Lampasas, Texas

I could hurt myself all night
Staring at photographs I should have been in.
What happened to my life?
Didn’t I have a path, didn’t I have a path?

What road have I chosen?
And with all this dirt, where can it lead?
Didn’t I have a gravel black blacktop dream?
I suppose everyone wakes up, it’s not just me.

I see so clearly where I’d stand
If I hadn’t left, I know where I’d be.
I waited for it, but it was not reserved.
You couldn’t have saved the spot for me.

It’s fine, I concentrate on what’s mine,
I try to steal away the time
From what I spend lamenting for this,
I just miss the possibilities of my past.

I had a role
I had a home
And no matter how hard I build
I can’t see to find one here.

I’m just a renter.
I just rent the space I have.
When I’m gone it will be bought,
And I’ll be on to another old thought.

A Get-together

When the catgut spasms wither across my ears,
Stirred first by strokes of horse tail,
My cowhide covered feet tap

And I can stare away from the clamp-lights,
Strategically dug into porch cover cross beams,
Into the evening must, and I locate,
Naturally drawn to the disturbance,
The twinkle of lightning bugs.
I'll keep my feet taping for their thunder.

And as this lamb's wool shirt dampens,
Soaking up the proof of a celebration,
Maroon specks of lady soldiers assemble.
They organize and march over our supper,
Beginning a line dance of their own,
And carrying away our dregs,
But carrying away their subsidence.

When the catgut stops purring,
We'll be purified from our own exhaustion,
And a little closer to our condemned corner
Of the lost lush of Eden.