Ye Olde Archive Archived Posts: 2004-2009


Remembrance of things present

Today feels like a dream,
of which tomorrow is the memory.

So I admit, I have no idea what that means.
Being tomorrow, that means that
today is the memory of yesterday’s dream.
That doesn’t make any sense either.
Anyway, it sounded nice when I wrote it.
Perhaps one day someone can explain my mind to me.
Moving on.

My dad left today, after a few-day visit.
It’s been a couple years (since I moved to Ohio),
and it was nice to catch up and see each other.
On the other hand, after more than a solid week
of visitors, it’s going to be nice to be able to relax
and get done what I need to get done. I really, really
would like to be able to sit down and finish my book sometime
soon! I’ve been reading the damned thing for over a month now,
and with a book as good as this is, that’s pure torture.

So, I’ve been thinking over my thoughts and reactions
on relationships and the female species. I’ve always believed
that some level of naive optimism is healthy in an
approach to relationships; indeed, I prefer optimism in regards
to all things, no matter how ridiculous.

Everything’s for the best in the best of all possible worlds.

Optimism - Positive Thought - Hope - Rarr…
… it’s such a challenge to keep these emotions from
feeling sophomoric; to avoid cynical detatchment and a cold
perspective on the world and human interaction.
I want to believe in the basic goodness of the human spirit!

Why is this sometimes so difficult?

Filed under: love, personal, poetic No Comments

Rock the transitional

Weaving through lives in transit,
thoughts in transition,
banish hesitations like you
drop a transmission.

That’s my rhyme.

Today passes like a dream,
of which tomorrow is the memory.

Filed under: poetic No Comments

Je t’aime, potates.

Two poems I wrote yesterday at Vita.

– Like drawing with a white pen –

Sketches capture souls,
like photos to the tribesmen,
like poems capture sentiment.

I’m the rough draft of my life,
shading incomplete;
random lines thrown out from my form
like an etch-a-sketch aura.
I offer myself up for completion.

My colors: white on white;
a gray-scale mentality;
high-contrast invisibility,
like a chameleon blending in with itself.

Come paint me with your impressions:
my skin in hues of music;
my hair: tendrils of blue-period bleak;
my shadow: melting sunbeams over wildflowers.

Sketches capture souls
like poems, sentiment;
like you, me.

– Colors of the flesh –

Spines fluid; weaving mobility,
sweat down the backbone:
rain flushed down pipes; smells like Summer.
Gutteral chants to hearts’ drumbeats,
an ancient rhythm.

You: sultry, sticky-skinned siren;

Hand hover over hope,
rub the flesh-colors out to expose
God’s palette.
We scream denials of external divinity.
Our colors are our own.

As breaths become strong and fragile
and break against the window-panes;
fingers interwine like spider-thread,
tighten, knuckles pale and red.

All energies collapse, eventually:
stars to suns in the cold black,
skies fall under their own weight.
We fall in gasps,
break windows with our silent screams,
and release our fire into the air
so that the day might rise.

A lot of realizations lately,
some hard to come to terms with.
Ideals to aspire to,
but I’ve come to realize that even ideals,
in and of themselves,
can be treacherous.

Struggling quietly with Voltaire’s:

“Everything is for the best,
in the best of all possible worlds.”

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Rock steady, Bebop.

Yeah, so I was a big TMNT fan when I was younger.
Michelangelo was my favorite.

More work is possible:
job open at the Oly Public Biblioteque.
My fingers are tired of being crossed anymore;
I’ve just decided to get this job,
no luck involved.

Of late, lifestyle like a rockstar:
past-midnight shenanigans ’til 2,
life like le cinéma de l’absurde;
existence doling out decadence like
a chocolaterie: flavorful, but taxing.
[A secret: shhhhhh, (finger to my lips)
I’m not so Dionysian as I let on.]

I’ll slow things down, now.
Live life like easy as it looks;
practice moderation in all but enjoyment.
I love these quiet moments also.

I’ve begun to rethink my life,
from the beginning. I think now that
I climbed out of the womb the wrong way.
Looking back, I would have done it differently.
[Sorry, just being absurd; I’m tired.]

I have been thinking about my translations,
and that it’s been too long since I’ve done one.
[Je traduis le poésie francais en anglais.]
Perhaps some Verlaine, or a passage of Lautréamont.
Something decadent: lush images, poets lost in existence.

It’s widely believed that things get lost in translation;
no-one ever mentions what might be gained.

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Bright Center of the Island

My japanese name is ? Akira (bright) ?? Nakashima (center of the island) .
What’s your real japanese name, hmmmm?

The web’s full of such random nonsense.
That doesn’t mean it’s not fun sometimes.

Filed under: internet No Comments