Thursday, February 23, 2012

Is Love Wrong?

Is love wrong?
In the face of the world,
Of god,
Of righteousness,
Of dignity?
Veteran crimes hide in eyes concealed.
Is love wrong?
A wave of consciousness, of awareness, of being,
Of mutual appreciation.
 Passionate purpose.
Is meaning wrong?
What is a feeling?
What is a willing?


Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Oatmeal Creme Pie: An Allegory

Oatmeal Pie, I’ve had my eye,
on you now for so long.
I let you be, up on the fridge,
a symbol for what’s wrong.

I pass you by, day after day,
“I’m always here,” you seem to say.

I bite my lip and turn away.
I’ll save you for another day.
Your hearty shell, your sweet insides.
Are pulling on my will and mind, Crème Pie.

Oatmeal Cream, you haunt my dreams,
My mouth, it waters, my taste, it screams.
I want to bite right into you.
I want to wake the dream of you.

I can’t get through, your wrapping’s tight.
But I want to savor every bite. 

Cookie pie, I just might die to taste you on my tongue.
To chew you up and spit you out, you know I’m not that one.
I want you to stay inside me, treat.
And dwell within, residing sweet. 

I want the guilt, the cavity too.
I want the mix, the me and you. 

 Crème Pie, Crème Pie, how I have tried.
Crème Pie, Crème Pie, how I have cried.
You do a number on my will.
If I don’t eat you now, someday I will. 

Crème Pie, Crème Pie, how I yearn.
Crème Pie, Crème Pie, how I burn.
You make it so damn hard to pass,
Despite the weight you give my ass. 

Oatmeal, Oatmeal, Cream, and Pie,
Tell me, tell me, tell me why.
Your sweetness is for to just die,
My heart, my dream, my cookie pie. 

I’m guilty of the passion of crime,
I guess I’ll open that box this time.
I’ll fight the fight, but we soon shall see,
What’s in my belly is a piece of me. 

Your hearty shell, your sweet insides.
Are pulling on my will and mind, Crème Pie.


Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Be My Cynical Valentine

Valentine’s Day.   Bah.  Humbug.  Do I really not like it? 
Who actually doesn’t like a day when someone is almost forced to tell you how much they love you and give trinkets and remembrances?  There are some, I am sure. 

It is just a day after all.  It’s not even rooted in Christianity like St. Valentine’s Day suggests.  In all likelihood there was never even a St. Valentine, or if there was he wasn’t martyred on the 14th of February for refusing to marry people or whatever the Main wants us to believe. 

Valentine’s Day is actually based off of the Pagan holiday of Lupercalia.  Now, this whole story deserves a blog, but an informative one, and I’m not in the mode right now.  Long story short, it was actually the 15th and not the 14th.  Romans basically drew a lottery and whoever’s name you go, that was your sexual partner for the “festival of sexual license”.  This is to say if anyone can prove anything that is written in a book (they really can’t).  So, like all history, your guess is really as good as mine.  Not really, but Valentine’s Day is definitely stolen from Pagans.  The Christians couldn’t keep the Romans from celebrating (how could they, I’m sure they LOVED it) so they basically adopted their holiday and changed it to suit their purpose. 

Friday, February 10, 2012

“I’d have her babies so hard!”

On Facebook talk I was discussing awesome women musicians.  We were saying how we would have the babies of Adele and Tori Amos.  It’s funny how that is the hardest core respect thing you throw out there.  I’d have her babies!  I’d have his baby!  It’s a huge thing, right?  Yeah.  That’s how huge of an offering it is.  That’s why it’s funny.  Because of the truth.  THAT is a deserve.  That is a favor.  I’d have her babies so hard!   She's THAT good.  Oh, yeah. 

Monday, February 6, 2012

A Word or a Rhyme

Time separates and severs,
It wraps around our minds.
Searching and longing,
Waiting to find. 

A thread to bring us back,
A stitch in the quilt of time,
A wrinkle or a ripple,
A word or a rhyme. 

A Bad Day in the Driveway

Sometimes I feel hopeless, like nothing matters and it never will. 
Anything I do is lost in the shallow ripples; the outer ends; the far side.  
Everything I do has purpose, but it is not up to me to ever know this.  
It's all hidden behind the trees, behind the rocks, beneath the dirt.  
I fall to my knees.
The realest thing I know.
The bottom below me - solid and definite, holding me hard. 
The dust on my palms.
The flesh of my knees pushed aside by stone. 
I fall with purpose.
I fall without grace.
I fall without shame.
Where is pride when you have no room to stand?
No leg.
No platform.
No desire.
The idea dried within me long ago, like an ancient well;
Bubbling springs of youth, long gone, 
Swallowed by the sacred sun.
No meaning.
What lies beneath?
What stands behind this reality, like a two way mirror,
Mocking my vulnerability?  

[June 28, 2011]