Sunday, March 10, 2013

Blush - Typewriter Poem

So I decided to try a write a poem in the style of Tyler Knott. This was the result.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Favorite First - 100 words

As time came to close on our impromptu rendezvous I grew anxious, waiting, anticipating. Thirteen minutes then fourteen, time to part ways; a hug you wanted so I obliged, leaning into your embrace.

Then, your eyes met my gaze, and shortly there after the warmth of your lips pulsed through mine.

Warp speed freeze frames of synchronized motion, steam rising off our bodies pressed against the cold steel.

A few seconds forever engrained, your lip in mine as we slowly parted ways. An abrupt end to our fifteen minutes of fame, my heart beating thrice with every step you take. 

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Self Portrait

In the process of reflection,
I’ve stretched and pulled apart,
Dissected and peeled away,
Layers and layers of filth.

The thoughts that flutter in and out my waking consciousness have now been color-coded and categorized,
Placed in their corresponding corners of the ever expanding catacombs of my mind.
I have watched hesitantly as they are pushed through the tight mesh of the flour sifter,
Falling, individually, to be seen, no longer clumped together in a mess of uncertainty.

One might think this produces clarity,
one might assume conclusions have been drawn.
Yet, I leave the board in a stalemate.
Nothing gained or lost. A defeat in a way.

I expected to feel better, justified even.
However the files that grow fatter are not the ones of merit,
Bitterness, shame, guilt, selfishness, pride,
The subcategories under “Bad Things I Do Well”

I feel less than justified, a little more ragged than before,
And for that I have reason to hope.
“When a man is getting better he understands more and more clearly the evil that is still left in him. When a man is getting worse he understands his own badness less and less.”  - C.S. Lewis

Thursday, April 19, 2012

14. Block

It’s a process, you know?

The pen scratches against the beloved yellow legal pad; two sentences in, hastily ripping the marred sheet away to reveal the next. Then, crumpling aforementioned sheet into non-aerodynamic ball to be sent flying across the room towards trash bin half-full of identical counterparts.

Start over with brilliant first line inspired by real emotion and promptly get lost in said emotion for so long that words no longer come and the thought of attempting to articulate is mildly overwhelming.

Repeat process. New topic, and here is where I’m found. Writer’s block, an explanation for the hiatus. 

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

13. Planes

I watched, listlessly, as the planes took off and landed, their jet streams billowing and slowly dissipating across the sky in the city that never sleeps.

I found it interestingly beautiful, the criss-crossing patterns in every direction momentarily painting the clear blue sky.

It’s fascinating that something as fundamentally ugly as pollution could delight the senses in such an aesthetically pleasing way.

Then I thought that it is not so different from anything else. I’m constantly dressing up the ugly and presenting it as beauty. 

The temporary beauty always dissipates leaving behind an invisible trail of pollution, in essence, ruin.  

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

12. Managing Miles

It’s a tragedy, these fissures and voids that lie between.

I hate that it isn’t simple, that my arms can’t reach, can’t cover the gap, can’t wrap around in times of need.

We’re left to maneuver the open lines of communication.

But alas, letters and phone calls don’t satisfy my imagination.

I’d rather it be that we are settled comfortably in sections of our fictional fort built with blankets and chairs.

In my favorite version of managing the miles, the giggles and secrets and everything else vibrate across the expanse of string attached to the empty can against my ear. 

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

11. A Novel Idea

The little bell that jingles when I walk through the door always makes me feel invited, and even though I don’t like cats I tolerate Emerson’s affectionate nuzzle against my leg.

“Maybe I’ll revisit Emerson today, Ralph Waldo that is, or maybe Thoreau, or Steinbeck, or some other classic literature giant,” I thought as I ran my fingers over the stacks of cracked spines.

No matter how often I read them, I will not tire of the eloquence in East of Eden, Walden Pond, Self-Reliance.

You see, they make me feel more my age; these persuasive men, these yellowed pages.