thnks fr th mmrs

I'd like for once --
just this once --
to not write about
u and I
and all this melancholy.
I'd like to try this once
but as I look over these last few lines
I realize
I'll always make my excuses,
ransack my mind for another reason,
and this time it'll be because
we never learned
to write without
vowels.

So Much

She gets headaches and heartburn
from thinking and feeling too much.
She tries too hard
but she doesn’t know it.
She deserves the world
but hasn’t yet realized it.
I don’t know much
but I know these things.
Trust me.
She shakes under all the weight of the universe,
though
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her ask for help.
I’d gladly lend a shoulder
to help carry the burden.
We think too much,
we could go in one direction for all time
if it wasn’t for our minds.
I get the feeling
that it would be easier
to not feel but she tells me I’m wrong.
And she must be right,
she knows everything.
Believe me.

It was love at first sight.

I wasn't so sure. He liked to speak in low tones and chat about nothing and the universe. He gave me food for thought and asked if I understood. I just nodded my head. I wondered if I really did understand him. He liked coffee and non-fiction and running in the cold. I felt uninteresting. I felt like an adult. This was an adult conversation. He smiled at me and I knew I was in love. I felt like a teenager.

I wondered if I’d ever felt happy until this moment. I wondered why I needed him to be happy. I wondered a great many things until I gave myself up to the feeling. Love is like feeling alive. As if, before this moment, I was dead inside just moving along without any real concept of what it was like to live. It gave me reason. I hated it. With every fiber of my being, I hated that he was the one who made me feel this way. I know now it was love at first sight, yes, but I wasn’t happy about it.

The Red Shift

With time everything recedes
fading into the blended rosés and clarets
of a lifetime.
I have you written in intensity,
fingers pressed along the pulse
beating ferociously against the inevitably of
time’s ticking hands.
We tried to hide behind pleasantries
and a chorus of silence
to forget about the unseasonably hot weather,
or was it just me?
Anyway,
back then
everything was in fresh blues.
Approaching at the speed of light,
we would’ve never guessed how it might effect us,
we just woke everyday.
But slowly,
slowly but surely,
the warmth is ebbing from my fingertips --
you know, the extremities are the first to go --
and everything that was once in bloom
is frosting over,
and it’s harder to enjoy.

A Life Less than Ordinary

"Why are you here?"

Good question.

Why am I here? For all I know this could be a dream. The human experience could be completely unpurposed. Everything in life could be a massive coincidence. We're being cheated by our brains into thinking life is more than it is. Sensationalizing every encounter, memory, emotion, etc. all for naught. Perhaps nothing happens for a reason; perhaps the conception of good and bad is unfounded. Maybe the construction of right and wrong, as well, is baseless. Maybe we’ll never know.

Why am I here? In fact, why are all of us here on Earth? I might be here to change the world (For the better? Possibly.), or I might be here to make change for a dollar for the next person who asks. That might be all I'm good for. Maybe my kind act is nearly ineffectual but that's beside the point. We could all use a little change, right?

Why am I here? In order to conceive over 100 million sperm fight to fertilize the egg, but all of us living now are the one that won. 1 to 99999999 chances don't seem very promising and yet all of us beat the odds and we're here.

Why am I here? According to astronomers, 'Earth is neither central nor special; we inhabit no unique place in the universe.' However Earth is the only planet that can support life as far as we know. So, I guess that answers that.

At the moment, "I'm here for my 2 o'clock appointment."

Perceptions

I don't know if I trust my memories of you,
with each recollection they're rewritten.
Am I a slave to a perception of supposed perfection?
I have you painted in water colors,
faded and picturesque,
framed in what could be unhealthy
obsession to recreate you
in every moment.
A memory of a memory of you
has too much potential to ruin me.
As a result,
I can't trust me.
And, by association,
I don't think I can trust you.
Please,
(Stand still.)
I need to remember you
exactly as you are.

My voice has run out...

every noise is a cacophony
of broken chords
and off-beat melodies
with absolutely no cadence.
I’m just trying to string words together
in run-on sentences.
You’ll find no rhymes
in my work
because nine out of ten times
I’d end up writing about a hotel desk clerk
just to keep up the A-B-A-B rhyme scheme
and conform to this idea of poetry.
With each new line I lose the theme,
twisting it from what it could be.

Forgive me for the digression
my writing is
a stream of consciousness
that runs through my mind
divorcing imagination and reality
but who can really tell the difference anymore?
Flowing like a babbling brook
my hands can’t keep up with the words
as the current brings them through
English Dam, containing all
un-translated thoughts.
With each second new memories are formed,
facts collected and recollected,
and my brain is in overdrive.

Trying to write in time with the pulse of creativity
ideas fade with each passing minute,
and my voice cracks under the exhaustion
of completing every important thought
that eventually fall on deaf ears.
Until each unheard story – each best kept secret –
is relayed between pen and paper,
punctuated by silence.

beautiful mind

He has a beautiful mind
built like the Elysian Fields
impossibly green grass grows
from the wrinkles in his brain.
I am convinced this is where
the lion lies with the lamb.
Curled together in peace,
they are the dreams
he strives to remember
so he can value himself on a subliminal level.
He’s a hero tackling herculean thoughts,
unraveling the knot of the
universe
one string at a time.
He wants to achieve an understanding
of space and time,
of what it means to live.
However he has faced Death,
looked him in the eye,
for love.
Yet it is he who knows
it’s not his heart but his brain
entangled in these emotions.
Knowledge is not understanding,
but he can’t help but be forgetful
for he is only human
but his flaws are not observable
or measureable by any standard.
His imperfection is indeterminable,
his perfection is paradoxical.
He was created for stability,
to withstand a lifetime.
And when he’s gone,
he’ll leave a mark beyond his time
not in marble statue
but in photons
stuck in the solidarity of space.
He only moves in light-years
and I’m afraid what I’m seeing is
already gone.
Shadows of what once was
comforting mortals like myself.
He has a beautiful mind
built like Elysium,
and I am lightening-struck.

Writing False Memories #2

“You could die.”

“I know.” She said looking at me sideways, “Everyday I’m one step closer to death.”

“You’re going to tell us if it’s killing you, right?” I ask void of inflection.

“You’re killing me with this conversation.”

For a second I saw her not as she is, but possibly 10 years younger. Slim body, graceful, freckles, round face plastered with that mischievous smile. I blinked. She wasn’t that way. Time rushed back and I could see the pounds from all the medication. The hard lines of her face and the almost dullness to her eyes. I recognized my lost role as her protector. She’s taller than me. I suddenly felt extremely far away from her.

“That’s not funny.” I said indignantly.

Leaning back, slightly confused she spoke softly, “You can blink now. I’m not going anywhere.”

I couldn’t help that I felt like I was losing her. She aged each time I blinked, I was like the deteriorating flash of the cameras snapping at the Guttenburg Bible.

“I love you.” I blurted out and a slow, creeping silence echoed between us.

“I know.” She repeated, “I’m not going to die right now.”

“Alright.” A long pause grew, as we contemplated what the other was thinking. Pulling at the threadbare couch.

“What would you do?”

“When?”

“If I died.”

“Truth? God,” Running a hand through my hair, “I don’t know – I honestly don’t know.”

SCIENCE V. RELIGION

Glory be to the father,
And to the son,
And to the holy spirit.
As it was in the beginning,
I believed that I belonged to an Old Boys Club.
My mind is where science meets religion,
And nature meets nurture.
Waiting for the condescension
In tone and pats on the head
That suggests that I think too much.
I live in my head
And truth be told it can’t tell the difference
Between these “Clubs”, these institutions of belief,
Requiring my card-carrying membership for their continuation;
They are not mutually exclusive.
These systems seem extremely limited to the right or left brain,
But I do not claim to be so arrogant,
I need the whole
To satisfy both my reason and logic.
And those on both sides are pressuring me to reconcile
Who I was brought up to be and who I think I am.
I believe in one God, the father, the Almighty,
And it’s easy for me to believe in Him.
I don’t find it hard to understand that he is a loving God
Despite all worldly disasters
Because he gave us free will.
Just like I don’t find it hard to understand Schrödinger’s cat
Is simultaneously alive and dead until you open the box.
What I have a problem with
Is the idea that I supposedly shouldn’t believe
That evolution is how humans came to be
And that the story of Adam and Eve is just that,
A story,
Explaining how we’ve all come from a common ancestor.
That these thoughts separate me from God,
Damning me to an eternity in the Hell
That I don’t even think exists
Because we have forgiveness.
Our humanly existence
Is now and ever shall be,
A mystery
In which both science and religion
Are endeavors in discovering
Our infinity,
Answering the questions:
What happens when we die?
An afterlife that is the incarnation of nothingness
Is no more appealing than living forever.
What is love?
Tell me it’s more than
Oxytocin synapses firing in the brain.
What is the meaning of life?
To reproduce offspring best fit to survive,
But tell me, what is surviving?
I do, however,
Find comfort in a man who hung on a cross for me,
Whose passion was so great he died so I could live
Without ridicule,
Without sin,
Without ignorance.
I revisit his gift every Sunday,
Imbibing in
The body and blood of our lord, Jesus Christ,
I am not worthy,
It’s scary how easily these words rise to my lips
Before the Eucharist,
Since second grade these words have been bred into me:
I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed.
It’s the people involved
That is the ivy strangling the roots of these associations,
Dividing faith and religion,
Science and the institution.
The parasitic relationship they’ve created in contentment
Because in the face of their enormous egos,
They’d rather not change.
You see,
I want to understand,
I want to believe in both,
I want to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.
I’ll believe until my dying day,
And despite whatever’s thereafter
My faithful life will not –
Contrary to popular belief –
Have been a waste of time
In a
World without end,
Amen.