my fingers 

rolling in bed, another sleepless night. can’t find sleep, only you, when i close my eyes. it’s like a dream playing in real-time. it’s finding a truth behind the lies; that i don’t have to be asleep to drift away.

were you next to me my fingers would test your waters. my fingers would be bending rulers studying your lines and curves, measuring your angles. my fingers would be thermometers measuring your warmth underneath the sheets. my fingers would be explorers travelling to the ends of your ends, the dawn coming up on the valley of the small of your back. my fingers would get lost in your thighs. my fingers would dream up ways of finding their way back to you. my fingers would touch and retouch every last inch of losing control. my fingers would come back to tell me what your touch is like.

my fingers would glue themselves to you for instants at a time. my fingers would spell words out on you like on a fogged-up window. my fingers would be binoculars giving me a closer look. my fingers would sing you marvin gaye songs by the shadow of your pillow. my fingers would search the caves between you and the comforter. my fingers would veil you a touch at a time.

my fingers would wake up and make you breakfast. my fingers would breathe from your breaths. my fingers would call you from a faraway place on your body and tell you about the customs and ways there. my fingers would lay their head on your shoulder, and share your pillow and pass you down from tongue to tongue like a legend not to be forgotten.

my fingers would seek to learn your ins and outs so as to draw you anew. my fingers would fall asleep with you. my fingers would never tire. they would sleep only to sleep with you. my fingers would carry you away to the lands of ancient myths and read you like an ancient scroll, a book that is still being written. my fingers would come to you thirsty. my fingers would caress your own caress. and through all this, my fingers would still be my fingers, so that through them i may learn how you feel and where you most like to be touched.

here awake without you, all i can seem to think about is how you’re like a truth behind the lies. you’re the rainbow of pleasure at the end of this city’s rain.

beyond politics 

i’ve been mulling over richard clarke’s testimony before the 9/11 panel and his assertion that some of the inadequacies in action and deceit on a need-to-know basis, as witnessed in our government, are not an issue of morality but an issue of politics. this assertion carries a great, albeit hidden, and even hopeful message: that if we can just get past our petty hang-ups and partisan loyalties then we might just be able to vote and think based on the individual and the issues at hand rather than along party lines. imagine that, an american society where we don’t see democrat and republican but rather right and wrong, good choice and bad choice, or perhaps a concept that is even more remote to the current state of affairs -- good option and better option. we need people in positions of power that want to move the country forward, not towards their personal assertions and beliefs.

do as i write 

the "do as i say don’t do as i do" mentality that is often associated with hypocrites can some times be indicative of truly benevolent intentions. some times it derives strictly from cowardice and i can’t be one to point the finger when i have written some of my bravest words from the comfort of my bed.

we’re all guilty. george carlin said it in a manner quite similar to kafka and it got me to think about the link between comedy and drama. both stem from an extreme approach to the very non-extreme condition of most situations. it takes a special mind to adopt either and only the sharpest of intellects can truly see the world through one of those lenses (comic or dramatic). it would be comforting, then, to see someone write a modern-day "poetics" entitled "comedics." i think it would work. i think it needs to be made to work. even if for no other reason than to connect some loose dots and explain why when we laugh hard enough we cry.

but i would not dare undertake such a feat. i wish someone would, but i would never dare try.

it’s late. i should get some sleep now.


living behind your eyes 

i want to live behind your eyes, cuddle your thoughts and save you from spies. i want to know what your tongue tastes like before you open your mouth. i'll be that sweetness stuck in your back teeth. i want my smell to rise from my chest and fill you up with desire and ecstasy. i want to whisper my thoughts into your beautiful mind in a tone so faint you think you thought them up yourself. i’ll sit by your ear and recite my feelings with my eyes closed so that you think the wind is blowing poetry about like leaves. i want to wait for you to fall asleep and walk around your eyelids, break into your dreams and be all the ways i want to be when i’m around you. i want to fly on the wings of the clouds and climb the stars and stand on the top of the universe. then i’ll come back down and break into your dreams again and tell you everything about everything, living behind your eyes.

words (don't) really convey emotion 

i just wrote something that took my breath away and wanted only to share it with you. but that’s not an option. things aren’t as simple as words conveying feeling.


desire on summer's eve 

some times your hair is straight. some times it’s curly. (it’s naturally curly.) just last week i saw you and you’ve layered it. you look so good. you always do. you make me hate myself for what i did to you. we cannot be. i want us to be, but we cannot.

i told you how nice it looks this way and you smiled like you did when you’d kiss me for saying something like that. god, i wish i could have you now. i wish i could’ve seen then with the eyes of now. how much i’ve learned in regretting what i did to you.

i wanna lick the sweat off your neck in july. i want to smother you in the humidity of a summer night. i want to see you bite your bottom lip one more time. i want to make you say my name again. i want to hold your hand. i want you to want me as you did before i broke your heart.

remember when you wore that naughty smile and said you’d do anything i wanted? i want to feel like you’re that mine again.


what little hope there is 

proofing work recently, i came across the line, "a child is still a blood-shot train of hope headed like a tank of nothing for all the impossible dreams." removed from darker days when it was written, i edit the phrase and switch "nothing" for "everything." it reads better now. it leads me to think of the meaning, stated and implied, and of what it says about its author. maybe there is some hope in me as well. i hope there is.


where does she go? 

where does she go when i’m not thinking of her? does she rest asleep? does she wander? does she return to her grandmother’s cooking and if so, does she go alone?

does she leave breadcrumbs so that i may find her? does she beckon i follow? will she take me by the hand when i no longer recognize the paths?

i wonder where she goes when i’m not thinking of her? does someone else who is thinking of her borrow her for that time? does she go to him more willing than when she is with me or does she wish she could stay in my mind all the time?

i don’t like it when she’s gone. i always wonder what if. what if she gets lost on the way? what if she can’t find her way back? what if i search for her name and can’t recall, like the title of an old song i haven’t heard since childhood? what if? what if? i wonder, for if she fails to return i will never have kissed her lips goodbye.


Throwing Away The Alarm Clock by Charles Bukowski 

My father always said, "early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise." It was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house and we were up at dawn to the smell of coffee, frying bacon and scrambled eggs. My father followed this general routine for a lifetime and died young, broke, and, I think, not too wise. Taking note, I rejected his advice and it became, for me, late to bed and late to rise. Now, I'm not saying I've conquered the world but I've avoided numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some common pitfalls and have met some strange, wonderful people one of whom was myself -- someone my father never knew.


they ask 

they ask me why what i write is so sad and i answer that it's because when i hurt the pen is always there. that when my pain is shared with all those who read it, a little of it is taken away and i feel it that much less.


an end of winter lunch on a monday 

i hadn’t seen her since the summer. i hadn’t stared at her breasts all this time. i hadn’t realized how like me she is, or maybe she’s only become similar in the time since. she might have picked it up elsewhere from someone else so that she’s not really like me but like someone who i, too, am like.

she told me news between bites of a salad. realizing, perhaps, that i some times leave my pinky up when holding a slice of pizza. and the way she asked questions drove home the point that there was certain information she wanted more than any other. so she asked me about my love life, prospects current and perspective. she asked who i’m fucking. asked it flat out. asked it after she’d tried other ways and i’d managed to evade answering. so she was blunt in her questioning and I was just as blunt (in my deceiving). and i lied and told her she doesn’t know her and she smiled and nodded staring back down at her plate.

i would never have lied to her before. i would have looked her dead in the face and felt the lies crumble inside me as they came up to be let out. they never even made it to my lips. i was sincere with her, then. i was never this guarded, this conscious of wanting to keep things together. we would never have met for lunch but instead for dinner. and it’d be a long night where we bullshitted the night away just driving around with the radio off. listening to the wind blowing outside and to each other breathing during the breaks in the conversation.

she asked me if i was happy and i wasn't ready for that.

yesterday i noticed more wrinkles around her eyes and i asked if she’d been crying. she said no and i could not help but realize the irony of the situation -- she had a nearly empty pack of tissues in her bag. i didn’t need to see them to know. i still know her eyes well enough to know when they’ve been painted in hurt.

i hadn’t seen her since the summer. pulling out of the parking lot i wondered how long it’ll be until i see her again...

a letter i couldn't send 

what's it for, you know? the writing. the putting something together. i guess it's for the people it touches. those who say it means something to them if to no other. that matters. it really does. but it's not really for them that we do it. it's really for us, for how it makes us feel. it's like doing charitable acts around christmas time and saying it's for the kids. it's really for us, for how it makes us feel seeing them happy with a toy. i guess it's for how it makes me feel. the writing, that is. i guess that's what it's all for, right? for how i feel when i see my book at the store. when i can show someone that i do something that matters, something that people value. but wonder what it's really for. why do i do it? when i can't sleep without getting that word out of my mind, without jotting it all down. i don't know why. i used to think it was my way of being alone. i borrowed that concept from pessoa and took it as my own because it echoed something i thought i felt or that actually did feel, i can't tell the difference most days. we just pen our thoughts and hope there is enough there to read a third time over. maybe that's what it's for. maybe it's the hope that we're worth something we might not be. something they may not have the eyes to see. i don't know. i don't know. i don't know what it's all for.


let the sun shine forever 

what can i say today? yesterday the unforgiving wind hissed. the airplanes flew above, and out by the water the fish had all gone away. i once rode the ripples and arrived at your thoughts ready to wipe my feet and step inside. yes, i knew you that well.

the photos don’t capture everything. the stillness is left out. only in the contrast of everything that won’t pause do the motionless things stand still. lost in the colors of the tranquillity the silence is too loud. broken tears stain the cheeks that once i memorized so well.

but i was a school-boy then. i did things other school-boys did. and learning from what i saw (like the rest of the world) i went about our days like a test at the end of the week. i memorized your voice, but once the test was over i moved on to other topics that called for memorization. and i memorized other voices as the days between us grew longer and more and more forgettable.

and when i stand by water the fish left, i think of this. i think of you done up and with your pretty dress, wiping your feet at the door of the little i still recall.

dealing with the devil 

to my great dismay, and of others as well, one of the former portuguese presidents has, after the madrid attacks, stated that the answer might be to deal with the terrorists. he wants to establish a dialogue and see what they want. but what he forgets is that you can’t deal with the devil. you’ll never come out on top if you deal with the devil.


ann, again (or, how i continue to sing another man's love song) 

hips broad like the horizon; they’re all i see when i stare out blankly. the silver light coming down and forming shadows in the sand where underneath the sun-bathing whispers the crabs count the hours backwards. there’s a lemon touch to all her citric caresses so that it’s always fresh, and new, and liquid like her gaze.

she belongs to another, this is true. but how many times, when my eyes have closed, have i seen her as my own? and wholly found in my arms she has lost the desire to remember his name.


as you walk through town, their dark, starving eyes burn holes through your measured steps. you don’t have to look to know they’re looking… it’s implied in the way the wind licks your skin the way i once licked the back of your earlobe. i liked teasing you like that. but it meant nothing. you teased me more than the other way around.

dark lips fumble your name.

they whisper in heavy breaths that beauty so stunning can only serve to hide the darkness within, but i’ve smelled you and tasted your most hidden treasures and know that only purity flows from your springs. and you walk with a parasol to shun their desires. you want only to feel so, you don’t want to be told you are.

dirty nails claw at your milky skin.

closing their eyes their dark hands reach for your fleeting hair in dreamed hopes that can only lead to falling farther away from you. the equator screeches to a halt and the earth bends to allow you to arrive at your destination. and the waters would bridge for you if only you wished it so. and the rivers run without ever growing tired or short of breath, just to come back as the raindrops that adore your face and neck.

dark tongues thirst for your humid breast.

and stained hands reach for you again. and dark meanings stem from your white-laced words because everything on this planet is a circle of being, and you are so good you’ve become bad.


the rumors of the demise are greatly exaggerated 

i don’t know if it’s me or if i have just happened upon the wrong articles/posts this past week, but it seems that everywhere i turn someone is talking about the demise of the blog. how it’s dying. the fad has subsided, they claim.

well let me be the first to say that the rumors of its demise are greatly exaggerated. the blog, as we know it, is not dying! it isn’t subsiding, going silently into the good, good night. no. we who are because we blog will not allow it to die.

it is irresponsible to say that something has died simply because you are leaving it. just because you are over and done with blogging does not mean the blogosphere is dead for it. it’s like going into a war and leaving before it is done (international news reference). if you didn’t agree with the war in the beginning (like me) then perhaps you shouldn’t have gotten involved. but if you went in you have to stick it out. it is irresponsible to tear down a government structure and proceed to leave the people to do as they will without giving them the resources to govern themselves. we have gone in and taken people's running water and electricity away in many cases under the assumed righteousness of freedom; we cannot leave now. to do, i repeat, is irresponsible. even if your opinion of the war has changed you owe it to those unfortunate souls who didn’t want you there in the first place to stick it out and help them face the uncertain future. the same can be said of blogging where it seems that those who are leaving are attempting to diagnose a condition that is not present.

it seems, at least to the extent i have witnessed, that some who are seeing their blogging activity come to an end, for whatever myriad of reasons, are attributing their demise to the non-existing demise of the blogging community. new blogs are created every day, and even in the case where blogs cease to produce the old rhetoric and beauty they contain in previous posts will continue to spring new realizations for readers who have not had previous contact with the writing. it stands for eternity (ok, maybe not eternity) for wandering eyes to see.

i would have no point of argument here if there truly was a demise, but as i can’t locate one i have to speak up. more so for my own sanity than anything else.

silence is compliance.

the blogosphere is alive and well. it will continue. and while we might be weaker with the absences of those who are departing, we will go on blogging and reading and commenting. we will narrate this tale to the end.


(not so) former flame 

seeing you today, i wanted to break through the glass and space and empty breaths to reach you and touch your hair and kiss your eyes and hear the faint brushing of the wind against your skin. i want to palm your face on either side and look into your eyes and recite all the words i ever wrote for you. i’ll use my tongue to write them out in desire on the inside of your thighs so that you can read them when i leave you again.

numa mensagem a um blogger apaixonado 

apaixonei-me por ela. apaixonei-me de tal maneira que duvido voltar a viver sem a amar. vejo-a por aí, aos encontrões aos outros que julga serem melhor que este. e enfim, passam os dias sem magia nem razão. começam agora a fundir as luzes da memória. quando a vejo não me lembro bem porque a amei, mas só que a continuo a desejar.


é tu bruté? 

if my father were alive he’d celebrate his 54th birthday today. we’d go out to dinner. my sister would bring her boyfriend. i’d likely come alone, or i might bring a date; depending on whether or not i found myself in need of comfort later in the evening. just thinking of this i’m starting to think i would, in fact, need one.

i’d kiss him on the cheek and hand him his gift. something small but meaningful. a zippo with his initials. or perhaps something he was in particular need of, like socks or shirts. maybe a pairing of both. i honestly don’t know. i haven’t seen the man in some time so it’s honestly difficult to manufacture this encounter in my mind. i honestly don’t know how i’d act tonight.

if my father were alive tonight it would be because he changed his life and how he approached it. he could not have survived if he’d continued to live as he lived. so he’d be a different man, tonight, and i’d probably still be readjusting to his new self. his former version would look on him from the past and ask, like a friend betrayed, lying bleeding on stone steps, “how could you have left me?”

today, early in the morning, i received a call from a dear, dear friend. someone who is dear, dear to him is in the hospital serving from the same ailments that eventually put my old man out of his misery. this bitter irony is not lost on me. it isn’t lost on anyone who knows me. i won’t allow it to be so.

just four years ago i was in the shoes of my dear, dear friend, and hearing how he sounds on the phone i’m transported right back there. as if today i need any further reminders.


we know not where we'll find it 

it’s what consumes me. it’s my love. when my company talks to me thinking i’m listening and i’m just nodding along (out of respect, mostly) it is it i’m thinking about. it’s passion. it’s dreams and hopes. it’s what i see when i close my eyes.

here it is. some of you will recognize this next excerpt.

“some times i think about her: when i’m lost, confused; or when i need to vent; or when i flat out miss her. i imagine her there, bare, essential to all that is and all that isn’t – things that i do not even bother dream about. some times i think of her in all her splendid smoothness and all that she allows me to say through silence. only scratching can be heard as i tattoo her smooth skin, her unbending and unyielding urge to give in under my command.

she is where i find my sanity; the page.”


Poem XX, Pablo Neruda 

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write for example, 'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to a pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Poema XX, Pablo Neruda 

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.


a war fought for what cause? 

2 years and 6 months to the day i am reminded why tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. just when you begin to forget what it feels like to be truly vulnerable tragedy strikes, and while it seems so far away it hits so close to home. it’s sad. it’s unfortunate that people think they can advance their cause with acts like these.

no one on this planet is innocent. no one. but when something like this occurs we tend to forget all of that petty shit and realize that we’re all just people and that the ones on that train won’t make it home for dinner tonight. this isn’t the answer, can’t anyone tell them that?

good and evil aren’t as definable in real life as they are in movies, but on days like these it’s really simple to see who the victims are and that they’re certainly not the enemy.

and this is how it all ends, not with a bang but with a whimper 

"termino com a mesma aspiração do post inaugural: desejo que este mundo solitário, trágico e cínico perca, um dia, o medo de casar (e que me convide depois para a festa)."

é triste ver acabada a inspiração para o meu próprio blog. a saida do lfb sacou a alma do blog. é triste, mas a vida continua.

fica aqui um abraço e um grande obrigado.


a weird and ill-constructed ode to myself 

you are the change you want to see in the world
--- ghandi

i don’t want to meet my heroes. i don’t want to be friends with them or hang out or go for drinks with any of the few there are. if i ever meet my heroes, what will be left of them?

there aren’t too many people i admire, i think it’s best that way. if you admire everyone then your standards must be too low.

if i met a superhero (that’s twice this week i break this one out) i’d probably be let down. he’s so strong, so powerful, with the ability to do so much, and yet he can’t get the girl. or he can’t live with himself. he’ll have issues just like me. and that’s not someone to admire. i want to be the protagonist in a movie, that’s who i want to be. not my neighbor who can’t make his alimony payment.

i read quite a bit and there are tons of writers i am fan of, but i don’t necessarily admire them. most are downright rotten people. they have a talent, that doesn’t make them better.

that is why i’d never want to meet pessoa, or eliot, or shakespeare, or even bukowski. i don’t want to meet tyler durden, or kaiser sozai, or anyone in any film who seems like they’d be pretty cool to chill with. i’d much rather continue to watch them from a distance, through the page or screen. it’s safer that way. i can aim for the stars and never understand just how common my shortcomings are, just how like the stars i really am. if i met my heroes, who would i want to be like then?


i just want my friend back 

you listened endlessly across wireless phone lines, even from across the country, as i expounded upon all sorts of lusts and desires. you helped me get the girl. you were there when i let her go. you were endless with wise advice. about my old man, about my job, about everything i didn't have an answer for.

remember for mother’s day when you helped me make that frame and my mom came home early and we kept giggling like little kids? or when i let you proofread the many letters i mailed that one girl and you told me they took your breath away and that if anyone ever wrote you something like that you’d be so theirs… remember that? remember hanging out and bullshitting in the cafeteria, leaving other people and work aside? i used to listen to music through your headphones. we shared them, each taking one. and people would ask me if we were together, an item. i told them we were just friends.

then you found someone and now we don’t hang out as much. we never see each other. don’t go out for coffee, or to the bookstore where they sell my book. we don’t go to the waterfront and sit together anymore. there isn’t anyone else i can be silent with. it’s not comfortable like it was with you. you knew everything about me, anyway. there was little to say that my eyes hadn’t told you already.

i remember wanting to lay my head on your tan chest when you wore those shirts that revealed a little more cleavage than usual. and i remember my hand on your lap in the summer when you love to wear those short, short shorts. i remember the massages you gave me, and the ones i gave you when you pulled your hair out of the way with your eyes closed, murmuring, "you're the fucking man."

i remember these things. you remember them, too.

but after all this what now? what now? where do we go from here when you ask me the why behind the absence? do we just pick up where we left off? or do we start anew with a lover's kiss?

all i remember is poetry 

mona she tried to be lovely for me. for me and for us. but now there’s a poem i can’t forget and a face i can’t recall, because i remember what she said to me and yet can’t picture her face as she said it.

friends comment, tell me i’m either too picky or afraid of commitment. but i don’t think that’s it. i’m more afraid of not finding the one, and i’m not even that scared of it. i’m more afraid of regret. of being too dumb to follow through on what i should follow through with. afraid to live wondering what if.

and this doll tried for me. she wanted to be so witty for me. so smart. so funny. and i couldn’t laugh. looking past her pretty face i couldn’t even smile. and now i forgot what she looks like. like always, all i remember is the poetry.

i don’t remember why i thought she was pretty, only that i did.


frozen to you 

you’re the ice princess, the lady of cool. you take your drinks straight up cause your tongue will cool it down. send it down your throat. and it’s in you now. your drink is with you now.

i want to hold you close so i bring a coat. i want to stay in so we go to your igloo. you ask me to kiss you and i lick the frost off your lips. and the more i lick the more frost appears. you’re getting into it; your mouth never could lie.

your body is sculpted out of the freezing lands up north. and your voice rings softly like crystals on the horizon of my memory. and you touch with the care of someone not far behind the softness of the snow that falls from your eyes.

and i know you’re thinking of me as you lay down on the wind. like a magic carpet you fly as you sleep and it was in sleeping that you found the flakes to mix with milk and make snow in the big bowl that is the clouds.

you’re the ice princess, the lady of cool. you’re free like everything that matters. everything you touch blends with the cold and everything you love freezes with you. take me home now. i am bound by your embrace. you are feeling frozen still.

cape-less superheroes 

i want to scream. i want to shout. i want to scream and shout and take my fist to a face. any face. your face. his face. her face. but is my face among the faces i’d put a fist to?

i want to fight. to stand up for what’s right. i’m trying to be a good guy here but in real life the position doesn’t come with a cape. or with an alter ego. no, you can’t hide behind a mask here and so if you stand up for something you’ll always be the guy who stood up for it. and some times our choices are not popular. and some times our choices are poor. your face will be on the poster of every last choice you make.

i can’t hide behind clark kent. i can’t buy my way out of trouble like bruce wayne. i have past due bills and dwindling credit and it isn’t my fault. i mean, part of it is, but certainly not all. and not because i was trying to do wrong or to get one over on someone. i just wanted to pay for school. and provide my old man with a proper burial. and get my mom something nice for christmas. and now i’m stuck paying 27.5%.

so now i’m a delinquent. an asshole who can’t pay his bills. but i did it all for the right reasons. i wish i was but a friendly newspaper correspondent hiding behind a pair of glasses.

i want to punch the guy on the phone in the face because while i know it’s not his fault, it’s not his decision, he speaks to me in a tone i doubt he would adopt if we stood face to face. he’s quite brave on the phone line. and he’s on their side apparently. like it’s his money or some shit. and i want to hit him. i’m never violent. but right now, it would feel so good. so good.

but just like you don’t get a cape when you’re fighting for good the evil ones don’t look so evil. the devils look more like the harmless old widow next door. and they’ll come calling. they’ll come to see you. and you probably won’t recognize them, not even in the mirror. you’ll be too busy punching someone or something to remember your own faults, shortcomings, mistakes.

woe is us. but as for me, where the hell is my lois lane?


how i unlearned so much of what i'd figured out on my own 

when the blood runs dry and the tears are forgotten, all we seek to recall is the taste of victory. the smell in the air may come back and the wet tongue of the moisture in the air may have tattooed our skin. but we are not the same. we are not those who were present during all those days we remember. the moments are faster now. they rush past in a hurry to be somewhere that is not here. we sell our souls, we cease to strive to become the people we set out to be. and the blood will form scabs. and our cheeks will be dry river beds once the tears, too, leave us.

we are never as we would like to be. nor as we thought we were. the eyes tire of seeing the same face in the mirror. they don’t see the (wo)man underneath it all.

i want to be who i was. i was dumber. i was more innocent. i was more of a person before i grew up and they broke me like a horse. i don’t race as much now. i do as i’m told. and all the ways i wanted to be i left by the wayside in a rush to take my time. yes, i bled once. i cried. i had the needles of experience tattoo my flesh. but now i tend to forget. it was long ago. long, long ago. and i’m a different man now. less of one. and i don’t remember ever truly winning anything.

no one sets out to be a ‘yes-man.’ i was a trailblazer. now i’m just on the trail of the blaze. my peripheral is hindered because they broke me before i was whole.


aquela menina 

mas como iremos nós ser se ainda nem deixámos de gatinhar? peço perdão sem razão e deixa de haver aquela sombra amiga que traz sempre um ventinho de companhia. eu beijava-lhe a pele de baunilha mas agora sonho com a sua voz de avelã que me continua a rasgar o coração. ainda há muita vida para não viver. há ainda muito tempo para faltar tempo. e aqui à sombra, já me faz falta a falta que ela me fazia.

drunken ramblings revisited 

r. (prolific sinner and think that’s funny) and i were talking last night as we walked home at roughly 3:30 in the morning. he went on about how love is a matter of circumstance and how there is no rhyme or reason to any of it. for instance, if you meet someone on a night when everything is right, if you look the part, if the stars and planets line-up just as they should, then it can happen. even to you.

see, love is not so much an emotion as a frame of mind. it’s kinda similar to the way some things in your life bother you more on some days than on others. some days my boss’s antics nearly drive me to physically assault her. on other mornings her words are cause for laughter. i shrug it off and don’t pay it any mind at all.

falling in love, at least as it’s befallen me and those around me, is always something of a matter of chance. how many times have friends of mine told me, “he’s a nice guy but i’m not looking for that right now”? and these are good women. they're not trying to fuck anyone over. it’s a matter of chance whether or not the pieces fall in a manner where they can fit into each other. i’ve also had guy friends tell me, “i was so stupid. i really fucked up things with her. but i was just looking to have fun and she was trying to tie me down.”

call it timing, call it the alignment of the souls and stars, call it whatever you will. it’s chance, it’s circumstance. love isn’t eternal, it’s coincidental. it’s casual, not like sex, but just as hard to foresee some times. when you’re not looking to get laid they can’t get enough of you, and when you’re least looking to fall in love a smile will come along and trip you up.


the best part of waking up 

you were sleeping that morning, so beautiful i couldn’t wake you. i watched you like i did before you knew me when you were dancing in the corner at the bar. back then you had your corona in the air and your eyes were closed as if by that method alone you could be transported somewhere better. you danced alone as if the music played solely for you. it took a lot to approach you. it took courage equaling desire.

you were sleeping that morning and i couldn’t wake you. this was after you told me about your ex, the one who drank to remember that he could be happy again. this was after some girl from my past whose name i don’t really recall right now threw her drink in your face at that same spot where we first danced. you just laughed it off and kissed me, saying “don’t let the drink go to waste. come get some.” it wasn’t dancing like the ballroom dancing of old tales but more illustrious of where we were at that point; horny and intrigued. you wanted someone who wouldn’t ask the questions you didn’t want to answer and i managed to avoid every last one.

you were sleeping that morning and i couldn’t wake you. couldn’t remember where we’d been the night prior. couldn’t recall what i told you to get you here. you looked so peaceful… so beautiful.

you were sleeping that morning and i couldn’t wake you. i just watched and got as close to your nakedness as i could. i smelled your hair and neck. i closed my eyes. and it was like suddenly the world didn’t have to make sense. you were sleeping next to me that morning, and all the senseless things made much more sense.

then you woke up and the way your eyes said good morning was like a heaven on the clouds of my sheets.



being broke isn’t easy. it’s hardest being poor in the land of plenty. worrying about bills, rent, food. the burden is heavy.

i read about edgar allan poe and how he drank himself into oblivion but right now i can’t even afford to go get drunk. i can’t forget. it haunts me.

what shall i do, take solace in what is free? love is hard to come by. writing? i write about what i’m thinking so going to it for solace will only make my words reek with the breath of redundancy and i don’t want to cheapen the last thing i have that’s worth something.



someone to listen
someone to be there forever
even when the presence is no longer desired
someone to fight for the position
someone who never wavers
someone someone someone
someone with a heart
someone with two
so that if one heart is lazy the other can feel
someone with a guitar
someone behind a set of drums
someone invested in investing
someone someone someone
someone someone someone


i want you like syrup on dry pancakes. but you’re searching for your frog. put down your net, girl, princes don’t really keep in moats.

you think you’ve got me made out. you think you know the type. but darling, i’m so unlike anything you’ve ever seen i resemble everything you’ve ever encountered. that’s the true confusion, don’t look so disoriented.

how quickly we forget the arrows aimed at others. just now we were so enveloped the world had to tear the fabric just to take a look and see… that we shut out to be kept in.

but you don’t desire friendship. you want someone to tell you it’s all gonna be alright when it’s obviously not so. you want a fake smile when a true something else would do. you need comfort when the right thing to do is fight for what’s right. and i cannot be that person.

still i want you. i want you like ice in my lemonade. like the sun in july. like the soft kisses of fingers rolling down your spine on the way to better days. we love the imperfections more than we could ever adore the flawless.


fell in love with a girl 

e. fell in love with a girl, but he has no business loving her. she belongs to the world, shaking it on the dance floor past the day and into night again. he hurts to see her grinding with another when her affection is so stingy with him. she won’t even hug him too long because they’re friends and she doesn’t want it to get weird, yet she gives plenty to all the other boys. some she knows, most she doesn’t. she twirls and whirls, shakes like a star in the sky while he kicks back shots of blackhaus and hurls rocks at the moon.

i have been there before. years ago i too fell for a girl who couldn’t love me back. she belonged to the world, still does, and when i see her now i no longer feel like that helpless boy. i have learned to be one of the many she adores, in her own way, and that suits me fine. funny thing is, back then no one understood what was going on. they thought me some fool to be carried away like so. meanwhile, i was actually a few years ahead of the game and the only foolish part of the whole deal was the inability of anyone around me to understand. i just didn’t know it, and couldn’t grasp it between the cups of late night tea i used to attempt drown all the ways i wanted her.

but e. is still in love with this girl. and her name is n. and she couldn’t be prettier. she twirls and whirls like the world, and makes it spin faster with her dead-air antics. see for even when no one is really watching she manages to hold on to some of the attention. and when e. goes home alone at night he can’t help but hurt and all the liquor is a method of getting through the hours. but if the grieving is in place it must be respected. we wouldn’t want him to deny it at a time like this. see spring is just around the corner and in the politics of love nothing is as it should be. it could be that his heart may yet bloom out of hurt.

still, politics aside, he’s in mourning and so he’ll drink the black if he has to.


anti-biotics for the soul 

m. loves her granddaughter. calls her ms. america, and i think that’s beautiful.

she comes to her cubicle, marks up some loose pages on her desk, and between the breaths she doesn’t have time for she tells me all about their weekend together with the stars in her eyes and the broad rivers of old in her smile, which stretches from the ear to the ear that look on like banks of soft sand. it’s beautiful. it’s love at it’s purest. and genuine like it is, m. doesn’t realize how i study her. she speaks and she’s still in the moment. for her, retelling the story is reliving it… and it’s still sunday.

it makes me rethink my own weekend. face to face with lost lovers, past heartbreak and future late-night sessions, i wrote words about love and lust, need and desire. i understand my shortcomings, yet my soul remains shackled to the bed of the ocean I tread to no end. i can’t swim anymore. i go nowhere. i tread for breaths, the same ones m. can’t take today because she’s filing and faxing. and i diagnose myself as i diagnose her, but still can not manage to find a remedy.
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