l'acrostics
de L.O.V.E.
{Partie
Un}
Ludicrous
deliberations
of mind's vivacity
Ostentatious,
fresh and
young
Vestige
of dynamic thought
capacity
Ecclesiastical
musings drip
from the tongue.
{Partie
Deux}
Love is
like chocolate sprinkles
On top
of the prosaic
Vanilla
ice cream of
Every-day
life.
[a
fool's Boolean]
for
the analysis of symbolic
logic
an
equation I ponder
while
jotting down all relevant
variables
yet
cannot solve, fool that
I am.
Archimedes
I am not. (Duly
noted.)
If
LOVE not TRUE = FALSE
expectation
If LOVE
= TRUE, then LOVE
> ALL
{Note
to self...
Love
defined = Infinity's Formula?
Contrives
rules, yet wields them all.}
x=compatibility,
y=incompatibility,
z=tolerable
If
[x/y] > z, then TRUE.
If
TRUE, then....
my pencil
lead breaks.
algebraic
rules be darned.
the
old dress
I
discovered succor
in the
seat of this old
chair.
Released
myself from suffering
my past
defined dispair.
with
every nip and tuck
of
mother's old hemmed dress
in
every seam and thread
and loop
learned
myself how to impress.
the
dance
Singing,
I heard your heart...
Your
eyes danced the song
Your
hands strummed the
tune.
The sky
still in its slumber
We
withdrew from the music,
but
the dance carried on.
amidst
the aroma of the
brine,
the
fragrant spray,
We
stole away to the seashore
Felt
the flicker of the
wind in our hair.
In
silence we sat, tallying
the stars
matchless
to those in our
eyes.
And you
held me like a scepter,
a paragon
Under
the jeweled expanse
while
the sun crept over
the horizon.
We
watched a new day begin
as
the dance concluded.
opus
What
tales we tell with our
eyes
such
soliloquies of depths
unknown,
As the
flutter of birds
or butterflies
articulate
your gossamer
flecks of greenish-brown.
We
glimpse into mind's windows
seek to
disclose our life
epics, winked.
Flipping
through our lives
as photos,
A
perpetual opus in a blink.
rain
I
mutter my words,
soliloquies
of hatred
to the
downpour.
the air
smells of hallways
in dank
castle libraries
and
worms coming out
from
their cozy gutters
to play
on pavement;
leaving
oily pathways
leading
no where.
Artful
deception
I've
learned how to dance
from a Picasso,
Mona
Lisa smiled and told
me so.
I was
taught how to think
from
The Thinker himself,
and
gave a listening ear
to Van Gogh.
nothing
The
screen door bangs
crumbling
from every inch
it opens
Like a
picked scab.
Raised
from the ground,
I am
dirty from eyes glaring.
My
entire past is a grubby
picture
of a
child sleeping.
Mamma
left me her ashes
Pappa
left me no family
tree
Just
barstools, and sweaty
men,
and
whiskey breath smiles
finding
solace behind the
counters.
unrealized
Beyond
this wilderness of
longing
tangled
up forever;
Speak
of fables or poignant
rhyme,
so that
comfort from reality
may be conferred.
Tell me
of a heart - bound
and sealed,
yet
incessant and insatiable.
Recant
the untamed beauty
of a realization –
what?
a union of minds!
and yet
a partition of souls.
If not
for unfeigned reality,
embrace
this essence for
a moment
and I
shall feel it like
the rushing dove
beating
against the hands
of time
with
pounding heart,
which
is obliged to another
under a
silhouette of hopes.
“Too
late, too late”
the feverish mind taunts,
a mind
which gazes wistfully
from afar
at a
book that remains unpenned….
pages
that wait unturned,
and
a plot
unrealized.
chamomile
the
words don't come.
Where
they have gone,
I know
not.
Covertly,
casually
Sipping
on my chamomile
I clear
my throat
compelling
the words
that
want to be said.
stupid
catalyst.
answers
that only
seduce
questions
volatile
deductions
exposing,
prodding
leading
me to conclude
the
inevitable.
I need
something stronger.
hitch-hiker
sometimes
I regret
stopping.
subtle
charmer, sincere
with
your enigmatic assertions
sticking
out like a sore
thumb.
deceivingly
lucid curiosity,
stepping
in my thoughts
like a
muddy puddle.
your
words lingering as
footprints
on my clean carpets
soiling
the interior
indefinitely.
and yet
you believe
that
you are forgotten already,
a
victim of fool-hardy regard
abandoned
in the middle
of no where
without
a second thought.
Absurd.
journal
my
hand moves
across
the page
seamless
in motion
in
steady determination.
sweet
agony of remembrance
cramps
my hand.
Resolved.
striving
to attain the unattainable
-
honesty
with a pen.
daisy
dreaming
along
the way
strolling
down a
road of
ghosts.
the
idealist
I am a
smiling canary at
a cat,
a song
that wants to be
sung in tune,
a
gingham apron with no
stains,
and an
open window exempt
of ugly grey shutters.
I
cannot believe in hate
and all
the negativity that
comes with
giving
less than I can give.
I trust
implicitly; scold
relentlessly
yet
secretly.
i am
the embrace, the acceptance,
the
reassuring constituent,
in
theory only…like pi,
infinite,
but rounded off
to facilitate comprehension.
I am a
game of hopscotch
drawn
in straight lines
with
pastel chalk
surrounded
by giddy children,
a warm
guitar string,
or a
new checkerboard with
all it’s shiny pieces…
and I'm
getting quiet again
trying
to be enough
but not
too much -
just
enough for everyone
else.
broom
I am
the person who
sweeps
up people
and
dreams
when
they shatter.
Dust
bunnies of
abandoned
hopes,
fragments
of personalities
and
words like litter
that
didn’t quite make it
to the basket.
I am
the broom in the closet.
guilt
I
cannot forget
what I
did,
unknowingly
or not.
Guilt....
always
sticks around,
like a
frowzy vagrant that
stops passerby’s,
loitering
in dark alleyways
with crying cats;
or that
ugly shade of green
you
used on your walls over
5 years ago
and
can’t manage to paint
over.
abdication
Things
are different
now.
awoken
from the inane stupor
I
reveled in,
I’m
staring at
mini-tornadoes
on my front
lawn
and the
dust is starting
to look like
colorless
Kool-Aid powder,
effervescent
sticking
to newly painted
park benches
where
lovers used to kiss
and we
never talk anymore.
a kid
is blowing spit bubbles
on the porch
and her
brother is dragging
a
rabbit on a leash,
resigned
and limp,
being
led
wherever.
city
I am
missing,
only to
be found by myself
when I
look under a nearby
rock.
everywhere
I see
frivolous
encumbrances
like a
Chinese take-out
tinfoil swan -
adored
one second
and
then discarded thoughtlessly
the next.
I’m
getting so lost
and I’m
wondering if I can
recoil
back
into safety, before
that
inevitable
piano falls from
the tenth floor
and
crushes me with it's
symphony.
I keep
expecting that
the
softness in my face
can
tell a zillion stories,
and lies;
that
people will sell me
their smiles
without
tax, and duty-free.
so many
stories and
not
enough words to fit
them in.
I’m
waiting for it all to
tumble out
in a
surge
of one
breath.
the
tutor
if you
could taste my heart
dear,
it
would be icing.
I
always red flag my flaws
and
scrape
away at what perfections
I have
conjured up
to keep
myself credible.
But you
have taught me that
To be
perfect is to be flawed
and to
be incomplete is
beautiful.
periwinkle
When I
breathe inside of
myself
and
retreat under this familiar
shell,
sinking
to the bottom
in this
guise of restraint-
the
stinging salt of
hesitation
and fear of being
revealed…
you
wait, patiently
and I
can feel your peace
as I
slowly surface
eyeing
the outside, warily
until
I'm safe in your palm.
twolips
You
touch my face
and
learn my history from
my lips,
impelling
with kohl eyes
that
draw me out and rescue
from
every evil I have known.
You lay
your soul on the
table
And
candor is the card you
play.
A
blissful conclusion to
every
opera ever sung
is the
devotion you sustain.
Your
love, a tally of every
equation ever pondered.
And you
keep inducing,
Tossing
aside my encasement
Until
it is just I,
leaving
me bare and visible
to your
love.
Replete
and brimming, resplendent
You
spin me ‘round in your
musings
Trace
the lines around my
mouth
and let
me fall gently
onto
your heart’s pillow,
warming
me with your mind’s
fireglow embrace.
la
lune
I’m a
half-lit orb
a
falling meteorite
praying
you don't see me,
but
hoping you might
take
that telescope really
late at night
and
smirk at all my craters
and
watch the shadows and
light
play
over my surface
before
the eclipse.
anamnesis
I’ve
been so elusive with
myself that,
if I
turn around too quickly,
I
misplace my thoughts.
In this
body of liquid hopes,
I’m
beginning to condone
my stumble
and my
own confusion
and I’m
beginning to forget
everything surrounding me
dipping
the oar into oil-like
water
with
every stroke of the
clock
no one
can figure out
the
time of my departure
or the
time of my return,
And I
keep the wavelength
of my
retrospection steady
so no
one can see
the
ripple of my escape.
sometimes
I’m
thinking
sometimes
I want too much
like a
cat staring at candles
and
sometimes
when I
look in the mirror
I see
that purple-skinned
monster
the one
that haunts kids'
midnight dreams
and
sometimes I feel like
sinking
and begging
and
forgiving
I’m
tired of looking at
my feet,
and
being the vocals in
a silent movie.
Sometimes
I am loved
like
warm summer sand
and
hated like galactic
clutter
and I
wish I could clean
and reformat
my
brain’s cache
sometimes.
affirmation
(for
Remco)
I made
a mistake, and you
called it art.
With
delight and savor,
considered every part.
Every
word, thought, and
deed you relish
Things
you never alter or
strive to embellish.
Prompting
with questions
and listening intently,
you
read my every page –
warm, tender, gently
like a
beloved novel, devoted
and carefully.
You
know not of drafted
pledges and hollow musings
composed
by one vexed, enigmatic
and confusing
But you
read the words written
in my mind
even
before pen is put to
paper, or word to lip…
…Adequate
words I fails
to find.
Your
countenance is braced
with
reality
and acceptance
and a
touch that reaches
across oceans,
towards
my fervent penitence.
And I
feel demystified,
comprehended,
my
thoughts fixed to your
memorization
And I
feel treasured
…your
voice is affirmation.
apparel
I'm
wearing time like a dress
but
it's ragged and worn
where
the creases of smiles
cover
over perplexity.
And I'm
wearing a groove
in the
floor of my mind
threadbare
and thinking
of you -
subliminally
pacing
in
stasis, kept under glass.
I'm
wearing a grin
because
you look at me
and
into me
and
beyond.
You hem
up the extra bits
that
drag
along when I'm worn
out.
Sheer,
in last year's blue
-
I'm
wearing patience, thin.
the
parcel
I’ve
examined,
contemplated,
and
then learned
not to
strip the cloths
off of love
and all
that is parceled
with it.
It is
often best kept
unwrapped.
orbiting
Walking
in time with the
rotation on its axis
round
and round we travel
on the
edge of this orb
watching
time like a white
weathered fence
that
haunts my dreams
Coming
to terms with the
realization
on a
cold winter night
that
this won't ‘be’
Peering
into the future
that
will never become history
Painting
'what ifs' on a
canvas of darkness
drawing
life pictures in
the stars
and
humbled by the vastness
of distance,
I find
comfort in the warmth
of secrets
and
confessions
and
unbestowed kisses.
patience,
be
I
tried to pen
a good
poem about
patience
But
when push came to shove,
I guess
I lacked enough
of it
to
follow through with the
deed.
relay
There
is no cheeky explanation
for
what I can't relay
so
please tell me the remedy
for
running
a theoretical one-person
race
and
novocaine my obscure
fears
on this
overcast November
day
I'm
running mad and I'm
running a fever
and I'm
running at efficient
capacity
But not
carrying one of
those white cylinders in this relay
because
there's no one else
to pass anything to
once I
reach my finish point
no one
to root for, or understand
me, or hand over water to
My
running suit isn't aerodynamic,
it's cheap and chunky
so the
air-drag really slows
me down somethin' awful
I'm
covering new ground
but not seeing anything unfamiliar
or all
too familiar
And
there's no finish line
once I reach its non-existence,
and no
beginning to start
at
And no
prize for the winner.
december
as
december embers die
on this
year’s ash-ridden
hearth
I think
of you
and
those old diner haunts
brightly
colored scarves
with breakfast
and
steaming hot tea
browsing
books we couldn’t
afford
and the
way we talked ‘till
our
throats were hoarse;
we
would weather blizzards
on our
deep-thought treads
down
those suburb streets
overlade
with cinder and
snow
it was
this time not so
long ago
but oh
so far away.
the
edge
Here
we sit...
On the
edge of our mattress
In our
corner house
On the
edge of town
On the
edge of the earth
Watching
pyrotechnics
Compete
with the stars
On the
edge of another year.
beguile
i want
to go away
i want
to step back
and
step out
of who
i am
and
what i am
and all
i have become
i want
to be certain of
nothing
at all
to
invalidate everything
i have
validated
i want
to be narcissistic
until
my teeth grow yellow
and i
become a crusty undergrowth
that
people avoid
i want
to breathe
without
it reminding myself
that
i’m here
and
hating it.
slowed
as a
little girl, i counted
stars
but
these days
i've
deferred. i’ve slowed.
i
clumsy my way into the
day
as i
count your heartbeats,
your breaths,
the
number of times you
blink in a day.
i count
the pulses of inert
vapors thrown off of the street
and the
oscillations of
the breeze
outside
my bedroom window,
and
when i reach the square
root of Archimedes' number
i roll
over and hold you
close.
becoming
some
of us weren't meant
to be
free
and light and happy.
we were
meant to live on
the
fringes
of these places,
reveling
in a delicious
slice of
continuance...
and
discovering
our
inner darkness.
traveler
is
there something
i can
send you
from
across the sea?
a piece
of love lost,
a piece
of me?
from
the coast of
idealistic
thought
and
sweet stinging memory.
nighthawks
we
loved like
an
Edward Hopper painting
-
in
washed-out color;
subtle
and
obscure,
like a
hidden vignette
on
canvas.
¿
I’m
feeling cold
and
dark
and
drawn, unsheltered
like
I’m decaying away from
the inside out,
starting
with the rotten
cabbage substance
sloshing
away, sloshing
pointlessly
in my head
I’m
hanging question marks
in the air
like
drab sepia rainbows.
and I
can’t stand the putrescence
of just
‘being’,
right
now.
masks
i gag
routinely on the tendrils
of anger
that
thread through me,
like
red bits of seething
string.
and
biting my lips until
they bleed
doesn't
resolve the gulping pit in my guts.
i want
to ask if anyone
can hear what i hear
and if
they feel the same damning consequences that i
feel,
and i
wonder at
how
many faces i've been.
words
lips
purse
and the
tightness in the
back of the throat begins
as
words stay behind a mouthy
barrier.
the
reality of words from
other mouths is hasty and cruel.
so full
of insult. acid
and ashes.
and the
good that is consumed
by the carelessness of them is disquieting.
in
places we cannot touch,
only
found in places that
we hide, that we live, that we leave.
they
fall out from twisted
orifices
and
echo inside heads and
ears. unsaid or said.
they
consume.
they
eat.
and the
mere fear of them
makes us weak.
