i am the fire, that all consuming conflagration, that melted Pompeii and fuels the uncivilized beast within me, I am the thunder that shakes your foundation and leaves you excited, scared, and gasping for air.
My hands shaped the heaven's and tore down Olympus, leaving fake gods and goddesses, shells of spent power. take not my kindness for weakness, lest my wrath be swift you leave you speculating glory that could have been yours.
Come unto me, yet tread lightly, because the false and trifling will be left shivering and struck dumb. But for the brilliant and remarkable, oceans of wonder will be yours.
Friday, February 5, 2010
I search for home
In truth, I never saw the brightest of days,
they, hidden by sights too vivid, and by sounds, not yet recognized
were just the faintest of waking dreams,
Upon waking, new eyes wince at the brightness
creating cool water to ease the shock and soothe the burn,
Yet that, is the image that lingers, that is the image that
paints, in permanent colors a mural on the minds eye.
In truth, I who have never known the life, undisturbed,
Seek solace in soft errant caresses, in urgent sweet kisses,
in gentle whispers, in dimly lit places.
i look for joy in normality, and taste the deep dark sweetness
of lust's fountain. In converse and in contrast, I seek the thing
that while wanting it, shifts to that, which I need, and not what
I desire.
In her eyes and in her touch, I search for home.
they, hidden by sights too vivid, and by sounds, not yet recognized
were just the faintest of waking dreams,
Upon waking, new eyes wince at the brightness
creating cool water to ease the shock and soothe the burn,
Yet that, is the image that lingers, that is the image that
paints, in permanent colors a mural on the minds eye.
In truth, I who have never known the life, undisturbed,
Seek solace in soft errant caresses, in urgent sweet kisses,
in gentle whispers, in dimly lit places.
i look for joy in normality, and taste the deep dark sweetness
of lust's fountain. In converse and in contrast, I seek the thing
that while wanting it, shifts to that, which I need, and not what
I desire.
In her eyes and in her touch, I search for home.
A Bright Glow
*Note* This was written years ago, and I felt vain enough to post it online.
With beauty like yours, I could sing hymns about you,
Shining bright amongst a sea of counterfeit goddesses
you shame even Venus herself. Her hand grows weak
holding the candle that could never glow as brightly as you do.
I want to walk with you, find out the things that excite you.
Create things that would adore and delight you, masterpieces
in tribute to you. You are the woman that men dream and
scheme for. Go to work and provide for, hoping one day
you will mean more, than any priceless gem.
I want to know you, find out more about you, from your
favorite song, to your saddest memory. From the thing
that makes you laugh out loud, to the thing that gives you
the sweetest joy. I want to discover all this and more.
You will be the harbor, that I will come to, and never sail
away from, you will be my home.
... if you let me...Will you let me?
With beauty like yours, I could sing hymns about you,
Shining bright amongst a sea of counterfeit goddesses
you shame even Venus herself. Her hand grows weak
holding the candle that could never glow as brightly as you do.
I want to walk with you, find out the things that excite you.
Create things that would adore and delight you, masterpieces
in tribute to you. You are the woman that men dream and
scheme for. Go to work and provide for, hoping one day
you will mean more, than any priceless gem.
I want to know you, find out more about you, from your
favorite song, to your saddest memory. From the thing
that makes you laugh out loud, to the thing that gives you
the sweetest joy. I want to discover all this and more.
You will be the harbor, that I will come to, and never sail
away from, you will be my home.
... if you let me...Will you let me?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Box and the Bench
The warmth of the midday sun was pleasing to Crawford Steadywell, as he made his way through a fairly crowded New York City street. The yellow of the taxicabs reminded him of bumblebees, darting to, and from a nearby hive, with the hive being the city itself.
With Crawford, on this sunny day sojourn, was a beautiful crafted box. He cradled it, as a mother would an infant, now to heavy to hold, and despite its beauty, be seemed agitated. Agitation became pique, as he nearly stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, that the lovely full box, obscured from his view.
After regaining his composure, he righted himself, spotted a group of benches in a nearby park oasis. With the determination of a starving man, eyeing much desired sustenance, he nearly sprinted for the empty bench, nearest the entrance to the park. Before seating himself, he placed his precious cargo, on the opposite side of the bench, away from him.
After a while, feeling unburdened, and much less encumbered, he began to smile. His mood shifted from dour to slightly jubilant. His eyes bounced from one object to the next, taking in all that was around him. Offering pleasing smiles to passersby, and admiring the boxes they carried with them. Forgetting himself, he wanders off, entranced by the millions of boxes in the city, of all shapes and sizes, beautifully decorated, to pleasantly plain, each one found his eye, and carried it away, along with Crawford.
Short seconds, turn in to long minutes, as Everett Collier walks up to a partially unoccupied bench. It strikes Everett, as odd, why a box, beautifully decorated, in a satin cloth that shines like, rich caramel, wrapped with a bow, that could have been made of chocolate, rather that linen. Why this box would be left, unattended, undervalued, and disregarded.
Everett, being a kind and protective man, assumed that whoever was in custody of this box, would not leave it so, in such a casual manner. Some great ill must have become of him. Perhaps, Everett mused, that he was the unfortunate victim, of falling piano, or a stampede of dervish-like patrons, running herd-like into Macy's.
He chuckled to himself, these scenarios, while far-fetched, would be nothing to keep him from such a treasure. He would regard it as part of him. As a gift, for that is what it truly is, from God, and regard it as such. Much unlike the phantom owner, who hours now, has not come to reclaim his gift.
Everett stands, looks down at the box, as if to silently entreat the box to allow him to safeguard it. To his its new protector and giver of care. A moment passes, and a smile glides across Everett's face, as he leans down, and gently picks up the box. Gently cradling it as Crawford did, only with great affection, and with far more regard. As box, and new owner walk away, contentment mixes with belonging, and a glow can be seen, everso slightly, to come from the two.
The next day, the sun is as warm as it was the day before, as Crawford gingerly makes his way toward the spot he stopped at the previous day. Only he seems puzzled, as if he'd mistakenly come to a different bench. Yet this one the same bench, near the entrance to the park. His puzzlement, turns to concern, and concern melts to regret. And in this moment's clear revelation, he realizes the one true constant, that exists, in every culture, in every corner of the world.
A treasure given, once neglected, soon will be gone forever, and in its place, regret will flourish.
With Crawford, on this sunny day sojourn, was a beautiful crafted box. He cradled it, as a mother would an infant, now to heavy to hold, and despite its beauty, be seemed agitated. Agitation became pique, as he nearly stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, that the lovely full box, obscured from his view.
After regaining his composure, he righted himself, spotted a group of benches in a nearby park oasis. With the determination of a starving man, eyeing much desired sustenance, he nearly sprinted for the empty bench, nearest the entrance to the park. Before seating himself, he placed his precious cargo, on the opposite side of the bench, away from him.
After a while, feeling unburdened, and much less encumbered, he began to smile. His mood shifted from dour to slightly jubilant. His eyes bounced from one object to the next, taking in all that was around him. Offering pleasing smiles to passersby, and admiring the boxes they carried with them. Forgetting himself, he wanders off, entranced by the millions of boxes in the city, of all shapes and sizes, beautifully decorated, to pleasantly plain, each one found his eye, and carried it away, along with Crawford.
Short seconds, turn in to long minutes, as Everett Collier walks up to a partially unoccupied bench. It strikes Everett, as odd, why a box, beautifully decorated, in a satin cloth that shines like, rich caramel, wrapped with a bow, that could have been made of chocolate, rather that linen. Why this box would be left, unattended, undervalued, and disregarded.
Everett, being a kind and protective man, assumed that whoever was in custody of this box, would not leave it so, in such a casual manner. Some great ill must have become of him. Perhaps, Everett mused, that he was the unfortunate victim, of falling piano, or a stampede of dervish-like patrons, running herd-like into Macy's.
He chuckled to himself, these scenarios, while far-fetched, would be nothing to keep him from such a treasure. He would regard it as part of him. As a gift, for that is what it truly is, from God, and regard it as such. Much unlike the phantom owner, who hours now, has not come to reclaim his gift.
Everett stands, looks down at the box, as if to silently entreat the box to allow him to safeguard it. To his its new protector and giver of care. A moment passes, and a smile glides across Everett's face, as he leans down, and gently picks up the box. Gently cradling it as Crawford did, only with great affection, and with far more regard. As box, and new owner walk away, contentment mixes with belonging, and a glow can be seen, everso slightly, to come from the two.
The next day, the sun is as warm as it was the day before, as Crawford gingerly makes his way toward the spot he stopped at the previous day. Only he seems puzzled, as if he'd mistakenly come to a different bench. Yet this one the same bench, near the entrance to the park. His puzzlement, turns to concern, and concern melts to regret. And in this moment's clear revelation, he realizes the one true constant, that exists, in every culture, in every corner of the world.
A treasure given, once neglected, soon will be gone forever, and in its place, regret will flourish.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Might not be a good thing
I'm going to make this short but sweet. It's a fable of sorts, for those of us who are in offices and cubicles throughout the country, or even the world (my grandiosity truly is boundless), and we sit for hours on end, doing a job of work, and in some cases....engaging in some rather interesting ways, of passing time in the slow moments of the day.
This is the story of Timothy Timmons, who as a young boy experienced a trama, few adults are emotionally resilient enough to withstand, yet this stalwart young lad grew to manhood, without a significant moment to be had since. Now, a drab and listless man, who's daily work was of such monumental tedium, he was often heard muttering through the halls, a mantra, of his own making. To the occasional co-worker, passing close enough to hear this odd chant, they would experience a feeling, very similar to fear, mixed with a generous amount of disgust.
Timothy, being the type of man, to whom great power eluded, took singular pride in this, as he would, with great regularity, wander the most populated of hallways. Gleefully muttering his strange mutterings, and barely muffling the giggles, that the shocked reactions would create.
As the months would fall away, like lead paint chips from a derelict building, Timothy's glee would increase, and only after increasing the severity of his barely uttered utterances. He would sit in his spartan apartment night upon night, gorging himself on instant noodles and instant orange flavored beverages, and concoct ways to sicken his co-workers with, the depths of a damaged, yet deviously creative mind.
One fateful day, upon waking from an especially productive nightmare, Timothy rose from his bed, with purpose and drive. His breakfast that morning was a symphony of flavors and textures, that seemed to take Timothy by surprise. He wondered to himself, if he'd ever had a meal this delicious, this remarkable. In fact, he had, every morning, for the best part of twenty-five years.
He noticed that the clothes he'd worn everyday, fit better, more complimentary, and more flattering than ever before. As he left his apartment, he noticed that the streets gleamed with a shine that bathed him in a light that felt unnatural, but welcomed. As he rode the bus, a realization that was so completely profound, his body shuddered with delight. He looked around, hoping others had noticed, hoping some other soul would be looking at him, so he could share a look of contentment. Finding no one, he smiled to himself.
As the bus stopped, and opened its doors, Timothy nearly bounded to the sidewalk. He gait was springy, and playful. To on-lookers, it would appear as if "Guys and Dolls" or "West Side Story" had decided to have street performers, complete with Jerome Robbins choreography. With the office building he worked, looming in the distance, his walk became firm and determined, his footfalls more deliberate and strong. As he stood in front of the large class doors to the building, leading to the lobby, a look of complete confidence shown on his puckish face, and he walked inside, like a conquering Caesar.
To be continued...
This is the story of Timothy Timmons, who as a young boy experienced a trama, few adults are emotionally resilient enough to withstand, yet this stalwart young lad grew to manhood, without a significant moment to be had since. Now, a drab and listless man, who's daily work was of such monumental tedium, he was often heard muttering through the halls, a mantra, of his own making. To the occasional co-worker, passing close enough to hear this odd chant, they would experience a feeling, very similar to fear, mixed with a generous amount of disgust.
Timothy, being the type of man, to whom great power eluded, took singular pride in this, as he would, with great regularity, wander the most populated of hallways. Gleefully muttering his strange mutterings, and barely muffling the giggles, that the shocked reactions would create.
As the months would fall away, like lead paint chips from a derelict building, Timothy's glee would increase, and only after increasing the severity of his barely uttered utterances. He would sit in his spartan apartment night upon night, gorging himself on instant noodles and instant orange flavored beverages, and concoct ways to sicken his co-workers with, the depths of a damaged, yet deviously creative mind.
One fateful day, upon waking from an especially productive nightmare, Timothy rose from his bed, with purpose and drive. His breakfast that morning was a symphony of flavors and textures, that seemed to take Timothy by surprise. He wondered to himself, if he'd ever had a meal this delicious, this remarkable. In fact, he had, every morning, for the best part of twenty-five years.
He noticed that the clothes he'd worn everyday, fit better, more complimentary, and more flattering than ever before. As he left his apartment, he noticed that the streets gleamed with a shine that bathed him in a light that felt unnatural, but welcomed. As he rode the bus, a realization that was so completely profound, his body shuddered with delight. He looked around, hoping others had noticed, hoping some other soul would be looking at him, so he could share a look of contentment. Finding no one, he smiled to himself.
As the bus stopped, and opened its doors, Timothy nearly bounded to the sidewalk. He gait was springy, and playful. To on-lookers, it would appear as if "Guys and Dolls" or "West Side Story" had decided to have street performers, complete with Jerome Robbins choreography. With the office building he worked, looming in the distance, his walk became firm and determined, his footfalls more deliberate and strong. As he stood in front of the large class doors to the building, leading to the lobby, a look of complete confidence shown on his puckish face, and he walked inside, like a conquering Caesar.
To be continued...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Inspiration's Older Sister
If there is a trick to being inspired, I'm not sure I'm not sure I know what it is. I've had moments of unbridled creativity, weeks of feverish invention, and words and images lowed from my head, like a multicolored head-wound.
I was mater of creation, and I was in the groove of all things.
Then....
...there are places in Death Valley that have more life in them, in comparison to how lush my mind wasn't. I was dry, parched, devoid of competent thought or idea, and it was as vast as the Sahara, and equally as comforting.
Nothing took hold. I would sit, often times with a classical blank stare, at my television, as I whiplash channel surfed, for hours...literally. Looking for inspiration, in whatever form I could find it in. I searched on the "web", only to be met with the profound abundance of incredibly bad junk. It's like going to a candy-store. Only this candy store is filled with the cheapest, get anywhere for ten pounds for a penny, candy. All bad for you, and will rot your brain as quickly as soaking your teeth in a one hundred percent sugar solution.
Again...I knock upon inspiration's door, only to be met by her manly, mustachioed older sister Agatha.
I was mater of creation, and I was in the groove of all things.
Then....
...there are places in Death Valley that have more life in them, in comparison to how lush my mind wasn't. I was dry, parched, devoid of competent thought or idea, and it was as vast as the Sahara, and equally as comforting.
Nothing took hold. I would sit, often times with a classical blank stare, at my television, as I whiplash channel surfed, for hours...literally. Looking for inspiration, in whatever form I could find it in. I searched on the "web", only to be met with the profound abundance of incredibly bad junk. It's like going to a candy-store. Only this candy store is filled with the cheapest, get anywhere for ten pounds for a penny, candy. All bad for you, and will rot your brain as quickly as soaking your teeth in a one hundred percent sugar solution.
Again...I knock upon inspiration's door, only to be met by her manly, mustachioed older sister Agatha.
Friday, October 30, 2009
The Madness of Costumed Drunkards, and Extroverts - a.k.a. NYC Halloween Parade
It's fallen on us like a plump old lady, overly made up, and more than a bit disoriented. It's the NYC Halloween Parade, and for years upon years, it's given the usually surly, and hurried average New Yorker, an excuse to run willy nilly through the streets of the village, oddly attired, and giddy from the experience.
With the sad exclusion of bags full to bursting with assorted sweets, it's a great time. And the inventiveness of the participants varies from bizarre, to nightmarish, from coy and mundane, to things you wander home hoping you can find a way to unsee a man dressed as human excrement, with his head as a remnant of an under digested meal.
But thats the point of it, the ability to transcend the morbid depression of an economy on life support. A healthcare system desperately trying to heal itself, and the closest thing to a modern plague - Swine Flu. While it's not healthy or recommended, to constantly find ways to escape this reality, it is however find and oh so dandy, to escape it for just an evening. For a short period of time, be as giddy as the 56 yr old man, prancing down Seventh Ave, dressed as Hermione Granger. Or the 24 yr old girl, dressed as a scantily clad Martha Stewart.
Join in this crazed march of wildly imaginative, and stressless group of adventurers. Eat loads of cheap candy, drink shots of Tequila from bright red wax lips, and sing humorous, but mildly profane Halloween songs. This is one of the few times adults can dress like lunatics, and behave like children, without an intervention being the end result.
Happy Halloween.
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