Took the day off, an old habit, I admit
made plans (a museum maybe)
sitting in front of the computer (on my bed) at noon
summoning up excitement (like I should)
Every year, a bit of the old magic gets rubbed away
little by little
like cityscapes erased
by the incoming fog of old age
I am not old (yet) I know
but as certain as others assure me of the fact
I am aware that I am young ( no longer)
The evidence is clear in the lackadisical way I tell old friends
thanks for your kind wishes
the unwillingness to get out of bed
to celebrate (what and how) I am unsure of
The reason (why) I am reluctant to wake my sister up
who is (still)
dreaming
young dreams
Monday, August 20, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Alamo Square, 05/26/12, 6:53pm
The bird that was flying so strangely
balleting through the air
was a falling leaf
balleting through the air
was a falling leaf
Thursday, May 17, 2012
catching the 10pm 29
You don't believe in soul mates
so you destroyed my ideal, too (I still haven't forgiven you for that)
chipping at its logical foundation with reason,
I don't have your skills of argumentation,
reducing it to a childish rubble.
You are not romantic. You are not poetic.
You don't read, except for technological news
and some of my writing,
just so you can ridicule them
because, you said, it is fun.
You bore me with international news I don't find amusing.
You called yourself a genius, and meant it.
You are not that guy in my writing class
who crafts words that ebb and flow to lunar gravitational pull
whom I tried to count the number of times he laughed (zero)
and seemed to glow inwardly with that sad wounded melancholic air of a poet.
No, you are not.
But the next time I meet another guy who tugs at my heartstrings
because he is mysterious and promises wondrous stories
Let me never forget that tonight,
it is you,
who, when the bus ran its stop, kept right on
despite my pleas for it to stop
ran alongside, in your sandals,
and when I got tired,
went right on ahead so that you could flag it at that next corner
after I had gotten tired of shouting: Please. Stop.
after I had started to tear
after my legs gone weak
so that at that next stop, standing at the door, holding up eight pairs of eyes, I could get on, knowing that I wouldn't have caught it,
if it wasn't for you.
so you destroyed my ideal, too (I still haven't forgiven you for that)
chipping at its logical foundation with reason,
I don't have your skills of argumentation,
reducing it to a childish rubble.
You are not romantic. You are not poetic.
You don't read, except for technological news
and some of my writing,
just so you can ridicule them
because, you said, it is fun.
You bore me with international news I don't find amusing.
You called yourself a genius, and meant it.
You are not that guy in my writing class
who crafts words that ebb and flow to lunar gravitational pull
whom I tried to count the number of times he laughed (zero)
and seemed to glow inwardly with that sad wounded melancholic air of a poet.
No, you are not.
But the next time I meet another guy who tugs at my heartstrings
because he is mysterious and promises wondrous stories
Let me never forget that tonight,
it is you,
who, when the bus ran its stop, kept right on
despite my pleas for it to stop
ran alongside, in your sandals,
and when I got tired,
went right on ahead so that you could flag it at that next corner
after I had gotten tired of shouting: Please. Stop.
after I had started to tear
after my legs gone weak
so that at that next stop, standing at the door, holding up eight pairs of eyes, I could get on, knowing that I wouldn't have caught it,
if it wasn't for you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)