the air burning in my lungs

This morning on the way to class the air was burning in my lungs.

This is not a metaphor.
This is not an image meant to conjure up a reaction from you.
This is not the physical reaction of an emotional state.

This is the simply the air above my parched state.
This is the result of an electric storm over golden hills which ignited.
This is the think smoky haze that gets caught in the valley where the sea breeze can’t quite reach,
and the air lags, stagnant above my head.

Blue skies faded into brownish grey haze lingering on the horizon.
My mind was back in India,
breathing in
the stale scent of diesel from the rickshaws and kicked up dirt that had not yet settled.
Breathing out
At a conference campfire,
Sitting downwind of the blaze.
Coughing and laughing at how every time I moved
the wind followed.

Relaxed I sigh,
fond memories are good company.

Then I remember where I am.
The foreign air above my native land becomes unwelcome.
Thick, heavy, an unwelcomed visitor with too strong of an embrace.
The stale scent in my nose,
the burn in my lungs,
the inescapable presence of a far removed disaster.

I climb the hill on the way to class.
Panting as the air makes the steep incline just a little harder.
The grass on the foothills has been sheered and the once golden hill is now bare.
I don’t care.
The beauty might be lost, but
We’ll have blue skies again.
(But what about the golden hills?)

Pressure Cooker

I’m a pressure cooker who keeps whistling
Take me off the stove or you’ll keep hearing periodic screams
I might sit quiet for a while
But wait till I begin to rile
Road rage on empty roads
Aggressively cornering in hills
As if that will change a damn thing
At every light the urge to slam the horn
Stare down any driver who dares to make eye contact
Get home and sit still and
silently scream

calm down
calm
down
chill out
chill
cold
cold shoulders
curt answers
I could answer
but
silence satisfies

Don’t ask me another stupid question
I’ll answer in nods and grunts
Silence
Cold shoulders
Curt answers
Warm stove
Chill out
Hot stove
Calm down
Burning stove
Whistle and
SCREAM.

Sweet like Splenda

She turns and smiles at me
And I think out loud, "You're sweet like splenda"
A slap in the face is a rude response and in haste I try to justify, "Wait, no I mean you're better for me, healthier, 600 times sweeter than sugar and ..." then it occurs to me. This was no Freudian slip, no this was a Freudian gown and everything I meant to say has been said.

She is sweet like splenda. She's a substitute for something I love, over-processed, and soon to be rejected by my body. She's encouraged by doctors as good for my health, and corporations get wealthy off of her popularity. She's everywhere I go- my coffee shop, bookstore café, and even on the table of upscale restaurants, she follows me. Cheerful yellow packets announce their presence and I can't help but think, this is just not right. When did I get so concerned with impressions that I let myself accept the substitute for joy because it appeared better? I don't know the answer, but as she accepts my apology I absentmindedly reach for the sugar and receive another slap in the face.

People with a Voice

All you people out there with a voice
You have a choice
Speak up
Or sit down!

In this world of instant communication we can connect with the nation,
but rather than connecting we’re deflecting for the tough calls,
burning bridges and building walls.
Polarized across the divide,
we cried out with supporters without listening to reporters.
They sensationalize the news,
and we remain glued to the TV.
Not me,
I’m not to blame.
When words take aim we speak through question marks
and ignore homeless in parks
because they’re responsible for their misery, not me.
I’m just doing my thing,
I’ll wing it and obfuscate the debate.
But at the end of class I’ll get off my ass, only to sit down again.
Why is it so hard to pen a letter but easy to claim we want better?
Americans idle and vote for idols while ignoring the other side
I’ll stop and look but you’re pounding on the book and not reading the rest.
Save the best conviction for the least guided opinion,
you’re a minion to anyone who inspires.
And there’s a reason your mind is on fire,
a destructive mess that you let get the best of you

And all you people out there with a voice,
You have a choice
Speak up
Or sit down
Stop clowning around!
Your mind’s been lost, go get found.
Find a sense of pride in yourself.
Reason with your mind,
or play treason to the kind of dreams you used to embrace.
Stand up, face yourself.
Cuz if you speak with conviction and diction you might be heard,
and for once use your words in a way that’s not absurd.
Allow clarity to seep in,
don’t glare at me or weep when you don’t get your way.
Be productive, constructive and use criticism as a guide.
Don’t hide in assumption.
Use your gumption as a road map and a way to get back to the heart of the matter.
Food for thought might make you fatter,
but feast on it and then read some literature and see what you find,
you just might toe the line

And all you people out there with a voice
You have a choice:
Speak up
Or Sit Down

And if you reach again for the chair, don’t be surprised when others stare.
Now is the time you need to care,
Lay out your opinions and bare the burden
Get a word in edgewise and even if you despise the man speaking back
LISTEN
Now’s the time to debate, not attack.
Don’t shoot your mouth off.
Just clear your throat, cough, get the audience’s attention and mention this

You are person with a voice
who made a choice
and it’s too late to sit down

Stand tall and approach the mic
Like it or not, it’s time to speak up.

My education is mental regurgitation

Trapped in text book
I can’t look at myself in the eyes
I would despise the sight seen.
My mind is hiding.
Reason has been neglected.
This mental regurgitation has a bitter aftertaste.
So make haste
Shut yourself up at home
Study Carthage, study Rome
Spit the dates out
Fruity flavors rot in stale words
My education is mental regurgitation
And I’ll spit it out when this paper is done
Cuz I’m sick of the taste
Sick of the haste between deadlines
Sick of memorizing lines
I’m hungry for knowledge,
But this is college, and it’s finals week.

A series of abbreviations

KIT
HAGS
TTYL
and other trite abbreviations are scrawled across junior high yearbooks.
LOL
BRB
OMG
and other trite abbreviations are typed into high school conversations
BA/BS
MCATs
LSATs
MBA
and other trite abbreviations are scatted in college conversations
HMOs
IRS
W2
and other trite abbreviations are scattered through professional conversations

...We live through a series of abbreviations

RIP

Google Wisdom

Love is greater than all.
Art is second best.
Ask questions later.
Reason will follow.
Stanford is above the meaning of life.
Stupid web searches are more common than sitting at your laptop with nothing to do.
There are more reasonable bananas than mohawked monkeys.
Even “toliet paper” is noteworthy.
And I’m the most insignificant thing I’ve thought about today.

(for the math behind this see here)

Breathe in Breathe out Break Up

Breathe in Breathe out
Inhale Exhale
For Sale? A sense of self
On the shelf, Decorate, Confiscate
Identity, Sense of me
Sensibly, let it be
Wait and see
Late at three, Early morning
Mourning, Grieving, Wreathing
Concealing A sense of self
On the shelf, Under dust
Sense of trust, Lost in lust
Empty cars, Empty bars
In a park, in the dark, a stark landscape
Under tape, boxes of books
Stolen looks, fallen rooks
Queens dashing, kings trashing
Tongues lashing whipped words
think absurd, think alone, on the phone
to voice mail, voice male, female voice
had no choice
chose now, chose how?
no guide
Don’t hide, confide
concerned, unearned worries
snow flurries, back east
rise yeast! caged beast, trapped
wrapped
present gifts
offer lifts, to strangers
dangers neglected
objected to this
drunk and pissed
embrace and speak
free to be weak
the week ends
but life goes on

(Title)

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Swivel on a sailboat

Sinking, rising, rotating, like a swivel chair on a sailboat
I sink, rise, rotate, disorient myself and yet stay afloat
This life jacket is constricting
This life never fit me
And I swivel on a sailboat

the unknown

I am sick of sappy goodbyes
but you stab me like a maple and the sweet gooey syrup gushes
Luscious in my mouth, the words travel south as I mumble to my feet
“When will I next meet you?”
Neither of us knows the answer
We don’t bother specifying
“I’ll see you when I see you”
We don’t bother lying with plans or expectations of what’s to come next
Simply accepting what’s left.

the unknown

Ruby Red Moon

A ruby red moon stood out against the ashy cobalt sky
The sun had long since vanished but the moonlight trailed behind
Light polluted over the city like orange embers,
it flickered and glowed
Firefly planes linger and slowly sink into the stars on the horizon
Miles away the fire burns,
but through the smoke screen it looks beautiful
Tonight a surreal world has been born out of disaster
And behind my breast,
the heart beats
faster

I sit
and watch

Forget it

Forget it

No seriously

I don’t get it
I won’t remember later
Reason wraps up my mind
And I can’t find a way out

Forget it

I got it.

Seriously though?
I had a thought about it.
And I can’t seem to reason.
But, maybe this is seasonal.

Forget it.

I got it.
No seriously I’ve got it now.
I don’t how I didn’t before.
But I’ve got it,
Show me the door.
Before I forget it again.

Forget it.
I’d rather stay anyway.




(Following the poetry prompt of: Write an Anaphora poem.)

The Death of Me

If I should chose my words carefully it will be the death of me.
I’ll forget to speak and begin to leak as the pressure slides out in anyway it can
Sipping from a soda can I can’t can-can, but I can count on you to land on my mind.
If you explore the root of the matter you’ll find a lot of dirt will turn to mud
If you water it down with dry tears (in the mist of a drought, they’re simply not there)
And I won’t care enough to complain when in the present,
But I’m not past this.

Turn on the TV and I disappear from the reflection
Distraction therapy will be the death of me.

Today I am.

I am as I am
And I'll be the same way
As I am as I am
Or at least for today

A door is ajar

Two poems starting with the same phrase that popped into my head the other night.

~~~

A door is ajar and a jar is adored by a six year old who just wanted more peanut butter
What a nutter

~~~

A door is ajar and a jar is almost empty
like the postcard she sent me
It said nothing
A note in the night anoints her knight's thoughts
Tune into his sight and be blind to reason
Lance left Arthur
A kings empty bed and a kings crowned head
Wondering what his lady said to steal the night
He wants to be dead
empty mailboxes and lost lonely socks is
What made my Laundry night seem so rocky
Tick tock clocks
Don't tick when they're digital on my phone
And text messages won't leave me alone
And I'm ignoring the boring
So you're the only thing on my mind
ink blots on paper with college lines
And I wrote in the other direction
Through the midsection
Just to make a statement to myself
Like the post card I sent
She won't read this.

good (k)night

I need to speak out and let the words leak out from my mouth
Flow south across a stage,
Sage wisdom seems simple, silly and useless
Until it smacks you across the face,
makes you see disgrace
and then vanishes without a trace

Was it my idea or yours?
The answer doesn’t matter but if my musing amuses the muses
Then fuses will blow and circuits will break dance in a trance
(K)night comes and you break the lance
Waste time on a staged fight meant to prove your strength to all
But while dancing at the ball,
You missed life’s call
And broke tools on fools and their high horses.
Three courses in your meal, four corners and you feel
TRAPPED.
This castle caged you in
Moat made you sin
drowning in delight till the morning light
You’re a sad sight
But bright lights and sunshine will wake you, shake you, and forsake you
Afternoons in ruin when dragons undo your hard work
(K)night! You’re wasting time valiantly.
Ladies will lose their glow by the time you return from your crusades
Tired from other dangerous delights and in house escapades
The page boys and sensible scribes were there with your bride.
And you were too brave to hide from the fight you always saw coming.
Back up and retreat, Attack and defeat, Sit down on your feet.
When the jester gets the final word, you know the situation is absurd.
Good sir, surely you see
Your tale is a tragedy

Ode to Spoken Word

(Cross posted on Facebook notes)

Industrial lighting and industrial carpets lay down the bare basics of a place where I place my mind. I spin my thoughts on a swivel chair and open to a circle of visionaries. I often jump to conclusions outside, but within this room the foundations of assumption and bias are constantly under siege. In silence this room offers a view into the tune of my emotions. I am boring, ordinary and a creature of habit; but here I feel a voice with purpose behind and eco-friendly notebook and chapped lips. Whipping myself around to greet familiar faces, I find even those I never see outside this room feel like a family as long as I sit here and hear their souls speak, laugh when humor is presented and stop keeping track of time like its rented. I savor minutes, seconds and ask for a second serving of simple savory sounds.
Snaps.
Snap, snap.
Wrap up that thought and speak poet
They glow.
They’re glorious.
And in the embrace of this circle, I’m relaxed and at home.

Gorgeous

you were gorgeous yesterday
golden skin
pink blush
soft, silky between my fingers
you were gorgeous
I buried my nose in you
inhaled your sweet perfume
smiled at the way you filled the passenger seat
beamed while walking down main street, you in my arms
you were gorgeous

I messed up.
I didn’t treat you right.
I should have put your long stems to soak.
I should have treated you with care.
But I left you on my bed,
Forgot about you while running errands,
And when I returned saw my beautiful rose was wilted.
I’ve put you in a vase now,
I hope it’s not too late,
for you to be gorgeous again.

An Introduction.

Dear reader with enough time to care what I say here,

Hello.

I’m glad to know you exist.
For if you do not, then I am talking to myself.
Which would mean I am crazy.

If I am talking to myself I should purchase a blue-tooth earpiece so no one knows I am alone when I speak. Then I can look important.

This wasted web space will soon be like my room, cluttered, disorganized, without a uniting theme, full of memories and mementos, and hopefully- strangely familiar.

Dear reader with enough time to care what I say here, welcome. And leave your shoes outside.

-me.