thepeopleseason: (Default)
You prefer the three-button blazer.
(black, not blue),
Pockets still sewn shut from the factory
Years ago.

You’ve taken to wearing it without a tie,
Just a pocket square matching your shirt
And a practiced, wide smile.

It’s become something of a rite,
You, dressed in your uniform
Shouting or laughing or listening
To murmurs and echoes of murmurs,
The hollow buzz of conversations
As the wet of condensation
Drips from your cocktail
Onto your jeans or your slacks
Or your shirttail.

Paying no heed to the shock
Of cold, moist discomfort,
You don your plastic, wide smile
To exorcise restraint and recluse.


Dec. 16th, 2010 12:15 am
thepeopleseason: (life isn't your own anymore)
Aristotle thought nothing of our attraction
(in that, he was correct),
I, merely Earth-bound breath,
a vast distance between us
(in that, he was correct).
Einstein painted a floor of spacetime,
the weight of your brilliance
pulling me into your thrall.

Wise men and fearful fools
have long drawn my dances with you,
the slow and silent concerto
which marionettes my body
towards your shine.

Perhaps one of them has found the truth
(perhaps none).

I know only of the pushpull of gravity
compelling me to face you,
as your heat and radiance strip away bits of myself,
the arms-length waltz,
beckoning and exorcising
along my elliptical orbit
until it consumes me.

Revised. I'm still not satisfied with the stiltedness of "a vast distance between us," and the brevity of the note about Einstein. I wanted to paint a better image of diminishing in the final sentence, but I'm at a loss to figure out where at the moment, because of work.
thepeopleseason: (Default)
This is my song for you.
For every stanza, I will sing my notes
to touch your ears
so that you will hear me.

This is my poem for you.
Each syllable a prayer.
Like a deep chanting of holy men
Will you listen?

This is my hymn to you.
I cast my words like stones across water
to stir your hands.
If only you could hear me.

This is my dirge for you.
Every lyric a lifetime.
Can you hear it?


May. 24th, 2010 06:12 pm
thepeopleseason: (Default)
I couldn't find our corpse today.
I recall when you gave it to me,
Bloodied and swollen,
Unadorned and unclothed
From a night shared within your bed.

I couldn't find our corpse today.
The cadaver filched from my arms,
From evenings clutched fast to the frozen flesh
For warmth and weary reveries,
An empty weight sinking dents into the mattress.

I couldn't find our corpse today.
Only slight wisps of the perfume
Of three summers gone,
Packed away in a dusty corner,
Holed and bloated and fetid and rotten.

I couldn't find our corpse today.
Amidst drunken days and troubled sleep
My long wake has ended.
Neither requiem nor blessing nor prayer for absolution fall
All hushed and silent,
Sins unpurged and unpardoned.
Time, both pallbearer and crematorium,
Has robbed me of my monument
And swept away the ash.


Apr. 29th, 2010 11:38 pm
thepeopleseason: (Default)
Some writers and physicists,
plying their trade in fiction and fantasy and quantum events,
craft their universes in stacks
or gardens of forking paths.
Each track an Earth of a different decision,
every way an infinite array of consequences.

On one of these Earths
(at least one),
our fingertips brush lightly against each other,
our breaths mix sweet and hot
amidst kisses and sighs
and know nothing of the vast spacetime that divides us here.

10 Albums

Feb. 23rd, 2009 12:51 pm
thepeopleseason: (bride with white hair)
From [ profile] coffeeachiever: Think of 10 albums, CDs, LPs (if you're over 40) that had such a profound effect on you they changed your life. Dug into your soul. Music that brought you to life when you heard it. Royally affected you, kicked you in the wazoo, literally socked you in the gut, is what I mean. Then when you finish, tag 10 others, including me. Make sure you copy and paste this part so they know the drill. Get the idea now? Good. Tag, you're it!
Herbert von Karajan... )
thepeopleseason: (when she loved me)
I think I have a superpower.
It's one I think I can't control.
The power works subconsciously
And scares me to my bitter soul.

I got the news as I drove home
Eight years ago (this very day),
A man had died, a man I knew--
The man who stole my love away.

His fearful widow, full of tears,
the greatest love of my short life.
I cut her heart and cut her child.
My guilty will was the knife.

Am I the fulcrum upon which pivots,
Karma's lever, scythe, and hammer?
Does my mind speak in secret words,
The syllables of Death's own grammar?

I couldn't find my love today,
She gave her heart to another.
I thought the man was my friend.
Betrayed and failed by my brother.

I think I have a superpower.
It's one I think I can't control.
But days like this, I can't help wish,
I'd flex my mind and take my toll.

Dear Romie: I'm sorry.


Dec. 30th, 2008 01:03 pm
thepeopleseason: (when she loved me)
Some artists and physicists,
working their wares in metal and acrylic and quantum theory,
build Time from ceaseless moments,
an ever-present path we dance upon,
an array of immutable seconds waiting for us to step into them,
our past, permanent and passed.

And while their construction pilfers our choices from us,
filches our will like coins from our pockets,
I find a small comfort in believing
that a series of moments breathe
where our fingers still entwine amidst our laughter.


May. 27th, 2008 12:00 am
thepeopleseason: (life isn't your own anymore)
Go wage your war, go sail your sea.
Fight your daily battles
against adulterers and monsters and unstill waters.

In the soft spaces
between the giants and enchantresses,
when echoes of battle cries no longer trouble your ears
drowned in the lulling sounds of the waves,
think of me, amidst maidservants and suitors--

The din of their usurping bacchanals
carry about in the hallways of my thought,
foundering our shared serenity
as I unravel the threads
of the shroud of our coupling.

When the bow-string is stretched taut and creaking,
trained upon those who would bury us
stay your hand and come to our bed,
so I can feel your warmth and weight,
my anchor.


Jun. 19th, 2007 09:52 am
thepeopleseason: (Default)
[ profile] batnandu: yeah
batnandu: if i grew up exposed to that language [Ogg Vorbis audio link -tps]
batnandu: i'd probably be all into lego video games too
batnandu: your people really freak me out
thepeopleseason: (grand)
Going through one of the various boxes full of papers I have strewn about the house, I found the following hastily-written haiku, which I seem to recall is from an episode of That 70s Show:

My heart aches with pain.
When I see you, I vomit.
Die away from me.
thepeopleseason: (Default)
No matter what the game, playing against someone whose skill level is significantly better than yours is extremely taxing. Unless your opponent is educationally inclined, the comparative speed in which he assesses a given situation and executes his moves will only serve to unbalance you, and make your game worse.

Chess pisses me off.

Let's try something...

I couldn't find your mother today.
I recall when she gave you to me,
warm and soft, her laughter
still adorned on her cheeks like rouge.

It's been too long since I've seen her,
and I know she sits,
veiled and shivering,
smelling of hankerchiefs and salt
amongst the tightly-pressed lips and fake smiles,
the hissing murmurs
which always follow a cold body.

Sigh. Ok. I couldn't work on that anymore. It sucked.

Word of the moment: Fend
thepeopleseason: (Default)
Some verse:

The muffled klaxon of a car alarm
plays its own 7:00 A.M. cock's crow
piercing the dense foam of plugs
stinking of sweat and earwax.

And the sunlight,
too weak to warm the odd patch of skin
exposed without blankets,
wends its way through oddly-bent metal blinds,
to repaint my dreams
with skies translucent and blood-red.

Word of the minute: ellipsis


thepeopleseason: (Default)

February 2011

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