All the street lights say, "Nevermind, nevermind;"
All the canyon lines say, "Nevermind, nevermind;"
Sunset says, "We see this all the time. Never mind."
All the canyon lines say, "Nevermind, nevermind;"
Sunset says, "We see this all the time. Never mind."
---
It's about time that I started writing again, for my own sake. I haven't really blogged since 2006, which I now realize is an incredibly long time for me to have stayed away from myself. It was a nice reprieve -- not writing in a journal meant connecting more with others outside of myself, out of my own labyrinthine means of expression about whatever the hell should be bothering me. (You see, the messiness of language through metaphor or vagaries allows me to be quintessentially honest with the reader without giving away in too great detail all the numbing regularity of what it is I'm discussing.) A lot of things have changed in my life in three years, but most of the changes occurred in only a given six months, which is strange. But I guess there's always those sparkled moments in life full of change that makes the wait worthwhile--whether it be two and a half years, or ten, or thirty. Almost always it doesn't seem welcome at first--until you learn the lesson and move the fuck on.
The problem with lessons, though (as Lewis Carroll once said), is that they lesson from day to day.
Get it?
I wrote two poems recently -- not my best work, but I have to start somewhere. I'm a little rusty at finding the right way to illustrate the dankness of what I feel right now. However, everything outside of the problems I address in both poems are the things that are keeping me from ultimately crumpling up into a pile of pathetic: that being my new position with the Pilipino Academic Student Services as the Transfer Outreach and Retention Coordinator and my ambitions to write an Honors Thesis on the Supreme Court and its role in the racial isolation in the United States. Both will take up a significant amount of my time, and hopefully, away from the useless heartaches of everyday disappointments.
And a note: I write as a form of catharsis -- forced to by an invisible hand and the stomach's-full of word-vomit I've built up in attempting to suppress in my own, however gaudily adjectival, way the things and moments that break my heart, that stir my smiles. As anyone who knows me well would know -- who I am when I write seriously, forcefully, is not the same person that speaks without style, tact, or abandon in person. This is little more than a convenient canvas for me to pour out what exists of the little girl who clung to the words of Rimbaud and cummings and Kafka and Mann, trying in vain to replicate the power and the genius behind the works of her masters. And now, this will be the woman traipsing according to impulse the workings of her careless soul.
---
the problem with first love is that it never fades
i used to think it a sorta fairytale,
but it was two years of nightmare -
recent self-studies have engendered
an epoch's worth of negative feedback,
and yet many anonymous feelings remain.
almost as if being worlds apart
had in the end done more good than bad,
and the mending of a too-quilted spirit
become too common a routine to cause pain,
allowing the anonymous feelings to remain.
i can't for the life of me feel angry,
or sad, or heartbroken, as i did then
when i tried my hardest to well-maintain
the careful balance of you above myself
so the anonymous feelings would remain.
and still every step forward carries you:
an action so workless, so mundane,
and a memory hits me like a careless breeze
that booms like a thunderstorm, and
instantly i regret how you no longer rem...
...no.
i don't.
or, i guess, i won't.
just an epitaph for things i can't rein
in any longer. a bittersweet good-bye,
but they probably all are. someone once
told me that life isn't perfect - but,
things are, this way. in this case.
such feelings leave little else to say.
---
the first delirium
it's the sound that eats your sinuses alive
with the snaking aroma of a demurred defeat,
both at once shaking you stiff and wringing
you dead. it's all the same to your head,
which never fails to be so contrived
as to cause a dangerous locomotive
bulldozing of the ribcage; after all,
nothing is as glamorous as a whiff of ever-
so-genuine bile rising up in the delicate
curve of your throat as you try to get
the words (goddamn the words) outright;
out right where you want them: hanging like
Christmas lights scattered across the
fleshy insides of the Amazon, all green
and yellow and the like, glimmering with
evil, love, and the calamity of life,
none of which befit even the slightest sinew
inside my palm. they're jigsaw against the
clean, linear panorama i'd drawn up for myself
not too long ago during a particularly
vitriolic affectation of the mark of the ram
on my soul. this is where shames so great
are repressed to fatality only to meet
the sincerity of a someone wishing only
to find good reasons to smile once more
--to enjoy yours with saccharine candor.
but in the absence of such a discovery,
not much is left but an ineluctable stench
that reflects as a mirror would a horror
too terrifying to view every contour:
"...sorry."
oh, poor little fool!
---
the problem with first love is that it never fades
i used to think it a sorta fairytale,
but it was two years of nightmare -
recent self-studies have engendered
an epoch's worth of negative feedback,
and yet many anonymous feelings remain.
almost as if being worlds apart
had in the end done more good than bad,
and the mending of a too-quilted spirit
become too common a routine to cause pain,
allowing the anonymous feelings to remain.
i can't for the life of me feel angry,
or sad, or heartbroken, as i did then
when i tried my hardest to well-maintain
the careful balance of you above myself
so the anonymous feelings would remain.
and still every step forward carries you:
an action so workless, so mundane,
and a memory hits me like a careless breeze
that booms like a thunderstorm, and
instantly i regret how you no longer rem...
...no.
i don't.
or, i guess, i won't.
just an epitaph for things i can't rein
in any longer. a bittersweet good-bye,
but they probably all are. someone once
told me that life isn't perfect - but,
things are, this way. in this case.
such feelings leave little else to say.
---
the first delirium
it's the sound that eats your sinuses alive
with the snaking aroma of a demurred defeat,
both at once shaking you stiff and wringing
you dead. it's all the same to your head,
which never fails to be so contrived
as to cause a dangerous locomotive
bulldozing of the ribcage; after all,
nothing is as glamorous as a whiff of ever-
so-genuine bile rising up in the delicate
curve of your throat as you try to get
the words (goddamn the words) outright;
out right where you want them: hanging like
Christmas lights scattered across the
fleshy insides of the Amazon, all green
and yellow and the like, glimmering with
evil, love, and the calamity of life,
none of which befit even the slightest sinew
inside my palm. they're jigsaw against the
clean, linear panorama i'd drawn up for myself
not too long ago during a particularly
vitriolic affectation of the mark of the ram
on my soul. this is where shames so great
are repressed to fatality only to meet
the sincerity of a someone wishing only
to find good reasons to smile once more
--to enjoy yours with saccharine candor.
but in the absence of such a discovery,
not much is left but an ineluctable stench
that reflects as a mirror would a horror
too terrifying to view every contour:
"...sorry."
oh, poor little fool!
---
And never doubt reality, even when it hurts.
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