Tag: moody

Familiar

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Leaning up against the door frame,
I watched you finish your makeup.
Pausing for a moment with your mascara,
you caught my eye in the mirror…
and smiled.
How domestic, how nostalgic
this moment was.
Yes, that smile was so familiar
but it was only the specter
of one I held so much dearer,
and left, many years ago.
Pareidolia? Perhaps.
And I suspect you would laugh
at this pathetic confession
from a sentimental man
that just left you breathless and satisfied.
For what was sentimentality
to an emotional artist?
An artist so disconnected from her creations:
dissonant machinations
of commodified emotions.
You could paint a smile for any occasion.
You would be nostalgic for each lover.
Ah! And you never missed a chance to check your reflection.
– how I watched you practice in the glass.
So mesmerizing, so detached.
God, now I wonder,
for a girl that spent so much time
in front of the mirror,
did you find yourself so familiar?

Troubleshooting

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My days are spent fixing broken machines.
Sometimes the owners misuse them,
sometimes a part simply wore out.
Poor engineering is possible too.
The problem isn’t always obvious
and some machines are quite complicated.
But if I know its designated purpose,
then give me enough time to observe it
attempting to fulfill this function
and I might have a diagnosis.
Give me time to peruse the manual.
Are there idiosyncracies
and proprietary parts?
Are they generic and universal,
is it analog or smart?
Give me enough time to open panels,
watch the brake in operation,
trace a wire, or listen to the gear box.
Just give me enough time.
Just give me enough time.
Just give me enough time,
this one is particularly difficult.
See, I still don’t understand its purpose
and I cannot find a manual.
Certainly I am intimately acquainted
with its idiosyncratic patterns
as it attempts to fulfill some function,
but all too often, falls short.
What that function is,
I do not know,
for it has never completed anything,
– no products to show –
and I have begun to suspect poor engineering.
Still! Is it not JUST a machine like all the others?
Given enough time
and careful observation,
surely I can determine
the cause of this malfunction.
Surely I can fix it
and see what it was meant to do.
But God, I’ve been troubleshooting
this machine
for almost fifteen years now…

Dying in the Present Moment

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We were dying in the present moment.
I was running from my memories,
you were trying to chase your dreams.
We thought we were the solution,
but didn’t know we were so broken,
we were running in circles,
colliding at the antipodes.
I gave up on the future 
when it became a rear view mirror. 
These problems were cyclical,
we were so predictable, 
but too addicted to each other 
to see what went wrong.
We sped towards our self destruction:
a collision course bound for
each other.
Indifferent to the collateral,
we were dying in the present moment.

The Least of These

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He said, “Deny yourself and follow me.”
but we fell so short in that instruction,
one might conclude we did the opposite.
The renunciation of pleasure
became
the pleasure of renunciation.
Self-denial became the virtue
and ceased being the means to attain them.
Cradling this deformed
and stunted soteriology,
our gaze only ever turned outwards
to accuse one another
of the sins we had invented.
Still, He was calling, “Follow me!”
Yes, there He stood: the least of these,
on San Pablo and Divisadero.
Did we see his divinity- his humanity?
No, we could not even see his privation,
it lay just outside our myopic casuistry.
We could only see the sin:
the indulgence and the addiction.
“Depart in peace.” We said to him.
“Be filled with the evidence of things unseen.”
Then we took up yet another offering
for those impoverished, yet believers,
in faraway countries.

The Valiant Never Taste of Death But Once

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Staggering on an atrophied reason
through a miasma of resignation,
I find and light the torch of conviction.

And run.

Emptiness revels behind every door,
gorging herself on the countless corpses
of every instance of my cowardice.
‘Neath each door, a dim glow promises more
when my conviction’s guiding light falters.
I hear her laugh, an echoing whisper,
“How many times have you been here before?”

Exhausted I sought rest in compromise.
I knew it could only metastasize,
but I dissociated my demise.

And now

I fear this is no longer a labyrinth,
for casuistry had become cyclic.
Ignorance is no longer complicit
in the fraudulence of expedience.
Yet this tragic familiarity
was the thread leading back to honesty:
the travailing threshold to congruence.

She whispers sweetly now, drawing nearer
as my only escape becomes clearer:
I rush to the door that frames a mirror

and push.

Insignificant

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In silence It sat between us,
damning me for my ambivalence.
I kept a knife against Its throat
though I exalted Its existence.

What will was left began to wane
as hours poured from an artery.
Eclipsed in her indifference,
insignificance would swallow me.

Your implicit ultimatum
left me desperate for an absolute
that she would never offer me.
My hope only served to convolute

the tangled strands of lies and truth,
when twisted with my misconception,
slipped the noose around my frail reason
and filled my lungs with resignation.

Another dawn could never break
to grace her smile to my memory.
Acceptance like a tempest cast
me on the shores of reality.

I surrendered my last recourse
to the cold grip of the second hand.
In silence It read the verdict
that fell with the final grain of sand.

The pain of one last goodbye still
pales to one more indifferent embrace:
so as I twisted my blade in Its
throat, I memorized her darling face.

Blind to the blood that marked my hands,
unaware of Its lifeless body,
she bid farewell as we embraced:
the sole fruition of my folly.

In silence It rested with us
staining the sheets with pools of crimson.
Putrescence pervaded our dreams
and immortalized my transgression.

Passing Glances

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A slender form slips through the crowd,
careless of the curious eyes,
like the pale moon slips past the clouds,
she beckons my gaze to the skies.

Her elegant scarlet tresses
frame an ivory decollete,
and conceal her furtive glances
as she slowly dances my way.

For a moment we turn away
– she lets her verdant, velvet dress
brush past my hands as if to say,
“All that’s left is for us to guess.”

Your Story Isn’t Magdalene’s

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If only I could write your name
along side our sin,
condemning you into the shame
you abandoned me in.

But the worm of retribution
can swear no loyalty
and the toll of its infection
will eventually

be taken from the innocent.
Remorse is poisonous
– how I hope yours is sufficient
to blight his forgiveness.

My helpless rage has run its course,
leaving this bitter yield:
a dream of your suspended corpse
above the Potter’s Field.