To Be Sinister

"Throughout classical as well as biblical literature (most specifically in Shakespearean poetry and prose) the left side is referred to as the 'sinister' or inferior; the side of imperfection and shame. Meanwhile the right is regarded as the dominant, better developed and therefore more highly regarded and honorable half.
When it comes to the notion of ability where the left vs. right concept is concerned I feel that the left is actually the side of truer aptitude because it is the real, honest, gritty and visceral manifestation of human imperfection. What one can do with their right/dominant side tends to be considered their best because it is the most disciplined. And yet, as I see it, that which is done with true effort and the 'lesser side', although the end result might be less than Plato's forms might encourage, is the representation of the best one might do when at one's lowest.
It's true. Therefore it is veritably beautiful."

And Everywhere A Haze

My bedspread is scattered
with the
paper remains
of too many responsibilities
to count.

Unlike my floor
whose peaceful emptiness
guides my soles to
safety.

Soon I'll climb
beneath the covers.
Maybe even all of the way.
Then I'll see
nothing but polka dots
and filtered light.

Because at least then I'll know
the light is there
to be my friend
and my guide.

Even thought it isn't
there with me.

I've wanted you more
than I've wanted
light. And more
than I've wanted polka dots.

And I don't
even know how much
I want them.

Your voice is warm
and light.
And dotted with the
the honesty you
refuse to part
with.

If I could have you
speak into my comforter,
if I could have you
scatter your remnants
even if only above and about
my blankets,
then I could know.

You are so much
more than an accumulation
of papers and ink.

But you weigh
down on me like beachwood.
Stripped.
Dried.
Abused.
And so beautiful.

And thus I lay a hand
on my own hand.
Smudged with ink spots.

And I am safe.

Daylight Not Far Behind

And thus we come to the close of yet another day.
Only this day, unlike all of the rest, made me feel so...

...so...

...intentionally vapid?

I couldn't really say without sounding like yet another one of those long-winded buffoons set so intently on coming off as brilliantly misunderstood and thus I maintain a moderation in tone.

Nonetheless, I shall remain honest.
It's my final and paramount pursuit.

Earlier, within the confines of just some more posed socializing, I remember informing (or should I say "finding verification in") a friend that we had arrived, we had become. We were, by all exterior examination, a newly finalized addendum to a preexisting clique of purportedly clique-hating elitists.

"We played our parts to perfection!"
I exclaimed with undisguised thrill and fervor.
Our bikes coasted hummingly along the 20th avenue corridor.
We were freezing in the unexpected cold and yet we still found reason to smile.
We patted ourselves on chameleon skin backs as we melded from "them" back to "us."

But how much difference might really remain?
Are the separations bleeding into noteworthy perforations in the papering of life?

Of course, with care and gentleness, we can separate ourselves from this bold tribe and yet we don't really want to.
If anything, we find it all too appealing to engross ourselves in the mendacity of a people group defined by their supposed genuineness.

And so we begin to shut the door of our closeted Gap shirts, H&M scarves, and good grades.
We deny potato chips and fast food.
We ascribe to the commonly held norms and beliefs and further fuel the ridiculousness of the drunken group think.

But what is the alternative?
Where is the true cut off between us as people and us as members?

Perhaps I ask because I don't know or perhaps I ask because I think I know and want to be satisfied with outward agreement.
Moot.

My right has been handling the entire night up until this point.
It's time for the left to step back into play.,

Today I've elected to do some very determined, very inescapable writing.

I've got an outline and synopsis.
I've got characters and situations.

I've got the words and the wherewithal.

And now all I'm missing is the determination.

I'm quickly learning to trust no one.

It seems so definite and disparaging and yet here I am, alone in a candlelit room asking myself that same question: why depend?

I look at life as some kind of bolt of fabric.
It's rolled together all neatly until I start to try and feel my way through the fibers and then all of the possibilities that hovered just above it like words or figures over a blank page seem to unravel.
To disappoint.

I try to be that one line of selvage grasping desperately at the passionately chaotic fraying at the edge of all of this madness.
I want to hold everything and everyone together and mostly myself.

But why do people have to let go.
It's as if their holding onto a vital string goes away and suddenly I have to come up with a whole new garment, tapestry, pattern.

I'm tired.

I May Lead a Life of Luck

Whenever I fall into a state of seemingly permanent malaise and backwardness I find that only the abnormal experiences of a happenstance life stand any chance of jarring me from my self-victimizing complacence.

But why did it have to happen like this?

Why did fate seem so willing to pull me along on a knotted string while caring so little for my bumbling, foul-footed romantic self?

That question has, I'm sure, been posed many a time throughout the ages by many different people in many different manners as a result of many different experiences.
Even so, I feel like my asking is something individual, something particular, unique, special.

When we arrived at the curbside I felt the rising warmth of recognition for the small group of people encircling the small black table.
And then, on second perusal, I found myself the object of a cosmic joke as the woman I love sat so close to the man I might and the man I did.

God, could I be any less prepared?
Don't ask.
Don't ask me that question.


Only do.
Please do.
I want and sometimes even think I need to talk about it but I still end up feeling ill-spoken, totally scattered, and all around childish when finally discussing the matter at any length.

As if I didn't have a hard enough time trying to make up my mind...about anything.

I've finally begun to have some faith in my potential.
Not to say it was completely absent before now but I could tell I'd wrapped it up tightly in a swaddling of over-analysis and bereft spirit.

And yet here I sit, new found excitement and propulsion rocketing me into a state of flight...or perhaps pre-flight.
I'm not quite airborne just yet.
But I know I'm well on my way.

I've seen the beauty of a fresh, crisp morning droop sloppily into a dank and uncomfortably gray afternoon only to once again rise from the cloudy ashes to exquisite, dawn like brightness.

In that metaphor is easy to assume that I'm like the daylight or even the sun itself however I choose to think of myself as being, well, me.
The person standing on the last corner of a rough rooftop, staring into the oblivion of an azure, to stone, to miracle sky.
It's all surrounding me in a watercolor blend.
I feel the occasional pebble interrupting the sloping tiles like periods in a descriptive paragraph, punctuating the otherwise apparent floor with the reminder that it's actually a ceiling...and I am above it.

Maybe this is flying.

My Fairy Godfathers

Having spent the last week in a state of lurching course and breakneck pace I found myself at the end of my rope on Friday night.

I happened to come to a state of sudden deflation (or should I say suddenly realized deflation).

It was then that in swooped my two Fairy Godfathers to rescue me from the misfit of malaise.

I love Marc and Floyd.

Whenever I find myself in a state of panic I tend to have one of those moments where I realize that no matter what can happen outside of me to distress and frighten, I'll still be here when it's over.

I'll survive. I'll continue.
It's nothing of an ending point.

Perhaps the notion of ending is just what I'm afraid of, just what holds me around the midsection just above my navel and pains me with relentless tension.

Perhaps.

Noah's Midnight Blunder

Somewhere owls, quite preened and screechy,
Hooted something fierce and preachy.
Hailing down the night's dark shutter,
Not a wing would dare to flutter.

You see this night would hold in feature,
Pain and suff'ring for one creature
Thick enough to coast quite blindly
Down a street shaped quite unkindly.

And here before we've gone too far,
Allow me to unveil our star!
A lad of lank and wit and mettle,
Blithe and happy e'er to pedal.

This happy, handsome, playful youth
Would soon be howling "oh, forsooth"
And all because of his neglect
To light his lamps so they'd reflect

The dangers of impending tangle
With the concrete sure to mangle
Any who might dare have tried
With its surface to collide.

But lo, I grow too quickly pointed,
(My this story seems disjointed).
Let's go back to pre-dismemb'ring,
(It's germane to keen rememb'ring).

It was warm and slightly gusty,
Prompting girls to be quite busty.
Guys would follow in like manner,
Wearing tank tops to get tanner.

I, of course, enjoying Summer,
Bore my skin (a future bummer),
And rode my bike with boorish grin,
This combo forming my chagrin.

For as it's said through time and story,
Dumb and young leads not to glory,
Only to a painful humbling,
Typically involving tumbling.

So there it was, a lovely night,
And once again did I alight
Upon my French-constructed bike,
Named Jean-Françoise (I hope you like).

The two of us then did proceed,
To follow fellow rider's lead,
Up a hill and 'round a corner,
I took front and so did warn her,

Of all minor interruptions
Found in moonlit street's corruptions.
And all progressed so peachy keenly
If only curbs bit not so meanly.

For on that sloping avenue
There soon approached a change in view.
Where 27th meets with Lincoln
Drivers should refrain from blinkin'

For the street does take a bending
Rearranging traffic sending
mobiles 'round an aged arbor.
One predating old Pearl Harbor.

And yet that night, as luck would irk,
A hateful force was fast at work.
And blocked this hero's chestnut eyes
From seeing my most cruel demise.

The moonlight fell in dappled spray,
Illuminating most roadway,
Except for where that dratted Elm,
Took up the street (and smacked my helm).

For though I saw tree's shading rafter,
I viewed the street before and after.
And thus assuming all was fine,
Did steer in a diagonal line.

Now this, of course, was my undoing,
For in my quick perfunct'ry viewing
I didn't make a point to seek
If soonish turn be more oblique.

Which it was and naught could change it,
Oh, that I could rearrange it.
And thus in my assumed route,
Did quickly, harshly find it out.

I coasted smoothly through the night,
Looking not for launch or flight,
And yet then I was given both
(I WAS, I swear it, by my troth).

So my direction did perturb,
For *SMASH* my wheel did hit the curb,
And off I went into the dirt,
with curses for my sleeveless shirt.

But this whole flight did take some time,
And my, I'm sure it looked sublime.
I flew and twisted like a sack
And landed square upon my back.

Whereon I slid to grinding halt,
My skin now filled with fresh asphalt.
And silent bones then got much bolder,
For don't you know? I broke my shoulder.

My body's once so silent frame,
Began to scream from recent maim,
And off I went with help of friends,
To the ER for meds and mends.

My clavicle and scapula
Were blown to worthless crapula.
And I was forced by curb's stark fling
To spend some time inside a sling.

And yet in all this happenstance,
I was given special chance
To see just how much people loved me,
Even though that curb had shoved me.

So here I am, now nearly healed,
And most all scabs are dried and peeled,
The thought still running through my head,
"At least I didn't smash up dead!"

But more than my own safe recovery,
My great treasure and discovery,
Was what my fellow rider said,
Once she knew I wasn't dead:

"This may sound wrong and kind of brash,
(Who knows, it very well may be)
I'm kind of glad that he did crash...

...'Cause if not him, it would have been me."

Sedentary

So, I'm sitting here, in bed, a lovely red blanket wrapped loosely around my naked torso, eagerly awaiting yet another episode of some show that I missed on television to finish buffering so I can sit back and be totally placated by something colorful and active.

I'm reading over that last line and realizing just how infantile it really seems.
Much like a newborn, all one must do to keep me quiet and happy is to lay me down in bed and place a lazily rotating mobile above me so that I can just watch its polychromatic dance.
Only my mobile is sex, violence, and witty repartee.

I wonder whether or not I should be alarmed by the plain and simple fact that I'm self-medicating my would be boredom with something not requiring much more than a few keystrokes and absolutely minimal brain function.

Then again, I could justify my behavior in saying that I'm quite aware of the innocuous nature of my current pastime and therefore find myself free from the clutches of its possibly harmful consequence: namely vegetablism.

If I know it and do it critically then I should be safe, right?

That's so full of loop holes that even I can see light coming through from the other side.
I guess if it were true I could be critically smoking right now. Critically eating nothing but sugar.
Critically stripping at Saturday Market.

The list goes on.

Regardless, the final point is that I really don't have any justification for sitting in bed, watching some television episode.

Ergo, I should get up and shower.
So I will.




After this episode.