MoMA

We pondered the clocks in the Persistence of Memory
between walls satisfied with paintings.
Among sculptures suspended from ceilings
fountains sprayed drops of sunshine
splattering rainbows on silhouettes.

We were more inspired by each other.
Alone and invisible in a sea of strangers,
we were lost in a sculpture garden of secrets
where the sun still shone promise on our love,
reflecting our imaginary iridescence.

Bathed in a room of glowing yellow light
Eliasson turned us into monochrome
blending our various skin shades to one.
Ascending the crowded escalator your kiss
conceived more than God could on any Sistine ceiling.

There were a thousand faces to witness us
though their judgment, scorn and misunderstanding
were reserved for the paintings while
we blended into the Garden of Earthly Delights.

Between this gallery and the tallest buildings,
in a city of insomnia, we would have lost ourselves
and abandoned our old life to become
remembered as the incarnation of beauty,
invisible in the refuge of the museum.

The harmony of our lips,
the symmetry of our souls,
the enigma of our embrace,
the elegance of our portrait all
were painted on eternity’s canvas.

They will preserve us in a sculpture
and our juxtaposition will bewilder.
The post-modernists will bow and pray
to the paradox of our existence.

My masterpiece, I’ll discover you again,
amongst the Water Lilies and Starry Night,
waiting for my return to the museum,
waiting for our chance to be more
than just a simple work of art.

Jasmine Green Tea

We’re sitting alone
In the coffee shop
Sipping on jasmine green tea
Where we came to be together
So no one would see us
And no one ever did.

I am sitting alone
In the coffee shop
A thousand strangers swarm around me
You walk in from the snow outside
I look twice to make sure it’s you
And it is you.

We’re sitting alone
In the Italian Bistro
Sharing laughs and a canoli
Where we came to read Pessoa
On our first of many nervous lunches
On that cool promising April afternoon

I am sitting alone
In the coffee shop
Sipping on jasmine green tea
As soon as I walk out of the door
You appear unexpectedly
We collide, smile and keep walking

We're sitting alone
on that park bench
underneath the street lamp
You tell me for the first time
you're falling in love with me
and I am alive again.

I am sitting alone
in front of the airport
trying to stop the tears
from falling as I watch
you walk away having told you
I would love you always.

We’re sitting alone
At our computer desks
Ten miles away from each other
You send me a message
Reminding me:
“Yo siempre tendria tiempo para ti”

I am sitting alone
In the coffee shop
Sipping on jasmine green tea
Tinged with the mild hope
That fate would bring you to meet me
But you never came.

August

There is an empty house
In the middle of nowhere
The only place we can belong.

There is a summer we never had
And another chance to be who
We are truly meant to be.

There is a warm night of silence
While the walls of the room
Witness the revival of beauty.

There is the faint light from
A candle illuminating our
Two shadows becoming one.

There is a silent devotion reserved
For our bodies as they speak the words
We can never say out loud to each other.

There is a sonnet on my lips
You read with yours and drink
The words that go unspoken.

There is a meadow of fireflies
Where nature smiles upon
The reunion of our souls.

There is a consistent aching
Infecting my lungs from breathing
in the air of your absence.

There is a certainty our love
Will always exist at least
In the paradox of oblivion.

There is the August we never had
And ten thousand years lived
Together in only these few nights.

There is an empty house
In the middle of nowhere
Waiting for us in August.

The Paradigm of Love

Plato’s forms capture the essence
Of an universal definition to
The concepts we want to believe
Have some consistency
Or at least exist.

Though dangerous to define what we believe
Through our individual experiences
When the world is constantly revolving
There’s an urgent sense of relativity
I cannot ignore when defining

Love.

Since you’ve left I’ve roamed
This land and a handful of men
And met many philosophies
To grace my speculative intellect
And keep me up at night.

Yet In every line of poetry,
Love story summarized in verse or film
One reoccurring redundancy
Captures my imagination each time
Your face appears in perfect

Paradigm.

There’s a paradox alive in this passion
How can there be such
Consistency in my relativity
And persistence of your memory
When deciphering the paradigm of

Love.

Myth

I leave the door unlocked
You silently enter, I pretend
Not to notice
Not to be surprised
But inside
I’m singing.

Our minutes are few
Usually dark with
Only a candle light
When the sun once
Shone everyday
Alive on our
Love.

We’re both uncertain
As we can never leave
This room together
What’s left of our time
Is exhibited once or twice
A month in the most
Innate ways.

And we settle
And accept futility
Lay down together
Where our minutes
Are filled with more
Life than 100 years
Of the commoner.

There is a rapture
Between our bodies
the antithesis of
The world outside
Yet our vernacular
Is spoken through
Our bodies’ embrace.

The night deepens
Our tides crest
A moment of deep breathing
To interrupt the still
Of our silence I desire
To tell you how I have
Loved you all along.

Our minute has passed
As the seasons change
I feel your arms around me
Once more before I lock
The door and wonder maybe
If our myth will last
Forever.

Art Museums Part II

“The state of soul is no doubt responsible for my aversion to museums. The only museum for me is the whole of life, in which the painting is always accurate, the only inaccuracy being in the imperfection of the contemplator. I do what I can do to reduce the imperfection, and if I can’t do anything, then I rest content with the way it is, because, like everything, it can’t be any other way.”

-Fernando Pessoa,"The Book of Disquietude"153

Art Museums Part II

Eternity stretches in the years between us
while scandals become fairy tales
and the abstract sells for millions,

The birth of our creation remains
not only as the masterpiece
waiting in the museum.

But is spoken of in each
whisper of night wind:
Witness of our existence

It is written on each page
of philosophy and poetry:
The vernacular of our love.

It is traced along the silhouette
on the wall where our shadows
embraced one another.

It is carved in the ruins
of the temple that was our bodies
while they held each other.

The world will contemplate
always in flawless imperfection
while perfection exists for those

who are the work of art.

Similarities and Small Dicks

Why are each girl he dates after me
all the same
all either cursed with
small tits
a mile wide behind
manish or Elfish
facial features
you know:
the droopy eyes
larger foreheads
eye brows in need
of tweezing
dark eyes, dark hair
begging to be brushed
and straightened.
A physical appearance
opposite in everyway
to my near perfect
reflection.

To counter such
escape of my ego
all of them also
embody the following
mental defects:
A confused sexuality
either before or after
fucking him
turning them either
straight or gay.

All of them also
are God-loving idiots
determined
they are called
to serving the Lord
and selling his
$50 bottle of
magic juice
while saving sinners
in Jesus' name.
(liquefied indulgences).

All of them also
represent
the exact opposite
of my free-thinking
god-less philosophies.

Maybe he needs to
feel superior
to the ones he
fucks.
Rather live in fear
that she just might
leave him
for a more attractive
and intelligent
man.

Or maybe just one
that doesn’t
beat her.
Or throw
wire hangers,
remote controls,
picture frames
and insults
at her.

Maybe he needs
to feel better
at that
pathetic
two and a half inches
between his legs
and the
“mistakes”
of his past.

Maybe he needs
to feel good
about
his "mistake"
of
abusing
and losing
someone
like
me.

Vernal Eternity

Vernal nights have returned
the sun stays out longer each night
to shine on the way we once shared
time in an endless garden
where we grew
and withered
too soon.

The colors of this summer fade
in the vivid memories of last
a kaleidescope of paradise
was our time on earth
our parting now
bleeds black
and white.

No simple apology can return us to
the anomaly of our delicate consonance
your absence and the darkness
that follows, without the light
of my mentor to guide
me to where
I belong.

You granted me the strength to breath
your kindness and benevolence gave me
the courage to pursue my own destiny
you held me close and kept
me still while the world
crumbled all
around me.

You were the gift received by the suffering
worth more than he who brought an end
to our creation though I will cling to
that regret forever for allowing
him to hurt you, my friend
Numb to which pain
is more unbearable
my stinging shame
or your aching
absence.

My best friend, my
mentoring muse,
my beautiful
tragedy, my
forgotten
dream.

Our memory will resonate
the most melodic
echoes in the
reservoir
of my
heart.

Here it is always those vernal nights
where the sun stays out longer
and we share time in the
endless garden where
we grow and
never wither
too soon.

Mr. Bukowski, please

Its not every night of the week
I put on a nice dress and fix my hair
and walk across the street
to the only bar in town I'll go
where the people are somewhat decent
at least in affording their overpriced beer.

Sitting alone with Bukowski
I'm the only one at the bar under 30
the only one with blonde hair
the only one with a glass of shiraz
the only one with a book
the only one cross-legged
the only one alive
wondering
what the hell I am doing here.

As long as I don't make eye contact
I know I can avoid at least
ten or more of the opposite sex
imagining me naked
imagining they could ever
get anywhere with me.

Normal people all around
playing pool, laughing, drinking
talking, arguing, breathing
and the only person I talk to
is the dead, old, alcoholic poet
as he silently reads his stories
of whores, An Empire of Coins and Jane.

This isn't how pretty girls are supposed
to spend their saturday evenings.
And I'm too damn pretty to be respected
or else he would have called to
tell me he wasn't coming
instead of sitting here alone
foolishly thinking
I need anyone more
than the old rotting words
of Mr. Bukowski.

The Analytical MisAnthrope

What is the alternative to self ostracization?

A) Giving in to mediocre masses
B) Relinquishing your individuality at the door of the party
C) Quantity of acquaintances over quality of companions
D) All of the Above.

Sorority girl puking in the corner
Cheap beer and music that makes
Conversation indistinguishable
Plastic cups and ping pong balls
Ugly strangers hooking up with
Uglier ones, searching for
Momentary meaning to sedate
Their meaninglessness and mediocre
Existence with a random fuck
And a morning regret.
The lucid conversations of celebrity
Fluff and gossip, skittles and fashion,
Sports statistics, fuck statistics
Too far from the truth, too drunk to care
Torpid adolescents who become stagnant adults
Remaining useless in their existence…

…all makes the emptiness and uncertainty
Sleepless nights and writer’s block
The self-inflicted loneliness of
Misanthropy, the bitterness,
The cynicism and quandaries
Of self-doubt and pitiful loathing
Of those outside your door,
The maniacal internal rants and
Psychotic streams of consciousness
The mental masturbation, the darkness
And seclusion from the hatred of
Those masses of indifferent fools…

…worth it.

Philosophia

Philosophia

Nascimini servis ipsis et nos fidei

Si est modus ad omnes res, cur ponimus modos in nobis?

Vivere sin sententia es vivere in summo statu libertatis.

***

We are born slaves to ourselves and to our faith

If there is a limit to all things why do we put limits on ourselves?

To live life without meaning is to live in the highest state of freedom

Escape

Let me be the break
in your monotony.

an escape
from numbness.

come here and discover
what you've forgotten.

come here and touch
this moment, this body
you are alive again.

breathe deep.

forget the minutes.

slide
down this mountain
of my body.

drink
from the cup
between my legs.

simmer in desire
inside this resolve.

electric fingertips
glide
.
we are reborn
free into each other.

wild.

alive.

Come here and breathe...

Soul For Sale

I've sold my self
there is nothing left for you to hold
I've sold my self
to routine
for summa cum laude
to rich folks
for a few dollars
to cosmetics
for a few glances of the opposite sex.

Those great ones
slept on benches
drank themselves to their end
ran down the street
with their genitals hanging out.
Roaming the country.
Living off of
Roominghouses and nickels.
fucking the world
one whore at a time.

Those great ones who became
the rich and worshiped
reluctant celebrities
Beatnik idols
they all eventually
sold themselves too.

Here I am with too pretty a face
for my own good
the cynicism boiling underneath
this too short of a skirt
Always on time
confined to a soul defeating
abusive routine.
Waiting to be knocked
off of this godamn monotonous
humdrum we call a life.

C'mon

Your life is over when you think its just beginning.
The beginning of your marriage: your life is over.
Tenured job security: your life is over.
Making babies: your life is over.
Mortgaging a house: your life is over.
401K and retirement funds: your life is over.

You have the rest of your life figured out.
You are imprisoned in this pathetic
security blanket you call your life.
You cling to the present as if it will be your future
In fear of change, growth, discovery
In fear of living.

That which you promised for a lifetime
will grow old and expire
while the world passes you by
and a whole lifetime of stagnant security
isn't as fulfilling
as one day of urgency.

Isn't as fulfilling as our one day of urgency.
You know it, I said it.
C'mon...

Appropriate Lament

I looked for you in the facade of hope
in the lines of poetry
in the hours of sleep
yet I should not be as foolish to think
that I would find you - as there is no meaning to be found anywhere.

Hillary Benner

This afternoon was perfect for a walk in this town. April is a beautiful month and today served as the paradigm for such beauty.

Dressed in black sweatpants, my white tank top, hair long and blonde as usual I left my apartment with my Book of Disquietude and my journal, intent on finding somewhere comfortable in the Nisky Hill cemetery to read and write down a few of my thoughts. Being that cemeteries are peaceful to me, I looked forward to some alone time which to reflect some current but lingering thoughts.

The cool wind served as a nice dichotomy between the warm sun and I decided upon a grassy knoll area underneath one of the largest trees in the cemetery, on which to sit. Opening up to a new page to pour words onto, I wasn't there for more than five minutes until a lady approached me, saying she just needed to look at me up close. She said I looked so much like her daughter. She asked me where I went to school and if I lived around here. Then she told me how her daughter died two years ago today and she had just been visiting the grave. She said when she saw me walking, the way my hair looked and the clothing I was wearing, I looked exactly like her daughter...

How strange upon this day I would be walking in that exact location at that time she was there, choosing that spot to read, those clothes to wear. My heart went out to this lady and it wasn't until I stopped by her daughter's grave on my way out of the cemetery that I took a minute to give my respects. The grave was decorated with many fresh beautiful flowers of all colors, along with a container which held several notes to Hillary. Upon arriving home, I found information about her via the internet and myspace.

She died two years ago on Easter Sunday in a car crash with her boyfriend.

Though I did not know her until today, it is strange to meet someone after they have passed.

Rest in Peace, Hillary.

The Greatest Rogue

The greatest rogue of all our rogues
intelligent, honest and incorrigible
yet never ceasing to be a rogue.

An appetite for contradictory sensations
isn't hard to acquire once one begins
the preservation of the good and beautiful.

The greatest rogue of all our rogues
the muse of my affection and
sculptor of my wisdom.

You simultaneously bewilder and intimidate
the masses threatened by such romance
yet obsess the minds of the inspired.

Behind the coarseness of your visage:
There is no greater privilege to have been
an apprentice to the kindness witnessed.

My greatest rogue.
My greatest muse.
My greatest tragedy.

Temptation

I remain a fool for temptation.

Artificial moments
Dripping with tension
Once a week or less

Is too much for too little of you.

I can never tell
whether your hesitance
is bitterness or the leftovers

of the lost love we'll never have.

Limits

Si est modus ad omnes res, cur ponimus modos in nobis?

Abandonment

You have abandoned your child.

Thank you Kirilov

To live life without meaning is to live in the highest state of freedom.

5 months 9 days 6 hours 57 minutes 40 seconds

I smelled a hint of Spring in January's cold air
and suddenly felt near to you again and knew
our love had not died from this absence called winter.

Distance

There are everyday reminders proving that distance, in time and space, cannot keep me from falling in love.

Creation of a Masterpiece

Before the Mona Lisa was painted, DaVinci did not know
the legendary allure of her smile that would follow
and how time would make her beauty grow.

Rembrandt only knew because the devil promised him so
unlike the long overdue appreciation for Van Gogh
like in his insanity, in his grave he will never know.

We are never really aware of greatness in progress
only after century's paradigm of fashionable ignorance
do we begin to ride the bandwagon of mindless reverence.

Traveling among those who are half aware of such presence
beauty suffers degradation from such gaudy acquiescence
under such appreciation, works of art fade to insignificance.

But the colors of your soul, the depth of your smile
smooth lines, soft glows of your face, striking yet mild
mysterious yet angelic, seductive, versatile
perfection has never seen such aesthetic style.

Yet your sculpting is not complete
your true colors have yet to be seen
with all the potential you have to achieve

Though the kaleidoscope of your radiance is already blinding
to be anymore enamored in your presence, I can't imagine
being front row to the conception between purity and perfection.

It is a privilege in this world of stagnant mediocrity
when having the chance to experience a masterpiece
but being a witness to the creation of such symmetry
is a rare privilege of exceptional beauty.

***

January 6th 2009
~For Armando~