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.