Rose-tinted

The rose-tinted glasses
of nostalgia in it's finest form.

Where the confusion and torment
has become the myth surrounding a simple story
of

summertime love in
Quebecois gardens,

and the truth speaks of nothing more dramatic
than

soft smiles, and
arm in arm strolling.
A quiet peaceful reflection of past passion
that is

less a wave in the ocean
than a ripple in a pond.

A small town tale
of big city love
that
glazes over memories and leaves them
shimmering over our shoulders,

to look back upon
with lingering fondness.

An Ode to Simplified Relations

We spoke the other night
first time in a while.
We were both trying to figure out how it
should be different...
but nothing was.

And that
was precisely
the point.

We can continue to be
as we have been
but it doesn't have to hurt anymore.


I can't possibly forget,
the first kiss I ran from
the first night I couldn't resist
your perfect lips and your mandalin
Wolfe and St Dominique
Rocky Mountains and NYC
permaculture
craft beer
Leonard Cohen
and spending jazz fest drinking pints at Benelux.

I can't wait
to be casually chatting
with you
again soon.

Fuck

preferred hope
instinctual doubt
misplaced desire
temperamental make-up

fuck restless feet,
and this head full of ancient ideas
obliterate belief
and suffocate sentimentality

there are too many eyes
active,
yet carefully averted.

unable to wax poetic
can't achieve the old comfort in isolation
can't tear from attachment

can't stop all the fucking alliteration.

this is now
an archive.

Goomba

trapped in your shell, you
have shown what it is to learn;
how easy to live.

Lessons from a Dear Friend

What is needed is a neutral position, an air of nonchalance, and a good read that imitates the struggle--such a shame I've already read this saga's ending--although there is yet comfort in knowing the words concerning emptiness are empty themselves and comfort is comprised of nothing, nothing in it's entirety is empty--entirely empty words--and so on and so forth, round-about the neutral position is achieved.
So much can be learned from little flat faces--or faces of any kind or shape at all. Living proof there is absolutely nothing that should consume but now, here, this, as little faces are always occupied and intrigued by a universe of scents, yet can easily distract from the gloriousness of living in the world of here and now by coming across scents that trigger memories instead of curiousity, memories completely forgotten but not lost, reminded again through familiar smells--fond memories discovered on the back of a dear one's pants--glimpses of an adventure in another place and time that compared to this moment and it's consumption of reality, could have been lifetimes ago instead of mere days. And this little face lights up, grinning in the way only a smushface can, he paces his front paws in enlightened excitement, craning his neck up to catch his lady's eyes with his own glowing little globes that blink and shine,
"Remember how great that was?? Let's do that again sometime..."
and then off he goes, all recollection diminished, the reminiscing appropriately brief and finished for now, reconsumed by the present tense, and all the fascinating little miracles happening each instance are again the focus of the mind in this moment--this moment, as always, the concern of the life.

Ego Samurai

as responsibility plagues my life
I attacked my demons with a knife,

and when knives failed, I took up a sword...
upon my hands their black blood poured.

but these stains shan't smother the guilt I've felt
the shame I feel, the pain I've dealt.

I'll wield this sword without duress
and feel the steel through my chest.

and so it ends, and begins just to end.
(...again...and again...and again...and again...)