General Update

So, I've noticed it's been quite a while since I've last written something here (that isn't a poem) and I think it's time for an update. Besides, I'm sort of experiencing a creative crisis, among other things, so I'm not sure when the next poem will find its way into this world.

Why a crisis? In a way I think it's also a symbol for what's going on with my life right now, namely nothing. No that that's new or anything, it's just bugs me more than usual, I guess. Take work for example (if this was a movie you'd have a fade and a cross to my work area :-) ). Work is much more chaotic in some ways than I thought it would be. Despite my lack of experience in this field, I cannot ignore my own sensations, instincts and past memories (mostly from my time at the Navy, something I may have under-appreciated at the time).

In short, there are no ordered, coherent, announced and generally accepted work flows and habits that I'm aware of (and more importantly, it seems my immediate boss is also in the dark). As for this guy, while a really nice man and a technical genius, I can't help but feel his managerial skills needs improvement. Of course, his recent confession to me (in a rather awkward conversation on my part and heated on his) that he wishes to quit, did not improve my general mood or desire to stay. I do feel anxious about the future of the company and even started to skim through some wanted ads but I think it's premature.

These events and feelings, which I barely hinted on these past paragraphs, do not improve my mood and motivation at work, and in general. I do have friends there though, and that make a world of difference for me.

I know my writing here isn't all that clear and organized but I do feel rather tired now. I do hope to write something soon; a poem, a story, anything. I really need to. I feel large parts of me are already dying and some have died through recent years. But I must try, while I can.

Writer's Block II

Working long hours has its toll... :-)

I try to write;
I am numb and my mind
Is filled with empty metaphors
Unable to withstand their own
Weight, exploding and
Imploding interchangeably
By the bubbles of void.

Interrupted, I turn angrily
Towards myself, pausing only
To catch a passing glance
At the undying monitor
Across.

The blinking lights
Seem to form a pattern
Hiding unknown mysteries,
No doubt. And yet,
I cannot wonder why
I felt this way before.

At least I have Wes here,
Live. The jazz fills the air,
Healing the stubborn bugs
Plaguing my soul, if only
For a little while. Play!

Writer's Block I

Just scribbled it. Very tired now. Had an awful night and I can't get rid of this smell of cigarettes. Vile things :-( Anyway, here it is...

So I looked at it amazed,
Wondering at what had just
Passed down before my eyes,
Trying to ignore the smell of cigarettes.

The music is loud
But even that cannot deafen my silence.
I look at it amazed and quiet.

The empty spaces between the lines
Are filled with poetic grains of sand
I longer know will come or bring
Or... I don't know anymore.

I am scared. Saying that
Will surely make it go away? Silence!
I am confused, my head hurts
At the broken lines, bleeding
Uneven sentences and paragraphs
That wish they knew better days, better languages,
Better dirty computer screens to be displayed upon helplessly
Like unwanted slaves in a roman market buried just over there,
The other neighborhood; yes, past those tracks.

I am amazed, somehow, still. My head hurts. No.

Silence.

I am afraid.
Help.

Rest; yes.
Rest.

The Watcher

The tower hovering outside my window
Is not a reflection of my soul;
I must accept that.
Neither are the leafy shards
On the pavement across the street.

Instead, I reflect upon song
And psalm;
The rich and the richer,
The poor and the poorer,
Each man to himself.

But my soul is not there.
My dove does not dwell on
Such things;
It hovers, crossing barriers
Existing and non-existing alike
That divide us and penetrate us.

My soul is hidden; yet it is
Right there. I often
Wonder about such things,
Watching, reflecting on that
Tower over there, its windows
Mirroring my scant humanity.

At the Mall

Formless winds are rushing towards my death;
I fly upwards effortlessly on the conduits
Lost in regions and depths of minuscule importance
The chasm is deep within this one

The sights confuse me;
I lie baffled on the floor of my mind
Clad in second rate loin cloth
That had to be mine

The mannequins stare at me all too keenly;
The stage is set but I no longer occupy it.
Instead, I yearn to kneel and pray
At the chapel of the moving staircase.

The exit hole is well marked;
It's right next to the bubble gum stands
And lottery tickets and news magazines
And friendly odd salespersons and brown bags.

I fumble for keys deep in my pockets;
The cart crashes past me and the neon flares
As darkness consumes me and I remember
I forgot to buy my chocolate bar.

Cold July

My echoes reminisce on distant droplets seas,
Spies return from yet a mission;
Cowled in albatross and grey,
The emissaries find their target.

Fleeting shadows mark their position,
Hastening, halting, calculating;
Muscles flow and following through
Like an endless Zeno's paradox.

The blood fills my gaps,
Falling, falling, losing warmth;
Low now, pain is but a memory
Of a surprise neither warranted, nor guaranteed.

They walk away now, briskly;
I slump against the marble crimson notch.
Shadows pass before my eyes
And all for ye, Brutus;
Veni, Vidi, Vici, Abeo.