 Poetry |
Prose |
Novel Clips |
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| Poetry |
Prose |
Novel Clips |
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Poetry(for my muse)
You�re a beautiful, prettiful boy.
Yes, you are handsome
Perfectly slim
Even a beautiful, prettiful tummy.
Yet I dwell on things other than
Your abdomen.
Beautiful manner
Handsome soul
Wonderfully kind
And you wickedly convey your desire to
Eat babies.
Yet that in itself can only make me smile
For it is beautiful, prettiful you.
Purple/pink
Metal, wild, loving
Child.
I�ll bet you are a
Flower child
Even if you aren�t �child�
At all.
I try to refrain from you
So as not to besmudge you
But my fingers find their way to your hair.
I know not what I do!
Or do I?
Perfectly imperfect: Beautiful/prettiful
Prosei am standing on a road.
the trees crowd densely around
and block most of the moonlight.
here and there a string of light filters through the weeping trees.
my shoes are now covered in silver and gold dust
for as long as the road goes on, i will follow.
here i stand on the road.
on the road, i see people moaning
moaning for loved ones lost here long ago
i see visions
of war and brave ones who died for their hopes
and dreams of a better tomorrow.
i see pain and love
grief and rejoicing.
i see spirits of good and evil.
now no one is on the road
alone...
empty.
i hear crying beside me
a mother is crying out in vain for a son
another innocent soul lost.
darkness surrounds her.
i see gold and silver
the souls of the good embedded in the ground.
the light vanishes
i am left in solitude.
in my own personal grief, a mist falls
and i see a little girl
laughing in the arms of a stranger i once knew
and is now a part of the never ceasing memory.
i smell the dampness of the grass
along the edge of the road.
i smell chocolate and cinnamon
the smell of the kitchen
where my mother worked...
humming.
i smell a mixture of pipe tobacco and peppermint
that reminds me of the big chair
my father once occupied
but no more.
i feel pain on the road
followed by traces of happiness long forgotten.
i feel a sudden gust of wind
dandelions brushing against my cheek
and i feel sad.
why am i on the road ?
i will ask myself
time
and time
again.
the answer is always the same.
this is the road of my mind
i dare not wander
for fear i will lose it.
a voice tauntingly asks me
�will you not stray from the road
and come see the world anew?�
I answer
never
never.
before the road i knew a world of love
bright and shining in all it�s splendor.
i have since left that world.
will i go anywhere?
no.
i will sit here
in the past
on my road safe from harm, and try and remember.
i feel this road is my hiding place
and my sanctuary.
if you were me
would you leave �the road� ?
Nov. '96
Story ClipsJazz: Introduction
On a normal California day, Jazz Robbins woke up with a kit-cat lion yawn and a smile. Breakfast was always fresh peaches in cream, a croissant, and warm-me-up tea with milk and no sugar, held on the back deck.
On a normal California day, Jazz jogged around her block, over the warm cement side walks, under weeping willows and quite a variety of other sad trees. Sometimes she would climb up into a particularily tall oak, who she had called Norma as a child and whispered her secrets to.
On a normal California day, Jazz visited Miss Trudi on the corner, holding yarn around her outstretched hands and listening to stories like half-forgotten day dreams. Every once in a while they had sugar banana sandwiches, but Miss Trudi always had pomegranits. Jazz ate pomegranit seeds like an addict pops pills.
On a normal California evening, Jazz played guitar for her mother in the kitchen. As zuccini and tomatos sizzled on the frying pan, her finger plucked out John Lennon and Kurt Cobain. She felt like Isaac or Stephen sometimes, but usually she felt like Lou or Jimi.
On a normal California night, Jazz thanked God for her life and climbed into bed like a panther child to dream of the next comfortable, tangy California day. But this wasn't California any more and it certainly wasn't a normal day. Jazz found herself in quite another place alltogether.
On an abnormal Dallas day, Jazz Robbins decided to wake up with a lazy organ sigh and a frown.
Breakfast tasted stale that morning, and Jazz had a glass of milk with her scrambled eggs. She didn't want to eat them because her insides already felt scrambled enough without adding chaos in a fluffy yellow coat. But she ate them anyway.
Dressing for school felt drawn out. Jazz finally slipped on a pair of pin-striped baggy slacks with rainbow suspenders. Her baby-doll t-shirt proudly donned a picture of Iggy and David. Though her bronze skin needed no cover up make up, Jazz couldn't help but add a dash of glitter glam. Shaking her jagged chunk-dunk chocolate hair and eying herself in the mirror, she decided that today would be an okay sort of day. Jazz already felt like an indie slam rock queen.
Bliss Out of Suburbia: From the 1st chapter
Cole tuned his guitar to drop-D. The low tone resonated in the sunny air, and soothed his strange mood. He was aware of the constant camera clicking somewhere off to his right. He was also aware that the person behind the camera is was Ro Langdon.
�Why don�t you just speak to me,� he murmured to himself. �Or is that too hard for someone like you?�
For a few moments the clicking stopped. He took the opportunity to turn around and look her way. As soon as he did so, though, she glared and turned a shoulder from him. He didn�t mind. That�s life.
Cole stood up and put his guitar strap over his shoulder. If she wasn�t going to come to the mountain, the mountain would move instead.
�Hello, Ro.�
Ro didn�t look his way. �Hi.�
But Cole was not thrown from his path. He sat down beside her, and began to play his instrument. Ro turned slowly, pointedly frowning.
�What do you want?�
�To play guitar, to be happy, to eat good food, and to write good songs.�
�Is there a reason you can�t do that in another location,� she snapped.
�The grass is softer over here. Besides, we�re supposed to have a conversation, aren�t we?�
Ro studied his face. His eyes were dancing with amusement. A decision was made that the boy would be hated hence forth.
�Isn�t there something you wanted to ask me,� Cole continued. �I thought there was.�
It was out before she could think about the consequences. �They all say you�re gay.�
There was a pause. The eyes still danced. �And if I was?�
Ro eyed Cole cynically. "Have you ever kissed a boy?"
"No, have you?"
"Yes. Do you like The Beatles?"
"Yes. Do you like Pink Floyd?"
"Before or after 1980?"
"Why are you answering a question with a question?"
"If you could bring one person back to life, who would it be?"
"Madonna."
"She's not dead."
"Not yet."
Ro blinked a couple times. "Touch�."
"Do I pass your test?"
"What test? I ask everyone those questions."
"Oh, I see." Cole strummed a few chords on his guitar. "And do you usually get those answers?"
"I usually don't get questioned in return."
Cole studied her hard, discerning eyes, and cleared his throat. "One more question."
"Okay."
"Why do you want to talk to me?"
Ro glared. "Excuse me? You're the one who came over here."
Cole laughed, and played a minor chord. "But only because you wanted to talk to me."
"Well I don't."
"And yet you are. Are you always this difficult?"
"Not so fast, whatever-your-name-is," Ro replied. "That's one question over your limit."
"Maybe so, but you just gave me an answer anyway."
Frowning angrily, Ro turned away and began to look through the camera lens again. She could feel her ears turning quite red and she hated people that could fluster her. Ro refused to accept that she had met her match. So instead of paying attention to the song that Cole had begun, she took a photo of a swinging child.
"...I need an easy friend, I do... with an ear to lend, I do... think you fit this shoe-"
"Shut up," came a voice. Cole looked in Ro's direction.
"Why? Don't you like Nirvana?"
"Yes I do, but if you'd rather resurrect a perfectly healthy Madonna instead of Kurt Cobain, I'd rather not hear you singing his songs."
Last updated May 07, 2002.
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