I lay here in the stillness of the cool summer night, the cicadas in the trees just outside of my window rubbing together their leaves of gold, gloriously humming. The darkness comforts me in these late, quiet hours, as my mind drifts far, far away.
I dream of you, Granada, where we shall dance again beneath the blanket of the stars. Our soles on fire, yes, fire, from this dance.
I dream of you, Granada, where your rolling hills and illustrious mountains echo the names of every distant voice deeply within the heart. Do you hear it? My name beats twice within.
I dream of you, Granada, where the Cuevas swallow me whole, laying me to rest within their cool and reticent darkness. I dream in peace with you. Always with you.
I dream of you, Granada, where I run free amidst these Andalusian fields, the wind my great companion, the sun a fierce charm against my skin, clothed in the comfort of a cotton summer dress. I breathe you, your essence, my rapture.
I dream of you, Granada, where the waters, cool and cleansing, offer me their embrace. They envelope me in blue sands of silence, lulling my weary limbs as the poplars float past me. They carry me to the edge of the night, toward your balmy, fervent olive groves. Ah, such ambrosial treasures lie here!
I dream of you, Granada, blessing my blush lips with the blood of your vineyards. The taste of you in itself is God. My tongue trembles in prayer, caressing stony rosaries as my soul bends at the knee before you. I close my eyes.
I wake to find myself unremoved at all. Ah, Granada, what yearning in my swollen breast!
Oh, Granada, your Sierra calls me. In you alone do I find such sweet repose.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Painter vs. Poet
He is the painter
I'm just the poet
He creates beauty
I try to grow it
I sit and think
I sit and drink
I sit and stare at the drain in the sink
And I watch the paint
As it washes away
He cleanses the reds
His hands have been stained
He turns off the sink
Then turns away
I sit and think
While the brushes decay
I stare at his canvas
Puerile and plain
I stare at my notebook
Putrid, defamed
And realize our passion
Cannot be the same
For he is the fire
And I smother flame
He is the muse
I'm just the pest
He brings inspiration
While I bring unrest
I watch him build
I watch him shape
I watch him love
And I start to hate
As he captures her features
And mine dissipate
And the subject I was
Seems nothing so great
He fills in her color
And I am left bare
I watch him sculpt glory
As I scribble despair
He is the painter
I'm just the poet
Each stroke that he makes
Covers up what I wrote
I sit and think
I sit and drink
I sit and stare
At the drain in the sink
And I watch my ink
As it washes away
I cleanse the reds
My hands have been stained
I turn off the sink
Then turn away
I sit and think
As my skin turns to gray.
I'm just the poet
He creates beauty
I try to grow it
I sit and think
I sit and drink
I sit and stare at the drain in the sink
And I watch the paint
As it washes away
He cleanses the reds
His hands have been stained
He turns off the sink
Then turns away
I sit and think
While the brushes decay
I stare at his canvas
Puerile and plain
I stare at my notebook
Putrid, defamed
And realize our passion
Cannot be the same
For he is the fire
And I smother flame
He is the muse
I'm just the pest
He brings inspiration
While I bring unrest
I watch him build
I watch him shape
I watch him love
And I start to hate
As he captures her features
And mine dissipate
And the subject I was
Seems nothing so great
He fills in her color
And I am left bare
I watch him sculpt glory
As I scribble despair
He is the painter
I'm just the poet
Each stroke that he makes
Covers up what I wrote
I sit and think
I sit and drink
I sit and stare
At the drain in the sink
And I watch my ink
As it washes away
I cleanse the reds
My hands have been stained
I turn off the sink
Then turn away
I sit and think
As my skin turns to gray.
Random garbage
The tears flowed in torrents as I did my best to pick up the house. I began to gather the shards of glass that had broken on the floor several days before, finding it painfully ironic that I was trying to pick up something shattered. Truthfully, my condition was such that just about anything could and would trigger an intense emotional response entirely against my better judgment. There would be no more music. No more laughter. Only silence. Silence and tears and the roar of the vacuum cleaner to swallow the filth and the fury.
I stopped myself every once and a while, checking to see if I'd missed a call. Nothing. Why would there be? After all, it'd been days, hadn't it? Logically, I knew far well that the end was no more on nigh. It had already passed and left me locked in lover's limbo. I found myself transfixed in Purgatory, catatonic, trapped. My better judgment pushed for me to accept this tragic state of affairs, but my heart, oh, my heart.
I wiped my eyes, now bleary and bloodshot from sobbing to such a horrific extent. I pushed the vacuum against the wall and sank to the carpet, mollycoddling myself in a sorry embrace to acheive some sense of comfort. Weakness. I'd fought it with every fiber in my being, yet upon reaching this level of consummate suffering, I had no choice but to succumb, licking the reopened gashes as though a wounded animal. I hated myself for being so foolish, for behaving in such an infantile and petulant manner; but the agony overwhelmed me. What more could I do?
Several moments later, I turned my gaze to the bookshelf, noticing a small bottle of pills sitting on its ledge. Curiously, I rolled out of my self-embrace and rose to my knees, taking a better gander. I lifted the small bottle and read the label, cautiously popping the lid from the top to peer inside. I counted seven round pills inside of it, then simply stared at them, reviewing my options. Christ, it seemed so easy. The stuff was deadly enough on its own, and taking it sevenfold would sure enough send me somewhere: Heaven, Hell, but out of this Purgatory, for certain. Upon further debate, my hands began to shake, and I dropped the bottle to the floor, spilling its contents. Oh, God.
There they were again. The torrents. I dropped my hands to the floor, now supporting myself with all four appendages. My body convulsed, compulsively, as I made more of a mess out of myself. I screamed and wailed, assuredly disturbing the neighbors. At this point, however, I'm certain they'd grown accustomed to my wailing through the walls. I'd more or less spent the past few months sniveling to myself on a daily basis. Weak. Oh, how loath it made me to think of it.
I prayed for sunshine in the darkness. There was none. I raised my weary eyes to the smudged window and saw only the flickering orange lamp light of the unknown.
"Get up," I whispered, urging my body to react in perfect tandem with my mind. Begrudgingly, I yanked myself from the floor and stood. No, I wasn't whole again, nor did I expect to be. If nothing more, it was a step in the correct direction, a step up, a step that forced me to realize that, even when everything inside of me screamed in defeat, I still possessed the capacity to gather the shattered glass, to pick up the pieces, and, in time, stand on my own two feet.
I closed the blinds and backed against the wall, closing my eyes and monitoring my breathing. I could feel the beat of my heart within my chest, and placed my left hand over it, for comfort and warmth. Perhaps things would never be the same, but at least I knew how deeply I loved someone, and how deeply that love was respected and reciprocated. I found it in myself.
I stopped myself every once and a while, checking to see if I'd missed a call. Nothing. Why would there be? After all, it'd been days, hadn't it? Logically, I knew far well that the end was no more on nigh. It had already passed and left me locked in lover's limbo. I found myself transfixed in Purgatory, catatonic, trapped. My better judgment pushed for me to accept this tragic state of affairs, but my heart, oh, my heart.
I wiped my eyes, now bleary and bloodshot from sobbing to such a horrific extent. I pushed the vacuum against the wall and sank to the carpet, mollycoddling myself in a sorry embrace to acheive some sense of comfort. Weakness. I'd fought it with every fiber in my being, yet upon reaching this level of consummate suffering, I had no choice but to succumb, licking the reopened gashes as though a wounded animal. I hated myself for being so foolish, for behaving in such an infantile and petulant manner; but the agony overwhelmed me. What more could I do?
Several moments later, I turned my gaze to the bookshelf, noticing a small bottle of pills sitting on its ledge. Curiously, I rolled out of my self-embrace and rose to my knees, taking a better gander. I lifted the small bottle and read the label, cautiously popping the lid from the top to peer inside. I counted seven round pills inside of it, then simply stared at them, reviewing my options. Christ, it seemed so easy. The stuff was deadly enough on its own, and taking it sevenfold would sure enough send me somewhere: Heaven, Hell, but out of this Purgatory, for certain. Upon further debate, my hands began to shake, and I dropped the bottle to the floor, spilling its contents. Oh, God.
There they were again. The torrents. I dropped my hands to the floor, now supporting myself with all four appendages. My body convulsed, compulsively, as I made more of a mess out of myself. I screamed and wailed, assuredly disturbing the neighbors. At this point, however, I'm certain they'd grown accustomed to my wailing through the walls. I'd more or less spent the past few months sniveling to myself on a daily basis. Weak. Oh, how loath it made me to think of it.
I prayed for sunshine in the darkness. There was none. I raised my weary eyes to the smudged window and saw only the flickering orange lamp light of the unknown.
"Get up," I whispered, urging my body to react in perfect tandem with my mind. Begrudgingly, I yanked myself from the floor and stood. No, I wasn't whole again, nor did I expect to be. If nothing more, it was a step in the correct direction, a step up, a step that forced me to realize that, even when everything inside of me screamed in defeat, I still possessed the capacity to gather the shattered glass, to pick up the pieces, and, in time, stand on my own two feet.
I closed the blinds and backed against the wall, closing my eyes and monitoring my breathing. I could feel the beat of my heart within my chest, and placed my left hand over it, for comfort and warmth. Perhaps things would never be the same, but at least I knew how deeply I loved someone, and how deeply that love was respected and reciprocated. I found it in myself.
Abandoned, unfinished piece.
The wine’s no good tonight. I’ve drunk more than my fair share, and haven’t felt a tinge of reaction yet. Normally, several glasses and I’ve more than reached my capacity. You know, lampshade on head, topless dancing, sloppily kissing strangers, regardless of sex. But not tonight. I’ve been sitting in this dank, lonesome corner sipping glass after glass, and none too casually, mind you. I’ve watched lovers dance and laugh and canoodle beneath the ever so seductive mood lighting, shabby-chic plastic chandeliers with burned out candelabras. The place in itself is enough to induce alcohol poisoning, just to forget its so-called ambience.
My date never showed. Truth is, I never had one to begin with, but it’s always nice to imagine some sweet young thing giggling and climbing onto my lamp with great difficulty, much too tipsy for her own good, suckling on my neck, admiring my not so admirable qualities. It’s all too charming for me to bear, so I pour another glass and begin my routine all over again. This vicious cycle. What’s it take to get the kind of action I’m seeing in here?
I lean back against the wall, propping my head on a plaster pillow, allowing my eyelids to flutter and seal themselves shut for just a moment. The jazz band plays on, the noise grows, and I feel myself becoming warmer as my intoxicated blood flows through my mulled veins.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice says, causing me to slightly open one eye, “is this seat taken? My feet are so sore, you’ve no idea.”
I look her over. Christ, of all places, she’s chosen to sit here, with me? I smile softly.
“Please, go ahead.”
She returns my smile with her own, far more angelic than I’d ever be able to procure. I can feel my stomach flip as she sits beside me, taking off her much too high red heels to reveal pretty little feet and toes, with matching nails to boot. She sighs and watches the dance floor as I do my best to sober up now that I’ve got such company with me. She turns and looks at me, cocking her head just so. I feel my temperature begin to climb. She parts her soft, full lips to form the classic words,
“Come here often?”
It’s almost too awful to hear from a creature so enticing. I shake my head, politely,
“No, actually, every once in a while usually does it for me.”
“I know what you mean. Pretty sad dive, isn’t it?”
I nod, taking a foolish sip of my wine.
“I suppose. It reeks of love lost and found only to be lost again.”
“Interesting way of describing it. I suppose you’re right,” she says.
She sighs and leans back in the same fashion I have, arching her back to accentuate her perky assets. My eyes drift, but rush straight back to the dancing couples as soon as she catches me gazing. She looks at me strangely, but makes no comment of it. I do, however, notice her blushing. Perhaps it’s just the bad lighting.
“Are you here alone tonight?”
“Yes, the usual story. I figure, it’s better to torture myself with what I don’t have in public than allowing myself to sit at home and go crazy alone over it.”
She laughs, such music to my ears, and touches my arm, electrifying me.
“Well, darling, at least you weren’t stood up,” she sighs, and her face softening, losing its glow, “I was.”
I sit up too quickly for my own good upon hearing her words,
“Who on Earth would stand you up? You’re a knock-out.”
Her cheeks grow rosier at my words.
“Well, thanks. Apparently, he didn’t think so.”
I shake my head and take another sip of my wine.
“Would you care for a drink?” I ask.
“Oh, you really don’t have to,” she says.
“No, I insist. Would you like something?”
“Sure, it has been one of those nights.”
I look her over quickly, feeling the heat grow within me, and then get her what she wants. I’d have gotten her anything if only she’d go home with me. It has been ages since I’ve experienced a woman’s warmth beside me, especially one of her caliber.
We sip our libations, casually, watching the band and the dancers, clapping, and singing. She leans in to me and rests her hand on my shoulder,
“I’m Jewel,” she says
Yes, you are, I think. I extend my hand and shake hers.
“The pleasure is mine,” I say.
She smiles and we say nothing, merely sipping and tapping our feet to the music. A pair of lovers lost, only to be found and lost again.
My date never showed. Truth is, I never had one to begin with, but it’s always nice to imagine some sweet young thing giggling and climbing onto my lamp with great difficulty, much too tipsy for her own good, suckling on my neck, admiring my not so admirable qualities. It’s all too charming for me to bear, so I pour another glass and begin my routine all over again. This vicious cycle. What’s it take to get the kind of action I’m seeing in here?
I lean back against the wall, propping my head on a plaster pillow, allowing my eyelids to flutter and seal themselves shut for just a moment. The jazz band plays on, the noise grows, and I feel myself becoming warmer as my intoxicated blood flows through my mulled veins.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice says, causing me to slightly open one eye, “is this seat taken? My feet are so sore, you’ve no idea.”
I look her over. Christ, of all places, she’s chosen to sit here, with me? I smile softly.
“Please, go ahead.”
She returns my smile with her own, far more angelic than I’d ever be able to procure. I can feel my stomach flip as she sits beside me, taking off her much too high red heels to reveal pretty little feet and toes, with matching nails to boot. She sighs and watches the dance floor as I do my best to sober up now that I’ve got such company with me. She turns and looks at me, cocking her head just so. I feel my temperature begin to climb. She parts her soft, full lips to form the classic words,
“Come here often?”
It’s almost too awful to hear from a creature so enticing. I shake my head, politely,
“No, actually, every once in a while usually does it for me.”
“I know what you mean. Pretty sad dive, isn’t it?”
I nod, taking a foolish sip of my wine.
“I suppose. It reeks of love lost and found only to be lost again.”
“Interesting way of describing it. I suppose you’re right,” she says.
She sighs and leans back in the same fashion I have, arching her back to accentuate her perky assets. My eyes drift, but rush straight back to the dancing couples as soon as she catches me gazing. She looks at me strangely, but makes no comment of it. I do, however, notice her blushing. Perhaps it’s just the bad lighting.
“Are you here alone tonight?”
“Yes, the usual story. I figure, it’s better to torture myself with what I don’t have in public than allowing myself to sit at home and go crazy alone over it.”
She laughs, such music to my ears, and touches my arm, electrifying me.
“Well, darling, at least you weren’t stood up,” she sighs, and her face softening, losing its glow, “I was.”
I sit up too quickly for my own good upon hearing her words,
“Who on Earth would stand you up? You’re a knock-out.”
Her cheeks grow rosier at my words.
“Well, thanks. Apparently, he didn’t think so.”
I shake my head and take another sip of my wine.
“Would you care for a drink?” I ask.
“Oh, you really don’t have to,” she says.
“No, I insist. Would you like something?”
“Sure, it has been one of those nights.”
I look her over quickly, feeling the heat grow within me, and then get her what she wants. I’d have gotten her anything if only she’d go home with me. It has been ages since I’ve experienced a woman’s warmth beside me, especially one of her caliber.
We sip our libations, casually, watching the band and the dancers, clapping, and singing. She leans in to me and rests her hand on my shoulder,
“I’m Jewel,” she says
Yes, you are, I think. I extend my hand and shake hers.
“The pleasure is mine,” I say.
She smiles and we say nothing, merely sipping and tapping our feet to the music. A pair of lovers lost, only to be found and lost again.
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