Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines

As I sit here, staring at the digital clock on the bottom right side of my monitor, I'm passively mulling a few thoughts over. No specific thought comes to mind, but I'm sure everyone goes through the same thing. I'm just sitting here, thinking, but not entirely knowing why (or what, for that matter). I suppose I can entice you all with an up-to-the-minute feed straight from my brain, but I'd rather not. Honestly, I'd don't think most of you would last five minutes living in my head. One can only handle so much boredom.

I have a few things to say, but I'm not really sure how to say them. Don't worry, it's nothing outrageous or alien. Actually, I'm willing to bet that it's actually quite meaningless, but I'm just failing to articulate whatever the hell I want to say. I think everyone has problems. It's a little strange, and I'm not sure if it's just me, but I always expect too much of people. I always look for the perfect person, the one who hasn't done this or that. Any idea what I'm getting at? I guess I'm just trying to express a certain disappointment in the way everything and everyone has to be. I'm certainly not calling myself a saint, but why is that there aren't more people decent honor codes? I wonder what I'd think of myself If I passed me on the street, or met me at a party. How would I perceive myself? Would I carry the same negative intonations of myself that I do towards other people? That thought leads me to believe that people will never truly know themselves. Yes, we know ourselves only because we have the first person view, an insight into the thought process. But what if we were to step back and take a look. How many of us would hate the person we are? I know, that's a question that we can't answer. What I mean to say is that we don't know who we are. We never will. Sure, we'll know where we stand and what we feel, but we don't know how we'll react at any given situation, and that might be a little scary. Frankly, we know other people better than we know ourselves. We has humans are blind to our own faults and obsessed with the faults of others, leading us to know way too much about someone else. I can tell you right now what my friend will say when I confront him with a certain question, or how he'll react in a certain setting. It's a shame that I don't have the opportunity to see myself through the same lens -- the impartial eye of the third party. Would I see my faults or my strengths? What faults do I have? How can I change them. We need to help ourselves become better people. How can we do this? I haven't the slightest. One thing I do know is that it's a lot easier for me to form this theories than it is to do them. I suppose it would better for me if I was ignorant to the evils of the world. It seems like they have no conscience, no limitations to restrain them from this or that. Why can't I live the way they do? I know I really don't want that, but for once I want to escape from this cell -- this prison of my mind. My sense of right and wrong is too defined. Is that bad? No, it's really not. It's more depressing than anything. Here I am, alone in all of my principles, staring out at some world that I don't really want anything to do with.

Aloha, readers, from the sandy shores of Dearborn, Michigan!


Before I get started on my latest intellectual rampage, I'd like to begin by saying something I know you're all thinking. Yes, I was on a poetry kick, and no, it's not permanent. As you faithful bloggies well know, this site is a great multi-tasker. Not only do you receive the nearly pyschotic intuitions I sit and develop daily, but also a poetic journey into my thought process. On that note, it's probably necessary for me to explain the poems that have been haunting your blog experience. I write poetry less for it's meaning than for it's beauty. Take it from me, the last person I want to know is some whack-job poetic analyst. I've had the pleasure to observe several of those people, on numerous occasions, and draw the same two conclusions after every episode. Either this person is clinically insane, or truly believes that they've discovered the Yamashita's Gold of poetry. Although there are plenty of numbers to support the first of my two groupings, most of my encounters lean toward the latter. There's always that one person, if not two or three, who thinks that they're ability to "analyze" poetry has made them the know-all-be-all of human existence. Unfortunately, I beg to differ. Now, I don't consider myself a poet, not by any means, but some liberties are going to be taken after you get a little comfortable in a certain genre. Needless to say, I write poetry because the sound of words mingled together in some mysterious flow of beauty is something that people find fascinating. I suppose that tends to be a tad more aesthetic than I mean it to be, but oh well. Personally, poetry loses all meaning when searching for meaning. Of course, there are points that every poet strives to make, and yes, they accomplish that magnificently, but the face value of the words alone is something to behold.

It's probably safe to assume that I've rambled for the past paragraph and have yet to make my point. Well, frankly, my point is this: in depth poetry is, well, an acquired taste. Much like caviar and cow testicles, it takes a little bit of time to get accustomed to the taste (if not the sheer thought of what you're actually eating). I can see a lot of you at home turning the thought of a cows testicle over in your mind, and I'm sorry for ever bringing it up, but there's a method to this insanity. Some people have been around the poetry "business" for a while. Sadly, these people have become so wrapped up in their own "intellectual" ability, that they fail to recognize the ordinary reader -- you and me. Sure, if you're into poetry and you spend hours on hours discovering the hidden meanings behind Tennyson, more power to you, but please remember that poetry can be loved by all. Some truth lies in that statement - somewhere - and hopefully I can dig it out, but until then, bear with me. Picture this: you and your spouse go to zoo. Is that too much of a stretch for your imagination? It is? Well, shucks, that's too bad. Anyway, you're at the zoo, and your significant other mentions how she loves the monkeys for their inhibited intelligence. You retort, saying that you love the monkeys because they're funny, and furry, and "do it" atop their monkey mountain. Both of you are right. And even though you're spouse believes the monkeys to be bright (because they made the realization that rocks and sticks have the uncanny ability to second as tools, way to go), you like them because they're cute. Face value, friends. It's not overrated, and it's crucial for you to avoid the assumption that it is. I know, the strange man giving candy away, telling you to look for the deeper meaning is pretty scary, but sleep with one eye open. Trust me, it helps.

The other day I saw a kid. Yes, believe it or not, a small human being. Walking down the aisle with his mother (or quite possibly his estranged nanny), the little guy grabbed a can off the shelf. Taking it in his hands, he stopped and let his mother go ahead. Then, after reaching in his pocket and grabbing a G.I. Joe, the kid sat him atop the can and rolled him around. You see, this child didn't see the can because it had delicious and nourishing brussel sprouts inside - he saw it because it was a can (or maybe an M1 Bradley, who knows). The point is that didn't bother to look and see what the can meant, and he knew that was ok. That's something we should take to heart when reading poetry. It's ok to skip looking for the deep and wondrous meaning of the poem, just look at the words, the rhythm. What harm can come of that? Hell, even the greatest poetry analysts had to start somewhere. People are drawn to poetry by the rhyme, the endless flow of words. People read poetry because a lot of it sounds pretty damn good. Plain and simple. Unfortunately for us, the sages of meaningless poetry, we sometimes stumble across the poem that seems to be absolutely worthless. These are the poems that the other demographic, the one that constantly makes fun of you because you're stupid, the one that thinks they're high and mighty because they can decipher the toughest poetic riddles, loves. My friends, just ignore that. Some day you'll get to that point, if you want it. For now, find no fault in the fact that you like poetry that sounds good.

Sometimes it's meant to be that way.

Hey Everyone

Hey everybody,

Just a little note to let anyone who cares know that I have two new things up and running. The first is a longer poem entitled "Prelude", check it out. The second is my newest sonnet: Sonnet 12.

Take care.

Prelude

A thought stands, in particular tonight,
And tweaks my brain to call attention to
The visage of an evil. And you’re right,
Our justice must be brought among the slew
Of rapists, beggars, killers that begrudge
Themselves to me, yet here you stand today,
Before this noble court and nobler judge
To protest every word I’ve yet to say,
And place a moral bounty on my head?
You can and should not plan on me to let
A greater crime than yours become but dead,
But don’t expect this standard to beset
The method or my reasons to decide.
Just hear me speak and choose your words in mind
That all my power just might coincide
With how you’re killed, if so this court does find
Your guilt to be unable to deny.
So step before me now, you peasant thief,
And present to me the very reason why
You stole that loaf of bread to bring relief
Unto your kind. You must not know your sort.
If you should dare to tell me that I serve
The likes of you within these walls of court,
Then surely you will get what you deserve.
But justice does and always will prevail.
Unbiased it has heard and weighed your case –
Why is it that you now become so pale?
For I have yet to tell you where I’ll place
The gallows that from which your tongue will loll,
Your face become of yellow, gagged and dark,
And people on their daily evening stroll
Will hear the gentle wailing of the lark
But turn away at once, for they don’t care
Enough about your worthless life to take
A second glance. But know that I will wear
A smile wide that no one else can fake,
For satisfaction’s rare with justice found
In harmony with how the world should look.

Sonnet 12

The cleanest air will flow into my soul,
A cleansing force that rivals only God,
And mother’s hands prepare for me a bowl
Of soup, as down the homeward trail I’d trod.
I’ll stand atop the deep and crescent moon
While sparrows sing their song of sweet despair,
A song of love, a song in which to swoon
The deepest cringes of the nighttime air.
But home will only find me in this hell,
The burning mass of unexhausted death,
And now I hear my final horn to knell
In shells and men with evil to unsheathe,
And drive me swift with fury to my grave.
The truth of this no faded dream can save.