Imposter

If I could paint, I'd show you a picture of how I feel. If I could write, I'd describe it. Others paint. Others write. I wish so hard, I pretend to almost be one of them. Someday I'll pretend hard enough.


What would I have painted today?

Mine Over-matter

I've been sharing some of my own poetry with a facebook group comprised of some friends from Layton High. In sharing with the group I think I could enjoy some input from other venues as well. So I'm going to post a few pieces here and please feel free to send me some feedback. You won't like them all, you may not understand them all, but hopefully you can appreciate the act of them all.

Everyone asks me "Who's Madison?" after reading this following piece. Let's just call her a significant friend. The story is long and I've told it too many times. Hopefully these lines help.

To Madison


The way you used to wear your skirt
used to wear at me, threadbare at me.
You've switched to pant suits now, you've passed(set)the bar.
I'm taking it all in(stride, please stride).
stride barefoot along your barefoot walking path.
(mind the thorns, they're meant for pricks)


I have a problem with holier-than-thou types. Here's the bi-product.

Omni(m)potent

There's something sacred about the way you love and don't love me.
It's a powerful Contradiction.
Steepled fingers can't clasp, won't grasp;
so your rosary

d
a
n
g
l
e
s

as low as your sagging Hail Mary.


September 28th 2009 I attended a concert with a very good friend. She has M.S. and it was an interesting experience. There we were, screaming our lungs out over this amazing show, and then she would sit down and suddenly look feeble, and fragile. I wrote this for her.



Wish you could've seen the sparks in her eyes,
the weak feeble "I just can't stand anymore"-ness of her legs that contrasted the fortitude of her lungs-full squeal only seconds before.

She had no business asking me to describe my life's best,
most nonpareil memory.

She was there when I sang about it,
voice-less-ly,
soon after it had ended.


Last one. This was inspired by a very quotable friend. Someone who shares words that make me marvel every day.

In-Between

I don't believe your life is as mediocre
as the twinge in your voice

when you speak your lines to me.
(speak those lines. to me.)

I squeeze, and then

|I'm|now|re(a)d|between|them.|


Thanks for taking the time to read through these and like I said, please pass any feedback my way. I love hearing how I can improve.

Retrospect

"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent..."

From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. Probably the piece that first made an impression with me. It's the first poem I recall reading, disecting, and trying to understand. We all have our firsts. My first love was a girl named Tricia Tallerico in 5th grade. We never kissed. My first scary movie was Poltergeist when I was 4. (thanks mom and dad) My first album I purchased with my own hard-earned lawn mowing money was Crash by Dave Matthews Band. We're made of firsts.

If you're an art lover, what was your first experience viewing something that made you say "wow, I love art"? If you're a coffee lover, what was your first brew? Go back. Find your firsts. Rediscover the spark that first ignited your passions. It's a fun, nostalgiac jaunt. Maybe you'll renew a passion you've lost sight of. Maybe you'll cure some momentary boredom. Maybe you're so young and fresh you don't have any firsts. Get some.

Cheers, first timers.

"In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo."

Dye, dye, dye my darling

In keeping with the spirit of my blog, let's discuss another form of permanence: Tattoos.

I am lightly inked. My left forearm is home to a tribal-band wherein Chinese characters inscribe the name of my ex-wife, Melissa. That's right, I mixed tribal with Chinese characters. What I'm really wondering is how hard my tattoo artist was laughing on the inside when he inked me. I was young, excited about the tattoo and thought it was romantic as hell that Melissa's name would forever be written on my skin.

Now that I am divorced people ask me if I'm going to get the tattoo removed or covered up with more ink. Absolutely not, folks. Melissa is/was not a scar or blemish to be erased. She's the mother of my children and remains one of my best friends. Removing a tattoo about her would be like removing the chapter about The Great Depression from the American History books. (No correlation, by the way between Melissa and the Great Depression, just for the record)

I've seen some hilarious tattoos, including some mispelled disasters that had me laughing for days. So when it comes to permanence let's all do our research. Firstly, let us remember not to mix tribal and Chinese because no matter how devoted you are, it's a tattoo no-no. Secondly, spell check.

Stay classy, San Diego.

First Blood

I know the world of blogging is by no means new and virginal. Yet here I am dipping my toes for the first time. A friend told me I had a lot to say, and I begrudgingly agreed. So here it is. For anyone who wants to read, comment, and enjoy. This is my endeavor to make you laugh, make you think. I won't make you cry unless you ask for it.

What do I have to say today? "Thank you." I'm thankful to a great many people for just as many reasons. People close to me know this is a hard time of the year and I've had nothing but love and support from all my friends and family. Nobody should ever have to lose their own child, but we remain strong because we have to. So for everyone who's missing Taylee on her birthday, again I say thank you.

Thanks, everyone for subscribing and for reading and though this post isn't very extensive, I promise lots more to come. I refuse to say "stay tuned" but um...keep watching.

Cheers!