I See the Sea

I see the sea,

the rolling waves

washing their briny, musty scent

upon the shore,

again and again.

And my ears hear this

lapping and panting;

stillness is in the

foothills.

Passion is in the sea,

I see.

Kid in Love

You’re in the trenches. You don’t know how you got there, you don’t know when they were built, and you don’t know what lies for you above them.

But there you are, kid, right in the trenches. You’re fighting and you’re fighting hard. It’s not just about shooting the other guy, killing some faceless enemy across the mud and barbed wire. It’s about staying alive in this filthy mire of shit and decay. It’s about being able to breathe the air that still blows gently in, fetid with death. It’s about being able to enjoy the peace and quiet for the thirty seconds that your hearing comes back and that next shell is waiting to whistle. It’s about being able to smile with your brothers as you taunt the enemy just by being alive.

It’s also about killing the enemy.

The enemy? Nameless, faceless , formless. It’s not quite boredom, it’s not quite yearning. It’s desperate and demanding, but phantasmagorical, intangible. It’s realizing that you had something you truly wanted, but you’ll never get it back. It’s feeling a breeze across the nape of your neck in a heat wave—long enough to make you notice, cold enough to make you want more, and wicked enough to leave you there.

The enemy is this void in your heart, in your chest, hidden behind a damask shroud, luring you in. Sucking and pulling at your very will power to give in.

But there you are kid, still fighting. It only ends one way: with you in a trench.

One way or another, kid.

The pine box will stain and warp, bathed in your mother’s tears as they lower you in. The damask shroud will be around you this time, spreading from the inside out.

It will get you. You fought the good fight, but you just can’t win.

So they say.

Vintage

I love antiques.

I hate antique stores.

Can I have my cake and eat it, too, please?

Blur your eyes
if you can't see me.

I want to be
your new disguise.

Stay Trashy

Feeling trashy getting busy,
gonna fly away to Mars.
Got my six string fully loaded,
and I'm playing for the stars.

Above me all around me,
I feel a memory slip away,
but it doesn't even matter,
'cause I drink until it stays.

Flying High Now (or "I want" as seems to be the case)

I feel like I am at another one of those points in the story of my life where a montage needs to take place.

What I mean is this: Picture in your mind The Karate Kid (I mean the 1984 Ralph Macchio, not the 2010 Jackie Chan film, though that was an amazing film in its own right). After Daniel deals with all the Cobra Kai problems and gets things sorted out, there is a mini montage of him having protected contact with the members. Just to kind of show how the day to day went, but the big storyline things already happened. Then, after we saw all of the different mundane, yet useful tasks (such as wax on, wax off) Daniel had to go endure with Mr. Miyagi, and we have Mr. Miyagi's drunken pain sequence, and then it goes to a training montage. It shows Daniel just doing his day to day training and preparation for the fight up ahead, and ends with him getting ready to go see Ali.

I want that.

Right now, I feel like I'm in the grind. I would love for things to hit fast forward right now. I want a song to become the theme of this part of my life and sweep me from day to day and moment to moment and sunset to sunset as I work and prepare and save and store. I want the mundane elevated on the drum solo of a power ballad, spurred on by the wailing of an electric guitar.

But of course, I want things to slow down on my schedule. I want to have those moments with my female lead be on film and be memorable. Time can slow down for those. I want our love to purple the hearts of those around. I want to kiss her underneath fireworks, in front of waterfalls, on a retaining wall of the Pacific during high tide. I want moonbeams to illuminate her eyes like God's stage lighting. I want to tell her I love her, and will be there for her as the sun splashes the sky with rose and crimson. I want to hold her hands in mine with holy palmer's kiss, our hands doing as our lips. I want Bryan Adams or Peter Cetera to play on the radio as we careen down Del Dios Highway. I want to smell her hair as my chin rests upon her head and my arms envelop her like a gypsy breeze on an October day.

I think overall I crave a sense of knowing that where I'm heading will work out. I'm working three jobs and trying to write. I want to write. The jobs are a means to an end. I want my written words to be my deeds. Why should I have to pick which is better? I want to help my brothers succeed.

I want the montage to kick in and take me to the All Valley Karate Tournament on the day of the fight. I want to crane kick the barriers in my way. I want to be published.

Mission/78

I submitted this poem as one in a set to the San Diego County Poetry Annual 2010-11. Who knows what'll happen.

Mission/78

I fell in love with the girl in the rear view mirror
as I drove home from school today.
She wore unassuming white sunglasses
and followed behind me most of the way.

I glanced back again and again
her brown hair crinkled about her head.
She could have sped and passed around me
but remained behind me instead.

Eventually we parted ways
I went east and she went south.
As she passed she turned and gazed
with an upturned nose and smirking mouth.