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counter

Wed, 07 Feb 2007 02:01:11 GMT

counter - 2.6.07

when plans laid soft and laid with care
and pawns finessed all into place
align not straightaway and fare,
compounding always, as disgrace;

when solemn thought and meditation
(just as water flows o'er falls)
give way to deed and dedication
which, nonetheless, give way to pall;

when endless striving comes undone
and effort doesn't make the grade
when knowledge someone else has won
twice strikes you (loss and guilt for hate)

the every motion that is made -
attempts to mend the mournful mess -
and every thought of loss repaid
all end in 'ell with no egress:

at times the stars themselves array
to throw back down attempts, in vain,
to make of misery a day,
instead, for music when there's rain

make no mistake, nor mar intention -
struggles still should strong be made
to temper tears and break convention;
answer all arrears unpaid

but path-seek not unto perfection
else, upon yourself, inflict
the merciless lessons and directions -
life will strike e'en when you're licked.

Arise

Sat, 07 Oct 2006 11:12:50 GMT

Arise - 10.05.06

The light plays through the leaves like shafts of heat
and shade provides, this time, a welcome ease.
No darkness of the heart comes through the beat
of life, slowed down, the better for the trees;
the note of which has import more than art
perceivable by sight ere mind begins
to search the scene for smaller, subtle parts
without which art would not, attention, win.
But note of life supplies not sweat and tears,
and motion ever proves a lack of death,
so, while you can, enjoy your meager years
and wring emotion out 'til your last breath.
And should doubt question measurements of salt,
recall that pain defines e'en as it halts.

(The final version of my sonnet for English.)

Awake

Wed, 04 Oct 2006 03:05:52 GMT

Awake - 10.03.06

The light plays through the leaves like shafts of heat
and shade provides, this time, a welcome ease.
No darkness of the heart comes through the beat
of life, slowed down, the better for the trees.
(The note of which has import more than art
that comes by way of sight sans any in.
of wonder for the smaller, lesser parts
without which art would not, attention, win.)
But note of life supplies not everything,
and motion gives assurances of life,
so be, if not quick to wake and take wing,
at least accepting of the final knife.
And if the knife is not the path you'd take,
Then rouse ere you cannot fix the mistake.

(yeah, this one's for english, hence iambic pentameter, ababcdcdefefgg, 1st 2 quatrains w/ conflict and 3rd quatrain + couplet w/ resolution)

dedication

Mon, 17 Jul 2006 00:42:37 GMT

dedication - 7.16.06

every day after day, the sweat drips down
and the look on his face becomes more a frown
and the strain doesn't matter and he'll never give up
because whatever he does, it'll never be enough

without thanks, or a smile, or a motherfucking glance
without a single word, and god forbid romance
isolated, all alone, but proud nonetheless
he pushes hard and harder with every single breath

how many countless hours and how many wasted days
did he let pass by before he learned his perfect ways?
gotta push some more, gotta make it all up
gotta make it all better, gotta never mess up

gotta use all he's got, and get all he needs
gotta wake up in the morning and get up off his knees
(where he fell last night, cause he never gave up -
cause he kept on trying to beat himself (up))

and the drive that he's got has to get him to the front
and the hunger that's inside must be used to fuel the hunt
and the emptiness is nothing and there's no tears on the pitch
no emotions, just your enemies, and no relationships

so he pushes, day by day, and he strengthens his resolve
and every time he fails, he gets back up to be absolved
and the grimace on his face is from muscles pulled all tight
not from falling down and knowing that he's given up the fight

he doesn't hear and doesn't care, doesn't see or speak or eat
all he knows is he needs more time to be quicker on his feet
so he shrugs off some more pounds and he wonders what is wrong
why does every fucking move he make remind him he's not strong?

in the end, he was a champion, no one denies him that
and sure as hell there didn't live a soul who dared to call him fat
not since he sweated off his pounds and earned himself, at last, a rest
the only problem is he pushed himself into an early death.

motivation

Mon, 03 Jul 2006 23:25:44 GMT

motivation - 7.3.06

so-late nights and later days (the saints of which would change our ways)
a nervous sweat at time of night brings nonetheless no end in sight
and eyes that track the cursor's light are bloodshot and he looks a fright
but dogged (one cool cat) he moves his fingers to the rhythmic blues
that keyboard's sounds keep right along (to half-remembered shards of song)
and, whistling slightly under breath, he coaxes code from certain death
or, better yet, he leaves a mark and rescues readers from the dark
and so continues, as we speak, the saga of our hero's meek
appearance shed and cast aside in favor of what light provides
(though, artificial, somewhat dim) by light of screen, he gains some vim.
he's a machine with calloused hands; he's fueled by ramen noodles and
the cheeto dregs that stain his clothes make up for and assauge his woes
his fingers tapping on the keys fill up his room with melodies
of clicks and taps and beeps and words he'd rather that remain unheard
unsung, unmuttered, just as he, ignored by real-life peers, is free
from ties that bind and friends in need, no, "number one comes first": his creed
but after all, he does have peers who look to him and hold him dear
and close to heart whenever comes a moment that, their hardware, numbs
and if he were to, say, just leave; why certainly someone would grieve
perhaps not you or i, but then, we don't quite count ourselves as friends
but someone somewhere has to care that no more does he sit in chair
and glance upon computer screen while in the background, singers scream
but ever silent stays the phone and if alive, he's still alone
unless that's him whose name you read while sitting all alone in bed
perhaps he found the strength inside to leave his chair and join the ride
and maybe now he's known by all for feats, astounding, full of gall
and if he, in his wasted state could go out and take on his fate
then what a waste for men like you who could amount to all that, too
so get up off your ass today and make the whole word know your name.

summer

Sat, 24 Jun 2006 21:04:37 GMT

summer - 6.24.06

in the heat-held moments (time too tired to tick)
of life (breath-defined) and hazy light (this lazy height of mood),
the fireflies popping in and out (our lives, our love - compacted
into a day-to-day existence: generations pass in the time
it takes the heat between us to cool),
thoughts of what might be (and what bites me - the air a hidden swarm
of life, lacking languor, leaving little lines
on my skin), trailing fiery paths (like burning gasoline)
through my head - i'm electrified, but listless
(as i list this litany of wishes for you; but always wordless in the stead
of effort-driven expression) -
life, affirmed yet again (my sigh providing the definition - what once was unseen:
the movement of tiny wings - suddenly there, where nothing was before)
continues, day by day (death by death), breath by breath
'till the leaves join the flies and, aided by the lies, so do i.

with the dawn

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 03:02:54 GMT

with the dawn - 6.18.06

iron will and brittle bones (and whichever came first, they'll both soon be gone)
each day like every other - guilt, shame, inadequacy - and above all, you're all alone . . .
you're your own worst judge (the sentence, pain unending; if the body is well, the psyche is not, and
the reverse, of course, more often than not)
you're at a slow rot - from the inside out
but no matter what you'll never give up (the upshot in a life all shot
to hell with excuses, results have been overdue
from the moment you were born to the second that you die you'll struggle)
but the question remains: how would you succeed? through death? or compromise (the rusting of your will)?
but you've had your fill of philosophy today (and precious else, for so long)
you've got to stay strong
and keep moving on
'til you're all gone
(goodbye with the dawn)

lengua

Wed, 14 Jun 2006 03:29:05 GMT

lengua - 6.14.06

cada hecho nada más que fes tranquilas (las reacciones proveyendo el emoción)
y todas las cosas están ideas, lo mismo en cada lengua, cada mente
(está solo sociedad que cambia el sentido)

pero no se quedan sin cambios los ritmos: con cada cambio de lengua,
el sonido se pone raro, y las ideas empiezan a parecer desconocidas
(el aire moviendo en un modo nuevo, y el comprensión desapareciendo)

por estas razones, la lengua y el fuego que da el motivación
no son lo mismo; pero todavía son importantes en lo mismo manera
(casi más que las ideas)

every fact nothing more than tranquil faith (the reactions providing the emotion)
and everything is an idea, the same in every language, every mind
(it's only society that changes the meaning)

but the rhythms don't stay the same: with each change in language,
the sound becomes strange, and the ideas begin to appear unfamiliar
(the air moving in new ways, and the understanding disappearing)

for these reasons, the language and the fire that gives the motivation
aren't the same; but they're still important in the same way
(almost more than the ideas)

language

Wed, 14 Jun 2006 02:39:48 GMT

language - 6.13.06

soft clicks and the motion of air - poorly composed and more poorly expressed
and falling on deaf ears (the worse for filters ingrained therein over years of stubborn "education"),
the patterns changing at every stage - the first: unsullied thought
followed immediately by compromise - the struggle for words, for language (constraints of custom and caprice complicating further) -
the next: mishearing and false assumptions giving way together to misconstruction and
the final fronteir, the thinking provoked; all these from a thought, unrelated, remote.

theft

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 23:07:52 GMT

theft - 4.20.06

through words so simple, concise and precise (and setting sights on what should be not yours),
your lips, your tongue, the air between (what once was mine)
and vibrations thenceforth (disturbing air - a warning; like all such, unheeded)
'til my cheeks are heated (this exchange of words, of memes and perceptions (in a perfect world, but all that travels is tone;
we both know you've won))
and nature, as ever, providing the cure: by means of rising moisture (our voices follow suit), 'til, at last,
we both are cold;
control established, the procedure stumbles on (my heart echoing the uneven sprint: mad dash, then breathtakingly slow)
and through it all, this image never leaves my head:
that night in the rain, on that empty promenade,
when i thought myself in vain, but you said you were fond
of many things (coy 'til the end), myself among them
and not 'til now has the truth been realized (through your actions)
fondness, affection, but never love; you always despised me when i lied
so obvious: you never did, just let the words unspoken speak volumes
and you rationalized thus: the truth alone escaped your lips
and unsoiled, pristine, you stole me away.