Dreams Deferred

Would you like some carrots?
You accept.
I am thankful.

I had an interesting thought at work.
Or was it after a long day at work.
Probably while I was walking to work.

What happens to a dream deferred?

I am sleepy and hazy;
But, I'm sober.
I am wired and possessed,
But, I should probably sleep.

Does it dry upLike a raisin in the sun?Or fester like a sore—And then run?

I pray tomorrow does not rain.
My backpack is torn
And soaks worse then a diaper.
My umbrella is orange.

Does it stink like rotten meat?Or crust and sugar over—Like a syrupy sweet?

My, my I spend all my time
Developing and nursing
Others Ideas.

Maybe it just sagslike a heavy load.

I let this happen to my dream.
Sitting silently in a pile of books.
Hidden in a friend's living room.

Or does it explode?

**Portion in bold borrowed from Lagnston Hughes. I promise I'll give it back

Pretzels

Would you like some carrots?

Mindless laughterEchoing filling the air

I thought we ate the carrots!

No, I meant pretzels.
They're in the cabinet over here.
See, don't you want some gourmet pretzels.
Fresh pretzels only a couple of months old.

Why, gourmet my favorite

So I was drinking—I was thinking

Empty stares
Empty glares
Why is the mind on hold

What have you been drinking?

Wine.
Here have some.

Oh, no thanks I have to drive.

Just a bit.
Really, you're not having as much as me.

Empty stairs
Empty pears
Dare to speak now or later

The beginning and the end

I am the beginning and the end.

-the craft

Ever have an idea for a story or a poem but all you can squeeze the beginning lines and the last lines. So, since I feel obligating to updating this. Here is the beginning and the end to a poem.

The Beginning
Never could the ride be so smooth
Never could the flame be so cool
She's a dangerous
She's cruel
She's the delight of the century teasing me


The Ending
The sun has gone over the horizon
The night is quiet in anticipation
The audience has gathered she's excited
The performance begins
There she is waving her arms
Teasing the senses with her hips
She's a dangerous one
She's cruel
She's my wife entertaining everyone
But me

c'est la vie

I discovered the essence of love. Love, love, love that gritty dirty feeling between the pulse of your soul. I'm not sure if it was the bologna or if the alcoholic beverage that did me in but I naturally descended into the pit of yearning for understanding.

Now, I never admit that I want to belong. I think I spend more time shying away and demoting relationships into acquaintances. I also think I spend too much time developing ideas for great stories that entertain me and only me.

Regardless, I found love tonight. It's not a matter of roses, chocolates, and strawberries. Nor is it a matter of long phone calls and stolen kisses. It's all about the music and that trance some of us poets get into as we descend down the stairs of compassion and make a truce with ourselves.

I bet you know all about this trance. The minute it hits; you start running around like mad trying to find pen and paper because if you don't write the stream down it just will never visit again. For some the inspiration never returns the same way twice. For others, it's the vice that keeps us hooked with our minds prepared to remember each detail. Each detail repeating itself like it's on the spin cycle getting ready to settle into the dryer. We wear these details on our faces and every chance we find quiet we replay the message until we write it on paper.

Love is that moment of satisfaction. When you write your gift from the muse down and you are convinced that it's the most beautiful thing in the world. Or when you turn on a 1930s radio station from live365.com and each song sounds so good because in your head you hear extra beats and rhythms. Even better when you dance around to the music and write away the stars and milky ways into a blog post that talks about nothing.

That's life. C'est la vie.

Flight 63 From Newark to Houston

It's been a while since I've updated this blog. Well OK so it wasn't complete laziness I wrote several promising blog posts and deleted them all before I published them. See, there's a lot going on right now. I graduated (co-op depending) from RIT in May bright and early in the morning and everything I write turns into a ramble about nothing. Which isn't too promising at all.

I've done a bit of traveling and working and listening to music since I've graduated. And well, I'm going to dedicate this next post to a very disturbed (seemed disturbed) writer I “met” on my way to Texas the day after graduation.

~

I'm sorry I cried. Yeah, I am a bit overwhelmed about the meaning of the future as I don't really know what kind of career I'm going to enlist into for the rest of my life and a bunch of loose ends are deterring me from my dreams.

I'm also sorry I lost the note where you wrote your contact information and maybe an apology (I felt it through the paper you are forgiven for whatever you thought you did!) See, my Mom's Snapple spilled all over my backpack and I ran to the bathroom to take care of any damage.

Digital information is so fickle and I have the best track record for accidentally deleting years of poetry stored on any computer I've ever used since I was 13. The Snapple incident and the run to the next gate in Houston is my (lame) excuse for losing your note. I, however, saved the poem I wrote for you. OH YEAH Thank you for loaning me your pen.

I'm also sorry that I didn't try to make conversation with you. You cannot put the your entire relationship with your mother in one chapter because your mother is a part of your everyday upbringing and shaping of you. Your sentences are a bit crazy and I want to read your book so you better get published! If not this is my humble plea to the Internet that you read this. I'm sure you'd be amused.

~

poem written on Flight 63 from Newark to Houston Sunday May 23 for a perceived disturbed writer (a spur of the moment poem)

Flight 63 From Newark to Houston

You don't abuse the craft
The craft comes to you
You supply the content
And the language links to itself

You don't disturb the craft it talks
To you on a warm sunny day,
In the middle of the night;
While you want it far away

Let the sled of language
Carry you away
Let the fragments dissolve
Into a spiral of meaning

Don't push
Don't shove
The craft is master,
Dearest passenger 20C