I listen to music. I dance.

I listen to music and I forget to write.

It doesn't bother me to be sitting in this public scene.

This life is a gift set to song.

I try to dance to it to be set free.

The first days of Autumn

It's cold.

An autumnal breeze cuts through my gray sweater

to chill my bones in spite of their fleshy protection.

There's moisture in the air.

I feel it as pin-pricks on the bare skin of my face.

I came outside to sit for the cold-

to feel the cold.

My empty emotions exuding

what nature is producing,

its frost a reflection of my

jaded thoughts.

I used to feel empathetically-

the warmth of a summer's kiss extended

to others in an understanding of connectivity.

I lost that feeling.

Blown out by the gale that this Fall

is beginning to produce regularly.

Pelting drops- large heavy doses

of cruelty lofted in the direction

of those around me.

Do not surround me.

For I will feel what you feel

but I want only to know my pain.

It is too soon to feel guilty for

speaking as an ass to you.

Too soon to feel happy for

rays of sun after autumnal gloom.

Sidewalks

I glare out the window. The room is dark; the lights are off. My roommates are out and the quiet smothers me. I set my alarm clock for four in the morning. The desk light flicks on, allowing for a distraction from the skyline that I am disgusted to say pleases me. I don't want to appreciate beauty.

I have no reason to be angry. The world has given me a position of privilege that should be cherished. Cherished... the word causes me to cringe.

I have always been told to cherish things. "Timmy," my mother would preach, " cherish your vegetables because other little children have no food." My father would remind me to cherish the education of my prestigious private school. They wanted me to cherish the opportunities that they never had as children of poor Spanish families living in the inner city. Even my priest would impose on me the virtue of cherishing. "Timothy," he said sitting behind the screen whose anonymity provided him with the arrogance to give instructions on life, "you must cherish the life God gave you." How am I to know what life he intended for me?

The quote tacked on the wall just visible behind the flat screen of an HP monitor says to, "Go confidently in the directions of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined." My best friend gave it to me. She doesn't understand that I have never imagined my life. This life of forced appreciation is foreign to her. She really does believe in it.

They don't understand it- not Christine or the psychologist or the priest or my parents. They don't understand why I'm not happy.

I get off of my rickety dorm chair to open the previously bolted window. They don't want you to get air. I'm staring again- staring at the lit skyscrapers and passing pedestrians. There are millions aside from me. Do they possess a sense of autonomy or are they suffocating in the smog of alien opinions?

The breeze is gentle enough not to feel like an intrusion. I gather it slowly, letting it swirl and swell in my chest. Breathe in. Breathe out. The only two life functions that have ever been fully under my control. In and out. I lift my eyes to the sky and imagine that the pinpricks of celestial gas are clearly visible. In- I close my eyes. Out- I lean out of the 10th story window. In- I step outside. Out- the only dream I've had is to die.

p.s. everything on the blog is fictional

Shut the doors. Blast the sound.

they couldn't understand

when there's so much feeling all I can do is dance

I shut the doors and blast the sound

I lose myself in music

letting others dictate how

Red Moleskin

red journal

deep and inviting

open my heart

hear my crying

red journal

soulful and wise

teach me my voice

guide now my pen

raindrops glisten on the window

there is no denying the power of poetry,

but i have lost the ability to write.

raindrops skirt the windowpanes i look through

at the nightlight of omaha's skyline.

the trees bow to an unexpected breeze

that could only be the result of a transaction.

my sleep for your ability to think-

i would gladly participate in that exchange

if somehow my sleep gave back

the ability to harness emotions.

if somehow i could feel light

tickling the grass of a dew drop morning.

sometimes the only way not to lose a poem is to publish it. I guess this means that I should update again. Has anyone missed me?

-PM

The linguistic queen of school bees

I don't quite grasp the nuance of it-

the bemusing buzzing of bees in the air,

the euphony of their translucent wings

mellifluously similar to her whisperings

I don't quite understand the meaning of their exotic movings-

the honeycomb of her hair as she delineates the day-

the day of a golden Fall

when I sing hallelujahs to this linguistic queen of school bees

hackneyed feelings and emotions on fire

picturesque clouds

repeat hackneyed feelings

so I fight to regain control

of my fleeting feelings

my struggling desire to be sole possessor

of emotions set on fire

To what do I owe the honor?

To whom do I direct desire?

I am soulful

I thought I knew life, and what it meant to be living. I thought I knew soul. Of course I was wrong.

There were people there. There were so many people there. Some of them homeless, all of them poor. And we were to talk to them; we were to know their pain. I only knew shame. Shame that I had so much. Shame I had not done enough.

Her name was Jamie. She wanted to see the bridge. Bill took her there. She walked the winding cement path past the sunflower representative lights lit in red. The fountain caught her green eyes. Spikes of water enticed her childlike amusement and Bill walked her on arms entwined. They reached the center, but she ran smiling on. On Iowa and Nebraska she tip-toed. "Who rules me now?" she asked with the smile of a thousand lights. You cannot rule her smile. You cannot stop the light from illuminating such a fountain of life.

He talked. Oh, how he talked of mobile Linux and Rocket mail. He talked to his friend, and they both laughed. They had forgotten what it was they talked about. "How can we?" he asked, "I thought we were smart." They laughed again, acknowledging their addle-mindedness. They were a euphony onto themselves, pleasing each other with idle chatter. They were happy to be alive and spirited enough to recognize it.

I didn't know he danced. I walked by the open door of his room as his hips swayed to the three of the tune. His eyes were closed in what could only be personal euphoria. A loss of the self, he was lost to himself. Only the music mattered- soulful music that brought a smirk. The Spanish rhythm of El Amor.

He danced, she ruled, they shared, and I cried. Not tears of sorrow, nor of joy. They were tears of knowing and of hoping. They were tears of living. I am soulfully living.

feeling invisible in shadow's glow

I spend a lot of time feeling invisible some of it rightfully so but do I take the leap to make a difference or do I wallow in shadow's glow? melancholy is clearly a theme