April5 TrystYour beautiful backBillowing like summer cloudsThrows me in a trance.I'm in love, but weHave never met, and neverWill. Forget about me, I Will.
April4 WonderI often wonderHow it would feel to be G-dBut I've always known.
April3 HeavyI am but A heavy oil Painting, That will never dry. The paint is thick And picture Incomplete. But my mouth is dry, And thus,
April2 OnceI was once a good person. I woke up. Awake, I feel ugly and useless. Asleep, I feel
April1 What Is This Dream? Qué es este sueño? That I cannotAwake from nor remember. BitsAndPiecesA cat laying
Breath15 a minute, 900 an hour, 21,600 a day, 7,884,000 a yearThis is how I breath.In my 15 breaths, 20 children die.And in a year I waste 7,884,00 breathsBreaths that could save a life or a love or the world but instead I waste them.I don't understand.Because I don't stop thereNo!I waste your breath as well.And so I don't object when you take the breath from my lungs in a rush of passionNeither of us comprehends, because it belongs to you anyways.In my wasted 126,144,000 breaths, I have done nothing worthwhile,But the future is a big place (supposedly)
StarsI found stars of tea this eve. They were almost beautiful.I realized these stars held my future, andTry as I might to arrange them into my desired constillationsThey move no more than the dead.My belly becomes the holder of myFuture, now that I've sipped half the tea away,and all the stars are gone and because I took so long the tea is cold and I wonder, Like the night I sat with a girl I wasn't sure I loved by the riverI wasn't sure existed; I wonderIf this is what G-d feels like.Does s/he stare into rivers of tea and stars and wonder about the future?Does she want to catch a body whilst coming through the rye,Or would she prefer to just meet and talk instead?I've reached the pinnacle of my journey; the bottom of the cup.I found the stars again, in tight-knit nebula emitting aKind of pure radiance only I can see.Which is probably what love is like.Unable to reach any conclusion I pour the last bit of tea out.I find no answers to the questions I pose.Tonight, I though
J'eris en FrancaisJ'ai écrit dans français aujourd' hui,Parce que quand je fais, je sentisBel.Je sais ça moi ne suis pas,Mais tu je laisses j'ai mon amusant.
Sempiternal George Proulx awoke to a banausic morning. This particular Tuesday morning, George dreaded getting out of bed; not to say that he didn’t dread getting out of bed every morning he had to work. Thus is the life of a cubicle worker. While dragging himself into the shower, George decided he would go out for breakfast that morning, since he was out of artificially fruit flavored cereal. (He never really understood why “fruit” was included in the name of such cereals, since the cereal tastes nothing like fruit, but he didn’t bother to ask.) George was the sort of man that did the majority of his day’s pondering in the shower, since his job required tedious attention to small percentiles. Once out of the shower (and dressed, mind you) Geor
April6 ComfortSome nights IFind comfort in thatI am notThe only oneWho is a failureIn love, lifeWriting, joyFriendships, art, speakingAnd all else.Other nights,A sweating, weepingMess, I wake.