When a man truly makes passionate love with a woman,
such lovemaking is never limited to
sexual intimacy or bedroom booty-calls.
True lovemaking should always be complete,
all-encompassing. I am making love with you
every time I take you to your favorite restaurant,
looking deeply, joyfully, into your lovely eyes as I pay the whole bill
without question. I am making love with you
when I take you to that movie you've been longing to see,
and you rest your head on my shoulder as I
gently put my arm around you. I am making love with you
as we stroll along the beach, hand in hand,
watching the sunset upon the westward oceans.
I am making love with you through the softest touch,
the most passionate kiss, the longest embrace.
I am making love with you every time I comfort you
through your worst trials, every time I forgive you
for your mistakes and faults, every time I tell you
I will neither leave you nor forsake you, and every time
I gently whisper "I love you" into your ear.
I am making love with you because you make love with me,
emotionally, physically, mentally, passionately, joyfully, generously,
faithfully. I am making love with you
every time we deeply gaze into each other's tender eyes
as though we were the last man and woman on Earth,
as though you were my beloved wife,
before and after the wedding altar.
I am making love with you for all the times
you helped me back to my feet when I stumbled and fell.
I am making love with you for all the times
you overlooked my shortcomings and cherished my virtues.
I am making love with you
because you cherished me above every other man.
I am making love with you because you mean more to me
than any other woman in this world,
and treating you like a mere booty-call would be a grievous crime.
And every time I make love with you,
I will always be the gentleman to your lady,
so that there will be absolutely no doubt in anyone's mind
that we are always making love,
no matter where we are.
Copyright (c) 2003, All Rights Reserved
Thursday, October 16, 2008
"The Roses Never Slept"
I watch as roses explode like fireflies,
thoughts traveling like winged elephants, with speed and mass,
colliding with walls made of solid vapor and translucent iron,
erupting like ancient volcanoes into trees of future knowledge,
denting cars and bling-bling like reverse hypocrites,
tearing away at the emperor's new clothes like
iron teeth ripping flesh from the bones of jaded souls,
eating french-fries and voting ballots while
walking to and fro upon oceans of forgetfulness,
television sets billowing their sails with blasts upon blasts of vast
nothing escaping from detached lips in cosmic stasis.
And the flower-beds fall together like super-massive black holes
in the skin of my ancient celestial instincts, devouring time like moths,
filling whimsical afterthoughts with the smoke of regretful embers,
deep seas filled with mysterious apologies from the hearts of
anthropomorphic sheep. I grasp the fabric of space with my teeth and
find secrets beneath the thumbnails of interstellar deserts,
midnight worlds lit by fireflies of fluid determination,
DNA woven like ethereal spider-webs across oceans of being.
The roses never slept.
Copyright (c) 2006, All Rights Reserved
thoughts traveling like winged elephants, with speed and mass,
colliding with walls made of solid vapor and translucent iron,
erupting like ancient volcanoes into trees of future knowledge,
denting cars and bling-bling like reverse hypocrites,
tearing away at the emperor's new clothes like
iron teeth ripping flesh from the bones of jaded souls,
eating french-fries and voting ballots while
walking to and fro upon oceans of forgetfulness,
television sets billowing their sails with blasts upon blasts of vast
nothing escaping from detached lips in cosmic stasis.
And the flower-beds fall together like super-massive black holes
in the skin of my ancient celestial instincts, devouring time like moths,
filling whimsical afterthoughts with the smoke of regretful embers,
deep seas filled with mysterious apologies from the hearts of
anthropomorphic sheep. I grasp the fabric of space with my teeth and
find secrets beneath the thumbnails of interstellar deserts,
midnight worlds lit by fireflies of fluid determination,
DNA woven like ethereal spider-webs across oceans of being.
The roses never slept.
Copyright (c) 2006, All Rights Reserved
"Counterbalance"
Counterbalance.
Life versus death. Libido versus thanatos. Wisdom versus ignorance.
Peace versus war. Counterbalance.
Brotherhood versus hatred. Nurture versus murder. Truth versus lies.
Right versus wrong. Counterbalance.
Growth versus decay. Advancement versus decline. Progress versus stagnation.
Transcendence versus ruin. Counterbalance.
Humanity has been relentlessly plagued by an unsung rule
as ubiquitous as breathing. Counterbalance.
Every step forward must be cancelled out by an opposing step backwards.
Every swing of the human pendulum in the direction of
progress, growth, brotherhood, and transcendence
must be cancelled out by a swing in the opposite direction,
that of stagnation, decay, hatred, and ruin. Counterbalance.
The greater our technological advances, the greater the misery of world poverty.
The more vital knowledge we learn, the greater the number of violent crimes.
The more we organize peace between nations, the more they go to war.
The more we improve our quality of life,
the more out-of-reach those improvements become.
Counterbalance is the reason so many excellent leaders
who have promoted peace, brotherhood, equity, and justice
will always be drowned out by odious tyrants
who have shoved war, hatred, greed, and corruption
down the people's throats. Counterbalance is the reason
so many life-giving scientific discoveries and technological advances
have been outrageously converted into weapons of mass destruction,
the reason so many great geniuses have been met with violent opposition
from mediocre minds, the reason the most noble intentions will still result in
one final Armageddon. No matter how high we climb,
there will always arise some other element of humanity
that must pull the whole of us back down to the dirt.
We have built great aircraft that climb to the highest heights of the skies.
But then there arises another element in our midst,
violently hijacking our invention and
turning it into a weapon of senseless mass-bloodshed.
Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
And even if we discover the secrets of immortality,
others in our midst will surely annihilate the entire race with extinction
long before we apply those secrets. (And the guilty will actually think
that they are doing God a service!) Counterbalance dictates that
we have the key, but we refuse to enter in, and (adding insult to injury)
we violently oppose anyone else who tries to enter in.
Understanding versus foolishness. Diligence versus laziness.
Generosity versus greed. And even throughout our very history,
time itself can be the counterbalance,
with certain of our inventions hailed as a blessing in one generation,
but reviled as a curse in the next,
with fathers and mothers striving against sons and daughters
while the very fate of humanity hangs in the balance.
The future yearns to invent something new,
to replace a horrendously outdated relic.
But the past, currently making a fortune with said relic,
stands in violent opposition. Even the renewal of the mind is daunting
when the avaricious becomes a billionaire.
Thus the very same ideals which have given us our present complex society
are now preventing us from obtaining a civilization of immortality.
Such is the irony of counterbalance, the irony of beings
on the brink.
Copyright (c) 2006, All Rights Reserved
Life versus death. Libido versus thanatos. Wisdom versus ignorance.
Peace versus war. Counterbalance.
Brotherhood versus hatred. Nurture versus murder. Truth versus lies.
Right versus wrong. Counterbalance.
Growth versus decay. Advancement versus decline. Progress versus stagnation.
Transcendence versus ruin. Counterbalance.
Humanity has been relentlessly plagued by an unsung rule
as ubiquitous as breathing. Counterbalance.
Every step forward must be cancelled out by an opposing step backwards.
Every swing of the human pendulum in the direction of
progress, growth, brotherhood, and transcendence
must be cancelled out by a swing in the opposite direction,
that of stagnation, decay, hatred, and ruin. Counterbalance.
The greater our technological advances, the greater the misery of world poverty.
The more vital knowledge we learn, the greater the number of violent crimes.
The more we organize peace between nations, the more they go to war.
The more we improve our quality of life,
the more out-of-reach those improvements become.
Counterbalance is the reason so many excellent leaders
who have promoted peace, brotherhood, equity, and justice
will always be drowned out by odious tyrants
who have shoved war, hatred, greed, and corruption
down the people's throats. Counterbalance is the reason
so many life-giving scientific discoveries and technological advances
have been outrageously converted into weapons of mass destruction,
the reason so many great geniuses have been met with violent opposition
from mediocre minds, the reason the most noble intentions will still result in
one final Armageddon. No matter how high we climb,
there will always arise some other element of humanity
that must pull the whole of us back down to the dirt.
We have built great aircraft that climb to the highest heights of the skies.
But then there arises another element in our midst,
violently hijacking our invention and
turning it into a weapon of senseless mass-bloodshed.
Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
And even if we discover the secrets of immortality,
others in our midst will surely annihilate the entire race with extinction
long before we apply those secrets. (And the guilty will actually think
that they are doing God a service!) Counterbalance dictates that
we have the key, but we refuse to enter in, and (adding insult to injury)
we violently oppose anyone else who tries to enter in.
Understanding versus foolishness. Diligence versus laziness.
Generosity versus greed. And even throughout our very history,
time itself can be the counterbalance,
with certain of our inventions hailed as a blessing in one generation,
but reviled as a curse in the next,
with fathers and mothers striving against sons and daughters
while the very fate of humanity hangs in the balance.
The future yearns to invent something new,
to replace a horrendously outdated relic.
But the past, currently making a fortune with said relic,
stands in violent opposition. Even the renewal of the mind is daunting
when the avaricious becomes a billionaire.
Thus the very same ideals which have given us our present complex society
are now preventing us from obtaining a civilization of immortality.
Such is the irony of counterbalance, the irony of beings
on the brink.
Copyright (c) 2006, All Rights Reserved
"Out of Place in L.A."
I am trying to make sense of it all,
but it refuses to cooperate. On the streets of Los Angeles,
you are admonished by the Law to drive carefully, patiently,
and obediently. But in spite of your responsible driving-habits,
you still wind up getting hit by some careless driver who
runs a red light at seventy while dialing a cell'-phone or
turns from the wrong lane while eating a cheeseburger or
cuts you off without signaling and then slams on the brakes or
broadsides you while trying to put on make-up.
Multiply these negligent drivers and their pedestrian cousins by several million,
and you suddenly start to wonder why L.A. still exists.
And this overpriced, overpopulated nightmare vents her worst anger
on the streets, drivers and pedestrians alike going out of their way
to be rude to each other, constantly seeking vengeance against everyone
for merely being here, in the same crowded place, at the same congested time.
Everyone wants to move to Los Angeles, but no one wants to leave,
and everyone wants to drive their own vehicle.
They all have their reasons for being here
(i.e. Hollywood, the weather, the money, and so on),
none of which fills their own spiritual void, their own true sense of purpose.
And as such, they are all imbalanced and out of place
while they are here. And all they have to show for themselves
is that they are here, and as such, they spiritually cannot help but
viciously hate both themselves and each other
on the streets of Los Angeles, streets that can no longer bear
their huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
Copyright (c) 2006, All Rights Reserved
but it refuses to cooperate. On the streets of Los Angeles,
you are admonished by the Law to drive carefully, patiently,
and obediently. But in spite of your responsible driving-habits,
you still wind up getting hit by some careless driver who
runs a red light at seventy while dialing a cell'-phone or
turns from the wrong lane while eating a cheeseburger or
cuts you off without signaling and then slams on the brakes or
broadsides you while trying to put on make-up.
Multiply these negligent drivers and their pedestrian cousins by several million,
and you suddenly start to wonder why L.A. still exists.
And this overpriced, overpopulated nightmare vents her worst anger
on the streets, drivers and pedestrians alike going out of their way
to be rude to each other, constantly seeking vengeance against everyone
for merely being here, in the same crowded place, at the same congested time.
Everyone wants to move to Los Angeles, but no one wants to leave,
and everyone wants to drive their own vehicle.
They all have their reasons for being here
(i.e. Hollywood, the weather, the money, and so on),
none of which fills their own spiritual void, their own true sense of purpose.
And as such, they are all imbalanced and out of place
while they are here. And all they have to show for themselves
is that they are here, and as such, they spiritually cannot help but
viciously hate both themselves and each other
on the streets of Los Angeles, streets that can no longer bear
their huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
Copyright (c) 2006, All Rights Reserved
"Excuses"
Excuses.
Like barriers of senselessness, they prevent us
from doing what we must. Excuses.
They interrupt our dreams with unsubstantiated realities
made of false hopelessness and vain fears.
Excuses
to stop building, to cease from learning, to end friendships,
to neglect love, these are the excuses that excuse us
from living right, making a difference, changing the world,
our world, our universe. And it's always the same-ol'
worn-out excuses of being
too busy with work, too occupied with the family,
too overburdened with chores and tasks and errands and
issues and layoffs and unemployment and divorce and
lawsuits and damages and psychological meltdowns and
foreclosures and repossessions and bankruptcies and
one loss after another after another after another while
living a life you could swear belonged to someone else
void of dreams and visions and purpose and hope and
faith. What ever happened to dreams that gave birth
to nations? What ever happened to visions that
turned the worst of enemies into the dearest of brothers?
And why is it such a crime these days
to have a heart that burns with a sense of purpose
gliding far above and beyond this wasteland called
the daily grind? There will never be any excuse
noble enough to account for the death of the human spirit.
The people must stop making excuses
and start dreaming nations
once again.
Copyright (c) 2002, All Rights Reserved
Like barriers of senselessness, they prevent us
from doing what we must. Excuses.
They interrupt our dreams with unsubstantiated realities
made of false hopelessness and vain fears.
Excuses
to stop building, to cease from learning, to end friendships,
to neglect love, these are the excuses that excuse us
from living right, making a difference, changing the world,
our world, our universe. And it's always the same-ol'
worn-out excuses of being
too busy with work, too occupied with the family,
too overburdened with chores and tasks and errands and
issues and layoffs and unemployment and divorce and
lawsuits and damages and psychological meltdowns and
foreclosures and repossessions and bankruptcies and
one loss after another after another after another while
living a life you could swear belonged to someone else
void of dreams and visions and purpose and hope and
faith. What ever happened to dreams that gave birth
to nations? What ever happened to visions that
turned the worst of enemies into the dearest of brothers?
And why is it such a crime these days
to have a heart that burns with a sense of purpose
gliding far above and beyond this wasteland called
the daily grind? There will never be any excuse
noble enough to account for the death of the human spirit.
The people must stop making excuses
and start dreaming nations
once again.
Copyright (c) 2002, All Rights Reserved
"Paradise is Only Skin-Deep"
Paradise.
Some see it as owning a wealthy estate,
equipped with yachts, mansions, private jets, servants,
and every last cable channel known to man.
Some view it as owning both the land and the fat of the land,
cornering every last niche of the stock market,
and then purchasing a few tropical islands
while flying through the neighborhood.
Heaven to this sort is not merely owning a Rolls Royce,
but rather, owning the first one that was ever built,
simply because there's excess bank interest
that needs to be burned.
These people see Paradise as
being able to use hundred-dollar bills as firewood
without regrets.
Then there are those who see Bliss as
getting their Masters Degree and
turning an academic thesis into a Nobel Prize.
Their achievements are their Heaven, shaping and reshaping
the minds of society like heroes and gods shape clay into souls.
For them, it is not enough to be satisfied with loaves and fishes,
for their Paradise indeed resides in the eternal flight of the spirit,
bringing dreams of invention, expression, wisdom and justice to a world
that thirsts for answers and redemption.
Their Joy is to discover the timeless reality
that brings man ever closer to the dreams of his immortal soul.
Theirs is a Heaven of ideas.
But for others,
the quest for Paradise is elusive as dreams deferred.
Some see it as having enough strength
to get through another twelve-hour work-day,
praying that they'll be able to make ends meet
for both themselves and their children.
Sometimes, Heaven is an answered prayer
during one's most desperate hours of need.
Some see Paradise as a three-day weekend
away from that nightmare of a daily commute.
Their idea of making money the old-fashioned way is
winning the Lottery and finally being able to
dump their boss and their sweat-shop job.
Some experience their Heaven when they finally get hired
by the right company.
Paradise means many things to many people.
For some it means not having to worry
about another bomb falling through the roof of their house,
or another round of machine-gun fire shattering their windows,
or another roaming band of soldiers
taking away yet more family relatives at midnight
to be beaten, tortured, raped,
murdered and thrown into unknown mass graves,
never to be seen alive again.
For some it means not having another nightmare
about death-camps, firing squads and gas chambers.
And for others it means overcoming the shackled legacy
of being counted as only three-fifths of a human being
by our country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty.
Was your Paradise ever the same as mine?
I have seen some reduce Heaven to nothing more than
another hit, another toke, another drink.
And for some, that's all there is.
Their idea of Bliss is a fix without a price-tag,
where they don't have to burglarize property or sell their very body
in order to get high all day long. And Paradise becomes
the drug becomes the Paradise they seek, sending them headlong
into the Peril they struggle to avoid.
And the journey to this Fools' Heaven can only end
at the bottom of Hell, on the streets of the forsaken.
Here is where Paradise is seen as a day where
one dumpster actually contains discarded rags that fit,
while another has scraps of food that haven't yet been contaminated.
Heaven is seen as an empty street at night,
with enough bags on the sidewalk to make a pillow,
where one's babbling soul can muster one last shred of sanity
to pray for mercy. Indeed, these lost souls see Paradise as
anything other than this world which has completely forgotten them.
Their fragmented minds see Heaven as both
survival in this world
and escape to the next.
And the derelict prays for the Paradise of Mercy
at the foot of the selfsame mansion
owned by someone who is praying for the Paradise
of more hundred-dollar bills to burn in the fireplace.
Paradise is only skin-deep.
Copyright (c) 2001, All Rights Reserved
Some see it as owning a wealthy estate,
equipped with yachts, mansions, private jets, servants,
and every last cable channel known to man.
Some view it as owning both the land and the fat of the land,
cornering every last niche of the stock market,
and then purchasing a few tropical islands
while flying through the neighborhood.
Heaven to this sort is not merely owning a Rolls Royce,
but rather, owning the first one that was ever built,
simply because there's excess bank interest
that needs to be burned.
These people see Paradise as
being able to use hundred-dollar bills as firewood
without regrets.
Then there are those who see Bliss as
getting their Masters Degree and
turning an academic thesis into a Nobel Prize.
Their achievements are their Heaven, shaping and reshaping
the minds of society like heroes and gods shape clay into souls.
For them, it is not enough to be satisfied with loaves and fishes,
for their Paradise indeed resides in the eternal flight of the spirit,
bringing dreams of invention, expression, wisdom and justice to a world
that thirsts for answers and redemption.
Their Joy is to discover the timeless reality
that brings man ever closer to the dreams of his immortal soul.
Theirs is a Heaven of ideas.
But for others,
the quest for Paradise is elusive as dreams deferred.
Some see it as having enough strength
to get through another twelve-hour work-day,
praying that they'll be able to make ends meet
for both themselves and their children.
Sometimes, Heaven is an answered prayer
during one's most desperate hours of need.
Some see Paradise as a three-day weekend
away from that nightmare of a daily commute.
Their idea of making money the old-fashioned way is
winning the Lottery and finally being able to
dump their boss and their sweat-shop job.
Some experience their Heaven when they finally get hired
by the right company.
Paradise means many things to many people.
For some it means not having to worry
about another bomb falling through the roof of their house,
or another round of machine-gun fire shattering their windows,
or another roaming band of soldiers
taking away yet more family relatives at midnight
to be beaten, tortured, raped,
murdered and thrown into unknown mass graves,
never to be seen alive again.
For some it means not having another nightmare
about death-camps, firing squads and gas chambers.
And for others it means overcoming the shackled legacy
of being counted as only three-fifths of a human being
by our country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty.
Was your Paradise ever the same as mine?
I have seen some reduce Heaven to nothing more than
another hit, another toke, another drink.
And for some, that's all there is.
Their idea of Bliss is a fix without a price-tag,
where they don't have to burglarize property or sell their very body
in order to get high all day long. And Paradise becomes
the drug becomes the Paradise they seek, sending them headlong
into the Peril they struggle to avoid.
And the journey to this Fools' Heaven can only end
at the bottom of Hell, on the streets of the forsaken.
Here is where Paradise is seen as a day where
one dumpster actually contains discarded rags that fit,
while another has scraps of food that haven't yet been contaminated.
Heaven is seen as an empty street at night,
with enough bags on the sidewalk to make a pillow,
where one's babbling soul can muster one last shred of sanity
to pray for mercy. Indeed, these lost souls see Paradise as
anything other than this world which has completely forgotten them.
Their fragmented minds see Heaven as both
survival in this world
and escape to the next.
And the derelict prays for the Paradise of Mercy
at the foot of the selfsame mansion
owned by someone who is praying for the Paradise
of more hundred-dollar bills to burn in the fireplace.
Paradise is only skin-deep.
Copyright (c) 2001, All Rights Reserved
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