memories without meaning

are like overhead images
no form, shape, or weight
sliding by on a blank screen
faced by the glassy stare
of a solitary audience

now "next!"
a telecom voice speaks
i stand up and nod
exit

hand

Michaelangelo saw the moment
when God made man a man.
Divinity touched his hand,
the hand through which life was given--
a life of seeking and erring.

My hand held his hand
across the thin blue glove.
The fleshy palm that warmed another's palm,
once held by his mother's hands,
once much stronger than my hand.

The earthly creases,
the familiar grooves,
passing a universe
of immortalities unknown.

He feels,
the warmth of my blood.
I am stunned,
by its likeness to my own.

Carefully, I let go.
Stay, rest,
remember here lies
the beginning of a man.

realism, art

The body is a canvas...the well-striated muscles, the diamond made by the trapezius of the back, the anchoring of the serratus, from colored to colorless. I unfold each sheet, a new geometry unravels. Those long bundles of the erector spinae that made a man stand tall and handsome, their strength remains, beauty stays. Yesterday a simple corpse, embalmed and lying in silent dignity, today he cries of mystery and knowledge. Teach me the intricacies of every fiber and nerve, give me the desire to marvel and explore. When all that is done, allow me to remember you, share with me a treasured lesson, a small piece of your undying humanity.

in hac spe vivo

I said you need to get a grip over yourself. You who are bouncing this way and that, running, spinning down the road along that crisp new green. The world is in vertigo motion, skylights beaming, endless melodies embracing me into a deep slumber. I am lying away happily exhausted, never again seeing. Illusions are better than reality.

Hello and goodbye, no, not this time. We stand modestly, childish and beautiful. Tell me your stories, so I can pick away every crumb of your thought. I want to hear you say what you said, again and again, the same old and I would never get bored. Hold on before I replace these thoughts with useless science and philosophy. "In hac spe vivo (in this hope I live)" says the Prince of Tyre, says me.

On the Eve of inspiration. In Memory of Eve Continued.

You were the silly freshman who went on and on about your crush as we walked through campus together, your eyes beaming and your feet practically skipping.

In English class, you wrote about first time shaving, sharing with us your awkward teenage years, striking a familiar cord in all.

You always asked too many questions in genetics class, even when everyone else is falling asleep.

During final exam week, you could not pull yourself away from facebook, you must procrastinate just as much as everyone else.

You wondered if you were too accepting of everything, lacking true beliefs. I wish I could have told you, your passions brought you closer to the truth than anyone I know. The conversation was unfinished, you should have stayed.

Every time I think of you, Eve, I want to smile a little harder, understand a little more, and love a little deeper. Your presence was larger than this life, your imperfections only made you more endearing. Where mortality ends, immortality begins. Your inspirations will stay.

In Memory of Eve

These were the words of Eve, "World, inspire me! Share with me just hints of your glory and atrocity!"

This is the Eve that I will always remember- someone intrigued by life, someone so full of life, and someone who shared her life so generously.

Eve, rest in peace.

Rain

There is a tornado warning tonight, mother and father called twice to remind me to stay in. Reading Aristotle, eating Wasabi peas, and drinking tea by yourself is not a bad way to spend the last semester of college. I sit and listen to the wind howling outside of the window, stomping and twirling in the rain, setting off rows of fancy automobile alarms. If only I was light enough, I could be engulfed away in that piercing melody, twisted and churned, my thoughts and impulses rearranged and sent back anew. I could melt with those splotches of water drops on the glass, twinkling with yellow street light. I could learn the rhythm of rain drops, beating or drizzling as I please. Maybe then I would think of this sickening feeling with fond memories. Surely I will.