She stared into oblivion. Raw, naked eternity unfolded before her. Her
boyfriend’s eyes were blue, perfect pools of azure. And they were empty.

He wasn’t exactly a Rhodes Scholar. She doubted that he could spell
Rhodes on a full stomach. Or “scholar” for that matter. But he was man-
pretty! And he was hers, dammit!

She had always been a nerd, doomed from the beginning. Her father
dressed her as a little Ewok on her first birthday. When she was in
kindergarten, she thought lightsabers and phasers were real. It was a
sad, sad day when she realized the closest she would ever get to one
of these shining paramount of cool, was her clarinet.

She lived the typical life of a skinny band nerd from a small town.
When college came, she shelves it all. Glasses became contacts, curls
were straightened and her skin finally cleared. She watched endless
hours of E just to perfect the right look. She went to a prominent
business school.

Her boyfriend literally fell into her lap. An ex-jock with a pedigree
who’s father wanted him to finish something. A few choice donations
later, and he was in. Studying “Management.” she was shocked when he
tripped and fell on her the first day of her sophomore fall her.
Apparently, negotiating “Who Stole The Cheese” and the cafeteria
crowd was too much for him. Sparks! Infatuation turned to “tutoring”
turned to spring break at hedonism III turned to romance. Sadly,
despite all their fun, he never surprised her. Until today.

“We’re not real.” were the three fateful words.

“Excuse me?!” she exclaimed, snapped out of the reverie of staring
into those endlessly deep eyes.

It was a pregnant pause before he realized that he should continue.

“I’ve been reading,” he said as if that would explain everything.

She smiled. “Reading huh?”

“Yup, philosophy.” he reached into a book bag.


| April 29th, 2008

I’ve spent some time drinking beer and wine
and all I’ll ever do is sigh,
Had love ripen like a grape on summer the vine
Picked under the late August sky
I’ve had friends roll in like the midday tide
and watch them roll out again
Some sought bright lights, and others died
some are constant like the winter wren
I’ve heard sad songs and I’ve played them too
and danced when the autumn trees wept
But the only sweet song I haven’t sung is for you
and that’s something that I’ll have to accept

The Mystery.

| April 29th, 2008

There is a thing that is near memory. A thing that pulses and pounds within the human heart. It ebbs and flows with the tides of our blood. It spikes with the tingle of forgotten nerves. It dews in every tear, draws with every breath, and flits away with every smile. There is a thing that is beyond remembrance, and sensation, beyond that what we know, what we can grasp. There is a thing that echoes in the depths of our dreams, and hides behind every thought that we make A forgotten thing, and yet remembered for a time when we laugh or sing. When smell the odors of home, or touch the patina of our lives. Life and death play out a thousand dramas within a land, a feeling, a world which we can never know, but know is ever there. There is no time, all moments compressed into a single heartbeat, all places within the immediate. Passion, sorrow, salvation, despair. All things and nothing and the shadow of infinite and yet fleeting moments. All poets seek it, and fear it. They flee and follow it. And yet none know what it is.