Letter to a Girl

Letter to a Girl

I sit by an oak,
A little sadder than I was,
When yesterday told me,
That my memories were beginning to fade

Come sit beside me, my love.
I have a broken guitar, a little cash,
A home enough for warmth in winter.
And eyes that will always see you,
For who you are
I have no plans for tomorrow,
And no dreams for the next ten years.
All I have is a breath stained with whisky,
And laughter soaked in honesty
I can’t get you no Cadillac sweetheart,
But I’ve got something more real for you
I’m a living man,
Who spills whisky on your pretty clothes
And forgets your birthday,
And sometimes even,
Skips making love for more whisky
I can’t get you no Cadillac sweetheart,
But I can give you real life,
And all its broken tunes

They’ve told us about the north and south,
About time and how to tease it
They’ve told us about pretty and ugly,
About the eloquent, and the perverse
I can give you neither of that,
I can’t remember to hold you before you fall,
And surely I can never promise you,
That I will defend your fragile heart forever
They’ve told us about love and music,
About sandy beaches and misty hills,
And the warmth of penetration,
And the security of marital bondage
Can’t give you none of that darling,
All I’ve got to offer,
Is wine, bread, and incomplete music
All I can give you,
Is this moment
And believe me, now is all you want,
Because now is all we have,
And if you take my hand,
I can show you the delightful detachedness,
From all our dreams of a perfect life,
I will heal your heart of certainty,
And burn your vulnerability,
Before the dawn of sensibility comes to steal you,
Away from me

They’ve explained the rules of attraction,
Sold us their biblical imprisonments of fidelity,
And held us captive to sinful monogamy
They have stolen our fragrances,
And given us selective interaction in exchange
Tell me my love, why must I, who beholds your wonder,
Pass you by on the sidewalk, like you do not exist?
Why must I, who is melting before your existence,
Plan a sentence that appreciates your being?
Such a senseless world, with senseless rules;

If you lend me your hand,
I will take you on quite the drunken dance,
Perverse, imperfect, insecure,
But honest.
To a place where you can unveil,
The hidden imperfections,
That feed and nourish your womanhood
To a place,
Where love is undefined
Where we can bathe unclothed,
Beneath a sun that knows no judgment,
In the presence of each other,
Holding our raw hearts,
In the palms of our childish desires
Wild, but not wicked,
Intoxicated, but not asleep
Coming alive together,
In a place where we can find heaven,
And stay there, forever.

Asleep in Paradise

Asleep in Paradise

I dwelt for days,
On what I thought I missed the most,
In my hollow existence
I seem to have discovered,
That deep in my memory,
Lies a confused desire for paradise
For a place where I’d feel parented,
Without parents,
Pruned and gardened to exquisite maturity,
Without education
It’s as if an old archaic land,
That cradled humanity,
Has been lost to history
And all our futile efforts at love, care,
Open-hearted kisses to change our culture,
And our endless striving to grow as a race,
Is only so that we could have one more moment,
To dance in that forgotten paradise,
That lurks darkly in our minds; in that paradise lost

It feels, like every verse I bring to bleed,
Speaks of the same feeling
But decorates it with different words,
You see; you mustn’t leave your heart,
To dance too freely with me,
I might break it twice, and forget to fix it
And you might be left drowning in an ocean of thorns and flowers,
Unknowing of who left you there

Our earth dances proudly in her middle age,
A woman with the most nutritious bosom in the universe
A princess clad in green, who endlessly feeds her offspring,
Forgiving, equally accepting, of that,
Which creates and destroys, homing both beauty,
And ugly alike
A queen that will soon enough, be older,
Than history can remember
What will the space around us remember?
Will they remember the pride of our mother?
The magical human race, that dealt violence,
With violence
That even in all its ugly endeavors striving toward eternal life,
Remembered to stoop low enough,
To believe in kisses and roses.
A race that dared behold the treacherous illusions,
Of delusive self-consciousness and cursed sentience
And still make time to mourn and weep at its imminent mortality,
What shall the space around us remember?
When our mother meets her deathbed,
Chiseled with cold rock and sunless winds

As humans, we seemed to have cared too much,
For the victory of good, and the perpetuity of civilization
We have spared too little time,
To understand the nature of all ugly things
To bring our vision to the wisdom of evil,
And the delicate balance of light and darkness
Have we strayed too far in one direction?
Have we lost our senses too much to daylight?
So much that we seem to leave our intelligence,
To rot in the delights of wonderful things,
Chocolate cake, love-making, champagne,
Expensive watches, carefully-pruned bodies,
And perfume made silky with orchids and lavender
What of tears? And the ugly faces of the contorted unfortunate?
What of the cold skin of the dead?
The painful memories of broken love,
And the fearful sights of tortured animals,
The ignored impoverished, and the un-delightful?
Do not wait to care for the delinquent nature of our existence,
Instead, behold it; don’t beat it to your meek intellect,
Instead, understand it.
We seem to waste much in grasping life,
When all we were born to do, is experience it

When we meet hurt, we seem to fall asleep,
Like a little child that closes its eyes,
When it sees its skin torn by a gruesome throne;
Hoping, praying, that this pain is just a dream
But like humanity is made of men and women,
And the earth dances between the sun and moon,
Life is a waltz between bliss and brutality,
Delight, and moroseness; faith and fear.
And we, so that we might be the gods we always were,
Need to open our eyes, when the day seems dimmest,
And the worst of our own selves is made plain,
Before our waking eyes

If you look hardly enough, with a mind sharpened,
With humility, and a tinge of compassion;
You might just come close enough to see,
The playful nature of all things; even death,
The greatest player of them all.
I cannot spare even a wink as I kneel,
Before the simple wonder of it all.
The wonder of my own self,
And my own doing,
This whole immortal universe,
Seems to be nothing, but a playground,
That I create in a secret sentient way,
That is of such glorious intelligence,
That even me, the creator,
Always fails to see it.