smartyrpoetry:

Jon Stewart dropping some truth.

Wow

(Reblogged from smartyrpoetry)

The Argentinian Beatnik

irrationalgraceistaken:

I don’t remember how I first met Caesar. That happens a lot in New Orleans, but I do remember seeing him at the Cafe Envie, sitting at a table with one of his doodling pads. He told me to sit still and sketched a caricature drawing of me at a table wearing my fedora typing at my laptop. He had been backpacking a long time, blowing through South America like a feather in the wind, and consistently on the verge of starvation. This man gave everything to his art. I watched him create cardboard displays for his postcard portraits and he dedicated himself to living through his art. One day I asked him what Argentinian writer I should be reading.  Without hesitation, he said “Borges, Jorge Luis Borges.” I had run across the man’s short stories. They were surreal juggernauts of imagination, something I hoped to discover in my own writing. Caesar showed me the true meaning of dedication. I was happy for him when he met a pedicab driver and dated her long enough to stay at her place. This guy had an itch for traveling though, and kept talking about saving money to go to Europe, to Berlin. One night at the Cafe Envie, we both watched a couple interact at a table. I was seeing language while he was seeing images and we both made up narratives based on our assumptions. Based on the couple’s mannerisms, I was thinking infidelity. The woman was younger so she was sleeping with her therapist. Caesar and I filled in the gaps. That’s what you do in New Orleans. You fill in the gaps of your life with stories, some real, some imagined. In the end you’re either a cynic or a sentimentalist.

(Reblogged from irrationalgraceistaken)

Casual sex.

shadow-writer:

There was a curiosity in the way he touched me, almost as if he had never touched a woman before. He slid the pad of his index finger across my lips and whispered ‘soft’ to himself, as if the pronunciation of the word and its definition were one and the same. He pushed my hair off my neck in slow motion and ran the same finger from earlobe to collarbone, until finally his hand covered the goosebumped flesh above my heart. I grabbed his wrist before my palpitations gave me away and gently kissed that which had been exploring me. I don’t do casual sex, was what I tried to communicate by the gesture. He sat back and looked at me quizzically. For a moment, I had almost forgotten that I wasn’t in love with him.

Love it

(Reblogged from shadow-writer)

The Argentinian Beatnik

I don’t remember how I first met Caesar. That happens a lot in New Orleans, but I do remember seeing him at the Cafe Envie, sitting at a table with one of his doodling pads. He told me to sit still and sketched a caricature drawing of me at a table wearing my fedora typing at my laptop. He had been backpacking a long time, blowing through South America like a feather in the wind, and consistently on the verge of starvation. This man gave everything to his art. I watched him create cardboard displays for his postcard portraits and he dedicated himself to living through his art. One day I asked him what Argentinian writer I should be reading.  Without hesitation, he said “Borges, Jorge Luis Borges.” I had run across the man’s short stories. They were surreal juggernauts of imagination, something I hoped to discover in my own writing. Caesar showed me the true meaning of dedication. I was happy for him when he met a pedicab driver and dated her long enough to stay at her place. This guy had an itch for traveling though, and kept talking about saving money to go to Europe, to Berlin. One night at the Cafe Envie, we both watched a couple interact at a table. I was seeing language while he was seeing images and we both made up narratives based on our assumptions. Based on the couple’s mannerisms, I was thinking infidelity. The woman was younger so she was sleeping with her therapist. Caesar and I filled in the gaps. That’s what you do in New Orleans. You fill in the gaps of your life with stories, some real, some imagined. In the end you’re either a cynic or a sentimentalist.

The Dream Caravan IV

and so it was that the two first found one another outside, where what
happens only happens because it is willed (wild), mannered (mild when out,
mild went in and then.  and then there, in thin air [no air there—lies like
the desert made real by belief]).
s:  look at this sand.  of such are dreams made.  it is here the sandman
comes, brings us from out to in.
l:  there is no sandman.  you have your outs and ins crossed, i’m afraid.
s:  why can’t you enjoy being here?
l:  because i’m not.
s:  then where are you?
l:  awake.
s:  lucid?
l:  no.  not even here.  not asleep.  i am here because you have brought me
here.  you built me from sand.  and you have mixed sand into the stream,
your stream, our dream.  you have done so and it muddies our pathway, makes
it quick.
s:  our dream?
l:  once you bring one in, one is in.
s:  i don’t understand.
l:  you shouldn’t expect yourself to.

solomon’s brain drew the lace connecting thought to motor taut, drew himself
back into consciousness and wondered why wherever he found himself at any
moment was considered by him “in”.  he wanted an out, wondered if one
existed.  he wanted to wander out, wanted to bring leonard along with. 
maybe not wanted, maybe required.  leonard, however, had had some problems
prior, and would not express them to anyone.  leonard would not sleep, and did not sleep.  that did not mean, of course, that he did not dream.  that
did not mean much at all.

Dream Caravan III

irrationalgraceistaken:

solomon was on the top of grasping what leonard was asking him.  for a
moment, the question itself seemed foreign to him, abstract.  in all the
room, silence deafened his brain.  there was no longer any reason to deny
the interconnectedness of all things.  the dreams proved that.  interbeing.  in the
idiosyncrasies of the mind, guilt and love were the same thing.  love and
guilt, when together, love as in loving too many or perhaps not enough was a
conscious choice we make.  but in the dream world, nothing is choice and
nothing is random.
  “dreams are more real than real,” solomon told leonard and hung up the
phone.

*****

sleep only works on the weary
never wary
works on the way
to
ward
off wonder
toward toward to
work off care
less work than ware
less worn than sharedshared in sleep with sleep’s own
cite



solomon:  i dream.  come on in and be in the dream the stream of conscience.
leonard:  it’s too heavy.  the stream is muddied.
s:  excuses.
l:  valid.
s:  come on in.  and you feel?
l:  invalid.
s:  detatched?
l:  vapid.
s:  in the dream, deep in, don’t you feel your mind working?  don’t you feel
it struggling to make surreal real?  can’t you appreciate how hard your head
is working to make this landscape seem genuine, seem real?
l:  scene.  reel.
s:  seen?
l:  if that is what you heard, yes.  that is what was said.

(Reblogged from irrationalgraceistaken)

Seduction II

Elena and I needed to have sex right away. I remembered a plot of grass at the outermost part of the French Quarter off a street called Elysian Fields. People park cars there during Mardi Gras season, but now it would be an empty field with two large oak trees sitting in the middle of it and no fence. I couldn’t understand her complacency about it. Inside I was a nervous wreck, but she didn’t blink when I suggested it. We were, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, perfectly in tune with each others sense of lust. I kept watching her out of the corner of my eye, wondering if she would disappear, wondering if I was curled up in the backseat of my car dreaming it all, but I wasn’t. She made me feel young, but I was already taking her for granted. The moon was glowing overhead; the long thick branches of the oak tree shadowed us from any passersby. I was worried a cop would come along, but soon it was a neighbor out walking her dogs. Sex in public was a new experience for me. I didn’t understand or appreciate the cosmic forces that brought us together that night.

I walked her back to her hotel room, hands sweaty and dirty, and I kissed  her as the sky brightened from black to blue. I had to drive back to Pensacola and she was flying back to Chicago. We wanted to meet again, but I was too eager. After weeks of texting and Skyping, she pulled away and my ego couldn’t handle it. I was broken, screaming at myself for my stupidity, spoiling a seduction so genuine. It was like descending into a hell of my own design. Regret, that comfortable demon, became lodged in my throat. I was lost.

Root

poeticallyprofound:

Back to when I was anointed
Exalted and then exploited
Most poets pretend to be Moses
A testament to be avoided 
Kneeling in front of my death knell 
Where they drove in the nails 
And a messiah was appointed 
Pennies for thoughts as I was wished well
Which way to hell?
I hail from a maelstrom
And feigned reign over a regime that has failed                           
Take me back to where I once came from
I promise not to tell
A thousand suns couldn’t brighten this fate
Hide in the shade in shame
Shadows of truth 
No safe haven for the brave
Ripped out our only sanctuary from it’s roots
While we’re still here waiting to be saved 
Stuck in between tongue and cheek is a rotten tooth
Most wait for a shallow grave
I’ve murdered every single muse
That happened to stay
Tomorrow is just proof
That nothing matters today…

(Reblogged from poeticallyprofound)

Seduction

irrationalgraceistaken:

Seduction by poetry can be a dangerous thing, I’ve learned. About a year ago, two ladies from Chicago graced my poetry stand on Frenchmen Street. One was blonde and couldn’t hold her liquor which left her loud and obnoxious. The brunette was Italian with deep black hair, a performance artist, and hypnotic eyes. She was accident prone, but I forget how or why. I flirted as much as I could, but they left. The next day I randomly met them on a street in the French Quarter and suggested they stop by to see me again that night. They did. “Don’t you have another job?” her friend asked as I shook my head, more interested in the brunette. We exchanged phone numbers and texted as her friend dragged her to Bourbon Street. I joined them later on a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street. Ignoring the revelry, I was drawn to her and her alone. I had at last found myself a fantasy, the mellow angsty hipster girl with enough sexual energy to melt all the ice in Antarctica. Her name was Elena. We kissed each other with dopey enthusiasm, the soft splinters of ecstasy rushing through our veins. We talked with wild abandon, life lessons, pop culture, relationships. Our part of the balcony was secluded and my hand found its way under her skirt and flirted with the folds of her skin in a deliberate, moan inducing way. “You must be very popular,” she said. “You do this to all the girls you meet?”

"Oh I’m popular," I smiled. "The last Renaissance man."

She licked her lips and urged me to go deeper. When we came up for air, we talked about sex. She insisted her roommate would not allow us free reign of their room and all the parks I knew were locked up with fences. I had no trouble coming up with a romantic alternative.

(Reblogged from irrationalgraceistaken)