Coachella

Imagine 70,000 faces staring straight at you
all worn out from heat exhaustion
and drugs and dehydration
it is the end of the day
time for their lullaby,
but they stick around,
staring on with their complex gazes,
anticipating some kind of mind altering experience.
And how did you get here?
How did you come to be able to gather so many people
in one place, at one time
just to watch and listen to
you
only you
you can't even see how many there are
but you know, they told you.
So you go on up there and do your little song and dance
and they love you, they want to be you
every expectation they had was surpassed
they still want more
but you have nothing more to give
so you thank them and you get paid
and you leave for the next city
and they leave
and everyone returns back to their everyday normal life routine
but you now hold a memory with them
something special that they can turn to when life gets dull
that allows them an escape

Banana Pancakes

We met each other at the age of seventeen, still young and free from the realities of the world. Our spirits bloomed each moment we spent together. Nothing could defeat us. We built our relationship upon our hopes and ideas; things that we would someday do together. Travel to Europe, start a band, climb a mountain, make a movie, sail the sea, meet our idols; the list grew with our age. Slowly we proceeded on with our lives, together. We finished school and got our own jobs. Then we got married and had our first child. Then we had another. We bought a house together, then moved into another one. We got a babysitter and went out every weekend. Our love stayed strong through all of our years together. We fought old age with the fiery free spirited exuberance that we held onto from our youth. And we keep rambling on in our drunken gazes about our hopes and ideas; the things that we will someday do together. And I know that we will never do these things. And I am fine with that.

Experiment #3

kind of lame, it's all I could come up with without getting too sappy. It's short but sweet.

We laid in complete peace, our breathing the only audible sound. We gazed for miles into each other's eyes, each thinking our own thoughts, unbeknownst of the others. A gentle chill traveled down my spine as she strokes my arm with her fingernails. I reciprocated, only hoping she is feeling the same pleasure. I tried to speak but I couldn't find the words to say. I saw no need to anyways. So we laid there, completely content and grateful of one another's presence.
A moment passes by unknowingly. I awake from my hazy sleep to see that she is no longer there. I try to remember her ever being there. I faintly recall someone saying they were leaving but I can't put a face to the voice.
I fall back asleep, hoping to see her there next to me again.

Glaciers

I went metathizzical on the sonnet so it has an irregular rhyme scheme (ABBACDDCEFFEGG). Also there might be a couple imperfect iambic pentameters, but other dudes did that so why can't I?


The way your crown lay sleepless on my bed,
your hair avalanching like the winter's snow,
the way your scent defeats the stale airflow,
it sifts and swells around my grateful head.
The way your lips fall gently onto mine,
a passage way through your two white glaciers,
they slowly melt away all our censors,
until we appear only as our outlines.
The way your fingers fall across my arm,
the coldest winds couldn't send such pleasured chills;
so many ways out there for me to fill
my mouth with words to flatter you with charm.
But how will I remember once you've past?
Each dream a fading memory, nothing to grasp.

I love you, Honeypea

I grew up eating English Peas. Whether it was a cultural decision or my parent’s lack of creativity with vegetables, I do not know. But for the sake of my story, it was cultural. Also, let's change the name to Irish Peas instead of English. As a child, I would spend my summers in Ireland at my grandparent’s farm. Aside from these vacations being the one time a year that I could stuff my face with the best of the English candies, I could also stuff my face with hearty Irish food. Our daily meals consisted of meat, potatoes, bread, carrots and peas. These standard ingredients would be reassembled countless ways to conjure up a new dish each day, whether it was a Shepherd’s Pie or a Roast. Still, every day it was the same, and that is not a complaint in any way.
Down the lane from our farm lived an old man, a man greatly respected by my family. He existed as an enigma to me, a man of stature that I could never really understand because of our vast generation gap. There was a strange aura that surrounded his existence: one of wisdom, of respect, of age, of smell. In truth, he simply appeared to me as a silly old man dressed in Irish tweed.
All I can remember of my brief memories with him are the way he ate his peas. One by one. With a knife. The patience it took to do so baffled me. Such precision and effort was put into eating such a small and meaningless side dish. The real art of it was that his hand shook almost uncontrollably the whole time. Yet the pea lay still, as if they were part of the knife.
I saw no sense in eating peas with a knife. Not only is it impractical, but it also slows down the pacing of the meal. Still, I attempted to mimic this old man that my family viewed with such high esteem, believing that his methods had some sort of great wisdom or enlightenment to them. Meal after meal I tried to balance and coax the peas into staying on my knife. I became fixated on mastering this seemingly pointless craft. Unfortunately, my attempts were to no avail.
I stopped eating peas at dinner. At first, my parents did not notice, but soon enough they caught on to my disregard for the peas they served me. I told them I couldn't stomach the taste anymore. This was a straight lie. I loved the taste of peas. I loved stuffing my mouth full of peas the chewing them to mush. But I could never let the truth of my failings be known.
On the last night of my family’s stay on the farm there was a grand feast. Undoubtedly, the meal consisted of peas, which had now become the bane of my existence. I could not just trash the peas at this meal though, I would never dream of showing such disrespect. I was the last to arrive in the kitchen for dinner that night so my seating choice was limited. Usually, I sit next to my dad but my sister had already claimed that spot. The only remaining seat was in-between my grandfather and the old man that lives down the lane. I hesitated before finally sitting at the table. A brief stroke of anxiety over came me as I felt the two patriarchs looming over me. I refrained from talking as much as I could throughout the whole meal.
By the time the entree was served, my anxiety had calmed. As suspected, we were served the classic Irish meal: roast with potatoes, carrots and peas. I watched the old man as he began to eat his food, hoping I could con him into showing me his tricks. He did not touch his peas for the majority of the meal, as if he was saving them for last. I became frustrated and fed up with waiting, so I attempted to conquer his craft once and for all on my own. I rolled a pea onto my knife and slowly raised it to my mouth. For a short moment I felt a rush of victory, but when I looked down cross-eyed at my knife, the pea had fallen off. I was defeated. The old man noticed this and started laughing at my apparent failure. My cheeks grew red and I sulked into my chair feeling the eyes of my family upon me.
The old man leaned over to me, still laughing, and whispered in my ear with his thick Irish accent, "I eat my peas with honey, I've done it all my life, they do taste kind of funny, but it keeps them on my knife."