Cyber Fools

What is love but a game played by fools?  Not just the sight of her hair or the virtual smell of the tea.  Not just the lust of the pink and the imagined perfume.  Not the chair, not the nipples. But the eyes.  The eyes that tell me to behave and to stop going where I want to go.  Inside a mind that I cannot share or see or touch.  Inside a distant smile.  Inside an innocent grin.  She loves me.  I see the pixels fly away from my screen and into my heart and I don’t understand them.  I play the game and I get caught.  I hurt but I continue like the ten year old who doesn’t want to leave things unsaid because unsaid things pile up like dirt on an old love song.  She is there for me, on demand, satisfying the darkest fantasies of my damned Aquarian nature.  She loves me, she loves the picture and the money and the laughs and the possibilities and yet she is missing my strength, my arms around her and my lips on hers.  She’s there, just there, waiting for a chance to change me again and show me those multi-colored socks and her green eyes.  The green eyes of music.

Words

What I have for you are words.  They are subtle hints at what I want to say, small mirrors that seduce, that count and respect the spaces between the lines.  The love affair we created sleeps alone waiting for its faint wings to fly with the air of another world.  I know your secrets and I adore them.  They are mine like nothing has ever been mine with a repetitive possession that entangles my lips with yours in a multi-dimensional kiss of hope.  I strike my pen with my amber thoughts and I turn the page with the rage of a million snakes but your thought remains.  It parses the ceiling while I stare, while I transfer the light from side to side.  And so the words come crashing down that stream of passion that one day you will recognize as your own with the violence that only a mad man in love can control.  For you, these are the words I have.

After the Snow Storm

We write after we suffer.  I see a song with brown Bahamian symbols and Rastafarian colors and flavors but I don’t understand the idea of the artist.  I spend my days and nights thinking about the elusive quality of the writer who, much like the painter learns to describe the minutia of life in a high definition palette of words and blood.  Passion and red go together the same as the story that made me happy and depressive; that story about the bull and the fighter when the fighter lost by barely winning.  The same story continued in my past when the bike rider never did catch up to the front runners while trying harder and harder.  He fell behind and even more so because his effort could not matter more than each second that went by with the wind in that cold mountain.  So we write to express what the painter feels and although the systems are different and the streets full of wandering comics trying to find a syllable and a period of insufferable finality, the goal is the same: to live through the abstract creation of a reality based on art.  Art, after all, is just what the artists understand feelings should look like or sound like or be.