I Miss Her

It’s red wine nights or an absence of fully blossomed beatitude. It’s frequent pondering of one day realities and making them come true, me and you. And, it’s all about the when and why because I’ll have the how and what down pat. I will softly and soundly sift through the shit-heads that use me […]

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It’s red wine nights or an absence of fully blossomed beatitude.

It’s frequent pondering of one day realities and making them come true, me and you.

 

 

I promise to sort through the kinks in my life,

projecting nothing nothin short of lovely feelings into your irreproachable, far-reaching, magnificent

mind.

..

They say only make love to one’s wife,

Yet in my opinion, there is much more to living out life and love than sexual exclusivity.

In fact, it is about the heart and heart only.

And, if yours doesn’t race like an iambic amphetamine suburban teenagers once did,

I don’t want you around forever.

To me, and maybe to a few others, monogamy is as limiting as the promises of a beautiful sunrise during my suicidal nineteenth year, during which I was way worse off more frequently than I ever admitted.

Why? Because.

Because it is all too filled with ever so broken, yet not entirely impossible, promises.

At this point, I’d like to confess, that I will always be a mess.

But, I’m fine with them– my crooked dreams

and curiously juxtaposed halo-rings

surrounding imaginary supermassive star solar flares

Oh, how our bodies will vibrate harmoniously with laud and vivacity.

Moreover, if you don’t want candle lit lotion massages

And bubble baths after we fuck on the kitchen table,

just tell me.

I can easily run away to another lass with a fat ass in the meadow of blazing hearts that is the land of sweet, sweet love.

Quite frankly, she will be just as wonderful as you in some ways.

But in some respects, you will still be missed.

 

Self-Reflection

Some of the scientists are calloused hacks.
Hackneyed plagiarized equations rife,
Make something incredible of your life.
Defend the soft spoken form attacks.

Dare to believe.  Reveal the unknowns.
Fact check reality.  Bolster your genius.
No individual ever ought to refrain
From artsy critiques of scientific thrones.

No heart too bereft.  No one disqualified.
We must uphold integrity.  So be sure
Of yourself, of your dreams, and you’ll mature.
No doubt, a lesson learned trumps life not lived.

Oh, to remind a fellow passenger of purpose.
What grander a gift than gregariousness?
Speak freely.  Care wildly.  Remain the gentlest.
And, never exchange love for anything…

Sonnet #13

Forgive the demons in the inky voids.
Embrace the face of the present sublime.
We are spirits dreaming about this time,
Beings floating amidst huge asteroids.

Do you feel beauty and rest, Chaos?

Mother earth how sick you may one day be…
Nah, never. Here’s to yours’ to my safety.
Here’s to life lost. Let’s hear it for all us.
Fostering and dividing, fractious yet
felicitous,

Realms of white-hot suns, soothsaying hues of
Tomorrows.

Undying twilight ocean blue.
Onwards and always, forever…. Vapor trail…
Our love is too splendid to ever fail.
Forever unbound, sparking pure and true.

For my Ex-Girlfriend: Man Am I a Sweet Heart Or What?

Hearts may be fragile, but fate is inviolable.
Love is both malleable and lifelong.
It may even be eternal: plural and difficult.

Sure, distance is daunting, while fear of being–
a mere memory–is haunting. But, what are you?

What do you find yourself most wanting to do?
Seeking is to living like dreams are to desires,
yet living all to often eclipses of being,
whilst Dreams are the light itself.

In your heart, there’s a fire that resounds and inspires.
Chase fickle feelings and undying dreams in the beautiful
Yet revered moonlight like that’s all there is to do.

Remain both patient and vigilant.
Sometimes settle for less professionally…

It’s just capitalism.

Love and imagery are the opulence of this Earth.
Usher in smiles, rain or blue.  Take on yourself
That soul of yours has much development to do.
Because, quite frankly, it does. Why? Because…

Because that’s what life is…
Beatific isn’t it?

Always cheering you on,
Sean

Anti-Sonnet #4

Dessert military lands once rained free.
Into civil war they fell.  And, it’s a shame.
Let’s not forget our nations history,
though.
We attack Syrian civil war folks.
However, quite frankly, I don’t know why.
Is death of family not enough to cry about?
Must we psychically torture the flesh of man.
I think not.
In the face of rueful civilians, “Be free.”
Dance and revel in the moonlight city streets.
Support a peace so brilliant laws crumble.
In the light of Tomorrow, there is hope.
Delve into devilish passions.  Find love.
Create art for the sake of therapy.
To map the globe with a sword is futile.

Winter Wonderland

About eight months ago, I was in Rochester, New York.  Arrival by airplane on Thanksgiving Day was quite a perfect choice.  I went to see my one of my childhood best friends, Chance Michael Phillips. No person has ever been there for me as much as Chance. He rescued from the tyranny of my alcoholic father when I was a high school. Then, he rescued me from a Bessemer group home I did not belong in when I was nineteen. Finally, he took me in when I was heartbroken over a cocaine swindling former shot girl at a Florida strip club. It should be noted that I never went to said strip club.
My flight descended from the blue-black-purple night sky and delved right into in the ambient snowy evening on Thanksgiving of 2016. Upon arriving at the city where dreamers go to live, or vice versa, snow covered the ground. I was both emotionally and physically unavailable. The first person I met, not including my childhood best friend, was Monsieur Adam, whom is a veteran of the War on Terror.  My dreamy childhood friend Chance, and Adam—my soon to be great friend—escorted me to the residence I was to fill with love, joy, and soliloquys.

Upon arrival, Chance’s roommate and my long time Native American scholar friend, Nancy, greeted me.  Immediately, I was bequeathed a glass of red wine in one hand and a glass piece in the other. I sat down at the dinner table to feast. Tunes by the Grateful Dead and the Talking Heads embraced the air in which they danced.

The polyphonies of quotable conversation cleansed my consciousness in a constructive fashion. Temporarily, I unearthed contentment by gazing into Chance’s pacific, emerald eyes. I finally became entirely inebriated when resounding, sonorous cacophony of sorrow riddled the air.  To everyone’s dismay, my fiery, rip-roaring soaring that was entirely stoked by hugs, drugs, and friendship-induced ecstasy faded to black.  Everything deadened, though not due to vapidity. And, if I am being honest, the origin of eerie, yet beautiful, blues was everything I felt so inclined to discuss.

But, dammit, I persevered.   I became innocently effervescent later in the evening due to the eyes, ears, and elegance of the Zahra, who is currently visiting form the Middle East to hone the art of translation through the lens of the University of Rochester’s MFA program. Mademoiselle Zahra, who is a total babe by the way, captivates her audience. Positively worth of being an empress, and 1000% not a temptress, Zahra speaks more articulately than the vast majority of native English speakers. In addition, her peerless ability to see a symbol as an unconscious manifestation of a culture that once was and still has time to be. She inspired me to ponder an audience’s personal relationship with not only religion, but also, commodities and communities.

Religion itself is, sometimes, best described as personal. Sigmund Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents opines that it is utter vanity, and quite possibly insanity, to claim to have reckoned the ultimate character of God, aka the infinite. Yet, it is clear that one can still healthily Romanticize a being’s spirited, personal relationship with an avatar—or a symbol for that matter.
In contrast, the impersonal relationship with avatars is presumably a passive, dismissive acceptance of the potential inability to reckon absolute truth for all of humanity. All things considered, to wager that one God is superior to another God is rather ridiculous, pitifully procrustean, and sanguinely stupid.
“Really though, how much destruction goes into maintaining civilizations or empires like the Ottomans, Rome, and the United States of America?”
“Entirely too much.”
“It is clear to me that a nation with too big a military may be cheating the world when it comes to economic overhaul. Don’t all civilizations reach a point at which they should become obsolete intellectually.”
“Certainly, this is why I speak on community and commodity exchanges as opposed to the reductive political totality of nations and nations.”

This conversation is exactly what I love about the ontology of Thanksgiving as it carries onward into the future; in essence, no one owns the land, for we are all children of Earth.  The aforementioned counter-cultural ideology becomes clear when one considers the sheer vastness of the Cosmos, or of the Heavens.  Let us face it, if Earth is irrelevant, which it is, then why would one exert any energy at all hypostatizing a political structure? These narratives, though entirely relevant in this era, are too generalized to be true and too fickle to be worth hypostatizing.
So there I was drinking red wine from a goblet sized wine glass on the most torturous of all holidays with my best friend’s spouse, Nancy Scott.  Her vast, immeasurable knowledge of history was just as rich as the lovely feast.  Granted, everyone thought the choice of chicken instead of turkey was a bit weird.  But, we rolled with it.  The present company included Adam, Zahra, Chance, and Nancy.
With impeccable decorum, Adam, who is and will forever be a Middle East war veteran and theoretical physicist enthusiast, gave me the affirmative that it was indeed a little weird.

All was well in the historic district of Rochester.

“America is a place that goes to shit sometimes; however it is really a place of utter love and chaos because I demand it so.  I might as well be king because Trump’s word may one day become American law.  You are aware I am in an accelerated master’s program at the University of Rochester.  I study post-structuralist critiques of Modernism.  I feel esteemed.  I feel both great and afraid.  My life is sort of like the grey, wintry weather.”—Chance
“Well damn Chancie-Boo.  I miss you, too.  Thank you so much for you and Nancy taking me in.  I am currently unemployed, careless, and salty over heartbreak.”—I told him in his ear.
“You’d like Tanja.”—Chance compassionately responded
Zahra snickered silently to herself.
“She fine, though?”—I asked in spirited curiosity with utter disregard to Nancy’s squirming body language.
“Hell yeah, Playuh…”—responded Chance who was quoting his Father.
“My squishy tooshie doesn’t want to touch butts with her.”—I replied ostensibly courteously.
“Shame…  You deserve better than Bitch.”—Chance and Nancy replied in unison describing their attitude about the immature shot girl who ripped my heart out and ate it in front of me.
“So it goes, friend.”—Said Adam and Zahra in unison.



Truth, I spent more time with the lovely Nancy Scott than my friend Chance during my month long stay.  The moment I realized that I love her is tatted on my soul.  I had just returned from wintry weather whilst utterly sauced.  I dove onto the living room futon.  Fighting back tears while she choked on resolve, I whimpered that I did not deserve love from no one… ever.  Why?  Because… because I ruined everything with Heather when I lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana with my older brother…
Nancy quelled my spirit like she did with Elizabeth when I was sixteen.  This is not to say that I was overflowing with tranquility.  But, she provided me hope for my future in a peerless fashion over pasta.  She told me a folklore story she dreamt up with her creative mind.
In Canada there is a man named Zed that sells drugs from behind a liquor store counter.  There were four star-embracing, innocent, puckish mavericks that wanted to jazz up their mediocre evening.  So, the four amigos and their dog Amelia trotted through the snowy city streets to party with Zed.  Sipping actual Champagne and shooting whiskey, the hyper-congenial party people listened to Zed’s sagacious take on love.  Before Zed stood a celibate divorced man, a heart broken wanna be playboy, and two five year love birds.  They all learned from the liquor salesmen that love must be or the relationship ought to be put on a shelf—forever resting and simultaneously yearning and presently constructive.  They did blow and played in the snow and had a beautiful nights sleep.
Although the story I went on to call “A Few Jaded, Innocent, Puckish Mavericks” was a bit strange, I learned a lot about institutionalized rehab. Nancy and I concluded the night by comparing the excellence of our sexual fetishes.  Collectively, we declared that sexuality should never be disgraced if it is between two consenting adults.  Love with reason is what mischievously called our motto.  We agreed the best word for it was con-sensual.