Butterfly Kisses

The whole world was singing that day in the park, but nobody was listening. No human being, at least. They were all magnificently trained to listen to each other, in their multitude of parallel languages and media outputs, but they had lost the ability to hear even the blaring clamor of a scorching sunset or the relentless whisper of the wind. Human language had come to define their existence. If it could not be expressed in words, then it must not be real. In most cases, it would pass right under the radar of consideration altogether.

But the sound of a tree falling in the woods still resounds, even if no man is there to hear it. So nature continued its elegant discourse, as was its purpose, patiently awaiting the kindred response of man.

I was humming a tranquil melody that mild autumn afternoon when Sophia nonchalantly settled on the park bench next to me. She opened her American History book and immediately gave all her attention to the words on the page. Unaware of my gaze, she made frustrated faces at the black and white print.

Sophia was an intelligent young woman. She worked hard and played fair. But life didn’t seem to respond in kind to her earnest intentions. School was always a struggle for her, with grades that did not reflect the effort she exerted. Solace came in the form of art classes, where she did not feel the same pressure of having her intelligence measured and judged. Instead, she was free to simply let her hands be moved to create her own truth, one that could not truly be measured or judged. She relished these moments and was grateful for the creative outlet.

What Sophia did not appreciate or even realize, however, was that her hands were not moving of their own will, nor was she herself willing them to move in any particular direction. Instead, her hands were listening to the world and speaking its truth in the curves and shades of her sketches. The world was crying out to her through her very own limbs. But she didn’t even know that she was supposed to be listening.

Of all the subjects she studied in school, mathematics was the strangest. It seemed, to her, purely rational and yet so magical at the same time. The laws and formulas and equations all made so much sense. But why? Why should there be any such laws at all? And how did these laws simply exist, without any intervention of man, other than to uncover them for their own personal use? She shook the feeling and continued on reading the next paragraph in her history book. There was no reason to be thinking about math at the moment anyhow.

Sophia had taken an American History class in high school, and also studied the subject in elementary school at one point. But now, in her freshman year of college, she was learning it all over again. The same history, recounted in different words. How many different ways could you say the same thing? Was there a mathematical formula for that?

An unsettling ripple of energy surged through her, and she felt compelled to begin doodling in the margins of her textbook. It started out as an oblong geometric shape, then thin wisps of texture began to form on either side, and in a moment she could name the sketch as the image of a butterfly. It was in that moment, as the neurons in her brain relayed to her consciousness that her hand had just created a butterfly, that I swooped down from the branch of my oak tree and skimmed by her just closely enough to gently brush the perimeter of my left uppermost wing against the blushing flesh of her right cheekbone. She never even caught a glimpse of me before I fluttered off along another whisper of air. But she had felt me. She knew I was there. She believed in my existence.

In the days that followed, Sophia would try to describe her experience in many different ways, with different words and shapes and colors and sounds. And although she would never quite succeed in replicating that moment, she somehow knew that this was not her true aim. There was something more important than trying to define our interaction that day. It was the fact that she knew, and I knew, that the next time I spoke to Sophia, she would listen.

Snap, Tap, and Split Into Pieces

There is a miniature man
inside my skull
tap-dancing
on my corpus callosum
to the beat of blood vessels
wrapped tight around my temples.

He is tempting my brain
to split
and let each hemisphere fend for itself.
They’re always arguing anyway.
Feel this!
No, do that!
I can’t bear to hear them bicker anymore.

So maybe the man is right.

I will compartmentalize
each reality I realize
and access only one axiom at a time.

Contradictory beliefs,
you are no longer allowed to cross paths
or even approach the bridge
to leave change
for our resident street-artist tap-dancer in-training.

He will starve to death eventually,
without your handouts
and propaganda.

It sounds cruel,
but it’s just self-defense.

I can’t find peace
in pieces.

The Meaning of Life

You’ll just know.
You’ll just…
know.

I finally know.

Intuition
like a lightning bolt,
like a realization
at the tip of my tongue
yet light-years away
and not composed of any words at all.

Reaching out to touch it,
my chest caves in
as I cross over dimensions
and break through magnetic fields.

Crushing. Imploding. Recoiling. Resounding.

The universe aligns
and I catch a glimpse
of a worm-hole
black-hole
holy grail of light.

If you open up the sun,
life as we know it
will end.

I catch my breath.

Yes.
This is it.

2nd Amendment, 1st Responsibility

Let’s start a revolution,
bring retribution
to the poor souls
too lost to find solution.

I say EXECUTION
to this way of life
and all the strife
we think we need
in order to fulfill our greed.

There is a system
and you’re in it
but let’s push it to the limit
to see how far
they’ll really take it
before we break it
from within.

We are the only ones,
so lift up your guns.
Even if they’re only pens.

At Sea

Waves crashing all around,
a harsh yet peaceful sound.
A daughter once so lost
is now a woman found.

I Am Not Opaque

There is a strange beauty
in my world of chaos.
And I have grown to realize
that I would not want it
any
other
way.

This is why I stray
from all
safe
hypocritical
havens
and bask in the glory of
dangerous
uncertain
truths.

My madness
is apparent
in the tears I cry.

Your madness
is hidden
in the words you lie.

I am translucent.
This makes me vulnerable
to those who wish ill
upon my insides.

But I can turn light
into a million different hues
as the particles diffuse
through the membrane of my skin
and create
Pablo Picassos
within.

Sometimes the colors swirl
into a sorrow so blue
I wish I never let the light in at all.

Other times
red and yellow
burn such passion onto my soul
that I think I’ve finally found—
The Answer.
I finally know!

But then the grays
cloud over my thoughts
saying
black and white
do not exist.

And I am happy
that light tortures me like this.

Jump!

Standing on the edge
of the precipice
of disaster,
I let myself go,
free-falling into
a perfect pool of peace.

Liberal Hypocrisy

Ok, I just need to get something off my chest. This whole “Miss California” scandal angers me, but not for the reasons most of you would assume, coming from me.

If I had to choose between calling myself Liberal or Conservative, yes, I would say I am Liberal. But above all, I am RATIONAL and LOGICAL. As such, nothing angers me more than a hypocrite because a hypocrite is someone whose actions and/or words contradict each other—the antithesis of reason and logic.

It seems to have become vogue to associate conservatives with hypocrisy (or maybe that’s just because I live in a liberal social sphere?), but liberals can be just as hypocritical. And being that I associate myself with liberalism, it probably angers me more to see a liberal hypocrite than a conservative one; it undermines what liberals stand for.

As such, it really makes me mad that Liberal Media & Co. has crucified this Miss California woman FOR STATING HER OPINION! For the love of Darwin, do you not see the hypocrisy here?! No, I do not agree with her opinion. But it is her opinion. And if you listen to her response, she is fairly diplomatic about it. Here’s a link to the video of her response: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XMvviFbkf0

Now, I’m not saying it was the most intelligent of responses (“in my country…” xD), nor the most direct (she never specifically answered the question about whether or not other states should legalize gay marriage) but it was honest. She said that she was glad that Americans are able to choose one or the other but that she herself believes marriage should be between a man and a woman. This was actually quite bold, given that the question came from judge Perez Hilton, an openly gay man. She could have played it safer and given him the answer he wanted to hear, but instead she remained true to her beliefs.

Let me be clear: I do NOT agree with Miss California’s opinion; I think same-sex marriage should be legal throughout this country. I could come up with many arguments against her position and I could point out many inconsistencies in her beliefs (as further articulated in her recent press conference), but that is not my point here.

My message is to you, my fellow liberal friends: Please remember that freedom of speech is the cornerstone of liberal values. Do not censor your enemy; if you believe so strongly that they are wrong, then this should be apparent when they speak. And if so, present your counterargument and disprove your opponent. This is the only noble way to fight for your cause. Anything less will only work against you.

Anointed Ashes

Back against the wall.
Shoulders bearing heavy weight.
I prayed to bend
instead of break
but I guess my spirit was not so malleable.

And so break I did,
into a hundred thousand splendid pieces.
Some shiny.
Some shabby.

Some sparked into a fire
activating Fight or Flight!
in my central nervous system.

Except not—
for all my senses were dulled.

Major Depressive Disorder
plus
Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors
equeals
Delayed and Inappropriate Response to Stressors.

So I just watched
as the pieces of my soul ignited
and spread like wildfire at my feet.

I welcomed the warmth.
And then the burn
as the blaze engulfed my gutless limbs.

I am convinced
I would have watched myself incinerate
without ever batting an eyelash
toward the flames.

Had it not been for
the wandering wind that called my name.

A silent whisper
across ethereal space
blew out the entire conflagration
and dropped me
in my place.

Reflux

I know what inspires me.
Sight.
Sound.
I know what ignites me.
Lost.
Found.

I am nourished by all the energy around.

I seek enlightenment.
Knowledge for knowledge’s sake.
But I’m dreaming awake
with nowhere to go.

In this world
you have to make money, you know.

So sacrifice.
Compromise.
Bend until you break.

Your happiness is secondary.
Power is at stake.

To survive this Money Merry-Go-Round
you need to hold on.

But I want to let go.

And each day
I spin around once more,
disharmony rising in my throat.

I have consumed
too much greasy consumerism.

I taste acid in my soul.