Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on July 13, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Two thin and crusty autumn leaves
Fell to the ground; two lifeless sheets
From there, fell broken, withered, dry,
Where globes, eternal, roam the sky
A tale so spun, so God conceives,
So heaven gives, so Earth receives
A soft prophetic lullaby
A day to live, a day to die
And down where Earthly things are bound,
A shoot naively breaks the ground
A worm in silence makes its way
As magpies sing to pass their day


A rant about time

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on May 17, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Twenty-five days ago, twenty-five days to the hour, I wrapped my hands around her wrists, and looked intently in her eyes, and spoke to her the only words that came to mind

“You are stupid for thinking The Shawshank Redemption is overrated”

And she looked slyly in my eyes and said with that voice that always gave me butterflies that she thinks my taste in movies was as stupid as my taste in clothes

And I moved closer to her face and told her that it was better than my taste in women

And she moved closer to my face and before she could speak I gave her a kiss


But twenty-five days move by so fast

One more quickly than the last

And today for the first time in twenty-five days

I had a problem remembering her face


Now all the memories of the past

In a single picture congregate

All stories told, all questions asked

Meet in the aspect of her face


And I if I could not remember her face

What does that say about the memories we had?


It’s like a manifestation of a universal complication, a temporal cosmic malfunction, a hellish creation of a hellish function, dictated that all the forces of Earth and Hell act in combination in one magnificent gesture to break our pride

And it did break our pride


Because the realization dawned upon us that we are just heaping sacks of flesh a group of atoms governed by cellular equations, helpless, shriveled and in an instant broken like brittle limbs and maimed like words scribbled on old pieces of parchment.


And the old parchment couldn’t keep us intact as the pencil marks faded into obscurity

And eulogies replaced the love poems

And tear stains replaced the stains of lipstick

And the picture of her face was replaced with a scribbly haze.


She is dead, because time unravels all of our embroidery, and it does not care if it was elegant or not, because time has no taste for artistic flair.

And trust me, I’ve appealed to the moderators of time, sent them requests by snail mail and prayers, and they have left me on hold listening to some stupid automated voice telling me to be patient my child, help will be right with you, and some cheesy music with cheesy lyrics about being saved, when all I wanted to do was to be dead.

Because it’s not my fault that time is an ill-run bureaucracy, and I’m pretty sure that it’s not her fault either. And a wise man once told me that life’s unfair, but I think that it’s pretty damn fair.

Because life does not care about your skin color, or the color of your hair, or who you sleep with, or who your father knows:

Life is an asshole to everyone


I remember she had a small blemish on her hand, and I could feel it with my finger every time I held her hand

And late at night when the lights were off and I couldn’t see, I could always be sure that it was her next to me, because every time I took hold of her hand the blemish was always there


But at the funeral the blemish was still there and sadly, very sadly, I did not care


And I do not care, if time is on a mission to take me down or if that’s just the way it is; I do not care, if other people have died before, or if this is a part of life; and I DO NOT CARE about the American Psychological Association or how it chooses to qualify disorders,


because if order was so freaking good, then why does the universe tend towards disorder

and if love was so damn good, then why do people die?


Way before I fell in love with her, I saw her crying in the soccer field, and I gave her a hug and wiped her tearful cheek, and later that night she gave me a phone call and we talked for three and a half hours,


and I made fun of her, because she spent her summer junior year taking pictures of birds, and I thought that this was super nerdy, but I secretly wanted to have been there with her, because she made birds sound so interesting, but I would never tell her that


and she made fun of me for thinking Batman is better than Superman, but I know she secretly agreed with me because he’s fucking Batman and the girl I loved was crazy, not stupid


But if time, that old tyrant, sees us not as his children, but as the guests in his bed and breakfast, then why did he make us think he loved us in the first place?

Why give us that complimentary bottle of champagne and an upgrade to the honeymoon suite if he in fact meant to later give us separate rooms and evict one of us before the other

And why would time teach us how to paint if it meant to burn all of our paintings later on I do not understand


Today, I do not know the face that twenty-five days ago I held between both hands and pressed on tightly from both directions saying “You’re the most beautiful piece of silly putty I’ve ever seen,” as my friends rolled their eyes in disgust and called me a creep


And yesterday I knew that face, but yesterday I cried my eyes out again for the twenty fourth day in a row and today I am yet to shed a tear


I’m starting to wonder if forgetting is time’s way of sending me complimentary beer




Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on April 25, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

–       I think if you look carefully you’ll find, that the object you are looking at is not quite what it appears.

–       Oh, I didn’t feel you come in here; what a surprise!

–       My friend, I think it’s quite prevalent that I am never expected, but do tell me, did you like my artifact?

–       Yes, I think it is quite lovely

–       And what do you reckon it is?

–       It looks like a mirror, a very fancy one mind you.

–       And you, I assume, have seen many mirrors before

–       I have

–       So why are you drawn in such a manner to an object of which you’ve seen many before?

–       I don’t quite know

–       Ah, herein lies the paradox

–       You said that it is not quite what appears

–       I did

–       And what did you mean?

–       I find that all things are not what they appear

–       But this is obviously a mirror

–       And how would you define a mirror?

–       It is smooth surface that reflects light

–       And does it?

–       Well I see my reflection in it

–       But is it?

–       Is what?

–       Is that your reflection

–       Why yes

–       Would you be surprised if I say that the person in that mirror is living, breathing, and an exact replica of yourself? He has lived his entire life unaware that he is inside that alleged mirror. What you hold in your hand is a gateway, into his prison. And he holds in his hands a gateway out.

–       You almost made me believe your insidious lies. This is absurd.

–       That is not the reaction I expected

–       What did you expect?

–       I expected you to ask how I knew that he was the one imprisoned, and you were the one free

–       And how would you know?

–       Well I do not, but perhaps the copy of me inside the prison might. Pray do hand me the gateway. There we go, I see my imprisoned self, he looks quite handsome. Me is saying something; I cannot hear him. Maybe he should write me. I must move my hand so he can move his. Luckily I have a piece of paper. He is writing.

–       What does it say?

–       I can’t read it inside; it looks like it’s mirrored. Maybe I should read the one my hand was compelled to write.

–       What does it say?

–       “Neither of us are free, we are both imprisoned inside a short dialogue, a short-lived universe that will die off in one sentence”

–       Ha-ha very funny, I am sick and tired of your jokes.

The invention of Poetry

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 20, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

as imagined today


April 20th


Today the sunshine was particularly radiant and the flowers are on the verge of blooming; it is in all a pretty day. Today’s events as transcribed in this entry have been spectacular to say the least and to me personally life-changing.


I shall begin where all things begin, and that is the woman. That woman, how should I say it? That woman was life changing. No, that doesn’t adequately delineate my intentions. If prior things have been described as life changing then the term falls short of fully describing her.


Come to think of it, all words that have been used prior fall short as adjectives in this regard because this woman is like nothing else, and the way she makes me feel is like nothing else. I am a man of words and letters, and so, as you imagine, this is quite frustrating because see, I wholeheartedly agree, with the notion that emotion can be described with text. But if all words fall short of bringing her to life perhaps something else ought do the task.


An important aspect in her existence is the music of it,

Aye the music she brings forth into my sensory center

I have never experienced anything like this before

And what’s more

Is that she defines,

Or redefines the impossible; she’s divine

It’s not her shape per se

For I have seen and experienced enough women to be able to say

That no pure beauty, that is physical, can catch my eye in such a way

It’s perhaps in tiny details like her laugh

I think part of her beauty in all probability is its indescribability


So here I am trying to convey, to my ability

And to say, with all my descriptive facilities,

What is impossible to portray


Could one begin to ascribe the label of perfection

To what he describes when he knows that upon inspection

That he will arrive to many imperfections

When in fact the latters existence

Is a premise to such ascription?


In my frustration I happen to create an

Inadequate interpretation

An inadequate description

Layer upon layer of textual creation

That ends, or rather begins, with a culmination

Of falling short, in my report of such manifestation

It is not sexual tension

It is my inadequacy at recollection

With words such affection


The irony is that I the bard of words

Cannot to any extent exact what’s in my mind

To paper

I find

Myself to be usually, the shaper of words into worlds

But this is now a feat I cannot savor

And if without my words she shall be lost

That also means I cannot save her


Allow me to repeat

She is like sunshine seen today,

She adds color to the scene

And between, her laughter and her smiles,

I find myself unable to compile, without resistance,

A summary of her existence


I find a need to invent, in my anguish, some new form of language

Poetry I shall call it

To attempt to shape her with words

But I know

That I shall fail in my task

For she

Is indescribable


I shall try even though I know

I am destined to fail

Perhaps that is some other form of poetry



Perhaps that cosmic creation’s sole purpose is asphyxiation of language

Perhaps, such universal complication, is a personification of human inadequacy

And perhaps application of language to describe such inconsistency has further implications

But it is not my place to make any such indication


So where am I, the poet, to find salvation,

If my own descriptive methods, have no ends in sight

If I cannot with my own letters, bring her to life


Perfection can’t describe her; she describes perfection

And I can only hope to be unflattering in my depiction

But alas the lowly words of men serve me not, to my affliction

So perhaps this poetry thing can approach adequate description




Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on April 19, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots


Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme


Two of us in the garden, holding hands, singing and believing that we are eternal

We are eternal

Like dark spots in the ether that makes you remember your slumber

We are eternal


Parsley and sage

There are thirty one days this month and two of them are devoted to you and three of them are mine, and together we may spend a week but I will never forget to bring my calendar because we may be eternal, but we are not as eternal as we could be


Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme


I could look deeply in your eyes today, and see a reflection of myself, staring back in time, staring, because it takes light some time to travel, staring from the past, I know if I blink it will take my reflections nanoseconds to blink, I know if I disappear, my reflection will linger a little longer


The greenness of our youth, dissipated,broken apart, like the shallow rivers as the stones disrupt the peaceful slumbers


Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme 

are now darker, drier more shriveled, and you are somewhat older



We were once eternal, like a tree or a shrub, and then we were uprooted and then life took us by surprise and we were no longer


Now we are two children of a jar, like herbs whose only essence is reminiscent of yesterday


Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme


But if I could pick a moment, one moment, between the big bang and the heat death of the universe, one moment, only one of countless others, only one, I would pick ours, because there are twenty four hours a day, but only ours matter


And the monk who keeps the garden, would count the ears of corn, and he would not go to sleep, until his ears are counted

He shouldn’t have left his bed


And we would watch peacefully, from afar, and in that moment we would find that we are in sync, even if we never were, even if we have different perceptions of time, even if mine was a calendar and yours was a leaf of parsley, sage and rosemary


And we would read the newspaper and stand in the city square and solve our multiplication tables

And we would wait, and we would wait, until we are forgotten


Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on March 17, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

He still reminds me of a time when I was seventeen

And every time I see him, I swear, I could still feel the braces in my mouth


And I know I should not be thinking about him, but I just cannot help it

Every time I see him I feel like all my insecurities are knocking on my back door,

I feel like my heart is fluttering and I don’t know what to say

Why did God have to give him such pretty eyes, and why

Is he so clumsy and self-confident in such a charming way?




His new girlfriend is a bitch

I have never met her but I somehow know that she is a bitch

I mean who wears flip-flops and sweat pants

Are you kidding me?

The other day she came up to me at this poetry show and told me that my poem is dope

Dope she said


Who says that?

What a bitch




I see him jogging up the street everyday

And I’m not sure if he sees me but I think he looks happier when he runs up my street than when he runs up other streets

Does this mean anything?

I’m not sure

I mean if he wants to get back together with me, what would I say?

The nerves of this guy, thinking he could dump me for that stone-hearted bitch and then decide out of nowhere to get back to me

I would laugh and laugh and refuse him

But what if he looks really sad?

What if he buys me flowers and chocolates and write me a nice card

He does that to you, you know

You think you’re mad at him and then he pulls off the sweetest thing and you can’t help but forgive him

I mean, I wouldn’t want to forgive him

It’s all God’s fault you know,

I mean why did He have to give him such gorgeous eyes?




I don’t know if I told you this

But he used to pat my head every night and I would fall asleep

I wonder if he does that with her

I wonder if he loves her the same way he loved me

Or rather, the way I thought he loved me

I’m not sure I would want to be with him if he loves her that way

But he is so charming though

I don’t know

Do I sound crazy?




He brings out the teenager in me

I hate him for that

Passive Aggressive Love Letter

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on March 16, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

So here I am writing you a love letter at 12 in the morning

And it would appear that we are revisiting themes that we’ve been over quite so many times

For sure, your eyes are blue and sparkly and sure, your voice is soothing and quite angelic

But I am tired of this nonsense,

Yes I am tired of this bullshit


You told me on the phone you wanted me to come over to your room,

You said that quite suggestively and I knew that something was up

And when I opened your door all you wanted to do was have sex

All you cared for was some passionate love affair that you had envisioned in your mind

Where I was the big broad shouldered male

The prom king who would carry you into tomorrow’s midnight dream

And you were his tall hot girlfriend

But you had never envisioned that there was perhaps much more than that to human nature

You had never thought that I did not want to have sex with you, that I

Even though I found you extremely attractive,

Just wanted to talk to you all night and get to know who you are


I am writing this to tell you that we were never friends

And yes, I know that we were never meant to be friends, but do not dare to tell me that friendship doesn’t matter

For when I look at you I see all of you

And so does everyone else

There is nothing to you except what is seen

And how am I to have you if you’re in everyone’s eyes?

How am I so special if what I see of you is what everyone else does?

How are you to be mine, if you are everyone else’s?

I am writing to tell you, that I am tired of this life, that I do not think that I love you, and that I ever loved you

I am writing to tell you that we are through
For even though this is a love letter, I am writing it in contempt,

Even though this is a love letter, you are not the object of my adoration


That is correct, there is another, and she is my friend

I tell you she is my friend, and I may never sleep with her, but I’d rather have her than you

And she doesn’t have blonde hair or sparkly blue eyes; she doesn’t have blue hair and sparkly blond eyes

She is just a regular girl; she is quite the nerdy girl, and she is my friend


For I am sick of hearing about bands and make up and shoes and boys

Not that they do not matter

I believe that they matter

Except I cannot be with a girl who does not like harry potter

And you might be attractive baby but you’ve got nothing else going for you

And she not might be that hot, but when I hear her talk I hear words and not pretty sounds


And let me remind you that this is not my fault

Let me remind you that even though I am leaving you, you will make someone else happy

Someone who loves sex and loves ignoring what you say

But I can’t put up appearances anymore

I am sorry baby but I am leaving you


Love (but not for you),


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