Archive for April, 2014


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

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