Moments

Moments of time tick
Tock off my clock.
And as the day goes on
I lose moments of my mind.

Never forget that
Sometimes we have to struggle
Sometimes we have to consume our dreams in the fire of work
In order for them to be born
Later on

We will be more free
To dream, after we struggle
And consume our dreams in fire.

It is those that survive the toil
Who shall see the other side of dreams;
Rather than those who hold onto dreams,
Which will never be seen.

posted by Pacer 9/30/2002

Wednesday, September 25, 2002

Concert

When the pitter patter of the sound lights up the stage and the music begins to tap you on the shoulder, begging you to come play you have to surrender to the sound, letting it drag you down into something you've never known, you've never seen, but you have to let go of all that you know and simply flow down the drain to the rivers below the city streets into the ocean of the world complete with the people all around you simply listen to the sound letting it drag them down below the streets and open their dreams to the things they could never say, what do you say, and play with their minds with their tongues with their signs as they wiggle all around enchanted by the sound of the guitars on the stage and the voices on parade and their arms begin to wave, wave, wave to the music from above as they begin to sink below, losing control of their limbs as they try to swim through the sound engulfing the room and they go, flow, swim and glow through the scene, never to be seen or repeated only experienced one at a time. Fine.

posted by Pacer 9/25/2002

Tuesday, September 24, 2002

Drafted Thoughts

Sometimes, when you want to write, you can't think of anything. You try to conjure up memories, or images, or something which might make a relevant story, or poem, or something. You try to coalesce feelings into words and images, but sometimes you can't. Or, is it that you don't really want to define them, kill them? These feelings? You want to share them with the world, but at the same time you're not done feeling them yourself.

posted by Pacer 9/24/2002

Driftwood

My creative mind is dead
So I sit
Here
And let it drift
Dead wood
Down the stream into
Inane-ness
Being not
And not being
Thought or
Feeling
Drift to
Nothing

posted by Pacer 9/24/2002

Monday Morning In Park

No one wants to be here
This morning
As faces pass in the hallway
Vacant
Stares
Into the distance, the future
The next weekend
And slumped shoulders join
Monotone chatter
Comparing adventures of the weekend
While footfalls form sounds in the hallway
Doors creak open, slam shut
And here and there a Professor
Striding down the hallway with a purpose
Loose-leaf notes in hand.

posted by Pacer 9/24/2002

Friday, September 20, 2002

Women

Emily was sleeping in the seat beside Jason. Emily had worn herself out whitewater rafting earlier that day and now they both drove home. Well, Jason drove. Emily rode. Jason didn't even notice the soft breathing of Emily. Jason did not notice the sweet grin on her face. He just kept driving, lost in his own fancies. The music was playing low. When Emily shifted a bit and seemed to rub her arms as if she was cold, Jason turned up the heat in the car. It was automatic. He didn't have to notice, he didn't have to think about turning it up, he just did.

Suddenly, at a red light, Jason glanced over at Emily. He suddenly realized how peaceful it all was. How serene. How comfortable. He suddenly realized a little feeling, a little something, in his chest. He didn't know what it was. The light changed to green.

posted by Pacer 9/20/2002

Thursday, September 19, 2002

Love

There was a force in Jason's chest, pushing from his chest outward, and he couldn't bear it. It always happened around her. He couldn't help it. He was consumed by it, and it was consumed by her.

So there they sat, holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes. Her touch felt like electricity. It felt like the world ended and began at their hands, their eyes, that all the power in the world was passing between them. Energy.

He wanted to fling his soul, his heart, his all at her feet as a sacrifice. He wanted to serve her completely. To give and give and give and give.

Every waking hour, and many non-waking, were consumed with the idea of her, and them, and the future. Jason was lost. Lost in her eyes.

posted by Pacer 9/19/2002

Wednesday, September 18, 2002

Sex

Jason could not seem to feel her. He felt, all right. He could feel her naked flesh against his, he could feel her soft thighs and perky breasts, but he could not feel her. When he tried to look into her eyes all he felt was nothing, so he turned away. But ever so slightly, so as to not alarm her. And he closed his eyes. Up and down, up and down, up and down. His eyes were closed, his thoughts wandered.

She seemed to be less of a person than a tool, an object he was manipulating, using, in order to get something done. Up and down. A wonderful tool, mind you, but a tool nonetheless. Up and down. He would kiss her, stroke her hair while they went up and down, but he couldn't seem to feel her at all.

Things were not always so, he tried to tell himself. They got along well enough. He enjoyed her company, she enjoyed his. They made each other laugh. Up and down. But, he couldn't feel her. He tried to recall her, the her he felt in the past, but he couldn't find those images, those thoughts, those feelings. They were gone. Or had never been. Up and down. He did not know which.

posted by Pacer 9/18/2002

Tuesday, September 17, 2002

Love

Sometimes I wonder if love
Love, if it truly is as we write it
Sometimes I wonder if love,
Love, if it is truly as complex as we see it
As we speak it
As we feel it

Often times, I don't see myself loving that great love
That passionate love,
That never ending love
But, rather, making do with a gentle love
A pleasant love

So, I sit here and listen to the music
The music of love, the music of passion
The music that misleads so many
And I realize that feeling
That intense something, in your center
Dies as, as we grow weak, not old
Tired, not wise

Should we hold out for this mythological thing?
This love, this feeling of being ....
Or should we make do with what we have?

This is not to say that love is not in these
These "make-dos", mind you, it is
Or we wouldn't be there

But do we fly? Do we feel? Do we yearn and ache?
Love. So many shades. So many grades.
To understand one is to understand one relationship.
Each relationship is a different one.
Love.
Divisible into more divisible parts than we can comprehend.

Love.
A constant state of confusion
A constant state of understanding
A constant state
A constant
Love.

posted by Pacer 9/17/2002

Epiphanies Come in Regular and Supersize ....

So I was sitting at my computer, reading my entry into that contest, and I clearly recognized one fact: I will not win. I simply am not good enough. My work is so scattered, just like my life. Oh well.

posted by Pacer 9/17/2002

Monday, September 16, 2002

Sometimes

You just feel like a failure
You just know it won't work
You just feel boxed in, caved in
You just feel left out
Sometimes

posted by Pacer 9/16/2002

Saturday, September 14, 2002

Dancing

So here I go again
Down the hallways, down the pathways, through the doorways
Searching for a bit of life
Searching for a bit of truth
Searching for a bit of weed
Searching for a bit of you

So here I go again
Down into the abyss, down into the dance floor, through the scene
Searching for a rhythm to swing
Searching for a person who'll sing
Searching for a little fling
Searching for not particular thing

So here I go again
Down into the pool, down like a fool, through the cool
Searching for an evening dress
Searching for a cocktail's miss
Searching for a chair to sit
Searching for a bong to hit

So here I go again
Down into this life, down into this strife, through the night
Searching for something to see
Searching for something to be
Searching for all the sounds
Searching, searching all around

So here I go again
Dancing this ever played scene
Dancing as the puppet master commands
Dancing so the world will accept
Dancing so I'll soon forget

posted by Pacer 9/14/2002

Friday, September 13, 2002

A Note In Limbo ...

If I had had time to leave a note for my friend Tiffany today, it would have said this:

Dear Tiffany,
Today I am sick. It sucks. A lot. Once, when I was younger, I was sick. Not only once, but we're just talking about this specific time. So my Mom tried to take my temperature, but I have ADHD. So I sat there, as still as I could, as she put the thermometer in my mouth. Unfortunately, still for an ADHD child is relative. We never finished getting my temperature taken. The next day she went out to buy one of those ear thermometers. Those things are cool. They look kind of like guns. That, however, is another story. It involves a cat and and two birds. But we'll leave it for another day.

Sincerely,
Your Friend John

posted by Pacer 9/13/2002

Thursday, September 12, 2002

You

I can't explain to you the way in which
I look into your eyes
And feel
You.

I can't explain to you how, when
I hold you in my arms my
Blood boils
You.

I can't explain to you the intense feel, need
I have to have you, all of you and
Your soul
You.

I can't explain feeling this urge in my heart, and my blood when
I have you all alone to
Be with
You.

I can't explain how, with all this heat, all this fire
I want to be in you, around you, full of desire
With in
You.

I can't explain how my head and heart scream against my blood's desires
I have around you. Here these two simply want
To love
You.

I can't explain how my heart and mind explode in war with my blood, and it's heat, when
I simply take your hand in mine, when I touch your thigh
Being with
You.

I can't explain what I feel when your eyes awaken the memories
I have of you and why
I love
You.

But, most of all, when I sit here with you
I can't explain the peace I feel, the energy, the
fire and Ice which burn me still, into the person
Here with you. Loving you. Seeing you.

posted by Pacer 9/12/2002

Jessica

One day, out of the blue
A little voice came to call on me
Through the unknown, it came through
This little voice that came to call on me
And I listened. I listened and learned
And we became friends
This little voice that came to call on me.

And, it is so very odd, to have this friend
So far away, and through the blue
But, she means a lot to me
This little voice that came to call on me.

posted by Pacer 9/12/2002

Wednesday, September 11, 2002

I Have To Kill

I have to capture my moments of inspiration before they can fly away. I have to cage them, and kill them. I have to stuff them and hang them on the white walls of a sheet of paper with my pens, put on display like insectoid specimens for the disinterested world to see. I have to kill.

posted by Pacer 9/11/2002

Tuesday, September 10, 2002

Journeys

Jazzy sounds float through the air as laughter gently bounces off the wall, eventually cascading down onto the floor to form little puddles which eventually evaporate into nothing. Voices bubble and babble in the background as the woman, a lady who works here, goes to the floor to sponge up the laughter. She must be saving it for later.

The voices' song continues from all directions, failing to coalesce into words, concrete sounds. They ... just ... float.

And it is here that suddenly a road appears before me, stretching out into infinity. I know it is my life. I know this is my vision. But, ,like my life, it remains incomplete - open. The thoughts and dreams, the emotions of my life, bubble to the surface. On the road, the heat flows like waves down the paths. And I dream.

I dream of sitting here, I dream of the woman across from me. I dream of wearing thick rimmed, black glasses one day with left-over thrift store shirt. I have Kerouac's "On the Road" in my hand. I dream of a bright blue, pressed shirt and close cropped hair another day. I have Time in my hand. It talks of the Middle East.

I dream of a million different dresses and faces on a million different days. I don't know who they are, despite their resemblance to me.All I know, all I feel, is simply that I have to be. Real. But I still don't know where I'm going, I still don't know what I'll see. The road still stretches out before me, infinite, too far away to be seen.

So here I stand, on the edge of uncertainty and at the beginning of a journey. A journey that I've already made, I have yet to make, I will make a thousand times over. A journey into uncertainty, down a road of barren wastes which only myself, my mind, my dreams, my actions can bring life to. And, on this edge, I have to decide. I have to decide to hang on, stay safe, and not travel down the road. Or, I have to decide to go. Just. Let. Go.

posted by Pacer 9/10/2002

For Those Who Can't Paint

In my hands I hold nothing while.
While in my mind I hold everything
But to nothing I can put it, nothing real in this world
For my art is empty, my art is empty
It fills up nothing, there is nothing for you to see
But the bits of words which I try and use
Try and use to paint some scene
Where, all my life, my paint has failed
My crayons have broken
My music has choked
I put to words my feelings
I put to words my images
I put to nothing my art

I am a fake
I am an artist of the nothing
All those around me make something of this world
Something tangible, something real
But all I have are words
All I have are letters to paint with
Letters to sing with
Letters to emote with
And they are empty

I piggy back on the shoulders of those who present real
Present images on canvas
Emotions in song
The feelings that I feel are all placed on canvas
Not pages
On tracks of music
Not electrons representing letters on a screen

It all makes me want to scream

posted by Pacer 9/10/2002

Thursday, September 05, 2002

Asha

I will not write about the day
That so many write about
I will not write about the hour
When all my horrors were shown
I will not write about those feelings
Which all came crashing down
I will not cheapen the moment
By trying to make it mine
I will leave it to the world
So that they might define
This moment, this dreadful thing
By themselves, within their own hearts
For it is not mine, nor yours, nor theirs
It is all people's, present and past
But most importantly the future
So they might remember what has come to pass

posted by Pacer 9/05/2002

Tuesday, September 03, 2002

Unfinished

I am the greatest writer of my mind
I speak the truths of the days
And bring light to the moments of my mind
I stretch out in front of those who care
The produce of my fertile mind
So that all who come about might partake in the feast

I am the greatest sage of my life
I know all and see all of the days and hours and moments
Which abound through my life
And wrap themselves and bind themselves into cords
Which twist around and weave a pattern of life
Out of every moment, every thought and every day

I am the greatest weaver of my days
For I take this thread and weave a pattern of
Silken moments and coarser hours stretched over frames of days
Which encase the times which I prayed, and sighed, and laughed, and cried
In pictures and images quilted away into patterns on patterns on patterns on patterns of days
Which will never leave me, and never let go

I am the greatest magician of my age
I took this quilt, this cloth, this creation of the senses
And I wrought it into nothing, which will last past my age,
But ink on pages, electrons on media, magnetic pulls on disks
Which carry the senses, the feelings, the soul of my life into the age
Of the next, and into the next of the ages who will surpass me

posted by Pacer 9/03/2002

Sunday, September 01, 2002

Dear Tiffany,

I have made the discovery today that I have really bad dandruff. Yes, it may seem odd for me to tell you this, but it is a very stressing problem. Afterall, everyone knows first impressions are everything. It would not do very well at all to approach a lovely lady and try to engage her in conversation if a blizzard set forth from my hairline. No, not good at all. So I decided to pass this distressing news on to you, my good friend, in all confidence. As for now, I believe I will have to make a purchase of some strong hair tonic to fight this affliction. I believe it is absolutely imperative that I strike down this ailment as soon as possible. If I do not then, I am afraid, my love-life, or lack there of, might suffer.

Your's Truly and Always,
John William Nelson
P.S. The secret code for the day is as follows: "The chicken is in the barn while the goose floats in the water." I repreat, "The chicken is in the barn while the goose floats in the water." You know what to do. We're all counting on you!

posted by Pacer 9/01/2002