You?re Mine
Topic: Poetry
Like a mine, you?re floating
Tangled in my seaweed
Masked and misshapen, lurking
In a mesh of brown and green
And when I break my alibi?

So there's no movement possible
There's no possible movement
Floating with this dark reminder
So close, but I must never touch
This bleak omen, of what I'll do
Of what I'll accept
Of how low I'll go
How deep
Into iron and rust and saltwater below

Death wrapped in life and tied up in string
So like a prisoner, yet really the king
Triggers on all sides and a vicious temper
I'd best not touch you
I'd best let you fester

? Ben Noz Urbina 2004

Streams of Consciousness
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Marilyn Manson - Irresponsible Hate Anthem
Topic: Poetry
I was so lost in my own thoughts; I didn't notice the time passing. Nor the trees rushing by; they provided nothing but a visual vibration such that I didn't notice I wasn't looking at something. Nor did I notice the sounds of the train as we smoothly slipped across the landscape. I had a shell around me. A sensory cocoon which gave me nothing to do but sit and metamorphose.

25 years old. Obviously the most vital, transitive, educational point in one's life. I'd thought when I was 16 that it was 16, but in retrospect, I was young and silly to have thought it. If I had known then what I know now...

If I had known then what I know now, would I be sitting on a train rushing along to a strange place to be this strange person with these strange values? At 16 I was sopping over with lofty ideals and adamant beliefs. I thought theists and republicans were fools who didn't know what I - a 16 year old wise far beyond my years - knew.

I knew the meaning of life.

Or at least, would know soon. I knew I was having a wilder time and had better friends than anyone in the world. I knew my insecurities and fears were like no one else's. I knew I was missing out on something, but I didn't know what.

Now at 25, I can reflect with amusement. I know that I was missing out on something. I still don't know what, but at least I stopped caring. At 25, I'm building a career. Like a farmer, I plant my little seeds and tend to my field. I fertilize and dote, waiting for my little sprouts to mature. I think often of a healthy harvest. When my season comes, will it be bounty, or just sustenance? I ponder this as I survey my fledgling plantations. Meanwhile of course, my employers hold up handfuls of dirt and deride me for not returning barrels of corn.

At least I've broken ground and sown.

At 16, I couldn't conceive of having a field. Surely I'd die first, I thought. Not due to unwillingness, but surely I was a star that burned too bright to last! Surely. Surely! Surely neither I nor the cosmos could sustain such passions, such visions, such experiences for more than about 20 years. 25 maybe?

The orange juice I got at the train station was quite nice. A bit tart. The train was passing through a field; to my left, fresh green and lush growth; to the right, rich brown soil, turned and waiting. Soon I'd get off and do my thing. I'd smile and shake and wink and take action items.

I'd sow.

I still know the meaning of life - mine anyway. I still think theists and republicans are foolish, if not fools. But I accept that maybe they know something I don't. I know I've had the wildest time. I know I've got the best friends - in theory, if not in the world. I know 25 is the peak of existence, surely.

I am starting to think, however, that the cosmos might be more robust than I'd thought.

Train to Reading (Change at Slough)
- Noz, April 29, 2004

Whoism
Topic: Poetry
What precipice?
Every day I face this.
Handicapped and faceless.
Every time, fruitless.

On expectation perched, I realize something.
I know the pattern, yet, I hold on to hopes that do survive in spite.
In spite, I have an ally, but it asks a hefty price.

I'm just after an outlet. Which will open just after I've left.
Supposedly there is a tone that would please, and release all the keys.
To liberate notes from page; bird from cage; man from age;
Metamorphosis from a cocoon stage.

Nidicolous - possibly. But I'm trying, really.
I don't work right. I don't take flight.
I fear most when it's best. I always fail this test.
I am blessed with an inconsistent measure of self-destructive pleasure.

I can't tolerate acheivement. I'm scared of extremes.
The half-way house is comfortable - the one between hell and dreams.
Fighting only makes it worse. I deliberate on every word of verse.
Which - becomes - infinitely - less - terse.

Speculate, flagellate, or palpitate and panic worst when it's getting great.
Because I cannot take the possible success.
Because I cannot tolerate that mess.
I'm earth-bound. Hard fast. Monorailed for duress.

Distract me please before I accomplish something.
"Something" - a would-be death down in the depths.
Trust better stomach pains and shallow breath that suffocate me,
That restrain me, or maybe, sedate me? That placate me.

Ok. Today's attempt is complete. We will repeat tomorrow our defeat.
Now surrender to resistant feet and back away from the threshold gladly.
All watching eyes now wrinkle sadly,
At oppurtunity missed so - so - badly.

From the edge, homeward, slowly, turn to start - again.
The brink is my business. It is my art. It is my friend.
But no sales today. All has gone well. No one saw what I would sell.
I don't take flight. Because I don't work, right?