As long as I'm exhuming old writings, might as well put up a bit of prose...back from high school. You can see that well before Obama, I was concerned about energy independence (of course, since this was not long after the oil embargo, so was everybody else in the USA at the time). ---------------------------------------------------
Smelly feet are one of the few resources in the United States that are as yet unexploited.
The essence of smelly feet should be collected, concentrated, and bottled. In the bottled state, the scent would be a formidable non-lethal self-defense - we would be as safe in our persons as the skunk is. Crime in our cities would be quickly extinguished. Naturally, the scent would have to be used judiciously, or the law-abiding citizens might flee into the country as well.
Because some of the gases released by our feet are flammable, if those gases can be captured, they might provide a new fuel source. Wouldn't it be worth exploring whether our foot odor could make us independent of the Arabs?
So harness foot odor for a better world!
--------------------------------------------------- On more mature reflection, the energy content of stinky feet is probably inadequate for our nation's needs. Also, the scent might not be "non-lethal", judging by my wife's after a long day at work in pantyhose.
That's really all the poems that I ever put on the web before. The others would probably be best forgotten, as far as art is concerned. But they might provide some insight into a young man's pouting and pretensions, so I'll inflict them on you anyway.
This next can be said to have been written before its time...mostly because "emo" really wasn't in style yet. Nevertheless, as maudlin as it is, I'm happy with the way it flows.
As the coffin slowly lowers Do not weep to see me part -- The gentle hands of death assuage The ruins of my heart.
You never wept to see me go Those days I strived to win your hand; And then, as now, I would not leave Without some faint command.
At MY command I flee today To beg the shadows' grace My only music, light, or warmth Are visions of your face:
Let my death now not torment you Nor my passing draw your sighs For the darkness that enfolds me Frames the brilliance of your eyes.
One of my favorite works isn't an original work at all - I translated a poem by Hermann Hesse from the German. My translation managed to preserve not only the meaning, but also the meter and the rhyme scheme. I haven't been able to do that with a German poem since!
THAT IS MY SORROW
That is my sorrow, that I learned to play In all too many painted masques, to sway But all too well the truth as seen By others and myself. No gentle feeling Stirs in me, no music reeling Whose ways and ends are not routine.
I must call that my lament Myself to know my innermost intent Foreknowing every pulse's toll That not a nightmare's admonition No joy's nor grieving's precognition Still manages to touch my soul.
This one was Professor Ramsey's favorite. He had criticized one of my short stories as having too many adjectives. It irritated me - I had been trying for a Lovecraftian style, so this was no accident. I asked him, "Well, what parts of speech do you like?" He answered "I've always been rather fond of prepositions."
I wrote this for him...he loved it, and encouraged me to publish it, but I never did.
A couple of friends of mine have never seen any of my old poems, and I haven't put them in this blog yet (although I did on Myspace), so let's start with "Puzzle".
This was written back in college thinking about Lynn, a girl in my Physics class, who was a sophomore when I was a freshman. She worked as a "Programming Assistant", helping other students with their programming problems. If I hit an especially difficult snag, I would ask her...she'd just say that if it was difficult for me than she certainly couldn't help, she was there for less advanced students - but maybe I could help her with the crossword puzzle she was doing!
always interrupted by those who come for help
your attention analysis and bottomless eyes
that drain their efforts of their errors
your concentration dissolves in the arch of your neck
your body edging forward to examine closer
your velvet blue jeans frame the motion of your thighs
and then your pencil beacons their mistakes
that crossword puzzle something I can do with you
seeking words the papers want also finding how I want
to meet your eyes again and chill your thigh with feather hand
and count your hair with my caresses introduce allseeing tongues
and feel the head accumulate between us join us
why do I not touch I know you will not curse
or start at me and backhand my devotion
what stops me but the threat of gentle explanation
syrup dipped rejection loving you are not enough
please understand I do not wish to hurt you
I find the words not that I need but satisfy
the vacant squares you fill with what I say
but my silence is unknown unheard unfilled
and more come needing your assistance
aside again I watch your lips glide from your teeth
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