CereTem

Weather

Wed, 08 May 2013 00:41:06 -0400

I wear red

when it rains,

a coat with a sailboat

embroidered upon the breast

pocket to break

the monotony of gray

and black garb so prevalent

on such days.

death-by-lulz: This post has been featured on a 1000notes.com...

Mon, 06 May 2013 17:16:00 -0400

death-by-lulz:

This post has been featured on a 1000notes.com blog.

Photo

Mon, 06 May 2013 17:12:23 -0400

Sex Microwave

Sun, 05 May 2013 18:30:39 -0400

Sex microwave,
two bodies intertwined,
confined to a narrow
space between six
glass panes, no hum
of radiation but double
the heat, lips and fingertips
never cease. For an abrupt
finish, the flash of a cruiser’s
headlights magnified by beads
of condensation, the knock
of an officer’s flashlight
serves as the chiming bell
to pardon a steamed
entree of flesh draped
in sweat-logged bits
of fabric with a warning
and a judgmental glare.

Photo

Fri, 26 Apr 2013 18:26:16 -0400

Tomorrow is the Festival of Books and I could not be more...

Sat, 20 Apr 2013 02:49:00 -0400

Tomorrow is the Festival of Books and I could not be more prepared. I want to take a moment to thank everyone who helped with “The Pepper Tree Conspectus” from the initial inspiration and design through to proofing, printing, copying, folding, and stapling. I could not have done it alone.

One Small Step

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 23:18:36 -0400

What was the single most significant evolutionary adaptation in humanity’s transmutation from a gelada-like grazer to the dominant form of life on Earth? Sweat glands. You see, before man became the most intelligent, neurotic species, he became the most resilient animal on the expanding African plains.

If we were to build upon our primitive brains over a relatively brief window of time, we first needed more calories than a diet of grass and roots and leaves could provide. We weren’t the fastest or the strongest or most ferocious and therefore could not compete directly with the carnivorous predators of the time. Our answer? A built-in cooling system.

While all other animals had to rest in the shade during the harsh midday heat, we evolved a means to broaden our cerebral frontiers by jogging after herbivores until they overheated and we beat them to death with sticks and stones and pieces of bone. Then we devoured their flesh, introducing a fuel supply for our growing mental faculties.

What is the moral of this anthropological tale? Resilience is the redeeming quality of humanity, more than strength and speed and smarts combined. When you next find yourself panting, drenched in evaporating saline coolant, stop to remember that we beat lions to get to where we are now. Humans are the pinnacle of natural selection not in perfection but in our ability to survive, to outlast. Do not allow yourself to be defeated when you have more than those beasts, our ancestors, could have ever comprehended. You have no excuse not to chase your ambitions, to beat the shit out of them until you become a far nobler being than your former self.

"I’ve loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."

Sat, 13 Apr 2013 20:28:49 -0400

“I’ve loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

- Galileo Galilei

Cyrus, the Wanderer

Fri, 12 Apr 2013 15:34:23 -0400

Rain batters worn asphalt. Lightning flashes and thunder booms through a canopy of swollen nimbus clouds. A man appears in the downpour, his mud-encrusted combat boots crunching pebbles upon the road. Tattered denim encases his muscular legs and transitions abruptly to the bare, tattooed flesh of his torso.

A blood-stained wolf pelt drapes about his sturdy shoulders, its fur flowing seamlessly into the raven black hair of his beard and mane. A patch of weathered leather covers his right eye, its twin fixed in a piercing blue stare.

The tempest flares with blinding light, carrying two faces in his mind: a crying woman with bright eyes framed by bruises and a man whose grin brims with malice. The storm roars, screams and cruel laughter echo just beneath the deafening rumble. The man stops and clenches his fists.

In the lingering illumination, two silhouettes appear some ten feet behind the wanderer, stalking towards him. He stops walking and they draw their guns.

“Turn ’round real slow,” says the first bandit.

There is the click of a pistol being cocked.

“He said to turn ’round,” says the second.

“I’d rather not,” the wanderer replies.

The two bandits chuckle and step closer.

“It ain’t up for discussion,” the first says.

The wanderer turns to face the two bandits, allowing the wolf pelt draped about his shoulders to fall to the ground.

“I have nothing of value,” Cyrus continues.

“He doesn’t even have a weapon!” the second remarks.

“Don’t matter. One less mouth competing for what’s left of the food,” the first snarls.

The wanderer sighs.

“I’d suggest you leave now,” he says.

The bandits burst into guffaws of mocking laughter and advance.

The wanderer cracks his knuckles and the rains cease. The air becomes magnetic, crackling. He waves his hand and a mighty gust of wind slams the second bandit into the asphalt, knocking him unconscious.

The first bandit fires a single bullet. Cyrus growls and deflects the bullet with a wave of his hand. The still-upright bandit panics and cocks his pistol once more.

The wanderer shoots a thin vein of blue-white light from the tip of his right index finger. Seized by electricity, the bandit drops to his knees. The wanderer stands before him, surrounded by dancing tendrils.

“Please…” the bandit whimpers.

“Learn from this,” the wanderer says.

The wanderer claps his hands and launches the bandit backwards with a concussive wave. Both bandits lying unconscious, the rains resume.

“You should have listened,” the wanderer whispers.

He confiscates the bandits’ weapons and ammunition, as well as a canteen filled with water, and picks up his wolf pelt. Then he looks to the horizon and spots a row of buildings half a mile off, revealed by the tempest’s temporary light. He strikes off toward the settlement with silent resolve.

When

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 22:12:00 -0400

When

you came to me

with a scraped knee

and asked for a hug,

I was pleased to be

of service, giving you

a kiss as well.

When

I came to you

with a broken leg

and begged

for a kind word,

you held me

at arm’s length,

dripped bleach

into my wounds

and then left me

to fend for myself

in the cold dark.

I tell you now, more

than my leg is broken.

The Stood-up Stand-up

Mon, 08 Apr 2013 21:04:36 -0400

With your eyes closed,

sobs sound an awful lot like laughter.

One, two, three Seroquel to set

the stage. Fuck it, a few dozen

more with a swig of fire

from his hip flask.

He sits outside, hopes

the rain will wash

away his tears and the stench

of failure so heavily embedded

in the fabric of his suit. He stands

up, this comedian, and walks

right into oncoming traffic,

plastering his brains on the asphalt

for the world to see one

last time. If he had left a note,

this would have been it:

God writes the best punchlines.

Automobile Hymn (A Poem to Which One May Drive)

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 17:37:14 -0400

I grasp

the curled plastic antlers

of a hulking behemoth

whose flesh and bone

are steel and carbon fiber,

whose heart beats

in unheard combustions,

whose lungs

are oiled pistons,

urging it to tread

upon black rubber

hooves, cold asphalt

illuminated by its steady gaze,

reflective squares glowing

under its scrutiny.

Its eardrums thrum

with deep vibrations

as I pass beneath globes

of bottled lightning, wind

carrying the scent of

orange blossoms into

my steed’s nostrils.

Together we put behind us

miles of road and the worries

of the day, abandoning

any thought of tomorrow.

We gallop along

the mountainside, across

the plains of my youth,

along the avenues of my origins.

This is my night –

mine and no one else’s –

a sentiment echoed

in the poetry of my traveling

companions, disembodied voices

who have long since run out

of fucks to give. Together

we dance, I in my seat,

my beast down streets,

weaving between punctuated

white stripes. Bid farewell

to everything unnecessary,

a man stricken with wanderlust,

I drive simply because I can, for

Suburbia slumbers and the hum

of my automobile is her lullaby.

Battle Hymn (A Poem to Which One May Fight)

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 21:11:00 -0400

I’ll be king one day –

Young Cassius Clay,

I sit on a stool

in my corner of this ring,

gloves bound tight

about my wrists,

old leather smells of sweat

and blood. Vaseline slicks

down the hairs of my brows.

Cut me. Cut me, god damn it.

Blood blurs my vision, I spit

a mouthful of scarlet

onto the canvas.

Water is squirted onto my face

through the muzzle of a green

plastic water bottle.

Through the rinse, I glare

at my opponent,

the part of me

that must die

so that I may take my throne,

nothing promised to me,

everything to be taken

by the tip of my pen, I shall ascend

when it lies face-down,

bulbs flashing, spectators

on their feet screaming at the top

of their lungs, fists raised.

For this will be

as much their victory

as it will be mine, those who follow

me on the road to watch

me fight, those who pick

me up when I am knocked down,

those who visit me

in the hospital, my bruised

being encased in teal scrubs,

those who bear

breakdowns and breakthroughs

with equal tenderness,

those who believe in

me when I cannot.

My crown will be theirs,

my gilded belt

and silver scepter,

those who show

me that I am

not broken,

but a sword

being reforged

in the fires of combat.

~~This is an ode~~

~~to my muse, for~~

~~understanding my insanity~~

~~and calling me on my shit,~~

~~for recharging my longing~~

~~to be the man I was born~~

~~to be, for showing me~~

~~that I can be loved~~

~~as I love. For this will be~~

~~as much her song~~

~~as it will be mine, for snapshots~~

~~of her beauty–mind, body, soul–~~

~~reinflate my lungs~~

~~when they are squeezed~~

~~flat by my enemy,~~

~~the part of me~~

~~that must be destroyed~~

~~so that I may call her~~

~~my queen. With her~~

~~love, I can~~

~~conquer any foe, slay~~

~~any beast. With her~~

~~by my side, I can~~

~~cross the burning desert~~

~~and climb~~

~~the snow-capped mountain.~~

~~This is an ode~~

~~to my sun and moon and stars,~~

~~who shines brighter~~

~~than all celestial bodies,~~

~~if only you could see yourself~~

~~as I see you.~~

This is a chant

to be echoed by the downtrodden,

the freaks, the introverted

quiet types who buried

their noses in books and got good grades

but caught hell in the locker room

for having hands stained

by lead dust and ink

rather than dirt or oil.

This is a chant

for the asthmatics,

the clinically depressed

young men and women

who don’t know when

their minds might turn on them,

neuroses ensnared by steel traps.

For this will be as much a testament

to their resilience as it will be

a testament to my own.

When the center divider

of the freeway seems

as welcoming as a Del Taco

drive-thru, when orange bottles

with white twist-off tops

call from the shelves

of the medicine cabinet,

when the pain becomes too much,

stop and think that this

anguish, sometimes inexplicable,

makes you a human being,

and an extraordinary one

at that. Do not mistake acuity

for weakness: nearly everyone

to have felt the warmth

of the sun has endured

the cold dark. You are

not alone, but one of a long line

to stand beneath the vast blue sky,

to breathe, to eat, to sleep,

to learn, to love, to lie,

to fuck, to smoke, to drink.

Do not fool yourself

into believing the night

will never end

when you must simply

open your eyes to see the rays

of a new day

spilling over the horizon.

conspectus \kon-spek-tus\noun: a usually brief survey or summary...

Mon, 01 Apr 2013 21:07:38 -0400

conspectus \kon-spek-tus\
noun
: a usually brief survey or summary (as of an extensive subject) often providing an overall view.

April 2013.

framaurohiglander: Samuel James Finch writer extraordinary.

Sat, 30 Mar 2013 04:48:00 -0400

framaurohiglander:

Samuel James Finch writer extraordinary.

With Tom Zoellner at Riverside City College on March 27, 2013.

Fri, 29 Mar 2013 05:23:00 -0400

With Tom Zoellner at Riverside City College on March 27, 2013.

Whenever I begin to feel overwhelmed, this note from my muse...

Fri, 29 Mar 2013 05:20:57 -0400

Whenever I begin to feel overwhelmed, this note from my muse soothes my soul.

"And then I pulled out two knives and I tossed him one. I was like, ‘do you have a moment for..."

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 03:41:48 -0400

“And then I pulled out two knives and I tossed him one. I was like, ‘do you have a moment for gay rights?’ Oh, didn’t think so. So sit there with your little clipboard and judge me. I kill for gay people. I make a difference.”

- Aziz Ansari, Intimate Moments for a Sensual Evening

Just Jack - Astronaut

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 01:45:50 -0400

Just Jack - Astronaut

A Curbside Chat

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 21:30:32 -0400

“What do you mean she doesn’t read?” Alex asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“She doesn’t read,” Stephen repeated. The two sat on a curb in the glow of the streetlights and the cold of the night.

“Like she doesn’t read sci-fi or what?”

“No, she doesn’t read.”

“Is there something wrong with her?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Is she blind?”

“Nah.” They both inhaled.

“Is she illiterate?” Alex inquired with a hearty cough.

“Nah man,” Stephen said. “She’s just not into books.”

“But you’re a writer.”

“I know, I know.”

“You getting with her would be like David Blaine getting with a girl who’s not into magic or Kanye getting with a girl who’s not into Kanye.”

“Shit. You’re right.”

Together they stood and walked back into the bar.