Stupid Love Poem

exercise makes you horny

(Photo credit: Will Lion)

Adonis DNA and tiger blood.

Shoulders define the burden, bloody chest.

Immense sensation that will wreck your body.

I thought about it today. I love you.

So I sent you this while I was away.

Help you relieve the tension in your life.

In anticipation of my return.

Some casual fun. Aphrodisiac.

Amor from my soul. You’re more than a crush.

The heat of the moment shows in my eyes.

How do you do? The pleasure is all yours.

Intimacy, like emotions entwined.

Pure pleasure, transcendent euphoria.

Stimulating friction intensifies.

Exciting the spirit of adventure.

Find the link connected like flowing pipes.

Chiseled jaw, broad shoulders narrowing to waist.

In a dim room with sounds that soothe. Taste wine.

Expressing feelings while reading your mind.

See you smile when I’m amiable.

A gentle caress of my tenderness.

The natural next step takes us beyond.

Continuing transition into one.

It just happens, like revolving the sun.

The human bond and affection I feel.


Mr. Dichotomy

He falls in love, hate, then back in love.

Aaron Eckhart as Two-Face in The Dark Knight

Torturous cycle, malevolent gods.

Let him decide upon only one path.

Stop ripping his heart, and mending again.

Let something consume him, define his life.

No more confusion, not knowing what’s right.

He weakens each time. He won’t become strong.

Tired little games, no longer the pawn.

He fights and he flees, never getting rest.

The shackles and chains of decided lives.

Embraces the rage, regrets when he loves.

He could bring harm to them all, punish them.

Before he’s overcome with guilt and grief.

Mischief lies somewhere between the two.

One with intent, and the other in tow.

The lover seduced, the fighter prepared.

Both hold the power, but only one key.

Self-governed emotions. Autonomous.

None can touch him, for fear of reprisal.

The celebration of a life fulfilled.

His feelings lie just beneath the surface.

A paper-thin skin would betray the man.

Intense fireball, seeking the heavens.

Change one way, but he hasn’t decided.

Often split in half, he might yet break.

Forgotten Ships

English: Forgotten Wonder

I can’t remember emotions of love.

I’ve seen them displayed, absent from my heart.

I know of courtship, seen it tried and won.

But it’s been too long. My mind can’t recall.

I have not endured for more than a night.

Sleepless along the winding path that ends.

Unknown and agreed to discontinue.

Casual, informal, impersonal.

Hidden from the world our guilty pleasures.

Respect the privacy of the public.

None assigned, more convenient than the truth.

If you needed a love song I could write.

I would be nice, and help you understand.

Suddenly and completely we should fall.

Restricted by chains of reality.

An existence exchanged like capital.

Neither are winners. We all suffer loss.

Maybe she might propose something to do.

Nevermind, second glance away from me.

Omitted for convenience. Not retrieved.

Not even a few chances. Zip, zero, and zilch.

Indirectly denying survival.

How much for the world? I’ll pay you ten-fold.

An approving nod of a deed well done.

Romance unchosen, potential of none.

The Heroism of a Life

Monumento al Che Guevara en Santa Clara (frag)

Enduring heroes don’t need victories.

Highly romanticized, over-valued.

Their job is to inspire who comes next.

They represent an idea, a notion.

That it is possible to change the world.

Actions and circumstance lead us to war.

The status quo has not been overturned.

It’s been challenged. That is enough for now.

Someday a hero will come to save us.

For now we rely upon those who’ve failed.

Look at what they tried to do. They came close.

Young one, pick up the flag where they left off.

Embrace the struggle. Let yourself be changed.

Generations before you set the fire.

Now it is on you to make the flame burn.

You may not remember what started it.

You know it continues. Fight on, strong one.

If you stumble now, we will pick you up.

So that you may inspire the next ones.

You may not remember the interviews.

Or the speeches. The frustration lives on.

Give your all. More than victory is hope.

A martyr or a victor remembered.

Either way, you set the stage. Erase fate.

Show us the way. We will not live condemned.

Fairy Tale

Cinderella Castle in the Magic Kingdom at Walt...

Why is my princess locked in a castle?

In a land of make-believe, far away?

Did I do something wrong, or was it her?

Why do you punish me? I’d rather die.

The executioner won’t come to me.

If she’d only let down her hair, I’d climb.

Over every mountain I couldn’t move.

But someone has already decided.

Our fate should be together, but it’s not.

Such a cruel man rules the ways of the world.

She left me a slipper, a sign of hope.

I thought I saw a glimmer. Interest.

She changes like the tides, and then I drown.

She let me be forgotten. No charges.

What was my crime? What wrong did I commit?

I made myself better, stronger, more fit.

A leader of sorts, with men that follow.

Smarter yet too, this knowledge of nothing.

They answer no questions that I have found.

Nothing I do makes her swoon anymore.

What could win her over? A flower’s smell.

She’s not a prize to be won, but I’ll try.

A magic carpet ride? But I have none.

Maybe a kiss would transfer the magic.

From a frog, yes, but without bad habits.

So beautiful. With her I’d rule the world.

But she comes and goes. Leaves my life at times.

Infatuation becomes my heartbreak.

I cry, and wonder when I’ll be the prince.

Or her knight in armor, the kingdom ours.

How does my fairy tale begin or end?

I opened the book. The pages are blank.

No thoughts or ideas. Just wait for the world.

May you find yours, and some happiness, too.

I’ll just wish upon a star when she smiles.

The color of her hair, it matters not.

Nor the color of her eyes, once I’m caught.

A fish in a barrel, a shot not fired.

Nights alone without a friend or marriage.

The honeymoon is gone, and my ears ring.

Thinking about her, and who she might be.

A model, perhaps? Stop watching TV.

A skewed perspective, but one that matters.

Expectations held must not be let go.

Settle for nothing now, and it will pain.

Where is my darling? Playing in the rain?

Does she have food and shelter? Feels no pain?

Or has the world abandoned her to die?

One day I’ll find her I know she’s lost.

I’ll bring her salvation. I’ll give my life.

She looks at me with confusion. Why that?

Such a steep price to pay. I’ve done nothing.

Expressions of the heart are tried and true.

There’s nothing sensible in what we do.

Thanks for your concern, but I claim my path.

I took the fork because I don’t like spoons.

Gilded, in their mouths. Undeserving souls.

That is why I chose the woman without.

She loves me unconditional. Needs me.

And I need her, too. An equal exchange.

No profits to be made, according to our own.

Just business and pleasure, which I condone.

My heart bleeds for her, yet I feel no pain.

She has been freed, and our kingdom now reigns.

I fulfilled my promise. Now my tale ends.

The General's daughter

US Army General of the Army rank insignia.

Ingrid was beautiful, someone Paul thought he’d seen in a magazine somewhere. But she couldn’t be. Ingrid was the General‘s daughter, not some model. But Paul though he loved her, anyways. And he didn’t even know she was the General’s daughter. Her dark hair was past her shoulders and her smile lit her face, just like the model she could have been. Her aura was that of an angel’s grace. Paul brushed past her for the first time on his way to play basketball with the guys. “I like your shoes,” Ingrid said as he started past her up the stairs. He looked down at the old basketball shoes on his feet, smirked to himself and stopped just long enough to turn around and say “Thanks,” with a smile. But Paul couldn’t help it when he tried to turn back and continue on, because he couldn’t turn his lingering gaze away from Ingrid. Unwillingly, he tried to tear his eyes away from her, so he could head to the basketball courts where everyone would be waiting if he took too long, but he couldn’t pull himself away from her. Finally, he felt slightly guilty when his gaze awkwardly lingered for too long, and then he was able to leave. As he started up the stairs again, Ingrid called out to him, “What’s your name?” He responded, “Paul,” with a quick turn of his head. “Do you want to hang out tomorrow?” Ingrid asked. Saturday, Paul thought. “Sure…” Paul started. Ingrid interrupted, “What’s your number?” she asked. So Paul headed back down the stairs as Ingrid pulled out her cell phone. The two exchanged numbers, and Paul headed off to the basketball courts.

Paul arrived to the courts early, as usual, and began to shoot around to warm up. More people gradually showed up, some with their own balls and some sharing, and they shot around, too. Eventually, when enough people were there, somebody suggested they start up a game. They agreed on teams, and Paul was one of those on the court first. His team wasn’t assembled very well, but Paul started off quickly, handling the ball well for most of their possessions, and scoring most of the teams points. Paul continued to take the ball, and ended up scoring 81 points before the game was called. His team stayed on the court, as the losing team switched out for the bench. Paul’s team won again, with him scoring the majority of the points, and his team went on to keep winning, the next 16 games in a row, until the complaining from the other teams and the players from the bench forced Paul’s team to disband. Paul continued to shoot around at another basket during that first game he sat out, practicing more innovative dunks, and later stepping behind the three-point line consecutively hitting threes until it was his turn to play again. He continued playing the games he was allowed to play late into the evening, until the players started to go their separate ways home. When everyone was finally done and had said their final “good game,” Paul stayed to shoot around a little while longer.

The next day, Paul had off. He spent it waiting, sat staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring so he could answer. He anticipated the moment, what to say when she called, how to react, cool, calm, maybe excited or perhaps with a little delight in his voice. And while he waited, Ingrid sat at home doing the same. She sat there, too scared, too shy to pick up the cell phone she too watched anxiously. Despite her bravery with Paul shown the day before to get her to this point, now she became timid again, and hoped Paul would be the man, the pursuer, and call her like he was supposed to. The phone never rang for either Paul or Ingrid, forever though they both seemed to wait. Not knowing what to think, but nothing new to Paul, he at least moved on.

We know this because Paul continued his little basketball outings, competing against teams and players and striving to make himself better. And as ironically imbalanced as the world is, as it occurs for all successful people, more good gets piled on top of everything else already. Eventually Paul’s abilities became known to others, and as a visibly successful man, he soon gathered a small following of autograph-seekers, to include his own personal cheerleading section whose presence grew at each game.

But unknown to others, for Paul, living on a military installation did actually cause a slight imbalance in his life. You see, Paul worked with only males, as the nature of combat forces goes. Quite a convenience really, when dealing with internal issues. But what’s more to that is the installation population consisted so heavily of males that the remainder of those seen on the installation were spouses and children. So of course he did not allow himself to look at women, or even address them in public. It was unwritten code, and kept him well away from drama and problems. But Paul couldn’t fight nature, his instincts, forever. And when it was discovered that Paul was single, his reproductive stock was sought out. Not by the women, because Paul would never permit that. But once fathers were done having their share of daughters’ boyfriends to deal with, the worthless, abusive, and just plain unworthy to pay attentions and carry on the family line with their daughters, they honed in on Paul, though respectful just like he had been, and offered him their daughters’ hands in marriage.

Because of the way rank works, because some decisions are worth more than others, of course the General had a say in all of this. “How dare my men offer their daughters to this man like they are no more than whores or prostitutes?” he asked his advisors, ever present in every matter to support his decisions. “What do they want from this poor overwhelmed soul other than the reap benefits by association?” So as the General says, it must happen. The General also learned of Ingred’s interest in Paul through sources unrevealed (because generals know EVERYTHING). When the General first learned of Ingred’s fondness for this Paul fellow, the General set forth policies that prohibited fathers from further arranging any sorts of excursions between Paul and their daughters. The daughters would have to pursue him of their own accord, or otherwise leave Paul alone.

The new policies helped free Paul from the lesser of the resource-seeking wenches, allowing him pursuit now by those of more pure hearts. This included Ingrid, and others, but once Paul discovered Ingrid was the General’s daughter, he became entirely infatuated with her. Because her father wore tabs, badges, and awards that made his uniform heavy, yet his strong shoulders and set jaw made him an imposing figure of a man. What Paul wouldn’t give to follow in the footsteps of such a man. So he decided to marry Ingrid. Not without pomp and circumstance would be the wedding of a general’s daughter, so Ingrid received the wedding of her dreams, fulfilling her every imagination. She picked the location, the wedding theme, the crowd that would attend, all paid for in full by the General’s kind heart. And when Paul swore his vows, promised to cherish her in sickness and in health, Ingrid was beyond her own joys. And Paul realized, too, that now whatever dreams he could not accomplish, he could live vicariously through the General, his father-in-law. Of course he loved Ingrid, and he now knew that their children would be even greater than he could be. So they lived happily ever after.

100 years of love and war

She rewarded him for waiting so long. It had been 100 years. Sure she had been unfaithful, but now they could be together again at last! It had been during the last war of 100 years, their love separated by nations, separated by war. She said she would wait for him forever. But that couldn’t happen. Because as she waited, she grew restless, because she was yet courted as though her husband no longer existed, though he did. Her suitors pried and questioned, probed until she was molested, asking for her hand in a literal moment, with perhaps more to follow. And she couldn’t resist. Weak without her husband’s arms to fall into each and every night, she succumbed to the embraces of others. She welcomed them into her home, without ill intent, to paint the house, or move furniture, or help her perform any number of her former’s husbandly tasks. And they took advantage. Licentious, vile men, with no considerations for others’ claims, desires or needs. They behaved upon their instincts, reckless, careless, inconsiderate of what relations they could destroy. But she let it happen. She provoked them with her clothing, her exposed flesh, that those undisciplined creatures could not control themselves. She accepted their initial advances, afraid to withstand what her lonesomeness feared for lack. And she allowed their touches to wander, placed hands and closened bodies with parts that her husband could not accept, though understanding he could sometimes be. It is difficult to wait 100 years with so many pursuits waiting to offend. And once one entered, he paved that wrongful path for others. There was no stopping them now. Pursuit and coyness, contact and acceptance, lustful thrusts at the end of once inadvertent paths. There was no turning back. She had betrayed him through faults, and others through the same.

But he had waited 100 years. Hundreds of miles and an international boundary apart, he would hop on a rocket to fly back to her, if he could. At the start of the war, he had been sent to the northern border, tensions with every flinch or flicker, a hair-trigger ready to resume the war. And there he waited, not a movement, not a sound. And when his rest cycle came, he wrote to her. How much he loved her and missed her and wished they would be together again. And his luck would find such a reward, initial though it would be. He was granted mid-tour leave, and traveled home, full of elation, and all the anticipated pleasures of holding her in his arms again. Waiting for a shared embrace, and wondering if it would lead to romance, or even love-making. It could happen a thousand ways, and he imagined every possibility, lost in his fantasies the entire flight home, only interrupted by such lesser stewardesses than the steward of his cupid’s heart. And when he finally departed the plane, his elation wasn’t intervened by her absence, because he knew her limitations. And that couldn’t stop his love. So he continued headstrong to her supposed waiting embrace and met her at their lovely home. Somebody’s car was in the driveway. They were pulling away. He went up to the door and knocked. She yelled to him to “just come in.” She smiled nervously when he saw her, and continued washing the dishes in the sink. “It’s hot,” was how she explained her clothing. He didn’t care. He started to kiss her, and pauses for slight words led them eventually to bed where they made love. She made a comment when he finished, and their joyous reunion was complete, discussions returning to the material for the remainder of his visit, until he had to return to his employ and obligations.

Montage of Iran-Iraq War He was returned to the eastern front of the war. His efforts there would lead to an eventual accumulation of awards, medals and promotions to rival Audie Murphy himself. He was the most competent private, executing every assigned task or detail to perfection, pleasing his NCOs beyond delight. But he still managed his recovery time well, with a “Sergeant, can I write home to my wife tonight?” These same NCOs became his senior NCOs when he finally joined their corps. Nobody was more professional than he. All his soldiers loved him, and that helped his senior leadership by allowing him and his men to accomplish every mission successfully. And when he grew into the ranks of senior NCO, all of his wisdom earned over half the war earned him the respect of his subordinates, and great trust and confidence placed in him by the officers appointed over him. In the second half of the war he earned a battlefield commission, and though overtasked as he was, he still managed sit down after meetings following meetings before meetings, and wrote to his wife love letters or poems. He never heard back from her. He continued to work, expend every energy save for that one letter back home, and eventually he took command. As a commander he won every decisive engagement in the field, and some not so decisive back in garrison. And by the time he had commanded units through flawless campaigns, they decided to make him a general. He wrote home to tell his wife about his new positions, how it bothered him that they wasted and entire PSD team on just him, and that they even assigned him personnel to take care of his laundry. His secretary followed him around and scheduled and took notes for his mind to be free for decisions. He knew he could do everything himself, yet his wife never wrote back to tell him whether she agreed.

When he returned after 100 years, things were strange. He tried to resume where they left off. It began with that first embrace, the heart-pounding thrill of holding the woman who loved him, the pure elation of holding her tight in his arms again, swinging her around and around, then setting her down and peppering her face with kisses, her soft cheeks, her lips, eyes closed, the reckless abandon of unfettered love. Eventually, though, they had to leave the airport. Dismay. But not before long they were back home, mere steps inside the doorway before they started again, passion overtaking 100 years’ worth of cares and worries, every kiss worth 1,000 ‘I miss you’. Her warmth and her soft skin rekindled a fire that was burning furiously for her now. But she made him stop. They had to bring in his bags from the car. Quickly completing tedious hindrances, that first night back with her awoke his full passions once more, never alight but wrought through 100 years of sufferance that could finally be appeased. Their renewed honeymoon would not sustain though, and could not last. He tried to buy her things like before, and spend more time together as well, but he would start to see that she was different now. Lovers once, lovers always, but not forever, no. He took her out, tried to begin life anew, though it was not. 100 years had changed the both of them, irreconciled them for eternity, whether they realized it or not. He tried to involve her in his life, and she a little him in hers, but they were two separate lives now, having been experienced as strangers, with others, but never each other. Yet every fool is taught to believe in impossible, to believe in what we know cannot be true. Truly, 100 years? How absurd. But he refused to believe so. And he didn’t realize until it was too late. He tried to pamper the woman who wasn’t anymore his, and she tried to accept him. But after 100 years, the best answer wasn’t ‘forever’. It was never, outrageous though it may seem to erase their history of 100 years.