Number 48?

High above the smog stained city,
a bright fire dashes across the sky
it's radiant star storming light bathes
the artificial below. And in moments
it has passed; fled the moon and her
horizon for another uncountable age.
But no one has noticed and that which
is never seen can not be forgotten.
So while the heavens gave its cosmic
show, most were too busy: the Idol
was on.

Just a poem

And the softest silken hair,
yet to touch was something no one seemed to dare

A heart of the most brilliant loving light,
yet strangled and wrapped in dark's chilling night

Still in a body quite young and less than fit,
yet a mind so tired, so razed, it prefers to sit

Bearer of lips that crave anothers deepest kiss,
yet alone so often they grow cold; left amiss

And if you knew how much love she had lurking
within, you'd weep with despair claiming it so unfair

Frowny faces here

Sad day. What else is new? My doctor thinks I'm a drug addict, my mother is going senile, and I often think the word friend is synonymous with the phrase "it's okay to hurt me, i'll forgive you." Too emo? In happier news, James Joyce class is going well. I simply love the mountain of riddles that is Ulysses and just really get a kick out of researching obscure references. It's like finding Waldo! ...I'm so lame.

Phoenix

Defeated.
She removes her armor,
looms over the fallen knight
and offers a hand,
the other still clutching the blade
that lay nestled in his chest.
Indomitable.
He clasps her hand lightly
and rises to his feet.
Wrenching her steel kiss free,
as she says with a smile:
I love you!
I love you!
Can't you see why?

New myths

Where do we find them? Do we make them ourselves, or are we doomed to repeat the old ones in the newest fashion?

Musa

If one called you Muse,
Lady Schala, my time devoured
Queen.
Would it be sheer folly,
or are you no less real
than Helen's Mephistophilian
dreams?

Nasty outside

It's still miserably cold outside and raining now. Meanwhile, just to the north they have beautiful (terrible) snow. We missed it yet again. So, poetry! The problem: History can be and has been misread. We're just not that bright (we're brilliant). Well, what if it happens to us in the future? A good one thousand years perhaps? Longer? Pick any number I think.

He told me he was afraid; that when ages have passed
leaving you and I but dusted flakes on the wind,
in the ghostly valley where we once lived
some brave explorer shall find the toy; a doll his kid
used to play with outside in the dirt. the yellow clad
retractable action-clawed Wolverine,
And they shall marvel at the symbols of our terrible gods.