Author: mlmichael

There is this feeling i get when i dance…

There is this feeling I get when I dance…
There is this feeling I get when I hang out with a lot of good friends…
There is this feeling I get when I visit my close family…
There is this feeling I get when I am surrounded by laughter,
…and there’s an even greater feeling I get when I create the laughter,
This is this feeling I get when I write,
There is this feeling I get when I perform.
There is this feeling I get when I hear another performer,
speaking out their honest thoughts,[…]

There is this feeling I get when I dance… 
There is this feeling I get when I hang out with a lot of good friends…
There is this feeling I get when I visit my close family…
There is this feeling I get when I am surrounded by laughter,
…and there’s an even greater feeling I get when I create the laughter,
This is this feeling I get when I write,
There is this feeling I get when I perform.
There is this feeling I get when I hear another performer, 
speaking out their honest thoughts,

There is this feeling I get when I connect this one thing I highly value,
with, me – the one thing I highly value…

What is this feeling…
Broken down into concretes?
Broken down into abstracts?

How is this feeling understood…
Broken down into concretes?
Broken down into abstracts?

Is this a feeling I am concretely searching for?
Or is this a feeling I am abstractly reaching for?

05/08/11
M. L. Michael

About…

The Fisher and the Addict

Addiction starts off with this hook—

That there is this worm that you are hungering after…

and, If you lured into biting at it: congrat’s… you ‘ve been had…

and, If the Fisherman is stronger than your “inner master”…

Then he already has you reeled into his vessel,
slipping around spastically…dying to jump out,
‘lest you are seconds away from becoming supper. […]

The Fisher and the Addict

Addiction starts off with this hook---

That there is this worm that you are hungering after…

and, If you lured into biting at it: congrat’s… you ‘ve been had…

and, If the Fisherman is stronger than your “inner master”…

Then he already has you reeled into his vessel, 
slipping around spastically…dying to jump out, 
‘lest you are seconds away from becoming supper.

M. L. Michael 
05/01/11

About…

the egg poem

Dear Egg,

You caught my eye, almost immediately.
You were this…enamorable – absurdly fragible – so preciable, egg,

out of all those dozens of other eggs,

you appeared to have the toughest shell of them all… […]

The Egg Poem

Dear Egg,

You caught my eye, almost immediately.
You were this…enamorable - absurdly fragible – so preciable, egg, 
out of all those dozens of other eggs, 
you appeared to have the toughest shell of them all…

and now that I’ve learned more of you;
…I’ve learned of when you fell,
(and Popped back up, like it wasn’t ever an ‘accident’)
and I’ve learned of when you cracked apart;
….and I heard of all the king’s-and-queen’s-men, 
who failed at helping you; 
and how you put yourself back together, again….

You see, that’s what made my admiration grow ever more.

My love, 
it’s that you never-ever broke completely apart,
….without eventually coming out on top;
and, never, did you buy into any of that bullshit, shiny-armor, plot… 

…And even though, you managed some serious cracks here and there,
it was never anything that wasn’t fixed with Tender.Loving.Care.

….

…I even wish I could have known you when you were growing up,
so I could have watched what all had tempered your tough shell’s story…


…

…But, all I can know now is this adult-egg I see before me,
…and the more I think on it, the more I realize how I had eyed you so easily,
out of a dozens, you had me color-struck 
(from the get go) with your most colorful complexions,
…and I could see your tenacity for life, 
in your -most tempered, most brightest- special shell that you adorn!

So, my beloved-brilliant, egg:
Do your best to keep your shell in the best of ship and sound shape.
…and I will do my best, at doing the same…

(…And I would like it, if we could, perhaps, grow rotten together…)
(…that joke may appear dark under certain light – but the love in it remains bright…)

My love is here,
Sincerely.

M. L. Michael
4/28/11

About…

spring-living

Spring is a sigh of pleasure;
an all too short sound of the sublime.

…after winter melts away the cold, aching, silence,
and before summer stretches out, surrealingly forever,

There, tucked between, exists Spring. […]

Spring-Living
(A South Texan’s Ideal) 

Spring is a sigh of pleasure;
an all too short sound of the sublime.

…after winter melts away the cold, aching, silence,
and before summer stretches out, surrealingly forever, 

There, tucked between, exists Spring.

[Spring is this eruption of blossoms.
The evidence of nature’s evolving defiance.
Spring is the season that sings most freely of Life.]

…

And yet,
I’ve met many who wish Spring could last all year.

They miss that moment when we actually welcome the weather,
when we cherish the sun for the ways it compliments every breeze,
when we admire the diversity of the many sprouting stems,
and when we smile, whole-heartedly, eyes wide as children, 
at the busyness of the birds and bees, and of all their kin,
taking full advantage of this most prosperous of periods…

…It’s no wonder so many wish Spring would never end…

<…*sigh*…>

Alas, 
Spring will only last the length of the sublime…

So let us not bemoan over the brevity,
Instead, –my fellow Texans–
let us cherish it as best we may…

Make the most of this Season,
plant as much as a green thumb can;
and like a sunflowered cheeked hippy,
go writing, painting, dancing, singing,
out in the bright-‘n’-bloomin’ land.
…because –at that moment-
that’s the right idea for healthy Spring-living.

M. L. Michael 
04/03/11

About…

the monster behind the eyes

In this waking nightmare called chronic pain,
I am afraid of a Monster that lurks within me
that I wish I could gamble away.

Let’s call him Firo, and let’s call me Kindle.

Firo spends his every waking hour terrorizing
the villages along my spine,[…]

The Monster Behind The Eyes
(Trying to Poetize My Chronic Pain)

In this waking nightmare called chronic pain,
I am afraid of a Monster that lurks within me
that I wish I could gamble away.

Let’s call him Firo, and let’s call me Kindle.

Firo spends his every waking hour terrorizing
the villages along my spine,
but his home is somewhere in my mind –
a place I can never quite seem to find.

When Firo is in his mere, normal, foul-fever,
I only have a tiring time of quieting
every scared and hurt villager that comes to me crying.
All that energy and stress is gobbled up and processed…
but it is never anything I’ve ever fought against and lost…

But there are times…sometimes only once or twice a week,
sometimes every, wretched, handful of every hour in a day,
when Firo becomes this frothing-flame-flinging-fury,
the hellfire-demon who attacks my villagers
with all the pent-up rage of an imprisoned Devil,
frozen up to the waist in a lake of ice;
…his beating wings – only solidifying his prison.

These poor villagers, they cannot bear to stand it,
they cry, and they scream, and they beg in my ears,
for every second that Firo rages, and roars, and rips at their heels.

…These are the times that I am at my worst.

…It is during these times I am afraid the most.
Because it is the clamor from my spine
that drowns out the baritone of Reason from my mind.


…and I just can’t seem to think solid, straight, or right.
 
All I can seem to muster are crooked thoughts of
the any ways of appeasing my poor-vilified villagers,
wishing to silence Firo, and his never-ending violence,
for once and for all, so they can have their goodnight…

….

Now, suddenly, I’m the Monster.

I’m doing things I would never do in a quieter mind.

Like,

Being capable of the slight of hand slipping of pain medicine,

similar to vein-slapping, dragon-chasing, addiction-based-actions.

Of waking up wasted, and going to sleep shit-faced.

Of disregarding taking more than I am prescribed,
to shut that fucking Firo up,
to give those constantly-complaining villagers,
their good-god-damn and good-god-given peace.

Of praying to some Super-Hero-God,
to grant me my magical-reprieve,
to grant me my mystical pie in the sky.

and,
,worst of all,
Of debating taking a bottle full of what-the-fuck-ever,
and drowning it down with a bottle full of what-the-hell-ever,
to chance sweet oblivion for a ticket to
the pain-free, forever-and-never-after show.

…

….but it’s only that there’s this brave little voice that can still be heard,
now, only barely…over the din of this diseased, pissed, Monster…

Which is the weakened voice of Reason passionately begging of me,
that I know I cannot gamble on the only thing I ultimately own – my life,
that what I know to be so breathlessly beautiful, and so wordlessly wonderful,
is not a gamble worthy of losing anything as awe-inspiring, such as the southern sunset.

Ignore Pascal. This is My Wager:

There’s the gamble of the nonexistence of the eternal,
of the internal loss of all pain and/or pleasure,
and of some unknowable deal of any(kind of)every(kind of)thing, possibly (un)imaginable…

….Against the gamble of an esoteric Creator, who [I can hope upon faith],
understands just how torturous his Creation can cruelly become,
and [I can hope upon faith] will welcome me,
with [what I can hope upon faith are] eternally forgiving arms…

So, you see,

I’m the Monster, with the chip not worthy of such a large gamble…

I’m the Monster, the only real  Monster, there is to fear in this nightmare.


M. L. Michael 
03/07/11

About…

you begin with a beat…

There are times I come home,
after a long day of being out, dealing with the unreasonable,
dealing with the twitchy, the glitchy, the software-screwed society,
There are these times that I come home –
and it’s all I can do but turn up the music,
…and dance like some damned fool
[…whose clothes apparently appear to be invisibly on fire…] […]

You Begin With A Beat…
You Dance[Live] For Yourself…

There are times I come home,
after a long day of being out, dealing with the unreasonable,
dealing with the twitchy, the glitchy, the software-screwed society,
There are these times that I come home –
and it’s all I can do but turn up the music,
…and dance like some damned fool 
[…whose clothes apparently appear to be invisibly on fire…]

There’s never an audience. (it never matters if there is an audience.)
Dancing is an exercise mimicking the art of living, the art of loving, 
of shaping your body to sync with another beat…
a beat we’re all lovingly familiar with -
it’s the first beat we ever recognize, the beat of our mother’s heart… 

….

And although I had my performance bug bitten
from the most ridiculous-circus act-break dances
during a talent-show of my grade-school peers and their parents - 
I, gratefully, never made the, seemingly inevitable connection and conclusion.
That there was this: the exhilaration that comes from my dancing and feeling alive,
And there was that: these groups of eyes examining me and my every jesterous jive…

I am thankful there was no clique of raving-hipsters leaning against the walls, 
mocking my spasmodic interpretations as a type of iconic, ironic, joke..
And I am grateful there was no panel of “Reality Show Judges”, 
shaking their heads at this hopeless kid, flipping and wriggling, 
like a little worm hopped up on Ritalin, 
(…he’s just thrilled to be off the hook…) 

I am indebted to all the people never judging what they knew was all for fun,
Because they could have killed, via a slow drip of self fulfilling self destruction, 
at my love for one of life’s greatest interactions…

…..

…There are times I come home,
after an almost endless day of computers, customers, and chaos,
when I can feel the tension of my wired back, winding ever tighter.
These are the times that I turn out all but the strobing neon lights
and turn the music up to a soothing pounding, 
…I give the music a moment to recharge my batteries…

Then I start my dancing, and I begin my unwinding… 

I dance, and I unwind… 
I dance, and I unwind…

…and there is never any applause…

(…unless you count my rapidly beating heart,
exclaiming: “bravo! bravo! encore! encore!”)

M. L. Michael 
/02/28/11

About…

a match made in misery

Misery loves company,
and Misery loves a relationship even more.

A girl, pretty on the cursory eyes,
falls in love with a boy, sweet with the cosmetic lies.

Misery loves it when he slaps her around,
rather with his words, or with his fists,
and Misery loves it even more when she shuffles back, puffy-eyes apologizing,
for whatever it is she did, or didn’t do; she’d definitely do it right this time. […]

A Match Made In Misery

Misery loves company,
and Misery loves a relationship even more.

A girl, pretty on the cursory eyes,
falls in love with a boy, sweet with the cosmetic lies.

Misery loves it when he slaps her around,
rather with his words, or with his fists,
and Misery loves it even more when she shuffles back, puffy-eyes apologizing,
for whatever it is she did, or didn’t do; she’d definitely do it right this time.

Misery loves it when she threatens suicide for the umpteenth time,
and annoyed, the boyfriend mocks her for her “juvenile-theatrics” 
which Misery it finds hilarious, because now this guy is racing to the hospital, 
…because he’s listed as her one and only emergency contact…

Misery loves it when she doesn’t return any of his calls,
and the betrayal he feels by the breaking of the leash.
Misery finds it the most amusing indeed,
When he confronts her at her friend’s party
…and ends up kicked out, frothing obscenities at the mouth.

The boy loves the girl who loathes herself, 
and the girl loves the boy who loathes all else.
Misery finds this union to be a match made in a misery:
     The girl who thinks she found a rough boy, 
     who only needs her brand of loving,
     and the boy who thinks he found an easy girl, 
     who only needs his right brand of screwing..

Misery becomes so boringly-depressed when they are at their best behavior,
when their love fits perfect, like a puzzle of a Monet masterpiece,
Misery can’t help but rage at the mundane, Zoloft, relationship. 

But, don’t despair, there’s always despair, with this particular match.
Their friction inevitable starts increasing,
And now Misery is nowhere nearer to a greater indulgence,
than the anticipation of this couple becoming a ‘ticking time-bomb’, 
ready for an explosion that Reality-TV finds brings in the ratings. 
	
So, Misery never cares rather the couple blows apart, or simply breaks up,
Because, almost always, someone’s self-esteem will fault and quake, 
and the whole, raucous, dance will resume, 
abrasive, like a song, out of tune and stuck on repeat.



Misery will be waiting at their crossroads,
where the two perfectly broken two tend to match up,
convincing themselves, that this time, things will work out.

Yes, Misery loves company great…
But Misery loves couples the most.

02/25/11
M. L. Michael

About…

conversations at the bar #1

Surprise, Surprise,
I found Cupid at a Bar…
made all the more absurd and disturbing,
by his public drunkenness and his blatant nudity,
…plus the quiver and bow hung crooked across his wings… […]

Conversations at the Bar #1
(When Cupid Has A Few Too Many)

Surprise, Surprise, 
I found Cupid at a Bar…
made all the more absurd and disturbing,  
by his public drunkenness and his blatant nudity,
…plus the quiver and bow hung crooked across his wings…

Bleary-eyed Cupid, Leery-eyed Cupid,
squinted at me, and at all the nuanced couples moving and mingling,
like little pawns across his chessboard,
with every awkward gesture and each misjudged move,
- a toast in honor of his ego.

And so it was without warning that Cupid fumbled for his bow 
and drunkenly fired into the crowd…
[…certain that there’s always someone lovesick ready to be lovestruck…
 …certain that there’s always a person’s passion ready to be charged on credit… 
 …certain that there’s always a quota of Valentines-Day-Roses to be clipped & shipped…]

But I was shocked… 
because no one seemed to really notice Cupid,
they only seemed to notice each other’s makeup, madeup, plumage,
and no one seemed to hear Cupid’s repetitive sighing,
they only heard the clinking of ice in their half-emptied glasses of courage; 
and they only heard their hot whispers promising hotter nights. 
(that rarely, if ever, had the chance of dawning)

I was confused to find Cupid acting in such a way,
And I was surprised to find that no one ever flinched when Cupid’s arrow hit, 
At most, they only scratched or twitched, at some soothing, biological itch, 
or they smiled and beamed, from some glowing, genetic need…


I took a seat next to Cupid
and ordered a round for the two of us.
Cupid smiled at my star-struck gaze, and gave me an appreciative nod.
“No mortal has bought me a drink in as long as I can remember.
 In fact, it is rare that a mortal has ever given me more than a pause,
 beyond those acclamations they can only offer during their most ecstatic of exclamations.”

He downed his drink, and leaned in close as he gave the bartender a signal for another. 
“You know, normally I don’t do this…but you look to be a good guy…
So, for you, I will do this most special, this most privileged, of favors… 

“Who is it here that your libido swings towards?
Who here could you rapture, like a saint in sinner’s clothing?
Just give me the word, 
and with one, simple, arrow she’s yours for the having.”

He fumbled for his bow and quiver, and I subtly pushed them away.

He ignored my move, or possibly he never noticed, and continued to rant,
“So, who is it you want? How about that leggy, cherry-bomb, sizzling over there,
I bet ten minutes with her and she could blow you straight out the stratosphere!
Or what about that soft and soulful star, with those midnight, velvety lips? 
Oh, on those lips you could dream of every universe and heaven, real and conceived!
…Or maybe, instead, you see that subdued, sublime, siren, by the jukebox?
Sure, I can tell she’s serenading you; the way her lips shape these romantic lyrics. 
She’s hypnotizing you with her hips –subtly swaying them to that beat underneath.
Yes, I can see it in your eyes, you are outlining her curves with your boldest brush!
 
“So, my good friend, which beauty do you want –
…or, perhaps, you want them all?!” 
He boasted with laughter that I found embarrassing, 
and yet, irresistibly intriguing…

I did my best to suppress my disappointment in the Cupid I had discovered… 
and I did my best to redirect all that south-bound-blood back to my north-thinking-head…

I tried to tell him that he had me, and everything entailed, all wrong:
“I don’t think your arrows are meant for all these random flights of fancy.
I’ve come to believe that every arrow must mean something special. 
That if any arrow is to matter anything at all, 
than every arrow must represent 
all that I find to be wholly-life-lovingly-unique.”

Cupid appeared both frustrated and confused,
So I continued, with desperations to elaborate my point.

“What I am hopefully saying, my dear, rosy, Cupid,
Is, if you are to help me, and not to harm me, 
then you must be as disciplined as you are passionate,
you must treat your arrows as if they are of a finite number,
….and most importantly, 
each arrow must represent the values I desire the highest -
and not simply the lusts I hunger for the hardest…

 Cupid remained quiet…and now more withdrawn.

“Am I making sense?
“All I’m doing is mimicking my Heroes: those Romantics, 
whose shoulders I sit upon whenever I pen my tributes…” 



Cupid stared into the distance as I paid for our drinks,
and before I left, I gambled on one last plea:

“You know all these arrows you’ve shot so wildly into every crowd?
Why not take a moment, and watch these couples you’ve managed to hit.
…And tell me, dear, spirited, Cupid,
what are their odds of any kind of lasting, fulfilling, love,
is it just one night… is it just two days…
or are they a rarity, and they last longer than a month?
 
…And then tell me, dear, dispirited, Cupid,
“Of those all the hapless, innumerous, hearts… 
How many were better off, before your arrows intervened?”

Cupid never answered…
he only stared into his empty drink…
and quietly signaled for another round.

M. L. Michael 
02/22/11

About…

listen for the life-beat

When Firo crackles in the ears,
it’s time for a change in tune…

Eyes closed, I’s one
Between Left…and…Right Speaker
In the middle somewhere I’ll hover…[…]

Listen for the Life-Beat

When Firo crackles in the ears,
it’s time for a change in tune…

Eyes closed, I’s one
Between Left…and…Right Speaker
In the middle somewhere I’ll hover…
I’ll glide, and I’ll ride…
I’ll swim in the space/in the sea 
of this blissful world–ringing melody…

Eyes closed, I’s disconnected from all that,
all that but this…this singularity of the mind meld music,
of the thought and sound;  of the joy in the beat:
…the heart-beat… 
the celebration of our life-beat.



M. L. Michael 
01/27/2011

About…

suicide; the atom bomb

When their life is taken by the best (self) kept secret,
an Atom Bomb is Dropped,
and everything they ever are, and everything they ever would be,
is gone in a phosphorus-flash…\in an ignited-instant/…
there’s nothing left but the smoldering crater: a reminder, of an echo
of everything they ever were…and everything they never will be… […]

Suicide; the Atom Bomb
(death is hardest for the living; a post traumatic suicide disaster)



When their life is taken by the best (self) kept secret,
an Atom Bomb is Dropped,
and everything they ever are, and everything they ever would be,
is gone in a phosphorus-flash…\in an ignited-instant/… 
there’s nothing left but the smoldering crater: a reminder, of an echo
of everything they ever were…and everything they never will be…

All around the crater, 
stumble the shellshocked-survivors – 
beleaguered by their beloved, these family and friends
are left with infinite questions on their minds,
and zero answers in their hearts,
wondering: what they might or should have done, 
to save what might/what should have been…

                          Call it: Post Traumatic Suicide Disaster.
This grasping for closure, like the grasping of straws…
…In a world where all it took was *just one more straw* 
to break their special one’s spirit for good and gone…

If anyone, unfortunate enough, is left to stare at such an empty, empty, crater,
They tend to beg for some kind of epiphany to enlighten the whys…
or they tend to pray for some kind of answer to fall from the skies… 

When staring at this lonely, lonely crater,
It’s only the silence that can remain fulfilled…

Because really, 
what answers are there in a crater?

12/27/10
M. L, Michael

About…

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 800-273-8255

Please call or contact someone if you are having thoughts of suicide.

Talk before you act. There is always someone willing to listen. (like me)