The Sadness in My Smile

You are the echos in my beating heart
you are the princess in my tower
you are the clouds that dance in all my sky
you are my every flower

you are the constellation
who dances with me in the night
you are the one in all my dreams
who holds my hand with such delight

you are the sadness in my smile
the one I lost to Satan's wile
you are the sadness in my smile

you are the siren on the shore
whose song beckons me for more
you are the tattoo on my skin
where I feel your love still soaking in

You are the echos in my beating heart
you are the princess in my tower
you are the clouds that dance in all my sky
you are my every flower

you are the sadness in my smile
the one I lost to Satan's wile
you are the sadness in my smile

tell me tears, what will time tell
how long will I march through this breathing hell
tell me pain, how far to go
until he lets my lover go

you are the sadness in my smile
the one I lost to Satan's wile
you are the sadness in my smile
you are the sadness in my smile
you are the sadness in my smile

A Page of Pages

A page on anything... that's what she said.


Pages and pages of Paganini linguine! Musically verbiated with pixelisms and prisms.
Distractinations  for lost love palpitations, with no discernible path towards migration.
All this mental penetration, a reverberation of frustration and deflation caused by hesitation and imagination. A sociopathic conflagration burning atmospheric shooting stratification
of this brilliant, falling star. Like that time in Salt Lake City in December of 1997 while
driving by the lake and you saw what looked like a mudball stuck to a leaf plummet out
of empty sky... but the word, a late bird. Inauspicious nuptial gift for sure, but sally on
and forth with such mirth, until the love train derailed and you were frail and impaled
on yourself, reaching your own arms high to put your heart on the shelf. So, now you
shouldn't look so surprised by those missing eyes, as your own lack of readiness denies
you from the big show you bought season tickets for, and so you implore for more...
and the gods immerse you in their graces, and you've seen the traces in the gratitude of
an inspired mind, who in kind brought you along in his pocket-filled mind, or when
you sprang as the phone rang and it was the shaman Rainbolt calling you from another
universe to tell you the rocks on which you bounce are hard and painful until you just
let go. And yet, you still daydream of a five hundred mile Scott Pilgrim serenade to
the shell of who she never was, never was... but know the realness of yourself
Pinocchio, and that you have the potential to be more than just a haystack of toothpicks
with a wistful soul searching for mouth after mouth of dirty teeth. So, brush your face
and kiss your mirror... you are the big sky with more than stars and hope. You are
the smile on a baby's face. You are true love, and your story is only just beginning.
The fact that you continue, despite an afternoon wasted on SI dreaming, screaming
your denied heart's peccadildoes, you really do know the stakes, and you move across
the chessboard like a brave little pawn, one foot in front of the other, one step at a
time. So away to make your pages, and maybe the sages will learn a thing or two about
why the sky is blue, and so are you... and so you must trust yourself, your heart, and
move forward no matter what anyone else tells you, because you were born weird for a
reason. And when you reach your goal, you'll have painted a rainbow of woven love
which the gods will wear like a shawl because you really do such good work.

and so I scroll up and chide myself on the length of this piece, and I wish that it were
longer, but some things are the length and girth that they're going to be and know that
you will always be sufficiently better than average, but that you should be grateful
for the average lot, as they are the foundation upon when you will forever measure
yourself. And it's really, really nice to be appreciated, even if it's only for being
unflinchingly average.

A Much Wanted Walk...

One of these days, I’m gonna buy some new

Shoes. I’ll put on a pair of my favorite socks,

And lace those shoes up tight and nice. I’ll

Grab a bottle of water, and a handful of

Change, and I’m going to walk to you. I’m

Going to walk to you, no matter how far,

I’m going to walk to you, wherever you

Are. I’m going to walk to you, through the

Dark and the light, and maybe I’ll make it

By Saturday night. I’m going to walk to

You, with blistering feet, over brambles

And highways and city streets. I’m going

To walk to you through streams and bogs

And only stop briefly to answer the frogs.

I’m going to walk to you over trails

And thickets, stopping once in a while

To pick off the ticks. I’m going to walk

To you through heat and through rain,

Step after step, with you on my brain.

I’m going to walk to you with my

Arms open wide, to kiss you and

Hold you tight and nice, and maybe,

Just maybe, you’ll walk by my side,

In a pair of your favorite socks, and

A new pair of shoes, and we’ll never,

Ever, look back. One of these days,

I’m going to walk to you, with a bottle

of water, these lips and a handful

of change.

-Ildane

The Romeo Poem

There’s a place down by Buckeystown where the Monocacy Scenic River bends out to the east. It’s a bucolic environ where majestic Blue Herons and smaller noble birds perch on jutting logs as wind from the rushing water combs through their feathers. It’s the sort of place that lovers might converge for a tryst or two. And thoughts of Romeo and Juliet’s passions spring to mind as well as the beauty of their innocence. Their words echoing off the river banks and their smiles mirrored in the clouds. It’s a place that has inspired me to share the following with you.

It’s called…  Romeo, why’d you have to fucking kill yourself?

Fuuuuuuuuck, Romeo.

Why’d you have to fucking kill yourself?

I mean, the experience of a love so great should conquer any pain. Even when it really fucking hurts.

Romeo, Romeo, why for art thou such a putz, oh Romeo?

You’d think that such a lover would at least sleep next to his dead bride one last time before falling on his own knife. You would have woken to her kisses, you pucking futz.

Of course if we looked for fault, we could blame that damn messenger the friar sent who would never get a job working for Federal Express. I mean, inadvertently causing the death of star-crossed lovers is not something you want on your résumé. No, he didn’t get it there when it absolutely, positively had to fucking be there. But he didn't kill himself over it, now did he?

In truth, Romeo, it was your hand that plunged the knife, so to speak. We all know it was Kevorkian, the apothecary’s potion that stilled you. But it was the pain of your imagined loss that you could not live with. Not all such stories end this way, so why did you run, young Romeo? Had you the wherewithal to experience the pain that your love signed you up for, your reward would have been mine.

I’ll tell you who had balls enough to survive his own pain… Edward Scissorhands.

Edward Scissorhands didn’t kill himself when he realized that he’d have to live out his days without the love of his life. Edward had balls, and perhaps a bit of a martyr complex, but that’s beside the point. He didn’t puss out and fall on his fucking hands.

Next time, have some guts of your own, Romeo. Have some fucking guts of your own.

-Dag, November 2000