O Irony of ironies...

Jin's only [so far] email to me in my Gmail account was, guess which number, that one that makes people laugh, that one special number which Them's msn name referenced, that's right, no deletions, no insertions, Jin's first email to me was email # 69 to my Gmail account. 69. That's right, 69. You're reading that right. Not 68, or 59, or any of those non-significant digits, it was 69.

That, folks, treasured blog-readers, is what I call irony, proving once and for all that Osama bin Laden and his cowardly terrorists failed to kill the unkillable despite killing a whole lot of people. I've always had a problem with calling them innocent, because let's be real, no one is. I hate to smack you in the face like reality, Raine Maida, but we aren't, we aren't all innocent. No one == perfect, thus no one == innocent. If you mean innocent of any crime committed against the terrorists, well, in their eyes clearly existing was a crime thus making them criminals and therefore not innocent. So as much as my heart goes out to all the 3-years-and-change dead, and anyone who's read into the archives a bit, or has talked to me in the past will know, I'm not one to make fun of the whole mess, I do play devil's advocate a lot.

Anyway, as I was saying, it's ironic. "What could it mean," you might ask, "is fate spitting in his face and laughing at him? Or is it proof of things to come?" Are you being realistic and saying, "Alex you're reading way too far into this, it's just a coincidence and the fact that you're making such a big deal of it is basically just downright creepy."? If you answered yes to any of the above, please take a moment to read Jin's poem, and then read mine, and then agree with me when I say her poem spanks mine as hard as, well, I won't go there, but suffice to say, she thinks mine is bettar and she is clearly on teh crack.

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I had regularly studied the bridge of his nose

Or his brows when we spoke face to face.

Never did I look into those piercing eyes…

Afraid I would be scrutinized down to every inch of skin,

flesh, not one fine hair undetected.

Scared to be transfixed in a deathly gaze.



He told me that our eyes are the windows to our souls

and I would eventually take that step to look him straight,

eye to eye,

but not until he gains my confidence.



At last, I did, but only to uncover my silhouette.

However, I discovered a whole new world of colors

once I reached in deeper, as I was grasping for what it was at the time.

knowledge? Or maybe simply just to understand.



His eyes were a sweet honey brown when he was mellow,

A forest green when he was enraged

And hazel when he smiled,

laughed,

and cried.



I do not look anymore.

There’s nothing more to see.

They are merely impenetrable bloodshot spheres,

of emptiness,

obscurity.



His lashes no longer meet…

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Now compare that piece of brilliance, a boring old Danish, if you will, with this delicious doorstop of an overrated poem:

____________________________

Lying, sprawled, in the dry sand grass,
Me and her whisper sweet somethings,
Or whatever they are called, into each
Others' ears; time, unending, passes us
By, uncaring, we smile with gawky looks
About us, and twirl the golden stalks
Betwixt our love-clumsied fingers, sighing
With the breeze, in perfect harmony with
Each other and Nature. Suddenly,
Clouds come rolling by on roads of
Tension in the air, they expand menacingly
Towards us, and begin their discharge.
Mighty is the storm, but we lie here in
Defiance; acting as though nothing had
Changed. The orage, enraged, doubles
Its efforts, attempting to drive us to shelter
Ourselves, but, persecuted, we resist.
Then lightning strikes, and everything
Is white.

_______________________________

That's right. Mine sucks, just like, well I won't go there either, but [Them, my pants are *on*] the point is she's clearly, as I said before, on crack. Which, of course, would explain both her lack of sense and her poetical skills, to some extent.

Now upon reading those two poems, a few conclusions must be drawn.

1) They're both about a guy and a girl. This could meanL 1) Our future together is assured. 2) We both have one -track minds, being teenagers, and single. 3) There just aren't that many poetry subjects out there anyway, and we just independently wrote on similar topics. Nothing special.

Secondly, now that we've both seen a sampling of each other's work, and think that it's better than our own, we have a good start to a healthy professional and personal relationship, known as Artistic Mutual Respect, or AMR. Any similarities to the word amour mentioned here will get you killed on the spot. We can now appraise other people's A&L submissions with more confidence because we clearly have the others' respect, if somewhat misguided.

Things are looking up.

Thank you Sandy.

Also, I have been informed [by Them, no less] that Dehui may or may not have tried to set me up with her this afternoon.

You'll have to fill me in on that.

So, after that whole blog post about Jin,

I think I need some alcohol. And sunlight.

XP

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