My Ambrosia

AMBROSIA -

Spelling: A-m-b-r-o-s-i-a

Definition: The food of the gods, and once tasted, all other food becomes bland, bitter, and tasteless.




Sine times of old mankind has tasted food divine,
they consume great works of art with a ravenous hunger.
But departed from my severed memory and trodden mind
is the flavor that escaped my grasp.


Your tantalizing lips still tempt me
Ample enough to fill my quota
Do not mistake my words for lust
But listen with your heart, my ambrosia.


The clever methods in which you try to hide your radiance brings me to this conclusion: the illusion of your withdrawn fortification of but a labyrinth - one part beautiful, two parts elusive.
The forbidden fruit beckons me to you.
Yet, none of it is palpable, your aroma is not tangible but all I want is to be able to let your embrace provide stability in a world that is unstable.

Break the cable that holds you back because even your decadence becomes sour with distance. So the instance you uncage your heart let me know.

For you are my Ambrosia in a world full of fast food, yes, the cuisine of the gods, though you don't include me when you dine.

No matter how good it tastes, all food goes cold.
Yet you still turn others away.

Because if food was meant to be eaten then you were meant to be loved.



If you do not believe me through
my attempt at poetry and prose
Then listen to me praise you
the same that I worship Jehovah
And please believe me in
the way I love you, My Ambrosia.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

47 years.

You've seen the world change so much.


18 years.

I've seen you change so much.



Cheers to the man who raised me well and taught me right. Congratulations to the man who has lived a life of success and wealth. A celebration for you because you've influenced me more than any other person I know of.

So then why do I not desire to participate in the festivities?

A decade ago there was never a moment I was amazed by you.
Now I can't find a time when you don't disappoint me.

You would show me the night sky and tell me that all the dreamers lived there. Each star inhabited by heroes of legend and decorated with ideas, knowledge, and love. I truly believed that I could shoot for those elusive stars.


"You can't breathe in space." Is all I hear from you now.

Yet your eyes say something different. You sat on the fence of your own internal conflict of luxury over imagery for so long you've forgotten what you're fighting for.

Stories of when you and mom used to be wild adventurous before she was gone is the only time I ever see your eyes gleam with magic. Constantly reminded of what you are forcing yourself to not experience, what absurd justification is going through your head to make you believe that you don't want that anymore.




Happy Birthday Dad, hope it's a good one.



Happy Birthday Russ, I love you. More than you know.

-Insolence is Bliss

In a Nutshell

For a celebration my family had for me, at the dinner my parents had everyone say 3 things they enjoyed about me. Three of my siblings said "I guess he's my brother" or "what they said" and nothing else.

Whenever I use the microwave I never time it with any numbers divisible by 5. I can only use an even number for every 4 odd numbers I try.

Every day at school I receive comments on how many friends I have, yet there is never a moment I feel alone.

I have a passion for exercise, but don't have the motivation to be proactive and do it by myself.

During the last month I tutored seven people for the ACT, but probably won't graduate on time.

The person who loves me the least in my life is the only one who tells me that they love me every day, and she does it out of obligation.

I'm unhealthily OCD when it comes to organizing my desk, homework, and thoughts, yet my room looks like an abandoned nuclear test site.

All my dreams reach for the stars but most days I can't even get out of bed.

My stepmom claims she is trying to help yet fails to see she's the thing that is suffocating me the most right now.

Last week I tried to hitchhike to school and was only received with dirty looks and a mocking chorus of laughter.

I now prefer rainy days over the sunny ones.

Sleep never fails to escape me, but I remain addicted to it.

I can't recall the last time I ate for hunger and sustenance instead of taste and passing the time.

When I'm out of the house I tend to smile bigger and laugh louder though it is just a fruitless effort to convince myself that I can still be happy.

I always eat my pizza backwards, starting with the crust.

Even though I hate it when others are concerned for me, I find myself always yearning for sympathy and help.

I look twice as good in my reflection than in real life.

A few days ago I spent 37 minutes trying to remember what a trapezoid was called.

I've forgotten how to love, but I want nothing more than intimacy in my relationships.

Nothing entices me more than peace of mind yet I consciously notice my sanity slipping.

I can't figure out why I'm writing this, I just know I was supposed to.








And somehow that explains everything

To the Caretaker of Souls

Mr. Insolence

Lost Somewhere in Hell

3/16/14

Dear Mr. Death, Anubis, Xolotl, Lucifer, Hades, or whoever this may concern,


I need your help, I did not consider that I would ever be in such a grim situation. And only you possess the means to help me in my distress.



Give me my life back.



Give me that mortality and fragility that I now yearn for. I did not realize that I would ever miss the existence of my imperfections. Give me my world, and all the love, hate, charity, disgust, compassion, jealously, brotherhood, prejudice, and ideas that come with it. That place where thoughts are not confined, not bound to this law of perdition.

I have no way of knowing whether you receive letters of this nature frequently or if this is the first of this sort, but do not discard this letter nor dismiss my words. For I carry upon my back a will strong enough to break the gates of hell, a cause righteous enough to stand before the Almighty, and a burden heavy enough to drown even the purest of men into never ending turmoil of guilt-ridden agony. The pain has been overwhelming, so I have devised a ploy not just as means to an end, but to set all things right.

Never in my days could I imagine death having struck one such as myself in the peak of my youth and knowledge. It is somewhat ironic, really, for I had nothing to fear except death itself. In comparison, fear of anything else but death is pointless. Whereas with any fear but death, regardless of consequences there shall be a continuation of one's self. There is another opportunity presented to stand up and press forward. As I came to find out first hand, death gives no second chances. Death offers no forgiveness nor spares any mercy. Though I had searched extensively, there are no loop holes or shortcuts or anything.

The idea which I present before you is simple: Give me my life back. I was too young to die, and I bore the weight of unfinished business. I do not ask this because I died before traveling the world, before ever making love to a woman, or before repenting of all my sins. I ask this because there are a great many things that were not done that make me feel as though I did not complete my purpose.



I never was able to have my stepmother understand how I feel about her, and regardless of how much I disliked her I truly was grateful for what she did.

I didn't take the time to express my love for those friends who saved me from an equally awful hell.

My knees didn't spend enough time keeping me grounded so I could pray to God. My eyes did not read as many pages from the good book as I had hoped.

The relationship I had with my brother only existed through something I no longer had access to.

I will never know whether the career and path of learning I sought was truly the dream I was chasing after.

To be able to feel completely healthy would not happen, or getting over the constant illness.

All of the problems I caused for so many people that one night, and I never got around to fixing them or making it up to the people.

I never was able to tell the woman who always challenged the world that I loved her. I never had the audacity to tell her even once how beautiful I thought she was in every aspect.



There. Do you now understand how much I would be willing to give up to finish these? I am eager to offer up any limb I have, any sense I possess,  I will even work for you for 500 years just to be able to have another chance. Ideally, I would love to be brought back to life, but I understand that there are some limits to your power and influence over such things. As long as I can accomplish what I need to so I can fulfill my purpose then I will be more than content with that.

Death was the only thing I had to fear, and now it's the only thing I cannot overcome. That is the reason for this letter. That is the reason of me asking you in such a manner. This death is the ultimate limit. There is no transcending of it at all.

Once more, as a broken and humble man, I beg and implore you: give me my life back.



Sincerely,
Sir Insolence.

A.D.D. and Subtract

I didn't write this to do math.

I wrote this for someone who is dear to me

And when you solve the equation.

He started a voyage only to disappear at sea

But he hasn't drowned quite yet.

From the start, he oozed with color

At his birth the stars were aligned

For him to never stop painting,

To ignore all of the street signs

But he yielded for the first time.

The more he learned, the more he knew

That he possessed a unique quality:

He was the second most convincing person

To ever utter the words, "come follow me"

But he doesn't ask that anymore.

Most pairs of eyes were unable to see

The simple beauty he found in movement

They assumed he needed time to mature,

That his sanity would follow as consequent.

But he never had a sane day in his life.

The masses then turned against him

Out of frustration, he began to question

If the cruelness in which he was treated with

Was because of his deficit of attention.

This order of the ignorant self-proclaimed professionals, to find a solution to this boy's problem, his diagnosis, his disorder.
Intending to stop the incoming insight into his mind, they prescribed their way to steal from his inconsistent wealth, framed with confessionals.

The unnecessarily large doses would make any man not believe, even if they had seen Jesus walk on water.
The boy now doubted what he could be able to achieve, and knew that no father would want him for their daughter.

Trapped in a system that punished him for spending time thinking of two hundred and twelve ways to use a calculator that does not involve arithmetic
Left with the options of submitting himself to the false direction of those with authority or to delve into a maze of confusion and darkness with no resolve for the sick.

But he was quick to see that he started a new minority,
 standing against the thick headed suit and ties who declared superiority
Forced to take priority in eliminating his existent inferiority of attention
and taking back what he had lost to lies to find capacity to love.

In a world that is structured to take all the seeds and expect to grow them with one flower in mind, this boy, amid troubles with isolation, discovered his focus and challenged those mocking from above.



Time passed, the boy developed into a man
Different from all the other flowers of mention
He created wonders that redefined art
Though not without stress from opposing tension
When asked about the success he found he said
It was because of my deficit of attention.











This is something I wrote for the Speak For Yourself Open Mic last Friday but was unable to attend so here you go. It is meant to be performed more than read but I thought I should post it regardless. So I believe you will find enjoyment in reading it out loud.

- Your Captain, Insolence is Bliss

Colors are not limited to the rainbow

"The greats weren't great because at birth they could paint,

         The greats were great cause they paint a lot"

-Macklemore  

My first day in Kindergarten. 

The elderly teacher approaches me as I enter,

"Hello, what's your name?"

"Insolence."

"All right Insolence, have a seat in the corner over there

and I'll get you started with some paper and a box of crayons."

"Do I get to keep the crayons?"

"Do you? Well, I'll let you in on a little secret.

They will always be with you wherever you go."

She leans down next to my ear, cupping my ear with her worn hand and gently whispers,

"Use them well"

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The smell of a new car is incredibly refreshing. But when compared to a new box of crayons, it pales in comparison. The scent of the new paper, cardboard, and tangible colors combined with the anticipation of the limitless doodles, scribbles, and masterpieces now at your disposal. 

Junior High.

My friends at lunch bring me

into a conversation they are having.

"Hey Insolence, what is your favorite car?"

"Me? I don't care as long as it runs well."

Another friend chimes in,

"Come on man, haven't you ever read about the really nice ones?"

"No, I just like to spend my time learning about crayons."

"Crayons? You need to learn about something that's cooler"

"From what I can tell, your yellow, blue, and 

red-orange crayons are terribly underused."

"Huh?"

"I can tell you don't create with your colors very often"

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We are all entitled to a box of crayons, and no one has any influence as to the condition they are in, and the usage of them, except the individual. I find that I tend to be attracted to those with the worn out but well loved boxes the most.

The most beautiful people I know of are the ones that have their crayons embedded into their very soul. Every thought, every action, every breath is a creation of art. They color outside of the lines and will receive criticism, but don't let others dictate how they use their box. When they sleep, they lay on vivid memories and dream for the whole world to see. Each step they take is the stroke of a brush and everywhere they walk is a canvas filled with their existence, their masterpieces.

High School.

I lean over to the new girl sitting in the desk to the left of mine.

"What kind of math is that?"

Surprised, she looks up and says, "calculus"

"Oh, I would help, but I've never been good with math"

"Me either."

My curiosity was piqued, "why is that?"

"It's impossible to do any of the problems
since I only know how to draw.  And..."

Her voice trails off as she notices the box of crayons in my hand.

Pupils widen as we simultaneously shift our glances to meet the other.

In an instant, we both understood.

We stood up together and proceeded to walk out of the classroom and then the school, ignoring the threats and the taunts and the jeers of the administrative powers and our peers.

"I love how vibrant you are."

"I love your mix of ideas and colors."

And we left that place forever.



A few witnesses claim to have seen a trail of color following where we walked. A trail that none could attempt to describe due to feeling unable to adequately convey how those shades and pigments danced on the pavement like wildfire.



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There is nothing more beautiful than someone who creates the most wondrous works of art with their 12 color boxes.

There is nothing more tragic than someone who has a 72 color set and has it on the back shelf, untouched other than the company of cobwebs and cold dust.

Discover what your crayons mean to you.

"Use them well"

- Your Captain, Insolence is Bliss

The Hypothetical Boy

Suppose there is a boy who is spending his ninth consecutive Friday alone. He doesn't go to edgy weekend parties and laugh really loud at all the half-baked jock jokes. Nor does he find a new girl that night to invite into his car where infatuation plays it's tune and promises are made that neither side will keep. All that is left the morning after is tousled hair, a misshapen hickey, and a handful of regrets land-marked by scars.

He can't remember how many nights like that occurred, but things have changed by the time his daydream ended, and he can't seem to piece together the misconceptions and the forgotten lies to make sense of his reality. He walks naked through the halls of his school, leaving his heart open only to receive a chorus of "hey" from the closed off population that regards him as their friend. He can't help but think that hey is for horses and that maybe George Orwell was right all along. This animal farm he was living in didn't have the conscious to reciprocate his feelings or to hold their own opinions.

Hypothetically, he is documenting his thoughts during said Friday night in hopes to capture his experiences and his vision.  This is done because he is convinced that he is losing his sanity. The humanity that once dwelled within his heart is nothing but a faint memory. He no longer has that memory, all the picture books and the funny looks to the taking naps and sitting on laps. When he knew in the back of his mind that he was seeing the world a few feet shorter than everyone else but was perfectly content with that.

Consider then this boy doesn't know whether to address himself as a boy or a man because he sees great qualities in both and never really had a teenager phase. He had a paradigm shift that brought him to the same location but in a completely different state of mind. The anomaly of the times brought him to his knees.



Imagine that only just moments ago, this boy and his father just got into an argument that accomplished nothing. The boy once saw the brilliance of father and was now disgusted by the one dimensional man that he now stood before. The father yelled at the son and told him to stop making excuses for avoiding reality, and to shut down the keyboard that provided the boy an escape of the mind, and one of the few things in this life that actually provided significance to the boy.

"you're just a robot to me" says the boy

"get your act together" replies the father

"your ignorance is the most frustrating thing I know of" the boy chimes

"just shut up, turn off the computer, and get to sleep" the father yells

"you know I have insomnia"

"grow up"

"just listen to my words for once"





Thus ends the conversation. Thus ends another chapter in this boy's life. Thus another part of his sanity dies. Thus we all grow closer to death.

Hypothetically, of course.