August 31, 2004

• “Unconditional Surrender”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri © 2000-2004
  February 20, 2000 10:22 a.m. pst

  
  

   

  
  

  A helicopter blade above my brain
  Whirring and whizzing and deafening me
  I can’t make out my deepest thoughts
  I can’t understand why those people are shouting at me
  The blade is sharp, sharp as a ginsu knife
  and I can’t seem to get out of it’s way
  Something’s happening
  they’re over there, for God’s sake.
  Let me….
  Just a second….
  There, is it better?
  Now?

  
  

  
  The helicopter blades in my stomach are turning
  whirring and whizzing and telling me I’m hungry
  Hungry for a purpose
  Hungry for a meaning
  Hungry for a good fettucinni alfredo but this time with a kind face sitting across from the table
  I can’t eat just now,
  And it’s….
  Excuse me…..
  It’s gotta be better now.

  
  

  
  Helicopter blades in my feet
  Twisting me and turning me and giving me no direction
  Get out of my way, for I don’t know my destination
  Those people are yelling..
  I can’t seem to make out what they’re saying
  and the blades are sharp
  Sharp as incisive wit used to be
  but the blades are cutting my pantlegs
  they’re cutting my stomach to shreds
  those people are cutting up
  something must be funny but i’m not laughing

  
  

  
  i will whizz and whirr with the blades
  and commit unconditional surrender
  until I know what it all means
  and the blades stop turning
  but by then will it matter?
  And will I still be around to question?
  Let the blades turn for now
  unconditional surrender

  
  

   

  
  

  
  “Roundelay”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri © 2001-2004
  Sunday, July 15, 2001 11:25am p.d.t.

  
  

  
  Experiencing an undulating roundelay, revolving attitudes and emotions,
  Broiling amongst the waters of experience, using what little I still possess
  To let me know firsthand of the many failures
  And to fail first in love, and last in experience.
  The ayes have it, and the eyes cannot bear to look.
  Another personal ad, or another parting glance,
  Another realization, another get together for the soul
  Experience angst bubbling up from the graves of those who have come before
  Experience ridicule from the huddled masses giving lipservice to aquiesence
  Even as they laugh, and plot to forget their humanity.
  Another thousand words, and the experience gets lost in the encyclopedia.

  
  

  
  Nothing came to me again, I wrote years past, as I pondered this existence.
  God proved himself to me, I proclaimed, fat with the juices of smugness.
  Experience the vast play of emotions and misunderstandings, as those damn words get in the way again.
  Live like a hermit in the city, go out and eat the good life,
  Then hobble back into your hole and weep.

  
  

  
  Experience the swinging surges of the roundelay, the words mixed up,
  The emotions mixing together, the memories fading fast in the wind.
  Each moment lasts forever, but there is never enough time to ponder it.
  Each living being has something to say, but they forgot the sentiment,
  And isn’t it so easy to post a greeting card on the internet, and mistake it for emotional weight.
  That weight hasn’t gotten me down yet,
  But the sheer poundage is showing in the lines on my face,
  And the breakdown is about to happen
  Yet again,
  Around and around in this roundelay called life.
  Experiencing another undulation,
  And another irrepressible instantaneous culmination of ecstasy.
  Words don’t mean anything, and the roundelay doesn’t need them to revolve.

  
  

   

  
  

  “Random Soliloquies”
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri © 2001-2004
  May 27, 2001 6:51pm p.d.t

  
  

  
  Meaning, there was a time when it all seemed less meaningless than it does now
  That time existed in some ethereal space where meaning ceased mattering.
  That was a long time ago, too. Here it is the twentyfirst century,
  And I can’t find the meaning in the momentous millennium.
  I thought I could, I practiced for months until it happened,
  And when it did it seemed so happenstance.

  
  

  
  Love, there was a word I cherished and disdained.
  I searched for love until I hurt, and hurt causes meaning to destroy whole continents.
  Love ceased to desist, but I craved this love from afar.
  I looked up from my (lonely) meal to find peace and anticipation.
  I grew tired of meaningless diatribes, even as I formulated my own.
  Meaning is found humor, a proclamaiton of presence, a solid footing for disaster.
  Love is an emotion few practice, I fear.

  
  

  
  Existence, there, that was the flaw. I am here, so I exist.
  Just like you and everyone else. But do I exist in reality, or in my tired mind.
  I ingested alterations, only to find that the reality wasn’t so perpetual.
  I grew insistent that this existence should not be in vain.
  The existence of the meaning in love is tantamount in thought.
  Love exited quickly.
  Meaning eluded capture.
  Existence keeps on happening, and I’m not sure if I care anymore.

  
  

  
  Proof that existence, love, and meaning exist, and are present in me and in mankind?
  Look no further than this poem,
  Look no further than this existence, this meaningful love of perfection.
  It does exist, it’s just that so many of us are condemned to waiting for meaning
  in perpetuity.
  We wait,
  We exist,
  We sometimes die, and maybe it is answered, as I feel, or maybe not.

  
  

  
  These are but the random soliloquies of quietude, reserved for the imminent few.
  Spout on about all this, and milk the words of the prophet.
  Keep the belief system warm, and I shall comfort you.
  And nothing was accomplished, but much was said.
  Again and again and again.
  Life……..goes……..on
  ……………………………

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