Tourist

You are a geisha,
A support system for an image.
Born to satisfy the whims
of an attentive audience.
Paint your face white,
Lips red,
Soul black.
Dance so softly.
Never speak.
Like origami,
with so many folds and dark places
The untrained eye could never see
The depth behind such a simple design.
But I am not fooled by your painted persona.
You see,
I am a tourist.

"Romantic comedy is the next form of organized religion".
-David Grois

Good point, Dave. The first rule of an organized religion is that you accept that your fate is not your own. You must accept your place in the "grand order" of things. Every romantic comedy that I've seen has made the point that true love is determined by fate. You have no control over your emotions, the person that you love is chosen for you.

The second rule of any organized religion is that it gives it's followers hope for something better. Who hasn't had their heart ripped out of their chest and stomped on like a mexican somberro? Who wouldn't love to entertain the idea (for at least 2 hours) that all of that was just a fluke, and their one "true love" is waiting for them?

Here's another point. The makers of romantic comedy want us to believe that the love of our lives will be exactly like us. By some magical, cosmic coincidence we will bump into someone in the supermarket and see that their shopping cart is loaded with chef boyardee ravioli (our favorite! It must be love!).

Dave and I have officially declared a new religion. I'll call it the church of Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks. All who do not believe will be forced to watch PBS documentaries for eternity.

Each our own shade of pigment on an endless canvas, we are bleeding into one another and creating endless indiscernible hues. A meaningless masterpiece. We are the ink, we are the pigment, we are the canvas – depending on your perspective. You are me and I am you, and combined we’re something altogether different from you or I alone.

What color are you? A zealous, forceful, and brilliant green, perhaps? Maybe you started out as this shade, but you were invaded by vermillion red, and you ended up being a dull brown color instead.

Transfer From the "L" to the "3"

A street performer's saxophone wails softly
In unison with a child's cry
Marked by the sixteenth and thirty-secondth notes
Of the clodding footsteps
Of potential passengers
As the train tickety-tacks to a screeching crescendo