All that matters are the words,
It’s absurd, to think a thing as fickle as desire would
Clear out the field of players that wield axes,
Come from battles they lose,
Over and over, you know
I often don’t understand the terms you use
Though I love to hear you spin
Your story, beat by beat because
None of it,
Not you, not me
Ever had to make sense,
Tie me up and rip me down
I’ll just let you walk,
Knee deep through my matter,
I’m scattered
My lips are battered from
Chewing the words instead of
Telling you, I was here
Long before your arrival.
Don’t pretend, I amend
My story, I’m no downer
Except you keep dipping low
Where ups reverse
their flow.
2009/10/21
2009/10/05
When you get sick, do you prefer to go it alone or be doted upon by a friend, partner, or parent? Do you usually go to work or school or stay home?
Wow is this appropriate for me today!
I had a wound that was pretty well healed until a week ago, and now my body is pouring forth the chemicals of sickness and sorrow, and all that comes along with life's many tribulations.
Most often, when finding that a stage like this has approached the present, I prefer to handle it on my own.
Who wants to be around a sick person?
Even those that love me the most, wanting to lay in bed with me, or come over in the middle of the night to care for me are pushed away.
I miss them as I push them, but in the end I feel better, more empowered.
I write until I need to rest, read when I'm feeling well enough, and watch films of various foreign languages to keep my phonetic abilities in shape. I write sad poems that are open to inferences -which are ususally wrong- and test my narrative skills by jotting down the thoughts of a person without a voice, and theoretically fictional.
My hair's finally growing out. Grazing the tops of my shoulder blades, it falls softly in front of my face, and I smile because I'm starting to resemble the lovely girl with cascading ringlets I was just a year ago.
Everytime I ask a question I'm told to write.
Dear scribblers, artists, fondlers, and music makers,
I wish for you a lovely fast paced Monday. As for me, I wish for hibernation beneath the quilts with hot black tea, paper, pens, and books.
Wow is this appropriate for me today!
I had a wound that was pretty well healed until a week ago, and now my body is pouring forth the chemicals of sickness and sorrow, and all that comes along with life's many tribulations.
Most often, when finding that a stage like this has approached the present, I prefer to handle it on my own.
Who wants to be around a sick person?
Even those that love me the most, wanting to lay in bed with me, or come over in the middle of the night to care for me are pushed away.
I miss them as I push them, but in the end I feel better, more empowered.
I write until I need to rest, read when I'm feeling well enough, and watch films of various foreign languages to keep my phonetic abilities in shape. I write sad poems that are open to inferences -which are ususally wrong- and test my narrative skills by jotting down the thoughts of a person without a voice, and theoretically fictional.
My hair's finally growing out. Grazing the tops of my shoulder blades, it falls softly in front of my face, and I smile because I'm starting to resemble the lovely girl with cascading ringlets I was just a year ago.
Everytime I ask a question I'm told to write.
Dear scribblers, artists, fondlers, and music makers,
I wish for you a lovely fast paced Monday. As for me, I wish for hibernation beneath the quilts with hot black tea, paper, pens, and books.
2009/10/04
Melancholy Bloodstream
Sore heart I beg you to continue on beating.
The past bears the heaviest load of pain and I
Cannot carry the burden it unloads upon my present
I don’t. Don’t want to see faces in my dreams
Because the thought of love being ignored with doubt
With the ignorant certainty of finding a pearl in a broken clam shell,
Turns my Love to dust when once it was so alive.
A stomach full of flies and no butter
Feeding on afterthoughts like parasites
I plead, dearest muscle keep pumping and I
Will nourish you with hope,
Coddle you with sweet something’s,
Kiss you awake with unspoken promises.
The abundance of what awaits beckons impatiently
Missing you though it hasn’t met you
Yet.
The past bears the heaviest load of pain and I
Cannot carry the burden it unloads upon my present
I don’t. Don’t want to see faces in my dreams
Because the thought of love being ignored with doubt
With the ignorant certainty of finding a pearl in a broken clam shell,
Turns my Love to dust when once it was so alive.
A stomach full of flies and no butter
Feeding on afterthoughts like parasites
I plead, dearest muscle keep pumping and I
Will nourish you with hope,
Coddle you with sweet something’s,
Kiss you awake with unspoken promises.
The abundance of what awaits beckons impatiently
Missing you though it hasn’t met you
Yet.
2009/09/29
Subway Syndicate
On a Sunday afternoon riding the subway
many things surprise me.
Ruffled heavy dresses,
Sweaters and Suits,
Scowling faces,
Unshaved legs.
Laziness is Sunday's motto.
An asian woman stares with heavily lined eyes
into a portable map.
Her mouth pursed in a concentrated ball
no longer seems pensive.
She purses her mouth much like a fish would,
when rising to the surface for air.
I keep staring as if my own will could
help her mouth relax.
Possible embaressment causes her to pull the map closer,
concealing her face.
Her lips relax.
They frown.
A woman in a white dress made
of cotton,
Silk,
and lace
chooses not to sit in any of the available seats.
Her body reads, 'I don't often take public transportation.'
Exiting at 23rd I notice she's wearing headphones.
Can't help but wonder
what she's listening to.
I exit the train at 14th street and pose
a few options.
many things surprise me.
Ruffled heavy dresses,
Sweaters and Suits,
Scowling faces,
Unshaved legs.
Laziness is Sunday's motto.
An asian woman stares with heavily lined eyes
into a portable map.
Her mouth pursed in a concentrated ball
no longer seems pensive.
She purses her mouth much like a fish would,
when rising to the surface for air.
I keep staring as if my own will could
help her mouth relax.
Possible embaressment causes her to pull the map closer,
concealing her face.
Her lips relax.
They frown.
A woman in a white dress made
of cotton,
Silk,
and lace
chooses not to sit in any of the available seats.
Her body reads, 'I don't often take public transportation.'
Exiting at 23rd I notice she's wearing headphones.
Can't help but wonder
what she's listening to.
I exit the train at 14th street and pose
a few options.
How Strange, Innocence
Can we really be friends?
Part of this makes me sad.
The illogically natural feel to a friendship
that once included physical intimacy.
Sex becomes so trivial, and thoughts
of extinguishing the flame are no longer thoughts.
The matches no longer serve to ignite
but to prolong stifled chemistry
and what you once thought was
so unique, sustained by passion,
has died with the ease of habit.
Such a shame.
Part of this makes me sad.
The illogically natural feel to a friendship
that once included physical intimacy.
Sex becomes so trivial, and thoughts
of extinguishing the flame are no longer thoughts.
The matches no longer serve to ignite
but to prolong stifled chemistry
and what you once thought was
so unique, sustained by passion,
has died with the ease of habit.
Such a shame.
2009/08/29
At 19. "Reality's Destruction"
A weakness in human kind has always been the necessity
To support the desire of concealing the obvious
The fact that we must promote the idea that things can get better
When they are down
That the pain, however piercing
Will one day fade from our hearts
The possible reason is that we are all stuck on forms of idealism
The probable answer, however, is that no one wants to believe
The pain may very well become the thing that destroys us
So our weaknesses are in our avoidance of the real
Allowing each night to drag on
While the day speeds up with minor habitual inconveniences
Eventually, we each become our own *destroyers*
It's the wave of nausea, the pang in our guts
...Thoughts of age, and deterioration...
Accepting reality is too expensive these days
Even for the most fortunate
Likewise with words, lies have been made cheap
Who needs the truth when you can afford to lie...
Note: I love the naivety in this relic. Forgive its bad format.
To support the desire of concealing the obvious
The fact that we must promote the idea that things can get better
When they are down
That the pain, however piercing
Will one day fade from our hearts
The possible reason is that we are all stuck on forms of idealism
The probable answer, however, is that no one wants to believe
The pain may very well become the thing that destroys us
So our weaknesses are in our avoidance of the real
Allowing each night to drag on
While the day speeds up with minor habitual inconveniences
Eventually, we each become our own *destroyers*
It's the wave of nausea, the pang in our guts
...Thoughts of age, and deterioration...
Accepting reality is too expensive these days
Even for the most fortunate
Likewise with words, lies have been made cheap
Who needs the truth when you can afford to lie...
Note: I love the naivety in this relic. Forgive its bad format.
2009/08/20
Another little dittie from the east...
At night I dream of sleep while awake
Chasing stars,
Toes curling at the foot of a doorway
I see with my eyes closed.
Chasing stars,
Toes curling at the foot of a doorway
I see with my eyes closed.
2009/08/14
A former roommate called me driving west...
He was getting paid to drive a truck from New Hampshire to California. It was a way to earn a few extra bucks, and while we spoke on the phone he described to me what he saw.
It inspired a piece I began, that was in an entirely new voice so foreign to my own.
I still dig it.
----
Burning with the lust for adventure, he visits volcanoes in California. Legs swinging, he sat beneath the hot springs liberated by volcanic oozes, magma, and geysers visualizing the boiling water beneath the ground. The lava erupting over one land; Part Wyoming, part Montana, and part Idaho. Fucking huge and out of control.
Mountains hold his gaze, and amid the floating wisps of twisted mariquana cigarettes he feels very much liberated by the open road. Gusts of wind meander in and out of his car windows softly humming over the sound of his world music. Cracking his knuckles to an invisible drumbeat, a mist of rain that he once tolerated begins to sprinkle upon his steering wheel. He’s been clutching the fourth joint of the evening between his forefinger and thumb. Surprisingly his fingertips are clean and uncinged; he’s been doing this for days without flaw. Through desolate highway roads, the soft music of Midwest nothingness, and the colors of sunrise and sunset blending into one even hue of grey.
For the last few hours the whoosh of passing cars has been amiss. Silently he aches for the metallic symphony of some other vehicle or the crushing presence of another pick up truck. In that moment he’s tempted to sway his steering wheel along with the escalating tempo of the chanting vocals in his car radio. Instead he settles on to casual head bopping. A ridiculous act that he secretly is thankful no one witnesses.
Purple skies turn a deep mauve, and from a very slight distance he sees the ominous shape of a buffalo; A comfort in the descending shadow of night. Clearly, the beast appreciates the quiet privacy of the road relieving itself in one still moment; Perfect for a single frame on Jeff’s camera. Slowing his truck to a smooth trailing glide, one soft click alerts the bull of his proximity. But he still finishes the job; the next stop is Nevada.
Stray, highway tires are aflame not too distant from the looming ashen edifice down the road. The ashenned brick, and thick black fence surrounding tells his intuition that it’s a prison. He thinks, making a few phone calls to pass the time wouldn’t be such a bad idea, might ease his nerves. With the exception that he’s called most everyone who would conceivably be awake at this point. Ah but text messages, his generation’s attempt at intimacy without the nuisance of actual voice on voice contact. They serve to pass the time; for the moment.
The hours of silence persist and permits paranoia to return to the scene, rendering him wary of any lurking bulls hiding in the shadow of the descending desert sun. Fatigue is barely replaced by caffeine pills, and he stares into that bucket seat between the passenger and driver with the longing for the warmth of a woman’s knee beneath his palm. It has been a long journey from adventure to the calming madness of solitude. Smothered by the silence of the open road he sifts his hand through the glove compartment in search of new tunes. Here is the point where he silently seeks a voice to join his journey on the silent road providing a roadblock of blood, sex and madness. His eyes flutter over the glare of his headlights though not from fatigue, but more a waking dream providing the great escape. The feat which has been so easily avoided begins to seep into his consciousness, and the realization of his final destination looms before him in the shape of a bird in flight.
It inspired a piece I began, that was in an entirely new voice so foreign to my own.
I still dig it.
----
Burning with the lust for adventure, he visits volcanoes in California. Legs swinging, he sat beneath the hot springs liberated by volcanic oozes, magma, and geysers visualizing the boiling water beneath the ground. The lava erupting over one land; Part Wyoming, part Montana, and part Idaho. Fucking huge and out of control.
Mountains hold his gaze, and amid the floating wisps of twisted mariquana cigarettes he feels very much liberated by the open road. Gusts of wind meander in and out of his car windows softly humming over the sound of his world music. Cracking his knuckles to an invisible drumbeat, a mist of rain that he once tolerated begins to sprinkle upon his steering wheel. He’s been clutching the fourth joint of the evening between his forefinger and thumb. Surprisingly his fingertips are clean and uncinged; he’s been doing this for days without flaw. Through desolate highway roads, the soft music of Midwest nothingness, and the colors of sunrise and sunset blending into one even hue of grey.
For the last few hours the whoosh of passing cars has been amiss. Silently he aches for the metallic symphony of some other vehicle or the crushing presence of another pick up truck. In that moment he’s tempted to sway his steering wheel along with the escalating tempo of the chanting vocals in his car radio. Instead he settles on to casual head bopping. A ridiculous act that he secretly is thankful no one witnesses.
Purple skies turn a deep mauve, and from a very slight distance he sees the ominous shape of a buffalo; A comfort in the descending shadow of night. Clearly, the beast appreciates the quiet privacy of the road relieving itself in one still moment; Perfect for a single frame on Jeff’s camera. Slowing his truck to a smooth trailing glide, one soft click alerts the bull of his proximity. But he still finishes the job; the next stop is Nevada.
Stray, highway tires are aflame not too distant from the looming ashen edifice down the road. The ashenned brick, and thick black fence surrounding tells his intuition that it’s a prison. He thinks, making a few phone calls to pass the time wouldn’t be such a bad idea, might ease his nerves. With the exception that he’s called most everyone who would conceivably be awake at this point. Ah but text messages, his generation’s attempt at intimacy without the nuisance of actual voice on voice contact. They serve to pass the time; for the moment.
The hours of silence persist and permits paranoia to return to the scene, rendering him wary of any lurking bulls hiding in the shadow of the descending desert sun. Fatigue is barely replaced by caffeine pills, and he stares into that bucket seat between the passenger and driver with the longing for the warmth of a woman’s knee beneath his palm. It has been a long journey from adventure to the calming madness of solitude. Smothered by the silence of the open road he sifts his hand through the glove compartment in search of new tunes. Here is the point where he silently seeks a voice to join his journey on the silent road providing a roadblock of blood, sex and madness. His eyes flutter over the glare of his headlights though not from fatigue, but more a waking dream providing the great escape. The feat which has been so easily avoided begins to seep into his consciousness, and the realization of his final destination looms before him in the shape of a bird in flight.
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