trying to find the center
August 10, 2010
alone is different than lonely
but god I tell you I am both
and am walking ’round in circles, here
trying to find the center
and this is a true account of my days
written here for you to see
as usual, and of course
I can’t let go of the words, oh
what’s more is you can have all my stuff
i don’t care about much anymore
but i miss your dog, i miss your dog
yeah yeah, yeah yeah, etc
but if you wanted me (and you don’t)
I would’ve saved you yes I would
but your love is such a weighty lie
your love is just a sucker game.
partial lyrics on a sunday
June 6, 2010
the ghosts of rocks tap your window
your friends are all dust in the air
you feel like some low-budget horror movie
trashed on a god-given sunday
and i’ve not got any pain left
and i might die but that’s okay
and this old movie called “youth”
well it gets old in it’s own way
the monkeys turn tricks on the boulevard
the leaves flap around in the sunlight
well painkillers make me feel alright
i guess that’s how i lie to get by sometimes
i guess that’s how i lie to get by alright.
technology, entertainment, design
May 3, 2010
i posit that all of this gas
and carbon nonsense is
the molecules within a falling
raindrop, electrons and
other scientific things popping
and fizzing as supernovas in
a black abyss. that chances are
we will be crushed on an umbrella,
that man will have spent all
of his time sitting in front of computer
screens, watching geniuses blabber,
positing about carbon and raindrops,
and plop,
right on some 9 year old’s hannah
montana umbrella. she’ll be livin’ like
us, ears closed, just like one big
epic irony. for feelings,
i guess.
my tombstone should include “wide-eyed” on it somewhere
April 1, 2010
i am wide eyed and high floating
above rivers of happy
philistines and i find that
everything is funny because
it’s all so very grave.
waves of irony end their journey
from: our massive sun-god
to: my face and
amplify my smile;
coloring all things in their
deep, deep comedy.
i smile and graze over the
earth with my eyes lightly
so as to not break a thing.
“humans are bad balloons”
i think and
look down
as i deflate
the crumbly breaky surface
giving way at the thought of
my come-down. sunshine
turning into heat
bird chirps
turning into traffic
smog
all things blackening and
crumbling as i come down.
i grab at the comedy but
cannot hold anything,
not even the air.
you are the only in the world
November 10, 2009
how alone, we poets would
be. if we were ever, truly,
the only in the world.
without a room-full to
shout things to.
poetry is so blooming selfish
May 22, 2009
i wrote into the void
words meant to create
feelings in you i myself
no longer wished to feel
hoping my vomit would
relieve my ache
and somehow what i rejected
would disgust you.
and as you cleaned yourself
of my refuse
i’d feel better knowing i was
no longer alone
Firsts
April 23, 2009
Too often I lament the ideas
That have eluded my pen
But in mourning even one second
I miss what now is.
Take as much as I can.
Begin the very first chapter
Of my very first book.
The first is always the hardest, they say.
The first step,
The first day,
The first word,
The first sentence.
music
February 14, 2009
shocked at how oft
i forget the feelings
you arouse not
so much for what you
bring as the way
you choose to bring
it to my ears
whispering poetry in stereo
through crescendo mastered
and captured here in pocket
to make the grey skies less so
for things like this – an apology to historians
January 20, 2009
my lack of works surpassing
a single syllable seems consistently
to lead to poems with lines nearly
or at least visibly
unrelated
but the thoughts seem so tangible
when my fingers move and they spit themselves
out
before i manage to complete the thought
reminding me
i cannot think without these words
my thoughts do not form without me
speaking
farting
or writing
and button after button this
idea makes it into history.
something i’m writing
because i’m unable to simply
dwell on it
buttloads of poetry
January 4, 2009
1000 monkeys in a room
or rather 7 monkeys on a blog and
given long enough we were unable
to write, or even copy shakespeare
but dare i say we made great inroads
words are spilled these pages
you’ll have doubtful ever seen
in a finer journal
rhymes were composed and thoughts
spit out so few of us will ever share
with our mothers
and so it seemed fit as much as there was
and given from whence it came
the sieve and the sand
buttloads of poetry
(p.s. we published our third book – buttloads of poetry for less than $6.00. take home the brilliance)
slowing poetry
January 1, 2009
because our imaginations seem
to slow as the crowds take vacation
heading home to see mom and dad
hopefully the man in red and determine
to be resolute rather than allow our fingers
to slide somehow romatically over these
keys and lull our blog into blissful
beauty of heartfelt words
but then
blog is such an ugly word
its perhaps best we just act like
you’re reading this in a quality
glue bound journal
on why most poet’s brilliance isn’t discovered until after they die
September 26, 2008
our words as awesome as they may be
the pages we color with melody
nothing we do will ever hope to seem
as poetic as passing to death
most permanently
au wiedersehen
September 10, 2008
Stormed shadows crawling
Across nearly frosted lawns,
The passage of time.
inspiration – once a necessity, now a mere luxury
August 22, 2008
mud
sweat
beers
the many words they help to conjure
rides and runs and
bitter cold
with blue sky – and snow
benches dedicated only be filled with you
- together
street lamps lonely and frozen
out of place
off the grid
mysteries
water balloons shot at distant trains
epic battles with snow balls
with fevers
overheating and overeating
the “phew!”
the proud
the in-betweens
and you
muse you are and muse you do
now life can be lived without you
because if your sole purpose in life is to produce cotton and you don’t – consider your life a failure
July 31, 2008
whether you are aware or not
my ability to write
epic poetry of love and life
has been reduced
to that annoying little whine
coming from the breaks of a ’57
chevy station wagon
stacked with a whole house’s
worth of furniture
mattress
desk
rocking chair and all
up to the top of the
cottonless cotton tree
and almost as sad
rcribay
joshuagrace
freakynewchild
Tucker J. Collins
saxsquatch
David X. Hugo
larsalexander
tynedaile
