which is to say very little
these days but only because
priorities have gotten the best of me
and frankly i have an all virginia
tobacco I’ve been looking forward to
for a few days which i also anticipate
taking precedence over you again tomorrow.
but until then, you’ll be missed and loved and held briefly in my mind in a caring way you’ll probably hold on to for much too long as though being led on, or misled on as the case may more accurately be.
until then….
Even with all the culture and
refinement and every moment
of this modern age of punk-soul
experimental-hip-hop jam-noise
every experience a special and
new one every eye looking just
behind the Billboards or raiding
basements or record bins there’s
still Rock and Roll and it’s all
it ever was and it’s all it ever
should be and frankly sometimes
I just feel like it’s all I’ll
ever need
something inside is a-stirring and churning
it hits against my cranial box
leaving tiny dots of despair
when i look your way, they shake like salts
so when you cry i don’t cry
i float on cheap red wines miles away
and the moon rise and rise
but i do not rise with it
i jive in feverish moods
in the urban noises i keep on jumping through hoops
so when you cry i don’t cry
i go into a cave deep down below
my hands scribble your name on the walls
to weigh in the math of your existence
and make sense of it
perhaps it’s the childhood years in the eighties
spent staring at pavements wondering
why it couldn’t be lava instead
back then the “future” was such a big word
and when i breathed, i breathed in life itself
i shone with stars and played with invisible friends
i thank aliens for David Bowie and
joyously gazed at candle light
and when you cried, i cried with you
when you ran, i ran with you
I imitated your every word and gesture
sometimes i thought i was you
and when the moon rose, I flew towards you or perhaps
the world twirled twirled around me
drunk with the night air and without a care, i went to sleep
but one morning i woke up to a different you
when you walked, i couldn’t walk with you
it was pitch dark i lost the sight of you- i learned about fear
when you talked, i couldn’t hear you
it was so silent, i counted your heartbeats- i learned about boredom
when you jumped, i broke few bones
it was painful – i learned about gravity and death
So when you cry i don’t cry
and when i feel, i don’t feel at all
Every snare hit snaps
a clue or fact
like bullets on an overhead
and this is what reality is
So sometimes you collect
or ask as much
and allotments aren’t enough
but I never fought a war,
maybe I can’t say
Me? I’m a lucky man,
I got all my parts;
factory original and all
war’s a rough business,
makes it hard to think
sometimes
Makes it hard to breathe
and sometimes nobody wants
to fight much more, and
sometimes somebody wants to live
and this is what reality is
and sometimes they fight to death
and sometimes they win.
My soul is hoping,
but I never fought a war before.
a message sent from chaos
arrived in my hand around
four in the afternoon on
the day after a sunday
a day before monday.
a time in existence
specifically for
letters sent from chaos.
sometime before five and after three.
sent from my family
with apologies.
from my window the light reflected
off the pavement makes the streets
look covered in snow
but they are not covered in snow
and it could look like
alot of other things
too
but it would be none
of those things either
it’s october and it there
hasn’t been a drop of snow
and when my perspective shifts
my perception will change
and i will step out onto the
dry streets and remark
“why there isn’t any
snow out here
at all.”
I have half a mind to throttle you
and dash your soul against the sharp stones
at the base of the bluff
that overlooks a vast expanse of ice and sea
and even if you were only cold an instant
I would be happy
and even if you drowned just a little bit
I would cry these tears of joy
that I’ve been saving all this time
for a special occasion
when you sent the message
that you were moving at first
i didn’t care and i thought
it might be a good thing for
you and for your life and stuff
but then i thought about the
times we had and feel really sorry
that i didn’t talk to you more
because you are pretty cool
i’d go to a show with you
and let you hold my phone
and have my back when things
go crazy
and that’s the kind of friend i want
and that’s the kind of friend
i should ask to stay
when they tell me they’re going
to move out.
i saw u drwning but
didnt know y so
just left
i wuld rathr go
drinking
than b home w/ u
& sumtimes i dremt
abt letting go
abt suicide
but we had luv
but it destroyed
us
plz dont frgt
y we broke up
I am a creature under duress
from the atmosphere
and from the biting vermin
and prowling wolves
and so forth
and we all are
Sometimes when I lay down at night
I hurt with no definition of terms;
an un-named throb or forgotten bruise
or a rash from the bite of a sneaking tick
Sometimes I am afraid that my ears
will never stop ringing.
Sometimes I rub my temples too hard
because even though it hurts now
I’m sure it will help in the end
Most nights, though, I breathe our
atmosphere, and relish in the duress
of it all
seems a while since i’ve graced
these halls and ran my finger
across what was once white and
free from graffiti. art.
seems forever since i paced around
surrounded by friends and enjoying
company in what now seems like visiting
your elementary school at night time
for a play or some other odd event
that was never meant to take up the halls
of an institution so big. so public.
but here i am.
There was more than once
that I tried to picture that guitar amplifier
with the thick carpet and reindstone studs
lined up so perfect. I never quite could.
Dad still has that old painted Gibson.
He brought it back from the dead.
It plays just like it should, but the pickup
still isn’t quite right. That’s okay, though.
The paintjob still looks wonderful.
Dad says that you visited that night,
and I understand that you couldn’t stay long.
We’ve all got places we’ve got to be,
and I think you understand that,
too.
Either way, I’ll play the next one for you.
the night is falling and
i hear the sound of his footsteps
outstretched and near breaking point
darkness seeps beneath my skin
nothing means anything
we’ll fall in a well in the end
so let’s go smoke city fumes
crawl behind pigeons on the pavement
stare at lights turning green yellow red
we’re twisted beneath delightful wrappers
so dig in and we will scratch against your tongue
misty eyed and woe-full,
we sleep-walk through the forest in your mind
never questioning the hungry ghosts on your back
my my we cherish money in your pocket and
holes in your soul
but in the end we’ll all fall in the well
so go easy as you drink the midnight sky
the clouds you wear on your feet will not last
sweep tears from angels’ cheeks while you still can
what seemed like a flight will turn into a fall
like a stone launching in the air
may come to know that it only flies when it’s thrown
nothing means much
when you’re on the ground
more starfish than stardust, I’m
all limb and no magic,
bottom oceaned away from the moon.
even near the shore
I am more
sunken brig than fleet,
moored, now, and cleaning
off seamonkey cobwebs from
my stern,
with its eyebrows furrowed.
Encompassed, I face east
and play west on soft bells
just amber enough to hint
at stargazing, but
only secretly, and my
telescope is full of
fish anyways, so I
seasalt more brilliant
than those murky depths
and grasp at straw moons
that are already ablaze.
And here I am.
with all this water
but not a ship in sight
and so many miles away.
And then there are all those people
that come and go and kick and claw
for no real purpose but to agitate
and here you are with bruised shins
and scratched shoulders
You’ve been running a fever for
probably years, I would imagine,
but the people with the thermometers
are busy checking the boil on their
latest batches of poison
so you soldier on with that fire
burning out of your forehead*
(*fires, mind you, are not so bad
mostly; they warm the heart that
powers the spirit that drives the soul,
but it’s a bit like your carburetor
is putting the fuel in the wrong place,
and I’m sure you know all about that)
Despite it all, you do pretty well.
You cultivated your garden and you
made your spices and I wish that that
had been enough to make you better.
You perform movements now and again
and it moves you, too, even if no-
body is looking
You write. It is excellent.
As for me, I don’t have much for you
in the way of cure. I am no alchemist,
nor a nurse’s aid,
nor a real live Pharmacognosist.
I even put too much sugar in the tea
most times
I can wrap a bandage, though, and I
can get you cold water almost always.
I can even lay still, now and then,
just long enough for that throbbing
in your head to almost go away.
And I’ll do all of that,
just as much as you need me to.
I woke up this morning, to the light shining through my curtains.
The sun’s fresh beams blinding as my eyes first opened.
My waking thoughts racing,
turning corners folding back in on itself
all reflecting the water in the bay.
Crystal clear, cold and deep.
I go back to that place.
With unnerving clarity, I remember
it all.
and tears from the bay come rolling.
We held hands in this place
and dared tomorrow to come.
And it did.
And it swept us out into the sea.
while walking through a park, a feeble light peeked through
trembling branches, and like that
strange thoughts came to my mind
“if someone had believed in me would i
be less lacking, fragile, nervous,…
would I have the confidence to be
a woman
a wife or
a human being
[life is erasing me before I even get
to say “ah, I’m alive”]
would i be greedier or stronger
believing that there is a space for me to be,
a higher place to climb, a hand to reach out to
instead of fearfully catching my breath
throughout the day
would i be more loving
would i be more grounded”
[but mind and heart reason trying to assuage each other]
they were probably like me
busy in their thoughts
caught up in their…
Desires? Hopes? Problems?
but What about me?
[I do not wish to count the nails on my coffin or tally their faults to
justify my own failings.
But where does it leave me?
between the hammer and the anvil?
or am i the hand that pummels and plunders?]
who am I not seeing
who am i not believing in
who am i encouraging
who do i approve of
or are we forever teetering around the same spots,
giving and receiving scars, learning how to fall on our knees or
how to sweep our feet with someone’s else pride
[I’ve built myself inside empty rooms
I grew up cold
but more of snow than ice,
I am self aware]
***
Summary of thoughts:
is a full stomach a happy stomach?
Not according to scientists/doctors and other know-it-all
so always leave a little space
and remember the heart is just another organ
do you ever hear the brain complaining?
as for the metaphorical heart, well, …
oh never mind
i lost track again
i rarely know what i truly mean
i must be disingenuous at heart
or just scatterbrained or both
but as they aptly say/describe
cats meow
dogs bark
cows moo
lions roar
pigs grunt
etc…
but what do humans do?
they carry all different sounds
thus have no true sound
so i’m done hissing my truth,
and hence leave you with filtered untruths
or something like that
if you’re young and desire
to write beautiful words
for the majority of your life
i strongly encourage you to
seek perfection in a mate.
perfection will never come,
and thus you will never lack a
mythological muse. yes, whatever
you do, if you want to write
beautiful words, do not find
someone who makes you ridiculously
happy and sweep them off their feet.
for you’ll find your poetry
becomes shockingly drab. especially
over time when you realize the imperfect
can be overwhelmingly
beautiful, and overnight you
lack a muse.
you’ll only know contentedness
and being content will nourish
your soul but suck beauty from your pen.
you’ll lose the drive to seek perfection
and the myth itself will die a slow
death until you sit down to write
beautiful words, and find in their
place nothing beautiful; mere
words.
it is completely natural to hate oneself
and make arbitrary judgements of
morality based on one’s own relative
experiences and act as if the natural
world is somehow altruistic and not
being consumed by greed when in fact
biology itself is having it’s greatest
performance right now
and it is cement and steel
architecture
it is nuclear power and snuggies
and although we are not rutting around
in the ground and eating raw meat
and raping or fighting on a miniscule scale
we still are a species here
come from the same womb as our surroundings
we just do it big
we’re the best that has ever lived
our name is nature and we are greed
we are plastic and compounded metal
we are choking ourselves like it is our job
and it seems natural, to hate that.
The mosquito is useless
As he grows fat to grow fatter
So his children can do the same
And there isn’t anything he can say
To excuse himself, with that strange
Stinging probiscis of his
His only redemption is found in the colder months;
In those days he can, at least,
Not be bothered to come around.
He sins again though,
come springtime.
the sieve and the sand 
You must be logged in to post a comment.