It’s really easy to feel sorry for yourself
with your family's weakened voices in your ear
the surgery was successful
the cancer has spread though
not sure how far
London’s fireworks have fired and everyone is at the pub
Kissed and looking for more
That was two hours ago,
When you were still thinking of starting a band
When inspiration seemed imminent
When invitations were opening
And the news hadn’t really gotten around
Nothing but a phone call to make a connection
You’ve had plenty of experience and justifiable reason
You’re explanations for solitude during the celebration reasonable
And if they called you noble
Would you grin and bear it?
Would you contemplate or laugh it off?
Would you choke or spit it back?
Let em know it’s the same fear that keeps you from reaching
Listening to the “Smallest Skyline”
TPC singing with more meaning than the lyrics proclaim
And I’m ashamed, not knowing if its Jeff or Aaron
Telling me I better start pretty soon
If I ever want to change things.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Things written in my notebook (dec 31 2009)
Is that your Love?
You cant stop moving,
some would say your nervousness
has overcome you,
but I think its your
Excitement.
Some part of you
tries to defeat it,
but you can't keep from
Dancing.
-Smiles and head bobs
-beaming all blissful
winning his smile-dimples-cheeks rosed
with every,
single,
movement.
There is a thin line between
seeing and living
so thin that the former is often
mistaken for the latter,
especially in those with
a degree of imagination and -
large egos (the "empathetic").
But seeing is not living,
seeing can cause one
to change course.
But living
always leads to the
same end.
A Taxpayer's dilemma
Our eyes never meet in this
season of this climate.
Not for sake of politeness
but for sake of danger,
like Londoners avoiding dogshit
Junior High students' their shame
or Venetians a wet shoe
we tread this sidewalk in peril.
-A shuffle to keep
from broken hipped hobbles
-A nervous half step
to keep from plummeting
Its not for lack of tenderness
we miss greetings,
but a cities' lack of sand.
(possibly unfinished)
I spent the day
in and out of small shops
in the old quarter.
-dry concrete darkened by
time and car exhaust
framing each door way.
Doors always open,
always dark within-
for the odd lighting
of many lightbulbs
with low powered wattage
-cant compare with the sun.
But inside
a marvel of color
a mountain of trinkets
and that pashmina
intricately patterned, soft
and elegant.
But each a different quality, that only the touch
of fingers on fabric
can judge.
When we came to the shop with the softest
most beautiful
we haggled and pretended to refuse,
but really our ruse and his
were played for the part,
for pretending you're not interested
is more than half the art.
Now I see my print and color
wrapping the racks at Target,
but compare your cheap and easy
to my epic prize won adventuring
through silk road markets,
and you will find yourself wanting.
You cant stop moving,
some would say your nervousness
has overcome you,
but I think its your
Excitement.
Some part of you
tries to defeat it,
but you can't keep from
Dancing.
-Smiles and head bobs
-beaming all blissful
winning his smile-dimples-cheeks rosed
with every,
single,
movement.
There is a thin line between
seeing and living
so thin that the former is often
mistaken for the latter,
especially in those with
a degree of imagination and -
large egos (the "empathetic").
But seeing is not living,
seeing can cause one
to change course.
But living
always leads to the
same end.
A Taxpayer's dilemma
Our eyes never meet in this
season of this climate.
Not for sake of politeness
but for sake of danger,
like Londoners avoiding dogshit
Junior High students' their shame
or Venetians a wet shoe
we tread this sidewalk in peril.
-A shuffle to keep
from broken hipped hobbles
-A nervous half step
to keep from plummeting
Its not for lack of tenderness
we miss greetings,
but a cities' lack of sand.
(possibly unfinished)
I spent the day
in and out of small shops
in the old quarter.
-dry concrete darkened by
time and car exhaust
framing each door way.
Doors always open,
always dark within-
for the odd lighting
of many lightbulbs
with low powered wattage
-cant compare with the sun.
But inside
a marvel of color
a mountain of trinkets
and that pashmina
intricately patterned, soft
and elegant.
But each a different quality, that only the touch
of fingers on fabric
can judge.
When we came to the shop with the softest
most beautiful
we haggled and pretended to refuse,
but really our ruse and his
were played for the part,
for pretending you're not interested
is more than half the art.
Now I see my print and color
wrapping the racks at Target,
but compare your cheap and easy
to my epic prize won adventuring
through silk road markets,
and you will find yourself wanting.
Monday, August 24, 2009
What love is not
I once believed I could fall in love with anyone
Practiced it,
Perfected it,
Found myself directionless
For each new scent was the next I would follow
And when bested by insecurity,
always a new love tomorrow.
Practiced it,
Perfected it,
Found myself directionless
For each new scent was the next I would follow
And when bested by insecurity,
always a new love tomorrow.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Hermenegildo Thurgood (August 09)
Most would find it to be the most ironic twist of fate, a doom beyond the norm, a man and natural made calamity. But Hermenegildo Thurgood (Hermes for short) could only laugh, for his predicament was in his eyes entirely self created.
Some years back Hermes had the bright idea to share his body with the needy of the world. Recent advances in medicine had allowed him to donate all the secondary body parts to which he was no doubt accustomed to using but which in existence seemed redundant and greedy to him to retain, as if a second arm were a thing to spare, he spared them. The entirety of his left leg, left testicle, a portion of his liver, a portion of small intestine, 1 kidney, 1 lung, the entirety of his left arm removed at the shoulder, one ear complete with all the hearing components needed, one eye, and perhaps most absurdly one half of his remaining teeth. This last donation even bothered the medical professionals in that it was absolutely unnecessary due to the prominence of false teeth in the world. The other gifts the surgeons took willingly for there was a shortage and a war going on and if the organs and parts were given willingly then no one could complain about the ethics for it was a hard time… everyone had to make do without. To top this Hermes told several of the doctors who had seemed more reluctant that he was dying of some rare disease that none of them bothered to look up but which magically did not affect the coveted areas of his body.
This was the reason Hermes laughed.
For he had spent very little time in this newly adjusted body, and light as it was the strain of adjusting had put a damper on his brain. The doctors had said he had had a stroke sometime the evening before. The paralysis appeared to run lengthwise down the right side of his body, the only side of his body.
Most men would cry.
Hermes laughed.
******************************************
I woke up thinking about this.
Some years back Hermes had the bright idea to share his body with the needy of the world. Recent advances in medicine had allowed him to donate all the secondary body parts to which he was no doubt accustomed to using but which in existence seemed redundant and greedy to him to retain, as if a second arm were a thing to spare, he spared them. The entirety of his left leg, left testicle, a portion of his liver, a portion of small intestine, 1 kidney, 1 lung, the entirety of his left arm removed at the shoulder, one ear complete with all the hearing components needed, one eye, and perhaps most absurdly one half of his remaining teeth. This last donation even bothered the medical professionals in that it was absolutely unnecessary due to the prominence of false teeth in the world. The other gifts the surgeons took willingly for there was a shortage and a war going on and if the organs and parts were given willingly then no one could complain about the ethics for it was a hard time… everyone had to make do without. To top this Hermes told several of the doctors who had seemed more reluctant that he was dying of some rare disease that none of them bothered to look up but which magically did not affect the coveted areas of his body.
This was the reason Hermes laughed.
For he had spent very little time in this newly adjusted body, and light as it was the strain of adjusting had put a damper on his brain. The doctors had said he had had a stroke sometime the evening before. The paralysis appeared to run lengthwise down the right side of his body, the only side of his body.
Most men would cry.
Hermes laughed.
******************************************
I woke up thinking about this.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Advice to the New (July 2009)
Like in all relationships or with all
People, you must find a shared language
A common perspective
Otherwise he will approach
Given his circumstances, his
Motivations and assumptions
As will you
And find a barrier where
Your words meet
Eyes and tone
Grins and giggles
Gestures and the unspoken
Will collide
Perhaps creating divisions where
Bridges were meant to be
Misunderstandings
Become tragedies
Missed connections
Disparities
Regret and confusion
Resentment
Guilt, shame
and temptation.
***************************
Spacing will be screwed up just for you!
People, you must find a shared language
A common perspective
Otherwise he will approach
Given his circumstances, his
Motivations and assumptions
As will you
And find a barrier where
Your words meet
Eyes and tone
Grins and giggles
Gestures and the unspoken
Will collide
Perhaps creating divisions where
Bridges were meant to be
Misunderstandings
Become tragedies
Missed connections
Disparities
Regret and confusion
Resentment
Guilt, shame
and temptation.
***************************
Spacing will be screwed up just for you!
Friday, July 24, 2009
when will you come home
Why have you not yet come home to me?
I assume you share these daydream “memories” that feel so real but must be fantasies, that must be reflections of our time spent in dreams, that must be reflections of our time spent in alternative realities, where we are not far apart but running our fingers through each other’s hair, and wondering where our other hand should go, knowing full well the other wouldn’t mind, but perhaps waiting to be invited again, each new caress from you is heaven’s gate opening, a warmth in my heart that comes from you sharing, an expansion of love that comes from your caring, enough to command me to make us one body, and it feeling so natural I wonder what could ever call me to take my own shape again, and what keeps you from finding me, here I am, waiting unable to do anything fulfilling with my other hand.
***********************************************************
I had to go and make this one awkward.
I assume you share these daydream “memories” that feel so real but must be fantasies, that must be reflections of our time spent in dreams, that must be reflections of our time spent in alternative realities, where we are not far apart but running our fingers through each other’s hair, and wondering where our other hand should go, knowing full well the other wouldn’t mind, but perhaps waiting to be invited again, each new caress from you is heaven’s gate opening, a warmth in my heart that comes from you sharing, an expansion of love that comes from your caring, enough to command me to make us one body, and it feeling so natural I wonder what could ever call me to take my own shape again, and what keeps you from finding me, here I am, waiting unable to do anything fulfilling with my other hand.
***********************************************************
I had to go and make this one awkward.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Trouble Sleeping
There are nights when I want to stay up forever.
this might be one of them,
I laid in bed fantasizing, each new vision
excited me more for life than the last
this was how I met you
stories not shared with the children,
this was our vacation,
events not captured on camera
this was the story you wrote me
how ensnared, I was, waiting for the next chapter
this was how I kept you
how grateful I was for that
this is how I remember you
on nights like these, my memories never seem to let up.
this might be one of them,
I laid in bed fantasizing, each new vision
excited me more for life than the last
this was how I met you
stories not shared with the children,
this was our vacation,
events not captured on camera
this was the story you wrote me
how ensnared, I was, waiting for the next chapter
this was how I kept you
how grateful I was for that
this is how I remember you
on nights like these, my memories never seem to let up.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
I wonder how many words I will use to describe us,
How many battlefields created and on display,
How many body parts torn asunder,
How many emotions spilt to waste away
Yet are we not entangled still
With your word, my mood can change as well
With your smile my stomach stills
With your hug my day is brightened
They still describe us,
Us as in inseparable, though separate we’ve been
They still note our calm demeanor
And awe at each comforted gesture
And don’t the phone calls mimic their words?
Aren’t we better off in concert
Though with claws we sometimes grasp
Do we not still hold each other’s hearts together?
How many battlefields created and on display,
How many body parts torn asunder,
How many emotions spilt to waste away
Yet are we not entangled still
With your word, my mood can change as well
With your smile my stomach stills
With your hug my day is brightened
They still describe us,
Us as in inseparable, though separate we’ve been
They still note our calm demeanor
And awe at each comforted gesture
And don’t the phone calls mimic their words?
Aren’t we better off in concert
Though with claws we sometimes grasp
Do we not still hold each other’s hearts together?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Concerted Concerns
Mostly I find this outfit suitable
I wonder if I could count down the number of sneezes
till this cold is gone. And if its allergies, till this body is.
My nose winces
the smell of metals and chemical burns
expired medicine lathered on my skin.
I read a book today
That told me to go find a mentor
Go find a community, go live my learning
I haven’t found my way past the door yet
My finger tips remember the orange they peeled
My front teeth remember the first bite
My mind recalls the shock
My eyes envision a thousand
More, dry oranges?
I’m waiting for your car to arrive,
2 hours and counting, but right now I’ll bet its sitting in your drive way
Warming in the sun, I wonder if it gets bored with the scenery,
If it notices the changing petals,
if it pants in an exhausted way
All the exhaust away
I wonder if I could count down the number of sneezes
till this cold is gone. And if its allergies, till this body is.
My nose winces
the smell of metals and chemical burns
expired medicine lathered on my skin.
I read a book today
That told me to go find a mentor
Go find a community, go live my learning
I haven’t found my way past the door yet
My finger tips remember the orange they peeled
My front teeth remember the first bite
My mind recalls the shock
My eyes envision a thousand
More, dry oranges?
I’m waiting for your car to arrive,
2 hours and counting, but right now I’ll bet its sitting in your drive way
Warming in the sun, I wonder if it gets bored with the scenery,
If it notices the changing petals,
if it pants in an exhausted way
All the exhaust away
Romeo Spends His Time Alone
In all the stories and fairy tales they never mention the impact on the body when star crossed lovers collide. Longing and distance bring distaste and aches, but each caress is supposed to be like coming home,
and the fleeting moments send shivers down the spine,
and the anticipation brings butterflies which flutter like fairies,
whimsically dancing.
Not knots, not panic, not the dizziness of being at sea in a storm,
not the thought disruption of that truly awful seas sickness.
and it leaves me wondering
shouldn't one have to forsake the land to feel this
If I had met you in India I could have blamed it on the food, the weather, the water, the heat, the mosquitoes which carry that queasiness to land from the sea, and make the noblest and strongest of men plead for casual caress.
Comfort my needs.
Though my stomach is weak, I've rarely experienced such upset.
Makes me wonder if we are truly meant,
or if my stomach is telling my heart and mind to repent.
Let the tides be the judge.
and the fleeting moments send shivers down the spine,
and the anticipation brings butterflies which flutter like fairies,
whimsically dancing.
Not knots, not panic, not the dizziness of being at sea in a storm,
not the thought disruption of that truly awful seas sickness.
and it leaves me wondering
shouldn't one have to forsake the land to feel this
If I had met you in India I could have blamed it on the food, the weather, the water, the heat, the mosquitoes which carry that queasiness to land from the sea, and make the noblest and strongest of men plead for casual caress.
Comfort my needs.
Though my stomach is weak, I've rarely experienced such upset.
Makes me wonder if we are truly meant,
or if my stomach is telling my heart and mind to repent.
Let the tides be the judge.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Divine Intervention (Summer 2009)
The other day in my haste
and ecstasy, I proclaimed in my car
or rather thought loudly
That such potential was overwhelming
excited, I listed the hypothetical
possibilities, a list that seemed
to grow with time
and that time, pushed
out the thought in the back of
my mind, the one that said the
list of your humility and desire
to help ought to be longer.
and for this I was dealt, a
death blow, or so it seemed
the morning after found me
on my knees (in front of a toilet)
leaving me with nothing grand to ponder or praise
and nothing (except regret) in my stomach
and ecstasy, I proclaimed in my car
or rather thought loudly
That such potential was overwhelming
excited, I listed the hypothetical
possibilities, a list that seemed
to grow with time
and that time, pushed
out the thought in the back of
my mind, the one that said the
list of your humility and desire
to help ought to be longer.
and for this I was dealt, a
death blow, or so it seemed
the morning after found me
on my knees (in front of a toilet)
leaving me with nothing grand to ponder or praise
and nothing (except regret) in my stomach
Sunday, May 03, 2009
4 poem/ideas from the coffee shops (May 2, 09)
Avidity
Bri told me to be fickle
to move on, on a whim, when
things got too close, too tough
or just boring
I spent the day getting to
know you through a book you
read once, that was the only
hint I got and I consumed it
willfully interested, excited
My desire barely waning.
My report was brief
Yours was too. Stressed and sick,
simply "I'll see you tomorrow."
Clearly though my life seemed
on hold (even though it wasn't)
Yours was not (and it wasn't).
Your City
There is a picture of a city on the wall.
Though I don't think its my city, maybe its yours.
There is a river or harbor
perhaps you ferried across one day as a child with your
father, perhaps your strolled along
the banks as a teen with your friends, each daring another
to do dumb exciting things, dangerous exciting things. Perhaps
as a young adult, your lover took you there, kissed you
there, took you there.
Your hair probably smelled like the water all damp with the wind's embrace and exuberance.
The picture is all olive and brownish gray
not quite the color of your skin and hair
but close
-and the highlights of turquoise?
They are 150 percent entirely the half second dazzle
in your eyes, the one that escapes so quickly
camouflaged in the grays of the city.
Nine
I'm in a coffee shop full of men
their heads
like mine
bent over work, books and laptop computers.
Yet eager to jerk in the direction of a
passing blond
(Her arm firmly entangled with the
man she walked by with)
Their disappointment is so settled and steady
that you can hardly see a change
as if a life time of side glances
from women walking by is all they
had ever attracted
relaxed in our despair, the similarities
are hard to find
8 hunchbacked men
and I, make nine.
Lake Street Divide
Somehow over the border
lies crime and frustration
danger, impatience
I wonder what besides the highway that passes above
paints the divide,
it couldn't be as simple as the foreign lettered signs
for despite the increase they lie on both sides.
Couldn't be a lack of homes for they are
numerous and plenty seem to be to spare
[Locked up with signs that say "Foreclosed"
I wonder which frangrance hits the heart first
the smell of disrepair and vacancy or
that of despair at being forced to leave]
Businesses seem to thrive,
community centers and parks full.
Yet every night there seems to be no moment left dull,
flashing lights bounce from wall to wall
like a discotheque minus the ball and dancing.
No sirens despite the alarm
(I assume its too much to remind them of their constant presence
without seeming to do harm)
What is this invisible wall
besides the 15 extra police cars that seem constantly on call?
Bri told me to be fickle
to move on, on a whim, when
things got too close, too tough
or just boring
I spent the day getting to
know you through a book you
read once, that was the only
hint I got and I consumed it
willfully interested, excited
My desire barely waning.
My report was brief
Yours was too. Stressed and sick,
simply "I'll see you tomorrow."
Clearly though my life seemed
on hold (even though it wasn't)
Yours was not (and it wasn't).
Your City
There is a picture of a city on the wall.
Though I don't think its my city, maybe its yours.
There is a river or harbor
perhaps you ferried across one day as a child with your
father, perhaps your strolled along
the banks as a teen with your friends, each daring another
to do dumb exciting things, dangerous exciting things. Perhaps
as a young adult, your lover took you there, kissed you
there, took you there.
Your hair probably smelled like the water all damp with the wind's embrace and exuberance.
The picture is all olive and brownish gray
not quite the color of your skin and hair
but close
-and the highlights of turquoise?
They are 150 percent entirely the half second dazzle
in your eyes, the one that escapes so quickly
camouflaged in the grays of the city.
Nine
I'm in a coffee shop full of men
their heads
like mine
bent over work, books and laptop computers.
Yet eager to jerk in the direction of a
passing blond
(Her arm firmly entangled with the
man she walked by with)
Their disappointment is so settled and steady
that you can hardly see a change
as if a life time of side glances
from women walking by is all they
had ever attracted
relaxed in our despair, the similarities
are hard to find
8 hunchbacked men
and I, make nine.
Lake Street Divide
Somehow over the border
lies crime and frustration
danger, impatience
I wonder what besides the highway that passes above
paints the divide,
it couldn't be as simple as the foreign lettered signs
for despite the increase they lie on both sides.
Couldn't be a lack of homes for they are
numerous and plenty seem to be to spare
[Locked up with signs that say "Foreclosed"
I wonder which frangrance hits the heart first
the smell of disrepair and vacancy or
that of despair at being forced to leave]
Businesses seem to thrive,
community centers and parks full.
Yet every night there seems to be no moment left dull,
flashing lights bounce from wall to wall
like a discotheque minus the ball and dancing.
No sirens despite the alarm
(I assume its too much to remind them of their constant presence
without seeming to do harm)
What is this invisible wall
besides the 15 extra police cars that seem constantly on call?
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Mentor (April 2009)
I guy once tried to teach me how to eat pussy
Something about making a person just slightly uncomfortable,
…sweeping them off their feet, then diving right in
and I wonder,
Does this make him a mentor?
If I had been less embarrassed
and more able to pay attention
I am sure I would be a stronger person today.
Instead my red face died in laughter,
tried in laughter to say I’m young and unready
But I did learn from him.
A giant intimidating, man among men, bar fights and sexcapades
Yet an artist, a potter
his trade, his love distanced
Had I met a man so lonely and less able to express it? Yet when he told me, how much he missed me, in embarrassed undertones but direct, my heart sank.
Sexist jokes and other forms of willful ignorance and other forms of forced disrespect to show who was in and who was not
Don’t dare compare to lonely strangers embracing, regardless of your political correctness.
Putting trust in a strangers’ purchase of “fruit punch”
that turns out to be fruit punch,
because he wants you to tag along…
somehow turns creepy back alley bars, pimps, prostitutes and drug dealers
into shared possibilities to acknowledge
all people are worthy.
… Something about making a person just slightly uncomfortable,
sweeping them off their feet, then diving right in.
***************************************************************************
This will have spacing issues.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Half Written Things from 2009
Kt asked for an update... so here are some of the things I have written but will probably never finish.
To Be on the Radio
Yesterday we played, a new game that we had all created
We pretended to be our dads, So I was a baker, and he was a security guard
All day the sun, shined down us you can’t believe the fun.
I showed off your Badge, and we looked at all the differences they had.
Hey Papa, I heard your name on the radio today.
Hey Papa, will we live like the radio stars
They call out your name, people call in to tell them where we live
And I think they
Might want to bring us sweets and flowers
Oh the radio, always plays the best of music
The latest star, is mentioned so everyone knows who they are
Maybe one day, I could be a DJ too, and then all the people
Would hear my voice and ask about me too.
Hey Papa, I heard your name on the radio today.
Hey Papa, will we live like the radio stars
They call out your name, but the people sound angry, they don’t seem normal
And I think they,
Maybe shouldn’t tell these people where we live.
My teacher asked us what we wanted to do when we grew up.
But after I spoke, she said that “my people were greedy”
And I didn’t know what she meant, but I looked around and the kids made faces
So I just sat down without saying anything.
Hey Papa, I heard your name on the radio today.
Hey Papa, will we live like the radio stars
They call out your name, and I don’t like it, they freighted me,
And I think they
Are on their way here.
********During the Rwandan Genocide people announced the locations of families to be killed.I was trying to think about how a child would perceive this.
Shallow Diving
So far I only know you like a shallow diver
Barely scratched the surface and I’m wondering bout your purpose here
On this earth, please
can we take it deeper, these
conversations revolve around going to shows
and we both know how that goes,
but I’m wondering what moves you
Hey There
Hey there, have you peeled back your mask yet?
Spoken with your own voice
Projected anything you haven’t protested
or protected us from yet?
I wanna hear the real you, whats your name and where you been?
I asked your friends, they said you’re funny.
I asked your coworkers, they couldn’t spot you.
You answered Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent,
but without implying heroics on the other end.
I just wonder if the halved words and sentences you write
have anything to do with the sacrifice
Dive Bar Beauty
Standing at the bar bare shouldered,
smoldered in lines, blush and mascara
These drunken guys be yappin bout they’d love to hold her,
But I sometimes wonder if in the morning they can bear ya
No offense, it’s not the way you dress that sends a message
like ”please demean me”
More the way you hold yourself, half slunk over, hip stuck out and lips a poutin
Right now you’re saying “you don’t know me, you can’t judge me, haven’t seen me”
Drunken eyes scream “please help me out, I been hurt and now I‘m doubtin.”
Simple
I went through the light,
Passed Hephaestus with his hammer wailing
The big red doors, the sirens blaring
Nearing the video store where I once put my hand in another’s
To find love in another room. He snuck away from the funeral that day. Hoping to spy some fair lady, vulnerable and open. As vulnerable as he was. She didn’t have to be mourning; he was open to the possibilities, perhaps a caretaker. For caretaking too is a type of vulnerability. So wound up in the self, intent to spend effort , exhorting in all manners to help heal, well one intent on manipulating is quite open to manipulation, he was after all entitled to the part of crying fool.
It doesn’t matter
how many earrings ride your ears
It doesn’t matter
How loud the people are with the victory cheers
It doesn’t matter
How the crowd feels when the show is done
Cuz a losers still a loser man
Even when hes won
Confidence
I heard that pride fuels accomplishment
Confidence
I heard that accomplishment fuels pride
Confidence
I read that we are all the same man
Confidence
I learned that confidence is whats inside
Hold up
How can you say that the people don’t matter
Catch you playing for the crowd, with your paintings and poetic chatter
How you gonna say that your friends aint there
When they look you in the eye man and they say that they care?
If the ground is trembling due to a volcanic eruption
I’ll probably be there on vacation
I’ll die with A.I.D.S, though I aint a hemophiliac, heroin addict or Haitian.
I’m a fall down those stairs just because they’re wet
I aint a terrorist you know, but im sure I’ll be on the next Al-Qaeda jet
The bird flu, sars or some sort of monkey pox
Toxic fumes, radioactive waste, oops I forgot to get my malaria shots.
At the scene of the drive by, I’m the first to get sprayed by random uzi fire
Took 3 in the stomach and 2 just a little higher
I’m not saying I am praying for the end of the world,
But I’ll be the first one to die when the revelation’s pages unfurl
And I’m gonna sit right there when the zombies attack
Because my brain will get eaten regardless of the ammunition I stack
Cuz someone’s got to go first, and I’m that type of guy
The Random innocent who died that day
without getting to say goodbye
To Be on the Radio
Yesterday we played, a new game that we had all created
We pretended to be our dads, So I was a baker, and he was a security guard
All day the sun, shined down us you can’t believe the fun.
I showed off your Badge, and we looked at all the differences they had.
Hey Papa, I heard your name on the radio today.
Hey Papa, will we live like the radio stars
They call out your name, people call in to tell them where we live
And I think they
Might want to bring us sweets and flowers
Oh the radio, always plays the best of music
The latest star, is mentioned so everyone knows who they are
Maybe one day, I could be a DJ too, and then all the people
Would hear my voice and ask about me too.
Hey Papa, I heard your name on the radio today.
Hey Papa, will we live like the radio stars
They call out your name, but the people sound angry, they don’t seem normal
And I think they,
Maybe shouldn’t tell these people where we live.
My teacher asked us what we wanted to do when we grew up.
But after I spoke, she said that “my people were greedy”
And I didn’t know what she meant, but I looked around and the kids made faces
So I just sat down without saying anything.
Hey Papa, I heard your name on the radio today.
Hey Papa, will we live like the radio stars
They call out your name, and I don’t like it, they freighted me,
And I think they
Are on their way here.
********During the Rwandan Genocide people announced the locations of families to be killed.I was trying to think about how a child would perceive this.
Shallow Diving
So far I only know you like a shallow diver
Barely scratched the surface and I’m wondering bout your purpose here
On this earth, please
can we take it deeper, these
conversations revolve around going to shows
and we both know how that goes,
but I’m wondering what moves you
Hey There
Hey there, have you peeled back your mask yet?
Spoken with your own voice
Projected anything you haven’t protested
or protected us from yet?
I wanna hear the real you, whats your name and where you been?
I asked your friends, they said you’re funny.
I asked your coworkers, they couldn’t spot you.
You answered Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent,
but without implying heroics on the other end.
I just wonder if the halved words and sentences you write
have anything to do with the sacrifice
Dive Bar Beauty
Standing at the bar bare shouldered,
smoldered in lines, blush and mascara
These drunken guys be yappin bout they’d love to hold her,
But I sometimes wonder if in the morning they can bear ya
No offense, it’s not the way you dress that sends a message
like ”please demean me”
More the way you hold yourself, half slunk over, hip stuck out and lips a poutin
Right now you’re saying “you don’t know me, you can’t judge me, haven’t seen me”
Drunken eyes scream “please help me out, I been hurt and now I‘m doubtin.”
Simple
I went through the light,
Passed Hephaestus with his hammer wailing
The big red doors, the sirens blaring
Nearing the video store where I once put my hand in another’s
To find love in another room. He snuck away from the funeral that day. Hoping to spy some fair lady, vulnerable and open. As vulnerable as he was. She didn’t have to be mourning; he was open to the possibilities, perhaps a caretaker. For caretaking too is a type of vulnerability. So wound up in the self, intent to spend effort , exhorting in all manners to help heal, well one intent on manipulating is quite open to manipulation, he was after all entitled to the part of crying fool.
It doesn’t matter
how many earrings ride your ears
It doesn’t matter
How loud the people are with the victory cheers
It doesn’t matter
How the crowd feels when the show is done
Cuz a losers still a loser man
Even when hes won
Confidence
I heard that pride fuels accomplishment
Confidence
I heard that accomplishment fuels pride
Confidence
I read that we are all the same man
Confidence
I learned that confidence is whats inside
Hold up
How can you say that the people don’t matter
Catch you playing for the crowd, with your paintings and poetic chatter
How you gonna say that your friends aint there
When they look you in the eye man and they say that they care?
If the ground is trembling due to a volcanic eruption
I’ll probably be there on vacation
I’ll die with A.I.D.S, though I aint a hemophiliac, heroin addict or Haitian.
I’m a fall down those stairs just because they’re wet
I aint a terrorist you know, but im sure I’ll be on the next Al-Qaeda jet
The bird flu, sars or some sort of monkey pox
Toxic fumes, radioactive waste, oops I forgot to get my malaria shots.
At the scene of the drive by, I’m the first to get sprayed by random uzi fire
Took 3 in the stomach and 2 just a little higher
I’m not saying I am praying for the end of the world,
But I’ll be the first one to die when the revelation’s pages unfurl
And I’m gonna sit right there when the zombies attack
Because my brain will get eaten regardless of the ammunition I stack
Cuz someone’s got to go first, and I’m that type of guy
The Random innocent who died that day
without getting to say goodbye
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Quick Way, Isn't Always the Best Way (Mar 2009)
You have been sending me messages in my dreams lately
I know it’s you,
for despite the look and charm spring grass and play
there is a whiff of dissonance in the air
its your brand and flavor
batting eyes and bite marks on every last word
coy and temperamental
over burdened, combustible
in the last one you were showing me your world,
a small house that reminded me of my childhood,
but you seemed taxed and ready to remove me on a whim, but not quite at that point, as if still testing the waters, as if we were tightening a string both knowing full well the line could soon break, and who’s line would set it off?
And who would be quick with a quip or jab?
I hadn’t been practicing. I don’t think you had either. So fumbling for words through missed cues we seemed to be mumbling out songs, in some sort of park or garden.
It reminded me of a summer camp field, the grass was shorn and the sun bright.
There are always people around us. They have no faces and no words of meaning, or rather they lose it in our tangle.
I’m eager to figure out the hidden meaning behind your mangled statements,
But in the meantime,
I’m enjoying the surface
happy to see your face again.
I know it’s you,
for despite the look and charm spring grass and play
there is a whiff of dissonance in the air
its your brand and flavor
batting eyes and bite marks on every last word
coy and temperamental
over burdened, combustible
in the last one you were showing me your world,
a small house that reminded me of my childhood,
but you seemed taxed and ready to remove me on a whim, but not quite at that point, as if still testing the waters, as if we were tightening a string both knowing full well the line could soon break, and who’s line would set it off?
And who would be quick with a quip or jab?
I hadn’t been practicing. I don’t think you had either. So fumbling for words through missed cues we seemed to be mumbling out songs, in some sort of park or garden.
It reminded me of a summer camp field, the grass was shorn and the sun bright.
There are always people around us. They have no faces and no words of meaning, or rather they lose it in our tangle.
I’m eager to figure out the hidden meaning behind your mangled statements,
But in the meantime,
I’m enjoying the surface
happy to see your face again.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
I wish that hadn’t spilled.
I had to wipe it up with the tissue,
with the number you gave me,
and a gentle note saying
“I wish you,
would call me”
now I think, I’ll miss you, forever.
What’s in a napkin?
Nothing but those dreams
I had
wrapped in, the
folds, the ink, the texture of the cloth
and now in this stain, everything seems lost.
I had to wipe it up with the tissue,
with the number you gave me,
and a gentle note saying
“I wish you,
would call me”
now I think, I’ll miss you, forever.
What’s in a napkin?
Nothing but those dreams
I had
wrapped in, the
folds, the ink, the texture of the cloth
and now in this stain, everything seems lost.
On Love and Conversation
Oh baby I want you to ramble and ramble, talk to me
About your day, your dreams, your day dreams
Allow me a moment to sneak in a comment so that I don’t explode with excitement
Speak on that comment and keep motioning so
For every hand gesture, face gesture and any gesture at me
Fills me with glee
Fills me with happiness
as you roll your eyes in search of the next word
My heart sits on edge and indulges in the expanding universal sclera
Because the shine in your eyes only comes out when you are astounded and I want to see that brilliance,
because the dimples in your cheeks amaze, amazedly small, yet such grand and glorious canyons
The way you press those lips, b’s and m’s reminds me of your embraces
pursed at first, opening and then tightening again
A night spent in your warmth never seems long
Oh preach to me darling, let me hear your heavenly calls
Speak to me of angels or morals, Bodhisattva or jinn
Speak of the universal, the heavenly light found within
Rant and rumble over spilt milk, politics, the similarities between
Speak to me about the mundane and the marvelous things you have seen.
Ice cream, an orange cat, gray brick apartments, the smell of a certain rug
All things I’d cherish if they came from your mouth
Speak to me through tears, don’t turn your head,
Let your anger rip through me and fill me with dread
Let it inspire me to be better than I am
Let it anger me enough to change the world for you
For your tears are the world’s, your humanity it too
Please love continue while I fondly gaze on,
My ears are attuned and my attention always drawn.
*********************************************************************
Somebody said something about being insecure about talking all night
so I wrote about it.
About your day, your dreams, your day dreams
Allow me a moment to sneak in a comment so that I don’t explode with excitement
Speak on that comment and keep motioning so
For every hand gesture, face gesture and any gesture at me
Fills me with glee
Fills me with happiness
as you roll your eyes in search of the next word
My heart sits on edge and indulges in the expanding universal sclera
Because the shine in your eyes only comes out when you are astounded and I want to see that brilliance,
because the dimples in your cheeks amaze, amazedly small, yet such grand and glorious canyons
The way you press those lips, b’s and m’s reminds me of your embraces
pursed at first, opening and then tightening again
A night spent in your warmth never seems long
Oh preach to me darling, let me hear your heavenly calls
Speak to me of angels or morals, Bodhisattva or jinn
Speak of the universal, the heavenly light found within
Rant and rumble over spilt milk, politics, the similarities between
Speak to me about the mundane and the marvelous things you have seen.
Ice cream, an orange cat, gray brick apartments, the smell of a certain rug
All things I’d cherish if they came from your mouth
Speak to me through tears, don’t turn your head,
Let your anger rip through me and fill me with dread
Let it inspire me to be better than I am
Let it anger me enough to change the world for you
For your tears are the world’s, your humanity it too
Please love continue while I fondly gaze on,
My ears are attuned and my attention always drawn.
*********************************************************************
Somebody said something about being insecure about talking all night
so I wrote about it.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The "Yes We Can"
It’s tempting to be cynical,
knowing history can make you that way because history focuses mainly on the dramatic, the eventful. Not the positive steady growth but the incident, the assassination, the war, the corruption and oppression –and the downfall (praised by some as the beginning of a new chapter, a light, but for most suffering)
A new light:
Barack Hussein Obama told us not to be afraid, to loom forward with pride –and hope. To be the change you want to see. Are they just words?
A cynic would say “Of course.”
But aren’t they the words you want to hear? Aren’t they the words you want from the leader? Arent they what we all say we have been waiting for?
What more do we ask? (A leader who inspires hope)
Our cynicism, our skeptical brains should keep us challenging, using our anger to ensure the better –in ourselves, our friends and family, our society and our leaders.
IT SHOULD NOT
Keep us from being the change we believe in, or mocking the voice we want to hear, or sitting in doubt on the sidelines while at the very least marginal change occurs.
-Will anything be different?
I worry about climate change. The disruption of food and water, the medicine held back by patent laws and greed (though funded with our tax dollars).
I worry about the year of tax burden every single one of us owes on our deficit. The handouts to the rich who claim a single mother is a burden to our society while they waste a grand on shoes or a purse.
I worry about starvation –the ever present threat of war and the billion who see it in their day to day lives.
-but “Will anything be different?” (It’s about time we find out)
I mean if every cell phone at the mall has a camera and the capability to call that starving child a half a world away, then we should be able to ship him some food, or open our borders.
If every Sarah America can be the next best seller at the book store, then we will soon hear the voices of the disenfranchised, and then, when we recognize them as our neighbors, our family…
We wont fence them off or imprison them… we’ll sing together.
My satellite dish and cable TV sends me information about the customs of a people I never knew existed
-their history is now caught up in mine. How can I resist them?
Now even the poor can be educated – “will anything be different?.... oh man it already is.
Our voices stream together at high speeds on the internet and even though the Big Stone Coal Power Plant provides the energy the plans for 1000 homemade solar panels and wind turbines are its legacy.
Do we throw it all down on technology? NO
We invest in each other. We invest responsibly in ourselves, you and me, not Mr CEO of GM or GE
And then we raise our cyncical voices to oppose the injustice
And when we raise our songs for praise
What a world we’d realize we live in
What a world we’d be able to create.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Open Mics (fall 2008)
I see a gih-tar
A geetar
A guitar
A STARE,
I see people reaching out –asking for someone to care
I CARE!
About you
Waking up each morning wondering
“What’s the point?”
-wonder why the next step is reaching out for that joint
THIS JOINT
Offers inspiration
Colorful paintings
Black curtains
Old brick walls!
And just enough lighting
That you can Share or Stare
Hide or disrobe
Lets just all forget about the ethical codes
Lets embrace
Humanity
sharing a smile and a hug
like the baristas who greet you
tempting you to fall in love.
OH!
Isn’t an open mic at a coffee shop
Such a wonderful drug?
A geetar
A guitar
A STARE,
I see people reaching out –asking for someone to care
I CARE!
About you
Waking up each morning wondering
“What’s the point?”
-wonder why the next step is reaching out for that joint
THIS JOINT
Offers inspiration
Colorful paintings
Black curtains
Old brick walls!
And just enough lighting
That you can Share or Stare
Hide or disrobe
Lets just all forget about the ethical codes
Lets embrace
Humanity
sharing a smile and a hug
like the baristas who greet you
tempting you to fall in love.
OH!
Isn’t an open mic at a coffee shop
Such a wonderful drug?
Musica
I absolutely love it when a piece of music moves me. tears at me, makes me shed a few, makes me convulse, makes my heart pulse, makes my knees shake, makes my shoulders ache, urges me to participate, stretched bare to the invisible sky, asking God why, in my mind's eye, I could be so blessed to experience bliss, for just one moment like this, how my blood surges how my spirit urges to connect forever this way, so bound and so free, solitary yet connected to thee, with color and spirit, with energy movement with compassion and passion, unsure what is real, what is dream, and if this is true it would seem that I'm in love again and wishing this song would never end.
Eulogy for Uncle Chris (oct 2008)
Uncle,
At the news of death
women ought to be screaming and crying, rubbing your body for the traces of warmth that slip away... who cares about colors and funeral arrangements... who cares at all? The hero has moved on… Men, tightly holding themselves back, only to embrace in the strongest hugs that whisper "Please don't let go right now! My strength is gone, I have no will and no pride left..."
Words unsaid, the gleam off an eye, the strain of the voice, the voiceless. The senselessness.
As the arrangements are made
Even the timid should want the best. The gold and silver, the flowers and prayers. He shall be wrapped in silks and laid out on a hand carved wooden bed. The flame or dirt will take him as we sing of his glory. Sing how things won't ever be the same again, the clouds seem darker, the trees so rigid, the mountains so much more intimidating.
At the mourning
the dark should infiltrate the eyes and skin of those you leave behind, their sadness so deep and intense that no cheek is un-wet, their hair shed, their heart burst, they should fall all over themselves with despair.
At the celebration
they should speak in weeps loud and unfiltered of your beauty, with smiles that tremble, the emotions so thick with the warmth you have shed that the room of gathered still feel wrapped in your presence, the sheltered, the secured. They beam and sparkle having known you, having experienced your wild, your steadfastness, your strength, your strength, your strength that is now lost to them.
And the many who were touched should tell stories till the morning,
dance and drink like their movement alone, was the radiance of the moon.
They should leave still feeling the loss though with renewed -
with a spirit like yours, heartily joking, greeting the dawn with hope for the better.
Oh uncle,
where is your grand funeral march?
At the news of death
women ought to be screaming and crying, rubbing your body for the traces of warmth that slip away... who cares about colors and funeral arrangements... who cares at all? The hero has moved on… Men, tightly holding themselves back, only to embrace in the strongest hugs that whisper "Please don't let go right now! My strength is gone, I have no will and no pride left..."
Words unsaid, the gleam off an eye, the strain of the voice, the voiceless. The senselessness.
As the arrangements are made
Even the timid should want the best. The gold and silver, the flowers and prayers. He shall be wrapped in silks and laid out on a hand carved wooden bed. The flame or dirt will take him as we sing of his glory. Sing how things won't ever be the same again, the clouds seem darker, the trees so rigid, the mountains so much more intimidating.
At the mourning
the dark should infiltrate the eyes and skin of those you leave behind, their sadness so deep and intense that no cheek is un-wet, their hair shed, their heart burst, they should fall all over themselves with despair.
At the celebration
they should speak in weeps loud and unfiltered of your beauty, with smiles that tremble, the emotions so thick with the warmth you have shed that the room of gathered still feel wrapped in your presence, the sheltered, the secured. They beam and sparkle having known you, having experienced your wild, your steadfastness, your strength, your strength, your strength that is now lost to them.
And the many who were touched should tell stories till the morning,
dance and drink like their movement alone, was the radiance of the moon.
They should leave still feeling the loss though with renewed -
with a spirit like yours, heartily joking, greeting the dawn with hope for the better.
Oh uncle,
where is your grand funeral march?
Might As Well Have Been A Dream He Thought (Sept 2008)
I don't even need the answers to the questions I pose
I find them in the prose you wrote in my dreams.
Each message not so clear and concise
but I dream through the night,
and then I think all day
to decode what you have said.
Is it any wonder I wake up depressed,
but in hearing from you, prefer my bed?
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