Taff's Flow

2011-07-18T00:51:00.000-05:00

Starting to feel really worthless

without a friend or love to share it with.

Why is it no one can hear without defense or jealousy?

Just a moment to meet as equals without scorn or hardheartedness.

I don’t even know what I am seeking

another broken heart, half healed

lips that understand my aches, and sooth

rather than breaking them open with the scorn, born deep throated, quick fire

so that as the words leave, she gasps unsure where that bite came from, but her snapping teeth are clenched all the same.

Or worse its unsaid, quick glance away at the exact moment, silence as always, the sound that shatters,

cruel joke you can’t hear it breaking, but the shock waves reverberating causing every muscle to strain, could swear you were upright, yet still seizing and shaking

now pretend to go on just the same.

I’m a champion of the non-involved, a coward.

I’ve run continents away. I’ve sat in my own cell filled with fantasy, pervert monk, always stoic except in writing.
Always publicly studious, covered yet conniving.

Dreaming, ever escalating the pedestal, the scales always balanced so the shame descends as well.
Like my back that bends to humble, doubt supersedes all thoughts of ambition,
all attempts to embrace replaced by longings for recognition.

for Luke Chrisco

2011-06-25T23:39:00.000-05:00

In a city of unshaved long hair having creative open minded types I worry

“What makes me different?” initial observations

report the visible differences in body type, posture, body hair,

expressive hand gestures,

glasses, and other shades of fashion.

I wonder how their friends describe them

He’s jolly, conscientious,                     caring, and sensible,
                a douche bag, enjoyable,                                 reflective, affectionate,
sometimes romantic,
                adventurous, physical, very intelligent,
fun loving, crazy, a dreamer,                     hard working
        responsible, shameless                          or well kind of lazy.

And the loves of their lives are they still around to share, regale us with the first time they knew it was love or the moment they no longer cared?

Can they still laugh at the funny hats, the sporting events, the late night on swings, dancing in rain, the willingness to strain to make things work past each pitiful fight, each regret and new chance at embrace.

Recount the gut organ’s shifting, caused by strained faces just before the words too hard to bear,

or the new places in their chests that suddenly existed when previous spaces couldn’t contain the explosions of joy that threatened to tear,

as beat skipped and lungs forgot their automatic and unending roles.

For aren’t these moments, the real moments rather than the virtuous behaviors often extolled.

Or maybe we could watch them in their privacy,

Big Brother style lounging, contemplating the effort of brushing their teeth just before sleep,

and pry into their dreams to see if they’re the same, or

are these men hiding secrets and super powers, and identities they desire like

the ultimate sports star

the shining armored hero

the father of children

the padre all spiritual

Do they hide in their dreams all the sources of shame, they wish to always contain?

a moment of shamed vulnerability pants-less in the office

a memory of shamed vulnerability pants-less and preyed on

a moment of shamed ecstasy pounding their boss in

a memory of shamed ecstasy pounding their cock in.

Then woken in day light -costumed in humanity

does each wonder in the absence of others

If he’s similar enough to keep dreams hidden, and yet just enough outstanding

that he can attract another lover to share those secret moments

or another victim to get behind his mask, to share with him his torment.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Like always I was writing at a coffee shop, coffee shops are filled with men, its really amazing. Girls if you want a guy, go to a coffee shop, they will be there waiting. Anyway, I was reading this book called The Shooting which is a real story about a guy who accidentally shot and killed his best friend when he was a teenager. The guy goes through life trying to prove that he isn't a terrible person, trying to live a virtuous life for the both of them and then has a nervous breakdown at 30 and his life falls apart because of all the shame he is carrying. It occurs to me through the tears and empathy that many of us live these lives... and so I watch guy after guy come into this coffee shop and wonder why they too are so afraid of making contact yet clearly desire it. Like me, they seem to have every reason to be outgoing, they dress the fashions of uptown, they seem nice enough... but who are they? and who are they really deep down?

-the title is in reference to one of these men out there that seems somewhat delusional, intrusive, uncaring, selfish, but probably has friends and family who care about him, probably he is a really decent person, probably he doesn't know how to find someone to love him for who he is... and he is insecure and ashamed and is now broadcasting it to the world.

Recent 2011 poems from other blog

2011-05-07T22:59:00.003-05:00

Longing

I long for something truthful

Is it too much to ask that I find it in your face?

expectations never satisfied, for each moment creates anew

excitement builds and magnifies until

disappointment becomes my view.

My mother says its the meaning you make of experiences

and that when you are older the difference is made plain

compassion for our young inner selves,

reveals realities and

inevitably relieves the strain.

But tonight I lay in my memories

child victim mocked for his excitement

looking for love in all the wrong places

stomach sick, head down

so as not to see the disgust on their faces.

Yes I long for something truthful

a moment of understanding between us

I won't say love, for of course that takes time

but just a hint of receptivity could allow me

to leave the shame behind.

Keeled Over with my Stomach Caving In

I know its hard for you to understand

-like its hard for me to understand when you question what is in front of you.

Is a chair a chair or isn't it?

and I wonder why you are calling yourself a chair

but I do understand past my impish smile, these are the worries caused by those chains deeply hidden... and I recognize myself in them now.

Recognize their grasp as the doubt that keeps me from moving forward,

cold digging shakes my frame,

piercing, so every dream is punctured,

and the dark ever enveloping, shroud of confusion, panic building.

and these are my outbursts, tears gathering at odd moments.

lack of comforting gestures, clenched responses -held like shoulders and teeth grinded

arms crossed and hunched over

so that everything returns to the child's pose

Tonight I contemplated writing your death song

you know the one that pours out from some primordial place in my throat

all bawling salty sting and spittle

all heartbreak, center shaking, inconsolable

lost between the nothingness of wanting to be numb

and the nothingness of bleeding void

lost between hoping for relief, unsure that time can fill such vacancies

and with anger that time would dare try

if there are words, I am sure "no" will be featured prominently

as will that one word question.

From Last Year

2011-05-07T22:54:00.000-05:00

"A New You"

I find it funny how I recognize you and yet not. As if I thought memorizing every look once would be the completed set. Would mean I had total access for the lifespan, and now I am caught off guard, disturbed and dazzled (?) by a new photograph... is it you? I cannot sense the true weight of things, the temperature, the static in the air... cannot sense the warmth in your breath that urges me to believe such a thing, this mimic of your moment is it real? I'd have to hear a confirmation from you to know for sure and even then I'd wonder, what did the sun feel like that day? What were the noises that kissed your ears and who's eyes and who's love attempted to embrace you with a gesture, who's longing to remember these serene moments with a picture kept them from touching your soft skin, your supple lips, your sweet taste? Who made the subtle mis-calculation that kept you enshrined, a digital alter, a token gesture of worship the same mistake I've made a million times rather than gluttonously devour the moment with each sense, and revel in the pleasure, discomfort, torment and ecstasy of the presence of heaven's sacred creation, you.

My dreams of you are not my hands reaching to hold you, but my heart still pumps to keep the blood you offered warm. In the warmth within me somewhere there is still a sectioned labeled "home" with your name on the mail box, and forever and ever a welcome mat (and at least dreams of hugs for your homecoming).

"Stress Coaster"

It’s funny how stress waxes and wanes

like tides and the moon or the amount

of chocolate I consume, but

to be clear it’s not the stress itself

that rises but the level to cope

with surprises or even the expected.

For instance, during summer I neglected to

keep my coping skills blazing so

while lazying about, I lost my ability to deal,

then as the end of summer neared the feeling of tensions crept up my calves, through my limbs and my lower back, and eventually my shoulders which rose to the occasion and completed the picture of me hunched over tight shoulders and burdened with nothing truly unpleasant, nothing unbearable, not rare not painful, not malevolent, uncaring but rather something exciting, productive, enlightening

The return to school though I felt it like glaciers on my frame,

but isn’t it just more of the same- so why so stressful?

When sedentary for so long it sometimes feels as if I have never done anything. Like I am the dirt, my planted roots take the form of the house and it feels like I could never leave, like I have always been. She says this house is 80 years old, it’s my cranky knees but it'd be so easy to set me adrift tornado, strong wind blow me over, I could be anew. I am the walls, I am this city, I am this job I am secure and unchanging. Revolutionary ideas are surprises, taste of excitement like good poetry, make you feel alive the way you aint been. Am I so symbiotic, I didn't notice becoming part of you, didn't feel you infiltrate me, I thought I had my own long hair, my own wild tongue, my own joyful smile, meanwhile I find you chipping away at my teeth, the fibers of my pants, my many faces all with eyes that reflect you. I forgot my song, started humming a plain one. I thought I was a new born, now find I am ancient or at least middle age. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw what I had been, an adventurer where did he go. I thought I had engineered a new path, find me now a paved one. I been paved on, oil slicken easy, rain slides right off me, aint soaked with passionate sorrow just stained in the meanwhile. Where is refreshing fragrance, where is impassioned discourse, zealous beauty chasing, falling into the plain modelesque notions of pretty, forgetting uproarious laughter, forgetting cosmopolitan color, forgetting statued staring at passing people, forgetting uncomfortable scary, forgetting panic punches to the gut and esteem, the confidence building of day surviving, the chasing of simplicity, the grandiose proclamations of understanding fully and simultaneously knowing fully that nothing can be known so simply. I forgot about dressing scandalously, supported in my ferocity and the casualness -laid back style of being brilliant, brilliantly not normal. Gleam in the eye special. Gleam in the eye everyone. How have I been so detached from my humanity. So blessed and appreciated into comfort, couch pillows, blankets. Not a bum's bindle, not a gifted hat, not a crocheted scarf, an entirely different fidgeting stomach, not tenacious, not disgusted, not angry or in love. Easy to see something is different, the question is how long will I swill it?

How distracting it is

to sit here waiting

always a book or work to keep

me company, but despite my

stated purposes

I come here for you.

And see you in chatting lips,

across filled tables,

what is it you're saying?

and in cheekbones

jaunting out from

Books, I want to know about.

Find in curls and locks that hide

your eyes for a time,

and in your fancy boots

that have their own story too,

and in postures

which attract but,

don't show back

temptation.

So here I sit,

waiting on glances lit

with not just light

but question,

For I know my own have

signaled forth, to every

woman present.

Familiarity in each stranger's face

am I insane?

My memory faltering,

my senses opening to strange beyond

underneath your material guise, you're my friend

my past and future friend.

Only the present then,

is an illusion.

But in every science journal,

I read the opposite

frequently the sacred texts

opposite too.

How I am to trust my senses

listen to my breathing

feel the tightness of my muscles

the dizziness in my step

the queasiness in my stomach

if the underlying, music, is too beautiful

for my unperceptive ears

the truth so magnificent

my eyes blinded

by its flame

either we are one,

or, I, am insane.

February's Storms (Feb 2011)

2011-05-07T22:44:00.000-05:00

“ Storms make oaks take deeper roots…”

this seems to be my theme lately.

How many days can the

ravaging winds lay claim upon my

arms before they are pulled off forever

my leaves already a distant memory

my stance continuously bracing.

Each gust, each thunderclap sends shivers down

my already shaken frame

the storm is not yet over BANG

another fallen sister claimed.

Can you hear me through the howling

the staccato of shivering teeth

are you humming your own mantras to keep

from losing those

deep roots you’ve already

put down, from other

storms you’ve survived

because I, need to see you

steady before I release

my own clenched fists.

Master of Illusion (Feb 2011)

2011-05-07T22:41:00.002-05:00

In my pocket are two fistfuls of silver dollars

I find them behind your ears sometimes

and a top hat that folds up, a string of silk handkerchiefs (that go on forever)

a deck of cards to play tricks, a wand, a cane and a walking stick

a live bunny, 3 doves and a little tiny mouse,

a few matches, a metal pin, a key and some handcuffs,

a saw of course and a full length coffin,

and all of that is in just one pocket.

I also carry some stretchy balloons for children’s shows

but in order to keep some mystery, really who knows

what secrets lay in a magicians pocket,

this wandering wizard, a one man show

-in my pockets are the dreams

of all people, the ones they think through

and the ones only I know.

Somewhere deep down I hold your fears,

those deep shameful insecurities that

you think are so hidden.

I carry the spiders, snakes, ferocious sharks and bears

the ones from your bed-ridden sweating night terrors.

The regrets and the guilt from

each little mistake

the words that make you cringe

the noises that shake

and I use them, ever

so slightly, delightfully terrorized

before the big reveal

because a trick is an illusion dependent on your worries

and I the master know

you believe your worries are real.

Falling (The Heart's Lament)

2011-01-21T18:40:00.001-06:00

The way the notes come together in dissonance, warmed sad-melodic

Is the way my heart finds you- missing

The brief subconscious thought sends signals and sends search parties

Finding nothing shallowly hidden in my chest cavity (nor immediate vicinity), a brief ringing alarmed despair

This is the part ears call jaw-line and eye brow to cringe at,

Met with remembered headlines

Things Have Changed-She’s far away, tensed shoulders

Longing from my diaphragm, spine crisped, eyes focus on the distance

Though the muscles of my back have braced for impact

my brain can’t comprehend the time and mileage

–and it curses itself with lack of logical understanding,

Find comfort somewhere more ancient, that distance

and minutes are not the true separation,

The heaviness sets in.

Heavy like anchors (will have to be)

Heavy like hoof kicks, the breath of certain horses

Heavy like an oxytocin addicts miss, and

Heavy like knowing that, I’ll still miss you tomorrow.

And I want to write that I’ve never truly been alone,

knowing my heart lied in the hands of others,

my thoughts always on their songs,

my truest hopes, on their tongues.

Ripening with time to bitters’ sweet -my heart laments

such beautifully sad songs.

********************************************************
A New project with the backing music by John Frusciante

Ink, Love, Divinity (Jan 2010)

2010-01-20T01:32:00.001-06:00

The avatar of God on your right shoulder
Instantly excited me
Instantly attracted me
to this woman who desires to remind herself

that she is god for all eternity
and makes me want to speak mantras
like “uh uh uh”

simultaneously

and in rhythmic motion
but my meager love making isn't

my only form of devotion
I could write you bad poetry
Sing you a song
Rub your back and shoulders when the day seems too long
Trace my finger tips around your earlobes when I massage your scalp

Easing away the tension headaches caused by your humanity’s self-doubt,

Isn’t it human after all to be swept up in the love of God’s caress?

Seeing divinity in all, I assume in me you’d see no less.

Am I a flirt (A song from Jan 2010)

2010-01-20T01:31:00.000-06:00

Am I a flirt
I don’t mean to be, just looking to respect
But a sense of entitlement pushes me beyond the boundaries you protect
Am I a flirt
Nah, I’m just floored by your eyes
And the goofy grin on my face lets you know it isn’t lies

Now she’s feeling slightly vulnerable
Slightly intoxicated with the honesty and comfort level
Not quite sure what to do with a man who’s intrigued
By the mundane and the beautiful heart she wears on her sleeve
At least it seems
That way to one who believes in dreams
Dreams that ignite the spirit of a lonely craving heart
And if you’re anything like me than I’m here to play my part
So if the look in my eye says I want to get to know you
Then miss please believe there’s nothing else I want to do

Am I a flirt
I don’t believe I am, just looking to respect
But a sense of entitlement pushes me beyond the boundaries you protect
Am I a flirt
Nah, I’m just floored by your eyes
And the goofy grin on my face lets you know it isn’t lies

And when I invade and ask about your past future and present
I’m seeking the marvelous gifts you have and that the rest of us haven’t
Please excuse me, I used that same line on a schizophrenic
And I’m really not trying to make you feel like a defendant
On trial
It’s just I haven’t seen a smile in a while
And a while, might be like a day or two
But a day of two of singing the lonely blues
And the low key notes got me scrappin for an outlet
And there is nothing about you that has made me doubt yet

So am I a flirt?
I don’t mean to be, just looking to respect
But a sense of entitlement pushes me beyond the boundaries you protect
Am I a flirt
Nah I’m just floored by your eyes
And the goofy grin on my face lets you know it isn’t lies

The Disappearing Act (Jan 2010)

2010-01-19T23:57:00.002-06:00

Oh sweet beautiful

I am losing the traces of your face in my memory

Or is it the wind that takes your cute cheeks and leaves them hollow

Or is it the whims of the fashionable that calls in question your once round hips

Or is it the pressures uncomfortable that tones your legs and arms to twigs

Or is it the notions scientific and medical that steal away your softness

Or is it the secrets hidden that leave you with
if not less life,
Than at least seemingly more thoughtless

And drain your ambition, joy and laughter
Replacing with undue sadness

And cause you to question your worth just as much
But with so much less to show

And impress the shallow with what you’ve produced
But leave your love so scared and low.

New Years Eve 2009

2009-12-31T20:03:00.000-06:00

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.

Things written in my notebook (dec 31 2009)

2009-12-31T03:07:00.002-06:00

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.

What love is not

2009-08-24T00:00:00.002-05:00

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.

Hermenegildo Thurgood (August 09)

2009-08-01T10:12:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-07-30T14:05:00.001-05:00

I tried to write a poem, but no poem would come
so I remained in bed lusting after one
and as the language of sex replaced the language of love
I realized that words were a little less fun
than our vision of them.

Advice to the New (July 2009)

2009-07-28T01:39:00.002-05:00

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!

when will you come home

2009-07-24T13:13:00.002-05:00

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.

Trouble Sleeping

2009-06-29T00:46:00.002-05:00

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.

2009-06-28T18:15:00.000-05:00

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?

Concerted Concerns

2009-06-27T21:59:00.000-05:00

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

Romeo Spends His Time Alone

2009-06-27T21:56:00.000-05:00

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.

Divine Intervention (Summer 2009)

2009-06-13T00:21:00.000-05:00

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

4 poem/ideas from the coffee shops (May 2, 09)

2009-05-03T00:38:00.005-05:00

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?

Mentor (April 2009)

2009-04-23T20:53:00.001-05:00

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.

Half Written Things from 2009

2009-04-16T23:24:00.002-05:00

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

The Quick Way, Isn't Always the Best Way (Mar 2009)

2009-03-11T20:09:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-02-22T17:03:00.001-06:00

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.

On Love and Conversation

2009-02-22T16:58:00.002-06:00

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.

The "Yes We Can"

2009-01-24T15:52:00.001-06:00

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.

Open Mics (fall 2008)

2009-01-10T21:37:00.002-06:00

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?

Musica

2009-01-10T21:26:00.001-06:00

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)

2009-01-10T21:21:00.001-06:00

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?

Might As Well Have Been A Dream He Thought (Sept 2008)

2009-01-10T21:18:00.003-06:00

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?

My day (RYW creative writing topic) unfinished sept 2008

2008-09-17T17:57:00.019-05:00

When I wake up in the morning I am rarely thinking about the adventure and excitement of school, usually it’s more like “oh my god what is that damnable racket” even though it’s just some radio buzz or the beeping of an alarm. I hear demons screeching. Maybe the terrible noise is because just seconds before I was enjoying paradise, a good conversation, an adventure, a life that is not my own but feels so natural. Regardless, I soon come to my senses and wake to check e mails. The cat is impatient for food but I am rarely in line with her wanting. A shower seems to be the most important point on the agenda followed by teeth brushing and a scramble out the door with a handful of books and a mouth full of gum. My room is left in shambles for my return home. My car looks equally distraught with a dozen empty plastic bottles and trash on the floor. I zoom off in search of sustenance though I am not often hungry. Breuggers, Maccies the gas station, provide what my kitchen can’t , something relatively tasty. I am often the first person on the scene at school, so I blast punk, hip hop or bluegrass and rock out in my car. Bypassers must assume madness. Check in’s and greetings, copying packets and readings, cartoons and quotes to tantalize or more often bore the pants off young scholars. I overdo my enthusiasm because most bring none. I clown because school is fun and funny if you allow it to be. Classes are a dance, but a dance with improvised steps, so if your beat or rhythm is off you and the students are left wanting. I am a huge critic but I don’t know what they see and my forgiving nature makes them angels and mistakes and miscalculations my own fault.

"last school year" (RYW creative writing topic) sept 2008

2008-09-17T17:57:00.017-05:00

A sudden jump into the professional
I confess
school last year meant hands up
a crowd of students wanting.
Not necessarily knowledge
but something satisfying
entertainment
(am I a comedian?)
reassurance
(a counselor?)
a connection
a conduit
through eyes I see a hundred voices ready to project but without verse
so they shout and curse
cuz the system feels corrupt
and they aint go the power yet,
yet I got ears that listen well,
yet I got hands that can give tools,
yet I got experience that defies years
I got the will to bring people together

"the teacher stands in front of the class with a lesson plan he can't recall"

but he knows not everything learned in youth is presented between school walls
-so he starts a conversation...

avocado/sports (RYW creative writing topic) sept 2008

2008-09-17T17:57:00.013-05:00

Sports/Avocados
No one had ever seen anything so ridiculous. The enormous football players armored with shoulder and chest pads. Having trained for 14/15 weeks of summer, doing arm curls, leg curls, side curls, neck curls and that one guy with the long hair doing hair curls, sprints, killers, bow flex, arm wrestling, swimming, cross country, skiing (on feet) hell they were doing bench pressed with old ladies on a park bench- these guys were tough as tough could be and now –so angrily they were charging at each other with the fury, lines of them faced off on either side with a glare in their eyes, with teeth clenched, with muscles flexed, they charged like rams, like bulls, like furry goateed mountain goats, these bison, these elephants, braced to run right through each other. But they didn’t.
They met like the big bang that caused the universe, they met like wrecking balls against a mountain, they met with such explosive force that the avocados taped to their chests smashed together without remorse and when the ridiculous spectacle was done, the behemoths fell to the ground now covered in green delicious goo, and the crowd rushed to the field with bags of chips and each person took a scoop.

Avocado
A voc ado (doo)
I say to you
Stay silly and true
Don’t ask for the face lift.

A vo ca do (dough)
So rare to hear no
When adults are so
Petty and straight laced.

A voca do (dow)
So embraced by the now
That even footballers say wow
As they crush to make chip dip.

Avocados

California is where Avocados come from. But soon it will be desert again. Will the locals plant dates in the oasis and add spices? Will spiritual couch surfers add cayenne to apples grown in Canada? Will young writers question all the youth who have never tasted such fruit? Ambrosia, the food of the Gods will be green and rare and this time it won’t cause hallucinations.

"The Ultimate Showdown/Satan" (RYW creative writing topic) sept 2008

2008-09-17T17:57:00.011-05:00

One could argue that Satan would be part of the Ultimate Showdown and perhaps his influence is felt, but I lay out for thee a hypothesis that the Ultimate Showdown would be between God and Itself.
Perhaps they be partners split into halves like some sort of cantaloupe, one gutted then trashed, and she gets no praise anymore, though all adore her. Forgotten is her name thus people call her partner lord. And if they had a son, whether his name was Jesus or not, did his father forsake him and leave him to rot? Did he spend time honoring his duties then suddenly forget the promises he had made to let us come to him?
There’s a battle in my mind between goodness and doubt and somewhere in-between lies humility and beyond that pride and control and I’d like to be absolved of all this commotion, but the argument is the same for Gods with devotion, -Am I honest with myself? Let you come to me, faithful and blessed, through me God’s caress. Or am I faithful to you, proud and true, let you fall and be taken,
Ripped, beaten,
Shred dignity , allow the path to
Be repeated,
You cry and crawl further
Bleed shiver,
Doubt overtaken,
Split back to the beginning still trashed like that half fruit,
Calling him back to you, submerged in humility,
I’d learn realistically that you been tapping
My shoulder
For all of history, trying to remind me that you have been here the whole time.
I’d turned and you’d waited,
Like a mother, watching me learning
A lover, quietly yearning to be,
To be embraced again.

Life Right Now (RYW journal) Sept 2008

2008-09-17T17:57:00.009-05:00

Life?
Life is beuno though I,
Spend time tired and still
wanting, and I,
spend days preparing
and visiting, I
wish to connect and see
further with eyes that
can tell tired from bored
hurt from frustration
intentions from what happens
reflections that increase learning.
My love life, now that is the biggest source of disappointment
and that,
says a lot about the blessings.

Paths We've Taken (August 2008)

2008-09-17T17:57:00.003-05:00

You spent the night at home sinking deeper into despair,
where soon the hospital would meet you.
While me and Collin strolled in the moonlit night
along the Vistula
I remember admiring the expanse, the far bank
seemed a harbor distant.
And we joked about dogs being carried away in those rushing waters
Never to be heard of
-and silently wondered about our own sad and solitary existence.

In this city (rebuilt to withstand another storming army).
Thousands had perished
And you thought you’d join them
But me and Mr. Sleeper
Sat discussing the definition of cheating and whether or not it included kissing (his own indiscretion)
Polish Girls, Catholic
and beautiful,
He ate baklava and surrendered to its sweetness.
While I tried to imagine a world in which Kissing, came so easily.

It was that night, I
Saw a street performer send forth flames like a dragon,
Admired the spectacle
of glowing faces in the crowd.
Around that time you were probably growing weaker, slowly fading
Puking the color from your skin strength from your bones,
the life from your breath,
-if only we’d known then the importance of fire breaths,
we might have sparked those flames for life.

Not what you think (august 2007)

2008-08-13T06:02:00.002-05:00

Not what you think

Its not always the big things:

Impatience and frustration builds as my 8 year old son helps the waitress clean up the mess I spilled when the pain suddenly shot through the numbness –and I sit here helpless, while those seated at near by tables give sympathetic but not understanding looks in our direction.

And when I meet their eyes like a man, they turn away.

Its not always the obvious things:

Its not the lack of ramp that’s the trouble, it’s the sticky uneven floor. Its being confined to one floor of my own house when the master bedroom is upstairs. Its trying to dance at a wedding with my wife who sits there patiently eying the other husbands

-leaves me shaken, wondering why she stayed.

Its not the visible things:

Its hour after hour of rehabilitation never sure if it will amount to anything, trying to keep up hope that one day… waiting for insurance and VA checks to come through while I’m nervous about the house payment, oh hell –the kids fall school clothes. Spending an hour in the shower, only to slip on a steel rail, unable to help myself up again. Sometimes my prescriptions don’t show up on time, sometimes they don’t work anyway.

Its not always the easy sacrifice:

When you can’t stand during the ovation at your kid’s play, or show him how to slide in to home. –model, how patriots stand for the flag, or why he should believe in service to this nation. He sees the sacrifice he already gave, questions why, and fills with rage when he sees his daddy ain’t got legs.

*******I wrote this a long time ago, I'm pretty sure I posted it on the other blog... Here is a picture that goes with it.**********

A Walk to Remember (august 2008)

2008-08-06T22:56:00.002-05:00

Remember that time through the rich man’s lands, the fresh grass of night, the birds squawking. We were so sure about that spirit of vengeance. That was ages ago but the moon glow on your face still looks the same. If I reminded you of our shared secrets… would you remind me your name?

ryw freewrite (July 2008)

2008-07-15T21:42:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I write out the lyrics to songs, the lines of a poem so that can see their rhythmic structure. That underlying skeleton, and maybe when I read and listen at the same time… I can see what’s in the crawlspace what braces the embraces of the words and their meaning.

I wish I could do that with this heart song, pounding behind my chest plate, whispers in the alleyway of my decaying brain. These are rumors in the hallway,
but what exactly does that song say?

It speaks in poetics for a time about the sense of communion between two lovers turned best friends, shared thoughts unspoken, eased fears with meaningful glances, cut tension in the air with a hug or a handshake.

Sometimes the feelings go unmentioned because the heart aches, but mistakes don’t create earthquakes so fear was not in the driver’s seat, just steady percussive heart beats. Partnership, companions, composed to fill in the gaps when one of us didn’t feel complete, because the other would never abandon.

It’s not just about the words, but the melody and unlike some cheesy pop song that loses its meaning this song, sends me screaming out the choruses.
A hook that you hope repeats again and again.

But there is a B verse, No fuck that a Z verse. Its ride sounds chaotic, lyrics are fast and unintelligible, distorted yelling in curse words, no caring, hoarse voice and screaming and that part leaves you terrified, for lack of something better. Leaves me heartbroken and beaten. Makes me question if God is listening and if so HOW DARE HE….
treat us so.
This is the sound of Battle, No glory.
This is the sound of parents crying for their baby soldiers to come home,
long nights anxiously thinking.
This is the sound of momentary eviction.
This is the sound of not having life saving prescriptions.
This is the sound of one man, too scared to scream, too hurt to hug, too betrayed
to BE anything.
This is NOT the song’s end.

Dissonance gives way to breathing, like a heart monitor beeping, steady beats start repeating.
This is the bottom but wait for the buildup, here comes the rhythm that forces your feet up.
Tapping toes, tired but they know how it goes,
legs start shaking and that’s where the pros hit you hard with a new verse unsaid yet, like maybe the cold rain brought in a new day, like maybe the mushy ripeness is really the sweet part, maybe the rainbow is heightened by gray, and maybe the dry wind prepares you to sing, so maybe it’s time we do up that chorus again.

***********this is the second draft so I would say its possibly unfinished but knowing me I wont return to it*********

RYW writings (july 2008)

2008-07-11T16:50:00.003-05:00

*******Several days a week I teach a 30 minute class called "Righting Your Writing" which is bad because I have terrible grammar, but its a wonderful time to connect with the students. Anyway... since I hate grammar exercises as much as the students do, what I am hoping to do is have them just practice writing a lot so that they start to improve on their own without someone picking a part every little sentence. (sort of like how in college your papers naturally improve even if u put less work into them). Anyway... sometimes I join the students in the writing exercises... here are some of them. I will probably update these occasionally under the title RYW*********

1) write about a boat or boat ride.

Boat Ride

The first thought to hit me is always the smell of the sea. Even when its light and breezy out, ocean water smells heavy. Weighted down with millions of tons of salt, and that gentle salt breeze assaults the senses. For someone like me, who grew up in the middle of the continent, the salted sea brings about a feeling of difference. Not good or bad, sometimes it makes me feel adventurous like an early immigrant to this land who waves goodbye to everything they know in search of something better(?)

Adventure. I’ve stood on the beaches of three oceans. Each place with different sand, but the same breaking waves the same smell of sea. Entering onto a boat is the same as playing on a plastic raft in the pool as a child. A game of balance, slight unease, but when you right yourself on something floating –and it doesn’t immediately throw you off or plummet to the ocean floor –THAT is ACCOMPLISHMENT. Ancient people must have felt the God’s blessings when they first stepped onto fishing boats. Must have sent thrills through them, and the courage to go forth and conquer the planet.

Boats always seem more dirty than I expect. Its slow rust decay and grime in the cracks, when panels of metal , plastic or wood meet.. (The salted sea has taken its toll on the science of man.) A reminder that, some storm may tear her frame, with little guilt or pride. Survivors will drift for days on the tides, each tickle at their toes sending shockwaves of dread through their bones for the terrible deep.

Ship people feel secure on boats. Feel in tune with the back and forth rocking like a cradle even when the teeter totter seems like it will break, they keep their balance. Minnesota boys know no such waves, so we stumble back and forth pushing off walls that seem to offer no security… back and forth stumbling and then when you find you sea legs it’s because your destination is approaching and this decaying ship had met no storm or early death… just a day trip and return to a calm and waiting harbor.

2) Write about sleep/dreams

At night my mind is tempted

I lay in bed, thoughts in my head

R E L A X -can’t relax

But I need to practice…. My dreaming

My mind schemes

-leap from your bed and splash crimson and blue across some paper!

-have you spent time in prayer lately?

-have you: responded to letters, for okay or better, read stories, proclaimed the glory,

have you practiced your praise?

So I pray to spirits then recap the day…

Rushed thoughts of mistakes

Misguided attempts at humor…

Mixed feelings of guilt superseded by doubt, but blessed and rehashed as learning…

I learn from my mistakes.

I choose, to learn from my mistakes.

R E L A X

“go to sleep now.” My mind says frimly, “you’ve processed enough and its already 4:30 AM…”

But then slowly

The minutes creep by again and again

My eyes closed but quick thoughts propose

plans for tomorrow.

3) Write about Today

There is this really warm sleep feeling that keeps coming over me, like when your alarm goes off and you hit snooze and just relax back into your blankets. It’s funny how I never want to go to sleep but never want to wake up either.

There is something about living in the present that brings about that warm feeling as well, but I always feel like I’m faking it. Like my head is too filled up with thoughts spilling that I don’t find the present all that fulfilling.

Yesterday in Yoga,

My heart seemed heavy, my breathing was not fluid rhythmic smooth. Not comfortable. It was a zebra chased by a lion. It was two tons of sumo wrestler forcing me from the ring and my muscles collapsed by the impact. It made me feel weak, but that’s the ego speaking. How does one get out of their head and into the present if their lungs are caving and limbs shaking?

Maybe that is the present.

sex senses (june 2008)

2008-06-15T02:52:00.000-05:00

I was gonna ask why my heart heartedly pumps..

for smells that turn faces,

sweet scents of shit and sex intertwined to infiltrate me,

honey dripped, sweat and filth,

syrup heavy,

humidity in the air, dirt and sticky

smooth and silky to skin like mud,

trudge so guilt-ed grudgingly through that muck,

stretch to reach those hands that pluck, that fruit so fair, so fresh, so fuck

so fantasies are filled with slurping, slick lick tongue firm guided through flesh,

coated fully,

liquid salted lovely,

embracing humanities touch,

devils or dios excited with raunch.

Explicit remembering, erotic entrenched,

finger tips tracing,

sex fog sniff, lips reach, tongue breach

oil skin gleam, hearts, lungs, diaphragm pulse breath, scream

unable to keep up with the excitement,

muscles contract,

heaven blessed tantric enlightenment.

something angsty (june 2008)

2008-06-07T09:10:00.000-05:00

My sugar level is dropping rapidly.
Reminds me of the sky today.
Reminds me of the casual way you spit fire,
half thrust and half shield, as if uncertain of the venom you wield,
as If expecting some reproach of it.

Times like this I see the shakiness of limbs
The droop and stretch,
Feel exhausted from catching it all
Atrophy on a massive scale, somehow allows the fat to succumb so I’m not perceived as frail
But inside this large mammal, a broken creature.

My dreams are escaping
Both in memory and in reach
And it seems sometimes that time is leeching it from me.
The parasite that once promised freedom we’d receive, now demands us to achieve,
With such little time left.

observations at a coffee shop (may 2008)

2008-05-31T18:37:00.002-05:00

Impatient would be Buddha seeks wisdom from the sweater-ed elder who goes on with his story despite the eager pushing of his listener. The elder’s white hair tied back, glasses in hand, displays treasured writings as he continues the story at a gentle pace. Crosslegged, Impatient Buddha, thin and swamped in a button down, leans forward, bearded chin in hand and jabs small assurances in youthful vocabulary “sweet, cool, awesome” and thinks up another question to ask the elder. The cranky artist, old, disdainful face seeks new experiences to prattle onto paper, his pen strokes straight, his wrinkles ragged. He contemplates existence, but not the big picture, simply Why is there a chair there? stares intently at each person Are you my creation? Will you be my salvation? Young Buddha gives up the pose attempts to impart gained knowledge to fortify the elders history, See what I know? As he relaxes in his confidence. The artist finally walks out for a smoke after turning the cigarette in his steady hands for an hour, perhaps waiting for a sign that came, just then.

Two cell phones command their owners Play with me! They call on them. One the businessman the worker intrigued by all the knowledge he surfs despite his labor, he turns his back from the window, and from the briefcase to the plugged in laptop that offers him amazement, engagement in online communities, posts to profiles, erases, reposts, he’s in that world, adulterous to his responsibilities, but just then the pulse hits straight into his brain, reminds him of his heart’s home, calls her on the phone, braces her with the news that the storm is on its way. She’s glad to hear from him but sends him on his way with muffled phone kisses. He puts the phone down and surfs away.

((((((Well crap I wasn't prepared for demands... Um I haven't really been writing anything lately.. well not of any substance. And I have tons of crap poetry that is literally labeled "crap-_____" with the title but rather than that... this is just something I was free writing while at a coffee shop yesterday. If I had continued writing, it would have described about 5 more people.... but I was interrupted by a friend. I told her as she sat down that I had decided everyone in the room was the same person at different stages in life. So eventually the 7-10 people I wrote about would start revealing themselves to be the same person in some way. anyway. thats that)))))))))

??? (april 2008)

2008-04-26T12:55:00.000-05:00

She reacts to his wasp stings by tightening and turning over, doesn’t say much but projects her desire that he keep his lips where they came from, leaving him agape with three options. He could overpower her, pressure or ponder her motives, and he chooses the latter, contemplating her reactions. This woman who shares a bed with him but never bares any more. And he mimics her turning, facing the other direction, projecting with just enough flare that he might cause her some despair, but she doesn’t come calling. Both silently crying, their bodies on that bed, like two heavy fortresses separated by an empty field. A heart torn at the middle so that the skin peeled back.

(((((I cant think of a title)))))

God wins over the crowd (we like cliches ) April 2008

2008-04-23T17:33:00.002-05:00

God was at his drum set again tonight. I was driving when I first heard the soft splat, he never counts with the sticks, he never plays for the crowd, it’s a soft spat on high hats, 1, 2 then combat. Headed in quick with the 16^th time, drivers weren’t ready for it, saw them swerve from line to line. But that’s no crime, and anyway he leveled off. That’s God after-all comes in strong -then he’s gone, just so that the cynics scoff. Let em deal with it, the snare drum softly rattles, calling out the solo’s battle. Just like that it’s a soldier’s stomping, snare drum march with toms a bomping. Funny how one learns to like it, repetitive it sounds so nice, I heard he once played “wipe out” like that for 40 days and 40 nights. I’d imagine even god on a snare solo gets real old though, So though it frightens he sometimes heightens with the set and gets bold. Its that double bass Crash that thunderclap that sets the audience a screaming. I think that’s where people lose themselves and start to wonder what God is meaning. I saw her earlier, lady earth, she was dry mouthed with anticipation, she’d been yearning for that steady beat, spirit refreshed by the creative rhythm. Now she danced intoxicated over run with music he created, and her moistened lips began to spit the choruses but she didn’t know the verses,

so she just whistled -as if cheering him on.

((((((yeah sometimes i talk to myself when im driving))))

untitled (march 2008)

2008-04-12T17:16:00.003-05:00

Pointing at a picture, glued firmly in her memory but with a view blocked by scattered gatherings on the table, she says that’s the real me, or at least the me I need to be. Shoving aside casually the trinkets and charms, she reveals a confused white girl swarmed with small brown children.

((((I don't think this is done yet... but i cant think of anything else to write)))))

Forgive My Forgetting (april 2008)

2008-04-12T17:14:00.002-05:00

I’m forgetting your name already. Sweet face that comes to me when I dream, sings me to sleep, smiles at me so many times- so many repeated pictures cuz I was bored and you were beautiful. A warmth above the left side of my tummy, aches my heart when I wake up.

This fragile memory so forgetful. It would take nothing but a few hours, a road trip, a fill up, a voice wrecked by car karaoke - To see you on a swing set, a coffee house, a walk, a hug a chitchat till tomorrows midnight. But time is never what truly separates us, is it

(((((this was inspired by pictures of beautiful people in morris)))))

Another Game? (feb 2008)

2008-02-10T14:29:00.000-06:00

I deleted your e mails the other day. I’d been saving them like lover’s notes, though self interest on both our parts is all that they’d contained.

Your poetry written for another, your stories of far flinging adventure, your pictures captured for your memory, well let’s let it be (yours)

I’d let you handle all the boundary work, mending the fence, stir the concrete, duct tape the edges.

It allowed me time to fall in love with your crafty craftsmanship all over again.

A new blanket sings the song of the divide as clearly as the respect and peacefulness of this time, but I’m sick of subdued passion. So maybe it will be games, seated opponents with differing strategies and subtle jabs instead of compliments, smiles for the challenge of coming together for connection and -not sharing affection.

morning calls (winter 2008)

2008-01-26T17:25:00.001-06:00

I was somewhere between ordering breakfast and portraits
You seemed somewhere between surprise and excitement
I wasn’t available for conversation,
Hurried goodbyes felt like…
Deposed disposables

neverends (winter 2008)

2008-01-26T17:22:00.000-06:00

Cesar Chavez took us back, without thought of promises people make, she said thank you and laughed when I shooed her away. We couldn’t help but notice others entering into mundane routine as we concluded it would not be the last of our adventuring.

a note (winter 2008)

2008-01-26T17:21:00.001-06:00

Light up eyes can only mean one thing, and I feared meeting them for connection in this case is inappropriate. But thanks for the note that implied some level of enjoyment in our silly connections, missed worlds - acknowledged simply with “I’ll miss you.”

******Don't worry this isn't about anyone you know. But the more I think about it, it might be about all of you. ********

love taps (winter 2008)

2008-01-26T17:18:00.002-06:00

Didn’t it surprise you the way God lifted her fingers, and with a push you were planted squarely on the seat of your pants, you should have been laughing, instead, wanting to cry.

personal space (jan 2008)

2008-01-26T17:18:00.001-06:00

Maybe it’s your foreign comfort, or because its cold, or because we are sharing a blanket, or because you are so absorbed in the film that you don’t notice, maybe it’s my overly strong tendency for personal space, maybe you are too tired to notice, but shouldn’t you be pulling away?
Or are you trying to say you like me…

capitalism in recession (Jan 2008)

2008-01-26T17:16:00.000-06:00

I’m raving about the economy like a capitalist bourgeoisie, reminding me I am upper class roots, entrepreneur family, liberal education, but my student sentiments are not for thee liberty

with all its gambled excitement,

but security for equality..

The King’s Monopoly hotels and housing, the losers,

a dice throw from being us all.

**********Just whats been on my mind lately... rants and rants and rants....****************

little poems (winter 07-08)

2008-01-07T04:48:00.000-06:00

She was laying in my bed tonight. Hidden beneath my pansy covers Wrapped up for warmth I’d gladly offer. But I was showing her my treasures, hoping to reignite some interest, hoping she’d derive some pleasure from my strange creations, as I had in her explorations. And she smelled like the glow of great memories. So I rubbed her head cuz I couldn’t keep my hands away. And I offered her my bed and said I’d gladly take the couch, if I could kidnap her for another day.

**********************************

You were always the strong one even if I was the one reminding you.

I’d wrap you up gently a thousand nights, a thousand shivers relieved with whatever warmth I could offer, a thousand tears wiped away, a thousand mumbled words when I have nothing to say, a thousand jokes, a thousand tales, a thousand patient hours, ears turned to hear your concerns, a thousand glimpses half knowing it shows that each moment I fall harder and that you won’t grow more tender to my pleading confused eyes, and half hearted but loving replies.

**********************************

Wanting to be your shelter, but not your reason to continue wandering,

I am a plain house.

Still you journeyed on, leaving me scared still standing there… not sure if your next roof would have leaks, paint chipping, narrow stairs that creaked and offered no escape should fires rage… but you had told me you liked the idea of living (with)in a fixer upper –despite your history of burns and jagged nail cuts… Some where you could rage against and simultaneously grow in. Somewhere passionate, unafraid to show its love, by shedding and giving, pushing towards you, matching your ferocity.

**********************************

I would ask you to marry me,

but I look in your eyes and notice you don’t share my fantasies,

so I just sit quiet.

**********************************

After the panic shocks -me scaring you - you leaving bruises on my arm,
I was careful to not mention the reflection in the “empty” van window
in front of us that looked too much like a face.

Certain

that it wasn’t “really” a zombie.

********************************************************************************

****Yeah so these are the types of things i have been writing lately... they are mostly about conversations I had in my head (exception of the first one) -different people...
as you can see I didn't bother with poetic spacing... and mostly didnt bother with poetics... a little rhyming but i do that naturally half the time... I guess they arent meant to be wonderful... just to capture small thoughts and feelings.

Kenji (Dec 2007)

2007-12-12T04:13:00.000-06:00

Kenji
-In Germany I served to make a better world for us all.
Killed a man and earned a car.
Lost a leg, and earned a star.
Still I’m forced to look around and wonder where we are…
-Taught by American Teachers, pool halls, radios and drinking
-Years interned in the desert, left us wondering what they were thinking.
And so we signed up, marched to war to prove that we were worthy-
Of the freedoms guaranteed to us
-but stolen undeservedly.

-My Father worked to pay the bills, struggled raising a large family.
-And when at last they let us go, he started over smiling candidly.
I lost my soul that day that man fell bleeding from the roof top.
And hope that one day we see people as people so that eventually the hate stops.
And though dying, I dreamily envision
that America could be a place where people melt together.
But until then I say do what you can-
And if they steal another inch in hopes to stop the rotting…

Smile for another day - and pedal to the metal
Keep on hopping.

******This poem is about a character from the book No-No Boy, which is about a number of Japanese people who lived through WWII and struggled with their identities, values, culture etc and the aftermath of the war, internment, etc.This is not about the main character, I wrote a poem thats even worse than this one to include him... but this is about one of the more positive characters in the book....a friend named Kenji who became a soldier and was hurt... he ends up dying in the book, but tries to help the main character choose a more healthy/hopeful life...******

Seven (oct 2007)

2007-10-27T17:46:00.000-05:00

I can see your revolution building, but its not in the streets.
Marred by attitudinal adolescence,
but strengthened
by the justice of your mission.
My Child, My Brother, My Friend

There was time when you were bold and blatant
when each momentary need called for confidence, and I
sat watching,
worried and withdrawn, only reaching out when the cars
would have struck, or the embarrassment was too much.
But I reacted in those times with confidence because I knew you could trust me.

There was a time when each action seemed so inappropriate,
each conversation so conceited, and I passed judgment on you
and probably made it apparent.
but each time,
to be honest I was impressed
with the not so subtle ways you drew people to you.
Your laughter, and excitement contagious, and sometimes… even when I was hiding in the other room
I was laughing.

There was a time, when you were scared and lonely
You struggled with the first time, the first love, the first betrayal.
You couldn’t muster your normal excitement,
you couldn’t sit still
but you wouldn’t leave the house to find fulfillment,
and to that- I could relate,
So together we acknowledged our truths.

But now you are back to quick expansion,
and never since stopping you from car crashes have I felt more scared,
for in rapid increases you’ve proven already that you can outgrow me
and if danger nears, I’m unsure If I am prepared.
If your revolution calls will you take to the daring road,
And should you bring about that change
–will you judge me for being less bold?

(((((((((this is about a feeling I had when my little brother called me a few weeks ago, distraught, ambitious, ready for action and change... his values are wonderful, he cant stand the injustice... but I worried that he would be the bold free spirit he has always been, and run off to fight some revolution... and if so, i know i'd be worried, proud, confused... but what if he succeeded?)))))

Oct 2007

2007-10-27T17:19:00.000-05:00

It bothers me,
just how beautiful you still are
With traces of your skeletal braces protruding from skin -and not so gently,
And when we hug,
I feel the space between us that was once you…
so that even when you are wrapped up closely, I still miss you.

And like my grandmother’s hands which always felt so breakable,
I worry, and keep my distance though I’d love to hold you,
for my sheer presence must be like a freight truck
swaying your tiny frame on the highway.
But you’re the one smiling.
Perhaps.. finding your place in the world?

Finally.
My only… hope ,
is that you return home - as robust as your ambitions.

Baby Bird (oct 2007)

2007-10-27T16:05:00.000-05:00

It seems baby bird, that as a youngling
you were just as small,
Big head, skinny neck outstretched
Calling out for nourishment
And got only your parents
regurgitated frustration
Never quite sure what you were supposed to sustain yourself on.

The push from the nest, that age old test
-and the slow spiral of flapping unused and untrained wings
Till the spiral bottoms out
And the hospital beds pump you full of nutrients
As if this latest liquid diet could replace the one you never had
And when they’re through
Another stay
in that uncomfortable nest of pine needles
The watchful eye of parents
Who want to protect and wonder in worry, if their next push
Will strengthen your wings or
finally kill you.
Baby bird you must have some direction,
Just to maintain altitude is not enough.
The nourishment you seek may lie in other trees,
Gather your needles, and flap your wings.

((((((((((((((The spacing on this will be all screwed up... thinking about someone... hope they dont mind))))))))))))))))

You Filled With Spirit (oct 2007)

2007-10-08T00:56:00.000-05:00

I’m falling in love with beautiful faces
Tastes, of relationships
Dimples when cheeks raise,
-Crazed, with the possibilities.

But I worry about your sanity, you who come with me
Heart a pounding, fluttering, sounding out every type of warning,
but you keep coming for me, forward in chase,
excited by chaste - talking

and walks on gentle nights
we cuddle in these flights from our dreary rain filled realities
but only in tight bounds of the spiritual presence
that’s where the essence of my friendship lies.

I hope it don’t come as a surprise
That you have rejuvenated I,
Re-invited the cause of hope in to my life.

And when united with beauty like that:
I sit and snap a pic, smile for awhile
Ego filled heart -I may act like a dick -
But I Care, cuz I mean it.

*************Well I was listening to Jazz/rap when I wrote this, so its got some strangeness to it. The title is because its the people that fill me with spirit, when they act like themselves and force me to realize how beautiful they are. lately I have been having a lot of this and its wonderful.. I dont really know if im worried about hurting anyone in particular... but i feel like everytime im on top of the world, im probably gonna hurt someone... and this poem is about being filled with joy, and worrying about the concequences.. Also... i have been wanting to write more I and me based poems all summer and fall... and more real, less contrived reaching for words types stuff.. so this one used pretty common languages.... *****************

Patience Master (fall 2007)

2007-09-29T13:56:00.000-05:00

R A B B I what has happened to you?
they've turned you into some monstrous god,
set you upon your knees
in tears
as they draw and quarter
your message of peace.
-and when you cried out
that you'd been forsaken,
perhaps some ugly vision of the future
had graced your strained presence.
And still you asked for our forgiveness,
claiming
that we knew not what we did.
And I fear you sinned there
on the cross, as tears fell
from your warm eyes, and you told childish lies
to our father, hoping to protect us all
from our due punishment. But teacher,
how do we learn to walk the righteous path,
if you won’t let us stumble and fall as we crawl so slowly towards you?
Have faith lord, moths always stumble
towards false light in darkness,
but one day we'll learn the difference.

Jihad (sept 2007)

2007-09-28T00:12:00.001-05:00

I’m the one who sent horror upon your spacious skies,
And left your amber weighs of gold buried beneath the rubble.
Stained your purple mountains red with blood so you could empathize
with the masses we see scared walking the streets of Kabul,
of Baghdad, of Jerusalem, Beirut and all our Holy Land.

You say I hate freedom, I hate freely watching you berate my children,
Freedom lost to teach the words of sacred God, but you keep screaming
Hollywood depicts my children engaged with Satan and still you question
Why I give my soul and life to protect our rights against your blaspheming.

Oh beautiful feet, of pilgrims who seek, their God,
need not your foul stench of oppression,
For you haven’t noticed the wild sands you tread upon
in your trance of oil obsession
-have been sanctified
with the blood of a thousand martyrs
and we’ll give glory to sacred God,
if he wills it too, for all our sons and daughters.

You say I hate freedom, I hate freely watching you objectify my wife and children
Freedom lost to testify to the sacred traditions that have been our redemption.
You call us backwards but we protected women’s rights long before you “gave them”
You say we’re brutal for punishing the same as you, simply because our laws don’t allow exemptions.

I’m the hero proved in living, zakat for all who need it
Liberating those in strife -with God’s mercy and beneficence
loving more than self, my faith, my God, and thankful for his blessings
So when I walk in the sacred lands of Saud, I wish to only perceive his magnificence

Not your hummers, tank and bombers,
Your Wall Street thieves and traders,
So when we defend our ways and rights
Remember that you’re the invaders.

******
There may be a video to come from the open mic performance.... what is this about?
Well Im one of those crazy kids who doesnt believe in war... so one of the strategies to try to understand why it happens is to actually listen to the reasons people give for fighting... now don't get me wrong, I know jihad isnt all violence... but for the people we are at war with, it is one aspect... and i think listening to their reasons and trying to understand them, helps us remember that they are human like we are, they have as logical of reasons for killing as we do. Not that i think any of them are logical... but they are actually pretty similar... they want to kill us, so we kill them first, they want to destroy our way of life so we destroy theirs first. etc etc..
so this piece isnt meant to scare or be treasonous or anything, but just simply to bring awareness that even the worst of the worst believe they are fighting for something worthy and if we are willing to sacrifice our children for our values why shouldn't they?
*****
video to come??? maybe??

(Untitled- so far) august 2007

2007-08-11T18:13:00.000-05:00

Always a sort of Trembling, a nervousness
Held in secret, held back to protect her.

Her.

Perhaps she trembles too
Sometimes with joy
Flash
Smiles
No hinting
Sheer excitement
1 second
but in each 5th a new face
a new desire
a new secret
a new dream
new hope
tremendously fulfilling

Eyes Bright all the time, with surprise
like greeting a beautiful stranger
shocked with delight
cuz only she speaks that
Sacred, Secret language that connects them

and she speaks it with the clarity in her eyes.

a Picture a Snapshot
a Photo a Click
but not quick enough for hyper swinging

round, round and back again
like waking up in
free fall
fantastic skydive
but one second it’s a choice
the next, a push off the
precipice
And She looks back with that

Scared nervous questioning Horror

Sacred Eyes crying out “Who pushed me?”
And you’re afraid to tell her it was…

Always a sort of Trembling, a nervousness
Held in secret, held back to protect her.

…Her.

((((((((um blogger will probably screw up the spacing... i was sitting in dunn brothers trying to describe a feeling I get sometimes when Im looking at people.))))))

False Teachings (august 2007)

2007-08-03T00:07:00.000-05:00

I overhear a would be teacher speak in subtly off tones of soothing,
talk like hes trying to smooth over bumps in his own and maybe her personalities. ignore the flaws. be genuine by rejecting the insecurities, oh god I wish it were new to me.
but I done played the role too many times not to be disgusted -hes holding on in that casual "Im at your level because I choose to lower myself to you" and shes so taken aback by the attention -of someone, anyone who would do so with out mention..
-what a player.
What a fool, you wish to be a mentor, a friend? stop your pretenses,
genuinely you believe yourself to be her savior... and she
she needs to seek a teacher within her.
You and I, we bullshit trying to preach with our false wisdom,
but really... we dont deserve them
and each time we prove it.

******thoughts in a coffee shop... i spose a little explanation is in order... um i often find myself in a role, and rather than be the person i should be, i sometimes play the role... I saw this guy being very smooth and friendly on what seemed like a first date, and thought, wow that guy does the same thing, I dont want to be like him when i am connecting with people... and thats that************

The San Franciscan (Dunn Brothers 2050) (august 2007)

2007-08-03T00:06:00.000-05:00

The San Franciscan was an old Brute, Happy,
but far past his time,
so they kept him around midstore -as a sort of monument.

The Customers couldn't enter without seeing him but sadly,
they usually avoided his gaze,
eyes past or to the side,
and so his happy smile and red coat was usually
wasted.

A sign hung above his head,
that read:
"Roasted Fresh Daily! ...Right here."
loud and clear,
-but maybe not as loud as those Walmart signs above the other old time greeters working the Superstores
on the other side of town.

The San Franciscan -ready to roast
boasting only the best
he use to put the others to rest -to shame
but now he sits lame in a coffee shop uptown
as young baristlings scramble
to handle
the new and improved machines
and the free flowing customers
yuppies and hustlers
salesmen and artists
and the saddest part is...

he use to make a damn good cup of joe.

*******Um fairly self explanatory, if you have been to that Dunn brothers***************

Blue and Pink (August 2007)

2007-08-03T00:05:00.000-05:00

Oh Goddess
Flustered,
in blue and pink.
Anxious reaching
for top shelf books
contends to send you heaving
or delicately weaving
your, procured finger tips
to touch the book cover
folds
each longing for your hold.
Dark tree legs sandpapered smooth
and that pink bow in your
held tight hair…
Were we to meet
I’d say “Its rare to see a beauty like you in a used book store.”
Your tattoo the same
Blue and pink
Speaks in Hebrew
But Babel set us apart
And I wonder where
Your heart lies
Somewhere in that low cut dress
Magnificent breasts
And if you are aware, than you are unashamed
Stretched and bare.

And though I cant see,
Im sure what you wear under there is the same color
as that bow.

***********The spacing on this is all screwed up because of blogger.... uh a chance encounter, leads a mind on spinning.*************************

2007-07-21T23:04:00.001-05:00

update.

Seeking Hole-ness Holiness and Wholeness (july 2007)

2007-07-21T03:36:00.000-05:00

Rub my Buddha belly right out of existence, for like Buddha who entered eternity by denying all earthly ambition, I wish I could deny my Buddha belly its ambition to grow.
Rub it away, like gold statues, rub it till the shine is worn away and only the tranquil look and sparkling smile remains. Pay attention to the movement in the hands, the cross legged seat, the colors in the cloth, the gleam of his forehead, peaceful eyes that have moved beyond worrying about small insecurities, but not yet for me… I’m staring down, not sitting tall. Chin to chest, for my belly at rest seems to protrude like the ultimate test
-those devils who tempted Buddha at the Bohdi, berate me blatantly, keeping me from patiently, entering nirvana.

***********just one commentary on eating disorders and religion... I spose i could write another one on fasting and what not*****************

Dissent

2007-05-08T19:50:00.000-05:00

When the first bombs dropped in Kabul
I was called a traitor,
My silent display of values strived for,
drawn each day on my face.

When the first bombs hit Baghdad
I was on the march,
Frozen cold in Minneapolis,
But we shivered till they heard us.

When the first bombs hit our soldiers
I asked to call it off,
but the death toll continued
for each casualty should not be in vain

When I questioned why the bombs were ready
They told me we’d been hit
When I asked for proof of guilt
They pointed to U.S. receipts.

When I questioned why the bombs were ready
They told me it’d be over soon enough,
But each time they said “our way was righteous”
It reminded me of the day

When the first bombs hit our buildings
and no one asked their motives
because the courage to answer questions
disturbs the freedom to ignore.

2007-05-08T19:49:00.001-05:00

She sits solid in her box of isolation
-preferring to assume that responsibility plays the only role.
But sturdy in my resolution and goal
I do not give in to intimidation.
Big picture thinker I am,
she prefers to not give a damn.
So I highlight the theories, the critics,
she scoffs at my cynics.
I, like a junkie activist who can’t get enough,
She stops me,
says she’s heard enough of my stuff
she insists on the individual,
so I break in to the personal.
She slings it off, saying
I don’t know her so well.

(((((a fight with my step mom)))))

Fever dreams

2007-05-08T19:48:00.000-05:00

This man is Green, quite green, and bright as lime
but lemon colored face repudiates-
the sweating Hero stands, in shimmer gold
Without a sword, a monster he beholds.
He fears, they armed the mannequin,
that man akin to lying in wait.
Courageous he stands, no attempts to flee
A sword in hand, a showdown to be.
The two men stand, one sweating, one calm-
but as plastic stabs he wakes, and fever breaks.

(((((((from a dream)))))

Expectations of Spring

2007-05-08T19:47:00.002-05:00

The girl on the left speaks of lying with the sun streaming around her face, wrapping her so tightly with its warmth that the light traces of wind that tickle her cheeks stimulate smiles on her skin- stimulate smiles within, till she falls asleep.

She wakes to be comforted by the closeness of friends, who have protected her from: small creatures, Frisbees, kites, tackles from the flag carrying capturers but never the sun, to which the one on the right exclaims “I know, I always wake up with the white around my eyes painted solidly pale, contrasted with the blister, a gift (she supposes) of glasses.” The blame positioned on mechanical devices, on creams that do not suffice, on green grass which entices a rest and a guitar playing its best, but never the sun.
Blame withheld, for that which has been withheld by seasonal turns, rotten weather, exhaust-pollution and momentary solutions to energy confusions.
Eagerness and never blame for that which has been longed for, because
expectations of spring = green grass and burned skin.

(((((((pretty much everything in this poem is from a conversation I was listening to about spring)))))

20 Days Past Equinox

2007-05-08T19:47:00.001-05:00

I see their eager tails twitter.
Those birds, who hobble.
Foot to foot- shuffles.
But the spring sun is deceiving.
Its reflection two-fold,
off the ice, and the sky.
Snow barricades away the seed and bud.
And all that anticipation,
Soon leads to starvation,
but not for you and I. No,
never for you and I.

ars poetica

2007-05-08T19:46:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when the beat is in me,
My hand starts dancing
A mind of its own
And it’s conducting
Each increase and decline,
Reaching across, line after line
My toes are tapping,
They keep the meter
And my thoughts all scatter
But the dark of eyes closed
Is replaced,
by a spectrum of beautiful images.

Sometimes I connect with the music
Aware of the next movement.
Other times, lost and confused
I miss the obvious cues
and feel like an idiot when,
I don’t understand the timing.
And as my toes miss the step
And a ninth beat adds to my stumble
Open eyes jolt to seek
the position of my fumble.

((((((((have u seen me listen to music? its like that, only ars poetica means a poem using some other metaphor to describe writing poetry))))))))

Polishing the Silver (sping 2007)

2007-04-17T22:36:00.000-05:00

Stampede of the Serengeti –thoughts and feelings
Noble, Majestic, Anxious, Weary
Forced and enclosed in tightening muscled grasps
My arm lifts my head
For she who once told me slouching permits the protection of the heart

But yogic words escape from my Brahman mouth
Garden mantras, each flower its place
And she collects them, bouquet-ed courage,
And shimmering again
hopes to beautify this frustration filled junk yard home
Of his and hers

Of Hers, and His,
the familiar and the disheartening
Bejeweled, gold and silver treasures line the book shelves
And my fluttering, frustrated, encapsulated heart –urges
to reach out, for the one true coveted connection
In his vaulted treasury
The misplaced and forgotten,
She who had once,
with unintended clawed grasp
Ripped the strength from my ribbed side.

(((((((((A poem from class, based on some free writing I did about an event. We also had to write smaller descriptions: so these are each smaller poems on the same subject, these poems are all about a strange feeling, a sort of ripping feeling in me that I get sometimes when Im trying to be good to someone else instead of for myself, and I think that its the same feeling each time, a strange sort of selfishness, but I dont think I let it win too often- anyway my teacher is obsessed with using "concrete images" which isnt really my thing, but maybe should be, as you can see these dont really make all that much sense, but i was trying to be concrete and describe an event that was all very non-conrete a mixed emotion)))))))

Cramped and dirty room
Filled with frustration, his and hers
I am nestled on their couch
Coveting that which he hath left

I forgotten lover,
Replaced by frustrated apartment
He is vacant, I the trespasser
He the unhappy King
I, her revered vagrant

She is surrounded by familiar turmoil
I am the oddity, though not out of place
I bring her peace,
spoiling
my heart’s palpitations

opium den (spring 2007)

2007-03-22T16:42:00.000-05:00

I remember sitting in your peach pit of joy
that scented apartment, with haze of incense
captivated,
as I still am by your stare,
feeling the warmth surround me

You would sing along to the exotic tunes
shaking your hips as you walked,
Wearing something that hung off your shoulder
Revealing a hint of silk or lace
-a hint that enticed
a sheepish grin on my embarrassed face.

Now you’re distant, like the lands of Troy
Separate and walled away, my heart is tense
Captivated
As I still am by a smile so rare
that without it I forget how to be

I’m sure you still dance under exotic moons
The reflection off our moment’s outline chalked
Dressed for weather far colder
Having given up the chase
And that intoxicating aroma just one sacrifice
for a chance, of a healthier embrace

the influence of angels (spring 2007)

2007-03-20T02:57:00.000-05:00

Aimee calls to put a smile on my face,
but I was thinking I was quite replaceable

She asks me why I'm down, and I say I don't quite know the way up right now,
still im treading that water
she sighs, and says to me that I was the one who was happy
but maybe that wave has caught her
in dreams of working Hawaii

And she reminds me of the songs we sang of divinity
and she dont know it but shes been sent to remind me of what I been missin
while I just sit here, thinking and writing
hoping to happen upon what I needs to have ambition

Still she points the way saying "chill, enjoy the present,
dont you know you are Illy's and mine"
and while she sings the songs on the radio
I smile and know I'm Closer to fine.

(((((pretty much what it says.... I wasnt feeling good... my girl called, did what she does.... I felt blessed... i felt better.... she asked me what indigo girls song that was.... it worked out well. ))))

random scribblings (spring 2007)

2007-03-19T03:48:00.000-05:00

when a single rain drop falls from the sky
there aint a cloud in sight or a reason why
you’re wishing you could pull that speck from god’s eye
you gotta remove your plank, before you even try

*******************************
Kit

Tight and rhythmic to create the beat
Right arm pivots across the left for the teet teet
right leg steadies the Boomph from the feet
Mighty left pummels snare for the tscheet tscheet

*******************************

(((((these are just little scribblings... the first one i sang in the car as it did not actually rain, the second i was trying to work with sounds...)))))

the suit (spring 2007)

2007-03-19T03:46:00.000-05:00

It was my birthday the other day
So naturally I dudded myself up
In that suit handed down from my grandfather’s grandfather
To his son, and his
That survived the ages without any missteps.

In front of the mirror I took stock
In what I felt was its shabby exterior.

My Grandfather, a butcher
made steady alterations to his,
Large in the arms to lift and cut the meat,
Still beats us in arm wrestling at 83

My Dad, an athlete in high school and college
needed it lean, and fit,
and now he employs all manner of
voodoo tailors
providing capsules
filled with herbs and magic

My older brother, a left handed baseball pitcher,
had no one to teach him to bat left handed, so he had
both arms lengthened and strengthened.
Now he works as a politician,
unshaved and unpolished
for the grassroots and unions.

My suit is now the color of
a too many South Dakota and Minnesota
winters spent inside-
Lebanese tan.
And I see in it each man

And it’s tight in the arms and legs
for me –the way its always been
And it’s loose in the breast and torso
but not comfortably so.

And here I stand Finally
feeling I’ve embraced my family
and they me, and not awkwardly to boot
So why is it after all these years
I still can’t embrace my suit?

(((((*from class* i was surprised people didnt get this... my teacher did, she called it original, i thought it was pretty wall warn territory))))

spring 2007

2007-03-19T03:45:00.000-05:00

Unnoticed go the wind swept leaves
For heavier breezes have caught your concentration
And though your gaze lays grounded as you walk
All things seem muddled by the pounding half whispers
of unknown dread
smiles and laughter, seem shallow, distant
your mind is cued to more subtle tunes
the footsteps behind you in the alley,
the heavy awareness that you are unaware
of what cruel intentions, wait around that corner.
Even in such familiar surroundings as your living room
each creak, or tick of the clock, suggests the impending…
cuddling couches, comfort you not
as if waiting on the hospital’s call
every thought,
the wrong step in a mine field
…the mind field, takes
such heavy steps.

(((((*from class* I was told this one needed some work.... the assignment was to describe a feeling without saying i feel this... i probably screwed that up)))))

winter (spring 2007)

2007-03-19T03:43:00.001-05:00

Trudging thoughts in solstice snow
Down dull hills and up again
Heavy boots and heaving foots
Embroil unsought knots to cause
a planted face in winter soot.

Firm dethronement complete

Look upon the heightened heaps
Where children play, so brilliantly
Watch them fat with frolic and glee
For gifts of winter dust
are heavenly

((((from class.... the assignment was to write using certain tones in the word to describe the feeling or something.... and to write about something like a season or something.... right.... but its cute no?))))

books (spring 2007)

2007-03-19T03:42:00.000-05:00

It sits on shelves, on shelves, on shelves
Seemingly multiples, but each distinct
And thus it,
sits on shelves.
We call them cases,
for they are meant to display
the wonder, the wealth, the knowledge,
each so delicate each so distinct
it sits on display, it sits in cases.

It hasn’t been opened in years,
dry and dusty,
Each page a screen for the filtering of air
Each knowledge filled page
a screen for what had once been here.
So that on some fine day
A girl may stumble over
a world that she hadn’t known
though, no fault of her own
She may read about her grandparents
through tearing eyes
and sneezes.

(((((((*for class* um the assignment was to write about a household object)))))

birth control (spring 2007)

2007-03-19T03:40:00.000-05:00

Each one a bullet
destroying dreams of preservation
a wound, a hesitation
cheapens and cheats the would be life
each one a bullet
holstered alongside the pistol
each use, a war for survival
inevitably, ends in the loss of life.

((((*from class* this one probably doesnt make sense, and might not be finished.... its based on a dream I had, where a woman was explaining to a bunch of other people that each condom was the death of a life))))))

this is a rewrite

Preservation of Life.

It’s that hesitation
of bringing about the next generation-
two competing notions of preservation

“I don’t want things to change”
traditions, nature, history, culture, religion the family structure,
My life, your life, our collective life through natural populating.

And
“I don’t want things to change”
diapers, bills, spit up on shirts, long nights waking to ease baby’s crying.
My life, your life, our collective life in an overpopulated world.

Two sides stand:

We call out death to those who would prevent.
Who Cheapen, cheat, and cancel out all hope of life’s survival
Because we call them bullets, but they, call them birth control.

We stand, calling out deaths for those who won’t invent.
Wont Create, conceive, or concoct new plans for life’s survival
Because we call it our savior, they call us sinners.

For His Love (I played the Role of Isaac) (spring 2007)

2007-03-19T03:37:00.000-05:00

The hangman stood in black, nearing high noon.
The sun was ripe
stealing the moisture from the dry mouths in the church
intensifying the anxious perspiration.
The crowd had gathered in Sunday best.
Relatives wept, or so it seemed
facing the hangman, accompanied by the priest,
and the woman in white.
The singer sang the prayers and blessings.
The last rites were offered,
but were not intended for me
their prisoner.
Instead the priest spoke,
the words repeated by the man in black
and the woman in white
and it seemed this verdict offered to the crowd alone would kill me
but although the sacrifice had been offered,
I went on living.

(((((*from class* The assignment was to underplay an event, i dont know if i did that, but this is about my dads wedding))))

A Portrait of Ana Maria by the Window (spring 2007)

2007-03-19T03:35:00.000-05:00

You stand staring
out at the seaside

maybe your favorite seaside.

At the time,
his favorite view.

I wonder how long you posed there.
Smelling the heavy salted air,
the breeze and softness of transparent white curtains
Grazing your young arms.

Your skirt and blouse a lighter shade.
Your skin so radiant it brightens walls,
The tan of the landscape
and those walls, so dull.

And that being the case, it makes me wonder,
If all he painted later

the curves and glowing gold
deserts and hills,
were yours.

You’ve shifted the weight to your left foot,
Bending heavily on your right arm…

But could you have known that the book you wrote,
relying on your right hand
would cause him to paint a new portrait
chastising with left handed morals.

You must’ve known,
for he had always been
Forever fixated on that view in the window.
After all,
only one of you was staring at the sea.

((((*from class* this is based off a couple of Dali paintings, and the personal history of one of his first models (his sister)))))

agreements over coffee (spring 2007)

2007-03-19T03:34:00.000-05:00

The sovereign entities met,
diplomatically at the door,
a strategic location, a neutral territory.

The exchange agreement
opened with pleasantries,
fair trade coffee,
the P.C. move.

The players didn’t speak of the technicalities
of the future arrangement:
the exchange of wealth and resources,
the alliances and defense agreements.
Nor their history of traumatic violence,
of personal repression

but rather of their tribes’ rich history
of cultural expression.
And though their advisors
eagerly anticipated
the boom
the arms race
the liberal spread of open borders.

They smiled and held hands
presenting
to their respective parties
the formalities of
civilized
mutually beneficial partnership.

((((*from class* I forget what the assignment was)))))

Spring 2007

2007-03-19T03:32:00.000-05:00

In circle, person by person,
Play the game
And in public, no less
Kiss and hug the taboo
Cheeks of red
and Lips the same
Smiling away the sense of shame.

Circulate embracing
Unexclusive and unrestricted
Scarlet flush faces
Facing the effrontery
With sensuous audacity

((((((*from class* these are supposed to describe the same event using anglo and then latin words... (the aftermath of a passion party))))))))

May You Rest (Jan 2007)

2007-01-28T17:36:00.000-06:00

Sudden tears at the news of death,
You were tightly held notebooks scribbles and scribbles, masterpieces child novelist.
You were our wonder, our hero unspoken, laughed at, held in awe and uncomfortable.
Our tormented genius, our Beethoven our Vincent,
You were his partner -for only genius could comfort genius and the rest of us...
we backed off to allow the demons to play their tunes for you, amazed
and assuming they would feed your excitement,
perhaps we were mistaken,
thinking your strength and expression would save you
I’m sorry if you needed to hear our shallow pop music too.

*****Not sure how I feel about putting this on here... my first reaction to the death of kid I went to elementary-highschool with******

entangled (fall 2006)

2007-01-12T23:41:00.000-06:00

And in his casual rants dropping hints of my displacement, or in your desire to lead a normal life, find me in a place of friendly confession taker, and in the art which he shakes out consistently amazed me, and in the poetry formed and flowing image dancing changed me, and in our bedroom whispers, eager, files of secret pictures, and in the last does she keep those? Share, exposing tincture, how volumous how beauteous how bountiful in tone, how hard it is to share in innocence the memories of home.
I find it complicated, mis-entangled as in it wasn’t meant to be so, but adaptation lead us here and its hard to see who’s heart is clear - and maybe its all but me.
In the way of beauty, but delving further deeper, and as I fall the walls jut and scrape, growing ever steeper.
And as we bleed so centrally, that cruel pool crimson shimmer, run around bandaging but hopes seem ever dimmer.

((((this is about 8 relationships getting tangled together -and some thoughts)

**** (2000-2001 Winter I think)

2007-01-12T23:29:00.000-06:00

I saw her in the picture
A self proclaimed Goddess
She mocks our gentle voices
She cuts into muscle with her
Elegantly crafted sarcasm
She blows off her life
And with it
Our self esteem
She rolls her eyes
As often as she rolls her escape into
Small white paper
She’s a world of self involvement
She drinks her friends away
He mind is slightly altered
Not from drugs
She’s always been like this
I see her smile only while escaping
She dances like she’s trying to forget
She sees Beauty but turns it dark
Allthewhile proclaiming her
Affection to it
And when you talk to her, it’s never
Quite warm
She leaves an edge with every other line
But even in the Depths of Confrontation
I’m sure she’d say
“I’m Fine.”

((((((The line spacing may get horribly distorted with this..... This was published in the 2001 Mandala along with the one that starts "she always smelled like cigarattes" like all poems, I think part of this is about me, I guess at the time -maybe more so than now... but it was about a sort of mental image i had of someone who i actually liked a lot-someone I was very in awe of. I guess some of the cutting lines, were probably because I felt like she was too hard to impress... now -i dont feel like it has anything to do with this person, or rather the person is no longer this way -in my head- but even at the time it was a complete exaggeration, similar to the idolotry one, sometimes i like to take characteristics of people or thoughts or feelings and blow them out of proportion in my head... I should add, I was both horrified/ashamed and proud that this got published. the first two because I didnt think anything so abusive should be published the second because at the time I liked that I had been able to project a mental image (even a terrible one) to the extent in writing that other people liked it or identified with it. )))))

Blessings in Disguise (dec 2006)

2006-12-28T12:48:00.000-06:00

Wake up another day,
another chance to count my blessings
Though on the horizon
I spy the dark clouds coalescing
This is the way - to fortify my spirit,
Confront the wave of change
And never fear it

There is a place here
for every feeling
every notion
and when the waves near
we learn by dealing
with the motion

Oh when I’m doubtful
I reach for the hand of who ever is nearest
I guess we all do
And sometimes our vision aint the clearest
This is the way -we place our faith in others
Rather run with the crowd
Than cement ourselves to the covers

For those who stay there
Wind up sealing
Their fate - by their devotion.
while those who flow away but care
learn through healing
their emotions

So come stormy horizon
Rain down on my parade
I know you’ll do your best
To leave me lost, hurting and afraid
This is the way - I’ll learn as I’m tested and baptized
That this fiery rain of hell
Is heavens’ blessing in disguise.

((((just trying to remind myself change is good, things that seem bad arent always...written in the shower)))

A Farewell to Samson (winter 2006)

2006-12-17T14:31:00.000-06:00

A Farewell to Samson (winter 2006)
He's not just stains and splatters
sometimes tattered costumes
scattered guitar playing
fairy tales, rare references
quotes from comedies
no one else has seen

he’s deep thinking
deep delving, dives to the bottom
dives dramatically
sometimes NO bottom
sometimes sad silence

pilgrimages to three pronged idols
after pillaging the 4 times distilled silos
and they call out wolf like 5 times
then 6 play risk for a while
complaining of corruption that formed cruelly from competition
risking all, vigilant canoeing solo, patrolling solo through the prairie night

he’s the silent sentinel
for his sisters honor
protective to a fault
but never halting
in vegan vigilance and every other
beans and rice highlighted
with prominence

and with that same loyalty
living dreams,
you hope that without reservation unshielded you could
walk a new direction

east in search of love, of life, of promise and freedom
but if you don’t write articles about glass eating how can we read them?

rare jazz pieces and castlevania
the bizket variety hour
showering my car with mr misty
strangers upright kung pow and 3b....
solidly a part
of the heart -land of indy.

and now we've all gone, and you must too
but go with love and know we'll miss you

(I tried to write this really quick for a friend, it was read to him in front of many of his peoples on 12-16-06, about thirty seconds after being finished.)

2006-12-15T03:16:00.000-06:00

(winter 2006)

2006-12-11T21:13:00.000-06:00

Drop anchor love,
For cruelest winds have caught you,
Send you sailing in distant directions,
Weary and frustrated with lack of provisions
Angry and fearful for loss of vision

Drop anchor love,
For my causal blowing
Was meant to lift your sails
Not send you seething,
Why cut the connection
Why sever in leaving
All forms of affection?

Drop anchor love,
For if nothing else there once was a reason
Look back fondly
For Homes are still homes
though ripe with imperfection
the welcome mats still here
only friendship soothes rejection.

(((((a letter to someone I care about))))))

We must Confess (unfinished fall 2006)

2006-11-15T00:48:00.000-06:00

We must confess

We’re so loyal to oil we support wars we don’t believe in
Killing and maiming while claiming to free them
And my reply comes shining like some sort of liberal beacon
Drawing and waving signs like “love and peace man”
Imprinting them proudly on my face
arm
and chest
would have saved more lives buying bullet proof vests
but did I invest?
no, I flee from the west
hoping to find some peace in the east.

I must confess

sometimes I get stopped at the door,
Confused and slightly distressed
when Instead of pushing, I pull it
And I know a lot of you got confused
with Bush and his bull shit
but the real world spins in cycles
just like a top
more like the revolving door
and when it starts it don’t stop
so a bomb we drop
on one side spreads
the panic and fear
and soon enough you know
we feel that destruction right here

the cycle spins
we say their people can go to hell
for what they did to us on 9/11
but we have sent 15 times as many
Iraqi casualties to heaven

The cycle spins

((((((I just ran in to a couple of political lines i wanted to use, cant quite get the rest straight)))))

*FULL FINISHED VERSION (july 2007)*

Confessions from the Cyclical Cyclone

We must confess

We’re so loyal to oil we support wars we don’t believe in
Killing and maiming while claiming to free them
And my reply comes shining like some sort of liberal beacon
Drawing and waving signs like “love and peace man”
Imprinting them proudly on my face
arm
and chest
would have saved more lives buying bullet proof vests
but did I invest?
no, I flee from the west
hoping to find my peace in the east.

I must confess

sometimes I get stopped at the door,
Confused and slightly distressed
when Instead of pushing, I pull it
And I know a lot of you got confused
with Bush and his bull shit
but the real world spins in cycles
just like a top
more like the revolving door
and when it starts it don’t stop
so a bomb we drop
on one side spreads
the panic and fear
and soon enough you know
we feel that destruction right here

the cycle spins

We drop the bombs saying,
We must kill them before they kill us.
But each bomb splinters families
And causes kids to want to cause a fuss

The cycle spins

Old men who’s lives destroyed by our bombs
learn to want nothing but revenge.
and when they strap explosives to their chests,
we prepare to avenge.

The cycle spins

we say their people can go to hell
for what they did to us on 9/11
but we have sent 50 times as many
innocent Iraqi casualties to heaven

The cycle spins

We must confess

We lost our patience and
jumped upon perceived foes,
our frustration never satisfied,
and for some in fact it grows
as our leaders corrupt with power,
replace each enemy with another
manufacturing our consent
with fear of “the other.”
The other cant learn to turn her cheek
Its burned or depleted through starvation
And still we claim its only justice
When we launch invasions into
the homes of foreign nations.

random scribblings (summer fall 2006)

2006-11-15T00:46:00.000-06:00

Minnesota's Other Season
And as for the construction crews
Well they take two lanes and a shoulder
Forcing me to hold her tight to the right
On coming traffic enters of course
Coarsely forcing me to be swerving
amongst the unnerving arrow lights.

Dark and Red
while watching the coke pour on to the grenadine, I thought about how strange and exciting it was to watch the dark mix with the very red syrup and wondered if thats why bush is so eager to make these oil blood concoctions everyday.

In Remembrance of the Garden (spring 2006)

2006-11-15T00:44:00.000-06:00

My dear do you remember the ever blooming flowers,
the fields and the hours spent strolling under the cascades of clear water reflecting the summer sun,
before the sneaky one?

Do you remember the smell of the un-thorned rose
and the elegance of the birds prose, the enchantment when morning arrived with blessed song,
before our present wrong?

My dear have you forgotten your friends
Do you think we can make amends, so that we can again dance with the ones of fur
Like we once were?
Do you remember?

((((((this was supposed to be another in the adam and eve series... i was gonna keep adding but never got around to it. never finished the series either, muses are cruel monkeys))))))