you tried to throw your poetry away
but I have discussed it thoroughly
with your own Dolphin
and the conclusion we came to
is: no way.
we found it together
in a pile of papers
sticking out of the trash
that I casually looked through
to see if you’d done
just this type of thing.
love letters I never saw,
things you never spoke of,
I never knew half of what you thought.
I see that you fear just like me.
I see that you think of death as a seductress.
I see that you feel; you’re a poet unrivalled,
and
I
see
you
think
it’s
trash.
Archive for February, 1993
Salvaging Laura from the Trash
Posted: February 28, 1993 in PoetryTags: Death, Dolphin, Fear, Laura, Love, Trash
0
Poem in Periwinkle Crayon
Posted: February 28, 1993 in PoetryTags: Book, Brown, Crayon, Gold, Green, Purple
you are my crayon
I always must
sharpen with you.
you make me feel
never mind what,
but I like you 4 your
specific shades –
don’t change your colors
for what you think I want.
let my skies B
brown, my
eyes gold and green,
your skin B purple.
my coloring book
doesn’t always agree
with yours – but then
again, does yours always
agree with mine?
Lyrics for Michael Stipe of REM
Posted: February 27, 1993 in PoetryTags: Eye, Michael Stipe, Night, REM, Stars
I have found my calling.
Perhaps I’ve found an avenue
to help myself understand the world;
I know what I have to do.
I must build until I find somewhere
where I think I’d like to stay,
harvest the land that I’ve chosen as mine
until my eyes turn grey.
I may be toiling past the stars
and plumbing the depths of night,
but I know where I’m going, not where I’m headed
and I know I’ll turn out alright.
Interview With an Angel
Posted: February 22, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Dream, Faith, Fear, God, Halo, Hate, Libra, Love, Man, Wings
no wings, no halo,
no beatific expression
of heavenly rapture.
on interviewing an Angel,
he scratched his head
and was most like any other man.
I’m five foot eleven,
one hundred and forty pounds
(give or take five for the season)
no, there’s no particular reason
I should be renowned
as an Angel from heaven.
by the way, I’m a Libra.
I just do the best that I can.
that is angelic.
I love and hate and fear,
I learn and hurt and feel.
but to the best of my ability,
with the tools God has given me;
other than that I’m just a man
struggling with the rest of my kin
to keep faith with the Angel within
and to dream.
I can’t help thinking of what you’re writing
my red-haired twin of poetry and sorcery;
a pen and a sword are our two-fisted fighting,
to roll back the sheets of what you and I’ll be.
A Dolphin and a Dinosaur
Posted: February 22, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blue, Dinosaur, Dolphin, Fa, Grey, Love, Spike
Fa and Spike lie side by side
A Dolphin and a Dinosaur.
They are full of love; the same size,
And blue and grey together.
Untitled Poem #149
Posted: February 22, 1993 in PoetryTags: Druid, Eagles, Flowers, Forest, Light, Mice, Night, Owl, Sky, Time, Untitled, Woods
A Druid has stood
In the green of my woods,
A forest of lines of verse.
The light from her eyes
Has given me my eagles
Which soar through my nighttime skies.
I hunt for the words
As mice run from an owl
And stand them in bowls;
Bouquets of flowers
to please me.
D’yer Maker
Posted: February 20, 1993 in PoetryTags: Cory, Geoff, Led Zepplin, MC Honky, Pus, Rob, Zero Boy
sitting around with my head in my hands
I’m berating myself about my childish demands.
how you’re not here and somewhere else is your home
and like Macauley Culkin, I’m home alone.
I don’t know what it is I can’t figure it out
I keep falling in love but don’t know what it’s about
I’ve got some money I want to spend on you
but all I do is go and play myself some Street Fighter II.
I’m not saying that you don’t love me anymore
because charades is for bores and you’ve heard it before,
but I’m feeling low that you’ve gone and left me here
with nothing to do but take care of this beer.
Jimmy Page is the rage in my sorrow;
if my name was Annie, the sun would come out tomorrow,
but I’m going through withdrawl – I’m not holding you tight
and I’m letting Robert Plant sing me to sleep tonight.
Chorus
Oh oh oh oh oh oh…you don’t have to
Oh oh oh oh oh oh…you don’t have to
Oh oh oh oh oh oh…you don’t have to go….
I slump real low into the depths of my chair.
I’ve almost convinced myself that I don’t care.
I’m almost conviced that I hate my honey ‘cause
[life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money] – Ice Cube
but I can’t think I know I miss the girl
and drugs and booze are what’s left of my world.
bleary eyes staring at my pictures of her
and I sink a little farther in my furniture.
the floor is littered with the casualty cans –
I’m drinkin’ two-fisted – that means with both hands.
the radio is on, the recors is spinning
and I’m as drunk as a skunk, that’s why I’m grinning.
Cory looks glum, and Geoff’s feeling low
because we’re single, good lookin’ and no women will show.
So we’re off to D.P. to find some young company
a new friend or two who might just listen to me.
maybe they’ll share with me, maybe they’ll lair with me
but hopefully later, they’ll kindly take care of me,
but what I’d much much much much rather do
is stay here tonight and spend some time with you.
(chorus)
alright yes I know that I’m a sorry sight.
I’m as soggy as a bathmat and as high as a kite
but I don’t know what to do or how much more I can take
because being with you is better than birthday cake.
maybe it’s a love song and maybe it’s not
but it sure sounds sincere said with so much pot.
I want you, I need you, I love you, I plead you,
that if you were a garden, I’d hoe you and weed you.
drunk as I am, it’s good to have friends
and all of my friends have got money to spend.
now it’s Friday night and there’s nothing to do
so we go bowling, drink Blatz™ and I forget about you.
we all have our problems and we comfort each other
a big Muppet posse of my sisters and brothers.
I know I look silly; I don’t know how to bowl
but it’s better than sitting home thinkin’ you have to go.
(chorus & guitar solo a la Rob)
now the next morning I hurt all over.
I smell like a fridge pan and I still ain’t sober.
I feel like an anvil has impacted my head;
I remember my roommate had left me for dead.
I swear to Geoff and Cory that the beer never hit me,
and they say something rude ‘bout the dog that bit me.
last time that I saw you I thought that I’d die
but I’d love to see you again, as long as you buy.
(chorus)
Roll Away the Dew
Posted: February 16, 1993 in PoetryTags: Brian, Cory, Dawn, Geoff, Grant, Grateful Dead, Isla Vista, James, Jason, Julie, Laura, Laurel, MC Honky, Pus, Rob, Zero Boy
I
nothin’ much to do on a Friday afternoon;
jump in the shower and flip on the tunes.
wash behind my ears with Green Apple shampoo
while Geoff takes a piss, asks us what we’re gonna do.
blow a kiss to Dawn, buy Laura some roses,
to Anis’ Quo’ Yo park with James and some doses
[here is somethin’ you can’t understand] – Cypress Hill
how laid back I feel with a Blatz™ in my hand.
Jason’s got the knife just like my man MacGyver;
Cory got drunk and he did the Bus Driver.
the girls from SeaView came over to chat
because a picnic in the park is where it’s at.
a cooler full of beer and a couple of hours,
ten or twelve friends and we’re kickin Franklin’s Tower.
Rob’s sippin whiskey ‘cause he doesn’t drink brew
but we’re all pitchin’ in to roll away the dew, y’all.
Chorus
Roll away . . . the dew
Roll away . . . the dew
Roll away . . . the dew
Roll away . . . the dew
so we’re back to the grass and we’re all in good spirits
got my radio loud so the Vatos can hear it
wine women and song roll around in my head, yo
[who’s the motherfucker who sample the Dead?] – Geoff Stearns
sat back in my chair and looked at the sky.
I don’t know if it’s life or the pot that’s got me high with
kisses and laughter, pasta and rice;
as Cormick would say it’s time to get [NICE!] – Cormick White
Joe shows up with a half bottle of wine;
the other half’s gone, what makes him feel fine.
yo Geoff…check the chicken a la nutmeg.
[Mike get a load of Laurel’s new bootleg] – Geoff Stearns
[pass me a can of Milwaukee’s Best Effort
I’ll drink the Beast but I won’t give Geoff it] – Cormick White
relaxed and happy at the end of the day
I’ll smoke I’ll eat I’ll drink I’ll play.
got a plate loaded down with all sorts of food.
[Sugar Magnolia] is singin’ for you – Grateful Dead
the stars come out in a sky of dark blue
and the next thing you know we’ve got to roll away the dew.
(chorus)
I’ve got my feet propped high on the cooler.
there’s the sweet smell of Grant rollin’ a home-grown wooler.
I hear screams and laughter from a bunch of my friends
and I wonder if Brian’s broken his arm again.
helping myself to a few devilled eggs
I give Julie a hug [yo guys, where’s the keg?] – Julie Yablonicky
she gives me a kiss and I hand her a cup,
I lean back to my right to turn the radio up:
(guitar break a la Rob)
Rob’s playin’ guitar as the sun’s going down
and all of our friends…they’re gathered around.
we’ll be here next week and maybe we’ll invite you
as long as you know what to do.
(chorus x2)
Untitled Poem #148
Posted: February 15, 1993 in PoetryTags: Boy, Crow, Druid, Eagle, Eye, Heart, Sand, Tree
wherever you walk
I watch from treetops
still your little blue boy.
my eyes haven’t suffered
the same sanding that my heart has.
I see like an eagle hunts
and my heart heals.
I see a sad Druid.
the crows raise eyebrows at me
but I show them my eyes
and they understand.
we’re all watching you
from our treetops.
standing and staring alone at the clustered skies
…crowded with high rise…
terrain made human by the wind blown newspapers
and the heaps of old trash
gravel in piles and A-frames knocked aside
a car rusts away with one door open wide
grey prestressed cement leans over
and oppresses the air from the streets
I walk like a shadow searching for cover
I’m another moving bag of meat
brains packed on lungs packed on stomach, intestines, guts
and I’m bumming cigarette butts…
Untitled Poem #147
Posted: February 11, 1993 in PoetryTags: Dream, Fire, Light, Love, Time, Untitled
I can only know
that time will tell me when
I can be in love again –
meanwhile, what do I do?
love has struck me down
and lifts me higher and higher
each day is consumed in fire
but I’m not quite sure for who.
I am a poet – I dream
and emotions may come easily
but this flood is confusing me;
I’m not sure what is right.
this horrible uncertainty
an important indecision
melting myself with derision
but not shedding any light.
Untitled Poem #146
Posted: February 11, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Cloud, Dawn Spinda, Girl, Grass, Rain, Sky, Tears, Untitled
I am free of ties to glide the skies
and romp and play like a colt in a field
of clouds and grass and care no less
for life is a packet of sugar I eat
while chatting with a pretty girl
on the sidewalk where an ice cream cone
has fallen and looks like crayon or chalk
the color of strawberry milkshakes, easter eggs
and we watch the rain come in and get us
wet and warm and tropical release of angel’s tears.
[for Dawn Spinda]
Imitation of Emily Dickinson
Posted: February 11, 1993 in PoetryTags: Bees, Cloud, Drink, Emily Dickenson, Gnat, Liquor, Music, Robyn Bell
I taste – a Liquor – never brewed
I toad – a Skunky – never shrewed
I paint – a Skyline – never blued
and the Gnat – not the Gent – is the Victor!
Cloud – of Music
Drink – of Smell
Golden Bees – aplenty!
The Gnat is always the Victor.
[for Robyn Bell]
To be a DJ
Posted: February 10, 1993 in PoetryTags: Ass, Butt, Coffin, Cry, Dance, DJ, Eye, Flesh, Groove, Laugh, Light, Love, Men, Mind, Music, Records, Smile, Song, Time, Turntables, Vinyl, Women
the DJ comes with a lot of power: the President,
me (the good one) surprises and pleases
eliciting happy yells smiles and sighs from the crowd;
it is all for me.
I see faces light up as they soak with sweat
dripping shaking moving all around,
recognition of another song loud and in your ears
smashed into your face by 1000 watts;
they’ll dance harder than the last song,
move faster, become natural.
people stop listening and start feeling
the rhythm bumping along, house style, steadying
while the dancers elaborate
or flips to a fill-in breakbeat; the New Jack Swing
where you just try to prevent your butt from moving
or suddenly the song makes you cry
or sweeps you away in an enthusiastic mosh pit
or brightens your your eyes with something
you haven’t heard in a long time.
some DJ’s get stuck in one record groove
but the best surprises always compare and contrast
yet find a common thread that dancers’ bodies understand
but that I’m at a loss to explain.
what to spin next turns into the most important decision in the world
and it will be like this until I have to choose the next.
my head reels from the network of songs to choose from:
this beat would fit, this sentiment would meld,
this intro would trip, this track overwhelm
when you’re dancing, flashing colors of flesh
I’m mixing sweat and body heat
I mix you together – you whirl with my turntables.
eyes fly out of the mass of movement,
catch mine and flash like the strobelight.
I lean over to catch an excited request
to straighten my precious stacks of wax,
screams as someone recognizes what I’m playing:
playing with them
watching their reactions.
my emotions flow through my hands to the vinyl;
you can tell what I feel by how well I play,
drunker on you than on the 40s in my crates.
I turn your music up beyond hearing
and you feel it;
supportive
moving you –
you translate it to your ass your hips your hands.
the more you feel the more you learn.
learning to dance, learning to love someone new,
learn to understand what I’m saying.
I’m backed up by the best talent I can find,
be it the PE, Madonna, Fishbone, Dead or Messiah
I free your mind with my many voices.
and I’m dancing as hard as anyone,
fingers searching through record sleeves
caressing beats to match, speeds to coincide,
boogying between the coffin and the crates.
searching carefully for any sign of discontent
remembering what people want
giving myself up to the group good time.
here, women shimmering with sweat
recognize and close their eyes;
the groove is a lover, a beat
that chases between their thighs, over their stomachs
and up their spines;
unconscious every one is beautiful, so hypnotized.
here, men swirling around throwing arms in the air
touching the ground on time, on time.
intent on dancing, on laughing, on glancing back
at those girls I’ve just described.
every person I can find I train my recorded charisma on
cajoling with individual requests
urging on with the party songs
twirling all of this sound and poetry into a rumpus room
out of love for you.
A Valentine’s Poem
Posted: February 10, 1993 in PoetryTags: Candles, Flame, Fly, Heart, Mind, Night, Scream, Sky, Stars
I give you handfulls of candles
to set your skies ablaze with stars at night.
they’ll make you create and burn your hands
they’’ make you scream with hurt and let you fly away
into their flames – your mind.
do you think you’ve driven me so far away
that I won’t think of you on Valentine’s Day?
and in these candle’s flames
what constellations will you draw?
will you place them all around your heart
and think of me?
Sorcery
Posted: February 8, 1993 in PoetryTags: Anger, Dead, Fire, Friend, Guilt, Heart, Honesty, Love, Mind, Pain, Power, Sad, Shame, Truth
I have never felt power like this:
the strength to bear people’s friendship
without the artifices of forging my emotions
like the signatures of the dead
on a current document.
I find I’m liked for who I am
not everything I claim to be or wish I was;
pretense has always dampened the fires
that I was wanting to stoke;
I find the call is honesty and enthusiasm.
As soon as I found myself wonderful,
I couldn’t wait to show it of by being so –
no longer shivering in trying to be magnificent
so that I seem wonderful, I see myself
wonderful so everything I do from
my clear mind, my open heart, is wonderful.
The recognition of emotions for what they are
no matter how much they hurt in their true forms:
guilt or anger; shame, sadness; pain and love.
is a truth I must learn to find.
there is a tree at home
in the Wooded Area,
a community so old
that it has no sidewalks,
no curbs,
and many trees.
there is one tree
on the corner of Dupont
and Silvergate Streets
that is hollow underneath
its splayed boughs.
it is an upside down cup
or a limp starfish
but sometimes at night
the branches underneath the bowl
look like skeletal ribs
and the drooping limbs
look like hanged men
in the dark.
Wind in my Eyes
Posted: February 8, 1993 in PoetryTags: Eye, Fly, Love, Mind, Pus, Sky, Wind, Zero Boy
I
where can I run to?
I am hiding from myself again.
I can’t turn around without feeling
what I’ve done and where I’ve been.
chorus
I’m falling away and I fall through your sky
I see the ground coming up and I forgot how to fly.
you taught me before and I never knew why
but now I’m falling and falling with the wind in my eyes.
II
I wander around in a daze
feeling strange about myself
I’m trying to keep my stomach level.
I’m trying to think of something else.
(chorus)
III
who knows where I’m going
maybe I’m just a crazy guy
but it feels more like being in love
than going out of my mind.
[unsung Pus and Zero Boy ditty]
Laura Moore in Red
Posted: February 5, 1993 in PoetryTags: Cry, Eye, Hate, Heart, Laura, Love, Memories, Mind, Moore, Red, Sand, Tears, Time
I
damn you and your love;
wouldn’t it be so much easier
if one of us hated the other.
I can’t hate you,
believe me I’ve tried;
I curse and strain
but I just cry and cry,
crying out for lost love:
to be able to love
and forgive,
forget.
II
I could drown in the tears I’ve cried
about loving you: I hurt inside.
the touch of your fingers, your time
are promises, memories from my mind.
III
I was clear, free from the haze
that characterized my early days
of loving and living, doing my forgiving
of all the hurt that’s ever been done to me.
whatever I need, stays.
IV
I slide from place to place
as worry gets ahold of my face
to sculpt away. I can’t stand
the tentative way you touch my hand,
that pleading look deep in your eyes
makes my foolish heart soar and dive.
I’m holding all my hourglass sand
in the useless sieve I’ve made with my hands;
the more of it that trickles away,
the bigger grows that personal haze.
Gnomes
Posted: February 3, 1993 in PoetryTags: Fly, Friend, Geoff, Gnome, Pipe, Rock, Smoke, Spirit, Waterfall
Geoff and I hiked
to find a level place,
to stretch out with the countryside,
to stop and have a smoke.
trading the pipe-stem back and forth
– when one would speak,
the other would listen –
blowing thoughtful smoke rings
and laughing with the ease of friends.
we sat upon a king of rocks
immersed in the chatter of the waterfalls
aching to hurl ourselves into the air
dreaming of staying there forever.
and somewhere far above us,
our spirits, tall and clear and free,
smoked with us, looking down
their breath touselling our hair.
if I was asked to fly from that cliff
I know we could – and would!
[for Geoff Ian Stearns]
I let it all go;
what falls back to me
chooses to do so;
I set it all free,
just as dreams are supposed to be
something awful rising from the sea.
my courage grows faint
so I grit my teeth.
I crown me a saint,
I despise me a beast.
Fireflies in a Jar
Posted: February 1, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Believe, Blood, Cry, Dreams, Faith, Firefly, Flesh, Friend, God, Heart, Man, Michael, Mirror, Monster, Night, Quality, Scream, Soul, Sound, Stars, Storm, Tears
I am still here;
encased in steel,
frozen in flesh;
I am still here.
the I, the me, and the one and only:
Michael, an Angel, this quality,
definitely the most beautiful man
regardless of position and opinion.
building and building my building,
my self: a tower of faith in feelings.
I’ve mortared each brick and laid each beam,
chosen the colors, welded the seams,
sweated past tears, made real my dreams.
I have constructed my cherished monster
and wobble like a weeble but I don’t
fall
down.
I doubt and I die
every day
sometimes I cry
and fade away,
but I’m always stuck with myself
so I’ve chosen to stick it out
until the morning after.
I’ve got to strip and scrub and look in the mirror
I get misunderstood and filthy bad-mouthing myself;
the more I scrub the more I bleed, feeling clearer –
addicting, this hurting and cleaning myself.
in that soulless mirror
is my only true friend
and he’s true as far as you believe him.
weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.
I won’t scream anymore, I won’t make a sound
on finding my construction falling apart
snapping cables in the storms of my heart.
there is nothing that can ever take me away
I’ve done too much damage already.
twenty-one years old, a missile heaven-sent
and where god has thrown me I’ve made my own dent
to sit in and scowl or wave to my stars
as they streak by in the night, fireflies in jars.
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