I’m going to be married.
Sometimes I think it’s soon,
sometimes far away.
A quick decision?
The right one? Will we last?
Will we continue to be happy?
It all has to be waited for
and seen through –
there is no substitute,
there is no guarantee
that anyone can fully trust.
Love is a leap, a stumble, a fall;
a miraculous cartwheel
like you knew you could do it.
It seems to all be founded on
a paradox for humankind:
it’s all having to do with belief,
intangible, iirrational, immeasurable.
A human trait, regardless of
analytical lines, drawn to dissect
the whole of existence.
Belief unifies, explains on a different level
than we are accustomed to.
Our brains, our intellects are linear
and thus draw lines, cutting things
into pieces to chew on and examine
with precision.
The reunification after the repast
comes from belief – a gamble
on odds that have been thoroughly weighed.
And I believe
that I am going to be married
happily ever after.
Archive for December, 1993
Thinking About the Deed
Posted: December 25, 1993 in PoetryTags: Believe, Happy, Human, Love, Marry
I am all alone with the drip of a faucet
in the next room, the kitchen,
making flat high pitched noises
in the silence of midnight.
I embark upon a poem,
thinking about my future.
There’s no one here
in town;
I’m still college-bound
because of my set of friends.
My parents are moving
farther and farther away;
in distance and in age,
and I’m no longer laboring
under any guise of golden adolescence.
thank you
for saving me
from freezing
to death in the depths
of my heart;
any more pain would have
frozen it through,
making it so brittle
that even a kind glance
would have fractured it
into too many pieces to restore
to the glory I am warm in
with you and a whole heart.
I felt like this:
We were driving
at the high speeds of bliss
when we both forgot
to watch where we were going.
When I finally came to my senses,
I found I couldn’t steer without you helping;
you were transfixed
by a comet;
something outside the car window
that I couldn’t pay attention to.
I was asking, then pleading, then screaming,
then begging for your help
to bring the helm around
and you hesitated so long,
it was too late.
The vehicle fell apart around us
and you were desperately oblivious,
terribly hesitant;
an agnostic at the gates of heaven
holding up the line.
We took out several innocent bystanders
after we tumbled end over end.
The agony of defeat.
And I climbed out of the wreckage first,
while you were still looking for the comet.
The hero that I thought I was being,
I went back in to save you,
two, three, four – countless times.
I offered to help you,
with your mangled heart pinned under the ruins
of our relationship, our friendship,
and your hesitancy horrified me again
and again.
I tried for every reason I could think of;
I tried after it became a destructive, dangerous habit,
sacrificing myself to lend you a hand.
But you’re still hesitant and uncomprehending,
wavering, vacillating like a sine wave,
and I have another ride to catch.
I never saw what you saw in the scenery around here,
or if I did, it wasn’t a comet.
I’m walking away from you and the wreck,
trying to stop the shivers of bitterness,
trying to forgive.
I’ve thumbed another ride on the turnpike,
and she was bothered that I kept looking back
to see if you’d come to a decision.
That’s far behind me now;
I don’t look back,
but I wouldn’t mind a letter when you’re out and OK.
Where did this forest of hair come from?
My chest is wide and broad
like a carpenter’s boards
and I’m strung with muscle
I don’t think I deserve.
Tall and wiry and strong,
I never though I’d look like this,
the penultimate ape,
so why be ashamed of my hair and my torso,
fleshed out from the cadaver
of my adolescence?
Just Havin’ Fun, Y’all
Posted: December 8, 1993 in PoetryTags: Cory, Jean, Julie, Kyle, Mark, MC Honky, Pus, Scott, Song, Zero Boy
I
So I’m rolling down the ave in the afternoon,
Nissan truck and I’m stuck on a funky Zapp tune.
Nigh wreck my shit as I’m scoping some leg
and it’s Julie and Mark, they’re cold chillin’ a keg.
I’m never one to pass up on a cup of the brew,
so I called up my crew at a quarter to two.
Pulled up my truck and they jumped in the back;
we dismiss the crack for a fat twenty sack.
Overflowing with joy for a solid day.
Maxing and relaxing like Madonna’s “Holiday”.
I.V.’s all lazy and sleek in the sun –
we’re sick of the schoolwork, Friday’s for fun.
Zen and the Art of Drinking Beer
on the porch of the place right now, right here.
You know I love to be loved by the girl I adore,
even though she’s at Dave’s, buying smokes at the store.
Once in a while I smile, switch my style
and give thanks to my brother at Stanford named Kyle.
Yeah I’m dropping names left and right:
so check this one out, his name is Cormick White.
He strikes fear into the population at large;
some call him cue ball, I call him the Sarge.
In charge of the funky fresh style I present
by kicking the shit out of the bucketheads.
He’s riding shotgun in my funky fat ride
bumpin’ Paul’s Boutique and ranking side to side.
Scott Seder in the back cold packing the nine
to keep silly sucker crews like youse in line.
I’m here with my gear for a ridiculous rap,
we’re steering for beer, now give me the tap.
I put my feet on your counter ‘cause I even sit tall
with my posse of persons – we’re just having fun, y’all.
II
I slosh beer in my cup ‘cause it’s time to get ill
and like Billy Ocean I’ve got a licence to chill.
I like my tunes played loud so we’re raising the roof,
if I was Arsenio Hall I’d get continuous woof.
I’m so large, you might mistake me for chunky,
but I’m naturally funky, drinking Brass Monkey.
I choose a good groove, people start to dance,
I do the Mum-ra, Skeletor, and the Buffalo Stance.
Anything can happen in Isla Vista –
Sianie’s in town, that’s Cormick’s sister.
We’re all drunk as hell but fuck it, bro.
My friends are so fresh, we’re the Muppet Show.
My fiancee’s finer than Michelle Pfieffer,
and hopefully Ian’s got more Jagermeister.
I wobble like a weeble but I never will fall
with my friends and their friends – we’re just having fun, y’all.
III
Here comes the message for our generation:
we have on occasion made separation
between ourselves and some category we decide
that is beneath us because of our pride.
Why are we looking to divide our races,
colors, creeds, religions, and sexes?
It doesn’t make sense to try and shift the blame
by pointing a finger, and calling a name.
I’m willing to take my share on my shoulders.
Prejudice can’t get any fucking older.
Now it’s our problem, tomorrow our kids’,
so stop your whining. I’m sick of this shit.
Mothership connection. U-N-I-T-Y.
A pretty simple concept; I’d like you to try
to be civil to your neighbor, a little respect –
it doesn’t take Erasure to tell you how to act, fool.
IV
I’ve got friends in high places, friends in low places,
girlfriends and boyfriends of all colors of faces.
We’re all at this house party, dancing and shaking;
here comes some hotties, but sorry I’m taken.
Everyone can come and have a good time,
but I’m colorblind when you throw up a sign.
Julie’s going wild and she’s taking her clothes off;
I’ve located the bathroom if my cookies I toss.
I can even rap through a technicolor yawn –
there’s never a point when I’m too far gone.
I drink like a fish and I smoke like a chimney.
I promise good times for everyone with me.
Mark’s got my back as I’m sacking the track,
Dave Parrish in the house and the 8 ball’s back.
We’re bursting at the seams, tight jeans is the call;
mine are cutting off my circulation, but I’m just having fun, y’all.
V
Mike Hedrick’s over there with a glassy-eyed stare;
Valcones is toking in my favorite chair.
Shit. It seems like the world’s here,
but that’s what happens when there’s good free beer.
It’s a get-together, sort of a sociable thing;
people like to talk, laugh, dance, and sing.
I saw my girl Cindy and she’s pouting for sure
because I didn’t include a little cut from The Cure.
Now I’m outside for a breath of fresh air.
I’m so sauced I like Cory’s derriere.
John Monge in effect and he’s doing the deuce;
this party’s like an old pair of socks getting loose.
Balzano in trouble with a lungful of smoke.
Chronic hydroponic and that’s all she wrote.
Pedro’s passed out, y’all, the son of a gun,
but never mind him, we’re just having fun.
VI
The roof is on fire but we don’t care.
We’re spinning through the music with plenty to spare.
No one’s driving home, no one’s calling a taxi.
We’re not going to sleep so don’t even ask me.
Everything’s done with having fun in mind.
You’d better get yours ‘cause I’m sure to get mine.
Curt, Jane, and Jean roll up in the Jeep
and I reassure Jean we didn’t invite the creep.
Wine, whiskey and song, beer, women, and men;
we started a three and it’s half-past ten.
This jam’s still rolling – we haven’t begun
and when the cops show up we’re inviting them in.
I’m dreading my hangover, wait ‘till morning
when I have to get drunk to stop the room spinning.
Come to the party? Give me a call.
It’s like Animal House, and I’m just having fun y’all.
Sometimes I come and I go
fall apart like a fool,
too cool to admit I’m wrong:
I’m no Annie Sprinkle
with a cervix to show –
I get stoned and believe in the Maker,
the butcher, the baker,
and I’m three men in a tub:
one with a sword,
one with a glove,
one with a half-cocked smile
and a shrug.
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