I am the anvil that rings
with each hammer falling,
a star impacting, exploding, desiring, denying
that I love so deep, so much;
I feel when I hear you hurt, your voice
like butterflies in my ears,
the tautness of a drum
within my heart.
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
A Sunrise over the Phone
Posted: March 19, 1993 in PoetryTags: Butterfly, Drum, Heart, Love, Star, Sun
0
these fingers are filled with blood
that time wears down to bone.
obsessive, driven to write
and blister, chafing without
a rest, a reminder of hard work
dropped out and tuned in
to static; the station’s gone dead.
what do we do without direction?
So I’m delerious with a head cold
and I listen and look at things intently.
I’ve been wanting to write and get it over with.
Get them all out of my head, all these responsibilities
that I’ve picked up somehow like this hazy fever.
Rant and rave on paper, die and get famous so
my friends will fight over what was written about whom
now that each poem goes for a million dollars a word.
Be a freak and wack out until nobody cares anymore.
Stay really skinny and make people worry that
“the genius” is going to snap one day.
Get put back on Ritalin, Lithium, Magnesium, Geritol;
whatever the Doctor prescribes to keep me in line
and remove all the knives.
what to think of the world anymore/is a serious question like a toothache/
or this sore throat/or the nagging love for someone who’s gone/I
don’t understand any better than the next person/they point to
me and say “poet” and nod their heads/at explanations that
I give them without numbers/no graphs, no statistics/poetry
is the science of one:/one person, one point, one opinion, one
truth/and if you ask me, of course I will answer/I am not nor
have a mouthpiece for any concept but me/my thoughts alone
are science/my dreams are mathematics/my rambling, philosophy
and rhetoric/my palms, hammers/my paper an anvil to forge
truth/my pen, the sword, dragonslayer/I am poet, hear me roar.
these poems are chunks of my mind;
sometimes they’re raw and unkind,
but they are always what I’m thinking
even if (especially if) I’m drinking
and I know I convice myself sometimes
that I’m guilty of various crimes
but when I see I’ve written that I don’t care
is when I’m falling again into despair.
I hate that feeling coming through
and I know that you hate it, too.
The Way it Is
Posted: March 11, 1993 in PoetryTags: Bruce Hornsby, MC Honky, Pus, Sara Seinberg, Zero Boy
I was born down south San Diego
left all alone so I got switched to the home
of Mom and Dad – they’re not my real parents
but they’re the ones who loved me best, y’all.
so I made a lot of friends through trial and error.
I learned the hard way not to think or care
about foolish opinions that don’t belong to me.
I try to be happy and who I want to be,
now I’m not saying that I’m a hard lucker
and I’m certainly not a big bad motherfucker.
when I get a lot of money, I tend to share
and when I get real drunk I like to say [yeah!] – beastie boys
I’m never too busy to get busy
and a lot of my friends get busy with me.
I don’t know everything so I go collect knowledge;
I went through high school to end up in college.
I caught a cool class from my good friend Sara
she told me of the problems I should work to take care of.
things aren’t equal in the land of the free
and I know that it isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.
I live my life as best as I can;
I smile and say hello to my fellow man.
I’m not going to tell you how hard I hit,
all the women I’ve been with or any of that shit.
I don’t pride myself on being a jerk
‘cause like Kool Moe Dee [I go to work] – Kool Moe Dee
this world I’m in ain’t the perfect place to live
but I’m not going to keep it just the way it is.
Alright,
maybe I’m weak – I get beat in a fistfight
but before I get up I’ve begun to write.
I pick up my glasses and back home I go
‘cause next week I’ll dis you on the radio.
I’m not the type of guy to reply with violence
but like Bell Hooks it’s hard to keep my silence;
to tell you like it is: ignorance is hell,
so pick up a book and educate yourself.
I can’t stand to see you dismiss my sisters –
think you can rape her just ‘cause you kissed her?
listen very carefully to the words of this song –
you’re not only ignorant – you’re wrong.
now you go home and you beat your wife
and I’ll cheer my head off when you meet her knife.
you haven’t really recognized their rights yet
and you’re wondering why they seem upset?
women cross lines in all races and creeds;
a little respect is all they need.
I make sure my mother gets across on a green light
and I make sure my girlfriends get home at night.
I learn and I write, make music then preach
I’ll get a college degree to continue to teach.
I turn on my mind and mix me a drink
to write something funky to make you think.
I’m not always sure of what I can say
‘cause the PC strictures make my hair turn grey.
some stuck out of luck dumbfuck says it’s none of my biz
but you know it is, that’s the way it is.
(Analog solo a la pus and zero boy)
I light my pipe, sit back and kick back
because I know I just pumped out a fresh track.
I’ve got some homework but I know I’ll be done soon
then I pop in my tape and I [pump up the volume] – MARRS
sometimes I get drunk, bounce checks, and get high,
think about what I want to say and I sigh,
I can’t seem to get it out right through my teeth,
a sharp bladed dagger that’s stuck in its sheath.
because other people don’t let me live
I’m getting plenty of time just learning to forgive.
I guess I’m just waiting for the world to get wise:
talk to your friends and you’ll realize
that I’m not out for world peace,
just tolerance, understanding – some relief at least.
I take time to turn on and tune in,
writing white raps with a big old grin
because I’m slurring you can guess that I’m sauced
but at least my message is coming across.
I get funky on a track ‘cause I’m badder than Cheese Whiz
want to know why?
that’s just the way it is.
[inspired by Sara Seinberg — thanks to Bruce Hornsby]
Chess
Posted: March 8, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blanket, Book, Chess, Dream, Flowers, Night, Red, Window
when the night has come and I
have shuttered my open windows,
it is then that I turn away from other things
to my room of books and hanging plants
hiding in the warmth of my possessions;
a dried flower to remind me of you,
a red blanket that I was born into,
a zillion and one things to do –
the air gets thick in here…
fuzzy little octopi squirm through the air
but they’ve always been there.
I’ll let you in on one condition
and that is that I won’t lie to you;
fibbing tastes bad, like a bottle of glue
and they’re stickier, too –
but you come in of your own volition.
how can I entertain you?
alone, I lay out in the middle of the floor
on my magic Arabian carpet,
and I dream and I’ll do that for you
if you come in and listen.
big and small
and sometimes with a tail
that is clutched
by twisting hands
of nervousness
I try to write like you do.
no starting out
with an I
but statements that swing
through the sky
and sometimes like tuning a guitar
they’ll rhyme.
Untitled Poem #151
Posted: March 7, 1993 in PoetryTags: Crow, Fire, Forest, Shadow, Untitled, Window
there’s a shadow who lays on my windowsill
from the crow who sits on the telephone wires
and if I wasn’t home reading up your poetry
I’d be out in a forest setting fires.
A Wolf saw me,
he scared me,
and I wonder if it was
the same Wolf that howled at you.
Yelling and Screaming About How Good I Am in Bed
Posted: March 1, 1993 in PoetryTags: Ape, Bed, Caterpiller, Dog, Eagle, Eye, Frog, Love, Pen, Power, Song, Storm
I
I am the poet that you long for.
I have powers seething in my pen,
Poems and poems as a storm-whipped sea,
Songs that make you forget to breathe.
This is the something to love, not fall for;
Pedestalled I glitter but don’t grow.
You don’t want to watch, you want to know
How I will surprise you again.
II
I have been elected a poet
While you have been chosen
As something equally important,
Perhaps a poet, too –
It all depends on you.
III
I was once a caterpillar, once a dog;
I was once an ape, then an eagle; once a frog,
But always you could tell by the
Shining eyes that it was me
Figuring out what I was supposed to be.
I’ll change again into something else,
Something new – write a poem or two –
Maybe I will try to be you, but
Remember, I remember who I am now
And who I will always be: myself.
Salvaging Laura from the Trash
Posted: February 28, 1993 in PoetryTags: Death, Dolphin, Fear, Laura, Love, Trash
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.
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]
Froggacuda's Weblog 