perhaps I fall closer to perfection
because I confront the big change directly;
I think that into it’s audience eyes
and court it with depression and teasing razorblades.
you who cover it with sheets and sweaters
to make it not what it is but more
comfortable do it a disservice
and it will remember;
it will use your own linen as camoflage
to catch you unaware and unprepared.
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
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how do you
express the depths
of your heart?
as a black hidden lake
far underground
that I paddle around on
catching blind white fish
in the luminosity of my eyes
and croaking to my precious self.
why do I have to walk around
with the anvil of potential suicide
balanced on my head?
some people ask themselves
why aren’t I normal? or
why aren’t I like the rest of them?
well, this is not normal.
the human being would not have evolved
as far as it has if it had a normal drive to suicide.
I honestly think about it most all of the time
and once in a while
it is more than a shadow;
isometimes the whole damn monster
comes out of the closet
and crouches, towering over me, whispering
about the unseen benefits of suicide.
how many years will I stick around,
waiting for things to get “better”,
always listening with half an ear
to the crack of the closet door?
As you go
I don’t know
where we stand
or how close you feel
to what I feel for you.
Sometimes this stands me still
wherever I am,
especially playing the piano.
I will suddenly think of you
and your mind,
then I wonder if I’m ever going to see you again.
If I’ll be able to touch your face,
hold your hand,
and be able to tell you I love you with my eyes.
I wonder how cold time can be
to the single struggles of a sometimes hardship friendship…
Twisted is thee way to what you seek.
Labyrinthine; swathed in thee shrouds of the Dead.
Thee sparks and shrapnel ov conflicting Faiths
Burns holes in thee very fabrick ov thee World.
What was undone has done again.
Thee Trees have spoken ov their Fear.
Shackles lay empty but intact
On a cold Stone floor, in thee Darkness.
Thee depths ov Silence murmur:
Thee sound heard in dry riverbeds
When it is raining in the nearby hills.
Take heed ov thee Guidance of the Divine;
Take steel to clothe and to cleanse;
Take care that your deeds suit your words.
Yea, even as your thoughts are actions.
Thee olde First-Born comes as Fire,
With tentacled flames ov despair.
we write poems when our tongues tie
together in my mouth, behind your lips;
unspoken words like unnoticed snow
in the shade of a tree in the high mountains.
Voy a mi casa a solas
porque necesito escribir poesia de tu
y pensar que si mi amor esta quebrada.
No es posible a pensar sin pensando de sus ojos
y que los miran en miyos.
No se que todavia estamos luchando.
Qure dire a ayudarte?
Tengo un gran pasion
a ver sus ojos lleno de amor por mi.
Ne se como vuelva al tiempo
cuando seramos alegres.
Dear Mom,
I was so stoned the other night
that I was at awe with the world
like when I was a child
light and airy, care-free
and drug-free.
It’s just the weight of responsibility
that turns me to substance,
matter rather than mind –
a little more of the Kind
can sometimes give me back my pleasures:
the realities of the memories
I’ve dried and kept as treasures
from a time when my world was bigger.
The Decay of a Cartoon
Posted: July 28, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blood, Bluejay, Fear, Flesh, Mother, Story, Tree, World
The poet sojourns
to the real world,
concerned with education and finances,
too busy with real matters
to watch his own walk
like a bluejay on a telephone line
assuming it is his,
too bust to enjoy
the glances at his jester clashed clothing
and his odd squatting posture,
recounting endless stories
of dubious origin.
The decay of a cartoon
into another weary act of flesh and blood
is done through weight,
self-inflicted,
burdens of soggy peat responsibility
and the yokes of limiting your own strength.
I fell from 20 feet up, from a tree branch
and I landed on my head;
when I should have been dead,
(I was 10)
I walked into the house
to bandage my gashes
so that Mom wouldn’t worry about me.
I tell myself I can’t do that now
because my weight has quadrupled
from all of these woes I balance on my nose
trying to smile around them
everyday at other people,
and their circus tricks;
jugglers and mimes and tightrope walkers,
sometimes the fear of falling shows as plain as day.
It’s getting heavier and higher and
we’re all being thrown more things to juggle.
So if I fell from that tree
would I end up worrying so much on the way down
that I’d break my neck?
Or could I bounce like the balls I juggle?
Gut Feeling
Posted: July 13, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Animal, Cigarette, Dream, Forest, Love, Sleep
Sometimes I can’t write poetry;
I know this so I don’t try.
so I’ll listen to you stomp around
and play your Steely Dan CD.
I’ll lay on my back, look at the ceiling,
and smoke my cigarette.
Then I’ll dream my best poems
and never write them down,
just wander through them
like a forest of different overstuffed chairs,
like a choir of angel’s hymns.
falling asleep with you mad at me
is something I’m getting used to.
I hear your stomach muttering in your sleep
and I’ll know you’re still wondering
how much I love you.
lighting another cigarette end to end,
I let you know I’m not asleep
if you’re listening.
that is if you’re listening,
behind your stuffed animals,
under the comforter.
there are rats in the walls
of every relationship.
they knock about at night
or surprise you scurrying from the trash cans.
the glint of a narrowed eye or a chiselled tooth
or the sounds of skeletons being gnawed,
teeth clicking as they polish to white
the foundations of an unsteady heart.
I give myself the leniency
to sit and smoke beneath a tree
in fifteen minutes, a little break
from the summer school I choose to take.
I smoke with friends who’re in my class
from a little whorled pipe which I pass.
with smoky lungs and contented gaze
I stone them all with sunshine rays.
Two Ten Penny Nails
Posted: July 1, 1993 in PoetryTags: Clouds, Frog, Halo, Heart, Hope, Love, Sky, Wings
I know that my heart rests while I slog
Through glaciered halls that know of no such frogs.
I tire and watch my halo and my wings;
They start to melt away like borrowed things.
The nails sunk through my heart like lovers’ frowns
Reach steely through the clouds into the ground
Below me where they drag out furrows that
Can chart my weaving course without a map.
As long as I can flutter through the days
Of filtered sunlight, jellied skies and haze,
I hope that somehow I can be rebuilt
To use these Cupid’s arrows well as stilts.
how is it that
you write and write
with so dull an instrument
as an everyday pen
and tie quick knots
in your letters
so that they stay
pinned to the page
like an insect collection?
when I steal
your butterfly net,
I am almost all thumbs;
I just get sweaty
and frustrated
watching things wriggle
their way off of my paper.
he started to dream less
of landscapes
and found himself
a city that was tall
and bleak with
ordered rows of houses
and buildings to support
the orangish skies
of perpetual twilight,
one with distant violence
that would echo through
the straight streets,
cries of hope being lost
in a concrete strangulation.
Foaming at the Mouth about Myself
Posted: June 25, 1993 in PoetryTags: Black, Memories, Song, White
I write poems
that nobody hears [yet]
silent songs
of ink and paper;
meaningful scrawls,
ideas I jot down.
they’re testimonials to me living.
I write these things down
because I don’t have a camera
or anything more high-tech.
I write because
my memory can fail me.
And when I get older,
I will look through these scrapbooks
and make my own pictures
from this black and white.
Dolphin Daughter
Posted: June 20, 1993 in PoetryTags: Daughter, Dolphin, Fly, Grey, Ocean, Sea, Water
A dolphin explodes from the water
because she is the daughter
of the foam that is flipped from her grey tail
flying skywards and seawards,
spraying dents into the surface of the sea.
she plunges back under the covers
of the ocean to meet the others,
dolphins which, not caught in tuna nets, are free.
I think people like rhyme and meter;
they like Dr. Seuss because he’s neater
than a long-winded poet of free verse
who sounds like he’s expounding on the universe.
there should be some poems that people would read
just for fun and think that could be me
that they’re framing with my own vocabulary,
not strings of obfusticated commentary.
A Frog can sit for hours
calling for a mate,
but I can sit for hours
waiting for you to call.
I can imagine the surf in my hair
and the chill of the air,
when I stand up from the water
so I don’t go into the ocean.
because I’m a lilly-livered chickenshit.
I’ll walk down the cool tarry sand
and pretend that I’m under a wave;
trying to feel the slick water bead
on my skin and drip from my chin
because I’m far too afraid to go in.
I had a beer with an Indian.
he said he was an Indian
so I bought him a beer
and he told me about a ghost horse
who could run faster than the wind
who he was sure he had seen
in the long grass behind his trailer.
he bought me a beer and
I smiled and told him
that I loved him and
we drank our beers.
we left and I walked home
slower than the wind
to a bed of empty dreams.
you’re going to scream at me
but I’m chanting I can take it
throwing words like
broken mirror pieces of me
beating the pinata of my disguises
but I’m chanting I can take it
breaking accusations over my head
scalding me with tears
that I never wanted to bring to you
on the silver platter
I thought would do you good.
the stars I plucked
to put on your brow
have rotted and turned into
pumpkin seeds;
it was my sleight of hand
that placed them there
and your desperate want to believe me.
now you’re a whirlwind
of shattered stained glass.
I’m chanting I can take it.
the stars swim down
through wicker-woven clouds
to say goodnight to your beauty.
I say goodnight to your beauty,
too, though I wish I was a star like you,
exploding over millions of miles
or quietly winking from farther away.
I sing and I sing and I sing
to you of dreams I’ve had
and notions that came to me
while I watched you sleeping
and I sang them softly
to you into the little cup of your ear
which never overflows;
it listens and holds all of my nonsense,
but only while you’re sleeping.
only while you’re sleeping.
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