While we are all at a point of reflection
and while the dog is howling for recognition
(or for the moon - but no one is sure)
I pee in my backyard on the fresh grass
which I remind myself, is just a weed
(because I need to feel human)
Planting seeds on the beach
down PVC pipes stuck in the sand
the whole shore looked like
a breathing graveyard of waves
The phone call. The race home.
The way your children entered the world.
The way in which we are all growing
apart, and every day the world feels more connected.
And by connected I mean smaller.
That night we played poker
in the backroom of the bookstore
you won all the money - even though
the only thing you ever had was a
wise grin across your face and ace high -
Maybe. If that. You deceptively beautiful bastard.
I guess we’ll never know.
But I know we will meet again
across a table on a train
you’ll be having a drink
and me, I think I’ll just be sitting there
wanting your drink.
Wanting to be you.
A train to no place important
where business is as usual.
A train that has no track
traveling west of some sunset.
We were both such beautiful children.
My friend, what the hell has happened?
Thursday, October 19, 2006
starvation
A million faces milling around
Tiny overpriced apartments
Pacing the periwinkle carpet
Taking out the garbage
Paying the bills
Go to work at the office
Get your coffee from a kid in college
In twenty years you’ll be retired
And he’ll be you.
The television shows you watch,
The things you buy,
The music you listen to:
They do not own or define you.
The route you take to work
Sober in the bar, drunk at church
Paper or plastic, the color of your skin:
These things do not define you at all.
The money you make
The pills you take
The books you read
We all bleed the same color
We all need the same things
Air, Water, Food,
Shelter, Mother, Father,
Friend, Lover, God.
God starves me of substance
Every time I think I need something else
Reminds me that survival comes first.
I am a gatherer of self foremost.
Fostering the heart within
Then family, friends, community, country,
Planet, solar system, universe, beyond.
I am an organism of survival foremost.
(The flower garden does not grow
On sun and water alone)
Tiny overpriced apartments
Pacing the periwinkle carpet
Taking out the garbage
Paying the bills
Go to work at the office
Get your coffee from a kid in college
In twenty years you’ll be retired
And he’ll be you.
The television shows you watch,
The things you buy,
The music you listen to:
They do not own or define you.
The route you take to work
Sober in the bar, drunk at church
Paper or plastic, the color of your skin:
These things do not define you at all.
The money you make
The pills you take
The books you read
We all bleed the same color
We all need the same things
Air, Water, Food,
Shelter, Mother, Father,
Friend, Lover, God.
God starves me of substance
Every time I think I need something else
Reminds me that survival comes first.
I am a gatherer of self foremost.
Fostering the heart within
Then family, friends, community, country,
Planet, solar system, universe, beyond.
I am an organism of survival foremost.
(The flower garden does not grow
On sun and water alone)
Empty Castles
I dreamt I inherited a firewood box full of birds’ nests.
These were of the finest quality, each a sort of bird heaven.
So without much thought I got my fathers silver ladder
from the garage and began placing them in the trees
throughout the backyard behind the house where I grew up;
in nice sunny spots balanced on firm boughs.
The early spring scent of colors being born in Connecticut,
the sharp anticipation of apples and grass.
For what do you get when you cut wind in half
but at least another edge?
Next, I am on the back deck
smoking and watching the robins and blue jays
picking up dead twigs once hidden by snow.
Swimming through the post winter air,
unsure of where to go and build a home.
I watch them stop and look at the luxurious empty nests.
They seem dissatisfied; perhaps just disinterested.
I am amazed to watch each choose a spot
far away from the nests and begin their long and
tedious progression of picking up dry twigs and
stacking them on a high sprig of branch.
To be given so easily what they need
eliminates the process, and eventually the necessity.
They sing just like spring birds should,
ignoring the shadows of their neighbors empty castles.
Church
We work in the church
In silence
In the delicate archery
Of sunlight beams
Streaming through the
Stained glass windows.
We sit in the empty pew
Closest too the alter,
We speak of god
In secret whispers,
We listen for the organs echo
But no one plays this morning’s chorus.
No one knows the key of distance
Between our souls and heaven,
Nor why we locked out hearts
In this old church to begin with.
We fill the eternal candles
With lighter fluid from the drug store
On the corner behind the small school
Where the children often swing
Laughing at nothing,
Burning eyes like torches,
Curling fingers towards us.
If god could play the organ
It would sound like this.
Right of way
Deep in the city where everyone has the right of way,
I sleep with my demon who summons the rain.
I meet with my angel in her secret chamber.
Safe from the lightning, (a crooked icicle
bending away from a slice of cold sun)
I feel my body melting, helpless and solemn.
Awake in the darkness, sweat is dripping down my forehead,
dreams that haunted me are now forcing their way out,
and somewhere in the lucid fluid of my bodies inertia
there is a true pulse in sonic wavelengths sweeping
up the pieces of my history. Which I have shattered with
my own hands, which I have left to be judged by god only,
my memories are nothing but gathered dust on venetian blinds
each day I alter each way my synapses fire in the range of
my brain, which is tired of being in control,
but my heart refuses to stop.
My mind refuses to let go.
I sleep with my demon who summons the rain.
I meet with my angel in her secret chamber.
Safe from the lightning, (a crooked icicle
bending away from a slice of cold sun)
I feel my body melting, helpless and solemn.
Awake in the darkness, sweat is dripping down my forehead,
dreams that haunted me are now forcing their way out,
and somewhere in the lucid fluid of my bodies inertia
there is a true pulse in sonic wavelengths sweeping
up the pieces of my history. Which I have shattered with
my own hands, which I have left to be judged by god only,
my memories are nothing but gathered dust on venetian blinds
each day I alter each way my synapses fire in the range of
my brain, which is tired of being in control,
but my heart refuses to stop.
My mind refuses to let go.
Healing Machines
“Our bodies are, if nothing else, healing machines” –Cassidy Bowman
Our bodies are, if nothing else
on death row
waiting for the gas.
In Texas, praying for a piece of pink paper,
or a pardon
from a lover,
or a friend
who wants to
watch us go,
a mother or father to politely blow their nose.
Nightly we accept our plastic wrapped,
pistol-whipped complacency
brush quietly past strangers
(our hushed eyes avoiding the dangerous truth)
that we are afraid to take the simple steps into the
dark womb of human communication.
Our bodies, long stretched when laid out,
internal organs playing the loud pulse of our spinning thoughts
caught grinding gears in the cement mixers of our minds,
chattering our rotting teeth like loaded dice,
between which we mutter under the lonely breath of alcohol
“When,
if ever,
will it rain?”
(And so,
we wait.)
Clenched fists eventually calm under liquid rhythms
clammy palms reach to touch innocent skin
twisting handshakes into tunnel vision pyramids.
We find ourselves in black rooms staring at blank screens
begging for a connection we refuse to embrace;
wound in, (lies)
bound by, (time)
mummified but still alive,
praying to be saved.
Our bodies are, if nothing else
on death row
waiting for the gas.
In Texas, praying for a piece of pink paper,
or a pardon
from a lover,
or a friend
who wants to
watch us go,
a mother or father to politely blow their nose.
Nightly we accept our plastic wrapped,
pistol-whipped complacency
brush quietly past strangers
(our hushed eyes avoiding the dangerous truth)
that we are afraid to take the simple steps into the
dark womb of human communication.
Our bodies, long stretched when laid out,
internal organs playing the loud pulse of our spinning thoughts
caught grinding gears in the cement mixers of our minds,
chattering our rotting teeth like loaded dice,
between which we mutter under the lonely breath of alcohol
“When,
if ever,
will it rain?”
(And so,
we wait.)
Clenched fists eventually calm under liquid rhythms
clammy palms reach to touch innocent skin
twisting handshakes into tunnel vision pyramids.
We find ourselves in black rooms staring at blank screens
begging for a connection we refuse to embrace;
wound in, (lies)
bound by, (time)
mummified but still alive,
praying to be saved.
Blueberry Patch
I’m leaving my mind for your sweet streets
running red lights to shallow depths
my body a clock tower expressing shadows in the
cloud breaks bleak daylight
I want to call your swift name
in my soft voice.
in sentinel languages
our words are media viruses of the mind
spreading slow jam ancient blueberry riddles
backwards through time between our mouths
cracked liberty bells for eyes
stone columns for limbs
smacking together at the hips cackling laughs
where pendulums in the back of our throat swing
twisting time away into little bits of paper
inside a snow globe being shaken
like a snake slithering out of it’s skin
we find new beginnings
at the end of blueberry patch roads
and make bramble love
our eyes full of halos
in the bushes of your
tangled hair
I let my bent fingers run free
like ten naked meadow children dancing
weaving common sense and circumstance
into afghans of courage and love.
I don’t really mind today that I don’t understand.
you take me places I have never been.
running red lights to shallow depths
my body a clock tower expressing shadows in the
cloud breaks bleak daylight
I want to call your swift name
in my soft voice.
in sentinel languages
our words are media viruses of the mind
spreading slow jam ancient blueberry riddles
backwards through time between our mouths
cracked liberty bells for eyes
stone columns for limbs
smacking together at the hips cackling laughs
where pendulums in the back of our throat swing
twisting time away into little bits of paper
inside a snow globe being shaken
like a snake slithering out of it’s skin
we find new beginnings
at the end of blueberry patch roads
and make bramble love
our eyes full of halos
in the bushes of your
tangled hair
I let my bent fingers run free
like ten naked meadow children dancing
weaving common sense and circumstance
into afghans of courage and love.
I don’t really mind today that I don’t understand.
you take me places I have never been.
Cities
Sick how we change this magnificent world
so it is prettier to look at;
(this font and tone, intentional)
clear cut shear shrub
make way for the city.
When we drove into town yesterday
Mt. Rainier was peaking out from behind
the east side and you said we were in the city now.
But I have been to Johannesburg
seen Boston, Austin, and Egypt’s cryptic tears
and this is no city, though we cross a bridge to get here.
And now the normalcy of listening to you
scramble around in my bed like a hard boiled salmon
is becoming the vague sensation of home.
And I think I like it
(but I’m not sure how) to
get used to (loving
or living) with anyone
but myself.
Well, (how deep the sound
of a wave’s falsetto) another
day (rippled by a tiny
pebble) is coming,
and with it, the blind intention of utopia.
so it is prettier to look at;
(this font and tone, intentional)
clear cut shear shrub
make way for the city.
When we drove into town yesterday
Mt. Rainier was peaking out from behind
the east side and you said we were in the city now.
But I have been to Johannesburg
seen Boston, Austin, and Egypt’s cryptic tears
and this is no city, though we cross a bridge to get here.
And now the normalcy of listening to you
scramble around in my bed like a hard boiled salmon
is becoming the vague sensation of home.
And I think I like it
(but I’m not sure how) to
get used to (loving
or living) with anyone
but myself.
Well, (how deep the sound
of a wave’s falsetto) another
day (rippled by a tiny
pebble) is coming,
and with it, the blind intention of utopia.
Dead or alive alternative take
Do you even think about me anymore?
Because even in my dreams I can’t ignore you.
Not that I want to,
No, I still want you,
Dead or alive.
Do you obey traffic signs
in the middle of the night
in the midst of a country
when no one is driving?
Do you still dream about
the first nights we spent
in your bed?
I haven’t slept much since then.
Because even in my dreams I can’t ignore you.
Not that I want to,
No, I still want you,
Dead or alive.
Do you obey traffic signs
in the middle of the night
in the midst of a country
when no one is driving?
Do you still dream about
the first nights we spent
in your bed?
I haven’t slept much since then.
oxygen
When you arrive:
(Bringing breaths of life
Into my tattered lungs)
Realize:
(Your presence is my oxygen)
Broken Lantern
Loving you
is sickly vague of detail.
page after page
I flip, reading the
ancient script
of an empty book.
You are not the canvas
and I do not paint.
Great soul mates
never are alike
you might say,
but together
we are here at last,
in the mural
eyes focused
in permanence
on the same empty
space of a room
looking back at us,
and no one
but the children
in the café
knows we’re lovers.
In a nauseous way
like one might feel
nostalgic towards
the planet earth,
after days or nights
lost at or in
space or sea
kissing the dirt
through invisible bars;
the imprisoning
freedoms of gravity.
The archeological disappointment
of perhaps having found
everything that was
meant to be hidden
leaves me digging
through my dreams,
searching for a word
without a language
or a language
without words.
And like a
broken lantern
flickering on
at the bottom
of the ocean,
I wake up
grasping your hand
like a glass of water
spilled across the desert,
which sounds
like a shy cat
playing a broken piano
is sickly vague of detail.
page after page
I flip, reading the
ancient script
of an empty book.
You are not the canvas
and I do not paint.
Great soul mates
never are alike
you might say,
but together
we are here at last,
in the mural
eyes focused
in permanence
on the same empty
space of a room
looking back at us,
and no one
but the children
in the café
knows we’re lovers.
In a nauseous way
like one might feel
nostalgic towards
the planet earth,
after days or nights
lost at or in
space or sea
kissing the dirt
through invisible bars;
the imprisoning
freedoms of gravity.
The archeological disappointment
of perhaps having found
everything that was
meant to be hidden
leaves me digging
through my dreams,
searching for a word
without a language
or a language
without words.
And like a
broken lantern
flickering on
at the bottom
of the ocean,
I wake up
grasping your hand
like a glass of water
spilled across the desert,
which sounds
like a shy cat
playing a broken piano
Lunacy
I am about to go off a ski jump made of
hard plastic on roller skates in an attempted
back flip over the moon.
We forget to hit the anti-gravity switch and
I land on the desolate ground looking
up at the building from fifty yards away.
I try to explain to the operators that one over
infinity equals zero, and proves we do not exist;
proves that numbers are as useless as words,
and the moon is not the only lover I have kept a secret.
You invade my mind with blind meaning
I cannot find beyond midnight behind morning (I was tripping over
last nights bottles searching for a non-existent
glass of water when you iron horsed my heart)
my pulse a jagged fractal of imagined
chain reactions to your touch
which I have only felt in the much awaited dreams
I cannot force on myself as I sleep.
And when seeing your reflection each time
I look into the moons eyes is not enough;
I touch the wooden box inside my heart where you are pent up.
Are you waiting for me to set you free or am I waiting for you to let me?
Each day I polish the tarnished silver key.
I make sure you’re awake and watching.
Cackling a laugh like a crackling fire in my chest,
whose flames and smoke make my heart beat and pump my breath.
The moon’s steam works the clock gears of my bloodstreams venom
screaming inside each lunatic is the lunacy that makes him
(human?)
hard plastic on roller skates in an attempted
back flip over the moon.
We forget to hit the anti-gravity switch and
I land on the desolate ground looking
up at the building from fifty yards away.
I try to explain to the operators that one over
infinity equals zero, and proves we do not exist;
proves that numbers are as useless as words,
and the moon is not the only lover I have kept a secret.
You invade my mind with blind meaning
I cannot find beyond midnight behind morning (I was tripping over
last nights bottles searching for a non-existent
glass of water when you iron horsed my heart)
my pulse a jagged fractal of imagined
chain reactions to your touch
which I have only felt in the much awaited dreams
I cannot force on myself as I sleep.
And when seeing your reflection each time
I look into the moons eyes is not enough;
I touch the wooden box inside my heart where you are pent up.
Are you waiting for me to set you free or am I waiting for you to let me?
Each day I polish the tarnished silver key.
I make sure you’re awake and watching.
Cackling a laugh like a crackling fire in my chest,
whose flames and smoke make my heart beat and pump my breath.
The moon’s steam works the clock gears of my bloodstreams venom
screaming inside each lunatic is the lunacy that makes him
(human?)
Casino
I went to the casino
because it was the only place
I could wear my sunglasses indoors
clay chips like crickets chattering
Bells and whistles lights and air conditioning
absolute control
just as once I wish I had cold fingers
the rattle of bones is frantic
monuments to money built in deserts
an empty ocean sand swept
a vast swarms of lonely people like ants
who have lost so much they leave their last hopes to chance
Bells and whistles lights in their eyes
a flicker of addiction that will never stop
an empty ocean waiting to be filled.
because it was the only place
I could wear my sunglasses indoors
clay chips like crickets chattering
Bells and whistles lights and air conditioning
absolute control
just as once I wish I had cold fingers
the rattle of bones is frantic
monuments to money built in deserts
an empty ocean sand swept
a vast swarms of lonely people like ants
who have lost so much they leave their last hopes to chance
Bells and whistles lights in their eyes
a flicker of addiction that will never stop
an empty ocean waiting to be filled.
Scarf
All my memories went missing
so I'm listening again
trying to collect vital childish information
Why doesn't everyone just come to me
arms open wide with shining eyes
that scream "I'm ready"
because some days I want to die
and some days I want to live
and other days I just want.
and those are the worst.
I have not suffered enough to say:
"I have suffered" but it's enough to say this:
I'm ready to have a reason
a reason to die
a reason to live
today it makes no difference
give me a banana
call it dinner and movie
call it a night and drive home
sleep with the lights on
call my doctor and tell him that there is a
malicious virus eating away at my heart
take two pills - the red and white ones -
wake up in the morning
but don't set the alarm
drive a different way to work tomorrow
maybe you'll show up early
maybe no one will notice you're invisible
and if they do, don't blame them
everyone opens their eyes one day
sometimes it's just to light a match
to cast shadows inside of their grave.
other days we call it by it's seasonal name
assured that we will remember details
time and place. ready the hovercraft
set course for any ocean that lacks waves.
sit back, relax, and enjoy the guilty
weightlessness of air. take notes and regurgitate.
pass with flying colors. fold the flag carefully
set in on the mantle above the fireplace.
teach your children to lie in many languages
tell them you don't believe in the internet.
make sure they know the difference between
things that exist and things that don't exist.
make them tell you stories and take notes in
the morning while cooking eggs and pancakes
pouring mugs of orange juice. tell them snow
is beautiful but let them wear a scarf.
remind them to forget what they learned
lying in the dark.
so I'm listening again
trying to collect vital childish information
Why doesn't everyone just come to me
arms open wide with shining eyes
that scream "I'm ready"
because some days I want to die
and some days I want to live
and other days I just want.
and those are the worst.
I have not suffered enough to say:
"I have suffered" but it's enough to say this:
I'm ready to have a reason
a reason to die
a reason to live
today it makes no difference
give me a banana
call it dinner and movie
call it a night and drive home
sleep with the lights on
call my doctor and tell him that there is a
malicious virus eating away at my heart
take two pills - the red and white ones -
wake up in the morning
but don't set the alarm
drive a different way to work tomorrow
maybe you'll show up early
maybe no one will notice you're invisible
and if they do, don't blame them
everyone opens their eyes one day
sometimes it's just to light a match
to cast shadows inside of their grave.
other days we call it by it's seasonal name
assured that we will remember details
time and place. ready the hovercraft
set course for any ocean that lacks waves.
sit back, relax, and enjoy the guilty
weightlessness of air. take notes and regurgitate.
pass with flying colors. fold the flag carefully
set in on the mantle above the fireplace.
teach your children to lie in many languages
tell them you don't believe in the internet.
make sure they know the difference between
things that exist and things that don't exist.
make them tell you stories and take notes in
the morning while cooking eggs and pancakes
pouring mugs of orange juice. tell them snow
is beautiful but let them wear a scarf.
remind them to forget what they learned
lying in the dark.
Swing 01-17-06
Underneath the dock
in midnight bath water
our skin is slippery
when we touch
which is
as often
as possible.
Water flows below the skin of September
the eye of mars, a voyeuristic pleasure,
for whom
I do not know.
But swing we do like children towards
the silhouettes of trees.
Intrinsically our hands hold as close
as molecules allow,
and then we push science somehow.
In the hope that Orion
will take off his belt
and find the corners of our bodies
like a good game of chess,
expressive porcelain horses running helpless in my chest.
Only seconds left before you slip
back into the human grips of airports and cars
children; but not ours, not us.
The swing in the dead wind is helpless
to centripetal force.
in midnight bath water
our skin is slippery
when we touch
which is
as often
as possible.
Water flows below the skin of September
the eye of mars, a voyeuristic pleasure,
for whom
I do not know.
But swing we do like children towards
the silhouettes of trees.
Intrinsically our hands hold as close
as molecules allow,
and then we push science somehow.
In the hope that Orion
will take off his belt
and find the corners of our bodies
like a good game of chess,
expressive porcelain horses running helpless in my chest.
Only seconds left before you slip
back into the human grips of airports and cars
children; but not ours, not us.
The swing in the dead wind is helpless
to centripetal force.
All is well
They say
time heals all wounds
but time leave scars like question marks across my body
oh yes,
I've read the news
the flood is killing thousands
and the fires coming soon
sorry love
I've seen all the nothing
I can bear
so I'm staring at the air between us these day
and god is windsurfing on waves of pollination
with a toothpick holding up his turquoise sails screaming:
"luxury and life and love and lips are all the same;
just ways to measure movements that are modern and mundane!"
but
all is well that ends well
and all is well that doesn't end well
as well
time heals all wounds
but time leave scars like question marks across my body
oh yes,
I've read the news
the flood is killing thousands
and the fires coming soon
sorry love
I've seen all the nothing
I can bear
so I'm staring at the air between us these day
and god is windsurfing on waves of pollination
with a toothpick holding up his turquoise sails screaming:
"luxury and life and love and lips are all the same;
just ways to measure movements that are modern and mundane!"
but
all is well that ends well
and all is well that doesn't end well
as well
Pittsburg Greyhound Station, 7AM
The child born in the bus station cried out
something that sounded like rumor,
it was yesterday then but only
the chipping kiwi paint can remember.
We were discussing the flower farms
of dream, as I traded places with her;
the smoke automatic in its quick
cynical switch of direction.
She had been jealous of the Swedish women
in their perfect multi-lingual blonde bodies
swinging birds of paradise from their ear lobes.
Outside, the stained sky
rained the window sideways
sweet talking the Plexiglas into streaking.
In a vain attempt at capturing romanticism
in that night we played love under the made moon,
I follow our footsteps but only find dune
and the skeletons of broken rules
smoothed soft by remembering.
I find myself walking home by moonlight
with heavy pockets full of secrets kept
and the way you make the smallest perfect sense.
something that sounded like rumor,
it was yesterday then but only
the chipping kiwi paint can remember.
We were discussing the flower farms
of dream, as I traded places with her;
the smoke automatic in its quick
cynical switch of direction.
She had been jealous of the Swedish women
in their perfect multi-lingual blonde bodies
swinging birds of paradise from their ear lobes.
Outside, the stained sky
rained the window sideways
sweet talking the Plexiglas into streaking.
In a vain attempt at capturing romanticism
in that night we played love under the made moon,
I follow our footsteps but only find dune
and the skeletons of broken rules
smoothed soft by remembering.
I find myself walking home by moonlight
with heavy pockets full of secrets kept
and the way you make the smallest perfect sense.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
erupting lungs/unaware (in responce)
unaware of nothing
fully in bloom
watching time
slowly move
out of tune
fully in bloom
watching time
slowly move
out of tune
For E.
come lay in the park with me
and close your eyes
violins and taxi wind
your imperfections are perfect
the house with the broken heat
is warm and welcoming when you are here
we brew coffee at midnight
play scrabble and light cigarettes with
the candle that keeps us alive
and close your eyes
violins and taxi wind
your imperfections are perfect
the house with the broken heat
is warm and welcoming when you are here
we brew coffee at midnight
play scrabble and light cigarettes with
the candle that keeps us alive
Thursday, June 29, 2006
1-800-Suicide
Please consider donating to this cause.
Or at least check out the website: Hopeline.
The government is basically trying to take the number over, and they have made no statement about privacy concerns when questions have been raised. This means they could easily keep a database of anyone who has ever called the number, and honestly, the last thing we need is the government invading our privacy even MORE. Anyway, other than endorsing Barack Obama, this will likely be one of the only "Support this cause..." posts I ever do, because it is important that this number stays, and stays private. I am also looking for a way to contact hopeline and become a phone volunteer.
Thanks to Frank Warren from Postsecret:
For bringing this issue to international attention, and for his humanitarian work in compassion (for lack of a better way to express what he does). We probably can't imagine the amount of lives that have been touched just by reading a secret that hits us hard in the chest. We probably can't imagine how many lives have been changed just by the simple act of letting a postcard go out in the mail, but we walk back to our houses feeling free, light, forgiven.
And on that note...
"True compassion is more than throwing a coin to a beggar. It demands of our humanity that if we live in a society that produces beggars, we are morally commanded to restructure that society." - Martin Luther King Jr.
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