I began to measure the passage of time
by the names of songs I started
but have yet to complete:
Lady of the Garden
Math is Beautiful
Persian Stan Lee
End of Winter
Shame Waves.
I wish to write something
more poignant
about these songs,
about this year.
I find myself sitting
and listening
to their half-formed
voices reminding me
of all the beauty
I have left unfinished
in my life.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Accidental Obituary
I can't help but think of the young writer who died a few days ago.
He is survived by his wife and young son. He won't be able to
remember the day his father died. He'll grow to know him through
his writing, through his mother. His father will always be a ghost
roaming through his life, untethered from this world. Young Writer
was only a year older than me when he passed. After some time
passes he will always be younger than me. I found out about him
a few nights ago from a friend who works with his child. She was
heart broken, not just for the Young Writer and his wife, but for his
child, denied filial love, a familiarity that was his birthright. I held
her as she cried because there was nothing I could do to lessen
her pain. Language fails in every way at those moments.Words only
nick the surface of our inner lives, the emotions that sweep over us
like vast symphonies of the heart and mind, unable to be transposed
from one person to another. I feel weak and mute at those times.
What can any of us do but listen? A shared embrace means many
things. It can convey the joy of familiarity, the depth of sorrow
that escapes all light, the banal encounters that we take for granted.
Mary Ruefle said, "Here we are, each of us alive and on earth,
each of us the envy of every dead man, woman, and child..."
She is right. It does not matter how young or old we are, we are
the chosen few that bask in warm rays of sunlight, chill at the kiss
of Winter wind. There will come a time when we will be envious
of the living, or perhaps happy to be free of the decaying flesh
we called home. I do not know what comes next. There is none
among us who has absolute certainty about the world beyond this.
I wish Young Writer had not let himself collapse like a dying star,
denied his son the good person he was, denied his wife the mate
she was certain she would grow old and further in love with.
It is Christmas Day and I count my blessings every day. My life
is riddled with faults of my own making and of my time, but there
is a joy and fortune I cannot deny. I hope Young Writer has been
eased of his burden, though, I cannot help but wonder if he can see
the world as it has become.
He is survived by his wife and young son. He won't be able to
remember the day his father died. He'll grow to know him through
his writing, through his mother. His father will always be a ghost
roaming through his life, untethered from this world. Young Writer
was only a year older than me when he passed. After some time
passes he will always be younger than me. I found out about him
a few nights ago from a friend who works with his child. She was
heart broken, not just for the Young Writer and his wife, but for his
child, denied filial love, a familiarity that was his birthright. I held
her as she cried because there was nothing I could do to lessen
her pain. Language fails in every way at those moments.Words only
nick the surface of our inner lives, the emotions that sweep over us
like vast symphonies of the heart and mind, unable to be transposed
from one person to another. I feel weak and mute at those times.
What can any of us do but listen? A shared embrace means many
things. It can convey the joy of familiarity, the depth of sorrow
that escapes all light, the banal encounters that we take for granted.
Mary Ruefle said, "Here we are, each of us alive and on earth,
each of us the envy of every dead man, woman, and child..."
She is right. It does not matter how young or old we are, we are
the chosen few that bask in warm rays of sunlight, chill at the kiss
of Winter wind. There will come a time when we will be envious
of the living, or perhaps happy to be free of the decaying flesh
we called home. I do not know what comes next. There is none
among us who has absolute certainty about the world beyond this.
I wish Young Writer had not let himself collapse like a dying star,
denied his son the good person he was, denied his wife the mate
she was certain she would grow old and further in love with.
It is Christmas Day and I count my blessings every day. My life
is riddled with faults of my own making and of my time, but there
is a joy and fortune I cannot deny. I hope Young Writer has been
eased of his burden, though, I cannot help but wonder if he can see
the world as it has become.
Finding The Root
We attempt to capture moments
because of how fleeting they are.
Ultimately, we are afraid of death.
We wish to triumph over it
by taking photos, painting,
beautifully arranging words,
in order to prove to that It
has no hold over us.
If we were unafraid
we would cease our attempts.
Art continues forever.
Meanwhile, It waits and marvels.
because of how fleeting they are.
Ultimately, we are afraid of death.
We wish to triumph over it
by taking photos, painting,
beautifully arranging words,
in order to prove to that It
has no hold over us.
If we were unafraid
we would cease our attempts.
Art continues forever.
Meanwhile, It waits and marvels.
From Dirt
I stared down the well
as my grandmother pulled
up water by the bucketful.
There was a vastness
to the darkness from which
the water emerged.
I could hear it deep within
the earth, a sound gentler than
waves at a beach. Her skin
was brown, darkened
by ancestry, codified by sun.
One morning I woke up
and saw a freshly slaughtered turkey
being prepared for later in the day.
I did not cry for it. We had to eat.
It's flesh was a luxury not every
one in town could afford.
I lost a baby tooth that trip.
My father pulled it from my mouth.
It fell among the rocks at our feet.
He looked and looked
but was never able to find it.
My gums nursed a fresh space
in ancient air.
as my grandmother pulled
up water by the bucketful.
There was a vastness
to the darkness from which
the water emerged.
I could hear it deep within
the earth, a sound gentler than
waves at a beach. Her skin
was brown, darkened
by ancestry, codified by sun.
One morning I woke up
and saw a freshly slaughtered turkey
being prepared for later in the day.
I did not cry for it. We had to eat.
It's flesh was a luxury not every
one in town could afford.
I lost a baby tooth that trip.
My father pulled it from my mouth.
It fell among the rocks at our feet.
He looked and looked
but was never able to find it.
My gums nursed a fresh space
in ancient air.
To Be Humbled
Man is not God.
If we were to act
in accordance
with the knowledge
of the vastness
of all creation
we would be eternally
humbled for
the duration
of our species.
If we were to act
in accordance
with the knowledge
of the vastness
of all creation
we would be eternally
humbled for
the duration
of our species.
Other Windows
His father suffered a heart attack
several weeks ago.
When he was in the hospital
they discovered
he had stage 4 lung cancer.
My friend was told in November
that she has stage 2 breast cancer.
We are the same age.
She is married and they have
a young daughter.
My father is almost sixty
and still works two jobs.
We had breakfast on Christmas
morning. My sister who is
a registered nurse was at work.
My seven year old brother opened
his presents while my father
took pictures with the camera
that is older than all of his children.
He was as happy as we all were then.
How History Ages
Read a story through lines gently worn
into the faces of our families
as we age along parallel paths.
Some of us will always be older
and some will always be younger.
Some will always be gone.
Are there answers to be found
to our questions? Can one thing
truly explain another?
My grandfather was said to have
read much. I have never seen his books.
What is there to know?
Are they gathering dust in boxes
in rural Mexico? Have those pages
long yellowed and turned to dust-
does it matter?
into the faces of our families
as we age along parallel paths.
Some of us will always be older
and some will always be younger.
Some will always be gone.
Are there answers to be found
to our questions? Can one thing
truly explain another?
My grandfather was said to have
read much. I have never seen his books.
What is there to know?
Are they gathering dust in boxes
in rural Mexico? Have those pages
long yellowed and turned to dust-
does it matter?
Gentle Grip
One sided conversation
You listening
Projecting a version of my voice
I cannot see you
Cannot know who you are
When you might be
Speaking through shared means
inhabiting the same home
with time the variable
Jazz speaks in improvisation
nothing creating something
existing fleetingly
Are your hands cold?
How would they feel in mine?
We wonder together.
You listening
Projecting a version of my voice
I cannot see you
Cannot know who you are
When you might be
Speaking through shared means
inhabiting the same home
with time the variable
Jazz speaks in improvisation
nothing creating something
existing fleetingly
Are your hands cold?
How would they feel in mine?
We wonder together.
What We Carry
An incarnation of universal consciousness
Mirrors reflecting one another
A prism when seen in light
Simplify the language
repeat the essential message
Time beyond commodity
the currency of experience
Make no more layers of complexity
Crack the bone to taste the marrow
I myself us all of us
trying to save something
The message is not obscure
no reason to repeat it here
A joyful obfuscation
Wrap my neck in shades
of blue and green warmth
An odd Winter
without snow
or rain
Bundling the scarf
holding you
in my hands
Mirrors reflecting one another
A prism when seen in light
Simplify the language
repeat the essential message
Time beyond commodity
the currency of experience
Make no more layers of complexity
Crack the bone to taste the marrow
I myself us all of us
trying to save something
The message is not obscure
no reason to repeat it here
A joyful obfuscation
Wrap my neck in shades
of blue and green warmth
An odd Winter
without snow
or rain
Bundling the scarf
holding you
in my hands
A Love Poem
Because I live and breathe
I bleed
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I laugh
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I am alone
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I am loved
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I am cold
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I am tired
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I miss someone
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
my imagination runs
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
my heart beats
all the time.
Because I live and breathe
I think about you
all the time.
I bleed
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I laugh
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I am alone
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I am loved
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I am cold
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I am tired
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
I miss someone
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
my imagination runs
from time to time.
Because I live and breathe
my heart beats
all the time.
Because I live and breathe
I think about you
all the time.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Monday, December 23, 2013
Thursday, December 19, 2013
g_ps
Words contort
into new f rms
when you beg n
to rem v
the exp ct d.
F l in
sp c
Wh t is th r ?
Does it
ev n m k ny s ns ?
r ar the e
gh ts haun g
thi pl c ?
into new f rms
when you beg n
to rem v
the exp ct d.
F l in
sp c
Wh t is th r ?
Does it
ev n m k ny s ns ?
r ar the e
gh ts haun g
thi pl c ?
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
On Loss
Learn to not be so disappointed
when things don't work out
most won't
no matter how hard we try
how many tears we shed
how much sleep we lose
Loss is a condition
we can never escape
yet we can scarcely
bring ourselves to accept
when things don't work out
most won't
no matter how hard we try
how many tears we shed
how much sleep we lose
Loss is a condition
we can never escape
yet we can scarcely
bring ourselves to accept
My Thoughts Pile Up When I'm Tired And Need To Get Some Rest
Open-ended memory
Wear the day on your face
Pieces of tape holding together
ripped up fragments
of a page
parts missing
enough to see what was once whole
it isn't as cold out here
as we like to pretend
the power was out for an entire
day and a half
People complained
about the food that they had to throw out
they still had shelter
running water
it was calm at night
moonlight filtered through blinds
mingling with burning candles
they call me Sir
or Mister
I am more used to this
than when I was younger
I have reached the point
where that is how I will be
addressed as from this point forward
they don't ask for my ID at the bars
nearly as often as they used to
for the longest time I wanted to be older
to be treated as such
wishes do come true
how sad a thing that can be
I am fine with being alone
in my room
without electricity
I can entertain myself
with a book
and minimal light
I can dream about
everything
and nothing
contemplate
my thoroughly
inadequate mind
and limited physical abilities
consciousness bound
to a decaying form
John Coltrane did not die
he changed forms
tired
trying to stifle a yawn
and boredom
succeeding at neither
waiting for Somnus
finding him utterly lacking
wondering why he lags
on our appointments
a shame
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Everything Breaking Down (Draft 3)
She was yelling and frantically waving her arms
outside the crumbling bus station in downtown.
The cars in front of me rolled up their windows.
Her gaze caught mine as I turned the corner.
Unsettling intensity with nowhere to go.
Her voice muffled by glass. I drove past
her and my destination. I stepped on the accelerator-
found myself needing to be far from there.
Her voice muffled by glass. I drove past
her and my destination. I stepped on the accelerator-
found myself needing to be far from there.
Original Post: http://thenoiseoftrouble.blogspot.com/2013/01/everything-breaking-down.html
Ending the Sentence
Tremble in my arms like the remaining leaves
on the branches in late autumn. You do not
tremble because it is cold outside, you tremble
from the joy of warmth. Inner space grows
and contracts. Breath and language become run
on sentences with alternating inflections. There
is a reluctance to place the hard stop to the line.
It is necessary in all ways. A demarcation
that promises continuation.
on the branches in late autumn. You do not
tremble because it is cold outside, you tremble
from the joy of warmth. Inner space grows
and contracts. Breath and language become run
on sentences with alternating inflections. There
is a reluctance to place the hard stop to the line.
It is necessary in all ways. A demarcation
that promises continuation.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Ms. Kacie
Her pretty face sings
for the voyeur eye.
Hips move like
the birth of lust.
She mouths
I got troubles
but they won't last.
They never do.
for the voyeur eye.
Hips move like
the birth of lust.
She mouths
I got troubles
but they won't last.
They never do.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Tongue
There are times I cannot speak because
my tongue has tired itself from a busy day
of talking business and making chit chat.
It sits in its home and wishes to do nothing
more than taste something flavorful
or find itself in an open mouthed kiss.
When it sleeps it dreams of all the words
it has yet to say. It doesn't have nightmares
too often except for the one where it stutters,
cannot find the right word and feels caught,
helpless,wishing only to hide. When it wakes
it is relieved to find it was just a passing
moment of imagined weakness. Right
now it sits in silence, wondering if it
will have a chance to say these words
out loud. It probably will. For now
my hands have this under control.
my tongue has tired itself from a busy day
of talking business and making chit chat.
It sits in its home and wishes to do nothing
more than taste something flavorful
or find itself in an open mouthed kiss.
When it sleeps it dreams of all the words
it has yet to say. It doesn't have nightmares
too often except for the one where it stutters,
cannot find the right word and feels caught,
helpless,wishing only to hide. When it wakes
it is relieved to find it was just a passing
moment of imagined weakness. Right
now it sits in silence, wondering if it
will have a chance to say these words
out loud. It probably will. For now
my hands have this under control.
Monday, December 2, 2013
The Two of Us
My happiness is not in a bottle
to be poured down my throat.
My happiness is not edible
and meant for consumption.
My happiness is a creature
I discover anew each day.
My happiness does not like it
when I speak of it in these terms,
it prefers to be in my company
as often as it can afford to do so.
My happiness and I get along
but we do fight from time to time.
My happiness grows and changes
with me, shows me the constant
shift in light, tells me how
my shadow walks with me at night
when I believe it to be gone.
My happiness is learning
and it teaches me as it goes.
My happiness is.
to be poured down my throat.
My happiness is not edible
and meant for consumption.
My happiness is a creature
I discover anew each day.
My happiness does not like it
when I speak of it in these terms,
it prefers to be in my company
as often as it can afford to do so.
My happiness and I get along
but we do fight from time to time.
My happiness grows and changes
with me, shows me the constant
shift in light, tells me how
my shadow walks with me at night
when I believe it to be gone.
My happiness is learning
and it teaches me as it goes.
My happiness is.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Don't Write Back
if you are busy
but do let me know
how things are.
If I call
please know
it is because
I can't remember
the last time
I heard your voice.
If I ask
if you are free
anytime soon
it is because
I miss you
and wish to see
you. I know you
are busy
and I've already
said that
but I do. Should
I keep missing you?
Did we grow a
part without
saying anything?
Without feeling
it happen?
A weed is growing
where the roots
of a tree have
cracked the concrete
in front of my home.
I do not step on it.
I do not pull it out.
but do let me know
how things are.
If I call
please know
it is because
I can't remember
the last time
I heard your voice.
If I ask
if you are free
anytime soon
it is because
I miss you
and wish to see
you. I know you
are busy
and I've already
said that
but I do. Should
I keep missing you?
Did we grow a
part without
saying anything?
Without feeling
it happen?
A weed is growing
where the roots
of a tree have
cracked the concrete
in front of my home.
I do not step on it.
I do not pull it out.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Making Sense
Language is a broken thing
it was never fixed in the first place
Rules for standardization
we should all have a good laugh
have you ever heard the voices
of a crowd at lunch time
in Los Angeles
like Babel set on fire
during an earthquake
We need order
but i'm trying to avoid it now
and now this just comes
across as a mess
not worth the time
Hear the punctuation in your head
break the words in
to whatever sounds pleasing
enough
to your inner voice
I could care
more but less
is where I stand
A period would go nicely
just about here
it was never fixed in the first place
Rules for standardization
we should all have a good laugh
have you ever heard the voices
of a crowd at lunch time
in Los Angeles
like Babel set on fire
during an earthquake
We need order
but i'm trying to avoid it now
and now this just comes
across as a mess
not worth the time
Hear the punctuation in your head
break the words in
to whatever sounds pleasing
enough
to your inner voice
I could care
more but less
is where I stand
A period would go nicely
just about here
Present Hauntings
There are times I am ashamed
of my soft, smooth hands.
They bear little resemblance
to those of my father.
Veins protrude and snake
around his joints and knuckles
like rivers lining the earth.
I was not born in the land
of my forbearers- I was born
a continent and ocean away.
My hands have not known
the toil of cutting trees
from hot jungle, or carried
cords of wood at daybreak
back into town as doors
and eyes opened for the day.
His life is his life. My life
is my own. Ancient soil
longs to cake my nails.
Skin aches to cool itself
in tranquil waters of cenotes
found far from town.
My hands have labored
in a way they never would
had they been given to
the land from which my blood
flows, from where ancient
memories haunt me in sleep-
places I have never known.
of my soft, smooth hands.
They bear little resemblance
to those of my father.
Veins protrude and snake
around his joints and knuckles
like rivers lining the earth.
I was not born in the land
of my forbearers- I was born
a continent and ocean away.
My hands have not known
the toil of cutting trees
from hot jungle, or carried
cords of wood at daybreak
back into town as doors
and eyes opened for the day.
His life is his life. My life
is my own. Ancient soil
longs to cake my nails.
Skin aches to cool itself
in tranquil waters of cenotes
found far from town.
My hands have labored
in a way they never would
had they been given to
the land from which my blood
flows, from where ancient
memories haunt me in sleep-
places I have never known.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
The Heart of the Matter
Cut my skin and flesh,
crack my ribs,
spread them apart
and let my heart
beat feel
the touch of air.
crack my ribs,
spread them apart
and let my heart
beat feel
the touch of air.
I, the River
my blood
the source of all life
my blood
the heart of creation
do not fear
uncertain thoughts
do not fear
that which is not yet seen
hear the voice
speaking within
hear the voice
echo into action
the source of all life
my blood
the heart of creation
do not fear
uncertain thoughts
do not fear
that which is not yet seen
hear the voice
speaking within
hear the voice
echo into action
Saturday, November 16, 2013
to wake
I fell a s l e e p
at the edge
of a forgotten
town
remains
haunted
by palm trees
planted in front-
where homes
once stood
where water
laps at sand
lips kissing
eagerly
Friday, November 15, 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Planned Obsolescence
I am a small thing
in a big world
in an even bigger universe.
My flesh is not as durable
as stone, not even my teeth
or bones. My mind
is an infinite thing housed
in a finite container with
an expiration date T.B.D.
I am composed primarily
of water, though, I do not
evaporate on a hot day.
My hands are strong
but they are made of many
fragile bones and tendons-
the same thing can be said
of my feet. My skin covers
me whole, though, it is easy
to pierce or cut. My eyes
reveal a palette of sights
that delight and disgust me,
show me proof of my
insignificance. My ears
inundate me with a constantly
shifting score composed
for every known and unknown
instrument and creature.
My tongue serves as an advance
scout for my stomach
before in put is broken into
components of use and waste.
My hardware has peaked
and will only age as newer
models are released every day.
In time, if I am lucky, I will
become obsolete and tended
to by younger models of our
kind. This does not sadden me.
Nature did not intend this.
We are not built to last.
How horrible a thing
it would be if we were.
in a big world
in an even bigger universe.
My flesh is not as durable
as stone, not even my teeth
or bones. My mind
is an infinite thing housed
in a finite container with
an expiration date T.B.D.
I am composed primarily
of water, though, I do not
evaporate on a hot day.
My hands are strong
but they are made of many
fragile bones and tendons-
the same thing can be said
of my feet. My skin covers
me whole, though, it is easy
to pierce or cut. My eyes
reveal a palette of sights
that delight and disgust me,
show me proof of my
insignificance. My ears
inundate me with a constantly
shifting score composed
for every known and unknown
instrument and creature.
My tongue serves as an advance
scout for my stomach
before in put is broken into
components of use and waste.
My hardware has peaked
and will only age as newer
models are released every day.
In time, if I am lucky, I will
become obsolete and tended
to by younger models of our
kind. This does not sadden me.
Nature did not intend this.
We are not built to last.
How horrible a thing
it would be if we were.
Newtech
I left my car with my mechanic
because the brakes are shot
and the check engine light
has been on for at least
the last ten-thousand or so
miles. My front tires
have balded like so many
middle-aged men in denial.
He was opening shop
when I got there at seven-thirty
in the morning. I started going
to him because of my father.
He said I could always trust
him, so I have. He's let me pick
up the car without any payment,
just the promise to do so
when I have the money.
That kindness has saved me
many times, has left me
wondering what I did to earn it.
I will still be broke when
the car is ready, and more so
when I begin to pay him back.
Soon, the phone will ring
and he will tell me how much
and what other problems
there may be. I'll just say
"No problem, Mike. Whatever
you need to do,"
because the brakes are shot
and the check engine light
has been on for at least
the last ten-thousand or so
miles. My front tires
have balded like so many
middle-aged men in denial.
He was opening shop
when I got there at seven-thirty
in the morning. I started going
to him because of my father.
He said I could always trust
him, so I have. He's let me pick
up the car without any payment,
just the promise to do so
when I have the money.
That kindness has saved me
many times, has left me
wondering what I did to earn it.
I will still be broke when
the car is ready, and more so
when I begin to pay him back.
Soon, the phone will ring
and he will tell me how much
and what other problems
there may be. I'll just say
"No problem, Mike. Whatever
you need to do,"
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Missing Reels
These words are a substitute for memory
An unreliable narrator
Missing reels of film
Fill in the blanks
Time a steady hand
guiding actions
Breath between kisses
Sweet sweat
Waiting for moonlight
once again
An unreliable narrator
Missing reels of film
Fill in the blanks
Time a steady hand
guiding actions
Breath between kisses
Sweet sweat
Waiting for moonlight
once again
At Any Cost
Sell me back what is mine at twice the price
Paying anything to have it back
To go to the place where I once belonged
This stream is no lake
Blood rushing through my arteries
Paying anything to have it back
To go to the place where I once belonged
This stream is no lake
Blood rushing through my arteries
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Bodies of Water (Draft 2)
She had to laugh the day the
power
went out at the house-
the next morning she found
a possum had drowned
in their swimming pool.
Before she found it
she had spent the night
placing candles
in every room of the
house.
She lit them one by one
with the same electric lighter
he would use to light the grill
during the summer. He hadn't
been coming home
at his usual hour, said he had
to work late.
She believed it
until the day the phone rang
at the house,
a woman's voice said
"I need to come clean..."
There was no point in making
a scene over it,
at least that's what she told
herself.
When all the candles were lit
she walked into the front yard,
admiring the glow
of genuine warmth
radiating from the windows,
as if the house had been turned
into a massive jack-o-lantern.
When she went inside
she wondered about what night
must have been like
in past centuries,
how foreboding distant sounds
and rustlings must have been
in a world more callous than
our own.
She went upstairs, changed,
and waited for him to come.
Her eyes began to tire,
her mind began to close up shop.
She was at the beach with her father
and saw the vast and terrible
expanse
as they stood there on the sand.
She held his hand as tightly
as her small fingers would allow.
"This is the edge of the
ocean.
The water goes on and on
for many, many miles.
There are people on the other side
who are different than us,
who speak a different language
but we all share the same
water,"
he said. She understood as best
she could at that time.
How insignificant she felt
when confronted
with the scale of ourselves
against our home. On the edge
of the horizon
she could have sworn she
saw a seagull fall from the sky.
The candles had all gone out
when she woke. She turned
the TV on to see if the power
was back, it flicked to life
and she quickly turned it back
off.
A fine mist covered the
neighborhood
as she stepped into the yard
to grab the morning paper.
His car was nowhere to be seen.
She went into the kitchen
and put on a pot of coffee
so she could drink
while reading the news.
She grabbed a clean mug
from the rack by the sink
and looked out the window,
something was floating in the pool
near the edge. She stood there
staring at the dead creature
and its furless tail. She went
inside
and had her coffee,
read her newspaper.
When she was done she went
upstairs
and packed a couple of bags
of clothes and other small
possessions.
She placed them in her car
and went to the backyard.
It was still floating there like a
flesh
and furred cork. She crouched
and grabbed it by the tail and
pulled it
from the water. She held it aloft
until most of the water had
finished dripping
from its body. She walked upstairs
and placed it in the middle of the
bed.
She pulled out a pen and paper
from the nightstand and jotted
something down. She placed
the note next to the new guest.
She went downstairs and through
the front door without bothering
to lock it.
She put the car in gear and
backed out,
looking both ways to make sure
there was no oncoming traffic.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Natural Vulgarity
In bed -
your blue dress
on the
ground.
We should
get to sleep
but
won't.
Morning
will come
soon.
your blue dress
on the
ground.
We should
get to sleep
but
won't.
Morning
will come
soon.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Making Mistakes With Every Step
She's bored with the way things have been
going in her life lately. Work is a repetition
that has dulled her mind. When she is home
she tries to be the mother she thinks her
daughter needs. She's not sure who that is
but she is trying to figure it out. Her little
girl is going to be a beautiful woman one
day, she is sure of it.
She doesn't care to stay in touch with her
ex-husband, though they do see each other
for as much as they have to when they
pick up or drop off their girl. She drinks
too much but she doesn't know it yet. It
is going to be fine until the day when it
isn't, until she wakes up with vomit in the
sheets and caked in her hair and her daughter
is about to return from a sleepover.
She masturbates to the idea of a man who
is loving, who wants to love her, to be with
her. She doesn't think it is much to ask of
this world but she doesn't know any better.
She is fine going out to bars by herself,
getting drunk, talking to men in smoke
filled rooms, listening to their boring stories
of what bullshit happened at work and the
reason they're drinking at that moment.
They never run out of excuses for drinking,
for drinking more, for driving home, for
trying to shut off the nagging voice that
has no off switch.
She is bored. She lets herself be bored by life.
It could all be better some day. She tells
herself that every day. When will that day be?
She doesn't know yet but she hopes to know
soon, the days are passing much too quickly
now and time is in a hurry.
Free Write 11/2/13
Don't call this what it is because it isn't anything
it is nothing in fact it is merely my hands running
my mind throwing up and me just sitting here
letting it happen because sometimes you have to
just shove your fingers down your throat until you
gag until you force yourself to let go to release
the poison you pour into yourself I need to purge
this palace more often but the maintenance crew
has been on vacation for a few weeks now and
things have gotten a little out of hand but these
hands can do more than hold they can touch all
the places on your neck they can hold grab and
go for the places from which every one stems
going back to the scene of the crime to the origin
the place position on your back chalk outlines
erased with water another life forgotten the sun
is still beating us with its heat does not care does
its job as it is meant to do as it always will until
the day comes when it cannot when even it will
surrender to the darkness because everything is
consumed in time every thing slides into entropy
let's not get ahead of ourselves yet we have days
and nights to live we have skin to touch and tears
to shed both justly and by mistake we need to go
to the beach more often but I don't like to show
too much of my skin I burn easily I have always
shied away from being a physically active extrovert
I love the feel of the wind on my face the taste
of sea salt on my tongue the waves rumbling in
steady motion rising falling being water they are
bound to the motion of the moon that beautiful
mistress her face beaming down her form changes
but always returns her lover is always absent and
she absent for him as well do they miss each other
do they wonder why it must be so difficult their
ward sees them both and doesn't think of this at all
that is fine it's better to just let things to just turn
off the noise to turn off the screens to turn off
the lights to cover your ears and ignore the voices
of those around you because what do they know
of your life and the secret heart beating in the
corner booth just waiting but fine with being hidden
because not everything lives in the day time
some things grow better by moonlight by a cold
and rising tide even now my skin waits for
the cool touch of evening waiting for sunset
and hoping against nothing just for a moment
to arrive that is already here
it is nothing in fact it is merely my hands running
my mind throwing up and me just sitting here
letting it happen because sometimes you have to
just shove your fingers down your throat until you
gag until you force yourself to let go to release
the poison you pour into yourself I need to purge
this palace more often but the maintenance crew
has been on vacation for a few weeks now and
things have gotten a little out of hand but these
hands can do more than hold they can touch all
the places on your neck they can hold grab and
go for the places from which every one stems
going back to the scene of the crime to the origin
the place position on your back chalk outlines
erased with water another life forgotten the sun
is still beating us with its heat does not care does
its job as it is meant to do as it always will until
the day comes when it cannot when even it will
surrender to the darkness because everything is
consumed in time every thing slides into entropy
let's not get ahead of ourselves yet we have days
and nights to live we have skin to touch and tears
to shed both justly and by mistake we need to go
to the beach more often but I don't like to show
too much of my skin I burn easily I have always
shied away from being a physically active extrovert
I love the feel of the wind on my face the taste
of sea salt on my tongue the waves rumbling in
steady motion rising falling being water they are
bound to the motion of the moon that beautiful
mistress her face beaming down her form changes
but always returns her lover is always absent and
she absent for him as well do they miss each other
do they wonder why it must be so difficult their
ward sees them both and doesn't think of this at all
that is fine it's better to just let things to just turn
off the noise to turn off the screens to turn off
the lights to cover your ears and ignore the voices
of those around you because what do they know
of your life and the secret heart beating in the
corner booth just waiting but fine with being hidden
because not everything lives in the day time
some things grow better by moonlight by a cold
and rising tide even now my skin waits for
the cool touch of evening waiting for sunset
and hoping against nothing just for a moment
to arrive that is already here
Friday, November 1, 2013
What It Is
You need a self-help reminder
about what you need to do
and this is what this is.
Take some responsibility
for your actions, there is no on
else in the mirror to blame.
Do the work. It's hard,
it's grueling but there is no
short-cut.
Don't wallow in despair
or setbacks. Focus.
Focus harder.
Change your thoughts
and you will change
your actions.
This isn't a poem.
about what you need to do
and this is what this is.
Take some responsibility
for your actions, there is no on
else in the mirror to blame.
Do the work. It's hard,
it's grueling but there is no
short-cut.
Don't wallow in despair
or setbacks. Focus.
Focus harder.
Change your thoughts
and you will change
your actions.
This isn't a poem.
what doesn't matter
it doesn't matter
what they say
doesn't matter
to me
at all
and it never did
and it never will
and its late
and its late
and lets wait
for dawn
to come again
so near
so near again
to us
to this
to night
end of
night
what they say
doesn't matter
to me
at all
and it never did
and it never will
and its late
and its late
and lets wait
for dawn
to come again
so near
so near again
to us
to this
to night
end of
night
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Even Mirrors Feel Guilt
I couldn't take it didn't want to to deal with it
with you anymore A test of all my patience
friendship of everything I could give until
finally I had to leave had to cut us apart because
there is no sense in two people drowning
My memories of us are the colors of a palette
smeared together rendered a mess what was
and could have been has dried up Am I through
with this I had thought so I learned I would
rather ignore you and us hoped it'd be enough
to be able to leave it behind You were the first
to call me by my favorite name even that
is tinged by you a result of you I turned on you
because I lov ed you because you hurt me pushed
me beyond any place I could tolerate being
My mirror is just as guilty as yours
with you anymore A test of all my patience
friendship of everything I could give until
finally I had to leave had to cut us apart because
there is no sense in two people drowning
My memories of us are the colors of a palette
smeared together rendered a mess what was
and could have been has dried up Am I through
with this I had thought so I learned I would
rather ignore you and us hoped it'd be enough
to be able to leave it behind You were the first
to call me by my favorite name even that
is tinged by you a result of you I turned on you
because I lov ed you because you hurt me pushed
me beyond any place I could tolerate being
My mirror is just as guilty as yours
Monday, October 28, 2013
Taking Flight
Enter the scene en medias res
Determine location
The chill of a beach breeze
touches skin
A smooth rock
alone
catches my eye
I do not reach for it
absorbs my gaze
twitches on the ground
like a muscle spasm before sleep
Just an illusion
tricking my poor mind
It must not like the attention
and spins quickly
in place
Perhaps the wind
kissed it
tickled its curves
I must be seeing things
lack of sleep
strange figments
realistic fiction
elements of reality
purposed to propose the preposterous
I maintain our distance
as it maintains position
Can it hear my thoughts
I look upon it once more
a searing focus
My left hand extends
as if ready to conduct an orchestra
through Dvorak's
New World Symphony
It trembles once more on the ground
casts a shadow above its former home
it ascends
towards my palm
Icarus would be amazed
it stops
allows me to grasp it in my hand
Determine location
The chill of a beach breeze
touches skin
A smooth rock
alone
catches my eye
I do not reach for it
absorbs my gaze
twitches on the ground
like a muscle spasm before sleep
Just an illusion
tricking my poor mind
It must not like the attention
and spins quickly
in place
Perhaps the wind
kissed it
tickled its curves
I must be seeing things
lack of sleep
strange figments
realistic fiction
elements of reality
purposed to propose the preposterous
I maintain our distance
as it maintains position
Can it hear my thoughts
I look upon it once more
a searing focus
My left hand extends
as if ready to conduct an orchestra
through Dvorak's
New World Symphony
It trembles once more on the ground
casts a shadow above its former home
it ascends
towards my palm
Icarus would be amazed
it stops
allows me to grasp it in my hand
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Rocks In Whiskey
Stop worrying about saying something.
Silence is not the enemy,
it never was.
Let thought and emotion coalesce
melt into one another.
There is Whiskey in my glass
making love to Ice,
she melts slowly
and he begins to cool.
I drink them both,
feel their love,
their strength
grow within me.
The glass is empty
and that is fine.
I can go to sleep
and dream the dreams
of two lovers
hopelessly intertwined.
Silence is not the enemy,
it never was.
Let thought and emotion coalesce
melt into one another.
There is Whiskey in my glass
making love to Ice,
she melts slowly
and he begins to cool.
I drink them both,
feel their love,
their strength
grow within me.
The glass is empty
and that is fine.
I can go to sleep
and dream the dreams
of two lovers
hopelessly intertwined.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
An Exercise
This isn't about anything
so don't get your hopes up
There is no plan to have this be inspirational
metaphors will be kept to a minimum
in fact
this will read pretty dryly
By this point you probably expected
something different
but no
this is all this is going to be
At the very least
the lines are flushed to the left
with odd breaks
in no particular order
or reason
Maybe
This isn't about anything
but I've already said that
and I'll say it again
this isn't about anything
I didn't want to say anything
didn't wish to make any comment
that could be worthwhile
or insightful
just a silly note to myself
to not take things so serious
to change the tone
to laugh at myself
from time to time
because I need it
because you need it
because we all need a break
from the weight of ourselves
so don't get your hopes up
There is no plan to have this be inspirational
metaphors will be kept to a minimum
in fact
this will read pretty dryly
By this point you probably expected
something different
but no
this is all this is going to be
At the very least
the lines are flushed to the left
with odd breaks
in no particular order
or reason
Maybe
This isn't about anything
but I've already said that
and I'll say it again
this isn't about anything
I didn't want to say anything
didn't wish to make any comment
that could be worthwhile
or insightful
just a silly note to myself
to not take things so serious
to change the tone
to laugh at myself
from time to time
because I need it
because you need it
because we all need a break
from the weight of ourselves
Monday, October 21, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
Bodies of Water
She had to laugh the day the power
went out at the house-
the next morning she found
a possum that had drowned
in their backyard swimming pool.
Before she found the possum
dead in the pool
she spent the night
placing candles all over the house.
She lit them one by one
with the same electric lighter
he would use to light the grill
during the summer. He hadn't
been coming home
at his usual hour, said he had
to work late,
she believed it
until the day the phone rang
at the house
and a woman's voice said
she needed to come clean.
There was no point in making
a scene over all of it,
at least that's what she told herself.
When the candles were all lit
she walked into the front yard
and admired the glow
of genuine warmth
radiating from the windows
as if the house had been turned
into a massive jack-o-lantern.
When she went inside
she wondered about what night
must have been like
in past centuries,
how foreboding distant sounds
and rustlings must have been
in a world more callous than our own.
She went upstairs, changed,
and waited for him to come.
Her eyes began to tire,
her mind began to close up shop.
She began to remember
going to the beach with her father
when she was a child.
she remembered the first time
she saw the vast and terrible expanse
as they stood there on the sand.
She held his hand as tightly
as her small fingers would allow.
"This is only the edge of the ocean,
the water goes on and on
for many, many miles.
There are people
on the other side of the ocean
who are different than us,
who speak a different language
but we are joined by the same water,"
he said. She understood as best
she could at that time.
How insignificant she felt
at that time
when confronted
with the scale of ourselves
against our home. On the edge
of the horizon
she could have sworn she
saw a seagull fall from the sky.
The candles had all gone out
when she woke. She turned
the tv on just to see if the power
was back, it flicked to life
and she quickly turned it back off.
A fine mist covered the neighborhood
as she stepped into the yard
to grab the morning paper.
His car was nowhere to be seen.
She went into the kitchen
and put on a pot of coffee
so she could drink
while reading the news.
She grabbed a clean mug
from the rack by the sink
and looked out the window,
something was floating in the pool
near the edge. She stood there
staring at the dead creature
and its furless tail. She went inside
and had her coffee,
read her newspaper.
When she was done she went upstairs
and began to pack a couple of bags
of clothes and other small possessions.
She placed them in her car
and went to the backyard.
It was still floating there like a flesh
and furred cork. She crouched
and grabbed it by the tail and pulled it
out of the water. She held it in air
until most of the water had finished dripping
from its body. She walked upstairs
and placed it in the middle of the bed.
She pulled out a pen and paper
from the nightstand and jotted
something down. She placed
the note next to the new guest.
She went downstairs and through
the front door without bothering to lock it.
She put the car in gear and backed out,
looking both ways to make sure
there was no oncoming traffic.
went out at the house-
the next morning she found
a possum that had drowned
in their backyard swimming pool.
Before she found the possum
dead in the pool
she spent the night
placing candles all over the house.
She lit them one by one
with the same electric lighter
he would use to light the grill
during the summer. He hadn't
been coming home
at his usual hour, said he had
to work late,
she believed it
until the day the phone rang
at the house
and a woman's voice said
she needed to come clean.
There was no point in making
a scene over all of it,
at least that's what she told herself.
When the candles were all lit
she walked into the front yard
and admired the glow
of genuine warmth
radiating from the windows
as if the house had been turned
into a massive jack-o-lantern.
When she went inside
she wondered about what night
must have been like
in past centuries,
how foreboding distant sounds
and rustlings must have been
in a world more callous than our own.
She went upstairs, changed,
and waited for him to come.
Her eyes began to tire,
her mind began to close up shop.
She began to remember
going to the beach with her father
when she was a child.
she remembered the first time
she saw the vast and terrible expanse
as they stood there on the sand.
She held his hand as tightly
as her small fingers would allow.
"This is only the edge of the ocean,
the water goes on and on
for many, many miles.
There are people
on the other side of the ocean
who are different than us,
who speak a different language
but we are joined by the same water,"
he said. She understood as best
she could at that time.
How insignificant she felt
at that time
when confronted
with the scale of ourselves
against our home. On the edge
of the horizon
she could have sworn she
saw a seagull fall from the sky.
The candles had all gone out
when she woke. She turned
the tv on just to see if the power
was back, it flicked to life
and she quickly turned it back off.
A fine mist covered the neighborhood
as she stepped into the yard
to grab the morning paper.
His car was nowhere to be seen.
She went into the kitchen
and put on a pot of coffee
so she could drink
while reading the news.
She grabbed a clean mug
from the rack by the sink
and looked out the window,
something was floating in the pool
near the edge. She stood there
staring at the dead creature
and its furless tail. She went inside
and had her coffee,
read her newspaper.
When she was done she went upstairs
and began to pack a couple of bags
of clothes and other small possessions.
She placed them in her car
and went to the backyard.
It was still floating there like a flesh
and furred cork. She crouched
and grabbed it by the tail and pulled it
out of the water. She held it in air
until most of the water had finished dripping
from its body. She walked upstairs
and placed it in the middle of the bed.
She pulled out a pen and paper
from the nightstand and jotted
something down. She placed
the note next to the new guest.
She went downstairs and through
the front door without bothering to lock it.
She put the car in gear and backed out,
looking both ways to make sure
there was no oncoming traffic.
King of Los Angeles
You could often see King roaming the streets
of Los Angeles during the day
and taking up residence in one of its bars
during the evening. His shaggy beard
hid his face well and grew
up to his eyebrows. He didn't really have
an apartment-
he mainly crashed on couches when he could.
His backpack held almost all
of his belongings. He didn't feel too bad
about it. He was out here and he had made
a go at it, had tried his damn best
at being in a band, at singing his fucking
head off about his life, his drinking,
the women he fucked, the women
he loved, the women and friends
who eventually grew to see through
the shit and moved on.
He was a nice guy-
it was hard to argue that he wasn't,
he just fucked up a lot.
Whenever I would see him
he was usually drunk
or on his way to getting drunk.
He was always coming and going.
I stopped paying attention to his whereabouts
because honestly
I had my own shit to worry about.
I hear he's still in town,
still singing, still drinking,
still fucking
things up on accident
and on purpose.
I can't encroach on his dreams
and methods,
I barely know what mine are
or if I even know what the hell
I am doing. Chances are
the next time I see him
I'll pull out my flask
of cheap whiskey
and offer him a long pull
on the only burn that seems
to pull us back from the darkness.
of Los Angeles during the day
and taking up residence in one of its bars
during the evening. His shaggy beard
hid his face well and grew
up to his eyebrows. He didn't really have
an apartment-
he mainly crashed on couches when he could.
His backpack held almost all
of his belongings. He didn't feel too bad
about it. He was out here and he had made
a go at it, had tried his damn best
at being in a band, at singing his fucking
head off about his life, his drinking,
the women he fucked, the women
he loved, the women and friends
who eventually grew to see through
the shit and moved on.
He was a nice guy-
it was hard to argue that he wasn't,
he just fucked up a lot.
Whenever I would see him
he was usually drunk
or on his way to getting drunk.
He was always coming and going.
I stopped paying attention to his whereabouts
because honestly
I had my own shit to worry about.
I hear he's still in town,
still singing, still drinking,
still fucking
things up on accident
and on purpose.
I can't encroach on his dreams
and methods,
I barely know what mine are
or if I even know what the hell
I am doing. Chances are
the next time I see him
I'll pull out my flask
of cheap whiskey
and offer him a long pull
on the only burn that seems
to pull us back from the darkness.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
A Late Start
I did nothing because there was nothing to do.
I read something,
I wrote something,
I listened to something,
because there was nothing to do.
Afterwards, I napped.
When I woke there was something to do
and that upset me terribly.
I dressed myself
and walked out of the house
in order to do nothing
somewhere else.
I read something,
I wrote something,
I listened to something,
because there was nothing to do.
Afterwards, I napped.
When I woke there was something to do
and that upset me terribly.
I dressed myself
and walked out of the house
in order to do nothing
somewhere else.
The Remains of Giants
I like to sit and listen to music made by men
who have been dead for years,
and in some cases decades.
A few of them had been addicts
to the same mistress,
killed by one-sided desire,
a few of them survived their ill-thought
romance.
Those details don't matter,
don't affect my enjoyment of the sounds
streaming from my speakers.
A tenor sax emerges through the groove,
dominates the aural spectrum,
a dry ride articulates
a swung eighth note.
Vamping on the mode is the crystalline sound
of a man
whose hands could have played Satie
in grand concert halls
but decided to pursue his craft
in small, smokey rooms.
who have been dead for years,
and in some cases decades.
A few of them had been addicts
to the same mistress,
killed by one-sided desire,
a few of them survived their ill-thought
romance.
Those details don't matter,
don't affect my enjoyment of the sounds
streaming from my speakers.
A tenor sax emerges through the groove,
dominates the aural spectrum,
a dry ride articulates
a swung eighth note.
Vamping on the mode is the crystalline sound
of a man
whose hands could have played Satie
in grand concert halls
but decided to pursue his craft
in small, smokey rooms.
Self-Portrait Echo
a blank white wall
a circular mirror
fixed firmly in center
rolleiflex resting
on a tripod
standing to one side
gazing ahead
the back of my head
my face alternating
through a visual echo
expanding farther
and farther
beyond comprehension
Note: this piece is based on this self-portrait by photographer Vivian Maier
http://www.vivianmaier.com/portfolios/self-portraits/?pid=256
a circular mirror
fixed firmly in center
rolleiflex resting
on a tripod
standing to one side
gazing ahead
the back of my head
my face alternating
through a visual echo
expanding farther
and farther
beyond comprehension
Note: this piece is based on this self-portrait by photographer Vivian Maier
http://www.vivianmaier.com/portfolios/self-portraits/?pid=256
Ignore All Advice
Don't confuse understanding
for a deeper attachment.
Write freely as often as you
right freely.
Talk slowly enough
so that you are understood.
Think in metaphor,
write in abstract imagery.
Imply meaning,
never state it directly.
Regard all rules thusly:
never trust them.
Kiss lips as often as possible,
let your lips be kissed in turn.
Hide any sense of worry behind
a placid smile and pleasant demeanor.
Do not worry about death
if you can help it.
Sing, especially if you have
no ear for music.
Originality is to be strived for
until it is achieved,
once it has been reached
it must be discarded and sought again.
Cut out the deepest parts of
yourself from your chest,
from your skull, reach in and grab,
rip, tear out all the hidden worlds,
find yourself to be newly unencumbered,
free from everyone and yourself.
for a deeper attachment.
Write freely as often as you
right freely.
Talk slowly enough
so that you are understood.
Think in metaphor,
write in abstract imagery.
Imply meaning,
never state it directly.
Regard all rules thusly:
never trust them.
Kiss lips as often as possible,
let your lips be kissed in turn.
Hide any sense of worry behind
a placid smile and pleasant demeanor.
Do not worry about death
if you can help it.
Sing, especially if you have
no ear for music.
Originality is to be strived for
until it is achieved,
once it has been reached
it must be discarded and sought again.
Cut out the deepest parts of
yourself from your chest,
from your skull, reach in and grab,
rip, tear out all the hidden worlds,
find yourself to be newly unencumbered,
free from everyone and yourself.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Rubber & Marrow
My secrets are a grenade
ready to go off
ready to rend my flesh
into charred chunks
ready to turn bone
into flaked shards
of white clinging
to marrow
readying me for change
readying me for the moment
when the pin pricks
the balloon
and all that is left
is the tattered rubber remains
ready to go off
ready to rend my flesh
into charred chunks
ready to turn bone
into flaked shards
of white clinging
to marrow
readying me for change
readying me for the moment
when the pin pricks
the balloon
and all that is left
is the tattered rubber remains
Shh...
Be still.
I want you to listen.
I have something to say.
If I have your attention
I am ready to begin.
Is there anything important
for us to talk about anymore?
I am asking you this
because I am not sure
if there is anything
worth the time
of our discussion.
This didn't turn out
quite how I planned.
Forget I ever brought
it up, let's open the door
and see what awaits.
I want you to listen.
I have something to say.
If I have your attention
I am ready to begin.
Is there anything important
for us to talk about anymore?
I am asking you this
because I am not sure
if there is anything
worth the time
of our discussion.
This didn't turn out
quite how I planned.
Forget I ever brought
it up, let's open the door
and see what awaits.
Day of the Week
I woke up today and forgot what day it is.
This realization was not met with panic,
it was greeted with a casual indifference
that could only be met by most of the living
creatures on Earth. I eventually found out
that it is Tuesday. This changes very little
about how I feel about the day. It will be
modestly busy, I will go to work, I will
go home, watch a movie, and fall asleep.
It is a predictable comfort that wraps itself
around my neck, warms me like a scarf,
and could choke the air from my lungs.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
For Maria, on a Saturday night in Long Beach
It was Saturday night as I was leaving a reading
that a young hispanic woman approached me in the street.
Her doe eyed look uttered for help before she even spoke.
She asked me if I knew of a church that was on the street
we were walking on. I said I was sorry, I didn't know
of a church being near us. She exhaled and hunched over,
just a little. I wished her luck in finding that church. I began
to walk more briskly to my car, her footsteps were slightly
behind mine. I turned when I saw my car parked in the
neighborhood. I looked back to the street and saw her
walking north in search. I wondered about her, her story,
her need to find a church at 9:30 p.m. on a Saturday night
in early autumn. As I began to pull away I saw her again.
She motioned for me to roll down my window. I did.
She said she was sorry to bother me, but wanted to know
if I knew where a certain street was. I said I did not,
that the only street I knew of by that name was nowhere
close by, certainly no place she could make on foot
in the next forty minutes. I told her to give me a moment.
I called my friend who lived in town and asked him
about that street. He confirmed what I already felt and said
that it was farther up in the far north end of the city.
She pulled out a business card for the church. I told her
I could call them and she could ask them where exactly
they are. I dialed the number and handed her the phone.
They picked up almost instantly. She began to speak
Spanish that was flecked with an English cadence.
There were a few hiccups in her speech when she struggled
momentarily with a word, but nothing that took away
from her need to be understood. I could hear them begin
to give her directions so I handed her a pen and paper.
She jotted everything down quick and handed me the phone.
When she showed me the directions I knew she had
no chance at getting to that church on foot in the time
she needed. "I normally wouldn't offer and you don't have
to trust me, but if you would like I could give you a ride
to the church," she thought for a second."Ok," she said.
I cleared my passenger seat of the bag of cds that had
been sitting there and the books of poetry I had just
picked up. She opened the door and sat down.
She said that her pastor had told her about this church
and that she had been looking for it for hours but had not
been able to find it. She wasn't from here she said.
She began to tell me the why of now:
her name is Maria, she is twenty years old, her fiance
is twenty-two, they both pick up small jobs here and there
to pay for the motel room they stay at, it's been like this
for an entire year, her mother was a drunk and kicked
them out, her mother-in-law was a drunk and drug addict
and used the money they gave her for rent to feed
her addiction, she had just found out she was pregnant
with their child, he had hurt his back the previous day,
they were trying to gather enough money to pay for their
room the next morning, she was hoping the people at church
could help her out with some money, she had only been able
to get thirty-five dollars over the course of the day,
she asked me if I was Christian or Catholic. I told her
I was brought up Catholic but that I wasn't practicing. I said
that I still do my best to help people and be a good person.
She seemed satisfied with that answer. She told me there
was a man who was going to help them out with getting
an apartment but that it wouldn't be ready for them until
a week from now. Until then, they still had to fight to keep
themselves under a roof. We drove along the street,
miles from where we had started, and told her it was still
a little further up. When I first saw her I thought she had
to be a teenager. The truth wasn't too far from that.
I wanted to ask her about school, if she even thought about
college. I didn't. I cared enough to just worry about now.
About getting her to church. This young woman who
could have been my sister, my cousin. I didn't care that
I was going to be late to the party I was attending.
It didn't matter. They would understand. We arrived
at the church and I pulled over. I pulled out my wallet
and said it's not much and handed her a ten dollar bill.
I took the change I kept for meters and gave it all.
I told her I didn't expect anything from her. I wished
her luck as sincerely as I have ever meant it. She said
thank you. I watched her enter the church. I turned
and joined the tides of the streets once more.
that a young hispanic woman approached me in the street.
Her doe eyed look uttered for help before she even spoke.
She asked me if I knew of a church that was on the street
we were walking on. I said I was sorry, I didn't know
of a church being near us. She exhaled and hunched over,
just a little. I wished her luck in finding that church. I began
to walk more briskly to my car, her footsteps were slightly
behind mine. I turned when I saw my car parked in the
neighborhood. I looked back to the street and saw her
walking north in search. I wondered about her, her story,
her need to find a church at 9:30 p.m. on a Saturday night
in early autumn. As I began to pull away I saw her again.
She motioned for me to roll down my window. I did.
She said she was sorry to bother me, but wanted to know
if I knew where a certain street was. I said I did not,
that the only street I knew of by that name was nowhere
close by, certainly no place she could make on foot
in the next forty minutes. I told her to give me a moment.
I called my friend who lived in town and asked him
about that street. He confirmed what I already felt and said
that it was farther up in the far north end of the city.
She pulled out a business card for the church. I told her
I could call them and she could ask them where exactly
they are. I dialed the number and handed her the phone.
They picked up almost instantly. She began to speak
Spanish that was flecked with an English cadence.
There were a few hiccups in her speech when she struggled
momentarily with a word, but nothing that took away
from her need to be understood. I could hear them begin
to give her directions so I handed her a pen and paper.
She jotted everything down quick and handed me the phone.
When she showed me the directions I knew she had
no chance at getting to that church on foot in the time
she needed. "I normally wouldn't offer and you don't have
to trust me, but if you would like I could give you a ride
to the church," she thought for a second."Ok," she said.
I cleared my passenger seat of the bag of cds that had
been sitting there and the books of poetry I had just
picked up. She opened the door and sat down.
She said that her pastor had told her about this church
and that she had been looking for it for hours but had not
been able to find it. She wasn't from here she said.
She began to tell me the why of now:
her name is Maria, she is twenty years old, her fiance
is twenty-two, they both pick up small jobs here and there
to pay for the motel room they stay at, it's been like this
for an entire year, her mother was a drunk and kicked
them out, her mother-in-law was a drunk and drug addict
and used the money they gave her for rent to feed
her addiction, she had just found out she was pregnant
with their child, he had hurt his back the previous day,
they were trying to gather enough money to pay for their
room the next morning, she was hoping the people at church
could help her out with some money, she had only been able
to get thirty-five dollars over the course of the day,
she asked me if I was Christian or Catholic. I told her
I was brought up Catholic but that I wasn't practicing. I said
that I still do my best to help people and be a good person.
She seemed satisfied with that answer. She told me there
was a man who was going to help them out with getting
an apartment but that it wouldn't be ready for them until
a week from now. Until then, they still had to fight to keep
themselves under a roof. We drove along the street,
miles from where we had started, and told her it was still
a little further up. When I first saw her I thought she had
to be a teenager. The truth wasn't too far from that.
I wanted to ask her about school, if she even thought about
college. I didn't. I cared enough to just worry about now.
About getting her to church. This young woman who
could have been my sister, my cousin. I didn't care that
I was going to be late to the party I was attending.
It didn't matter. They would understand. We arrived
at the church and I pulled over. I pulled out my wallet
and said it's not much and handed her a ten dollar bill.
I took the change I kept for meters and gave it all.
I told her I didn't expect anything from her. I wished
her luck as sincerely as I have ever meant it. She said
thank you. I watched her enter the church. I turned
and joined the tides of the streets once more.
Ending The Night
I am awake because I am tired
and cannot sleep.
The neighbors across the way
are as loud at 2 a.m. as at 10 p.m.
When I fall asleep I am good
at remaining undisturbed through
whatever turbulence the night brings.
I have not undone the laces on my shoes,
my bedclothes rest on top of my sheets.
When I am in bed I will listen to the sounds
outside my window, the breath from my lungs,
the steady sound of my internal metronome.
and cannot sleep.
The neighbors across the way
are as loud at 2 a.m. as at 10 p.m.
When I fall asleep I am good
at remaining undisturbed through
whatever turbulence the night brings.
I have not undone the laces on my shoes,
my bedclothes rest on top of my sheets.
When I am in bed I will listen to the sounds
outside my window, the breath from my lungs,
the steady sound of my internal metronome.
dis jointe d
I shudder at the world
when it speaks unintelligibly
and acts through unkind action.
Is my kindness a desire
to spite the world
or a reflection of my inner self?
This is not the way to salvation
I don't want to feel this way forever
when it speaks unintelligibly
and acts through unkind action.
Is my kindness a desire
to spite the world
or a reflection of my inner self?
This is not the way to salvation
I don't want to feel this way forever
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
William
I pulled up to the gas station by my house
when I saw a man about my age
start walking towards me
with a squeegee in his hand.
He looked at me with the sense of recognition
that takes a moment to load properly
in your mind. He said "Hermosa?"
I looked at his face and remembered.
Some time back I was walking back
from the Hermosa Beach pier at the end
of my lunch break. As I made it through
one of the side streets a young looking man
walked up to me and asked if I could let him
use my phone to make a quick call. I said yes.
When he was done he began to tell me of how
he moved to the area and was trying to find work.
He had no place to stay except for the hostel
he was at that night. He asked if there was any way
I could help him out with some money. I'm not sure
what compelled me about him or what he told me
but I opened my wallet and gave him all the money
I had- forty dollars- and wished him luck.
That night at the gas station I could see the struggle
in his hands, in the way he spoke so as to sound
most kind. Before I left he asked me
"You've never been homeless, have you?"
when I saw a man about my age
start walking towards me
with a squeegee in his hand.
He looked at me with the sense of recognition
that takes a moment to load properly
in your mind. He said "Hermosa?"
I looked at his face and remembered.
Some time back I was walking back
from the Hermosa Beach pier at the end
of my lunch break. As I made it through
one of the side streets a young looking man
walked up to me and asked if I could let him
use my phone to make a quick call. I said yes.
When he was done he began to tell me of how
he moved to the area and was trying to find work.
He had no place to stay except for the hostel
he was at that night. He asked if there was any way
I could help him out with some money. I'm not sure
what compelled me about him or what he told me
but I opened my wallet and gave him all the money
I had- forty dollars- and wished him luck.
That night at the gas station I could see the struggle
in his hands, in the way he spoke so as to sound
most kind. Before I left he asked me
"You've never been homeless, have you?"
Monday, October 7, 2013
Spare Change
We began to leave the park
and you saw change
resting on the blades of grass.
"Someone must have been sleeping
and had it fall out of their pockets."
you said. I looked down
and saw three quarters
along with a few pennies.
I picked up the quarters
and placed them into my pocket.
"You should leave the pennies
facing up," you said.
You reached down and turned
them over. Perhaps they'll bring
luck to the next person who sees them.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
The Constancy of Our Substance
What I do not know could fill
almost every book in every library
from antiquity til now.
What I do not know could fill
almost every hard drive
in every computer on earth.
What I do know is very little
and fits into an area no larger
than my clenched left fist.
What I do know is valuable
and cannot be forgotten,
will be carried with me
until its weight is too much
to bear, and when that day
comes we will free each other-
uncoupled from our shared burden
our energy will change states-
become a different kind of matter.
almost every book in every library
from antiquity til now.
What I do not know could fill
almost every hard drive
in every computer on earth.
What I do know is very little
and fits into an area no larger
than my clenched left fist.
What I do know is valuable
and cannot be forgotten,
will be carried with me
until its weight is too much
to bear, and when that day
comes we will free each other-
uncoupled from our shared burden
our energy will change states-
become a different kind of matter.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Dirt & Water / Water & Sky
We'll meet where dirt and water touch,
where water and sky
are varying shades of the same theme.
Language will not be necessary.
Overlooking the water is a bell seldom
rung- given in friendship between
two foreign lands.
I am dreaming and I am awake.
As I think and breathe the sky is black,
the crickets chirp, the neighbors sleep.
I, awake, yet still dreaming.
where water and sky
are varying shades of the same theme.
Language will not be necessary.
Overlooking the water is a bell seldom
rung- given in friendship between
two foreign lands.
I am dreaming and I am awake.
As I think and breathe the sky is black,
the crickets chirp, the neighbors sleep.
I, awake, yet still dreaming.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Lost Worlds
Waking is an act of forgetting
we take as normal.
What worlds do we relinquish
What lives do we forget
by gazing through the window
and embracing daylight
I often try in vain to remember
the landscapes I have seen
before they disappear into
the creeping mist This morning
a few words snuck through
amidst the usual casualties
we take as normal.
What worlds do we relinquish
What lives do we forget
by gazing through the window
and embracing daylight
I often try in vain to remember
the landscapes I have seen
before they disappear into
the creeping mist This morning
a few words snuck through
amidst the usual casualties
Friday, September 20, 2013
Thursday, September 19, 2013
What Is There
I cannot let myself look into the old closet
at the end of the hall,
not because I do not know what is in there
but rather, because I know what is in there.
Each time I think of opening its door
my hand grips the knob until
my hand grows damp until
I relent and let it go.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Winter Come
Winter come
Bury all my sullen years
This white blanket
Keeps me here
I am here
I am
Here
Bury all my sullen years
This white blanket
Keeps me here
I am here
I am
Here
Sunday, September 8, 2013
When It Is Late and I Cannot Sleep
When I cannot sleep I stay awake
until delirium sets in
and takes over the whole of me.
I am thinking about
all the pieces as they appear
when the puzzle is pulled apart
after its completion. It's usefulness
has been spent on those
who have assembled the image.
The pieces are once more
placed into the darkness of its box
and set on the shelf in the closet.
The season changes from summer
to fall, fall to winter,
winter to spring,
spring to summer, once more.
I cannot sleep
thinking of all the change
coming, how inevitable,
how normal it really is,
and always will be.
until delirium sets in
and takes over the whole of me.
I am thinking about
all the pieces as they appear
when the puzzle is pulled apart
after its completion. It's usefulness
has been spent on those
who have assembled the image.
The pieces are once more
placed into the darkness of its box
and set on the shelf in the closet.
The season changes from summer
to fall, fall to winter,
winter to spring,
spring to summer, once more.
I cannot sleep
thinking of all the change
coming, how inevitable,
how normal it really is,
and always will be.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
The Recovery
Sleep deeply,
sleep peacefully
this hot night
in your hospital bed.
Sunlight awakens
with you,
moonlight
illuminates your
dreams.
This will soon
be a memory.
sleep peacefully
this hot night
in your hospital bed.
Sunlight awakens
with you,
moonlight
illuminates your
dreams.
This will soon
be a memory.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Narrative Voice
There is no one narrating this
as you read it
except for the voice you hear
in your mind.
If you know who I am
perhaps it has taken
the timbre of how
I would speak to you.
If you do not know me
there is a good chance
you are hearing your own
voice reading this
back in a familiar cadence.
You might be mouthing
along to the words
and hope no one
can see you because
you would feel silly
if someone caught you
and asked what you are
reading. If that happened
they would see this
and the whole cycle
would once again repeat.
as you read it
except for the voice you hear
in your mind.
If you know who I am
perhaps it has taken
the timbre of how
I would speak to you.
If you do not know me
there is a good chance
you are hearing your own
voice reading this
back in a familiar cadence.
You might be mouthing
along to the words
and hope no one
can see you because
you would feel silly
if someone caught you
and asked what you are
reading. If that happened
they would see this
and the whole cycle
would once again repeat.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
The Student
Don't ever show me the easy way
to do anything.
Let me be a frustrated fool
and bitch at the difficulty
of my task
until the obvious answer
snaps across my mind
with the crack of a towel
hitting a teenager
in the showers after p.e.
Let me learn from my stubbornness,
let me learn
as often as possible
and for all of my days.
to do anything.
Let me be a frustrated fool
and bitch at the difficulty
of my task
until the obvious answer
snaps across my mind
with the crack of a towel
hitting a teenager
in the showers after p.e.
Let me learn from my stubbornness,
let me learn
as often as possible
and for all of my days.
smart-ass
I start writing stories I have no intention
of ever finishing. There are plots
half-filled in my mind
with characters drawn
in the same definition
as a hunk of charcoal scraped
against a wall.
I write poems I have no intention
of ever revising-
though there are a few whose
existence guilts me into combing
the loose edges of words
into a respectable cut
with lines
and breaks
in all the right and expected
places
in lieu of punctuation
as restrictive as
underwear a few sizes
too tight.
I write with no intention
of ever fi
of ever finishing. There are plots
half-filled in my mind
with characters drawn
in the same definition
as a hunk of charcoal scraped
against a wall.
I write poems I have no intention
of ever revising-
though there are a few whose
existence guilts me into combing
the loose edges of words
into a respectable cut
with lines
and breaks
in all the right and expected
places
in lieu of punctuation
as restrictive as
underwear a few sizes
too tight.
I write with no intention
of ever fi
All Night
The night is so warm
that I wish to turn my music up
as high as the volume can go
so I can dance
and let my neighbors hear me
over the sound of them
having air-conditioned sex
in their homes.
The night is so warm
that I wish to get in my car
and drive up the coast
with my windows rolled down
until my car runs out of gas
and I am stranded along
a beach where
I will sleep in the sand.
The night is so warm
that I wish to drink
all manner of alcohol
with friends until
reason leaves us
at 3 in the morning and we
all call out sick from work
by not showing up at all.
The night is so warm
that I wish to feel your sweat
against my skin, in my hair,
in my mouth, until
we reach a little death, then
we'll tire ourselves once more
into a balmy sleep.
that I wish to turn my music up
as high as the volume can go
so I can dance
and let my neighbors hear me
over the sound of them
having air-conditioned sex
in their homes.
The night is so warm
that I wish to get in my car
and drive up the coast
with my windows rolled down
until my car runs out of gas
and I am stranded along
a beach where
I will sleep in the sand.
The night is so warm
that I wish to drink
all manner of alcohol
with friends until
reason leaves us
at 3 in the morning and we
all call out sick from work
by not showing up at all.
The night is so warm
that I wish to feel your sweat
against my skin, in my hair,
in my mouth, until
we reach a little death, then
we'll tire ourselves once more
into a balmy sleep.
Rubbing the Night From Your Eyes
You wake because sunlight
lands on your face and warms
your skin.
I watch you toss back and forth,
your hands rubbing the night from
your eyes.
How lucky am I to be here,
how lucky we are to share this.
lands on your face and warms
your skin.
I watch you toss back and forth,
your hands rubbing the night from
your eyes.
How lucky am I to be here,
how lucky we are to share this.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
To Leave
Do we have to stay here?
We don't.
Can we leave?
Of course.
Why haven't we?
Because we haven't started walking.
He leans in for a kiss
and takes her hand.
They begin walking.
We don't.
Can we leave?
Of course.
Why haven't we?
Because we haven't started walking.
He leans in for a kiss
and takes her hand.
They begin walking.
Narrating A Moment
I watch her legs wobble as she crosses the street
and tries to regain her balance. A man crossing
in the opposite direction stares briefly, intensely
at her. She does not see his gaze. As he passes
he looks back to see her from behind.
She disappears into the city as the man reaches
the sidewalk, his right foot catching slightly
on the curb. A car cuts a quick turn behind him.
He utters a mumbled curse and keeps walking.
I see the time and empty the last of the coffee.
The Future
I blew out a stream
of cigarette smoke
into the bar
as a fly
flew into it.
I have faith
in whatever
needs to happen
next.
of cigarette smoke
into the bar
as a fly
flew into it.
I have faith
in whatever
needs to happen
next.
frag
It's not fair and don't imagine
that it ever will be.
I dream beyond this world.
No middle path.
What fragments?
Throw the stars
into the dark.
that it ever will be.
I dream beyond this world.
No middle path.
What fragments?
Throw the stars
into the dark.
Monday, September 2, 2013
For Fresa
aching parts
wishing to break
their continual function
obstinate strength
blood and marrow
muscle and bone
the imperfect tick
of my fragile
metronome
wishing to break
their continual function
obstinate strength
blood and marrow
muscle and bone
the imperfect tick
of my fragile
metronome
finding now
I don't obsess about the past
the way I used to.
From time to time I think
of the things
I held dear
and those I still do.
The sharp pain is now
a dull ache that occasionally
marks the weather.
Things are fine.
They could be worse,
they have been-
let's not talk about that,
let's find now.
the way I used to.
From time to time I think
of the things
I held dear
and those I still do.
The sharp pain is now
a dull ache that occasionally
marks the weather.
Things are fine.
They could be worse,
they have been-
let's not talk about that,
let's find now.
this late summer
Waves are easy
when we wish to speak
of the ephemeral nature of our lives
It is late in the summer
she punishes us
with a final heated assault
Our will withers
and we find comfort
in the smallest of ways
We crowd onto the beach
the way ants will swarm
around a piece of candy
My skin burns easily.
when we wish to speak
of the ephemeral nature of our lives
It is late in the summer
she punishes us
with a final heated assault
Our will withers
and we find comfort
in the smallest of ways
We crowd onto the beach
the way ants will swarm
around a piece of candy
My skin burns easily.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
casual hope
I find myself waiting
and it is a foolish thing to do.
Every moment is one deeper
into night,
it's promises of sleep,
made and broken,
to everyone
at some time.
Any answer
would be fine,
but I don't expect any
at this hour.
Needless thinking,
needless waiting,
a futile hope,
one that will never
learn any better.
and it is a foolish thing to do.
Every moment is one deeper
into night,
it's promises of sleep,
made and broken,
to everyone
at some time.
Any answer
would be fine,
but I don't expect any
at this hour.
Needless thinking,
needless waiting,
a futile hope,
one that will never
learn any better.
unthinkable loss
Without beauty
we would perish.
Nothing could
be sustained
in this world
without it.
We would
whither
slowly and
sadly
from the
knowledge
of what
had been lost.
we would perish.
Nothing could
be sustained
in this world
without it.
We would
whither
slowly and
sadly
from the
knowledge
of what
had been lost.
simple chatter
looking for an excuse to speak
to find anyone willing to listen
you absorb the silence around you
an uneasy peace
ears ring with the sound of crickets
calling to one another
a stream of simple thought
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Street Light
smoke fills the car
parked in the street
far from street lamps
the music is loud enough
their voices just audible
they begin to kiss
a sweet taste
a sweet smell
breath fogging glass
the music is loud enough
soon could be louder
parked in the street
far from street lamps
the music is loud enough
their voices just audible
they begin to kiss
a sweet taste
a sweet smell
breath fogging glass
the music is loud enough
soon could be louder
Blurring
I texted C. to find out
if it was true about M.
She texted that it was.
I asked if M. was ok. As good
as she was going to get, she said.
C. and I were meeting that night
in downtown to get some drinks.
I always thought she was amazingly
beautiful, the kind of beauty
you couldn't help but think about
over and over. There was never
any real chance for the two of us
to go beyond our established norm
and that was fine. I loved her company.
We ended up meeting an hour later
than we had planned but given
the circumstances, understandable.
I told her I would be sitting out back
when she arrived.
She set her purse on the table.
Are you ok, I asked.
Yeah, she said as she reached
for my pack of cigarettes.
I pulled out my lighter
and flicked it to life,
just below the tip.
C. and M. were very close,
they were family.
M.'s life was inversely
proportional to her beauty.
She was never content until
the candles were a melted
waxy mess.
I don't know what else I can do
about her. I love her so much
but she keeps doing this.
I worry but I don't know if I can
keep this up. It's exhausting.
She looked away and took
a long drag and held it in.
I told her I'd be right back,
that I was going to get us
some drinks.
As I waited for the bartender
to bring me my pint of beer
and her whiskey coke (her drink
of choice), I thought about
all the times I had been around M.
I first met her at a birthday party
for C. a number of years back.
She wore fishnet stockings
that rode up under a clinging
leopard print dress.
We both got drunk that night
and chatted away.
I was smitten. I asked
for her number, she gave it.
I took the drinks back to our table.
C. was fidgeting with her phone.
Any new news, I said.
No, she said.
We held our drinks and I said,
to better days.
M. and I eventually wound up
going out not too long after.
I remember picking her up
from her apartment
and seeing her walk out
in a beautiful mod dress.
I had never had a woman
carry herself with such determined
confidence. She would tell me
soon after that she was not ready
to date anyone so soon after a breakup.
It may have been true
but I think it was her way
of rejecting me without having
to be unkind. In any case,
I appreciated the lie.
After a few more drinks
and a few more hours
C. asked me,
do you think M. will be ok?
I mean, not just after this,
but in the long run,
do you think she'll be fine?
I looked at her, too drunk
to be anything but honest.
I don't know
but I hope so, I said.
I hope so.
if it was true about M.
She texted that it was.
I asked if M. was ok. As good
as she was going to get, she said.
C. and I were meeting that night
in downtown to get some drinks.
I always thought she was amazingly
beautiful, the kind of beauty
you couldn't help but think about
over and over. There was never
any real chance for the two of us
to go beyond our established norm
and that was fine. I loved her company.
We ended up meeting an hour later
than we had planned but given
the circumstances, understandable.
I told her I would be sitting out back
when she arrived.
She set her purse on the table.
Are you ok, I asked.
Yeah, she said as she reached
for my pack of cigarettes.
I pulled out my lighter
and flicked it to life,
just below the tip.
C. and M. were very close,
they were family.
M.'s life was inversely
proportional to her beauty.
She was never content until
the candles were a melted
waxy mess.
I don't know what else I can do
about her. I love her so much
but she keeps doing this.
I worry but I don't know if I can
keep this up. It's exhausting.
She looked away and took
a long drag and held it in.
I told her I'd be right back,
that I was going to get us
some drinks.
As I waited for the bartender
to bring me my pint of beer
and her whiskey coke (her drink
of choice), I thought about
all the times I had been around M.
I first met her at a birthday party
for C. a number of years back.
She wore fishnet stockings
that rode up under a clinging
leopard print dress.
We both got drunk that night
and chatted away.
I was smitten. I asked
for her number, she gave it.
I took the drinks back to our table.
C. was fidgeting with her phone.
Any new news, I said.
No, she said.
We held our drinks and I said,
to better days.
M. and I eventually wound up
going out not too long after.
I remember picking her up
from her apartment
and seeing her walk out
in a beautiful mod dress.
I had never had a woman
carry herself with such determined
confidence. She would tell me
soon after that she was not ready
to date anyone so soon after a breakup.
It may have been true
but I think it was her way
of rejecting me without having
to be unkind. In any case,
I appreciated the lie.
After a few more drinks
and a few more hours
C. asked me,
do you think M. will be ok?
I mean, not just after this,
but in the long run,
do you think she'll be fine?
I looked at her, too drunk
to be anything but honest.
I don't know
but I hope so, I said.
I hope so.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Maisy
She could not bring herself to cry
when she thought about
the last few months
and everything that happened.
The lamp next to the chair
was on. It was 11p.m.
She sat down and kicked off
her shoes, it startled the cat.
Maisy leaped into her lap,
circled, and nuzzled her.
She took the rings off
of her hand and set them
at the base of the lamp.
She brought her hand
softly onto Maisy's fur.
Her lungs expanded
as she inhaled deeply,
and paused before letting
the breath out. She repeated
this until her eyes began
to tear at the corners.
The drops hesitated before
allowing themselves to descend,
one by one, they became
a steady river. Maisy waited,
knowing the moment would pass,
knowing a deeper truth
that no purr could ever convey.
when she thought about
the last few months
and everything that happened.
The lamp next to the chair
was on. It was 11p.m.
She sat down and kicked off
her shoes, it startled the cat.
Maisy leaped into her lap,
circled, and nuzzled her.
She took the rings off
of her hand and set them
at the base of the lamp.
She brought her hand
softly onto Maisy's fur.
Her lungs expanded
as she inhaled deeply,
and paused before letting
the breath out. She repeated
this until her eyes began
to tear at the corners.
The drops hesitated before
allowing themselves to descend,
one by one, they became
a steady river. Maisy waited,
knowing the moment would pass,
knowing a deeper truth
that no purr could ever convey.
Myth & Fact
Perfection is a non-
existent state.
It's attainment, myth.
Death is constant,
endless, impartial,
a transition, to what?
Silly me, silly you,
silly, fretful creatures.
existent state.
It's attainment, myth.
Death is constant,
endless, impartial,
a transition, to what?
Silly me, silly you,
silly, fretful creatures.
They/We
She and He
are wondering
what to do
where to go
what to see
where to be
She and He
could be
you and me
wandering
We could be
They, They
could be any
one, could be
someone right
now, certainly
are somewhere.
growing up
All the beauty you'll never have
was never yours to mourn
All the lips you'll never kiss
were never yours to taste
loosen your grasp
free it completely
let your palm feel wind
was never yours to mourn
All the lips you'll never kiss
were never yours to taste
loosen your grasp
free it completely
let your palm feel wind
A Constant Amnesia
Memory is a malleable thing
before it is forgotten altogether.
The ghosts of our former selves
have no place left to haunt.
Wandering until rebirth,
another chance to forget.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Shaping Space
Sapped
Emptied
I pour myself into a chair
and try to find
whatever words remain
Tired
how tired
I've become
or has my spirit
exhausted itself
Emptied
I pour myself into a chair
and try to find
whatever words remain
Tired
how tired
I've become
or has my spirit
exhausted itself
Monday, August 19, 2013
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Interruption
The night air streamed steadily
through the slightly rolled down window.
He was using his coat as a blanket,
body reclined in the seat.
It was still dark outside-
too late to be early,
too early to be late.
A few hours earlier
he had planned on going home
but found himself
giving in to the twins
of exhaustion and intoxication.
It was still enough to hear the hum
of street lights and power lines,
he passing cars of the nearby
freeway sounded like faint waves
from a fading dream.
He righter himself and looked around,
there was no one.
With the keys in the ignition
the engine sputtered back to life.
He coughed.
The seatbelt clicked, was fastened tight.
Release the parking brake,
shift into drive.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
I, the Vessel
My soul is a shiftless creature
tanning its skin on my lawn.
It dreams of cloud kingdoms
and the succession of royalty-
wonders what name it would take
if it ascended to power.
My soul comes home
when I have gone to bed.
It doesn't say much
when it comes home late.
It likes to leave early in the morning
before I have gotten out of bed.
I have told it to look for a job
but it scoffs at the idea.
A Soul? With a job?
Such a ludicrous thought.
We love each other
but can often be at odds.
When I walk through the forest,
light streaking between branches,
we marvel at our fortune,
the privilege of being.
tanning its skin on my lawn.
It dreams of cloud kingdoms
and the succession of royalty-
wonders what name it would take
if it ascended to power.
My soul comes home
when I have gone to bed.
It doesn't say much
when it comes home late.
It likes to leave early in the morning
before I have gotten out of bed.
I have told it to look for a job
but it scoffs at the idea.
A Soul? With a job?
Such a ludicrous thought.
We love each other
but can often be at odds.
When I walk through the forest,
light streaking between branches,
we marvel at our fortune,
the privilege of being.
Friday, August 2, 2013
A Night in Fragments
I.
Honor the struggle.
II.
My will turns to ash.
III.
Your life is only as interesting
as you are willing to make it.
IV.
The open mouth scream
of freeway wind
rushing through
rolled down windows
V.
It is easy to feel
a great loneliness
late at night
while others sleep
unaware of the ills
that keep us awake.
VI.
everything fails in time.
VII.
I can hear its beat
though we are not
in the same space
VIII.
the green light flickers
turns red
then green once more
then red
flickers at a pace
faster than you eyelids
IX.
I have left the light on
for you.
X.
mangled fingers
the scarred flesh
of the forearm
a visible history
XI.
table kalimba
always ready for a touch
singing silver tongues
XII.
How can we call it love?
XIII.
truth in fragmentation
XIV.
yield nothing
XV.
He is as hollow
as a chocolate
easter bunny
XVI.
let's not call it love
let's not call it anything
let's call
let's talk
let's let go
XVII.
useless machinery
a soul in transit
lost between two points
XVIII.
you can't go to sleep
you don't even bother
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