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.
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