29.1, round three, for the win.
I love this and I killed with it. That's it.
I. love. graffiti. whether it's on walls or towers,
trucks buildings bus stops it's got this power
of someone who can't take it who makes their mark
in deviant art with primal and pain and heart
certain slices of society split hairs and call fair foul
since it's not theirs and they don't know enough to care
but I see it – history is a weapon so read it, arm yourself
push your mind past the definitions divined by wealth
when somehow a woman or man with spray can
is given the handle vandal, but the banner spangled
protects ads and jangles of
“you're ugly, you're fat – that is why you should buy, buy, buy”and there's no scandal
how sad we call it free speech
look underneath what happens when someone starts clapping or tapping chisel into stone or slapping paint onto canvas – the act of creation spans this and pulls us together
so I put words down and aim them at forever
as a kid, you see I found this light inside of me, and decided to scratch at it assiduously
I found it out it was the bright shine of creativity shimmering in harmonious symmetry that I see when I pursue the activities I pursue in eccentricity, scribbling the songs thoughts sing to me so I can link to the connectivity running indivisibly like white-hot electricity through all of you, and me
this light shone bright through my chest, in cold defiance of the unknown of death – like a bellyful of beautiful
this light was all mine to have, and I could shine and plant diamonds deep in the grit and the grime that compose what we suppose is reality
I don't know what the meaning of life is, or what happens in the chapter after
but all you can do is choose what to do with the time given you, and I feel a duty to spread the beautiful, to grace to this life with time spent thinking of ways to say thank you
- so let's let our lights out to plant diamonds and pearls in the world
physics insists that we are twisted quantum strings forming things that think they're things, bringing us things to think life has no meaning – so?
all you can do is decide what to do with the time that is given to you – so no matter what else is true about you, don't you want to be glad you knew you?
don't you still want to make it more beautiful?
I say, whatever comes next, why bother caring about red herrings and our fathers to stay blessed
because surely you can agree with the idea that beauty si quite simply good, and even when misunderstood is an aim to be pursed at all times as the quest for sublime
that light that shines inside you and I is beautiful
we've got a duty to spread it, like love
if I apply for a job
and it matters not who I am or am not
but only who I am friends with
then that boss is probably an asshole
on a day that may come when one judges the living and the dead, if it matters not what I did but that I picked the right judge then I don't want to be right
I know what to do with the time given to...me
say thank you to life for this breath
let my light shine from the hole in my chest
love is what we need and beauty brings us together
so I put words down – and I aim them at forever
creativity's electricity manifests in me lyrically – I love graffiti because it means someone else gave their beauty wings
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Saturday, April 30, 2011
disney revolutions
started writing it at home last week, using necrophilia and a night at a hookah bar. did it round 2 last night, and got a 26.1 with a 1 point time penalty.
I get to thinking on things when I'm cruising on my bike
potentially thinking exponentially cuz I am riding like a kite
do you ever wonder why the movies
we show our kids fresh off their Similac
have so many men who just so happen
to be calmly yet passionately necrophiliac?
You'll never guess what happened today, dear diary
I'm out kissing dead girls, one sits up and smiles at me!
She's all “hey there handsome, my name's Snow White
- and I say we get married, it just feels so right
me? my luck is tight, and so is my man Charming's
last we week he went and tied the ball and chain
with that smoking undead Sleeping beauty dame
of course, my corpse-humping self said yes
it's a shame White has breath in her breasts
but I just jumped from perverted peasant to kinky king
forget the royal ring, those chilly catacombs
got so many places for my ding-a-ling!
What? Disney, come on, think about what you're portraying
there are so many things you could but you're just not saying
I'm cruising kite on my bike and maybe I'm thinking exponentially
but I'm thinking about things that are strange or changed, like
stockades - I did not know why they were a big deal
in Beauty and the Beast, Belle's father gets wheeled in
locked head and hand in the stocks right in the town square
people all around throw lettuce and tomatoes I'm thinking that's not fair
this is me in 2nd grade, so fat 4th graders hit me with my own tits
fruit and vegetables do not seem that bad by comparison
until I read about the real problem – people are rotten
if you do not have friends to watch your bottom all night
then you might end up the town bicycle
the image of Belle's father, moustache whiskers quivering
while Gaston and his merry men all ride him like a river
I can see why Disney shied away from historical accuracy
but if we're gonna get outside the box factually
then let's rock some serious revisions
get a little more optimistic with our Jiminy Cricket dreams
you notice a few things not right when you're riding your bike
whether or not your thinking is shot cause you're cruising kite
when you get low enough to see what the sidewalk cracks show
you can look inside and find the saddest crimes of our times
where the people that mind don't matter, those that matter don't mind
and everyone watching Disney sees fit to ignore it just fine
I'm ready for Pocahontas, part three – the end of the trilogy
where dreams might finally come true, where me and you are sick
of seeing the sap at the bus stop with shoulders slumped since
the shadow of the shelter is not high enough for him to stand tall
not when the sun beats 110 degrees, please, that's a well-paid week
not when this is the probable peak of his broken-hearted journey
we know exactly where it started, where it starts, and starts, and starts
I find it less obscene that Smith was thirty and Pocahontas thirteen
than I do the glossy sheen we drew over their honeymoon
where the Navi swung like elegant, blue, strange fruit
Jake Sully may have killed the colonel but a country of colonists
kicked ass, erased names and left remains rotting in piles
while the credits roll up and we roll out to skip on the bill
of the scalps we swung from Florida to Oklahoma and all points west
their tears run a river to waterfall on deaf ears, because the best
freedom we bequeath them is the choice of huffing or meth
we have a special place reserved, just for them, and when
they try to leave we know just where to lay out the
welcome to the table, dinner is at the seventh street soup kitchen
with cheerfully blunt concrete walls which callously call out
“Bienvenidos a Phoenix!” if you slow down to read them
history is not in books not when we took it and cooked it up all shitty
so colonists with cars could skip nimbly over the static in a city
riding a bike at night shows you the grit in the cracks we swept them into
if we're going to use history to come up with Disney movies
let's make a tape where dreams really do come true
I get to thinking on things when I'm cruising on my bike
potentially thinking exponentially cuz I am riding like a kite
do you ever wonder why the movies
we show our kids fresh off their Similac
have so many men who just so happen
to be calmly yet passionately necrophiliac?
You'll never guess what happened today, dear diary
I'm out kissing dead girls, one sits up and smiles at me!
She's all “hey there handsome, my name's Snow White
- and I say we get married, it just feels so right
me? my luck is tight, and so is my man Charming's
last we week he went and tied the ball and chain
with that smoking undead Sleeping beauty dame
of course, my corpse-humping self said yes
it's a shame White has breath in her breasts
but I just jumped from perverted peasant to kinky king
forget the royal ring, those chilly catacombs
got so many places for my ding-a-ling!
What? Disney, come on, think about what you're portraying
there are so many things you could but you're just not saying
I'm cruising kite on my bike and maybe I'm thinking exponentially
but I'm thinking about things that are strange or changed, like
stockades - I did not know why they were a big deal
in Beauty and the Beast, Belle's father gets wheeled in
locked head and hand in the stocks right in the town square
people all around throw lettuce and tomatoes I'm thinking that's not fair
this is me in 2nd grade, so fat 4th graders hit me with my own tits
fruit and vegetables do not seem that bad by comparison
until I read about the real problem – people are rotten
if you do not have friends to watch your bottom all night
then you might end up the town bicycle
the image of Belle's father, moustache whiskers quivering
while Gaston and his merry men all ride him like a river
I can see why Disney shied away from historical accuracy
but if we're gonna get outside the box factually
then let's rock some serious revisions
get a little more optimistic with our Jiminy Cricket dreams
you notice a few things not right when you're riding your bike
whether or not your thinking is shot cause you're cruising kite
when you get low enough to see what the sidewalk cracks show
you can look inside and find the saddest crimes of our times
where the people that mind don't matter, those that matter don't mind
and everyone watching Disney sees fit to ignore it just fine
I'm ready for Pocahontas, part three – the end of the trilogy
where dreams might finally come true, where me and you are sick
of seeing the sap at the bus stop with shoulders slumped since
the shadow of the shelter is not high enough for him to stand tall
not when the sun beats 110 degrees, please, that's a well-paid week
not when this is the probable peak of his broken-hearted journey
we know exactly where it started, where it starts, and starts, and starts
I find it less obscene that Smith was thirty and Pocahontas thirteen
than I do the glossy sheen we drew over their honeymoon
where the Navi swung like elegant, blue, strange fruit
Jake Sully may have killed the colonel but a country of colonists
kicked ass, erased names and left remains rotting in piles
while the credits roll up and we roll out to skip on the bill
of the scalps we swung from Florida to Oklahoma and all points west
their tears run a river to waterfall on deaf ears, because the best
freedom we bequeath them is the choice of huffing or meth
we have a special place reserved, just for them, and when
they try to leave we know just where to lay out the
welcome to the table, dinner is at the seventh street soup kitchen
with cheerfully blunt concrete walls which callously call out
“Bienvenidos a Phoenix!” if you slow down to read them
history is not in books not when we took it and cooked it up all shitty
so colonists with cars could skip nimbly over the static in a city
riding a bike at night shows you the grit in the cracks we swept them into
if we're going to use history to come up with Disney movies
let's make a tape where dreams really do come true
Friday, April 8, 2011
Independence
This is a poem from one of my students from last year, who just popped by to show me.
Humans aren't meant to die
Science can't understand our complex designs
They say we come from monkeys
Now who is believing in fairy tales
We are made of dust
That's why when we burn we turn to ashes
Our treacherous hearts weren't made to stop beating
Our lungs shouldn't take their last breath
The thought of living forever claims our mind
And our souls knows the truth
Humans aren't meant to die
Science can't understand our complex designs
They say we come from monkeys
Now who is believing in fairy tales
We are made of dust
That's why when we burn we turn to ashes
Our treacherous hearts weren't made to stop beating
Our lungs shouldn't take their last breath
The thought of living forever claims our mind
And our souls knows the truth
Monday, March 28, 2011
taxes
Here's another poem I started months ago. I'd been sewing pieces and rhythms together for forever; I finished a functional draft during Friday professional development. The presenter actually called me out - "...and [blank]'s just working on his taxes poem!"
This is my final, non-slam version, I think - which is silly, because I think forcing myself to cut these pieces to three minutes has only made them better by far.
This thing clocks in at 3:20, 3:30, I think - I opened with it at the March qualifier, and they didn't say anything about time constraints - but I haven't decided where to get line chopping. Input appreciated on things that may fall dead.
taxes
taxes are the price we pay for organized society
for our police and firefighters
for our schools and soldiers
for our prisons and fences
let me spell it out for you
there is no u or s in we
when we must cinch our belts
U.S. us is a foreign idea
one suited for fascists and Swedes
when we must cough up taxes
when we must pay for organized society
we has a silent e
it's not we, but wee, the little people
the U.S. of us cannot possibly handle
the back breaking burden
of Boomers blossoming beyond retirement
see, these higher numbers of tired elderly
made dire this situation, social security's on the fire
it's gotta go
we can not cover unemployment
we can not get you health insurance
we need to pay up for the bullets and bombs
to bailout the banks and grant the Party ranks
tax deductions for training us at burger flipping
paper pushing to pretend like we got some meaning
I think you and I are worth way more
than cigarettes and sad-ass sixpacks to cope with
sick days with no pay and shit jobs with low wages
all this shit makes sense if you just buy the logic, but
I'm too broke to afford these trickle-down economics
if whatever goes up must come down
I wouldn't still be sitting here on the ground
with my tongue out and a bad case of cotton mouth
there's no us here, not in this U.S., not today
not when we pay our taxes
it's just little ol' wee paying for organized society
no taxation without representation, huh?
ain't no tattooed broke ass smokers on Capitol Hill
nobody with bike locks and bus passes in they pockets
nobody there looks like me or you
you wonder why we want better minimum wage
but we're still waitin'
we're looking for healthcare and pensions
but we're still waitin;
we're looking for a break
and wee with this little silent e
we're still waitin
while watchin banks blow our life savings
and get billion dollar bailouts
but I should stop hating
because I'm not gonna do shit
and neither are you
we used to die for what we believed in
we used to die
for the right to speak our minds
for the chance to decide for ourselves
for the simple respect represented
by no taxation without representation
now we're only willing to die for our dreams
if the respawn time is under ten seconds
we hate these taxes and plenty other economic facts
but we're not going to die to fight these things
we're sycophants for the new world kings
what percent of mankind
in the last five hundred years
has had the utter privilege
of complaining about the water pressure?
Servants with copper water buckets
heated over roaring fires
could get ancient emperors a steam bath
I spend ten minutes scratching my ass in the shower
and 600 gallons get pissed down the drain
I drank orange juice this morning
most the world still lives and dies
on less than a dollar a day
I spent a buck thirty nine at Circle K
to get fresh squeezed OJ
from groves thousands of miles away
it was delicious.
It used to take an army and a fleet of ships
to provide the luxury of fresh fruit year-round
it still does
we just don't get to command em personally
we are merely expected to pay the fucking bills
the maintenance costs on sniper scope rifles
filling the gas tank on supersonic aircraft
room and board for the people
who will not get with the program
they keep interrupting our nice neat organized society
it's better to die on your feet than live on your knees
no one ever said that
who had a full refrigerator
I like Lennon, but we are not all going to be happy
most of us are going to be hungry
not us, or we, or wee
we're lucky enough to think all you need is love
and to hate paying our taxes
the price of organized society
happy fucking tax day
This is my final, non-slam version, I think - which is silly, because I think forcing myself to cut these pieces to three minutes has only made them better by far.
This thing clocks in at 3:20, 3:30, I think - I opened with it at the March qualifier, and they didn't say anything about time constraints - but I haven't decided where to get line chopping. Input appreciated on things that may fall dead.
taxes
taxes are the price we pay for organized society
for our police and firefighters
for our schools and soldiers
for our prisons and fences
let me spell it out for you
there is no u or s in we
when we must cinch our belts
U.S. us is a foreign idea
one suited for fascists and Swedes
when we must cough up taxes
when we must pay for organized society
we has a silent e
it's not we, but wee, the little people
the U.S. of us cannot possibly handle
the back breaking burden
of Boomers blossoming beyond retirement
see, these higher numbers of tired elderly
made dire this situation, social security's on the fire
it's gotta go
we can not cover unemployment
we can not get you health insurance
we need to pay up for the bullets and bombs
to bailout the banks and grant the Party ranks
tax deductions for training us at burger flipping
paper pushing to pretend like we got some meaning
I think you and I are worth way more
than cigarettes and sad-ass sixpacks to cope with
sick days with no pay and shit jobs with low wages
all this shit makes sense if you just buy the logic, but
I'm too broke to afford these trickle-down economics
if whatever goes up must come down
I wouldn't still be sitting here on the ground
with my tongue out and a bad case of cotton mouth
there's no us here, not in this U.S., not today
not when we pay our taxes
it's just little ol' wee paying for organized society
no taxation without representation, huh?
ain't no tattooed broke ass smokers on Capitol Hill
nobody with bike locks and bus passes in they pockets
nobody there looks like me or you
you wonder why we want better minimum wage
but we're still waitin'
we're looking for healthcare and pensions
but we're still waitin;
we're looking for a break
and wee with this little silent e
we're still waitin
while watchin banks blow our life savings
and get billion dollar bailouts
but I should stop hating
because I'm not gonna do shit
and neither are you
we used to die for what we believed in
we used to die
for the right to speak our minds
for the chance to decide for ourselves
for the simple respect represented
by no taxation without representation
now we're only willing to die for our dreams
if the respawn time is under ten seconds
we hate these taxes and plenty other economic facts
but we're not going to die to fight these things
we're sycophants for the new world kings
what percent of mankind
in the last five hundred years
has had the utter privilege
of complaining about the water pressure?
Servants with copper water buckets
heated over roaring fires
could get ancient emperors a steam bath
I spend ten minutes scratching my ass in the shower
and 600 gallons get pissed down the drain
I drank orange juice this morning
most the world still lives and dies
on less than a dollar a day
I spent a buck thirty nine at Circle K
to get fresh squeezed OJ
from groves thousands of miles away
it was delicious.
It used to take an army and a fleet of ships
to provide the luxury of fresh fruit year-round
it still does
we just don't get to command em personally
we are merely expected to pay the fucking bills
the maintenance costs on sniper scope rifles
filling the gas tank on supersonic aircraft
room and board for the people
who will not get with the program
they keep interrupting our nice neat organized society
it's better to die on your feet than live on your knees
no one ever said that
who had a full refrigerator
I like Lennon, but we are not all going to be happy
most of us are going to be hungry
not us, or we, or wee
we're lucky enough to think all you need is love
and to hate paying our taxes
the price of organized society
happy fucking tax day
contaminated
This is not finalized; it's longer than three minutes. But after a couple months, it's got a finished draft. I slammed it at the March qualifier - low score: 9.9.
I could fuck your brains out – if I don't blow mine out first
the saddest thing about it I don't know which is worse
I've made enough mistakes that I'm finally gotten clarity
and I want to be clear, you, you should be scared of me
I used to be a fat kid, low self-esteem, and it shows
now I put in work so I know you'll like what I got in these clothes
and I swear, I'm burnin' inside, so I ride red lined, ready to explode
if you're ready to go, I will touch the bottom and curl your toes,
and show you things you did not know you didn't know
see, if I'm focused and stroking, I don't feel broken
I feel whole if I can leave your body lying smokin
we can can get dirty, nasty, raw, just spanking and choking
or we can keep it clean and sweet but its still just mean
because I am in some way shape or form contaminated
I have alienated every single girl I have ever dated
I can call em up but they just never seem to be home
it's always “please leave a message after the tone”
-look, I'm not calling stalking I don't care who you're screwing
I just, want to talk – I want to see how you're doing
I don't understand caring about each other so much
and somehow now we don't even keep in touch
but I get it, I know why you're gone, and don't talk back
I'm filled with filth, I spread poison, and that is a fact
so I could fuck your brains out, or just kill myself
both of these choices seem as good as anything else
I've got this evil toxic pollutin confusion, similar to when
usin slides inside and turns into abusin, because by then
you're drowning in poison that's drip drop pooling in my mind
I can't swim and there's nicotine chimes keeping tar and oil time
to the crackling of all the black oil fires and funeral pyres
my gray matter is stinking toxic nauseous burning tires
so inside I am obscene, all festering sores and gangrene
marijuana masochism and meditation are just smokescreens
to hide the dark I carry locked up inside, and I spread it
I think it's under control, but I let it out and infected
everyone I care about, like my presence is an injection
of misery and madness that sends everyone running, I get it
my temples are pounding with the sound of all the people
I care about thinking it's better when I'm not around
I didn't mean to burn bridges with my old flames, it's proof
of the truth – that I'm a dirty martini with no vermouth
missing something basic – it's obvious when I face it
I don't trust, I'm not happy, and I can't fake it
so I'm a human fucking infection, and I can't take it
sure, I could fuck your brains out, but I should blow mine out first
and I'm so sick of myself that I don't even know which is worse
I stand up here pretending that I'm some kind of poet
but I'm just a freak of nature fuck up, and I know it
the poisons in my own brain are driving me insane
they make me into a crazed spider trapped in chains
so again and again, I spread love and spit venom
into anyone who lets me past their protective denim
I'll pull you in with my style, and drive you wild
but you better run like hell from the cracks in my smile
I'm not ready for love, I'm matches to a gasoline kiss
and I gotta go before I explode, because something's gotta give
I can't keep all this bullshit bottled up inside myself
but I don't want to spread this shit to anybody else
and I only feel right when you come so hard you're beside yourself
so let's pick a third path, and try a little something else
I won't kill myself, or fuck your brains out if you let me know
you're loving the fucking you're getting from my mouth
I could fuck your brains out – if I don't blow mine out first
the saddest thing about it I don't know which is worse
I've made enough mistakes that I'm finally gotten clarity
and I want to be clear, you, you should be scared of me
I used to be a fat kid, low self-esteem, and it shows
now I put in work so I know you'll like what I got in these clothes
and I swear, I'm burnin' inside, so I ride red lined, ready to explode
if you're ready to go, I will touch the bottom and curl your toes,
and show you things you did not know you didn't know
see, if I'm focused and stroking, I don't feel broken
I feel whole if I can leave your body lying smokin
we can can get dirty, nasty, raw, just spanking and choking
or we can keep it clean and sweet but its still just mean
because I am in some way shape or form contaminated
I have alienated every single girl I have ever dated
I can call em up but they just never seem to be home
it's always “please leave a message after the tone”
-look, I'm not calling stalking I don't care who you're screwing
I just, want to talk – I want to see how you're doing
I don't understand caring about each other so much
and somehow now we don't even keep in touch
but I get it, I know why you're gone, and don't talk back
I'm filled with filth, I spread poison, and that is a fact
so I could fuck your brains out, or just kill myself
both of these choices seem as good as anything else
I've got this evil toxic pollutin confusion, similar to when
usin slides inside and turns into abusin, because by then
you're drowning in poison that's drip drop pooling in my mind
I can't swim and there's nicotine chimes keeping tar and oil time
to the crackling of all the black oil fires and funeral pyres
my gray matter is stinking toxic nauseous burning tires
so inside I am obscene, all festering sores and gangrene
marijuana masochism and meditation are just smokescreens
to hide the dark I carry locked up inside, and I spread it
I think it's under control, but I let it out and infected
everyone I care about, like my presence is an injection
of misery and madness that sends everyone running, I get it
my temples are pounding with the sound of all the people
I care about thinking it's better when I'm not around
I didn't mean to burn bridges with my old flames, it's proof
of the truth – that I'm a dirty martini with no vermouth
missing something basic – it's obvious when I face it
I don't trust, I'm not happy, and I can't fake it
so I'm a human fucking infection, and I can't take it
sure, I could fuck your brains out, but I should blow mine out first
and I'm so sick of myself that I don't even know which is worse
I stand up here pretending that I'm some kind of poet
but I'm just a freak of nature fuck up, and I know it
the poisons in my own brain are driving me insane
they make me into a crazed spider trapped in chains
so again and again, I spread love and spit venom
into anyone who lets me past their protective denim
I'll pull you in with my style, and drive you wild
but you better run like hell from the cracks in my smile
I'm not ready for love, I'm matches to a gasoline kiss
and I gotta go before I explode, because something's gotta give
I can't keep all this bullshit bottled up inside myself
but I don't want to spread this shit to anybody else
and I only feel right when you come so hard you're beside yourself
so let's pick a third path, and try a little something else
I won't kill myself, or fuck your brains out if you let me know
you're loving the fucking you're getting from my mouth
February Tombstone Qualifier
It's been awhile!
April 29th is the Southwest Shoot-out - top four poets from the shoot-out are in the nationals competition in Boston, in August.
Getting to the shoot-out meant either taking one of the top two spots in a qualifying slam - there were three, January, February, and March - or having a high enough cumulative point total from those slams that you rank in the top 10 (which automatically includes winners from those slams).
I was sick in January. February, I took first. After a bull session with friends at BFG, the best advice came from t-hawk: "Come out strong, show 'em a sensitive side in the middle to show your range, and then shove it down their fucking throats."
Sound advice.
I slammed "Amazing at football," toned it back with "irrational numbers," and finished with tears, screaming, losing my hat, and "countdown."
Hehehehe.
April 29th is the Southwest Shoot-out - top four poets from the shoot-out are in the nationals competition in Boston, in August.
Getting to the shoot-out meant either taking one of the top two spots in a qualifying slam - there were three, January, February, and March - or having a high enough cumulative point total from those slams that you rank in the top 10 (which automatically includes winners from those slams).
I was sick in January. February, I took first. After a bull session with friends at BFG, the best advice came from t-hawk: "Come out strong, show 'em a sensitive side in the middle to show your range, and then shove it down their fucking throats."
Sound advice.
I slammed "Amazing at football," toned it back with "irrational numbers," and finished with tears, screaming, losing my hat, and "countdown."
Hehehehe.
Slam - the final countdown
The sub 3-minute version of the final countdown.
a reading from the verses of the totally fucked
once more into the breach
one more day, and we will be released
we, we lie a lot
we have to
together, two by two
with red eyes like taillights
blown corneas, swollen veins
driver's eyes alike
streaming everywhere you don't want to be
twice, Visa, two signatures
a white towel and a titty fuck
in a bar outside the airport
three numbers on the back
that security feature
never prevents you
from taking last call
and pounding it unconscious
sixteen ounces at a time
four hours later, four lanes wide
red lights flying two at a time
all staring backward and bleary
glaring, hungover, hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o'clock roll call
snap to attention
time to go everywhere you don't want to be
five fingers gripping the wheel
wrapped around a glass
do you drink and drive?
do you really live and thrive?
is this what we live for
to barely survive until we die
I'm confused. I keep paying dues
but the world stays cast in stone gray hues
except for the red eyes, streaming, two by two
six feet tall
green throwback, shoulder holster
scribblin' deathbed thoughts at the Big Fat Greek
irony – I almost met my end in the street
zero difference
six hours later
seventy-fifth at seven AM
the HOVA lane officially exists
but it's so early no one's at the party
even God slept on the seventh
I'm still streaming straight coffee when I piss
eight beats in a bar
count 'em
count 'em to keep yourself steady
at eight when you're already topped off
already been home stepped out to step off
I pretend I don't need 'em
just chug 'em and breathe 'em
nine exits
gotta hustle, gotta go
don't feel great, can't be late
hate feeling this way
hate that I don't even feel alone
maybe this is what it's like to be grown
miserable red taillights, drivers' eyes alike
glaring staring hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o clock fuck it all roll call
you're everywhere you never wanted to be --
good things come to those who wait,
but I have never been a patient person.
Let my Toyota's tiny ten-inch speakers
bump this final countdown
nine thousand more yards
I can already see the bridge pylon
eight legs, spiders on my windshield
there's sanity in their slime
seven levels of hell
the darkest part of depression
the deepest secret of the bells
don't ask, don't tell
six sibling's I'll fail
all angels I hailed in dreams
so I could tell them tall tales
five thousand miles, for six month spells
round trip
is more than Scheherazade could fill
I slipped, I need, I miss
my baby sister's kiss
never put a razor to my wrist
but there's a beauty burning in this
four cylinders in my car, all aching
four chambers in my heart, all breaking
three seconds to impact
this is understanding in a car crash
too exhausted to ask why
two hands on the wheel
turn to the side, and do it right
everybody will know
just one, all alone
it's my time - I’m sick of driving in the lines
a reading from the verses of the totally fucked
once more into the breach
one more day, and we will be released
we, we lie a lot
we have to
together, two by two
with red eyes like taillights
blown corneas, swollen veins
driver's eyes alike
streaming everywhere you don't want to be
twice, Visa, two signatures
a white towel and a titty fuck
in a bar outside the airport
three numbers on the back
that security feature
never prevents you
from taking last call
and pounding it unconscious
sixteen ounces at a time
four hours later, four lanes wide
red lights flying two at a time
all staring backward and bleary
glaring, hungover, hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o'clock roll call
snap to attention
time to go everywhere you don't want to be
five fingers gripping the wheel
wrapped around a glass
do you drink and drive?
do you really live and thrive?
is this what we live for
to barely survive until we die
I'm confused. I keep paying dues
but the world stays cast in stone gray hues
except for the red eyes, streaming, two by two
six feet tall
green throwback, shoulder holster
scribblin' deathbed thoughts at the Big Fat Greek
irony – I almost met my end in the street
zero difference
six hours later
seventy-fifth at seven AM
the HOVA lane officially exists
but it's so early no one's at the party
even God slept on the seventh
I'm still streaming straight coffee when I piss
eight beats in a bar
count 'em
count 'em to keep yourself steady
at eight when you're already topped off
already been home stepped out to step off
I pretend I don't need 'em
just chug 'em and breathe 'em
nine exits
gotta hustle, gotta go
don't feel great, can't be late
hate feeling this way
hate that I don't even feel alone
maybe this is what it's like to be grown
miserable red taillights, drivers' eyes alike
glaring staring hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o clock fuck it all roll call
you're everywhere you never wanted to be --
good things come to those who wait,
but I have never been a patient person.
Let my Toyota's tiny ten-inch speakers
bump this final countdown
nine thousand more yards
I can already see the bridge pylon
eight legs, spiders on my windshield
there's sanity in their slime
seven levels of hell
the darkest part of depression
the deepest secret of the bells
don't ask, don't tell
six sibling's I'll fail
all angels I hailed in dreams
so I could tell them tall tales
five thousand miles, for six month spells
round trip
is more than Scheherazade could fill
I slipped, I need, I miss
my baby sister's kiss
never put a razor to my wrist
but there's a beauty burning in this
four cylinders in my car, all aching
four chambers in my heart, all breaking
three seconds to impact
this is understanding in a car crash
too exhausted to ask why
two hands on the wheel
turn to the side, and do it right
everybody will know
just one, all alone
it's my time - I’m sick of driving in the lines
Slam - Amazing at Football
Slam rules require a piece to be 3 minutes or less; there's a ten second grace period, and then points start coming off. "Amazing at Football" was one of the pieces to get some razorblade shaving.
There's a kid
who carves swastikas
into his eyelids
and his cheeks
he's pretty creepy
but I can talk to him about you
he understands
all the things I want
to do to you
not really, I suppose
neither of us do
we're both in 4th grade
we don't really know what it means
to tie someone up
out in the woods
cut them a thousand times
add salt and vinegar
and let them lie there
for a few weeks
we talk about it
I, I dream about it
it's monstrous
but for you
it's more than you deserve
my mother doesn't scream
not when you put her
through the shower door
not when you wrap your hands
around her throat
not when you're stringing nooses
in the backyard
there's thuds and grunts
but she only screams
when you come after us
my sisters are not sluts
my brother and I are not pieces of shit
you could've worked for Pinochet
you know every spot on the body that hurts
from the web of the ears
to the nerves in the armpit
they cry, they scream
so Mom screams
I don't
not anymore
I don't scream
I don't cry
thanks to you
I do not feel pan
I'm aware it exists
but I can turn it off
like a switch
I will say this
it makes me amazing at football
and glad I'm the oldest
that I'm big, that I'm a boy
it means I piss you off the most
it means I can take the heat
off the others
I can handle the fists
and the belt
and the boots
it means I can endure
it means I'm gonna be awesome at football
but
it doesn't mean I'm strong enough
to stand up to you
to feed you a steak knife
while you sleep
to Mark McGwire a cast-iron skillet
at your temple
while you're busy
with someone else's neck
to end you and our suffering
I'm sick of it
sick of the question
"what does your father do?"
and making up some new story
so sick of hearing
"he's such a great father"
and biting back the truth
so sick of the salt
In tears and blood
the flavors of my home sweet home
so sick of being terrified
there's blood on the walls
when I call the house
and no one picks up the phone
I'm sick of making more money than you
I'm in high school
it's not my job
to put food on the table
I'm sick of all this
and it makes me fucking amazing at football
because I run on rage
I channel fire and hell
run raw fuck you all across 100 yards
and it scares the fuck out of me
because I look like you
I sound like you
and my biggest fear
is that I am you
that this fire
is yours
I know you were amazing at football
I grew up watching where that goes
I can take and toss girls
like the Band-Aids they're not
it's so much easier to break someone else
than to fix yourself
I know you were amazing at football
but my model for life is everything you are not
my to-do list is everything you were too afraid to try
there's a water to quench this rage
wine and work, ink on skin and page
I don't need this fire
fuck being amazing at football
I'd rather be a man
There's a kid
who carves swastikas
into his eyelids
and his cheeks
he's pretty creepy
but I can talk to him about you
he understands
all the things I want
to do to you
not really, I suppose
neither of us do
we're both in 4th grade
we don't really know what it means
to tie someone up
out in the woods
cut them a thousand times
add salt and vinegar
and let them lie there
for a few weeks
we talk about it
I, I dream about it
it's monstrous
but for you
it's more than you deserve
my mother doesn't scream
not when you put her
through the shower door
not when you wrap your hands
around her throat
not when you're stringing nooses
in the backyard
there's thuds and grunts
but she only screams
when you come after us
my sisters are not sluts
my brother and I are not pieces of shit
you could've worked for Pinochet
you know every spot on the body that hurts
from the web of the ears
to the nerves in the armpit
they cry, they scream
so Mom screams
I don't
not anymore
I don't scream
I don't cry
thanks to you
I do not feel pan
I'm aware it exists
but I can turn it off
like a switch
I will say this
it makes me amazing at football
and glad I'm the oldest
that I'm big, that I'm a boy
it means I piss you off the most
it means I can take the heat
off the others
I can handle the fists
and the belt
and the boots
it means I can endure
it means I'm gonna be awesome at football
but
it doesn't mean I'm strong enough
to stand up to you
to feed you a steak knife
while you sleep
to Mark McGwire a cast-iron skillet
at your temple
while you're busy
with someone else's neck
to end you and our suffering
I'm sick of it
sick of the question
"what does your father do?"
and making up some new story
so sick of hearing
"he's such a great father"
and biting back the truth
so sick of the salt
In tears and blood
the flavors of my home sweet home
so sick of being terrified
there's blood on the walls
when I call the house
and no one picks up the phone
I'm sick of making more money than you
I'm in high school
it's not my job
to put food on the table
I'm sick of all this
and it makes me fucking amazing at football
because I run on rage
I channel fire and hell
run raw fuck you all across 100 yards
and it scares the fuck out of me
because I look like you
I sound like you
and my biggest fear
is that I am you
that this fire
is yours
I know you were amazing at football
I grew up watching where that goes
I can take and toss girls
like the Band-Aids they're not
it's so much easier to break someone else
than to fix yourself
I know you were amazing at football
but my model for life is everything you are not
my to-do list is everything you were too afraid to try
there's a water to quench this rage
wine and work, ink on skin and page
I don't need this fire
fuck being amazing at football
I'd rather be a man
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Tombstone Poetry Qualifying Info
(Taken from a post by Klute!)
There will be 3 monthly slams before the slamoff - January 28th, 2011, February 25th, 2011, and March 25th, 2011.
10 poets will make it to the slamoff on April 29th, 2011. Here's how they will qualify:
1. The winner and runner-up of each slam will automatically be qualified for the slam-off. If there six unique 1st and 2nd place poets, six slots within the 10 poet lineup are considered filled. If there are only 5 unique 1st and 2nd place poets (let's say Poet X wins the January slam and comes in 2nd in February, but the remaining 1st and 2nd place poets are different people), then only 5 slots are considered filled), and so on. It is possible that only 2 slots will be filled before the slamoff on April 29th.
2. The remaining 4 to 8 slots will be filled by poets cumulative scores for the three slams. If Poet X scores a 72 in January, a 82.3 in February, and 84.9 in March, but did not win a slam, he will have a cumulative score of 239.2 for the season. The poets with the most points will make it into the remaining slots available.
3. If a poet hosts a slam, they will be given a score for that slam that is the average of scores for that slam. A host who wishes to qualify for the slamoff will be required to compete in at least one of the three slams.
The slamoff will be seeded with the poets who won first place in three slams ordered by score. Second place poets will then be ordered by score. The remaining slots will be ordered by cumulative score for all three slams. Ties will be broken by a spirited game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. The top ranking poet will choose the order of the slamoff. If they choose go first, then the slamoff is ordered with the top ranked poet going first, the 2nd ranked poet going second, so on. If they choose to go last, then the lowest ranked poet goes first, and so on.
Top 4 poets from the Slamoff will make it onto the Tombstone Poets NPS team. If any poet drops off or is removed by the coach, the coach may select any poet who competed during the slam season to fill the vacancy. The coach is NOT required to select a poet who competed in the slamoff, regardless of rank in the slamoff.
iWPS season will be from May to July, the slamoff in August.
WoW season will be from September to December, the slamoff in January.
Direct any questions to the Tombstone Poets slammaster, The Klute, at therealklute@yahoo.com.
There will be 3 monthly slams before the slamoff - January 28th, 2011, February 25th, 2011, and March 25th, 2011.
10 poets will make it to the slamoff on April 29th, 2011. Here's how they will qualify:
1. The winner and runner-up of each slam will automatically be qualified for the slam-off. If there six unique 1st and 2nd place poets, six slots within the 10 poet lineup are considered filled. If there are only 5 unique 1st and 2nd place poets (let's say Poet X wins the January slam and comes in 2nd in February, but the remaining 1st and 2nd place poets are different people), then only 5 slots are considered filled), and so on. It is possible that only 2 slots will be filled before the slamoff on April 29th.
2. The remaining 4 to 8 slots will be filled by poets cumulative scores for the three slams. If Poet X scores a 72 in January, a 82.3 in February, and 84.9 in March, but did not win a slam, he will have a cumulative score of 239.2 for the season. The poets with the most points will make it into the remaining slots available.
3. If a poet hosts a slam, they will be given a score for that slam that is the average of scores for that slam. A host who wishes to qualify for the slamoff will be required to compete in at least one of the three slams.
The slamoff will be seeded with the poets who won first place in three slams ordered by score. Second place poets will then be ordered by score. The remaining slots will be ordered by cumulative score for all three slams. Ties will be broken by a spirited game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. The top ranking poet will choose the order of the slamoff. If they choose go first, then the slamoff is ordered with the top ranked poet going first, the 2nd ranked poet going second, so on. If they choose to go last, then the lowest ranked poet goes first, and so on.
Top 4 poets from the Slamoff will make it onto the Tombstone Poets NPS team. If any poet drops off or is removed by the coach, the coach may select any poet who competed during the slam season to fill the vacancy. The coach is NOT required to select a poet who competed in the slamoff, regardless of rank in the slamoff.
iWPS season will be from May to July, the slamoff in August.
WoW season will be from September to December, the slamoff in January.
Direct any questions to the Tombstone Poets slammaster, The Klute, at therealklute@yahoo.com.
irrational numbers
It's been a long time. I posted "the final countdown" with the claim that it was less autobiographical, but that was a crock of shit. I was miserable for months. I started carpooling, so I wouldn't risk driving alone.
My apartment was so infested with bedbugs that I was hallucinating. Apparently that's a side effect of the damn things. My roommate was never around, and accordingly gave so little of a shit that two months' worth of warning that I wanted to break the lease and peace meant he was surprised when that day finally came. He demanded I pay the penalties, and rather than end up tearing him limb-from-limb, or calmly debate the issue, I paid and left.
I wrecked my car in the middle of January, so I guess I don't have to worry about kissing bridge pylons anymore. The irony here is that I had been trying to write a poem combining love with mathematical terms since summertime, when I started writing "all's fair." The concept of combining love with military terms proved a much easier one to finish than one combining love with mathetmatical ones - go figure. In December, I received an out-of-the-blue email from my ex, with the link to a youtube video detailing the Fibonacci sequence in a Tool song. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wS7CZIJVxFY)
It was a great, seismic click within myself. I watched the video, and I allowed myself to smile, to remember (or realize) that there was something great, good, and powerful that kept that relationship running for so long. I also realized that to make this poem work, I would need to put myself under the constraint of writing the whole damn thing in a Fibonacci spiral. I spent winter break writing and deleting syllables and circles; two weeks after I crashed my car, I finished the poem.
I spent the afternoon standing on my front porch, practicing performing in my underwear as the sun set. I felt alive inside for the first time in weeks - months - or at least, in a way I hadn't felt alive in so long. I felt like I was "back," like I had found myself again, in some healthy way.
Life, of course, had other plans. It is always far more convoluted than you would think.
I went to Fair Trade that night, to find that it was Tombstone - the first of three tryouts to prove myself worthy of a slot in the Southwest Shoot-out. The Southwest Shoot-out determines the members of this year's nationals team at the National Poetry Slam in August. This was what I had heard about last year, and that I had wanted to be a part of; here was my dumb self showing up too late to sign up for the slam, and already reducing my chances to be on the team.
Then, the cough I had had for the last week developed into bronchitis, and as I kept trying to go to work, deepened into pneumonia. I've spent the last two weeks wheezing instead of breathing, coughing until I vomit (or shit myself), and unable to muster the energy to put together a new slam, or edit my older poems into three-minute versions.
Three doctor visits have got me tentatively back on my feet, and breathing almost normally again. I just spent the last two hours working on cutting old poems down, trying to get them lean, tight, and inside of three minutes. I'll put up the new slam versions as soon as I finish them - some are down to 3:10, others are further away.
But as I'm sitting here, feeling this energy again, I thought I'd put up "irrational numbers." Its incubation - from a poem about the faith needed where numbers fail, as a love/math counterpart to a love/war poem, to something boosted by an email from someone who has spawned no small amount of inspiration has been a long one. It seems to tie into the beautiful cosmic coincidence that occurred the day I wrecked Tiny Car that this poem went through that incubation - and especially, the initial idea - to develop into an upbeat poem.
I write few enough of those, and Michelle pointed out that it seemed like I was changing (for the better), and rebuilding myself. I don't know. I thought I was feeling better, and then microbes and viruses started skullfucking me with renewed vigor. I do like having this poem on my arm (metaphorically, to clarify for those who know my penchant for needles). And the cosmic coincidence? I crashed my car - which I dearly loved - and in the same hour, ran into a girl I loved, the one who was there when I bought the car. She offered me a ride home. We never got a beer - life is not *quite* that easy - but I made it home, laughed it off, and finished a poem that started in sadness with smiles. I'd written about killing myself in Tiny Car; now she's gone; and on the same day, I saw (and felt happy about seeing) a person who I hadn't seen in years.
Oh, fuck it. I can't put it all into some nice, neat timeline. I felt like there might be one there, but who knows. Point is, the poem feels beautiful. Around the same time, I had a beautiful coincidence, meaning unknown. :-)
Here's the poem:
so
it
seems that
I’m moving
in perfect circles
I think I learn, yet I repeat
the same storylines
same mistakes
thinking
that
love
has power
and therefore
is predictable
there must be formulas for it
these laws of nature
please your man
nineteen ways
keep her
steps
rules
must
exist
we crave touch
so powerfully
the gravity of abdomens
naked and heaving
lust and love
are strong
must
be
rote
written
equations
the heart charting paths
predictable with complex math
the limits foreseen, but gravity wins, thirteen
sobbing down the graph
knees acute
again
still
trying
to compute
the impossible
because it seems so logical
we launch satellites
calculate
their flight
start
to
finish
but in love
we loft blood, hopes, hearts
and watch them burn like shooting stars
no navigation, just burning in terminal arcs
Cupid, we have got a problem
separate
eject
brace
again
one
again
shattered
should have known
the damn math was off
the equations are all awry
attraction has rules
if only
they are
found
mapped
understood
we could stop searching
for the meaning in our meetings
mayhap grasp our lines obtuse, make ‘em right, and fly
one problem
one tiny problem
more of a monkey wrench, really
you cannot calculate that which is irrational
things get fuzzy around the edges
you work around it
ignore it
but you can’t solve it
it gets quietly set aside
but I knew
something was missing
a certain needed energy
entropy, really
pure chaos
simple
just
let
go
harness
the power
of the infinite
and hold on
we are drawn to touch
by laws of nature
what you do with that
is not up to you
it is up to us
one and one
make two
and something
extra
infinite
so stop
breathe
in
out
accept
embrace it
just ride that chaos
that sends one and one together
out beyond anything numbers could ever predict
past the gravity of bared abdomens to a never never land of pure flight
ride right past that second star on the right
to boldly go where no one has ever gone before
together
the point
is that you do not know
you cannot know
the essence of what makes us tick
is unknown
bend it shape it twist it pull it
the best you can do is round it
and that
just traps you in circles
burning halos with angels
shattered at Vitruvian angles
predictable
capture fireflies
and you watch ‘em die
let em go and watch em fly
the point is that you do not know
you gotta believe
I do
believe in fairies
so spread your wings
think some happy thoughts
and ride wherever the light may lead you
My apartment was so infested with bedbugs that I was hallucinating. Apparently that's a side effect of the damn things. My roommate was never around, and accordingly gave so little of a shit that two months' worth of warning that I wanted to break the lease and peace meant he was surprised when that day finally came. He demanded I pay the penalties, and rather than end up tearing him limb-from-limb, or calmly debate the issue, I paid and left.
I wrecked my car in the middle of January, so I guess I don't have to worry about kissing bridge pylons anymore. The irony here is that I had been trying to write a poem combining love with mathematical terms since summertime, when I started writing "all's fair." The concept of combining love with military terms proved a much easier one to finish than one combining love with mathetmatical ones - go figure. In December, I received an out-of-the-blue email from my ex, with the link to a youtube video detailing the Fibonacci sequence in a Tool song. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wS7CZIJVxFY)
It was a great, seismic click within myself. I watched the video, and I allowed myself to smile, to remember (or realize) that there was something great, good, and powerful that kept that relationship running for so long. I also realized that to make this poem work, I would need to put myself under the constraint of writing the whole damn thing in a Fibonacci spiral. I spent winter break writing and deleting syllables and circles; two weeks after I crashed my car, I finished the poem.
I spent the afternoon standing on my front porch, practicing performing in my underwear as the sun set. I felt alive inside for the first time in weeks - months - or at least, in a way I hadn't felt alive in so long. I felt like I was "back," like I had found myself again, in some healthy way.
Life, of course, had other plans. It is always far more convoluted than you would think.
I went to Fair Trade that night, to find that it was Tombstone - the first of three tryouts to prove myself worthy of a slot in the Southwest Shoot-out. The Southwest Shoot-out determines the members of this year's nationals team at the National Poetry Slam in August. This was what I had heard about last year, and that I had wanted to be a part of; here was my dumb self showing up too late to sign up for the slam, and already reducing my chances to be on the team.
Then, the cough I had had for the last week developed into bronchitis, and as I kept trying to go to work, deepened into pneumonia. I've spent the last two weeks wheezing instead of breathing, coughing until I vomit (or shit myself), and unable to muster the energy to put together a new slam, or edit my older poems into three-minute versions.
Three doctor visits have got me tentatively back on my feet, and breathing almost normally again. I just spent the last two hours working on cutting old poems down, trying to get them lean, tight, and inside of three minutes. I'll put up the new slam versions as soon as I finish them - some are down to 3:10, others are further away.
But as I'm sitting here, feeling this energy again, I thought I'd put up "irrational numbers." Its incubation - from a poem about the faith needed where numbers fail, as a love/math counterpart to a love/war poem, to something boosted by an email from someone who has spawned no small amount of inspiration has been a long one. It seems to tie into the beautiful cosmic coincidence that occurred the day I wrecked Tiny Car that this poem went through that incubation - and especially, the initial idea - to develop into an upbeat poem.
I write few enough of those, and Michelle pointed out that it seemed like I was changing (for the better), and rebuilding myself. I don't know. I thought I was feeling better, and then microbes and viruses started skullfucking me with renewed vigor. I do like having this poem on my arm (metaphorically, to clarify for those who know my penchant for needles). And the cosmic coincidence? I crashed my car - which I dearly loved - and in the same hour, ran into a girl I loved, the one who was there when I bought the car. She offered me a ride home. We never got a beer - life is not *quite* that easy - but I made it home, laughed it off, and finished a poem that started in sadness with smiles. I'd written about killing myself in Tiny Car; now she's gone; and on the same day, I saw (and felt happy about seeing) a person who I hadn't seen in years.
Oh, fuck it. I can't put it all into some nice, neat timeline. I felt like there might be one there, but who knows. Point is, the poem feels beautiful. Around the same time, I had a beautiful coincidence, meaning unknown. :-)
Here's the poem:
so
it
seems that
I’m moving
in perfect circles
I think I learn, yet I repeat
the same storylines
same mistakes
thinking
that
love
has power
and therefore
is predictable
there must be formulas for it
these laws of nature
please your man
nineteen ways
keep her
steps
rules
must
exist
we crave touch
so powerfully
the gravity of abdomens
naked and heaving
lust and love
are strong
must
be
rote
written
equations
the heart charting paths
predictable with complex math
the limits foreseen, but gravity wins, thirteen
sobbing down the graph
knees acute
again
still
trying
to compute
the impossible
because it seems so logical
we launch satellites
calculate
their flight
start
to
finish
but in love
we loft blood, hopes, hearts
and watch them burn like shooting stars
no navigation, just burning in terminal arcs
Cupid, we have got a problem
separate
eject
brace
again
one
again
shattered
should have known
the damn math was off
the equations are all awry
attraction has rules
if only
they are
found
mapped
understood
we could stop searching
for the meaning in our meetings
mayhap grasp our lines obtuse, make ‘em right, and fly
one problem
one tiny problem
more of a monkey wrench, really
you cannot calculate that which is irrational
things get fuzzy around the edges
you work around it
ignore it
but you can’t solve it
it gets quietly set aside
but I knew
something was missing
a certain needed energy
entropy, really
pure chaos
simple
just
let
go
harness
the power
of the infinite
and hold on
we are drawn to touch
by laws of nature
what you do with that
is not up to you
it is up to us
one and one
make two
and something
extra
infinite
so stop
breathe
in
out
accept
embrace it
just ride that chaos
that sends one and one together
out beyond anything numbers could ever predict
past the gravity of bared abdomens to a never never land of pure flight
ride right past that second star on the right
to boldly go where no one has ever gone before
together
the point
is that you do not know
you cannot know
the essence of what makes us tick
is unknown
bend it shape it twist it pull it
the best you can do is round it
and that
just traps you in circles
burning halos with angels
shattered at Vitruvian angles
predictable
capture fireflies
and you watch ‘em die
let em go and watch em fly
the point is that you do not know
you gotta believe
I do
believe in fairies
so spread your wings
think some happy thoughts
and ride wherever the light may lead you
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
fireside
Let me round out this trio of uppers.
This was pretty funny - I was at the Rokery with Michelle; being really cool, we took books to a wine bar to sit and read, and scribble a bit. Some awkward couple kept pestering us about what she was writing - clearly, a first date that was sailing like the Titanic's maiden voyage - until we co-wrote a poem with them.
Being a dick, I sat and kept writing my own off their inspiration.
firelight
fireside
locking eyes, brushing thighs
bottle of red, bottle of whites
you don't need to be an American
to blend 'em with the blues
baby, I'm burnin' for you
but let me tell you
there is no volume here
just a chemical reaction
oxidation, burning
gasping for air
you watch 'em dance
but there's no mass
just a reaction
do you take
I do
I give up
I choose you, to give in
when
in the end
we chase bottles
because
dreams have such quick little feet
it becomes simpler
to chase
clockwork vodka Thursdays with
half price Tuesdays
waving white flags
far short of the finish line
this checkered path
is no yellow brick road
but it ends in gleaming lights
incandescent bulbs
bar light burning negative images
at the finish line, embarrassed
firelight flickers
fireside glinting off
B-cup, D-cup
hung out, given up
reds are bitter
but sweeter to quitters
ball and chain a preamble
we stack shackles on our hackles
rack our spirits
tip flasks to our dreams
slip past
their quick little feet
run all over the floor
right out the door
the silver linings
ripped out of clouds
and left in puddles
drying into the carpet
the tears dreams deferred
shhh
if you listen
you can hear the bottle pop
there in the silences
where our thoughts don't stop
but we stop caring
enough to share them
where we sit back
sip wine
suck thoughts
swallow needs
and drown our dreams
by the fire with the
firelight starlight starbright
I wish I may I wish I might
finally take flight
breathe a dream
worth chasing
through these lonely neon nights
not gone my hope not quite
since these barlights
are not bright enough
to show me the wrong
in only half-right
we might stumble outside together
I'd give you the keys
but I no longer drive
I don't try to pretend
my hands are on the wheel
on life's highway
I stay safe on the bus, desperate
trying to catch someone's eye
I choose you
let's get off together
make this moment our own
life can pass us by
fireside
drifting eyes, heaving thighs
we can mix the reds
with the whites
scream fuck dreams
and their tiny little shoes
because baby
I don't burn for you
just a chemical reaction
oxidation and smoldering ashes
girl I don't burn for you
you don't dream for me
we've got air to breathe
no gasping with no flames dancing
not this fire
just a chemical reaction
no mass, no volume
everybody talks, nobody listens
everybody hears, nobody cares
no volume, no mass
just a catechism
do you take
I do
I give up
I choose you, to give in
This was pretty funny - I was at the Rokery with Michelle; being really cool, we took books to a wine bar to sit and read, and scribble a bit. Some awkward couple kept pestering us about what she was writing - clearly, a first date that was sailing like the Titanic's maiden voyage - until we co-wrote a poem with them.
Being a dick, I sat and kept writing my own off their inspiration.
firelight
fireside
locking eyes, brushing thighs
bottle of red, bottle of whites
you don't need to be an American
to blend 'em with the blues
baby, I'm burnin' for you
but let me tell you
there is no volume here
just a chemical reaction
oxidation, burning
gasping for air
you watch 'em dance
but there's no mass
just a reaction
do you take
I do
I give up
I choose you, to give in
when
in the end
we chase bottles
because
dreams have such quick little feet
it becomes simpler
to chase
clockwork vodka Thursdays with
half price Tuesdays
waving white flags
far short of the finish line
this checkered path
is no yellow brick road
but it ends in gleaming lights
incandescent bulbs
bar light burning negative images
at the finish line, embarrassed
firelight flickers
fireside glinting off
B-cup, D-cup
hung out, given up
reds are bitter
but sweeter to quitters
ball and chain a preamble
we stack shackles on our hackles
rack our spirits
tip flasks to our dreams
slip past
their quick little feet
run all over the floor
right out the door
the silver linings
ripped out of clouds
and left in puddles
drying into the carpet
the tears dreams deferred
shhh
if you listen
you can hear the bottle pop
there in the silences
where our thoughts don't stop
but we stop caring
enough to share them
where we sit back
sip wine
suck thoughts
swallow needs
and drown our dreams
by the fire with the
firelight starlight starbright
I wish I may I wish I might
finally take flight
breathe a dream
worth chasing
through these lonely neon nights
not gone my hope not quite
since these barlights
are not bright enough
to show me the wrong
in only half-right
we might stumble outside together
I'd give you the keys
but I no longer drive
I don't try to pretend
my hands are on the wheel
on life's highway
I stay safe on the bus, desperate
trying to catch someone's eye
I choose you
let's get off together
make this moment our own
life can pass us by
fireside
drifting eyes, heaving thighs
we can mix the reds
with the whites
scream fuck dreams
and their tiny little shoes
because baby
I don't burn for you
just a chemical reaction
oxidation and smoldering ashes
girl I don't burn for you
you don't dream for me
we've got air to breathe
no gasping with no flames dancing
not this fire
just a chemical reaction
no mass, no volume
everybody talks, nobody listens
everybody hears, nobody cares
no volume, no mass
just a catechism
do you take
I do
I give up
I choose you, to give in
all's fair
The phrase was too rich to not plum. I've got one about math and love in the works, too, because I'm a geek. :-)
all's fair in love and war
I hear that
but I always end up
with blood on my hands
a heart shattered and smeared
all around my mouth
I guess
it was just that time of the month
for fighting
love is bloody trenches
dug all over your back
you can make it, fake it
with two bowls of sweet, sticky green
you can have that feeling, passion
of actually caring about someone
if there's enough smoke
to blot out the shrapnel
this is total war
because we belong together
we should be together
is an assassin's heart – shaped invitation
to Custer's Last Stand
where everybody's an Indian
we both end up scalped
scalloped
insides ripped out
left gasping on kitchen floors
dropped on phone calls
these are war crimes
so all's fair in love and war
because we wage this
no holds barred
mutually assured destruction
so take off your clothes
and the Geneva Conventions
because I promise war crimes
I will tie you to the bed
and fuck you screaming
I promise
I'll only waterboard you
if it means screaming for help
in the shower
I promise
the things I could do
with my tongue
you could call torture
I could slide inside you
but
I like the way your legs shake
on my cheeks
maybe that's why
I never hear the ambush
the silencers pressed
against someone else's forehead
some people
will do anything to stay alive
at all costs, they find their way
dying wrapped in someone's arms
always, buying life with someone
I've been there, done that
blown my chance
this is war – you need hope
a foxhole buddy
who watches your back
whose back you watch
who you trust
the lucky
find that someone to duck down with
because
they're ready to go out together
guns blazing
now and forever
but so many
are just looking for someone
to hide with
nobody likes facing the end alone
but when you bunker scared
with that kind of foxhole buddy
- all's fair in love and war
they may sneak undercover
searching for the sniper
with a sharper aim than you
that's a losing situation
a prisoner's dilemma
fuck or be fucked
you've seen it so many times
the best defense is a strong offense
online intelligence gathering
status update countersurveillance
and unanswered questions
you can make it
through the conversational minefields
only to miss the lipstick ambush
everything's fair
and Cupid's shock troops
are dancing twenty abreast
shaking mindless and gyrating
keeping the beat to the rhythm of the war drums
Lady Gaga, John Legend, and Bon Jovi remixes
we move divide and conquer
but this is scorched earth
scissorblade hips knifing
Nagasaki Normandy Nuremberg
all with eyes closed
all's fair in love and war
but we're just hoping
there's some way
to apologize for our behavior
all's fair in love and war
I hear that
but I always end up
with blood on my hands
a heart shattered and smeared
all around my mouth
I guess
it was just that time of the month
for fighting
love is bloody trenches
dug all over your back
you can make it, fake it
with two bowls of sweet, sticky green
you can have that feeling, passion
of actually caring about someone
if there's enough smoke
to blot out the shrapnel
this is total war
because we belong together
we should be together
is an assassin's heart – shaped invitation
to Custer's Last Stand
where everybody's an Indian
we both end up scalped
scalloped
insides ripped out
left gasping on kitchen floors
dropped on phone calls
these are war crimes
so all's fair in love and war
because we wage this
no holds barred
mutually assured destruction
so take off your clothes
and the Geneva Conventions
because I promise war crimes
I will tie you to the bed
and fuck you screaming
I promise
I'll only waterboard you
if it means screaming for help
in the shower
I promise
the things I could do
with my tongue
you could call torture
I could slide inside you
but
I like the way your legs shake
on my cheeks
maybe that's why
I never hear the ambush
the silencers pressed
against someone else's forehead
some people
will do anything to stay alive
at all costs, they find their way
dying wrapped in someone's arms
always, buying life with someone
I've been there, done that
blown my chance
this is war – you need hope
a foxhole buddy
who watches your back
whose back you watch
who you trust
the lucky
find that someone to duck down with
because
they're ready to go out together
guns blazing
now and forever
but so many
are just looking for someone
to hide with
nobody likes facing the end alone
but when you bunker scared
with that kind of foxhole buddy
- all's fair in love and war
they may sneak undercover
searching for the sniper
with a sharper aim than you
that's a losing situation
a prisoner's dilemma
fuck or be fucked
you've seen it so many times
the best defense is a strong offense
online intelligence gathering
status update countersurveillance
and unanswered questions
you can make it
through the conversational minefields
only to miss the lipstick ambush
everything's fair
and Cupid's shock troops
are dancing twenty abreast
shaking mindless and gyrating
keeping the beat to the rhythm of the war drums
Lady Gaga, John Legend, and Bon Jovi remixes
we move divide and conquer
but this is scorched earth
scissorblade hips knifing
Nagasaki Normandy Nuremberg
all with eyes closed
all's fair in love and war
but we're just hoping
there's some way
to apologize for our behavior
the final countdown
I didn't really want to post this until it was less autobiographical.
erses from the Bible of the totally fucked
once more into the breach
one more day, and we will be released
we, we lie a lot
we have to
together, two by two
these red eyes like taillights
blown corneas, swollen veins
driver's eyes alike
they flow past blown
streaming everywhere you don't want to be
Visa flips either way, and it slides so easy
500, twice, two signatures
a white towel and a titty fuck
in a bar outside the airport
three numbers on the back
somehow, this security features
never prevents you
from taking last call
and pounding it unconscious
sixteen ounces at a time
four hours later, four lanes wide
flying red lights, two at a time
all of them staring backward bleary
glaring, hungover, hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o'clock roll call
snap to attention
time to go everywhere you don't want to be
five fingers gripping the wheel
shaking aching for some baking
five fingers wrapped around the bong the glass
drink it deep
BAC will guide you to sleep
do you drink and drive?
do you really live and thrive?
is this what we live for
to barely survive until we die
these five fingers, they're slippin
I'm sippin I'm tripping I'm drinkin I'm rippin
trying to stay focused on this mission
but I'm confused, because I keep paying my dues
and every day the paper feels like old news
the whole world is cast in mindless gray hues
except those red eyes, streaming two by two
I don't know
maybe none of this is touchin' you
but I can't handle this
but I can't breathe this
I say I don't want to leave it,
but six nights a week
I'm out of it
six feet tall, he had a green throwback
a shoulder holster
scribbling deathbed thoughts at the Big Fat Greek
irony, I almost met my end in the street
but there's nothing missing, nothing mattered
no difference
six hours later
seventy-fifth at seven am
the HOVA lane officially exists
but it's so early no one's at this party
even God slept on the seventh
I'm still mainlining coffee bean cocaine
eight beats in a bar
count 'em
count 'em to keep yourself steady
at eight when you're already topped off
already been home stepped out to step off
to soar the things I can't do without
don't really need 'em, just chug 'em, just breathe 'em
nine exits
gotta hustle, gotta go
don't feel great, can't be late
hate feeling this way
hate that I don't even feel alone
maybe this is what it's like to be grown
nine exits worth of miserable red taillights
drivers' eyes alike
glaring staring hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o clock fuck it all roll call
you everywhere you never wanted to be --
good things come to those who wait,
but I have never been a patient person.
Let my Toyota's tiny ten-inch speakers
bump this final countdown
nine thousand more yards
I can already see the bridge pylon
closing in like Amistad's freedom
eight legs of old fears playing mental tricks
crawling on my windshield
but I can see sanity through the slime
seven levels of hell
the darkest part of depression
the deepest secret of the bells
don't ask, don't tell
six sibling's I'll fail
all angels I hailed
I dreamt them in dreams
so I could tell them tall tales
five thousand miles
for six month spells
round trip
is more than Scherezade could fill
I slipped, I need, I miss
my baby sister's kiss
never put a razor to my wrist
but there's a beauty burning in this
four cylinders aching
four chambers in the human heart, all breaking
three seconds to impact
this is understanding in a car crash
two by two, red eye river
flows too exhausted to ask why
two hands on the wheel
look those lights in the eye
and turn to the side
do it right
everybody after's gonna know
because two by two we all flow
burning, glaring, hating, all alone
just one, all alone
it's my time
i'm sick of driving in the lines
I've lost my shine
the 59th street pylons
are lookin' mighty fine
erses from the Bible of the totally fucked
once more into the breach
one more day, and we will be released
we, we lie a lot
we have to
together, two by two
these red eyes like taillights
blown corneas, swollen veins
driver's eyes alike
they flow past blown
streaming everywhere you don't want to be
Visa flips either way, and it slides so easy
500, twice, two signatures
a white towel and a titty fuck
in a bar outside the airport
three numbers on the back
somehow, this security features
never prevents you
from taking last call
and pounding it unconscious
sixteen ounces at a time
four hours later, four lanes wide
flying red lights, two at a time
all of them staring backward bleary
glaring, hungover, hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o'clock roll call
snap to attention
time to go everywhere you don't want to be
five fingers gripping the wheel
shaking aching for some baking
five fingers wrapped around the bong the glass
drink it deep
BAC will guide you to sleep
do you drink and drive?
do you really live and thrive?
is this what we live for
to barely survive until we die
these five fingers, they're slippin
I'm sippin I'm tripping I'm drinkin I'm rippin
trying to stay focused on this mission
but I'm confused, because I keep paying my dues
and every day the paper feels like old news
the whole world is cast in mindless gray hues
except those red eyes, streaming two by two
I don't know
maybe none of this is touchin' you
but I can't handle this
but I can't breathe this
I say I don't want to leave it,
but six nights a week
I'm out of it
six feet tall, he had a green throwback
a shoulder holster
scribbling deathbed thoughts at the Big Fat Greek
irony, I almost met my end in the street
but there's nothing missing, nothing mattered
no difference
six hours later
seventy-fifth at seven am
the HOVA lane officially exists
but it's so early no one's at this party
even God slept on the seventh
I'm still mainlining coffee bean cocaine
eight beats in a bar
count 'em
count 'em to keep yourself steady
at eight when you're already topped off
already been home stepped out to step off
to soar the things I can't do without
don't really need 'em, just chug 'em, just breathe 'em
nine exits
gotta hustle, gotta go
don't feel great, can't be late
hate feeling this way
hate that I don't even feel alone
maybe this is what it's like to be grown
nine exits worth of miserable red taillights
drivers' eyes alike
glaring staring hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o clock fuck it all roll call
you everywhere you never wanted to be --
good things come to those who wait,
but I have never been a patient person.
Let my Toyota's tiny ten-inch speakers
bump this final countdown
nine thousand more yards
I can already see the bridge pylon
closing in like Amistad's freedom
eight legs of old fears playing mental tricks
crawling on my windshield
but I can see sanity through the slime
seven levels of hell
the darkest part of depression
the deepest secret of the bells
don't ask, don't tell
six sibling's I'll fail
all angels I hailed
I dreamt them in dreams
so I could tell them tall tales
five thousand miles
for six month spells
round trip
is more than Scherezade could fill
I slipped, I need, I miss
my baby sister's kiss
never put a razor to my wrist
but there's a beauty burning in this
four cylinders aching
four chambers in the human heart, all breaking
three seconds to impact
this is understanding in a car crash
two by two, red eye river
flows too exhausted to ask why
two hands on the wheel
look those lights in the eye
and turn to the side
do it right
everybody after's gonna know
because two by two we all flow
burning, glaring, hating, all alone
just one, all alone
it's my time
i'm sick of driving in the lines
I've lost my shine
the 59th street pylons
are lookin' mighty fine
Monday, September 20, 2010
Why Don't They Get What They Read? (ASU Freewrite)
3 minutes.
Why don’t students get what they read?
Because they don’t care
They’re more worried about what they wear
About who is and who’s not checking their hair
Even if you can stop the distraction
Prevent middle school romantic interaction
It’s not a matter of the teacher’s stare
of whether they feel the topic’s fair
It’s not a matter of want or will
It’s a matter of reading ability and skill
Of background knowledge
Of family support for college
Of already knowing some facts
having new places to hang the info like hats
Because if you lack any of that
they can read but they can’t comprehend
They can regurgitate but it’s gone in the end
Why don’t students get what they read?
Because they don’t care
They’re more worried about what they wear
About who is and who’s not checking their hair
Even if you can stop the distraction
Prevent middle school romantic interaction
It’s not a matter of the teacher’s stare
of whether they feel the topic’s fair
It’s not a matter of want or will
It’s a matter of reading ability and skill
Of background knowledge
Of family support for college
Of already knowing some facts
having new places to hang the info like hats
Because if you lack any of that
they can read but they can’t comprehend
They can regurgitate but it’s gone in the end
Highly Qualified (ASU Freewrite)
I really should post these more often - ASU is so much more amusing when I spend 5 or 10 scribbling on request, because we're supposed to "freewrite" or "brainstorm" our ideas in class.
What do I think it means to be highly qualified
I think you need the tools to tear a mind wide
To surprise and stun to make the boring fun
To take the three r’s and make ‘em grrreat
To know how to make students take the bait
You need to be able to think quick on your feet
To stand in classroom take its emotional heartbeat
To connect with the children in and out of the building
To make ‘em buy in to the school bus you’re driving
Thing is none of this can be got from books
None of this can be bought or took
You need an internal burning a yearning for turning
Minds and hearts breaking knowledge to parts
And feeding it, a chunk at a time to young minds
Like syllables separated enunciated in rhyme
Problem is, I don’t think there’s really a test for that
Unions and officials and schools duel and spat
over the expectations for those in education
the requirements to fill the teacher station
but I think they’re always gonna miss the point
I don’t think you can tell in advance who to anoint
Teacher….teacher
Healer helper knowledge preacher
It’s so many caps for a single person to fill
There’s *no* way to predict who can fit the bill
What do I think it means to be highly qualified
I think you need the tools to tear a mind wide
To surprise and stun to make the boring fun
To take the three r’s and make ‘em grrreat
To know how to make students take the bait
You need to be able to think quick on your feet
To stand in classroom take its emotional heartbeat
To connect with the children in and out of the building
To make ‘em buy in to the school bus you’re driving
Thing is none of this can be got from books
None of this can be bought or took
You need an internal burning a yearning for turning
Minds and hearts breaking knowledge to parts
And feeding it, a chunk at a time to young minds
Like syllables separated enunciated in rhyme
Problem is, I don’t think there’s really a test for that
Unions and officials and schools duel and spat
over the expectations for those in education
the requirements to fill the teacher station
but I think they’re always gonna miss the point
I don’t think you can tell in advance who to anoint
Teacher….teacher
Healer helper knowledge preacher
It’s so many caps for a single person to fill
There’s *no* way to predict who can fit the bill
Friday, September 10, 2010
le petit mort
Definitely not safe for work. :-)
they tell me that I talk about death too much
they tell me that I talk about sex too much
the darkness, the blackness, the wackness, and such
the bump and grind, sixty-nine, and two hand touch
but I get vulgar thinking bout sliding inside of the cut
about licking and nibbling and squeezin a beautiful butt
that's why my poems change up and switch so abrupt
I just like to use my tongue, because it's fun
they say that people die when they come
so I like keeping you on the edge where it's fun
so you're tottering, you're screaming, please, please
for that I'll spend hours on my knees til they bleed
so I talk about sex, and I talk about death
you know, I'm obsessed with the final gasping breath
now, my mom says I'm cocky, I say I'm confident
you say my lyrics too complex I say it's a testament
to the way that play with words, 'cause I'm a nerd
but I want you flying high like you're car-bombed Kurds
I'm always pissed that I can't fit in with the herd
so I sit putting sick sex thoughts to rhythms absurd
if I go down, I need you seeing fireworks
if I'm spitting robots, I want you goin' berserk
either way your mind's a blur 'cause I'm so good it hurts
now you want to laugh at this shit
but look out I'm killin it when I spit
and I'm not gonna quit
I'll rip bout the pit with wicked wit
and slit your clit when I (bite) up your leg a lil' bit
man, I've never got the concept of one night stands
I've got kung fu killer skills in my tongue and my hands
I guarantee, I get repeat business
cuz my tongue, my tongue, my tongue has the quickness
and it knows how to lay a slow rhythm inside
wrap it around the metaphors til the tip slips inside
if it's not my name, I don't really know what you said
your legs are wrapped rigor mortis round my head
that's why you always find teeth marks on my aureola
cuz I'm 99.9% fatal, like I'm motherfucking Ebola
but it's all good, because me, I walk a higher path
I admit that I'm weird, bet it's because of my past
but I will take you to task and rock you like Chinese math
hard as hell while I'm sipping back on a flask
cutting up drunk, in the back of the class
and serving up blood at my own mental mass
– maybe;
I am psychotic for sippin hypnotic
scribbling fit to mix death with erotic
but if you're craving sci-fi thoughts I got it
dreaming of hot sex, already taped it and shot it
just please help me find the rhythm – cuz I lost it
I wonder about fucking someone to death
is that even possible?
how does that happen?
and … could it be fun?
for her, I mean
not in a Serbian, Rwanda-style
you got gang-raped to death
but in a
died of happiness
brain short-circuited
in a grand-mal seizure
composed entirely of orgasm
so powerful
your heart just stops
I wouldn't want to be the survivor
but that
could be hot
they tell me that I talk about death too much
they tell me that I talk about sex too much
the darkness, the blackness, the wackness, and such
the bump and grind, sixty-nine, and two hand touch
but I get vulgar thinking bout sliding inside of the cut
about licking and nibbling and squeezin a beautiful butt
that's why my poems change up and switch so abrupt
I just like to use my tongue, because it's fun
they say that people die when they come
so I like keeping you on the edge where it's fun
so you're tottering, you're screaming, please, please
for that I'll spend hours on my knees til they bleed
so I talk about sex, and I talk about death
you know, I'm obsessed with the final gasping breath
now, my mom says I'm cocky, I say I'm confident
you say my lyrics too complex I say it's a testament
to the way that play with words, 'cause I'm a nerd
but I want you flying high like you're car-bombed Kurds
I'm always pissed that I can't fit in with the herd
so I sit putting sick sex thoughts to rhythms absurd
if I go down, I need you seeing fireworks
if I'm spitting robots, I want you goin' berserk
either way your mind's a blur 'cause I'm so good it hurts
now you want to laugh at this shit
but look out I'm killin it when I spit
and I'm not gonna quit
I'll rip bout the pit with wicked wit
and slit your clit when I (bite) up your leg a lil' bit
man, I've never got the concept of one night stands
I've got kung fu killer skills in my tongue and my hands
I guarantee, I get repeat business
cuz my tongue, my tongue, my tongue has the quickness
and it knows how to lay a slow rhythm inside
wrap it around the metaphors til the tip slips inside
if it's not my name, I don't really know what you said
your legs are wrapped rigor mortis round my head
that's why you always find teeth marks on my aureola
cuz I'm 99.9% fatal, like I'm motherfucking Ebola
but it's all good, because me, I walk a higher path
I admit that I'm weird, bet it's because of my past
but I will take you to task and rock you like Chinese math
hard as hell while I'm sipping back on a flask
cutting up drunk, in the back of the class
and serving up blood at my own mental mass
– maybe;
I am psychotic for sippin hypnotic
scribbling fit to mix death with erotic
but if you're craving sci-fi thoughts I got it
dreaming of hot sex, already taped it and shot it
just please help me find the rhythm – cuz I lost it
I wonder about fucking someone to death
is that even possible?
how does that happen?
and … could it be fun?
for her, I mean
not in a Serbian, Rwanda-style
you got gang-raped to death
but in a
died of happiness
brain short-circuited
in a grand-mal seizure
composed entirely of orgasm
so powerful
your heart just stops
I wouldn't want to be the survivor
but that
could be hot
Monday, August 30, 2010
40s
A character sketch.
Feels more like an epitaph for a friend, at this point.
40s
a man on furlough
sliced in two
40s
Glenn Miller and the Army Air Force band
blaring out of his record player
lifeguard fatigues in a foot locker
at the head of his bed
he aches for a time when
men were men
chivalry and vinegar
piss and honor
cigarettes were homerolled
and men drove ships and sticks
he's got the annotated Sherlock Holmes
bleeding dust on his chest
muted trumpets bluesing
to the rhythm of his snoring
while his Droid charges
Droid does
and he loves it
forty more years
he'll Google it in his forearm
a man cut in two
40s
one in each hand
he laughes
smashes them on the ground
real men drink Black Velvet
on the rocks
freezer-chilled
in tight jeans
and a fist-pumping black muscle T
foot on the bumper
of his '65 Ford Fairlane
this is a bass player
the rhythm and soul of a punk band
he will kick your ass backstage
then take his girlfriend
to a nice lobster dinner
to talk Casablanca
and genetic replication
he's old school
it's not that he can't do one night stands
he just like to cuddle
sex with girlfriends
just feels better
this is the old man
who never met the nursing home
he and the old lady
still shoot geese
from their cabin on the lake
they go to church on Sundays
they get down after Bingo
and move at two miles an hour through Costco
so, so carefully
holding each other's hand
they block the entire aisle
but you smile
when you're stuck behind them
fuck it
they're too cute
this is that guy
in the 40s
kickin ass on a Saturday night
the airman on weekend leave
killing Jack and his friends
his beard
his lifejacket
his knapsack
his swimsuit
straight 40s
his cellphone
his soundsystem
his laptop
straight 40s
a century apart
and from what lies between
he kept only the best music
to jump around
because he stays in shape
he swims sprints --
and runs 40s
Feels more like an epitaph for a friend, at this point.
40s
a man on furlough
sliced in two
40s
Glenn Miller and the Army Air Force band
blaring out of his record player
lifeguard fatigues in a foot locker
at the head of his bed
he aches for a time when
men were men
chivalry and vinegar
piss and honor
cigarettes were homerolled
and men drove ships and sticks
he's got the annotated Sherlock Holmes
bleeding dust on his chest
muted trumpets bluesing
to the rhythm of his snoring
while his Droid charges
Droid does
and he loves it
forty more years
he'll Google it in his forearm
a man cut in two
40s
one in each hand
he laughes
smashes them on the ground
real men drink Black Velvet
on the rocks
freezer-chilled
in tight jeans
and a fist-pumping black muscle T
foot on the bumper
of his '65 Ford Fairlane
this is a bass player
the rhythm and soul of a punk band
he will kick your ass backstage
then take his girlfriend
to a nice lobster dinner
to talk Casablanca
and genetic replication
he's old school
it's not that he can't do one night stands
he just like to cuddle
sex with girlfriends
just feels better
this is the old man
who never met the nursing home
he and the old lady
still shoot geese
from their cabin on the lake
they go to church on Sundays
they get down after Bingo
and move at two miles an hour through Costco
so, so carefully
holding each other's hand
they block the entire aisle
but you smile
when you're stuck behind them
fuck it
they're too cute
this is that guy
in the 40s
kickin ass on a Saturday night
the airman on weekend leave
killing Jack and his friends
his beard
his lifejacket
his knapsack
his swimsuit
straight 40s
his cellphone
his soundsystem
his laptop
straight 40s
a century apart
and from what lies between
he kept only the best music
to jump around
because he stays in shape
he swims sprints --
and runs 40s
she II
On one of the summer camping trips, I had a rather me moment - we were lying around, talking in our sleeping bags. The campfire embers were long gone. But one of my friends had an aura that I had to try and capture, so I ended up in Tiny Car, scribbling the first draft by the dome light in my car.
I met this girl
with Ving Rhames eyes
see
he's the archetype of bad-ass
at that level of incredible
Zeus is a nobody
you're Mount Olympus personified
you can't really get mad
so much as reshape a gigantic smile
watch Pulp Fiction
even with the gimp
his eyes give him away
they're always laughing
I'd seen those eyes once already
but
it was a glowing green forest sprite
imagine that level of self-confidence, self-control
make it feminine
Blackberry-sized
you've got the tiniest, floating Triceratops
wrapped in a Tinkerbell suit
with manicured, slender fingers
the capacity to flatten Scandinavian forests
and the self-satisfaction
to have not even tried
the simple delicate flick
required
I found her
floating in mid-air
caught in a moment
a half-smile on her face
wings in the middle of a heartbeat
and such serene eyes
you know those fingers
could turn you to dust
the king of the jungle
sits brazen, with few predators
the queen of the forest
has the sly implacability
that comes from having none
she doesn't go medieval
she surpasses Hiroshima
at that point
you are a cloud
she never comes down
you can see it
in her Ving Rhames eyes
she has a Cheshire cat grin
and the James Brown version of funk
that belongs to 20 something women
the trademark of the international traveler
the small, tasteful, silver nose ring
a reply
to Cheshire Cat's question
“where are you going?”
the obvious answer
her natural habitat
sunshine, smiles, stories, somewhere abroad
where days start
with afternoon cookouts
on Mediterranean apartment rooftops
sun drenched, full of tomatoes and wine
they run through midnight bar crawls
dancing on a boat
that floats from bar to bar
on a river somewhere in the Czech Republic
and races to the train
to catch deep desert sunrises
this
is where she's going
all in the same orange sundress
simple
sweaty
artfully, perfectly confident
if the Cheshire cat dare ask
how will you know when you get there
she'll reply
that's hardly the point
and less than half than that
in the getting there
I met this girl
with Ving Rhames eyes
see
he's the archetype of bad-ass
at that level of incredible
Zeus is a nobody
you're Mount Olympus personified
you can't really get mad
so much as reshape a gigantic smile
watch Pulp Fiction
even with the gimp
his eyes give him away
they're always laughing
I'd seen those eyes once already
but
it was a glowing green forest sprite
imagine that level of self-confidence, self-control
make it feminine
Blackberry-sized
you've got the tiniest, floating Triceratops
wrapped in a Tinkerbell suit
with manicured, slender fingers
the capacity to flatten Scandinavian forests
and the self-satisfaction
to have not even tried
the simple delicate flick
required
I found her
floating in mid-air
caught in a moment
a half-smile on her face
wings in the middle of a heartbeat
and such serene eyes
you know those fingers
could turn you to dust
the king of the jungle
sits brazen, with few predators
the queen of the forest
has the sly implacability
that comes from having none
she doesn't go medieval
she surpasses Hiroshima
at that point
you are a cloud
she never comes down
you can see it
in her Ving Rhames eyes
she has a Cheshire cat grin
and the James Brown version of funk
that belongs to 20 something women
the trademark of the international traveler
the small, tasteful, silver nose ring
a reply
to Cheshire Cat's question
“where are you going?”
the obvious answer
her natural habitat
sunshine, smiles, stories, somewhere abroad
where days start
with afternoon cookouts
on Mediterranean apartment rooftops
sun drenched, full of tomatoes and wine
they run through midnight bar crawls
dancing on a boat
that floats from bar to bar
on a river somewhere in the Czech Republic
and races to the train
to catch deep desert sunrises
this
is where she's going
all in the same orange sundress
simple
sweaty
artfully, perfectly confident
if the Cheshire cat dare ask
how will you know when you get there
she'll reply
that's hardly the point
and less than half than that
in the getting there
synesthesia
Sitting in Adam's when he started bumping Summertime, I had to write the first draft a few weeks ago. It all went from there.
I'm synesthetic
when I hear certain things
especially music
I see colors dancing in the air
Katy Perry
I Kissed A Girl, and I Think I Like It
when I hear it
I'm seeing the Great Pyramid of Giza
in flying, speeding wallpaper patterns
colored in bright, vibrant Lisa Frank colors
neon pink, yellow and green unicorn style
I was driving when I first heard it
almost drove off the road
took almost a whole verse
before I realized
it was only a song
I see colors when I hear music
it's beautiful
I wish I could share it with you
Thrice
an alternative thrash band
they have a song
Dont Tell and we Won't Ask
spiraling, looping, speeding guitar
drawing abackground of deep purple
smoke on the water skies
granite verses written in 12-bar canyons
darkly lit
while another guitar dances
a burning pixie
leaving a glowing electric trail of yellow
tangled with the liquid light counterpart
of the singer's voice
scribbled bright green
they do a complex duet
leaping off of the cliffs
to float
dancing fire
through that deep purple dark night
until the white supernova of the chorus
comes crashing in
to bathe you in pure, white hot fire
in that moment
it feels like recognizing one of your own
that is a feeling
I wish I could share with you
synesthesia brings you so much beautiful
sometimes, nothing happens
but when it does
anything everything always beautiful
even, especially, the surprises
Sublime
Summertime
and the livin's easy
it's the colors of Louisiana nights
a purple convertible
slicing down muddy roads
through caves of golden brown stone
and dark green vibrant jungles
melancholy masochistic in the moonlight
blended in dark vinyl palette
flowing liquid in LP
slow funky bass-driven rotation
this is a scene shot in low contrast
like colors dancing
at the edges of an early Nintendo game
and I want to share it with you
because these colors swagger
they move from the hips
this is the mix
that's Buddha and Balboa
grown sexy sittin' confident grinning
Topgun of Tonight Hill
it's feeling male jaguar
just looking for some panther
knowing you'll find it
because broken people will find a way
to smash their jagged edges together
and pretend they make a whole
it's so easy to slip
when you feel like shit, 'cause
my girl spreads her lovin' all over
so you slip
and you slide
jukebox songs cost two quarters
but not the ride
on the riverboat barges
straddling the Mississippi
on this Louisiana night
the Bourbon street bars are closed
but you haven't had a last dance with mary jane
you know the cruise sinful
scandalous and evil
all the people in the dance
are young hungry sexy and hurt
it makes them dangerous and wild
it makes them fun
and Summertime
is not the soundtrack to all this
it is this
in audio video surround cerebral sound
it takes the dark cancerous yellow
the cowardice you feel
when you bury self-pity in false pride
and try to lose yourself deep inside
you say no but you know
you'll hear someone cry
desperate and eager, eager and desperate
there's a twisted power
in that dirty yellow streak
when you're sharing someone with someone
and you don't want to share
but sharing is the only way to keep someone
you've already lost
in the taking the making the pretending
the pregnant green jealous pain
turns a dirty yellow streak of confident cowardice
synesthesia
can make even that beautiful
I wish I could share that with you
I'm synesthetic
when I hear certain things
especially music
I see colors dancing in the air
Katy Perry
I Kissed A Girl, and I Think I Like It
when I hear it
I'm seeing the Great Pyramid of Giza
in flying, speeding wallpaper patterns
colored in bright, vibrant Lisa Frank colors
neon pink, yellow and green unicorn style
I was driving when I first heard it
almost drove off the road
took almost a whole verse
before I realized
it was only a song
I see colors when I hear music
it's beautiful
I wish I could share it with you
Thrice
an alternative thrash band
they have a song
Dont Tell and we Won't Ask
spiraling, looping, speeding guitar
drawing abackground of deep purple
smoke on the water skies
granite verses written in 12-bar canyons
darkly lit
while another guitar dances
a burning pixie
leaving a glowing electric trail of yellow
tangled with the liquid light counterpart
of the singer's voice
scribbled bright green
they do a complex duet
leaping off of the cliffs
to float
dancing fire
through that deep purple dark night
until the white supernova of the chorus
comes crashing in
to bathe you in pure, white hot fire
in that moment
it feels like recognizing one of your own
that is a feeling
I wish I could share with you
synesthesia brings you so much beautiful
sometimes, nothing happens
but when it does
anything everything always beautiful
even, especially, the surprises
Sublime
Summertime
and the livin's easy
it's the colors of Louisiana nights
a purple convertible
slicing down muddy roads
through caves of golden brown stone
and dark green vibrant jungles
melancholy masochistic in the moonlight
blended in dark vinyl palette
flowing liquid in LP
slow funky bass-driven rotation
this is a scene shot in low contrast
like colors dancing
at the edges of an early Nintendo game
and I want to share it with you
because these colors swagger
they move from the hips
this is the mix
that's Buddha and Balboa
grown sexy sittin' confident grinning
Topgun of Tonight Hill
it's feeling male jaguar
just looking for some panther
knowing you'll find it
because broken people will find a way
to smash their jagged edges together
and pretend they make a whole
it's so easy to slip
when you feel like shit, 'cause
my girl spreads her lovin' all over
so you slip
and you slide
jukebox songs cost two quarters
but not the ride
on the riverboat barges
straddling the Mississippi
on this Louisiana night
the Bourbon street bars are closed
but you haven't had a last dance with mary jane
you know the cruise sinful
scandalous and evil
all the people in the dance
are young hungry sexy and hurt
it makes them dangerous and wild
it makes them fun
and Summertime
is not the soundtrack to all this
it is this
in audio video surround cerebral sound
it takes the dark cancerous yellow
the cowardice you feel
when you bury self-pity in false pride
and try to lose yourself deep inside
you say no but you know
you'll hear someone cry
desperate and eager, eager and desperate
there's a twisted power
in that dirty yellow streak
when you're sharing someone with someone
and you don't want to share
but sharing is the only way to keep someone
you've already lost
in the taking the making the pretending
the pregnant green jealous pain
turns a dirty yellow streak of confident cowardice
synesthesia
can make even that beautiful
I wish I could share that with you
Friday, July 30, 2010
stolen treasures
I saw her at Reunions, it sparked a line that stuck in my head. Two days of professional development - sitting in a chair all day, bored shitless - was exactly what I needed to give it birth. Also, hella shorter - mad editing has been going on.
In the beginning
God said
let there be light
I believe in evolution
but you had me seeing God
believing in the wonder of creation
I saw proof in your smile
you were sunshine
feeding me energy
to wrap the world in flowers
love blooming in stop-action photography
you were oxygen
fueling our growth as we built lush worlds
fueling solar flare fires
burning my skin pure in your presence
cleaning cleansing
constructing starshine universes
in every moment we spent together
our kisses shone champagne supernova
the Big Bang sparking
in every molecule where our lips touched
we had heaven in our footsteps
lightning in our fingertips
we never shocked each other
– just the world
with everything we made together
the life the love the light
we brought, we made
we built stars
playing at being God, we put lightbulbs in the sky
they could burn for a million years
and scarcely scratch the surface of our fuel
and every time we kissed a star was born and flew
so an hour in your arms built universes anew
maybe that's why our sex was the way it was
holding each other close, matching breathing because
grinding sliding screaming laughing
left us lying intimate, clutching gasping
we would lie twisting to unite our light
and with our shine kill the night
so what the uneducated would call a passionate screw
was me grinding to find the light deep inside you
now, turning each other out wasn't all we were about
I just have to use sex to explain, because
that's the only way you can understand the way it was
the bliss, magnetism, Bonnie and Clyde
you feel after hours of animal sex
--twenty-six consecutive orgasms
is the feeling we had
every time we saw each other
every time I saw her eyes
every time I heard her laugh
and then I slipped.
I had one little thought
one blasphemous idea
you disappeared, guaranteed to return
asked me, “wait”
all I could think was
could I build worlds
could I create stars
with other girls?
I wanted to keep shining light into the world
I had lost faith that you were the truth
maybe I could burn heaven with other people
--I should've seen that you wouldn't stand
for me keeping false idols before you.
Now I can't sleep
I lie drowning in barren worlds
choking on nothing in empty riverbeds
except once a year
when the sun shines soft again on my skin
and the breeze touches my lips
you're the reason
it's always sunny in Philadelphia
but every single moment I spend in your presence
is a stolen treasure, and I can count those seconds
Hell is an existence apart from God
you can see Her, just out of reach
you burn frozen, knowing what you're missing
with your hand in mine, I used to play God
now we don't even speak
my hand has a full dance card, but
I only go to church to steal the wafers
I pity people who chase rainbows
pots of gold are nothing
I used to ride the dawn
to plant diamonds and platinum in the sky
I go camping
so I can lie back
and count the memories
I don't need a map
to find our golden stolen pirate treasures
-- they’re the reason you can see at night
In the beginning
God said
let there be light
I believe in evolution
but you had me seeing God
believing in the wonder of creation
I saw proof in your smile
you were sunshine
feeding me energy
to wrap the world in flowers
love blooming in stop-action photography
you were oxygen
fueling our growth as we built lush worlds
fueling solar flare fires
burning my skin pure in your presence
cleaning cleansing
constructing starshine universes
in every moment we spent together
our kisses shone champagne supernova
the Big Bang sparking
in every molecule where our lips touched
we had heaven in our footsteps
lightning in our fingertips
we never shocked each other
– just the world
with everything we made together
the life the love the light
we brought, we made
we built stars
playing at being God, we put lightbulbs in the sky
they could burn for a million years
and scarcely scratch the surface of our fuel
and every time we kissed a star was born and flew
so an hour in your arms built universes anew
maybe that's why our sex was the way it was
holding each other close, matching breathing because
grinding sliding screaming laughing
left us lying intimate, clutching gasping
we would lie twisting to unite our light
and with our shine kill the night
so what the uneducated would call a passionate screw
was me grinding to find the light deep inside you
now, turning each other out wasn't all we were about
I just have to use sex to explain, because
that's the only way you can understand the way it was
the bliss, magnetism, Bonnie and Clyde
you feel after hours of animal sex
--twenty-six consecutive orgasms
is the feeling we had
every time we saw each other
every time I saw her eyes
every time I heard her laugh
and then I slipped.
I had one little thought
one blasphemous idea
you disappeared, guaranteed to return
asked me, “wait”
all I could think was
could I build worlds
could I create stars
with other girls?
I wanted to keep shining light into the world
I had lost faith that you were the truth
maybe I could burn heaven with other people
--I should've seen that you wouldn't stand
for me keeping false idols before you.
Now I can't sleep
I lie drowning in barren worlds
choking on nothing in empty riverbeds
except once a year
when the sun shines soft again on my skin
and the breeze touches my lips
you're the reason
it's always sunny in Philadelphia
but every single moment I spend in your presence
is a stolen treasure, and I can count those seconds
Hell is an existence apart from God
you can see Her, just out of reach
you burn frozen, knowing what you're missing
with your hand in mine, I used to play God
now we don't even speak
my hand has a full dance card, but
I only go to church to steal the wafers
I pity people who chase rainbows
pots of gold are nothing
I used to ride the dawn
to plant diamonds and platinum in the sky
I go camping
so I can lie back
and count the memories
I don't need a map
to find our golden stolen pirate treasures
-- they’re the reason you can see at night
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