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

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

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

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

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

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

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