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
Monday, March 28, 2011
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
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