Friday, January 14, 2011

I’m not writing anymore
Maybe this sudden and what seems like terminal case of writers block
Is brought on by the realization that I have nothing to say
I’ve always had a bit of an idea that saying stuff doesn’t do much anyway
Or perhaps
The words that once seemed to hit with striking clarity once every few months (making the God of structure and creativity sing inside of me)
Have been drummed back by the very acute feeling of
Yes, that’s right
Or maybe rather, contentment….apathy?

Here, I should continue this little bit of writing

but you see, I’m terminal.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Maybe it’s just because we’re young
We’re beautiful in our suntanned skin
To soft and warm to be old and grey

Or maybe it’s because we don’t know
Don’t know the fear that old age and half lives
Can bring

But I swear
When you look at me
When we sit and speak and you’re eyes glow
Gold with a thought that I don’t know

Maybe could never know

I swear to God that you are delighting
In my existence

Saturday, August 14, 2010

My Dear, do you ever feel thoughts at the edge of your mind that you don’t want to think? You see these fetus thoughts in the distance, rushing at you faster then any unborn child could ever travel, and you try to run, try to duck, and in a last ditch effort for brain survival you close your eyes and pray to God that your subconscious has enough sense to kill the thought before it can get at you. I can tell you from experience that these tactics don’t often work, more often than not making you seem like and idiot to yourself. Stand and fight coward!

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Is never
A good time to write.
And spring
She may not
Hold what is necessary.
But summer is here
And Winter has learned
Lessons which poets
should speak of.
So here, it's a page
and there, it's your hand
and everywhere is opportunity.

Monday, June 28, 2010

For a Philosopher

My sister told me I'm going mushy.
She said,
The way I talked,
As if honey dripped from my lips
And violins played in my ears
And roses tinted the world
Making it not only look beautiful
But smell pretty too.

But let me assure you,
My lips are still a practical undrippy.
The soundtrack of my waking and sleeping
Is just the sound of my own breathing.
And no matter how hard I try to see the world in pink hues
The closest I get is a sorry state of grey.
The city summer stink has not left my nostrils.

And yet,
Truth stumbles from my lips no longer held back.
The sound of my steady breath is interrupted by catches and quivers
Far more often then it once was.
Seeing the world holds the mystery of seeing probable stars,
Dripping with understanding and lack thereof.
And at night,
When the window is open,
And the still, soft, air slowly comes and goes
(comes and goes)
The harsh city breath
Is replaced by a cooler
And more pleasant air.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

A prophecy: At some point this summer, a hurricane is going to blow through the Gulf of Mexico. It’s going to drown New Orleans in carcinogenic sludge, again, and a day later it’s going to be raining tar balls on Nashville. People all over the South will go to church and demand that Jesus save them. Jesus will choose this moment to make his return to earth: “Hey, I told you 2000 years ago that it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven. I told you that the poor are blessed. I told you that as you treat the least of these, you have treated me. That means if you oppress the poor, you oppress me. That means if you drown pelicans in oil, you’re drowning me. But you didn’t read that part of the New Testament. You only read that weird symbolism in the Book of Revelations and argued about nothing while the ruling class destroyed everything. You came to believe that my teachings were somehow consistent with capitalism. I mean, where did you get that from? I’m the guy who threw the money changers out of the temple. You think the money changers of Wall Street are going to save you when the ocean dies? You think I’m going to save you with some kind of rapture and vacuum the believers into heaven? Not a chance. But you do have a choice. You can deal with the ruling class now, or you can burn in a hell of your own creation.”
Charles M. Young

For those following the Beats.

(ps. this is better if you read it out loud)

I don’t feel like I’m alive.

Go back.
Read that again.

I don’t feel like I’m alive
And I’m not sure I’m the only one that’s this way.
I have a sneaky suspicion that you
Feel the same.

Yes, you.
You poetry writer, you sad song player,
You long lost prodigal Beater
You painter, you drinker,
You yellow stained toothed thinker
You story weaver, you beauty seeker


I feel
Like WE are not

Like our muscles do no clench under the load of one another
Like our bodies do not throb from the longing to be with love
Like our eyes do not ache from candles burning at both ends
And our feet do not burn and then callus and then walk on
Like our voices do not moan and sigh like the Aspen tree out my front door