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

Winter,
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,
Sounded,
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
http://www.thiscantbehappening.net/node/92

For those following the Beats.

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



Sometimes,
I don’t feel like I’m alive.

Wait.
Stop.
Go back.
Read that again.

Sometimes,
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

You

Sometimes,
I feel
Like WE are not
Alive.

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

Monday, May 24, 2010

By Laurence Alma-Tadema

If no one ever marries me,—
And I don't see why they should,
For nurse says I'm not pretty,
And I'm seldom very good—

If no one ever marries me
I shan't mind very much;
I shall buy a squirrel in a cage,
And a little rabbit-hutch:

I shall have a cottage near a wood,
And a pony all my own,
And a little lamb quite clean and tame,
That I can take to town:

And when I'm getting really old,—
At twenty-eight or nine—
I shall buy a little orphan-girl
And bring her up as mine.

Friday, May 7, 2010

on war and being old.

New York Times.
A 20
Lower left hand corner

An elderly woman glares at me accusingly from the picture. A sign proclaiming “Grammies against the War(s)” hanging from her neck. Well, this is bound to be interesting, I think to myself, and start reading. Turns out this woman along with other “Grammies” (some Grampies too) have gathered every single Wednesday since 2004 on a street corner in New York to protest the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. The oldest among them is a 92-year-old woman.

Reading this article was like a punch in the stomach.

Why?

World war one – 116, 516
World War Two- 405, 399
Korean War- 54, 246
(http://www.abmc.gov/wardead/index.php)
Vietnam War- 58,193
Iraq War- 4,326
(http://www.npr.org/news/)
Afghanistan war- 948


Nope, these aren’t just fun little numbers I’m throwing at you to confuse you. These are casualty numbers. 92-year-old Grammy was 1-year-old baby when the craziness that is our current war state began. She has been witness to over 628,000 American deaths. My numbers have not even included some of the more minor operations that went on in between these wars nor do they reflect the whole body count. These numbers are one sided. The gravity that age gives to these situations is incredible. The scope that 92-year-old can provide is sobering. …. Yeah, that’s all I had to say.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Becoming Alive.

The breeze on the back of my neck from your open window
Heavy and damp with lilacs
A fever breaking
A baby’s sigh

Saturday, February 27, 2010

I write.

This is exhausting.

Have you ever had a simple conversation that ended in complexity? Last night I talked for an hour with a girl, Elana, who has been blind for 23 years. She is 23. As we talked I began to realize that she has learned how to do everything that I have learned how to do. She can walk up and down stairs, she can drink water, she can read, she can write, she plays flute and teaches private lessons. This person is just as capable as I am of living. The question that I, in my ununderstanding, had to ask was how she had learned to do these things. The ignorance of the question even now burns on my cheeks as I remember the way I asked, not intending to be stupid but stupid none the less. She responded simply. She had learned. Just as we all do, she had stumbled down stairs, spilled water, misspelled words, failed to practice, and in general messed up. But, just as we all do, she had learned.

This is exhausting.

Do you remember what it was like to learn how to hold a glass of water? No, of course not. But, I bet if you could, if we could, we would remember the frustration of not ever getting it right. We might even remember the pain of muscles learning to do what they would not do naturally. We might.

This is exhausting.

Did you ever grow ivy as a kid? Ivy is fun to grow because essentially you guide its growth. You plant the vine and then wrap the tiny shoot around what ever it’s to grow to and continue the process for a few weeks. Eventually, the small shoot gets it in it’s …. head (?) that whatever it is now growing around is what will hold it up. It begins to climb in whatever shape the anchor is. However, those first few weeks are hard. That shoot must be wrapped daily around what it is growing to.

This is exhausting.

Did your unswimming self ever jump into the deep end?
Did you ride first without training wheels?
Did you play for hours without calluses?
Did you truly pray without believing?
Did you love without knowing?

This is exhausting.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Practice.

Writing to write.
I have discovered that when
push comes to shove
and all I can NOT do is pick up a pen and put words to paper, it is time to try to write.

I am not a writer by trade or by hobby or by ability. I am not Laura Grafham or Davey or Mig or Coriz or Molly Murphy or Nate Knapp or Christo or any other of my countless friends who call themselves writers to one extent or another. This 'writing process' is a foreign one to me. When poesy makes it's way into my head it is a poesy of unknowing. A muse of a moment that comes and hits and leaves me wondering when she will next come.

I'm not sure what the value of writing is. Nor am I certain that this practice is essential to my life. As I said, I am not a writer by trade. However, I am willing to try, for a time, to become a writer by practice. Who knows, it might be important.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

January

Sometimes,
I think that I’m much like a teapot,
Or rather
That my mind is much like a teapot,
Maybe perhaps even a
Little
Teapot- short, stout and suitable for holding and pouring.

Sometimes,
At moments when I think this analogy
Is especially apt.
I think that maybe,
Perhaps,
All of my thoughts, creativity, arguments and intellect
(the PG tips of the brain)
Have been poured out.

Sometimes,
Or rather, this time
I’m afraid that what makes I!
Is gone.
This creative, vital, song of a person
Has been emptied out
Into your cup
And all that is left
Is a ceramic pot