Whisperer

Your words so close to my ears,
I hear each crack of your lip detach
stickily from your other lip and
then smack back as you pronounce your p's,
and I guess it's up to me
to decipher the lines between
the lines to see where lies might be.

This New Song.

In an act of unexpected dissonance,
the tritone struck like the rain on a day
sunny otherwise and ninety degrees,
first a tap tapping of a major chord
eight solid beats, then the minor third
then the diminished fifth
of a flat seven, the rain it falls from heaven.
Unexpected then jumping up
the scale, skipping third and resting on the
fifth before making it's triumphant return.
your losing the stability in which you work,
the fourth rings major chord,
then your friends find discontent
and the minor tones sound the start of dissonance,
but then a hero dies and the diminished fifth
ring just six, then rests,
and I can only hope the scale whistles
through the silence
sometime
soon.

In Love

I'm a bubble boy,
and you, you like roses,
well they burst me
like shook sodas, see,
and spilling fizzily
I cough and belch
while you laugh and point
rather than help,
and I laugh, too,
because I know I'll end up
all over you.
I know that when you
come clean, I'll
be sure you'll be seen.
I'll be sure to build
a stage on a hill,
a theater in the round,
a round monolith seemingly
sprouting from the ground,
and I'll buy those roses
and prick my thick skin
and pop like soda
and spill my guts and
pressured contents
all over both of us.

Forgive

I drop bombs like communists in Vietnam,
I hide then my burst destroys
I lie in wait and kill your beloved little boys
I tear apart families with politics
I shred them to pieces with policies
I torture.
And admitting that, I ask for your forgiveness,
Please, I beg you forgive this
Mess.

Some Old Poems I Wrote

TO BE OR NOT TO BE
my train of thought gets bad gas mileage

but i believe i'll be.

i hope for morning,
stiff like jeans worn
swimming in the Atlantic.
Frantic, panic, Static, Elastic.
Patience for parenting;
Silk double breasted paternity suits for parents.
and God, He paid His child support
in fame if not fortune;
His ever-present involvement left
no question of custody, only
how to distribute the effects
after life after death.
His grace like blood beats hearts
to heart beats and after all
there is no breath to breathe,
the pay-off for belief
IS TO BE.

Can you imagine what sight it
must be for mountains to move
and make ponds of seas just at
a word and waving hand, The
Beginning and The End, my God:
the landscape developer,
innovator of graphic design,
naturalist environmentalist,
Tree-hugging feminist,
Loudly cheering revolutionary
Barbarian family oriented
Father who rocked the Earth
(Violent)
when His only boy became
the lamb on the altar;
asking, "Why don't you see me, Father?"
I believe. I WILL BE.


I Could Make Excuses, too.
Spending so many seconds
sitting still, I contemplate
motion - Yeah, I complicate moving
and sketch a smile - I'm losing
my mind in the midst of life,
oh dreams tonight let me know
does this train have some
get up and go?
or, you know, am I out here alone,
stressed out by circumstance;
I choose to sleep not dance;
I choose a computer screen over
Travel and place bets on a four-leaf clover.
The plastic kind you find
on walls Mid-March and
I wish it would fall apart
So I could wish upon a shooting star
or blame my stationary status
on a gas-hog car.

I sometimes wish I was Waldo,
blending in to exotic locales,
but with better fashion sense.
I wish I could tell the future
in the present tense and
life suggests that the more I trust
the less stress I'll be blessed with.

So, on Tuesday the twentieth
I'll smile and raise a fist
for unity, comedy, and everything else
like dreams.


strike the match!
this building is on the verge of collapse -
a glass-littered floor,
the tattered remains of a door
and drought-dried frame await
a flame to take them away.
all it'll take is a spark,
and everything that's been built up
will crash down and fall apart.
all that's been so dear
will fall to flames, yeah,
the way will be cleared

and like an island in the ocean
something new will rise from the ash
and awe will replace awkward
in a flash of light - in a day bright night

strike the match!
this cigar won't wait forever to celebrate -
and this glass of champagne,
this last bit of yesterday
anticipates a tomorrow
even more different than today.


**Her Sullied Name**
Her sullied name is sex,
And to see her best, I suggest
You ask her to please undress.
You see, it seems we've clothed her
In disrespect.


The Letter R.
i wrote a letter.
it was "r" -
and why, I don't know,
but knowing's not worth the
moments spent
thinking which to write.
Right? Left on my own,
entertainment plays out
in letters.
Like Wheel of Fortune, but I
never buy vowels,
and my clues come out grunts
and moans
frrrrrrghs and mmmmmmmhmmmms,
the expressions,
expressing,
the sinking
feeling
in my
gut.
when i've got nothing.
Nothing but writers' block
and one letter.
It's "R"
if you were wondering,
then maybe you should think about
doing something
more interesting.

to add to r, i write
words, randomly and sporadically
starting with the twenty most common -
the, of, to, in, and, a, for, was, is, that,
on, at, he, with, by, be it, an, as, his -
and marvel at the masculinity
of our verbosity.
and more than half of english words
end with e t d or s.
and yet, still, i have one letter
It is the letter "r"
and add to that writers block.


11/3/06

The space between my thumb and index finger
states in thick black sharpie, "1P1:3-12."
A silent reminder to shut my eyes
And push aside the negativity that I find
Choking me.

In the unsuspecting second before
The head-on collision we never saw coming
We whistled along to Karma Police
And smiled,
What we should have said was
Goodbye, I love you,
I'll see you in heaven,
but regrets are worthless.


SCALPEL, NURSE! I NEED TO OPEN THESE VEINS.
Let's open ourselves up and tangle our veins;
Braid them together like ponytails in first grade.
You could be my heartbeat cause I let mine break
Back when we were still playing puerile games.
Doll, your pulse whispers a mourning rhythm.
You cradle my heart, an orange left in the street,
And I caress your face, striped by tears;
We fall asleep to the constant, throbbing beat.

Let's open our minds and see what's inside mine
Cause gray matter matters; I'm seeking black and white,
A simpler explanation for paradox and puzzlement,
Anything I could use to fuel the fire.

You speak in whispers knowing that I can't hear you,
(The hum from holding my breath speaks volumes)
You laugh at my requests for repetition,
But that's the way I learn my lessons,
(I'm holding my breath for perfection,
But black creeps in on my vision,
And you vellicate and I exhale violently)
Like my scratched vinyl I repeat unexpectedly.

Let's be one, conjoined twins, I'd invite you in
If I thought I could keep you out,
No, you seem to always seep through the cracks,
Like January air in this house from 1954.
With open hearts and minds, we're susceptible to cold
So lets climb into bed, we can dress like a centerfold.
You never know where this promenade will go,
But its okay; we never have to feel alone
again.

Prayer Songs

Would that my knees could bleed
as my lungs breathe
as my eyes see
as my heart beats.
You are the rock
the below and above
the support and love.
You.

Look at the lilies clothed in pure beauty
look at the ocean flowing in aquamarine glory

A blind man could see Your glory
A drowning man could breathe Your glory
and live forever.

Some sat in darkness and deepest gloom
Until, God, they called on You
and as Christ came he
broke those confining chains
and now in the light, we sing PRAISE.

Bodies in Control

Our bodies are graves that we're digging,
Our flesh, coffins we live in,
rots and sloughs off.
It spreads, gangrenous, infecting every bit of us.
Yeah, everything that's us abandons love
to draw closer and closer to a headstone above
that soon, too, will crumble to dust.
Clay pots, fragile like glass lamps blown,
packaged, shipped and drove cross-country
installed and broken, illuminating nothing,
just hands on thighs and eyes on
nickels and dimes, and all things Spring
cast aside as if there were no autumn
as if nothing at all dies
when for most of us that's the meaning of life.
Live. Die. Live. Die. Live. Die.
Dig a whole hole and lie down there alone.
It's your only hope to hold
if your body is your control.
Let go.
Close your eyes.
Clasp your hands.
Lie.
Elope.
Your groom is waiting by the phone.

Flood and Guns (2 Different Things)

There's a flood, and boy, you're chest deep
and might as well be miles from the nearest tree.
What you wouldn't do for a relationship,
God, any kind of ship would be a help at the moment,
I bet you're wishing you were somewhere else
With someone other than your own damn self,
waltzing like 1, 2, 3, rather than in the street,
Trying not to drown beside a levee.

Change is Necessary

The blatant disregard for symmetry will not so easily be forgotten, no. "You need to go out like you came in, ignorantly nakedly full of bliss," never mind that it undermines your existence. This greedy twist of fate or turn of phrase just takes away. It doesn't add a single excuse to stay or change or hope for life worth remembering; just dust.

If you worship symmetry, you're gonna fold like paper.

there to here

there's nobody worth saving,
yet the life-vest exists as well as
the medic-alert necklace, sold lately
on late night tv to people like me
at sixteen in search of squiggly
pornography better than nothing,
better than sleeping, I'm such
a worthless piece of something -
swallowing seafoam and all kinds of everything
or anything I can, oh man,
how did I come from that to who I am?
from 3AM teen to church leadership team,
but even still perfectly imperfect
perfectly seeking perfection.

Yellow

have you ever looked at the color yellow?
Man, I hate it,
it's so toothy, so much like piss,
and man, it just kinda makes me sick,
I prefer black.
And Blue Jeans.
Whenever you try to wash blood from
light colors, you just end up with
yellow spots, like nictotine
soaking in and standing out like
"hey everybody look at me,
I'm a human and I bleed,
and I don't spray and wash my stuff
before it goes in the machine,
I'm so disheveled and unclean,
even my clothes seem to scream
how much they can't stand me,"
Yellow. Leave me alone.

BG

How can boy and girl be considered compatible
when they are always just crashing like cymbals
clanging like wind chimes in a hurricane
screaming out sounds and tears that pierce more ears
than your local tattoo shop?
How can boy be a crutch when all he seems to do is mess up?
Oh, his tongue tastes so surely like shoes,
and his mind left reeling only catches tires and boots,
my God, where have all the fishes gone?
How can a girl be his world when she's not orbiting
just kind of revolving in place, arms tucked away,
not looking at his face, tears leaving lines
where they've carried her makeup somewhere else to stay?
How can boy and girl go together like puzzles,
when they struggle just to stay in the same box,
when the pieces that make them partial to each other
stay hidden under jeans or ribcages and behind
zippers and words? And anyway, shouldn't it be an
everything kind of thing, not just this piece fits
that piece fits, but when everything comes together,
it falls back apart into little frustrating bits.
How can it be?

Floating

I feel so isolated and
alone and cold.
And shivering on a couch
tonight while she's away
does not seem okay.
It does not feel good,
and now that my fever's broke,
so I am, and yet stuck
I just want someone to call me up
and say, "Matt, let's chill
tonight. Let's."
You see, oh me, I'm not brave.
I'm not.
I'm not brave, no, I'm not.
I'll be shivering, holding out my phone,
on the couch while my baby sleeps,
and my lady is away.
See, I can't leave.
I can't.
I have to just be
there, but you can be there, but you..
but I'm afraid to be a burden, and
I'm just so not brave.
I live in an ocean of self-pity,
where God finds me floating,
and with the soft strings of a guitar
bids me walk up on the water
and not drown.

And yet I still feel.

Talking to Myself

My hand aches and my fingers are covered with ink. I don't really know how it gets there being that I use ballpoint pen and not quills or fountain pens or some such nonsense. But the inside of right ring finger and forefinger are dotted with black smears, as is that flap of skin between thumb and fingers. How does that happen? I guess it doesn't really matter; suffice to say it did, and now I have a hand that strangely reminds me of a dalmatian. That reminds me that I need to get some more real sun. This fluorescent light doesn't do much for the complexion, but it's so cold outside, and it's so difficult to take the top off the Jeep all by myself. Not that I would take it off now. The max temperature today is below my limit of 70 degrees, and I have no plan to catch cold. My fingers are always so cold these days anyway, and they are so covered with ink.

Get your pen.
Write again.

-*/

That way you whisper
Biting your tongue and looking
over your shoulder for
ever longing for a sunrise
on the west horizon,
well, don't hold your breath
or do and soon, baby, soon
we'll be through, and you
will be somewhere new
somewhere really freaking different, too.
hope for new experience
and you chase the wind,
and you are meaningless
like everything.

Snail

As the spiral downs the last snail in twisting turns,
his slimy words slick the floor, and slipping,
she sees what had become a mess of missed steps,
missed suggestions she leave and be,
something, anything besides his side,
his lies, cheats and steals, his bride, his soon-to-be
corpse,
sliding through the salt and shriveling there
so quickly dehydrating like some
siphoned fuel tank, so now the fire's out,
soaked in the truth of what he was, a snail,
slick words a pathway of pain and depravity, spiraling away
as she steps forward for once and God, it feels like
Life.

Like Flies To...

Maybe one morning it'll be you on the wrong side of the bed,
your memories a mutinee determined to flee from your head,
your stomach an ocean of storms, bubbling up from below,
and your ship's sunk, yeah, your ship is sitting on the ocean floor,

maybe one day, baby, your choices won't be yes or no,
and in the gray, you'll walk through places you swore you'd never go,
you'll mess up and you'll be judged by those thousand eyed
religious type flies that always flock to the waste of life,

flock to the refuse, like you do

Maybe this morning it'll be you with outstretched arms,
Eating dinner with those this falling world has charmed,
Gnawing away at the pain that so frequently enslaves
And fakes us out with false promises that hide big waves,

maybe one day, baby, we'll be intertwined in our wedding bed,
Finally realizing that love is not just some four letter word we said,
but something we're so undeserving of, and we'll be thankful too,
because while we were covered in the waste of this life, You

flock to the refuse, like You do

And if we make mistakes, you're there,
and I don't care, too much, oh yes, I suck
But if I'm going to be in love,
I gotta get out of this funk,

And when people fall around us,
instead of pointing like a fly,
we'll try to help them rise,
we'll try to help them rise
we'll try
we'll try
we'll try to help them be alive.