Matt in Verses

My Faces.

2011-08-04T10:04:00.000-07:00

My Faces.

All I remember is the flash
like a camera that stole my smile away,
that and the rest of my face,
the last thing I saw or will see.

They fixed all the holes,
plugged them up with scars, now
I'm told I'm a skull wearing skin,
and when I'm taken in public
my family tells me I'm a terror;
some nightmare who's roaming the streets.
My daughter can't comprehend
why my lips have no replacement
or why my eye sockets show skin
stretched like canvas to prevent germs getting in.

My heart beats, but shamefully,
and aches with the pain I've caused
those so close to me.

Now they say they'll transplant
my face for another, says the doctor
averting his eyes, so I'm told,
From some stranger whose passing away.
Tomorrow if I wake up, will my face be a neighbor's?
Will my family see through my facade?
Will this smile be wry?
Will these lips finally find the expectant lips of my wife
or will this stranger mask turn her away?

Insomnia

2011-06-28T12:20:00.000-07:00

Every night somewhere it's three in the morning,
and someone's not sleeping 'cause sleeping's boring,
and with twiddling thumbs they count as imaginary sheep leap
and wonder if it's worth it to try to fall back sleep or just get up.
How many sheep before enough is enough?
Plus they can't stop thinking about the bills.
Plus they can't stop thinking about the chills.
They can't stop thinking about how much
they're worried about tomorrow
and if they had to, where they could beg and borrow.

For a few seconds...

2011-04-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

For the next few seconds
forget.
Remember when remembering
soaked through like sun through
venetian blinds and striped our carpet
with warm and cold, light and night,
and all of that
kept us rapt
and we forgot
to look ahead instead of back,
and we crashed,
so for the next few seconds,
forget.

On the Way Home from Drew and Bethany's Wedding

2011-04-18T08:58:00.001-07:00

A long ride in a car.
Music pumping like blood, gasoline like adrenaline.
Raindrops not cleansing but spreading yellow
mud of pollen about the windshield.
The velocity on 64 seperates each drop into a distinct "tick"
but as the volume of rain increases,
the sound turns from "tick" to "Ssthack"
to a thick, mid-pitch "shhhshh."
Pollen puddles collide and disperse up the windshield,
to its corners and out into the wind
that seems to send the rain sideways past the speeding car.
Let's just keep this up.

Cornerstone

2011-02-15T06:17:00.000-08:00

There is but one brick we build upon
There is but one house we're safe within
And the wind, and the wind
Cannot find its way in,
No, the wind cannot find its way in.
There is but one we will call I Am.
There is but one rock upon which we stand
There is but one reason for our love,
And there's but one armor we can trust.
And Satan, and Satan
Cannot find his way in
No, Satan cannot find his way in

Jesus Christ, cornerstone,
In your love, we find our home
Cornerstone, Jesus Christ
Your empty grave, it promises life.

Smile-Face Pictures

2011-01-13T10:40:00.001-08:00

The pictures from those days hang crooked
on the wall before the stairs, all smiles,
all oblivious to the paychecks that didn't pay,
the night after night with heartburn and lying awake.
Their dusty frames and glass contain momentary joy
that sometimes stretched like a rubberband across days
or weeks, but sometimes snapped and slapped back,
cracking like a cup and spilling it like a sink.

And now it seems we don't take any more pictures
and I wonder if we still have momentary joys or
are we jaded like jewelery from China?
I don't know, but on the stairs, I remember.

Winter Decisions

2011-01-07T10:51:00.000-08:00

Do I write patterns or do they write me?
Pens leaking ink on my chest in circles,
arcs and angles, like a labyrinth, I move
according to the will of dead-end streets,
one-way signs, road construction and whispers.
God knows my patterns shift to the music.

And we find ourselves in my car, music
playing top forty when you look at me
Eyes, planets that plead we speak in whispers.
We've spent since March circumscribing circles,
sketching our rules made on walks through old streets,
and finally, silently, I will move.

The patterns we've sewn say "Make the damn move!
Stop looking for stop signs in the music!
Kiss for God's sake in the lights of these streets."
"Fredericksburg in winter," you say to me,
As I admire how your hair encircles
your face and moves with the slightest whisper

against your jacket, loud as our whispers,
voices barely swirling past. The car moves,
grumbling tires spinning their tight black circles.
Thumping pot holes, our disjointed music.
Your hand, finally, stretches to find me,
fingers lending warmth to frozen streets.

Until when thankfully we leave the streets
and lend flesh to the heat of our whispers.
I watch FOREVER pass in front of me
as the pattern of your red lips removes
any doubt you doubt, and with the music,
I close my eyes. The light leaves pink circles

throbbing on my eyelids. And fear circles.
You see, the pattern returns to these streets,
where even in embrace, doubtful whispers,
tickling my brain like the theme music
of Prokofiev's wolf, seem to warn me.
Yet I hold fast when the melody moves.

We move past circles, yet still use whispers.
We pass dead-end streets, we decide our move.
Past patterns? Music that does not move me.

Life Like Winter

2010-12-06T05:55:00.001-08:00

Clouds slip so slippery through skies with winds whispering
Hellos and a good bye, a hi and some see you laters.
And though the sun advances toward sunset, the east remains blue,
while to the west, gray rules the day due to an advancing winter,
Cascading down the Appalachian Mountains, gaining momentum
and moisture, and planning to huff and puff and blow
The dead dogwood tree in the back down on the neighbor's fence.
Nothing a chainsaw can't handle, except fingertips resent it.

chase

2010-11-05T05:39:00.001-07:00

Sometimes my phone is ringing
But God leave a message
I'm busy sleeping

But You won't!

There's a message on the mirror in eyeliner
But I don't have my glasses on yet,
I just open the cabinet.
I search for something that might cure this diseased
Clay jar of a body that covers me,
But the more medicine I seek,
The more I miss what You would have me see.
And when I do see the black letters on the mirror,
I realize that before I see myself,
I have to look through You.

Sometimes my ears are ringing,
So God leave me alone
I'm busy screaming

But you won't!

This may be a chase
It may go on for days
But I'll never escape

I'll return with dirt and grime on my face,
And I'll return to the mirror and the scribbled word "grace,"
I can't believe how dirty I've become,
I can't believe how dirty I've come undone,
And now clean, I don't ever want to be apart again.

This sure was a chase
Yeah, it went on for days
But I didn't escape

And now I'll never run away.

Before That

2010-08-26T05:01:00.000-07:00

The morning arrives on the heels of the night.
The leaves emerge green and the tides ebb and flow,
and yet before that You were there
and You whispered the world into existence
Oh God, You're awesome, You're amazing, You're everything
Jesus, You're savior, You're Father, You're everything
The verdict arrived on the heels of my crimes,
I was sentenced to die, I had no hope for my life,
and yet there is grace, You took my place
Upon the cross, my sins were washed away
Oh God, You're awesome, You're amazing, You're everything
Jesus, You're savior, You're Father, You're everything.

SHARPIE

2010-08-05T07:41:00.000-07:00

we write all these things in black sharpie/thinking they might carry more meaning/their thick black lines scrawl across the page/and the countertop beneath repeats what each word says/cause it bleeds through/like a band-aid on a severe head wound./when you read, you have to believe/these fat-walled words you can from afar yet still see./my fingers are stained with ink/and no matter how much I wash this damned spot,/it won't shrink,/and like Ms. MacBeth, I'm a bit concerned,you might say I'm about ready to freak,/but forgiveness is written on the page and has/bled onto the counter beside this kitchen sink.

Fight.

2010-08-04T11:18:00.000-07:00

Man if I had like a thousand eyes,
like a fly,
I'd try to spy on all sides at the same time.
I'd not be surprised,
and I'd lead a well-protected life.
Your very best disguise
would not/could not escape my thousand eyes,
and I'd fight you like Mike Tyson circa 1985.
I would not lie down, I'd fight,
and through God, by God, I'd survive.

(You son of the dark one,
you'd tempt us/me to swallow a gun,
metaphorically or literally, either one,
as long as a fighter fighting for the other side is done.)

So I strap on my armor,
request protection from my Father,
but if He decides to to provide,
I inform Jesus Christ that I'll
soon be happily standing in awe by His side.

Getting Older

2010-08-04T11:08:00.000-07:00

My core muscles are made of sandwiches and Joe runs through my veins,
amok through my brain,
and my peripheral nervous system feels tingly like something might bite me on the hand
like Peter Parker before becoming Spiderman.
My oh my, this diet soda's aspartame must be leaving deposits in my brain
like as if it was a bank,
like as if it was on the corner since you lived there and was waiting for you to return
but you found a job in Baltimore so you don't.
You just occasionally make a trip home
for Spanish Rice and chicken rolls
and the sanwiches you eat at work sure were a sign
you're not 28 anymore, by God, you're 29.

Abandon Ship.

2010-03-17T13:19:00.001-07:00

Abandon Ship.

Verse1:
I was listening to the news anchors and started sinking like a boat full of holes,
and I felt your fingers on my forearm trying to hold fast, but I knew it,
If we didn’t get out, we’d drown, so just this once, give up the ship,
So sorry Captain Lawrence, but this boat’s broken and we refuse to go down with it.
Between the two of us, we don’t have enough fingers to plug the thousand little leaks
Not to mention the cracks in the mast and rips in the sails, so we’re getting out
Let the boats down, we’re gonna abandon ship, this culture trip and we hope you don’t
But we won’t join you if you do go down with it…

Chorus:
Arms, legs, ears and throat,
all safe and sound in an escape boat,
I don’t wanna play chess with Jonah
I don’t wanna dine with Mister Geppetto

Bridge:
You and me will sail across this lake
We’ll take the long way to play it safe.

Verse2:
I turned on the radio, but like it felt like cannonballs, so I thew it overboard, and oh,
My shoulder’s so sore from carrying a musket amidst the ready aim fire and bullets,
And I felt your whisper more than heard you tell me, “If your ears are ringing, then join me,
We’ll go U.A., my love, just come on, sometimes you fight, but sometimes you have to escape.

Chorus:
Arms, legs, ears and throat
all safe and sound in an escape boat,
I don’t wanna play cards with Jonah
I don’t wanna have coffee with Geppetto

Coda:
You, me, eyes and lips,
all safe and sound on a sailing ship

Whisperer

2009-08-25T11:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-29T09:48:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-09T12:40:00.001-07:00

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

2009-05-05T10:03:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-29T13:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-16T11:48:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-24T10:52:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-03-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

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.

*********************

Brrrraaappp.
It's like a god-forsaken zipper,
how bullets rip from the barrel;
bent on death but mostly wasted on
sand and trees and buildings.
Silence, not love, is the answer,
I think I think, but I'm not sure
I think.

Thunk. Thunk. The pathetic attempt
at pock-marking my armor with their
pea shooters makes me laugh, ker-thunk.
Drive on, driver.
We'll be home one day,
you'll see like binoculars,
clear and far, but now,
just drive.
What? You're hit? Well,
ain't that some
thunk.

Change is Necessary

2009-03-19T14:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-10T13:19:00.001-07:00

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

2009-02-06T13:52:00.001-08:00

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

2009-02-05T12:48:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-30T12:28:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-23T06:52:00.000-08:00

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.

-*/

2009-01-15T14:06:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-14T13:02:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-01-08T14:07:00.000-08:00

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.

Christmas

2008-12-26T09:28:00.001-08:00

When I was a kid, we would go to the nearest Catholic Church each Christmas Eve for service. We don't anymore. Other than a wedding and three funerals, I've managed to avoid the Catholic Church altogether for the last 10 years. My first Christmas as a married person, I joined Becky's family at the church where 10 weeks earlier, I was married, for a Christmas Eve service. It was the last time I went to church so close to the holiday. I miss it, I think. As I drove from Virginia Beach to Fredericksburg alone yesterday (Christmas) evening, I was happy to have spent time with family, but I was feeling incomplete.

It may have had to do with the bruised face my nephew had after my sister-in-law's dog had a brief freak-out. It may have had to do with how people were really angry, like really angry, despite apologies. It may have had to do with the lack of good sleep I'd had in the previous few nights. I think it was a combination of those things, but I think those things were are reflections of the lack of grace, and more importantly, the lack of JESUS in the holiday. I don't expect some corporate discussion of Jesus and His importance to the world, and His birth being the whole reason we have this season. Truly, the fault lies with me. Before anything this morning, I should have isolated myself, or maybe Becky and me, and read the story of the birth of Christ (Matthew 1, Luke 1, John 1:1-5). I should have gone into the day with that on my heart and my focus rather than my desire to see my daughter open presents and drink coffee and eat food. All great things...there is no feeling like watching Ariella open a gift and realized, "This is for me..." but not THE MOST IMPORTANT.

Thank God for grace.

I love you.

Gun

2008-12-19T11:47:00.001-08:00

simply put the shell in
pull the thing, then the trigger,
and if the safety's off,
you'll be able to tell quick,
because you won't even hear the click
just the shock and recoil,
the ear-splitting ring atop
the thunder-like explosion,
and soon you'll see holes in
something,
hopefully what you wanted.

life

2008-12-17T14:39:00.001-08:00

Look here, see.
This sign says change,
or hope, but frick man,
I'm standing cold,
no cash of my own,
just this soup kitchen
that makes me listen
to sermons about a life
I may be missing,
what God wants of me,
well where the hell is he?

Look here, man,
my shoes' soles show
more sock and toes and
i'm feeling more and more cold,
and as I grow older,
I'm finding more and more
charity fades
and the friendly faces
they've been replacing
with scrutiny, as if
I was doing this to me,
as if I wanted tosleep
in a tent beneathe the trees,
as if if I followed God I'd see
that there's a bed for me,
well, I tried that.
and I think I have to die before He
relieves me.

Well, maybe that's okay.

Just believe me,
I believe, but still
I live on the frickin' street,
but see, it's not just me,
there's people who need to feel free,
there's people who need to see,
need to breathe again,
deeply,
wholly,
completely absorbing everything,
and knowing that this shit life
if temporary
fleeting,
soon to be but a memory and
treasures in heaven
are awaiting despite the things,
the sickness,
the drugs
the choices,
the life,
that put me on the street,
it put me on my knees.

I hope to help that story form.

Mission

2008-12-17T12:35:00.000-08:00

Lend me a morning, and I'll teach you to sleep,
Think I'm self-destructive? well I've done learned to weep,
I've done what I can, and God, I'll do it again,
Yeah I'll give up on home, and head for the road
if that's what you want me to do,
yeah is that what you want me to do?

Hold me til morning, she said soft in my ear,
I'd love to but can't, for tomorrow is near,
I've done what I can, and God, I'll do it again,
But the sea keeps on calling, and the sea won't give in
and so I'm off in the morning
to spread the good news, yeah, the God's honest truth,

and heaving ho, my love
I've got to go
It's a calling again,
And I can only submit
To the message of a king
the world just struggles to see,
and oh me,
oh my, We must forget about me
oh me, oh my
we must forget about I,
for if in the end,
we give in to death,
we'll find ouselves alive
when we've forgotten of I

zero

2008-12-12T13:35:00.001-08:00

Am I doing a good job?

Am I in the way?

Swearing, Kicking the Dirt, and Myself

2008-12-12T13:13:00.001-08:00

You should have seen your faces when I tasted my own shoelaces, I was...
stetched so thin, you could see through my skin, see where I end and where I begin,
see the parts of me that rarely see anything but the underside of my pale wrapping,
I am sorry that I spoke, so God help me, if I don't choke, you'll know
I'm slowly learning from my mistakes, I'm slowly learning from my hands shake
so much from such and such and acting tough and no one saying anything but
enough's enough, nothing but barbs and twists, and no lifting up,
no, I could have done better, I could have worn a sweater when it's cold weather,
but I don't.
I just slide, slide, slide, and feeling always inferior and pushed aside,
I hide, hide, hide, and smile because I heard that is what's right.

But every time, I...

Man, I don't even know.
I'm tired, but I'm happy,
mostly, but lately,
I feel like all I do is let people down,
down to the ground,
and I'm being ground down,
it really hurts to
have no self-worth,
and feel so much remorse
for every single word that springs forth.

And I am alone.

Encourage

2008-12-11T13:23:00.000-08:00

Tendrils of thought lash out like Indiana Jones' whip and wrap right around you, they hold you tightly and softly, smoothly touch your skin until tight enough and then they pull you in. My lips move like mountains, deliberately but constantly, they speak truth, they make what's gray seem clear and A-Okay. These fingers that you can't see could be so selfish, but I'd rather pull you closer to life than my side, I think I can get by on my own (with God's grace a constant speed dial on my phone). I only want the mutually beneficial, and sometimes that means thinking something different that the usual, you should tell that your clouds have sterling silver edges, not just thunder and lightning like you alleged.

Last Minute Mutterings

2008-12-08T13:18:00.001-08:00

I can’t breathe in this suit. The tie, the freaking shirt, tucked in, and my belt…Ugh. It’s on the last available hole. Seriously. I can’t breathe.

Chill out.

You chill out man! You bought your suit like a week ago, I bought mine when I was a junior in college…before they opened a god-forsaken Pizza Hut across the street.

You look fine.

You can’t see the rug burns where the pressure of my waist line is shredding my skin every time I turn.

You’re being dramatic, man.

Dramatic? Do I look like I’m acting? I should win a damn award for this. This takes dedication. This is like when Christian Bale got all skinny for The Machinist. This freaking suit is going to be what I am wearing when I die because if I don’t breathe soon, I am going to die.

Here she comes.

Oh my God. She looks beautiful. This is the beginning of your new life. Congratulations.

and then there were none

2008-12-02T10:16:00.001-08:00

and then there were none.
no feelings whatsoever,
no cold, driven by rain
like ms. daisy, cranky,
crisply tapping at these bones,
stripped of what was known,
and left alone, but now,
that feeling is gone.
no warmth, softly soothing,
speaking its soulful
solution to your open ear,
its supple lips inclined
to kiss and make you
want only more and more warm,
but that was before, and now,
that feeling is gone.
no happiness, no sadness,
frankly no feelings at all
gone. numb. speechless, dumb.
and then there were none.

I Prefer Pens to Palaver

2008-11-24T12:49:00.000-08:00

My adam's apple gets caught
on words and cuts them up
so that when I speak I stut
ter, and when I speak, I
repeat myself often and
also frequently. It's
also annoying to me, believe.
I sometimes contradict
or say what some say's a
Freudian slip, but it's just
that words stick like
spit to my lips.
Yeah, they stack up like
cars at a train track
and when they see the caboose
and work their way loose,
they come out in every
which order please they,
sense make don't they.
I'm sorry to say, I say
things better this way,
with pens and paper and no
adam's apple or lips
to turn whats black, whats white
gray.

What If?

2008-11-18T13:30:00.001-08:00

What if Hollywood died,
and Paris, 1915 came back to life?
What if literature
paved the streets instead of stars
in microskirts and plastic breasts,
fancy suits and provocative thoughts
like who's in who's bed?
What if thinking was cool,
rather than believing everything you see?
Oh shock and awe,
how frivolous you are!
Oh, I know, it's the same now as then
just put in new, plastic packaging,
but I can paint the past as I like
and paint the future hopefully,
with that same paint brush in mind.
Ideals.

Music

2008-11-13T11:00:00.000-08:00

Some people think in thoughts,
but I, I think I think in thirds,
fifths, flat fifths, and intervals,
not to say from time to time,
but all the time (and in rhyme).
Melody, my lady, come slay me,
put me in your record player and play me,
I'll give you my two cents worth saving,
One for a beat, two for a feeling,
rub those two cents together
to make a sound and you'll feel me.
I don't hear a clock, tick tock, tick tock,
but a rhythm, tick tock, let's rock,
I don't hear a phone ring, but chords
and still...what are you just sitting there for.
Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up, my friend,
put it down, put it down, and I'll call you again.

A Glass

2008-11-05T14:32:00.000-08:00

Pour me a glass of your best water, mister,
I'm parched and in need of something clear-ly
refreshment, clearly uplifting because
this weight-lifting is taking a toll
on my shoulders, so, oh, i need
you to pour me a glass, mister, please

Drink and you won't be thirsty,
you said, and eat this bread,
and don't want, yeah, you said,
yeah, you said, and yet
here I am dried up and starving...
...but its not you, it's me.

Make straight the way,
Make these cracks and traffic fade
Fill each valley in between
With mountains bowed on bended knee.

Pour me a glass of you best, waiter, I'm waiting,
and probably in my haste, I'll spill it on my table,
because I can't be bothered to pay attention,
listen to a whisper when on TV there's explosions,
despite this guy beside me who knows what I'm hiding,
I've dropped the glass more times than I'd like,

Pour me a drop of your best water, father,
and bring me the bill, i'm the gratuity solver,
but please forgive my rude behavior,
I've only recently started learning to be patient,
I've only recently ordered what I needed and drank it.
I've only recently ordered what I needed and drank it.

What If?

2008-11-05T14:24:00.001-08:00

Someone...something is always saying things you believe. What if you didn't?

What if I had an alibi
For all the times I lied,
and clothed in excuses,
I posed for pictures,
and all my prior abuses
were like scratched lotto tickets,
worthless and forgotten?
What if I had a necklace
of plastic pearls to give you,
to make you envy a facade
and a lifestyle that would never come through?

No Sound? No Change.

2008-11-05T14:21:00.000-08:00

V1
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Friends and fellow countrymen,
Please stand up,
raise your voice with questions
Sisters and Brothers
All you neighbors and cousins
Listen up,
come out from under cover

Ch
Left, face, salute, walk away
Wait, I have something to say
About, face, speak with voice raised
God knows the status quo is not okay

V2
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Comrades and fellow discontents,
Please don't rest
raise your voice and question
Elected Officials
Representing your interests,
Working on
Campaign ads to scare us.

Br
Americans and responsible citizens,
it's time we had a voice again
This is not a test, This is oh so serious,
it's time we questioned what's in front of us

Br2
We seek improvement,
and that may mean a revolution.
We seek salvation,
and silence is not a solution.

But Never Silence

2008-11-05T14:20:00.001-08:00

the thumbtack cuts little slits in my fingertips
and so i leave lovely little fingerprints
in every little thing I brush against

wouldn't you think i'd bandage it?
wouldn't you think i'd handle it?

Pin the notice to the wall, white striped wallpaper,
like theses in a church door, staring your way, sir,
Waiting for your look, waiting for protest or favor,

the thumbtack, clear and all but innocent
serves its purpose as i slowly push it in
securing my petition to the wall for all to see it

i'm not gonna put my hand down
i'm not gonna put my hand down
sir, i'm not gonna put my hand down this time

first, i will not be silent
i will not be quiet anymore,
next, i will entice every blade of grass to sing
and only then i'll concede you may be listening,
sir, this is a position worth dying for,
and i will not be quiet anymore.

Too Late

2008-11-05T14:16:00.001-08:00

Last night, a voicemail on my machine,
the bi-minute beeping kept invading my sleep,
until finally, I abandoned my dreams to see
the dreadful message left for me.
"My friend, by the time you hear my voice
through your phone, black and cold against your cheek,
I'll be floating down the river
like the pieces of trees we used to watch
and make believe they were boats on their way to sea.
Oh maybe I'll make it before I sink,
I'd so like a gravesite Atlantic, asleep forever in the deep.

"I just need you to know, I need to do this alone,
but I love you so much, you've been my friend through it all,
and tonight as gravity blows my hair back,
I'll be thinking of the times we'd leap from the rocks
to the river down beneath, just to swim,
just to live, but that's not what I'm calling about tonight.

"I cannot explain, but this thinking, ever-hidden,
won't just go away unless I make it,
please don't feel guilty, I doubt that you could
have made it any better, No, I doubt you could,
though as I climb this bridge, struck by the wind,
I wish I would have given you a chance,
just a chance, but

that time has passed.
These words are my last.

I cannot explain,

but these words are my last."

When would you say no?

2008-10-29T07:49:00.001-07:00

When would you say no?
When like Job, your livlihood is gone,
and family, house, and cute little dog?
When disease eats your skin
and you're watching the murdering of your kin
and things hurt.
worse than words.
Persecution is just a word,
but bullets and knives and lost lives,
that's...well, that is something more
and I've thought about, a lot about
what I might be in for,
and when I would say no,
but, no I don't think I will.

It'll hurt if I
lose my wife and baby girl and I
have to live with no house, outside,
but I have hope I'll see them again, and I
will not deny or hide life,
though it may mean I lose mine.

The U.S. Team vs. The Other Guys

2008-10-28T12:43:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid, I would ask my dad to tell me stories about being in the army. He never served in combat, but he'd participated in training counterinsurgents in Panama, some of which was associated with what would eventually be known as the School of the Americas. He would explain tactics; some of which he learned in the service, but most of which I'm sure he learned from any number of historical authors recounting famous battles from Waterloo to Hamburger Hill.

I would always refer to the opposing forces as teams, as in, "Dad, what team won?" He would always correct me, and say grimly, "They aren't teams. They are armies." I didn't really catch on until I was much older and started reading books about war on my own.

I remember reading Ghost Soldiers a few years ago. It's a book about the prisoners at Camp Cabanatuan in the Phillipines and the Army Rangers who liberated them. The prisoners were survivors of the Bataan Death March, and they were dying under the brutal at worst and severely neglectful at best treatment of the Japanese Army...not the Japanese team.

I wonder sometimes if a lot of people detached from the realities of war have started to think of it as teams playing...rather than human beings killing. Those caskets landing in Delaware are points for the other guys. Hussein dangling from a rope filmed by an observer with a cell phone was like a big three-pointer or punt runback for us.

Its sick.

This "sport" is taking lives, and the ones that it doesn't take are scarred. And sometimes, rather than resting on a bench and getting ready to go back in, these players off themselves. The most recent report I can find is from May of this year. "The U.S. Army reported Thursday tht the suicide rate among its soldiers continued to rise last year, and is now nearly double the rate recorded before the invasion of Iraq." In 2007, the Army confirmed 115 active-duty soldiers committed suicide...19 per 100,000 soldiers...three quarters of whom had been deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan. In 2002, it was less than 10 per 100,000 soldiers.

This team isn't doing a very good job of promoting morale, is it? I think the coach needs to think of some new half-time motivator in the locker room.

Killing people just isn't the energizer the movies make it out to be. Who'd have thunk it?

"Dad, tell me when the game is over."

A Lake

2008-10-27T11:00:00.000-07:00

At the lake, our pale legs,
dangling from pier's edge,
dragging fleeting forms,
ever expanding across the
sunset drenched expanse of water,
they look owned by ghosts
alone below the blue-green
surface.
Fingers, saturated, wrinkled,
pruney, we'd call it,
flexing each digit to get
the skin to return to its
usual tautness, they'd
stretch and rest,
mine atop yours atop
the splintered wreck of a dock.
Boats like bugs skip,
and they drawl at a distance,
slowly sounding out syllables
as the wind drives them,
or quickly crashing through,
sending waves and yelps
across the distance to me
and to you, and you rest your head
on my right shoulder and forget
yesterday and tomorrow.

Sucker on a Wheeled Chair

2008-10-21T12:57:00.000-07:00

This second
is the first chance you'll have since then
to reconnect and begin again.
Pick up your pride and pull it tight
about your lips, so pretty and thin,
like a pillow and breathe it in.
It'll kill you like cigarettes,
slowly stealing your very last breath,
and when you inhale the last of it,
you have a second to begin again.
Bend your knees at your waist,
at your shoulders, at you neck and your eyelids,
and kneel down for the softness of the carpets.
Spit that swallowed pride aside
like little bits of sunflower shells.
This second
chance brought to you not by happenstance,
but deliberate deliverance.

Oh, but I, so high on my office chair,
standing, commanding,
slide my own pride about neck,
a tidy collar, so wide and innocent?
Oh, how quickly I forget,
the wheels on this chair, and how my collar connects
to the banister, and becomes the noose
I hang myself with.

Into This Forever

2008-10-13T10:49:00.001-07:00

Oh baby, don't you speak with sterling silver lips,
yeah, your beautiful kisses are giving me fits.
yeah, your beautiful mouth is sounding out glitz
so give me another please miss,
I'll gather flowers from a field if you feel like it;
I'll gather chocolates from a store if you want me to;
I'll comb my hair and brush my teeth three times
and, heck, I'll wear a tie that's actually tied, not clipped,
to my neck if just you would this second consider some sex.

Remember four years ago when we were driving North
Ninety-Five, that god-forsaken interstate course,
just itching for the chance to get in bed,
to get undressed, drink champagne and forget
the chaos of the life we had temporarily left.
Remember January oh seven when we got home
alone and chose to create life - or at least try,
and now Ariella is alive?
oh baby, you still have those pretty lips
and ache as I do for a kiss, I'll get you those chocolates,
or those flowers or whatever. Just to let you know:
I'm into this forever.

It's Me. Not Him.

2008-10-09T10:33:00.000-07:00

Last night, I got there early. I turned on an amp...loud, and plugged in that maroon telecaster and played...alone. I let that A string drone and crushed the room.

I didn't need fans, just a pick, electricity, a low slung guitar, closed eyes, and God moving through me...the spirit of sound.

I etched the words you taught me on my hand with pen: You're not in the wind, You are the wind. It was me looking in the wrong places, not you hiding. Oh, how I spend so much time looking for what is there already, listening to hear hidden things in the things I hear so clearly. Instead, I should look and listen. You are there. Everywhere.

And that A drones on. God, I'm so glad I was alone because I listened to the wind for the first time in days.

Papercut: The Final Straw?

2008-10-06T14:45:00.000-07:00

Damn you, papercut, Monday evening stupid stuff;
You're a burn but a laceration, you stupid papercut -
Now I'll be sucking at the skin between finger and thumb,
to stem the flow of copper-tasting blood,
you stupid papercut.
And the insult to the injury is the paperwork
now slightly spattered with my DNA, unwillingly donated,
done on a day I requested not to work
my stupid dumb stomach freaking hurts,
and I've only eaten a sandwich and one serving of cereal
since Saturday's epic event of throwing up three previous meals.

Damn you, papercut, Monday evening stupid stuff;
and I can't tell if this ache in my belly is nausea
or hunger or stress or...oh frick...my phone is ringing.

Jailbreaker

2008-10-01T12:59:00.000-07:00

One morning when the sun was just above the horizon,
these two guys and I found ourselves finally outside -
heads popping from a tunnel a year and a half long,
dirt disposed of bit by bit so nothing appeared wrong.

I gotta breathe freedom deep
Feel it inflate my chest that's been so compressed;
oh prisoners, it's about time we left.

One evening when the sun was just upon the horizon,
these two dogs came in through the window near where I was lyin' -
teeth bared and gnashing hoping I fly for freedom
and the jailer hopes my flesh and blood'll feed them.

I gotta breathe freedom deep
I've been slave to my sins so long I forget
what its like to take a free breath.

And now they wanna take me back.
Well they can forget that.
Officer, I am a new man. I'm changed.
And sir, you cannot take me away.
I'm safe.

Sensation.

2008-09-29T11:12:00.000-07:00

I want a song to sing
to snapping fingers, but
the sensation of sinking's
Sipping at my soul, yes,
sucking down my spirit,
leaving me dry and dying.
The self-absorption of
loneliness alone can consume
this consciousness of
drowning in dry air, oh,
God, Abba, Father, please
spit me out where you will,
I feel caught like phlegm
in your lungs, coming undone,
and while I want brokenness
I also want hopefulness.
and while I want holiness,
I don't know how long I can take this loneliness.

An Exercise in Excuses

2008-09-29T11:04:00.000-07:00

watch the excuses worm the wormy way out of your mouth
and wriggle on the floor, worthless little things,
and what do you think? were they impressed with you?
did you represent what you wanted to with the words
floating like kayaks on your breath, sodden with
excuses.

War and Weathermen

2008-09-29T11:03:00.001-07:00

my stuttering steps tell less and less
and accomplishment seems distant yet
and oh, i, oh, am so, oh, totally tired
this breast plate, squad automatic, helmet
desert temperatures, can't we just end this?
instead i trudge left right left right

meanwhile in a air conditioned office,
officials offer their opinions on the operation,
no longer surgical but surreal and everlasting,
explosions just statistics and blips on maps
and maps on walls with no faces, just
lines and suspected lines and empty spaces.

like the meteorologist who guesses on weather
from an office covered with maps and degrees,
talking about hope for the end of this storm
just sipping coffee while a homeless man
sleeps hopelessly soaking in the spring storm
his hope in only that his things won't float away,
and that this too, will end someday.

Summer

2008-09-29T11:01:00.001-07:00

burn away the pallets
piled sky-high like some shrine
to all things fire
a pillar
a revolution
d.d.dance away the evening
or lie piled to the side -
corpses of insecurity-
and let the soak
sweat out the flame,
then fall fast asleep.

This is NOT a Poem.

2008-09-29T11:00:00.001-07:00

This is not a poem. Its a collection of thoughts.
How many times can I check my e-mail in one day?
Nervous habit.
Turn my palms up and look at my forearms, looking for veins
Popping out through muscle strain that won't go away.
I'm bored.
I'm waiting for life to pull back its hand and just slap me
Right in the face, just please leave a mark that won't go away.
Lets do anything other than nothing.
Something.
How many times can I check my e-mail in one day?
Well, I'm nine hours in and twenty two hash marks already
Scored on a lazy notebook, a tally of my boredom;
And dissatisfaction.
I think about skulls, and if I could draw them I would;
Wrap them in flame and picture them crawling up my arm
To twist painfully but so sweetly around my shoulder.
I day dream too much.

Relationship Jan. 06

2008-09-29T10:56:00.000-07:00

He says he likes his girls like he likes his handwriting
And she asks if he means unintelligible,
But he states he means thin and angular,
Pointy at every corner, and lacking arcs.
Quick and to the point with no time for elaboration
Sometimes just giving abbreviations for stories
Instead of bubble-letter spirals around the point.
She says he'd be better off alone
Than hope for a girl that's both to the point
And skin and bone.

Anyway, She likes her man to be a scene from a movie,
Always moving, muscles, and like prince charming
Ready to rescue her from slumber with a smile so disarming;
So inviting that she'd have to struggle not to kiss
On the first date.
"In the first place, that man does not exist beyond scripts,"
He whispers, she laughs and says "he does somewhere."
Somewhere, he's preparing to listen as she circles around the climax
Always patient through a never-ending story
Regardless of how boring.
She says he could be like that if only he tried,
And he responds, "Look at me, doll, I'm a guy
I want quickness and immediate satisfaction from everything in life."
She, having had a physical relationship in the past,
turns from his eyes, and laughs, and just says "yeah."
There's something about being male that seems to lack compassion.
He can't respond.

He's sure about this list of characteristics
And he's checking them off, and checking to see if she's on it
And she does the same.
They both ask each other if 5 out of 10 is okay.
He says, "I don't like your taste in music,
and I prefer movies that are more abusive. I like debate,
And when I argue I like to win, but you don't even like to play.
Lady, I think you're pretty, sure,
But I've never been attracted to girls with
the same looks as you before."
And she says, "You think I've looked at guys like you?
Musicians and poets and artists and no-future, just past,
Full of jazz, but not much else, guys like you.
Well, until now, it's not something I ever thought I'd do.
And look at your shoes and hair unkempt. Speakers so loud
I can't hear myself think, and you're careless
You write before you think, you smoke cigarettes. It stinks"

"Yeah, but I've been trying to quit."

He asks if they can just see how it goes,
And she says so long as they bar no holds,
Let the worst of conversation and doubt spill out
Like a bullet passing through a cup of water.
Rapid. Like Niagra Falls.
He asks if they can read together, and she says
only if sometimes they read to each other.
Sometimes from the Bible, sometimes Pablo Naruda
Sometimes slam poetry written by a real brother.
(And, like Derek Z, I mean that like the way black people do.)
He reports back that like life, it ebbs and flows
Builds upon itself, though hardship comes and goes
And she's pretty sure five of ten was okay
Because she thinks she can get a few more by making him change.
He winks and says no way.

The city looks so dirty...

2008-09-29T10:54:00.002-07:00

The city looks so dirty in the daylight, and the ocean like a dream tonight
The last lights of the city fade in the side view mirror,
the dizzy feeling of skyscrapers getting smaller disappears
and is replaced by the tiny feeling of vast open spaces;
distances your eye can't measure, and at night, can't even see,
can't even begin to dream.
The engine hums as gasoline pumps through its veins like elixir,
a couple thousand little explosions every minute,
kind of like war with less casualties:
Kind of like the Fourth of July with fewer lawn chairs,
and more purpose:
Kind of like tonight, we drive, and we have no destination.
The Pacific Ocean may turn us, or maybe the gulf or the ol' miss.
Maybe the icy north Atlantic will whisper good morning,
the sunrise on the east coast only rivaled by its setting on the west.
You'll wear flip flops, and I'll wear tennis shoes,
gym shorts and the first shirt from the drawer
(the road offers no fashion awards).
Our friends will sit in the back, leaning forward to converse.
Moonlight will spill across the hood and make shadows on your face,
your curling hair holding the night at bay.
We just go.
We just escape the routines, faintly scribed on our eyelids,
and write new chapters to an ever-expanding memoir.
We just go.
We just hit the road running, leaving behind the weight of sadness,
the parachute-like pull of stress, and frantic speech of unrest.
If we reach the ocean, we'll undress and break waves in our underwear,
wishing we never had to go anywhere or be anything.
The city looks so dirty in the daylight, and the ocean like a dream tonight.

Silver Linings (Cast Aside)

2008-09-29T10:54:00.001-07:00

I am the elimination of threats.
I am the one you seek in self defense.
The brass-knuckled friend.
The violence in the end.
I am folded arms and rolled shoulders,
I am the wall you can't knock over.
The oft-broken nose.
The thorns adorning a rose.
I am accompanied by awkward silence.
I am acknowledged only when there's required violence.
The bottled up rage.
The things better left contained.

My First Day in New Orleans

2008-09-29T10:53:00.001-07:00

The things you thought:
Gelatin-melting in the sun
A sticky glob _ You'll see
Yesterday fades away like
Memories, good, in New Orleans
Two thousand five.
Six months later, I'm here
for God's sake and
My life may take a different
A different type of way
After a day like today.
Emptiness.
Stress.
Smiles faded like the paint
On the sides of these houses.
The church we stay in cries loud
And the mold on the walls
Alone listens:
The only sign of emerging life.
I could cry.
Or maybe that's the fiberglass insulation.

Sometimes I Say Stupid Stuff

2008-09-29T10:51:00.000-07:00

This is in no way related to what I said before;
You know, those angry slips of the tongue
That slit themselves out of my lungs
And spilled all over our used-to-be-clean floor.
I stomped them out, and after about half-an-hour
They stopped moving, and my heavy breathing
Stopped feeling so oh-so-painfully-consuming.
(I wish my inability to control my temper
Wasn't hell bent on attempts to doom me.)
Anyway, like I was saying before,
You have every reason to be upset,
You have every reason to lay your chin
On your chest, fold your arms beneath your breasts
And refuse to speak to me,
But please.
(Deep breath)
Baby, please, just turn around, look at me
I'm contrite and just-like-you teary eyed,
I feel like I'd rather die,
All sticky from pushing all that irrationality aside,
I'm full of broken bottles now,
They used to be jars of frustration,
But now they're shards of glass and bent
Bottle caps tearing up my insides.
God, this can't last.
(Right? God this can't last?)
This is in no way related to what I said before;
Because before I was spilling unaimed
Anger on the floor, like bile and half-digested alcohol.
This is much more like an apology,
From my knees,
Just look at me and listen...I don't want my
I love you.
To land upon your hunched and silent shoulders.

Picture Some Perfect

2008-09-29T10:49:00.001-07:00

picture some fingers
plugging the perforations
in pale and growing paler
palms,
grimaces and groans and
a knowing glance, oh God,
grant the strength to go on -
swallowing the cup
giving up, the act of perfect love.

Thoughts on a Journey

2008-09-29T10:48:00.001-07:00

if i was big, i'd want to be bigger
if i was a gun, i'd itch your trigger finger
if i was number one, i'd number among the
rhythmic robot, i'm ambition, i'm a mission
i'm nuclear fission, i'm forward motion
the darkness is deafening, enclosing
like star wars and indiana jones,
oh, if i was a hero, i'd rattle your bones.
i'd flip on the lights, if i had a second
free procrastination, minutes beckon,
and television's my bed-time story.
if i was news, i'd want you to find me boring
i'm not excitement, indictment, murder, war
but if i was thought, i'd be enlightenment.
if i was ambition, i'd be american
if i were a robot, i'd be sharing it
i'd teach you to crumble and freeze
and feel nothing and sleep without dreams,
but being human, i'll teach you to love
if i were a bird, i'd be up above
where heaven meets atmospheric pressure
and angels i once thought stayed above the weather
actually don't hesitate to get wet, they're
not afraid of the rain,
but my slicker, yellow and plastic
keeps them at bay.
if i was on tv, i'd say never stop moving
because, though this isn't a race,
stopping is losing.

Song About I AM

2008-09-29T10:46:00.001-07:00

emergency
lights and sirens flashing and blaring
eyes alight, so very very like
a night without the chance for life
a parole with nowhere to go.
emergency
with broken bones and scattered teeth
and like a dutch boy with fingers in the levee
life's blood slips through holes
between these fingers' tenacious hold

as things go dark behind my eyelids
i am asks am i satisfied with how i lived
and i am not, no
no i am not.

emergency
the enemy's at battle stations ready
torpedoes out the chute and already heading
i do not want to be alone when i die
i want to close my eyes and wake up alive
emergency
i have not yet written about the golden streets
and starlight, star bright, i'm oh so weak
i am oh so infected by popularity
i can barely breathe, and

as things go dark behind my eyelids
i am asks am i satisfied with how i lived
and i am not, no
no i am not.

i should have stood up and screamed
but only silence
i should have stood up and screamed
that i am is truth and to know is life
and to die is gain.

Guilt.

2008-09-29T10:36:00.000-07:00

...then there's guilt.

Dying

2008-09-29T10:35:00.000-07:00

in a moment we'll all be the same (be the same)
so i'm so sorry 'bout your pocketbook
but baby, maybe you'll be the exception.
maybe they won't take it when they check for weapons.
maybe you'll be the richest chick inside
maybe it'll be just like this life (just like this)

God I hope not

i say moment because look around (look around)
yeah, i'm so sorry 'bout the time it took
and baby, maybe we'll be the exception.
maybe we'll still be here when everything ends.
maybe we'll be the oldest folks alive
maybe it'll be just us just like tonight

but God I hope not

Bench-pressing Anvils

2008-09-29T10:32:00.000-07:00

At the fair there was a man
bench-pressing anvils - his
shirt's short sleeves stretched
taught across his biceps -
strained and sweat-soaked
muscles all curves and cut.
His veins raised
like an atlas of alternate avenues
from heart to sinew,
sinew to heart.
The man grunts with effort,
every molecule exerted
upward. Forward. Farther.
His teeth grit against each other,
and I'm sure he can hear it
in his head, a grinding constant
against the pounding of his heart.
the pounding of his heart.
pounding heart.
pounding.
teeth grinding.
And I think,
"If he should slip and drop
that steel upon his giant chest,
he'd feel the escape of his breath,
the onset of physical emptiness,
and he'd look at me and he'd
understand."

Self to Silent God

2008-09-29T10:29:00.000-07:00

***SELF TO SILENT GOD***
Self to silent God,
I'm sick of silence, God
I'm in need of something warm

Self to silent God,
I'm sick of silence, God
I'm in need of something warm

Self to silent God,
I'm turning this transmitter off.
I'm going dark once and for all.

You're not in the wind.
(You are the wind)