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.
Monday, September 29, 2008
An Exercise in Excuses
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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...
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.
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)
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
Dying
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
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
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."
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
***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)
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)
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