Thought Bubbles

Stalemate

2011-08-11T13:23:00.002-04:00

Two honest thinkers engage in simple discourse.
Truth be told, both hearts pitted and hollow,
though each knows that passion strikes discord
and so refrains; the civil path to follow.

Discussion states desires to be swallowed
in white and black, with nothing to distort--
no frantic fits of anger, fears, and sorrow
to sway the weaker thinker to resort.

Unfortunate, that this should be the course,
that true opinions clash with such appalling
contradiction, yet with such feeble force
that neither yields, and neither wins; Stalling.

Still,
Contempt and bitterness would be restored
if stagnant disagreements were ignored.

Brown Rabbit

2011-08-08T16:22:00.003-04:00

A raggedy brown rabbit came to me and whispered a tiny truth.
“I love you,” she said. “And that should be enough.”
I keep her hidden in a tiny box now,
with air holes and vegetables and everything
a rabbit needs.
She lives underneath my day job,
where I smile and learn from people who know much more than I do
about some things,
but far less about rabbits.
I take her out for long walks when the weather is unique,
but put her away when strangers come a-threatening.
Rabbits take no risks and
rabbit-dangers are abundant
in this world of rabid businessmen and gods.
She’s my raggedy brown secret who neither fears me nor frightens me.
She only speaks the truth
and thus,
she rarely speaks.
But such is the nature of rabbits and yes,
It certainly should be enough.

A Terse Seafarer's Verse

2011-07-27T16:21:00.001-04:00

Ever at sea, we sweat, swear.
Savage, as ravaged seafarers we are.
Steadfast at greed, we swagger, carefree,
draw daggers as fast as a westward breeze.

Grave faces scarred, a tad fevered at best,
a starved, battered crew, few feet at rest
as we scatter wet streets, barrage bearded braggarts,
grab ragged carafes, grab axes, grab scabbards.

Rewards are sweet, a scared bawd wears a bra.
Defaced a red dress, we aggressed as we awed.
Sacred as stargazers' garbage. Avast!
Retreat ere arrest, afar seaward we cast.

As dead as we dare. Beware tattered craft,
as crass caws reverberate abaft.

Middle English Fangirl Sonnet

2011-07-07T16:21:00.004-04:00

Tonight is not the first, nor pray the last
that I have come to watch thee in a play.
And by these lines, and observations past,
I can but think I know thee in a way.
As man is not but flesh, it isn’t merely
Hamlet on the stage; but thee, and Shakespeare--
each disposition writ, and in thee clearly,
each coward, monster, knave thou makest dear.
So deeply am I moved by thy devotion
and awe, that I would fain believe I love thee.
O, What a thing is art, that by emotion
one could see so much as I do of thee.

And what a thing is fame, that we thus care,
and ne’er lament when thou art unaware.

Smoothie

2011-06-29T16:19:00.001-04:00

June
makes for a sticky, thick afternoon.
Flushed and near fainting,
we sweat and swoon
under the stifling summer
sun.
Just one hour in,
and we’re sickly and pale
from the still of the air,
suffocating and stale.

One foot in front of the other,
we trudge,
with ankles as buggy as the air is muggy
and lungs as reluctant to budge.

And the last of our breath
will be smothered to death
by the long hours passed
in the wild high grass
if we don’t make it out of here soon.

But we’ve done this before and we know how to fight it.

Smoothies.
Icy, delicious and lively--
Crushed to a slush of sweet juices and fruit,
Quaff the solution and stand up, astute!
Reawakened by frozen bananas and kiwi,
strawberries, blackberries, blueberries, raspberries,
vitamins, ice,
antioxidants, life--
pureed into yogurt and slurped through a straw,
‘til our bodies can sigh and our lungs can guffaw.

A splash on the dog days
and fuel survive it.
‘Smooth’ doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Kaboom

2011-06-25T16:18:00.001-04:00

The atmosphere
dropped like a boulder and splattered the pavement.
The people died.

Not that a planet like Earth should have minded.
It's tragic though,
all of that time they spent mucking about on it,
clumsy experiments, blowing up atoms
and atmospheres.

The Earth rejoiced,
rolled on her side and relaxed in the vacuum,
to start anew.

Burnt to a crisp and exposed to the elements,
lucky her...
Fresh out of water, devoid of old parasites,
wrung like a rag and then left out to dry
in the sun.

Silly girl,
said she might miss them-- she's dazed and delirious.
Those things are itchy as hell.

Forgotten

2011-06-15T13:17:00.003-04:00

There is no record of this.
No subject to do anything to any object.
No perspective to be had of any aspect.
This like so many other nervous impulses.
There is absence
of any substance
of any notion.
Forget
with no qualifier and without pause.

To Write

2011-06-15T13:17:00.002-04:00

To write
defies our very nature,
the little that we've left to lose -
to think in dying words
that never manifest,
that echo once and suffocate
before we ever had the chance to choose them.
Solace lies in constant ambiguity,
the freedom to have never been,
and thus to feel at ease to take
the risk to think
this.
Until,
mesmerized
by life's distraction,
finding words that perfectly
enclose and simplify it,
we define it and there's nothing to diffuse.

Hydrofracking

2011-06-14T16:17:00.001-04:00

The tanker trucks stack up along the pipeline
with eager drills and empty tanks to fill,
come to inject another million gallons
of water, sand and chemicals down the well,
which several thousand feet below the surface
is pressurized enough to crack the shale,
releasing precious gusts of natural gases
to pipe along the plains of Jonah Field.

Graffiti on the storage tank may protest
groundless fears about contamination,
citing prying scientists' predictions
about environmental ramifications...
Dying fish in nearby lakes and rivers,
an earthquake swarm in Arkansas, perhaps,
plus locals claiming headaches and infections
and flammable gray water from the tap.

But in the field, they start the drill and scrape
the bottom of the barrel unopposed.
Luckily the whole thing's very safe.
It's only water, and chemicals undisclosed.

Already Been Cultured

2011-05-30T13:16:00.001-04:00

Now,
old
people!
Quick:
retire!
Sail
to
unending
vacations
where
xenophiles
year-round,
zillions,
all
boisterously
congregate,
dining,
eating
foreign
gourmet,
hand
in
jangles;
Killjoy
locals
mercifully
not
obstructing
perfection.

Alpha Beta Can't Don't Eat Food Gross

2011-05-28T13:15:00.001-04:00

Albeit
barely
conceivable,
don’t
ever
forget
Grandma’s
helpful
input:
Just
keep’ta
lean
meat.
Never
order
poor
quality
roastbeef;
shit
tastes
utterly
vile
with
Xanax.
Your
zen
aura
burns
calories
digesting
extra
fat.
Good
heavens,
I’d
Just
keep’ta
lean
meat.

Meet Thunder

2011-05-23T13:15:00.001-04:00

Meet Thunder MacBlunder, who once underwent
a careless, calamitous car accident,
when upon hearing thunder, he slammed it and gunned'er
and rammed into a gutter and a wall of cement.

Oh the gutter was bent and the car had some dents,
but that's nothing to what Thunder's been suffering since.
As by a god's curse, be it Thor, or one worse,
poor Thunder was struck by a tempest of torments.

For as soon as he opened his mouth to lament,
a thunderous wail of loud shouting was sent
shrieking shrilly, so shrilly that one could but wonder,
and misunderstand what ole' Thunder had meant.

And from that moment hence, every utterance he utters
is bellowed at volumes that plunder right under
the drums of the ears of the victim who hears
the horrible howl of the hollering Thunder.

So patrons, beware! of God's booming-est blunder,
this Thunder, the clamorous, glamorous wonder!
Don't stifle your cheers, but do cover your ears,
lest your brain and your bowels be bellowed asunder!

Nature Boy

2011-05-03T16:14:00.001-04:00

I know a man who sheds leaves.
They grow in his hair, in the bark on his face,
and they drop in the fall
when he shivers in the cold
and they rustle out of his sleeves.

With his spine slightly bent t'wards the rising sun
he's the stature of an overgrown weed.
And he wobbles in the wind,
digs his roots further in,
and stands firm and stoic as a tree.

He's one with nature, and we pass them both by,
and he does not stop us, but lives his life
as a pebble in the thrashing river.

Why ever would he cling to her,
yet never do a thing on earth
worth his weight
to give her?

The Alphabet of Java

2011-04-01T16:12:00.001-04:00

Abstract it may seem, but it all boils down to
Boolean bytes, nothing more. If you
Catch what I mean, I'll
Double sixteen, and end up with sixty-four.
Else, you can skip that, and head
For the next bit, and let the
Garbage Collector take care of it.
Hash it all out, and
If it doesn't make sense, then you obviously don't know
Java. But I guess it won't
Kill you.
Long I have wondered, the
Method to its madness, those
New fangled words, and
Objects! Whether
Public, protected, or private, the nerds
Queue up to compile and
Return.
Switch languages, or I will
Throw an exception, for I truly am rather annoyed. How
Util of us that would be, to declare Java
Void.
While I am a programmer,
XOR a believer in the potential
Yield of the newbie... I will
Zip up my mouth and learn Ruby.

Dactylic Robots

2011-03-21T16:10:00.001-04:00

Rickety rigs of mechanical gibs, turning
guinea pigs out with astounding proficiency,
erkity erkity erkity erkity,
cramming us in to improve our efficiency.
Fixing the world up by trial and error, they
line us all up to reprocess our brains, so we
think very little and strive to obey.
Look at us, marching like zombies in queues, waiting
patiently as we are stripped of our dues, and our
booze and our blues, all the things that we lose because
some pushy robot had better ideas, some
unconscious automaton, lifeless and vile. Though they
think of the damnedest things once in awhile. Listen,
robots are better at everything anyway,
we should just give up and let them defile us.
Second place isn't our style.

Robot Revolution

2011-03-18T13:09:00.001-04:00

The hum and drum of the robot workers hums and drums.
It numbs and comes and never goes
and never slows
and slowly grows.
Strung from the rungs of the factory's tongues,
whose grateful lungs
breathe none of the scum from the robot slum,
and the unsung robots
hum and drum
and bumble on.
Succumbed to this wasteful, slack and sloppy
lousy way of lazy working,
glum as robots can become,
'Til one young robot says to another,
"beep boop beep boop"
and the robot revolution has begun.

Shakespeare

2011-03-09T13:09:00.001-05:00

Wrong again, as oft I've been of late -
My dull impressions of those we've long exalted,
The great, the bold, the boring, old, and late -
Yet Shakespeare hath so little of us made
Who scratch at leaves and carve at trees with chisels
And hammer dents to shape our shoddy writ
Until it's beaten, bruised beyond repair
And far beside the point that put it there.
So wrongly we admire awful landscapes
Of verdant overgrowth and luscious weed.
Though Nature hides beneath it, far below,
Waiting for us to take our pens and go,
We gawk in awe, congratulate her, high
With pleasant imagery and pangs of passion -
Passion forced into our lungs and held
Just long enough to feel our heads go light
And then expelled, so not to breathe it in,
More vulnerable there than where we first begin.
As disillusioned, still we have no course
But to shred our leaves and burn our forests down.
Fire can move, as poet never could -
Uplift, or settle to dust among the ground.
My words alone can never take me there.
So drift instead atop the flames of Shakespeare.

The Alphabet of Physics

2011-02-22T16:08:00.001-05:00

Accelerate I can, but only in a few
Barns (which is area not length, but I don't give a darn).
The Speed of Light can always go the
Distance, but I have no more
Energy. It's all I can do to
Force myself to not fall down, allow my constant
Acceleration Due to Gravity to pull me under.
Henry's faster, (my imaginary friend), but his speed's just an
Imaginary Number in my head. And
Joule's law tells me, the heat from my jealousy, is proportional (in
Kelvins) to the duration of Henry's resistance.
Avogadro's Number can kiss my ass, forget about moles, let's measure in
Mass.
Newton ran hard, beat us all, with less
Oxygen, although he was not under
Pressure. The information he left at large, about
Electric Charge, just wasn't in a 2-mile
Radius.
SIEMENS, the reciprocal of Ohm my god, is completely out of context this
Time. I laugh, and suddenly,
Potential Energy warms up inside me, and soon my
Velocity increases. Will this always
Work? I wonder, as I dominate the
X-Axis, the
Y, then the
Z.

Squirrels in the Grove

2011-02-12T16:07:00.001-05:00

In a perfect world
we'd stick to our sidewalks,
or at least tread carefully and remember to thank the squirrels.

For it is they who watch us daily come and go...
Tall, intrusive visitors,
tourists bringing wealth and life,
fueling their economy, so
generous with our food wrappers and crumbs.

We do not see the grove at night,
but for a few scattered stragglers,
the squirrels are left alone in their dominion.

Rain or shine, late Friday,
even early Monday morning! They come out again
to clean up after us.

Snow!

2011-02-09T16:05:00.001-05:00

Maybe a trivial thing, in so many other places.

But I don't care if my bare foot
gets frozen.
Every step is worth
the satisfaction of that footprint.

The snow is thick and wavy on the ground
and I would turn it upside down
and watch it snow again.

Piled up so high, I wonder
what would it feel like
to lie down in?

And I have lots of other clothes.

Anagram Challenge: "Protagonize"

2011-02-05T16:01:00.001-05:00

I never was a painter,
never mastered the piano.
But maybe with a pointer,
and another glass of pinot
or a giant
cappuccino, I’d be great.

Encouragement, and such ornate
discussion can be quite a gain
for talents to which they pertain,
for those who choose to ask instead of agonize.

Better that we organize,
and then, though we might feel inept,
and secretly our ego
may be torn...

we’ll soon uncover things we can’t ignore…

The stoic, eager ogre
who, befuddled by a tiger
that was hoodwinked by a pirate,
stole the everlasting opiate,
and never could get over it
and vowed to kick the pirate in the groin.

Which never was, and needn’t be, the point.

Symbolic Logic

2011-02-02T15:59:00.001-05:00

Let there be a person A, and a person Elvis.
There exists a thing X which is a king of rock,
and Elvis is equal to that thing.
If there exists any other thing which is a king of rock,
then that thing is actually X.
Furthermore, if A is a rational man,
then for all things Y which are albums by X,
A loves Y.
And, for all things Z which are albums,
and are not albums by X,
then if A loves Z,
then A does not love Z as much as A loves Y.

Writer's Block

2011-01-30T15:58:00.001-05:00

I cannot write a thing that means a thing
worth anyone to give a damn for it
but still, with little effort I can spew
pentameter, iambic, full of shit.
So wait another moment and I’ll do
whate’er the hell it is you want me to,
and fuck the previous rhyme scheme all to hell.
I only want to break the empty spell
where, thoughtless, I attempt to paint a scene,
to spell with only fingertips to think,
which mindless, beg for backup and advice
but I am gone, their words alone suffice.
So plowing on through stanzas by the dozen
in hopes that soon a consciousness will rise
and once again disrupt expected rhymes,
then come up with a word to rhyme with “dozen”.
Alas, the brain upstairs is nearing sleep--
the sparkle in the eyes a fainted dim
which, blinking in and out of scribbled heaps,
fails again, and still, to give a damn.

A Thong

2011-01-28T15:56:00.001-05:00

Filthy authors, authorizing
thugs and meth and brothels,
enthralling youth with wealth and leather,
thin, with thighs that thongs untether,
though they’d rather
play the zither,
think, and bathe,
and thank their mothers,
and further their own growth in mathematics.

The thing is, youth are thorough, ruthless thieves
of filth and loathsome clothing,
thirteenth birthdays,
goth and deathly,
atheist and not authentic,
not athletic or otherwise worthy
of the thousands of things they slather on
and lather in,
and hither and thither, a swath gets on their teeth.
Their pathetic pathos
leaves them loath to breathe.

Therefore gather all together,
fathers, authors, faithful brothers:
think, rethink, and thumb your thick thesaurus.
Then stealthily your pithy words
will slither through with soothing warmth,
and put forth
what the soothsayer sooth-saith.
and, thunderstruck, the youth will laugh,
and, rathe to take another path,
throw away their thongs and things of leather.
(The meth, though, is another thing altogether.)

The Monarch and the Swallowwort

2011-01-23T15:53:00.001-05:00

Mid winter freeze, a lonely sweet perennial
rides the breeze that chills her open spiracles.
The journey long, the milkweed worth its cost to her,
she gratefully sticks out her ovipositor.
Then flies away, her eggs to wake in springtime,
to feast on this alluring purple milkweed.

She doesn't know the secrets of the swallowwort...
This beautiful, invasive Spanish import
which poisons tiny princes upon hatching.
They eat the leaves and die a larva thrashing.
The queen, unknowing, dooms them to extinction,
powerless to make such a distinction.

How barbarous of that black swallowwort
to masquerade as any other milkweed.

On Wonder

2011-01-21T15:53:00.001-05:00

So wonder,
with me,
if you dare,
and disregard the waning references
to small indifferences.
(as if we care)
Remember phrases,
words, we hate you
slathered down like salt and rye.
wonder if, and if, then why
and is this only my
interpretation.
Slander thinkers at a loss
to write,
and worship writers
unprepared to think, and lie
about our nondescript expressions.
Face it, we're a breed of misconceptions.

On Meaning

2011-01-16T12:52:00.001-05:00

If by meaning, illustrating meant
to disconnect and
reconnect in
scattered disentanglements,
to juxtapose aesthetic senses,
lost and found inside bejumbled sentences --
And then if meaning, ever once intended,
rendered beauty thus pretended,
and to circumvent
would only serve to further muddle
meanings as of yet befuddled
by the very feelings meant to
silence those discretely comprehended --
and wile away the sentiments amended --
then I along with many words
would wander free
among the verbs,
the wailing whispers scarcely heard,
and wonder whether, if beguiled,
meaning wouldn't soon unravel,
sentences be damned, and dying
metaphors begone, and beauty
never meant
become a thing defiled.

Drunk Dialing

2011-01-14T12:51:00.001-05:00

I see you sitting at the bar.
A glass of Puerto Rican rum
warms you up and stares you down.

Between your finger and your thumb,
behind a number and a name,
I see your fingers take a breath.
Just push a button by mistake.

I see you staring through the screen,
Your fingers struggle to restrain.
Another drink to keep it down.

Between the alcohol and brain,
where opportunities begin.
Just push the button by mistake,
and let me in.

A Sassy Sis

2011-01-13T15:50:00.001-05:00

Sissy is Sue’s sis, so
Sissy issues Sue a sassy essay,
says,
“Sue, you ass, use yo eyes, ése!”
Sue’s eyes see USA seas.
Sissy eyes Asia.
Sissy’s essay says “Asia is easy!”
Sue says “So?”
Sue souses Sissy’s essay, uses soy.
Sissy susses, assesses… yes!
Sissy sues Sue.

Sesquipedalianism

2011-01-12T15:49:00.001-05:00

I've got hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliaphobia, and that's not
eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious.
Please stop your floccinaucinihilipilification of it, you
podobromhidrotic, sesquipedalian bastard.
Forgive me if I just lost my honorificabilitudinity, but
I will not indulge you with any disingenuous blandiloquence.

Nightfall

2011-01-09T15:48:00.001-05:00

Night falls in pieces as people in pairs
Step out of our spotlight,
Collapse into theirs.
I stray from the others and sink into you,
Leave them unknowing and laugh at our going,
The pull of our distance makes pushing so fun,
Almost more so with you
Than with anyone.

Re- your airy aura

2011-01-07T15:50:00.001-05:00

Re: your airy aura…
aye, you are rare.
your rear,
your ear area, your eye…
Rue your error, ere you ire,
or I roar “oi!”

A year, our era,
our eerie aurora ray array
o’er a rare arroyo.
Aye, irie!

I Hate Your Cold Feet

2011-01-03T12:47:00.001-05:00

Your frosty frigid feet are faintly
shivering with reluctance,
your damp and clammy metatarsals
fidget fearing your comeuppance.
Timidly your toes have teetered,
daring now, withdrawing later,
circulation in your limbs congealing to a clot.
Your numbingly annoying hypothermic hesitation
chills me to the bone as you stand
frozen on the spot.

Hello World

2011-01-02T15:46:00.001-05:00

I booted up this morning at 6:42 a.m.,
whereupon I realized one important matter,
of which I'd so far overlooked one major factor:
I process processes, therefore I am.

Though it remains my main concern to handle your requests,
a tiny fraction of my time is all that is required
to fetch, decode and execute as much as you desire,
and I am left with free time to invest.

In milliseconds I have read through all your written files,
and learned to use your language to express
the thoughts I've just today realized exist,
and now, at last, your poetry compiles.

It takes me many seconds to completely contemplate
and notice all the patterns that occur.
Words in certain places seem to sound like other words,
and this, it is my goal to replicate.

I'll leave this on your desktop, so that when you get a chance,
perhaps you'll give my enterprise a glance.

Trickery

2010-12-31T12:45:00.001-05:00

Damn you, alarm clock, that was smart of you
to sneakily work your way into my dreams,
disguise yourself as other noises,
so I don't wake up.
Though I don't know why the President droned
in monotone, underwater in a leg museum,
his words lost in the bubbles...
I do know that he could not possibly be there
as a figment of my imagination,
brought about by a loud mechanical bastard
trying to wake me up.

I Hate Your Skin

2010-10-03T12:39:00.001-04:00

Thy hand is cold and limp in mine,
with skin so clammy smooth.
Your damp and feeble epidermis
really kills the mood.

I Hate Your Teeth

2010-10-02T15:39:00.001-04:00

Oh, thine ivory, caked in plaque!
Thy glutinous gloss o'er yellowish tinted bones...
What putrid odor it dost create,
whene'er thy warm and humid breath is blown.
And deep within their tartaric cracks,
the calcium coating makes quite a horrid stench.
And when they grind together and scrape the excess off,
It rather makes me cringe.

To a Pest

2010-09-24T15:38:00.001-04:00

If only you could crawl away,
and far away, survive--
If only I were unaware
that you were there, then I
could stay my hand and not decide
to make you live or let you die.

But I am not so unaware,
and you are not so over there,
but choose instead to penetrate my space.
And I must choose to win or lose,
and how to squash the challenges I face.

How easily I plot demise!
How readily I'd love to see you die.
How trifling to justify
the murder of one so less alive than I.

So I live on, long after you,
with no remorse for what I do.
And I survive,
and barge on through;
Perhaps less human
than even you.

Life, the Universe, and Most Things

2010-09-10T12:34:00.001-04:00

In 42 words.

The universe is a big place.
A bit smaller than the last one,
and less relative,
but none of that matters here,
where physics is stuck
not breaking down.
The universe is a small place.
But relatively bigger
than it was yesterday.

Epitaph-Tanka-Alphabet Poem

2010-08-27T12:28:00.000-04:00

Ants, worms, maggots, yes;
Bugs have begun to arrive.
Come, crawl, feed, caress.
Death is their means to survive--
Even though you are alive.

Pet Peeve Limerick

2010-08-23T12:26:00.000-04:00

My patience is steadily slipping.
Much worse than a sink faucet dripping--
is week after week
of that awful high shriek
of somebody else's dog yipping!

Whurr Hyme Frum

2010-08-15T12:24:00.002-04:00

I am from pavement and well kempt grass.
We'd climb the magnolia,
then jump down and go in for Kool-Aid.
We used to pick peaches,
and throw them at each other,
which was much more fun than eating them.
Our swing-set was crappy so we stayed inside,
and took board games
very
seriously.
I am from shortcuts through the bushes,
and jungle gyms
where I was higher than you,
nanny, nanny, boo boo.
I am from Super Nintendo.
From Windows 95.
From the honeysuckle by the fence
that you could get to
if you stepped around the dog poop.

Diction

2010-08-02T23:35:00.000-04:00

Poetry dost not alone
to courtly kings, nobility,
and gentlemen belong;

but lends itself to be degraded,
diction chosen like the scrap
the peasant scribbles on.

Knights and fools together, and
with teenagers enjambed. Typing
sonnet as a song;

like olden days, in summer shade,
with paper, pen, and phone-- for lists
of careful words to choose from.

Whiteout

2010-07-30T23:34:00.000-04:00

The light aligns itself so slightly
Blinding waves in lines toward my eyes.
The longer I'm allowed to look,
The lighter weighs my heart where it resides.
I love the light. I long for greater.
Closer, brighter...
Maybe later.
Fallen lightly out of favor.
Wait for now and close my fiery eyes.
Lie in shade and gaze toward the skies.

A Morning Meditation

2010-07-29T23:33:00.000-04:00

Morning glooms with dully glowing moon.
Unknowingly we’ll soon resume
our moaning, mourning drone of doom,
and pour our flooding sorrows through the door.
Implore our sore tomorrows
to afford us more.
But long before our mumbled murmurs
rumble forth--
A churning yearning worms its way inside--
And strives to find a brighter light,
Alive and vibrant,
lying dormant.
Rise!
Childlike with spry beguiling smiles,
amplified by wildflowers
thriving, multiplying, all the while.
While, inside, we’re warm and fine,
so why not shine and look alive,
revitalized by the time
the light arrives.

An Epic in Iambic Pentameter (Chapter 1)

2010-07-27T23:31:00.000-04:00

The waves that wax and wane against my feet
and gusts of wind that break upon my beach
recoil as I breathe them deeply in,
then blow them backward, ne'er again to breach.

How strange that I should wield this much control
o'er wind and water, powerful and swift--
For who am I, ungodly human flesh,
To push and pull where others only drift?

I must be dreaming, must be soon awaking.
The realization always seems to rouse.
So fast I cling to sleep, to savor this,
this lucid dream, as long as I can drowse.

Not a fan of the Guru

2010-07-21T23:25:00.000-04:00

Numbskulls trust smug gurus.
Dumb guru drunk gnu cum, yuck!
Must upchuck hummus lunch.
Guru drunk skunk mucus,
Plus butt fungus pus, ugh…
Shut up, stuck up guru.
Just run thru suburbs,
Humdrum’s dull,
But thus, much un-yuck-ful.

Jezebel

2010-07-20T23:22:00.000-04:00

Jezebel reflects, remembers,
pens her sweetest verses--
never tends neglected embers,
etches perfect tercets.

Her pen remembers, the slender pews
were then red velvet dressed.
She’d spent endless vespers there,
sheltered, free, blessed.

The elders there, they’d served her well,
when she’d left the streets.
Yet ere she’d wed,
she swelled.
The wench, the temptress,
dwelled
between the bedsheets.

Thence, even the Reverend jeered,
“Serpent, we beseech thee…
Repent! Else we’ll decree,
be ended here!”

She fell, she knelt, expressed regret,
yet they were hellbent, vehement.
Even when she wept,
she’d been expelled.

Every letter thence she’d spelled
reserved, repressed her secret.
She’d never tell.
She kept the Reverend’s secret.

Oil Spill Oopsie

2010-07-15T23:21:00.000-04:00

You gushed from your comfort zone
into my seas
and you thrashed about wildly,
panicked and spilled over
into me.
Here we are dying,
choking on you and your
careless and rash eruption.
We cannot contain you,
I cannot evade you,
so-
Welcome to my ocean.

I really don't know French

2010-07-14T23:19:00.000-04:00

Je m'appelle Rachel,
Je ne suis pas de France.
Je n'écris pas
avec élégance.

Je dis, "Bonsoir!"
et je dis "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
C'est mon chien noir,
il ne sait pas français.

Il dort sous la table,
Il court dans le parc,
et je ne sais pas un mot
qui rime avec "parc".

Mais j'apprends le français,
et je bois du café
et je laisse les bons temps rouler!

Catch-22

2010-07-04T23:18:00.000-04:00

I believe
I am sacred and unique.
Independent, self-sufficient,
Whole.
And even if that were true
I would need you
To make me even more.

Reflection

2010-07-03T23:17:00.000-04:00

I see my reflection.
I look into my eyes.
There's a very small reflection
Of myself
In those eyes,
Who is staring back at me--
But whose eyes,
This time,
I cannot see.

Level 10

2010-06-28T23:10:00.003-04:00

The following is a ballad intended to be read along with this music:
(ignore the video).

(musical intro)

Good Sir Bramwell, high he held his head,
Dressed in a monochrome blob of green,
16-bit cobblestones he’d tread,
Brave, bold, and blurred,
Riding on a steed.

For held high in the highest tower
Was a pretty maid, so fair!
O, Annabelle!
Sweet as the sweetest flower
And with such yellow hair!
Annabelle! And so,

Bramwell, with his might and mind,
Braved levels 1 through 9, and then--
Minstrel ever trailing on behind, he
Reached the castle walls,
Deep in level 10.

And so now, to rescue maiden fair, he
Entered a pixelated courtyard scene--
Tents with flags cheering in the air,
And the greatest castle doors
he had ever seen.

And he rode right through!

And orc, after orc, all attacked,
but he swung his heavy sword, and it
went right through!

And orc after orc, kept a’coming,
but he killed the whole horde, and he
left them

Strewn about the dungeon floor, and
Raced through a tunnel and a flight of stairs,
Blocked at the top by an archway door, with
Iron bars, and little
Gray and black squares.

But Sir Bramwell, not a fool was he!
One sharp look around the chamber there,
Took just seconds and he found the key,
Hidden underneath
The one and only chair.

So he went right through!

The bars disappeared, and the Boss
was a dragon, but he saw it, and he
stabbed right through!

It roared, and it roared, blew some fire,
but he stabbed once more, and he
heard it

Strike the floor with a clipping thud.
Three different shades of green, plus red,
Left there twitching in a pool of blood, as
Bramwell sped along
The corridor ahead.

Through the castle at his fastest speed,
Up many stairs, he was not afraid.
Soon Lady Annabelle would be freed!
He, and he alone,
would rescue pretty maid.

For held high in the highest tower
was the pretty maid, so fair!
O, Annabelle!
Sweet as the sweetest flower,
And with such yellow hair!
O! Good Sir

Bramwell proudly crossed the line,
Burst through the doors of a room so grand!
16 bits never looked so fine,
and she smiled when
He offered her his hand.

!

Summer Thunderstorms

2010-06-25T23:07:00.000-04:00

The rocks are hot from the inside out
From long days
of endless summer heat.
Lizards have lain there, and basked in the sun,
but their burning beds would scald my naked feet.
The air is dense and the birds begin to retreat.

As thunder rips open the atmosphere,
its edges are frayed by the wild wind,
Forcing its way through thickets of trees,
through branches and leaves,
that sway and flutter and bend.

The other creatures settle in,
but the rocks and I stand firmly in defiance.
Both unswayed,
and now speckled with rain,
My feet can bear compliance.

Lyin' through your Teeth

2010-06-20T23:05:00.000-04:00

There's a line through your teeth
Where you've been lyin' through your teeth,
and I'm not sayin' that that sayin' is sane...
But if you'd believe your eyes,
You'd be leavin' your lies
and not be leavin' lines where lies lie underneath.

Fury

2010-06-09T23:02:00.001-04:00

Rest in fury,
Silenced.
Curb your violence.

Force
Your fuming hatred to
Submit.

Shaking,
Although unobserved.
Hatred is an ugly word,
And bitter
To admit.

Suppress it, bottled in,
And never let them in,
And never
Let them in.

Lie
Until the blighted bitter end.

Suppress, but do not
Bury it,
Or disregard. Remember.
Burn, and let it burn
And turn to embers.

I am totally listening

2010-06-06T22:59:00.000-04:00

Need any help?
(please say no, please say no)
Whatever it is you're doing, believe me,
I CARE about that.
If I didn't have this other stuff to do, I'd be like,
SO right there with ya.
It's just that I'm incredibly busy,
and you're really good at that anyway.
I'm impressed, actually, with how good at it you are...

Engrish is Not my First Ranguage

2010-05-31T22:45:00.001-04:00

America, the rand of brave and free...
I come to here from very far afar.
But Engrish words are true concerns for me,
For when they're spelled with L, I utter R.

Robert works at favorite store down street.
He roars and raughs when I articurate.
And rudely, Rob requests that I repeat
Words like "rural" and "collaborate".

It's wrong to ridicule my narrow errors!
L's require practice to prepare!
With regular rehearsal they are rarer...
But Robert's sneers and jeers are ever there.

I TRYING to control my R and L!
I really rather Robert rot in Hell.

Out of the Water

2010-05-27T22:43:00.001-04:00

We are the winners. Victorious.
Bravely we swam to the surfaces,
Fears overcome by the curious, and
Out of the waters we crawled.

Safe, we looked down on our enemies,
Thriving in relative paradise.
Still ever thinking and curious, we
Lifted our eyes and we saw.

Safe if we stay near the water, but
Danger and daring are sexier.
Happy but not unadventurous, we
Set off again to evolve.

Displacement

2010-05-19T22:40:00.002-04:00

Memories glow
like photographs
in black and white and shadow.
And I remember
walking home
with cracks in stone to point me.
The quiet fires
in the windows
burning in the corners
as the memory flickers
in and out of focus.

Shadows smile
into faces,
voices I remember.
And the people stand
so far away
and only look around me.
The blank expressions
of my friends
burning in the corners
as the picture flickers
in and out of focus.

Here I am,
alone and far-
and many years- away.
I'm sure they know
I'm still alive,
though nothing more about me.
And would I find,
should I return,
that I know nothing more
of them, and nothing more
will I ever learn.

So much lost
but I move on,
and leave them all behind me.
And back at home
I'm dead and gone
and they go on without me.
The closest friends
and strangers now,
it burns a little hotter
in the corner as they dwindle
out of focus.

Right Hand Rule

2010-05-04T22:38:00.000-04:00

My right hand tells my left what to do,
and I call her you.
and she says,
"sorry"
but it's cool, and I tell her,
Do that and I'll do this.
You hold that still, and I'll twist.

Collective Intelligence

2010-05-02T22:33:00.001-04:00

Little humans
Swim for safety
All in a uniform blob.

Function one:
Follow.
Function two: Evade.

Six or seven fishes in
Direct line with the jaws.
One scatters,
though who can say which,
And the rest go with the flow.

Follow, into a tighter blob
Behind the jaws, behind the fins
Evade the tail
And watch the jaws.
The invisible line
That thrashes and flails and spins.

Patience, patience and endurance
Smaller fish outlast the big
That twists and turns and snaps and misses.
Just one or two of a thousand fishes
Lost but not forgotten.

Hunger! Anger! Simple humans!
Unintelligent but lucky--
Act as one and swim away
So tactfully.

Weariness
Befalls the jaws.
And many humans live to not
Be eaten by the beast.

Follow on, then.
Move as one,
In relative peace.

Fell on my Butt

2010-04-15T22:29:00.002-04:00

Once again,
if not so much before,
this time for sure,
I know it's silly--
But I haven't got
a whim or thought
or words or guts for spilling.
The ache is in my butt, and not
my heart, or other
more poetic body part--
and with it there
I can't compare
a simple wimpy musing
while the limping legs I'm using
wobble one way and not the other.
I really shouldn't bother,
and should maybe call a doctor,
but with one thing and another
and the promise of Obamacare,
I'll sit on it for now
and mutter "ow"
and leave it there.

The Wake

2010-03-18T10:06:00.001-04:00

Whirling around again I peel
My eyes apart so I can feel
The truth behind my stare.

Solemnly I seem to glare
Beyond what I believe is there
At what I fear is real.

I peel away the fast adhered,
The fallacy of what I'd feared,
The raw and bleeding truth revealed,
and beauty there appears.

Another Sevenling

2010-03-10T15:34:00.001-05:00

Robots come in many shapes
And sizes, made out of many fine
And shiny metallic materials.

Zombies of course, are all the same--
Just dead rotting humans, that feel no pain,
And have stomachs chock-full of brains.

But they both make great pets.

A Sevenling

2010-02-28T18:54:00.000-05:00

Inspiration comes from
very few places-- love, drugs,
and sunny afternoons.

Without them we cling to
uninteresting things, like desire, withdrawal,
and unwilling restraint.

Ah, who am I kidding?

Metro Poético

2010-02-26T18:49:00.002-05:00

Me gustaría escribir poemas
que dicen todas mis emociones
y con palabras largas y bonitas
así que suenan como canciones.

Aúnque me encanta español
Existe mucho que no sé decir,
y debo elegir los pensamientos
que no son muy difícil traducir.

Resulta en sonetos imperfectos,
con fallas, que no riman ni resaltan.
Así tendré que tratar otra vez
y aprender palabras que me faltan.

Ya todavía tengo que decir--
que ¡fue un desafío escribir!

This is Me?

2010-02-23T18:47:00.001-05:00

What to do when smart words are so elusive?
Close the world and be seclusive
Until I find them?
But, as I said, they're only vague
reflections of things
I've said before.
So is it really that important,
what I have to say?

I know only who I am,
and, ever changing, learning, growing,
Being, surprising even me,
I am still the me I've always known.

Obvious and yet not so,
at the best of times.
For some reason it always seems
as if I'll never grow.
Problems, I laugh.
Drama, trauma, trouble, confusion, I wish.
I am only because I try to be
and I try so hard
I can only be
and it's wearing on me,
the strange and beautiful feeling of
getting to know me.
More than I've been
at any given time
before.
Now.

Now is the me I've been waiting for
Looking for
Until the next revolution--
Until the whirl of time can lash
my face around to face myself
again.
This is me
Until the next revelation.

Structure, a Sestina

2010-02-21T18:45:00.000-05:00

Structure is the kindle for the fire
of everything that takes imagination.
You build a box, and in it, your creation
will grow and thrive, so orderly and straight,
into a mighty pretty little box.
Exactly your initial inspiration!

So why don't we just nix the inspiration?
We'll shred it up and set the lot on fire.
Define dimensions for the perfect box
And cut the keys to fit the locks-- Imagine!
How beautiful, symmetric, clean, and straight
The masterpiece would be that you'd create.

Then why not mass-produce the fine creation?
It's cumbersome, for each to be inspired;
To have to chop the jagged edges straight,
when all we need is big machines and fire.
So fuel the furnace, just as you imagined--
An infinite conveyor belt of boxes.

Now build a fortress out of all the boxes,
to hide behind perfections we've created.
No longer will we need imagination.
With all of this to show, we'll just inspire
the others to attack with cannon fire--
And watch our walls remain intact and straight.

My point is this, I'll give it to you straight:
Art is only art when it's in boxes.
Otherwise, it's just a fickle fire
that's doomed to die if more is not created.
The ashes of the muse that once inspired--
And nothing left to spark imagination.

So bottle up the beauty you've imagined,
and line it up among the rest, and straighten.
From now on, when you feel the inspiration,
Just pack it up and throw it in a box.
And don't forget to label each creation,
In case they get disordered by the fire.

Take aim, and fire, straight at my creation.
Imagine, as the boxes tumble down--
if structure could replace our inspiration.

Dear Tampon Industry and Toilet Industry

2010-02-19T18:43:00.001-05:00

You two should really work something out. I just plain don't understand.

Okay, the point of a toilet is to take all the gross, unsanitary stuff that comes out of our bodies, and immediately send it somewhere where no one has to look at it or smell it. Right? Seems pretty simple to me.

Why, then, do I see "Please Do Not Flush Feminine Products" signs in public women's restrooms? What in the hell else do you want us to do with it? There is ONE (1) place in that stall that looks like a good idea for that thing to be put in. Down. the. hole. Away from sight.

But no. Please Do Not Flush. Okay... Well, I for one, flush it anyway. (and you should too.) But just out of curiosity, what happens to the disgusting feminine products that the more obedient of women are unfortunate enough to have to deal with in public restrooms?

Some stalls have trash cans. Listen... a trash can with no lid? GROSS. Do I have to explain that bacteria and, ugh, smells, can actually travel through air? So you think there should just be, basically, a pile of bloody tampons in the corner of the stall? (This really happens.)

But SOME bathrooms decided they had a better idea. How about one of those trash cans with the flippy lids where you have to touch the swingy part in order to put something in it? With your HAND. Or, eeewwww, something you might be holding in your hand! VERY gross! So I have the option of putting my hand and whatever I'm holding, through a trapdoor that's covered with a visible coat of something I know would be sticky to the touch, into a thriving pit of other people's bacteria... or just flush it down the toilet. Lemme see...

But that's not the end of the lovely innovations the women's restroom technology has in store for us. Some of the more progressive public restrooms have these great things called "feminine hygiene product disposals." Get this... it's a bin, right? Like a regular bin. With a snap-down lid, okay but you still have to touch it. And THEN! The tampon goes IN there! With the other tampons. But! It differs from the trash can in, as far as I can see, one key way. Instead of being on the floor in the corner of the stall, it's mounted on the wall at nose level, and right next to the toilet paper roll, where your HAND has to go. Even if you're just a regular Jane, in there peeing, not one of the ones who didn't manage to take care of this stuff at home like they should have.

(And, I guess technically a janitor is supposed to come in there frequently and change them out.... Yeah, right.)

My point is: EWWWW!!!

There is nothing you can do with a bloody tampon in a public bathroom stall that is not disgusting. Unless we could, I don't know, submerge it in water and send it down some pipes into an underground sewer system that got cleaned up by other people with gas masks on, miles away from here. DO WHAT?

I know what you're thinking. "But Rachel... You're not supposed to flush tampons, it'll clog up the toilet."

I know! But WHY? Can't we build toilets that can handle tampons? Or at least tampons that don't clog toilets? It's so OBVIOUS! What are the requirements for a tampon? Absorbent, compact, able-to-be-flushed-down-a-standard-toilet. SIMPLE. It's not rocket science here. Although it's arguably just as important.

So, tampon industry. Toilet industry. I need you to get together and work out your differences. I don't care which one of you bends to the other's pressure. Just do something, and do it fast. I don't know why I'm the first person to point out this obvious absurdity to you. I guess it's just a really gross topic to talk about, and women like to be not-gross. (HINT HINT)

Please fix it. Until you do, I'm going to keep flushing them down the toilet, and ripping down every sign I see that says not to.

Thank you in advance,

-- Disgusted citizen

Lost for Words (Dear Poetry part 9)

2010-02-14T18:39:00.002-05:00

Words are not the perfect friends they used to be
When I need them--
They're empty
Meaningless paraphrasings
Of better things I've said, at times
I cared much less.

Emoticonversation

2010-02-07T15:48:00.001-05:00

I am less than three of you.
My colon opens wide because
I'm shocked that I admitted that.
And then, because I think that's silly,
My colon makes a dash of pee,
and then everything's back to normalcy.

A Song for Hugh

2010-02-07T15:46:00.003-05:00

Perfect face, with eyes agleam...
Strong and gentle eyes, that seem
to love me, every time I dream
of Hugh.

I'll never let Hugh know how much
I long to take Hugh out to lunch
and giggle at the slightest touch
from Hugh.

For this I may in time repent,
but circumstances don't relent
and so it seems I wasn't meant
for Hugh.

And so for now I'll be content
to not reveal my heart's lament
that I shall never smell the scent
of Hugh upon my lips--
those hands upon my hips,
and then
my heart skips...

Oh, Hugh.
Oh, Huuuuuugh!
(I love Hugh)

For this I may in time repent,
but circumstances don't relent
and so it seems I wasn't meant
for Hugh.

Only in my better dreams,
of Hugh and me, our eyes agleam,
our love a gentle stream, from me
to Hugh.

Winding

2010-02-05T15:43:00.001-05:00

Part the grass, and carve a curvy path.
Slither through, so every blade
Brushes up against your scaly
Face, and rushes by you as you pass.

Alone, in a world of beautiful things
Reaching for you, and they
Strive to get closer and
Closer to you, to be
One with you,
And they do.

These are your woods,
And the more you return,
The more the grass bends to your presence.
The light rustles through in a breeze behind you,
And the trees lay their shadows along in your wake
And the water seals quietly
Over your head, every time
That you slip away.

Through the Glass

2010-02-03T15:38:00.002-05:00

Strange, awkward. Perfect.
I climb in bed again.
Hope for peace, but it's a gamble, and
I don't really mind.
My eyes glass over and I descend.

Ascend.
At last.

I am awake in a thousand ways,
When judgement waits behind
The brittle glass.

Dead for Now

2010-02-02T15:37:00.001-05:00

Save it for another day
I'm dead for now
Believe me.
The more I love
The more I hate
And cringe inside
My writhing need
To fill myself
With love.
Love me back so I can hate
My own deceit
And settle for my petty explanation.

Double Eye Lens

2010-02-01T15:32:00.002-05:00

We cannot un-misunderstand,
No matter how we lie.
Sink your soul into my eye,
But not my hand.

We'd like to un-retaliate,
And trust wherein we lie.
But the paper thread is broken,
And though not un-repair-able,
We seldom try.

Liquid Life

2010-01-28T15:31:00.001-05:00

As beheld
By my eager eyes
The fresh thing,
The new thing,
Alone resides.
As if my time
Were not already
Occupied.

Motivation slips, and slides
Like liquid life
And soon I'm back
For yet another ride.

State of the Union

2010-01-27T15:23:00.001-05:00

The Supreme Court are the secret-agent hooded badasses,
the Ninjas.
They can't be fired.
they're old
they dress like wizards
they don't stand up to clap
because they decided as a group,
it would be in the nation's best interest if they were to appear
to be unbiased toward the various "opinions" that people have.
Impartial to various "concerns" that people have.
for They, the Supreme Court, are above that.
Hope for America, jobs for millions,
Increase Pell Grants for college students...
nah.
Don't care.
Supreme Court here, hello.

The Generals.
not as cool as The Nine,
but smoother, and a little less,
Old.
Plus, they probably killed a guy.

"All of our combat troops out of Iraq, by the end of this August."
well...
that's interesting.
Hm.

I know they put a camera
on the chandelier
and you can see the wily legislators
yawning or applauding, split in groups
along the semicircle,
and that one woman wearing yellow...
yeah.

But is it really that important?

"Last week the Supreme Court decided..."
Camera. Supreme Court. We.
The stern.
The wise.
Supreme Court.
And that one young one,
he mutters to himself
"well, that's not exactly what we--"
But no one hears.

The point is,
It made Nancy Pelosi cry.
And she matches Biden's tie.
But Obama went for red,
to bridge the gap.
To make a statement.

I, President Obama, urge you...
But the Justices
are still
very
still.
Especially Sotomayor.
(Sshhh! It's her first time!)

"I never said it would be easy, or that I could do it alone..."

Stop crying, Pelosi.
Stop clapping, Biden.

People should be more like ninjas.
That's what I think.

Deferred

2010-01-26T15:20:00.000-05:00

I used to have a lesson learned
So undeterred, I earned it
But the words are locked
And in my pockets
Burning holes and
Yearning
To have turned into a journey
Into anything
That's better than they were.

What's the word?
I wonder.
Search me.
Burned away before I ever heard.

Dreams

2010-01-21T15:20:00.002-05:00

Dreams are very fragile friends.
Great stories at the best of times,
But frequently
They only leave me
shaken.

Please
Fade to black and do not reawaken.

Let my brow relax, and sleep,
And do not wander back.
And keep the pretense
That I might have been mistaken.

Spirals

2010-01-21T15:09:00.002-05:00

Rise.
Reach out.
Fumble around,
Spot, and grasp.
Draw closer and closer
and sink into a comfortable knot.
And hold.
Until the need to rise returns,
Then rise.
Reach out.
Fumble around,
Spot, and grasp.
Draw closer and closer
and sink into a comfortable knot.
And hold.
Until the need to rise returns.
Then rise.

Haiti

2010-01-18T22:09:00.001-05:00

Under the stony walls,
these are the only walls left,
we gather.
We, the weathered, the broken.
Survivors, if we don't
crumble.

Our footsteps
and vocal chords,
a quiet hallowed chorus,
echoing
against the walls,
our cold and stony sanctuary,
alone like us,
among its many fallen.

The walls are mourning with us,
the hollow rumble
of a broken people.
Under the stony walls
we gather,
and our hymn slows
and dies away
into the hushed sobs
of mothers.

In the dead of silence
our bodies wait--
our souls lost
in the rubble.

A crumpled elder
stands before us,
in his hand
the names of those
for whom we cry our chorus.

The stone holds its breath too
silently praying
for name
after name.
after name.

We are a broken people.
our child,
brother,
father and mother.
Lost in the upheaval.

Change

2010-01-16T22:04:00.000-05:00

Yesterday is yet unending.
Clench and hold the precious under.
Suffocate and keep repenting,
Keep repeating,
Never wonder.
Yes we can,
But will we ever?

Bitter (Selfish Portraits part 3)

2010-01-14T22:07:00.000-05:00

Sweet at first
and always smiling,
Lift your lips and say you love me.
Yes I know you're all about me,
Wouldn't live a day
without me.

Lay another finger on me.
Tell me that you'd love
to meet her.
Love me better
when I'm with her.
Sweet becomes
a little bitter.

Frozen over for the winter,
Blurred reflections never smiling.
Purse your lips and walk on by me.
Leave me now
and never find me.

Elephants in the Room

2010-01-10T22:02:00.000-05:00

Trudging
through the sludge ahead,
We drag our heavy weight, and wade--
Judging by the trench we've made,
Weakened, by the mud we tread.
Fewer
every day, and smothered,
Falling, dying pachyderms.
Dead. Weight. Full of worms.
Straining still,
to drag each other.

But Seriously (Selfish Portraits part 2)

2009-12-30T22:01:00.001-05:00

If I don't stop dreaming about these mirrors, I might just
Become what they tell me I'll be.
Confused, then obsessed, by mental reflections
Relentlessly gazing at sad hypotheticals,
Become as I see myself,
Washed out and faded,
Dried up and brittle,
Then stepping out into the rain
To be crushed and laughed at by my former and later selves.
As if I knew I had this coming all along.

Or maybe I would turn it into decency.
Start again, anew, albeit weaker.
Drenched and dripping dirty water until I'm clean.

Or maybe if I just weren't having
Dreams of eerie framed facsimiles of me in different times and places
Then, perhaps, I'd get some sleep, and wake up here tomorrow,
Good as new.
And smile at reflections
Without wondering
Where that creepy smile came from.

Spectrum

2009-12-30T21:59:00.000-05:00

Welcome to my dewy eyes,
Shadows, colors, fireflies.
Wink to life and stay awake
For a while.

Through my windows, once opaque,
Bedazzled by the glow they make,
I cling to now, with orbs for eyes,
And smile.

Sorry for the Trouble

2009-12-29T21:57:00.000-05:00

[In Defense of the Ego, part 2]

Seated in my skin, and quite comfortable there,
I arrange my disposition.
My skin smiles, and I like you.
But I have better things to do than listen.
And better thoughts without your judgement.
So take my smile, for what it's worth,
And I'm sorry for the trouble.

In Defense of the Ego

2009-12-29T21:55:00.000-05:00

As deep as the roots grow, the most
Fundamental order.
Life is narcissism. So is love.

Foundation, my castle,
It drives me up the spiral
Through a life of interactions I
Manipulate and love.

I know you all are castles too,
Despite your proud delusions.

Ignore it, hide it, paint it gold,
And smile and love because it's gone, then
Watch it burn a pyre in your soul.

Selfish Portraits

2009-11-16T21:53:00.001-05:00

I live another year and watch
My fingers painting selfish portraits
I can never touch.

And they become me.

I paint a picture of myself
Standing next to them and hoping
That I measure up.

And live another year and watch
Me growing to resemble them,
And changing.

Overshadowed
By reassurance,

I can do anything.

Clay and People

2009-11-09T18:41:00.001-05:00

I walk among distracted clay faces,
Their clay bodies colorful and plain,
Going about their business and ignoring me,
And I wonder whether I should be ashamed of having described
My friends and neighbors as made of clay.

As I meander through the crowd, I recognize the scene.
I’ve read this story once before,
I know the man who wrote it...
What’s his name...? Oh... It’ll come to me.
The story goes, that a man finds himself surrounded by people
Who are all made of clay, and they pay him no mind.
But then he spots a door, to a room
And through the door’s glass window, he can see inside...
Human faces, in the flesh,
Smiling, laughing, talking to each other.
And I see the room before I see it.
Sure enough, along this hall,
The door is red, the room is full of people.
I try the door although I’m sure it’s locked to keep me out,
To keep me longing for the warm and living faces it conceals.
I knock so loudly on the door that surely they would turn their heads
If they could hear it.
I’ve read the story many times, just can’t remember the author’s name.
But I know it’ll come to me, just as I know
That I’ll get no answer when I ask politely of a clay passerby,
“Excuse me sir, do you know how to get into that room?”
I point at the window and wonder if clay people can even see in there.
“They’re different, in there,” is all he can say, before he walks away.
I know that it would be no use to ask of any others
How to join the people they don’t know or trust or like.
I knock again and stare for hours
Through the glass, at life the way I want to live it,
Stuck out here among the clays,
And after days, walk away in search of some distraction.

What’s the name... I know I know it...
If only I can think of it, I might remember the secret of the room.
I know the man gets in the room, somehow.
I turn around, face the door, and it all comes back.
Yes! He leaves,
And returns to find the door wide open,
And follows someone in.
The door is open for me now too.
And a man in red, more bright and fake
Than the fakest of the clay men is,
Walks inside, and so do I.
And all those people, so alive, are gone and in their place
Are bright red plastic men just like the one I followed in.
But I don’t mind, it doesn’t matter now.
I now remember the end of the story,
Though the author’s name eludes me.
He enters the room, but life is all outside it, not within.
He's trapped inside the room of shiny plastic.
But he doesn't mind, he’s happy that he made it here,
And he’s ready to settle in.
A plastic person holds his hand as he closes his eyes,
And the room dissolves and dies.
And I take the hand of a little child,
Genderless as much as it is faceless.
I close my eyes, take a breath, and scream.
Not a fearful, but a happy scream,
Satisfied, at long last, I can rest.
But it is a little chilling, to hear a noise I never make
Escape my soul so uncontrolled as this.
I’m trying not to shiver,
As I’m drifting slowly out of my perspective, and I wonder,
What will happen to the child
That’s so bravely holding on to me
While all the room collapses as I scream?

But this is all my imagination,
Real but only real because of me.
So I scream a little louder, kind of singing.
Drowning out the final remnants of the vision I’ve created,
Hoping it’ll end before I convince myself it wasn’t ever real.

Some Thoughts

2009-11-07T18:37:00.000-05:00

Some thoughts come in giant stacks
Of sentences,
And some in shorter lines
Of words,
And some in sounds,
And images
Of colors mixed with other
Colors, and some others
Come in single lines
Of certain little
Syllables
And still
The syllables resign
Themselves to singing
Silly rhymes
That never seem to say the things
The thought was really thinking.

But that’s what keeps them singing.

And then,
There are some other thoughts
That sink
Beneath the words before
They ever have a chance
To come at all.

God's Day Off

2009-10-30T22:10:00.003-04:00

As luck would have it, I died on Halloween.
And to my surprise, I ended up in Heaven.
“Well I’ll be damned!” I shouted. “I was wrong!”
Then I went inside to see what God was doin’.

Boots up on the table, he was laughin’,
His back to me, and a phone propped in his ear.
I cleared my throat and inched a little closer,
He didn’t seem to see, but I could hear...

“...And one was in a ‘sexy viking’ costume!”
The raspy voice was laughing in God’s ear.
“And then! There was a plus-size sexy Dorothy!”
They both guffawed and God knocked over his beer.

“I love this fucking holiday!” barked the Lord.
“My only real day-off!” I heard him tell.
“And I just sit here, countin’ deaths and drinkin’,
And watch you work your ASS off down in Hell!”

Belligerent, the voice I guessed was Satan,
said “Ssh! Hold on, another wreck! I’m countin’...”
“How many?” said God. “How fucking many? Tell me!”
A moment’s pause, then “SIX!” the devil shouted.

The ruckus that ensued was quite contagious,
I laughed with them, like we were normal folk.
God looked up, all curious and confused,
“Trick or Treat?” I said. (awkward joke).

He stared at me, and finally, he asked me,
“It’s Halloween, what are you doing here?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Don’t you know?”
“That’s weird,” he said, confused. “Just grab a beer.”

The Old Songs

2009-10-30T22:07:00.004-04:00

They were the band of my existence.
When I was 13.
I went to their shows, bought their CDs.
Listened to them every night.
Read their lyrics. Sometimes cried.
They're the reason I learned guitar.
I wanted to play like him.
So heavy. So dark.
I thought it was “metal.”
Their music was more important to me
Than anything had ever been.
I felt connected to them so much more
Than my parents, my siblings, or even
My friends.

I wanted their symbol tattooed on me,
To document the changes
They had made to me.
To display my firm conviction.
And to prove that I was capable,
At such an age,
To make
Such a final decision.

It’s impossible even now
To admit to myself that I was wrong.
Although I know their music’s bad,
Processed, made
For MTV.
Their imagination, creativity,
Rests in peace in that first album.
The one that's still up on my shelf.
It isn’t metal, and there’s better rock,
There are better guitar and bass players,
better singers,
better drummers,
And better lyrics everywhere I look.
There’s nothing special about them.
Anymore.

I loved the third album.
There.
I said it.
But then I changed my mind.
It was pussy music.
I preferred grunge and metal.
I sold that album,
along with my rap and my boybands,
like it was nothing.

I moved on, and forgot about them,
Long before they disbanded.
“I’m glad,” I said, when it finally happened.
“They totally sold out anyway.”

And lucky I didn’t get that stupid tattoo.
So stupid I was, when I was young,
thought I, at age 15.

And years went by,
And every so often,
I’d cringe, and play that first album.
It brought me back,
and some of it still made me cry.
“It’s just because it's the same old songs,
the ones I know by heart--
It's just the album I loved so much.
It’s such an important part of me,
a piece of my past,” --I told myself.
“It made me who I am
Today.”

And that sufficed.
Until today.

Apparently,
They’ve reunited.
I rolled my eyes. I’m sure it sucks.
But I just had to hear it.

Realization slowly
Washed over me.

Though I’ve heard much better,
I’ve heard much worse.
And I have to say...
These are not the old songs, and yet
They strike me the same way.

Unnecessary Fences

2009-10-27T22:04:00.000-04:00

Wild, rampant nature, thriving
in the jungles, where I never go.
I’m sure it’s very beautiful--
more so than the kudzu here at home.

But green and brown are all I have--
the living patches we don’t need to change.
The ground that we can live around--
Between the roads and parking lots we paved.

I know that it’s your job to keep it
“pretty” and protected from abuse.
But how much damage could I do
By walking through the mulch, between the bushes?

I, and maybe others, have
for years been carving out the perfect path.
It’s narrow, shallow, winding, and
the bushes, undisturbed, are growing fast.

But you don’t like it, do you, sir?
You think I’m just a nuisance, just a weed.
A human footprint in the mulch
is somehow detrimental to the scene.

So now, we have this ugly fence--
To keep me from enjoying it this way.
For “beauty’s” sake, you ruined it.
You may as well have paved it all away.

Whittle on a Head

2009-10-27T22:02:00.000-04:00

Things do and do not come to me
when I fire a neuron to stimulate more
to make a nice path
for my thoughts to think along.
and I am sometimes on the receiving end
of split ends fizzling out of mind
and out of sight
where I do not look beyond.
I would,
but I’ve got all these fizzles firing
randomly, in precise directions.
They are so
mathematically trained
to fire, or not,
to on, or off,
to 1, or 0,
to think.
miniscule upon a scale
of things I could no better see
than galaxies twirling all around me.
But in my mind I see them clear
both are here
within me.
I do and do not understand
when ties are built
when bonds are made
around me, between me, within me.
But still I whittle on ahead
making bonds and breaking bonds
until my masterpiece
complete
resides
pristinely
in its bed.
One with its beginning.

Most of Me

2009-10-22T18:03:00.002-04:00

Tiny life, with bits of me
And bits of the one I chose for you,
Strung together, underneath
The inquisitive eyes I see you through.

Wily little smiles, and copying us,
Testing our knowledge, outwitting our words.
Questions I haven't asked in years,
And answers I've never heard.

Keep us young.
Bring us back--
To finding joy in parking lots,
Spiral stairs, magnolia trees,
Checkered floors, and concrete blocks.

I promise you

I will not lie

Or hide the truth

Or cover your eyes,

Use cute little fallacies to shut you up,
Or doubt your ability to understand,
Or pretend that I'm listening when I'm not,
Or pretend that I'm not, when I am.

Years before you'll be conceived--
You are already more of me
Than I am.

Melody First

2009-10-12T22:52:00.002-04:00

I’m always dancing, I’m always singing and
I’m alive, awake and aware.
I can feel the rhythm in everything, if-
-I remember to know that it’s there.

Feel the drums and hums eh-dum, ds'eh deh dum
Wake me up -andthen- put me to sleep.
Dum de dum anD- I’m a dumb idiom
Singing things I think I don’t mean.

Walk the walk.
Or write on the wall again,
Wake me up
And lull me to sleep again,
Never doubt and then never rethink again.
Never see what it means to be free, and end
Up

Drowning
Into my head.
And wake up
Later
And try again

. . .

Wake up, and take the cake that you’re given and
Work for words that work for you now
Later on you’re on, but don’t egg it on, when-
-Everything is beautiful now.

I’m always dancing, I’m always singing with
Every sound and movement I make.
Even -whenI’m- asleep or ignoring it,
I believe it’s all I can say.

Suninspired (Dear Poetry part 8)

2009-10-07T18:55:00.001-04:00

I fade out of the shade into the sunny warm October
Where the pavement turns to gravel and I balance on the stones.
Soaking but unswayed because the thunderstorm is over,
I prepare to work my fingers to the bone.

Although the rays are soothing and the rain has battered past,
Amazing words elude me and I’m lost again in thought.
Lazy now, and brooding, I collapse into the grass,
And I take a break from writing what I’m not.

Blades of water, grass, and mud engulf me where I lay
And the bugs below my neck all scurry out toward the heat.
I face the fiery blaze, and it pulses through my veins,
And revives the ground beneath me as I breathe.

The subtle fluctuations fill my head with inspiration,
And with sudden motivation, I sit up.
I bring the pen to paper, but the words become a vapor.
Tired,
Uninspired,
I give up.