there is a blue box i keep
that hides pictures.
and things.
like figures of girls too thin to dance.
words too displaced to make sense.
men with stiff knees in painted black suits.
i’ve a picture of a pink door too-
would you beat on a painted door
if you knew it to be false?
perhaps.
if you though it was hiding lovers.
and things.
but such realities, as the falseness of a painted door
are trivial in anger.
pains that are illusions
become truths all at once-
until we are swimming in an ocean
thick as pudding.
of course,
my grandmothers anger is a curse
of having “good taste”.
why- then everyone else is tacky.
mismatched.
wrong-
style is such poison.
darling i hid in the tub and poured this confession out.
sometimes an artist must work in porcelain-
trick of the trade darling-
just as van gough.
surely, he’ll know.
for though i am not of his style,
we are of the same mind.
33% mad,
but one of a kind.
we bite like a revolution,
but with half the mess.
without the overthrow.
and things.
this is not monet.
i am not, water lilies .
i really am a medley of dots.
different colors,
mostly black.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
the lakeshore
when the lights around the lake are dark
only the streetlights standing tall in their brigades
can watch over the city as it
tosses in it’s sleep.
when the streets around the dark late jitter-
like the fat boy. drumming his sticks
on the train headed towards no where.
headed past the lakeshore.
a stray jogger keeps a steady pace,
a jaded cop in his cruiser watches with a blank face,
and no one along for the ride save a ghost.
the doors on the train
open and shut.
i get out and walk past the museum.
open and shut.
a business-man tumbles down the stairs into the dark,
searching for a car to take him back to his lit high rise,
away from the dark waters he merely watches with a shrug.
past the museum my matriarch starts to bark.
oh, but she cannot beat me today.
for though the light around the lake are dark,
tonight my blood flows calm-
the dark boy drumming his sticks
on the train headed- a stray
jogger. cop. ghost-open and shut. past
the musuem-open and shut. business. car.
dark. waters. city. sleep.
down by the lakeshore.
only the streetlights standing tall in their brigades
can watch over the city as it
tosses in it’s sleep.
when the streets around the dark late jitter-
like the fat boy. drumming his sticks
on the train headed towards no where.
headed past the lakeshore.
a stray jogger keeps a steady pace,
a jaded cop in his cruiser watches with a blank face,
and no one along for the ride save a ghost.
the doors on the train
open and shut.
i get out and walk past the museum.
open and shut.
a business-man tumbles down the stairs into the dark,
searching for a car to take him back to his lit high rise,
away from the dark waters he merely watches with a shrug.
past the museum my matriarch starts to bark.
oh, but she cannot beat me today.
for though the light around the lake are dark,
tonight my blood flows calm-
the dark boy drumming his sticks
on the train headed- a stray
jogger. cop. ghost-open and shut. past
the musuem-open and shut. business. car.
dark. waters. city. sleep.
down by the lakeshore.
Monday, December 24, 2007
machine lullaby
is it wrong to want a heart that cannot love?
is it devious of me to want an organ that only beats,
cannot trace the steps that one danced in frantic heat,
or does not know the passions frequently discussed over wine?
is it wrong to want a heart that only fears
that keeper of time?
am i cursed for it?
am i wiser for it?
or would dear venus simply abhor it?
or would she laugh for i've said what no one would,
and i've made the wish only the damned wish they could.
does dear venus think i've discovered the secret
that no great scholar, dare pen in ink?
should i tell cupid, darling, at my door he's met his defeat?
should i ask, no, beg to sleep a dreamless sleep?
i wish for a heart that is merely a machine,
one that cannot intervene with my more
flexible emotions.
give me something that merely keeps my breathing in motion-
in, out, again.
in, out, again.
it would be delicious to have a heart that
would do just that.
one that cannot be broken by lovers or foes,
it will known no delicious woes.
no divine fantasies,
no fanciful stories.
dear venus, come on, give me something mechanical.
write me a machine lullaby.
i no longer want something that is byfunctional.
just a melody to hum, and a name to outcry.
is it devious of me to want an organ that only beats,
cannot trace the steps that one danced in frantic heat,
or does not know the passions frequently discussed over wine?
is it wrong to want a heart that only fears
that keeper of time?
am i cursed for it?
am i wiser for it?
or would dear venus simply abhor it?
or would she laugh for i've said what no one would,
and i've made the wish only the damned wish they could.
does dear venus think i've discovered the secret
that no great scholar, dare pen in ink?
should i tell cupid, darling, at my door he's met his defeat?
should i ask, no, beg to sleep a dreamless sleep?
i wish for a heart that is merely a machine,
one that cannot intervene with my more
flexible emotions.
give me something that merely keeps my breathing in motion-
in, out, again.
in, out, again.
it would be delicious to have a heart that
would do just that.
one that cannot be broken by lovers or foes,
it will known no delicious woes.
no divine fantasies,
no fanciful stories.
dear venus, come on, give me something mechanical.
write me a machine lullaby.
i no longer want something that is byfunctional.
just a melody to hum, and a name to outcry.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Brooklyn, Je T'aime
I looked down last night and saw both my knees were wet.
it was as if my knees were crying,
dampening the thin cotton layer
of the pants I die in each night.
Last night as I walked up the cold drive
I began to notice each light on the path,
and what was kept dark-
compare the tea lights on the mute path
tot he eccentric lights tacked to the family porches-
now which set thinks.
Which set has a mind-
oh the muses that i find in lights, wet knees,
and the dark spaces inbetween.
it was as if my knees were crying,
dampening the thin cotton layer
of the pants I die in each night.
Last night as I walked up the cold drive
I began to notice each light on the path,
and what was kept dark-
compare the tea lights on the mute path
tot he eccentric lights tacked to the family porches-
now which set thinks.
Which set has a mind-
oh the muses that i find in lights, wet knees,
and the dark spaces inbetween.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
creek music
There was a creek behind the house
where a man waded back and forth in bare feet.
fireflies followed children in the moonshine.
it was there i sat pouring over the hours,
during the days where i thought about nothing
at all for a long time.
except the the creek music that crept like his fingers on that guitar.
But thinking about his guitar would trip my mind again.
If I think about that boy I’ll surly die again.
The man who walked the creek
called out to me that love is scripted scene.
people never read what’s in between the lines.
he said you can never trust their eyes.
Listen, I said, he loved me best.
We always danced, cheek to cheek.
He replied with nothing but a nod and a yes.
I’m sure it was true.
But if he felt as lovers do,
then why do you sit and cry by the creek?
I don’t know-damn.
He must have made me weak.
Still, he said, the heart must beat.
where a man waded back and forth in bare feet.
fireflies followed children in the moonshine.
it was there i sat pouring over the hours,
during the days where i thought about nothing
at all for a long time.
except the the creek music that crept like his fingers on that guitar.
But thinking about his guitar would trip my mind again.
If I think about that boy I’ll surly die again.
The man who walked the creek
called out to me that love is scripted scene.
people never read what’s in between the lines.
he said you can never trust their eyes.
Listen, I said, he loved me best.
We always danced, cheek to cheek.
He replied with nothing but a nod and a yes.
I’m sure it was true.
But if he felt as lovers do,
then why do you sit and cry by the creek?
I don’t know-damn.
He must have made me weak.
Still, he said, the heart must beat.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
strawberries+arsenic
Her fingers were birds gunning
across gray northern skies. She touched ivory
keys while her ivory teeth
clicked, clicked, clicked,
to the waltz that she played with finesse.
When her husband came home he
neither spoke nor loved. When that man
came home she neither slowed nor spoke.
Her teeth went click, click, click,
to the now choppy rumba she played with vigor.
And then she stopped playing to fix him
a drink. His heart consumed the papers
colorless news. She poured in his
poison and kissed the glass; her teeth went
click, click, click.
His heart beat once and then twice,
twice again, then back to one,
and was done.
across gray northern skies. She touched ivory
keys while her ivory teeth
clicked, clicked, clicked,
to the waltz that she played with finesse.
When her husband came home he
neither spoke nor loved. When that man
came home she neither slowed nor spoke.
Her teeth went click, click, click,
to the now choppy rumba she played with vigor.
And then she stopped playing to fix him
a drink. His heart consumed the papers
colorless news. She poured in his
poison and kissed the glass; her teeth went
click, click, click.
His heart beat once and then twice,
twice again, then back to one,
and was done.
self portrait on a tuesday
my eyes, your eyes-
they are everything that i despise.
we dance, marching back and forth in unimaginable patterns.
the lies are what lie thick and smooth.
we eat till our hearts pop and then start it over again.
but now i will walk away; you will know me another day.
this is a faded portrait for some days i cannot be whole.
today we will not dance, you may not romance me,
i said we cannot dance. do
not make me repeat it.
will you disown me?
or seduce my hands and features with paint,
running the paintbrush down my hair when you are done.
i wish to play artist too.
paint my face,
paint my face as it should be seen.
a divine Versailles, use a heavy hand.
(whatever can be conceived) the reveal and the diagnoses,
the mold and the dinner party,
these things are my work.
i cannot be stereotyped for i am my own.
what proof, what case can you make
to provide or define reasons for keeping a secret
which holds no reason.
call me your
goddess of all seasons,
and you may take me in four poses...
wet your brush, i will strike timely.
they are everything that i despise.
we dance, marching back and forth in unimaginable patterns.
the lies are what lie thick and smooth.
we eat till our hearts pop and then start it over again.
but now i will walk away; you will know me another day.
this is a faded portrait for some days i cannot be whole.
today we will not dance, you may not romance me,
i said we cannot dance. do
not make me repeat it.
will you disown me?
or seduce my hands and features with paint,
running the paintbrush down my hair when you are done.
i wish to play artist too.
paint my face,
paint my face as it should be seen.
a divine Versailles, use a heavy hand.
(whatever can be conceived) the reveal and the diagnoses,
the mold and the dinner party,
these things are my work.
i cannot be stereotyped for i am my own.
what proof, what case can you make
to provide or define reasons for keeping a secret
which holds no reason.
call me your
goddess of all seasons,
and you may take me in four poses...
wet your brush, i will strike timely.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
letters to mrs. downing
1.
my dear mrs. downing,
I don’t know why I’m writing this to tell you who I am, for I do not think you really exist.
But I write because I like to think you do, I like the think that you sit in your garden drinking tea with milk and honey. Staring at the flowers as if they long to keep you company and speaking softly to the trees (who always think you funny). Your cat, well I’ll call her Rose and she’s soft and black and sweet. I bet you don’t suppose- well I’ll write of that come tomorrow.
Sincerely,
2.
my dear mrs. downing,
Do you take it as an insult that I don’t capitalize your name? What from it do you have to gain anyway? There is nothing in a name, that is why I do not talk of my own. We shall not discuss it, unless of course you just must know. Neverless, capitalized or not, my respect is yours until I die mrs. downing. Don’t think me rude for not showing to tea, but I was much to nervous for that.
Instead I hid behind the tallest tree and made faces at your cat.
Sincerely,
3.
my dear mrs. downing,
I should have named you Austen, but downing seemed more gentle. the only Austen I know is Jane, and well I do not really know her. Nor would I ever, she and I would agree that we would not agree. She is such a bold looking woman though, or no. She is such a sad looking woman!
Dear mrs. downing would you care to join me for dinner to-night? You can tuck a response anywhere you like along your front fence, I’ll pick it up shortly. I do not wish you to see my in this dim light, my shadow is frightful shameful.
Sincerely,
4.
my dear mrs. downing,
Last night I dreamed of dreams. They were horribly, well dark. When I woke up I found myself looking around for you; I forget you live down the way and not with me. No need to answer this,
it is strictly a means to security.
Sincerely,
5.
my dear mrs. downing,
Hello again! Did you see me yesterday, I was off meeting Jane. Jane Goodall, I’m sure you’ve heard of her work with the chim-pan-zes. It amazes me how close the jungles of Africa are! mrs. downing, surely you never thought that they lie behind your garden wall! There were amazement's of all sorts.
Don’t venture in alone, call me first. The jungles are known for their danger.
Sincerely,
my dear mrs. downing,
I don’t know why I’m writing this to tell you who I am, for I do not think you really exist.
But I write because I like to think you do, I like the think that you sit in your garden drinking tea with milk and honey. Staring at the flowers as if they long to keep you company and speaking softly to the trees (who always think you funny). Your cat, well I’ll call her Rose and she’s soft and black and sweet. I bet you don’t suppose- well I’ll write of that come tomorrow.
Sincerely,
2.
my dear mrs. downing,
Do you take it as an insult that I don’t capitalize your name? What from it do you have to gain anyway? There is nothing in a name, that is why I do not talk of my own. We shall not discuss it, unless of course you just must know. Neverless, capitalized or not, my respect is yours until I die mrs. downing. Don’t think me rude for not showing to tea, but I was much to nervous for that.
Instead I hid behind the tallest tree and made faces at your cat.
Sincerely,
3.
my dear mrs. downing,
I should have named you Austen, but downing seemed more gentle. the only Austen I know is Jane, and well I do not really know her. Nor would I ever, she and I would agree that we would not agree. She is such a bold looking woman though, or no. She is such a sad looking woman!
Dear mrs. downing would you care to join me for dinner to-night? You can tuck a response anywhere you like along your front fence, I’ll pick it up shortly. I do not wish you to see my in this dim light, my shadow is frightful shameful.
Sincerely,
4.
my dear mrs. downing,
Last night I dreamed of dreams. They were horribly, well dark. When I woke up I found myself looking around for you; I forget you live down the way and not with me. No need to answer this,
it is strictly a means to security.
Sincerely,
5.
my dear mrs. downing,
Hello again! Did you see me yesterday, I was off meeting Jane. Jane Goodall, I’m sure you’ve heard of her work with the chim-pan-zes. It amazes me how close the jungles of Africa are! mrs. downing, surely you never thought that they lie behind your garden wall! There were amazement's of all sorts.
Don’t venture in alone, call me first. The jungles are known for their danger.
Sincerely,
color chart
the doctor told me i only had four more days to live
if i did not color my world by tomorrow afternoon.
he told me, girl you need some color
to lighten your step and make the sorrows fly.
i said i’ve never heard of that. he said you
wouldn’t. i told him i couldn’t and so he shooed
me off with a color chart.
were the apples really red? I could tell,
I didn’t look. they were too loud. damn
chart.
but he told me, girl you need some color
to soften your taste and hasten your thoughts.
i said thoughts!
see i all ready got those doc.
i said i’ve never heard of that. he said you wouldn’t.
i told him i couldn’t and so he shooed
me off with a color chart.
b is for bananas. b is for
brooklynn, b is beautifully green.
so b will be a tree, ack! but it’s much
to much. i’ve never seen leaves
look so serene. black is more chaos,
more my style, so you see doctorman,
why i haven’t been here in a while.
but he told me, girl you need some color.
it’ll make your hair bigger- don’t need it.
it’ll make your skull thicker- ha. don’t believe it.
doctorman, doctorman,
i’m done with your colors man.
doctorman, doctorman, we are
finished finished finished.
i buried your color chart. he said,
what are we to do with your colorless heart.
if i did not color my world by tomorrow afternoon.
he told me, girl you need some color
to lighten your step and make the sorrows fly.
i said i’ve never heard of that. he said you
wouldn’t. i told him i couldn’t and so he shooed
me off with a color chart.
were the apples really red? I could tell,
I didn’t look. they were too loud. damn
chart.
but he told me, girl you need some color
to soften your taste and hasten your thoughts.
i said thoughts!
see i all ready got those doc.
i said i’ve never heard of that. he said you wouldn’t.
i told him i couldn’t and so he shooed
me off with a color chart.
b is for bananas. b is for
brooklynn, b is beautifully green.
so b will be a tree, ack! but it’s much
to much. i’ve never seen leaves
look so serene. black is more chaos,
more my style, so you see doctorman,
why i haven’t been here in a while.
but he told me, girl you need some color.
it’ll make your hair bigger- don’t need it.
it’ll make your skull thicker- ha. don’t believe it.
doctorman, doctorman,
i’m done with your colors man.
doctorman, doctorman, we are
finished finished finished.
i buried your color chart. he said,
what are we to do with your colorless heart.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
days
[scene]: vending machines, ten till ten.
the machine eats my quarter, jo asks freshman for a quarter. freshman hands her water, thinking that what she wanted. i curse, we run to hills. mallory provides quarter, coke is obtained. (pan out) jo ramming against the vending machine while i slowly close the door because she's cursing at the top of her lungs. good thing facade is not glass. no one likes blood on candy.
[scene]: united states history ap, i forget the day
(zoom in on mr. oder) he's talking about the people in new Orleans using the government provided credit cards for lap dances and such. (cut to visiting parents in the back) unfazed. (pan out) everyone just keeps writing, in my mind i wish i had sneezed over that part.
[scene]: english language ap, a few weeks ago
(cut to dl) speaking with passion "like when your writing to a lover."
(pan out) class silent. i'm amazed at the ability for juniors to be so immature.
(cut to dl) "i shouldn't have said lover..."
---------------------------------------------------
yes calvin, the days are just packed.
{fin}
the machine eats my quarter, jo asks freshman for a quarter. freshman hands her water, thinking that what she wanted. i curse, we run to hills. mallory provides quarter, coke is obtained. (pan out) jo ramming against the vending machine while i slowly close the door because she's cursing at the top of her lungs. good thing facade is not glass. no one likes blood on candy.
[scene]: united states history ap, i forget the day
(zoom in on mr. oder) he's talking about the people in new Orleans using the government provided credit cards for lap dances and such. (cut to visiting parents in the back) unfazed. (pan out) everyone just keeps writing, in my mind i wish i had sneezed over that part.
[scene]: english language ap, a few weeks ago
(cut to dl) speaking with passion "like when your writing to a lover."
(pan out) class silent. i'm amazed at the ability for juniors to be so immature.
(cut to dl) "i shouldn't have said lover..."
---------------------------------------------------
yes calvin, the days are just packed.
{fin}
Friday, September 14, 2007
the musician and his writer
*the musician and his writer*
what is it that's different today.
tell me what is out of place-
is it my face?
well there must be something in it
if i am still in your good grace.
you spent the morning settling affairs,
(i spent mine dreaming of a french soldier adorned with a Croix de guerre)
and then you played your saxophone.
smooth as the morning itself,
and i raised my coffee to your good health.
when he plays it makes the angels shout out loud;
they bring us linings from their clouds.
and since angels are partial to dark liquor,
i pour it in a bowl and watch them drink.
the ribbon of the typewriter whines
while i pound pound pound-
i am pounding the worries out.
i can say so much without a single sound-
come with me. let's explore downtown.bring
your saxophone. i'll wear your hat and you
wear my scarf. we can make our way
around the park with my arm through yours
and i'll scatter our pages on the ground.
my sins?
or yours.
what is it that's different today.
tell me what is out of place-
is it my face?
well there must be something in it
if i am still in your good grace.
you spent the morning settling affairs,
(i spent mine dreaming of a french soldier adorned with a Croix de guerre)
and then you played your saxophone.
smooth as the morning itself,
and i raised my coffee to your good health.
when he plays it makes the angels shout out loud;
they bring us linings from their clouds.
and since angels are partial to dark liquor,
i pour it in a bowl and watch them drink.
the ribbon of the typewriter whines
while i pound pound pound-
i am pounding the worries out.
i can say so much without a single sound-
come with me. let's explore downtown.bring
your saxophone. i'll wear your hat and you
wear my scarf. we can make our way
around the park with my arm through yours
and i'll scatter our pages on the ground.
my sins?
or yours.
Monday, July 23, 2007
le maitresse en titre.
Francois I seems to teach me a new thing everytime I read about him.
le maitresse en titre: the main mistress.
le maitresse en titre: the main mistress.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
80 minutes from midnight.
80 minutes till midnight.
this is the part where I'm supposed to do something like, "will i make it?"
but there's no question. i'll make it. my body doesn't begin to slow down until after midnight. and if i'm doing something i won't break down till about four. two on a bad day. the way i calculated things i write about five pages an hour and if i stayed up for 48 hours i could probably finish or almost finish the book i'm trying to write. but i think i would tire of the story part way through the first 24.
78 minutes till midnight.
this is the part where I'm supposed to do something like, "will i make it?"
but there's no question. i'll make it. my body doesn't begin to slow down until after midnight. and if i'm doing something i won't break down till about four. two on a bad day. the way i calculated things i write about five pages an hour and if i stayed up for 48 hours i could probably finish or almost finish the book i'm trying to write. but i think i would tire of the story part way through the first 24.
78 minutes till midnight.
Friday, June 22, 2007
fine rhymes
1.
when you left me
hallowed and empty in bed
took the breath from me,
left me pacing around the house
we built and then-
when you left me by the mailbox
waiting for your letter-
when even the mailman knew better
and didn’t hope, but i knew.
and when you left me that morning
and when you left me in shambles.
ridiculous.
2.
last night you spoke of being gone
before the end of spring
and i thought, how will i get along
without you among, other things.
perhaps it was my silence that
threw you. i didn’t speak
because i knew i couldn’t be
in compliance that something
that kept you and i apart.
and though this expression is more
than just an, an art
i keep saying this in the only way i know how,
if you must take it as an artist plea.
to you, from me.
3.
yet, after you are gone
you will know me and somehow
you will recognize the what used
to lie inside my eyes
those smooth lines you used to touch,
the lines that made my face.
4.
you’ll recognize my flinch at your embrace-
you spoke of being gone
my southern boy child while
the music from our record
played that song, our song,
but you will be gone by
the end of spring.
so what am i to do without you
among, other things.
5.
you’ll wonder how it
would be different had
july spread it’s wings.
how it would have changed
your heart to sit with me
and sing the song we sing.
had our adventure
become another summer fling
i see you and i separated
by one last goodbye. don’t you
know what you’ve done! what
you will do-
won’t you wonder
what i could have been for you?
6.
and i hope these are the
questions you ask, dear.
i hope these are the
things you fear, love.
perhaps, my tears
we what you had not thought of.
i hope.
never less; it’s probably better i don’t.
when you left me
hallowed and empty in bed
took the breath from me,
left me pacing around the house
we built and then-
when you left me by the mailbox
waiting for your letter-
when even the mailman knew better
and didn’t hope, but i knew.
and when you left me that morning
and when you left me in shambles.
ridiculous.
2.
last night you spoke of being gone
before the end of spring
and i thought, how will i get along
without you among, other things.
perhaps it was my silence that
threw you. i didn’t speak
because i knew i couldn’t be
in compliance that something
that kept you and i apart.
and though this expression is more
than just an, an art
i keep saying this in the only way i know how,
if you must take it as an artist plea.
to you, from me.
3.
yet, after you are gone
you will know me and somehow
you will recognize the what used
to lie inside my eyes
those smooth lines you used to touch,
the lines that made my face.
4.
you’ll recognize my flinch at your embrace-
you spoke of being gone
my southern boy child while
the music from our record
played that song, our song,
but you will be gone by
the end of spring.
so what am i to do without you
among, other things.
5.
you’ll wonder how it
would be different had
july spread it’s wings.
how it would have changed
your heart to sit with me
and sing the song we sing.
had our adventure
become another summer fling
i see you and i separated
by one last goodbye. don’t you
know what you’ve done! what
you will do-
won’t you wonder
what i could have been for you?
6.
and i hope these are the
questions you ask, dear.
i hope these are the
things you fear, love.
perhaps, my tears
we what you had not thought of.
i hope.
never less; it’s probably better i don’t.
witness
witness
the coming of the next set
or the exit of the wise.
the night my children up and drowned,
or the morning when the magic man made his round.
witness,
him coming down a back county road,
with a dirty top hat and torn
red cape.
so do i relive the night he knocked at the door
whispering he had broughten,
all that i was looking for?
can i witness a memory,
one forgotten in time,
that was never mine.
the day when the magic man made his round,
the morning when all my children up and drowned
in the creek behind the house.
witness,
when he brought them back,
piled high in a cart,
pulling at the different strings
of this stain glass heart.
witness,
again,
the night he knocked at m door.
whispering he had brought me,
all that i was looking for.
the coming of the next set
or the exit of the wise.
the night my children up and drowned,
or the morning when the magic man made his round.
witness,
him coming down a back county road,
with a dirty top hat and torn
red cape.
so do i relive the night he knocked at the door
whispering he had broughten,
all that i was looking for?
can i witness a memory,
one forgotten in time,
that was never mine.
the day when the magic man made his round,
the morning when all my children up and drowned
in the creek behind the house.
witness,
when he brought them back,
piled high in a cart,
pulling at the different strings
of this stain glass heart.
witness,
again,
the night he knocked at m door.
whispering he had brought me,
all that i was looking for.
junkie
there are days when i feel no better than a junkie. i admit it, hey, if i were the type i would shout it from the streetcorner. but that's not my style so here i am, on these choice nights, feeling like i've laid it all out and that the next person that walks through the door is going to get one hell of a shocker. if people think they've seen it all, you've got another thing coming because, b is for brooklynn and i'm on a whole different level. you know the feeling, total exposure... it'd be like getting caught with your hand in the jar and trying to talk your way out of it.
you weren't really trying to eat a cookie, your hand fell in the jar.
sad how we think sometimes it'll work. maybe i can pull the wool over their eyes one more time, they wise up. eventually. what would happen if your world froze, while you were in the middle of another junkie episode. i wonder what they would see behind every window, in every car or room.
something delicious i suppose.
you weren't really trying to eat a cookie, your hand fell in the jar.
sad how we think sometimes it'll work. maybe i can pull the wool over their eyes one more time, they wise up. eventually. what would happen if your world froze, while you were in the middle of another junkie episode. i wonder what they would see behind every window, in every car or room.
something delicious i suppose.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
bang bang bang
bang bang bang!
one shot in
one shot out,
she fails about,
one shot in
one shot out,
now i’ve got two,
the sorbet is cold.
bang bang bang!
on shot in,
to the throat,
poor darling couldn’t cope,
on she crawled,
cake is on the left,
once outside a treaty was reached,
the border was breached!
one shot in,
on shot out,
bang bang bang!
three lumps i felt.
six tears i spilt,
no mens i kilt,
bang bang bang!
to sleep, to sleep.
one shot in
one shot out,
she fails about,
one shot in
one shot out,
now i’ve got two,
the sorbet is cold.
bang bang bang!
on shot in,
to the throat,
poor darling couldn’t cope,
on she crawled,
cake is on the left,
once outside a treaty was reached,
the border was breached!
one shot in,
on shot out,
bang bang bang!
three lumps i felt.
six tears i spilt,
no mens i kilt,
bang bang bang!
to sleep, to sleep.
southern boy riddles
1.
i was consumed in it,
like wine i scurried through the cracks in the pavement-
but it is ours, not theirs.
it is coming,
quick, the pens.
2.
we are separated by a fine red line-
it's strength is untold,
we must not learn it,
i hide your letters in the box,
they are embarrassing.
your questions,
your heart,
your secrets,
i cannot keep them.
he said woman: won't you have them?
i said boy: do not ask me that,
you will not have me.
i cannot be had.
he said go! temptress.
3.
red ribbons slip out of black envelopes;
i tie my hair with memories quite vivid
the red runs through my hair and then the ribbon is white
and i am laced with the passion, our passion,
gritty and cold.
we cannot except it,
you cannot expect much,
but your ribbon i will cherish,
[i am laced in your desires.]
warm and tangible.
i should hate, sadly i can't
oh my southern boy,
i cannot keep them.
4.
it is as follows.
one two, no more.
one two, no more.
one two, explore.
one two, no more.
you must not love like this,
i shall write to Venus come morn-
for now i will wrap the ribbon round.
5.
darling we can ride the seven glass,
sun pierced by the edge,
dripping lust upon the roses heads.
we can ride the seven glass straight into the rabbit hole,
down into her wonderland, following the nightingale.
we can ride the seven glass around ye, trolley car.
trolley pulls heavy weights,
he said that was a man's car.
i was dismissed: go!
temptress.
6.
wine runs, runs, runs.
trolley pulls heavy weights,
ribbons bear heavy hearts,
he said go!
temptress.
i was consumed in it,
like wine i scurried through the cracks in the pavement-
but it is ours, not theirs.
it is coming,
quick, the pens.
2.
we are separated by a fine red line-
it's strength is untold,
we must not learn it,
i hide your letters in the box,
they are embarrassing.
your questions,
your heart,
your secrets,
i cannot keep them.
he said woman: won't you have them?
i said boy: do not ask me that,
you will not have me.
i cannot be had.
he said go! temptress.
3.
red ribbons slip out of black envelopes;
i tie my hair with memories quite vivid
the red runs through my hair and then the ribbon is white
and i am laced with the passion, our passion,
gritty and cold.
we cannot except it,
you cannot expect much,
but your ribbon i will cherish,
[i am laced in your desires.]
warm and tangible.
i should hate, sadly i can't
oh my southern boy,
i cannot keep them.
4.
it is as follows.
one two, no more.
one two, no more.
one two, explore.
one two, no more.
you must not love like this,
i shall write to Venus come morn-
for now i will wrap the ribbon round.
5.
darling we can ride the seven glass,
sun pierced by the edge,
dripping lust upon the roses heads.
we can ride the seven glass straight into the rabbit hole,
down into her wonderland, following the nightingale.
we can ride the seven glass around ye, trolley car.
trolley pulls heavy weights,
he said that was a man's car.
i was dismissed: go!
temptress.
6.
wine runs, runs, runs.
trolley pulls heavy weights,
ribbons bear heavy hearts,
he said go!
temptress.
Friday, May 25, 2007
cloud coffee (minor duet)
who am i? well i see clouds in my coffee,
i see patterns in the sky, and there
are dancers in the grasses moving in the
ancient step from the history that defines me
to the notes that outline me.
see i could point you out in the masses
as the one who would complete me, and so I let
you stay around. i said, come here boy and
follow me down, we’re taking it slow tonight.
these people is headed towards the easy light.
work it out girl.
i will show you the way. boy, i know how to play
that music you like- come here boy and set with me,
if i wanted to cook the gumbo with lives,
would you let me? prevent me from telling n
the word down the street? who’s bringing the
foreman’s whip down with a crack, for generations not one
of us has faced the world with a bent back.
woman said, “let her go child, she ain’t talkin smack.
she’s got the history down pat don’t y’all know?”
she giving it to you smooth,
like black coffee’s flow-”
clouds in my coffee,
clouds in my coffee....
so i do not idolize that set. i despise
those who can live without the word
in their blood and honey i always find something,
to write about and then i sound it out.
guilt is never mine. and tonight,
we’re going to have ourselves a good old time.
you gotta preach it to sell it,
gotta feel it to tell it.
and it if it wasn’t for that damn cream they’re be no-
clouds in my coffee,
tell em carly.
clouds in my coffee....
i see patterns in the sky, and there
are dancers in the grasses moving in the
ancient step from the history that defines me
to the notes that outline me.
see i could point you out in the masses
as the one who would complete me, and so I let
you stay around. i said, come here boy and
follow me down, we’re taking it slow tonight.
these people is headed towards the easy light.
work it out girl.
i will show you the way. boy, i know how to play
that music you like- come here boy and set with me,
if i wanted to cook the gumbo with lives,
would you let me? prevent me from telling n
the word down the street? who’s bringing the
foreman’s whip down with a crack, for generations not one
of us has faced the world with a bent back.
woman said, “let her go child, she ain’t talkin smack.
she’s got the history down pat don’t y’all know?”
she giving it to you smooth,
like black coffee’s flow-”
clouds in my coffee,
clouds in my coffee....
so i do not idolize that set. i despise
those who can live without the word
in their blood and honey i always find something,
to write about and then i sound it out.
guilt is never mine. and tonight,
we’re going to have ourselves a good old time.
you gotta preach it to sell it,
gotta feel it to tell it.
and it if it wasn’t for that damn cream they’re be no-
clouds in my coffee,
tell em carly.
clouds in my coffee....
Sunday, May 13, 2007
For her.
And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson,
Jesus loves you more than you will know.
God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson.
Heaven holds a place for those who pray,
hey hey hey.
Simon and Garfunkel
Jesus loves you more than you will know.
God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson.
Heaven holds a place for those who pray,
hey hey hey.
Simon and Garfunkel
regarding mrs robinson
mrs. robinson was jaded.
she decided she couldn’t take it anymore
so mrs. robinson jumped. she landed on
the bottom floor, standing straight up.
mrs. robinson was dreaming.
she walked around the garden in a square pattern,
said that the boy didn’t even matter,
so mrs. robinson dreamed of an ever after,
where only she would lie. where only
the men would die.
mrs. robinson was tired
of the house that she built with gloved hands.
of the dining room she hosted. the
bedroom she romanced. the
living room where she toasted
the wedding of her daughter to the other boy.
so mrs. robinson filled the tub with water
and sat in it saying she would stay there
for the rest of her days.
yet to mrs. robinson’s dismay,
the water ran out through the crack
under her leg. she exhaled one last time
then hid the white tub away in the closet
with the bones and the grandfather
clock chimed twice three times.
mrs. robinson watched the sun drop
in a boysenberry sky.
mrs. robinson was jaded.
broken down and worn. her
dress was dirty and torn. her
pearls chipped and dull.
so mrs. robinson decided to dull
her senses with the magic wine,
the one they hid so the children wouldn’t find,
the secret elixir that keeps her awake.
with a shake of her purse she shook
out a cigarette to smoke away all her regrets,
she took out her tortoise barrette,
and removed her pointed stiletto shoes. oh
mrs. robinson who knew you were so sorrowed,
perhaps i’ve some happiness you can borrow.
mrs. robinson closed her eyes
and sat in the middle of the kitchen floor.
she laid her body flat and kept her jaw slacked.
mrs. robinson thought she was chasing her blues out,
when she was really just inviting them back.
she decided she couldn’t take it anymore
so mrs. robinson jumped. she landed on
the bottom floor, standing straight up.
mrs. robinson was dreaming.
she walked around the garden in a square pattern,
said that the boy didn’t even matter,
so mrs. robinson dreamed of an ever after,
where only she would lie. where only
the men would die.
mrs. robinson was tired
of the house that she built with gloved hands.
of the dining room she hosted. the
bedroom she romanced. the
living room where she toasted
the wedding of her daughter to the other boy.
so mrs. robinson filled the tub with water
and sat in it saying she would stay there
for the rest of her days.
yet to mrs. robinson’s dismay,
the water ran out through the crack
under her leg. she exhaled one last time
then hid the white tub away in the closet
with the bones and the grandfather
clock chimed twice three times.
mrs. robinson watched the sun drop
in a boysenberry sky.
mrs. robinson was jaded.
broken down and worn. her
dress was dirty and torn. her
pearls chipped and dull.
so mrs. robinson decided to dull
her senses with the magic wine,
the one they hid so the children wouldn’t find,
the secret elixir that keeps her awake.
with a shake of her purse she shook
out a cigarette to smoke away all her regrets,
she took out her tortoise barrette,
and removed her pointed stiletto shoes. oh
mrs. robinson who knew you were so sorrowed,
perhaps i’ve some happiness you can borrow.
mrs. robinson closed her eyes
and sat in the middle of the kitchen floor.
she laid her body flat and kept her jaw slacked.
mrs. robinson thought she was chasing her blues out,
when she was really just inviting them back.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
boygirlboygirl
on matters of the future
what the boy said:i mean exactly what i said, forget law school and become a writer.
what the girl said: dirty words kiddo
his response: never was one to wash out my mouth
on matters of the heart
what the boy said:how far would you be willing to go for love
what the girl said:depends, how far would you walk with me?
his response: to the end of this earth.
her response: I’ll think about it.
small talk
what the boy said: lol. your poetry is showing.
what the girl said:gee kiddo, make my night.
his response:will do.
her response:you make me laugh
on breakfast
what the boy said:i made potatoes for dinner, it made me think about what it would be like to cook you breakfast.
what the girl said: i like oatmeal
his response:what about those chocolate chip pancakes i promised you
her response: still sounds good to me.
his response: you gotta let me fix you breakfast this summer.
her response:plan on staying for breakfast one of these days?
he says: you know it.
endings
his: nite, i love u.
hers: night.
--------------------------end transmittion----------------------------------------------
what the boy said:i mean exactly what i said, forget law school and become a writer.
what the girl said: dirty words kiddo
his response: never was one to wash out my mouth
on matters of the heart
what the boy said:how far would you be willing to go for love
what the girl said:depends, how far would you walk with me?
his response: to the end of this earth.
her response: I’ll think about it.
small talk
what the boy said: lol. your poetry is showing.
what the girl said:gee kiddo, make my night.
his response:will do.
her response:you make me laugh
on breakfast
what the boy said:i made potatoes for dinner, it made me think about what it would be like to cook you breakfast.
what the girl said: i like oatmeal
his response:what about those chocolate chip pancakes i promised you
her response: still sounds good to me.
his response: you gotta let me fix you breakfast this summer.
her response:plan on staying for breakfast one of these days?
he says: you know it.
endings
his: nite, i love u.
hers: night.
--------------------------end transmittion----------------------------------------------
Our Education Realization.
When one thinks of all we want,
we hardly think of books.
Simplicity misses humanity,
humanity condemns simplicity.
Lyrics have become explicitly charged.
What about homer and his cherished Iliad,
or all the other classics that no one’s read.
There goes another empty head,
but at what cost?
How dare things be so simple we can use them,
how dare the lies be small and the eyes nieve.
How easily we are deceived
by starlets living their busy lives.
Who couldn’t tell you cocktail hour is a five,
but when’s the time for peace?
Harmony?
Pardon me, you seemed to have dropped
your sense upon the floor.
Excuse me, I really think it’s yours.
When i point left,
you run right,
darling it was not an accusation!
We've got to address this situation!
We’ve got to learn to make accommodations!
How can we function as a nation?
(He’d help you out, but he’s on vacation)
He always is,
so the jobs becomes ours.
Coffee is a drug,
medication a necessity-
no one questions a daily pill intake,
it’s how many do you take?
And so the pills become candy,
and candy becomes pounds
for enough is never enough
and greed is in vogue.
With all that said let’s start this show,
of pencil thin girls all walking in a line.
Am i supposed to think them divine?
Oh no, not this,
look at cats in spain,
they’ve figured out the game.
I say homeless and you look weary,
I say money you get cheery.
I say do and you say can’t,
I say you help and you say shant.
They say rainbow, you. step. back.
well I should have guessed that.
Why walk when you can drive,
Why die when you can stay alive?
Why love when you can hate?
Why choose that path when you can choose fate?
I hit you you sue me,
If only you really knew me...
I smile, you look down.
I call, your out of town.
I live, he lives, she lives
but do you see the problem?
we hardly think of books.
Simplicity misses humanity,
humanity condemns simplicity.
Lyrics have become explicitly charged.
What about homer and his cherished Iliad,
or all the other classics that no one’s read.
There goes another empty head,
but at what cost?
How dare things be so simple we can use them,
how dare the lies be small and the eyes nieve.
How easily we are deceived
by starlets living their busy lives.
Who couldn’t tell you cocktail hour is a five,
but when’s the time for peace?
Harmony?
Pardon me, you seemed to have dropped
your sense upon the floor.
Excuse me, I really think it’s yours.
When i point left,
you run right,
darling it was not an accusation!
We've got to address this situation!
We’ve got to learn to make accommodations!
How can we function as a nation?
(He’d help you out, but he’s on vacation)
He always is,
so the jobs becomes ours.
Coffee is a drug,
medication a necessity-
no one questions a daily pill intake,
it’s how many do you take?
And so the pills become candy,
and candy becomes pounds
for enough is never enough
and greed is in vogue.
With all that said let’s start this show,
of pencil thin girls all walking in a line.
Am i supposed to think them divine?
Oh no, not this,
look at cats in spain,
they’ve figured out the game.
I say homeless and you look weary,
I say money you get cheery.
I say do and you say can’t,
I say you help and you say shant.
They say rainbow, you. step. back.
well I should have guessed that.
Why walk when you can drive,
Why die when you can stay alive?
Why love when you can hate?
Why choose that path when you can choose fate?
I hit you you sue me,
If only you really knew me...
I smile, you look down.
I call, your out of town.
I live, he lives, she lives
but do you see the problem?
boxcars (revised)
this is a different type of story.
neither a beginning nor an end it’s the story of boy and girl,
how they left life to wander among the boxcars.
silent but graceful, with matured faces
but the body of children grown too
soon and rushed into something
they cannot care for.
they are boy and girl sitting on the boxcar,
engaged in their first movement.
this is a different type of story.
better explained through words because
voices cannot keep it,
will not say it.
so they run up and down the train
tracks chasing chaotic dreams.
screaming high, higher and higher;
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide.
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within its fire.
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide.
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within its fire.
a different type of story.
sunsets from the boxcars were bittersweet.
a melody playing from the carnival across a dead field
of scarecrows speared onto their hollow poles.
waving while the wind weaves between their ears,
cursing all that real, all that is now,
lamenting for the tragedies sitting on the boxcars
hopeless wishing to wail away the scars.
who tells this tale?
the angels on duty perch upon the crossing signs.
they take away bits a pieces of the story and drop them
into each. different. boxcar.
sleeping in all their rusted glory,
motionless on the tracks.
the piter pater piter pater of the children's
footfalls the rhythm.
the lyrics the accusations, frustrations, accusations, frustrations,
exit plans.
there is a man who comes to clean the ruins,
a man who cares for the boxcars.
gently sweeping each one with a broom,
swirling the dust about his head and
laughing all the while. in car
seven he was surprised to find
it strewn with glass and smelling of promise,
the walls thick with a soft pink paint. the
word broken repeatedly written in rough
strokes, shaped in three fourth of a heart.
there is no road out.
no train, this station is emptier than heaven,
colder than hell.
he never thought she could be saved in three words.
eight letter he ought not think.
three syllables she’s searched for in every boxcar.
there is one dream,
one ending that the young girl anticipates.
this is a story that cannot be told completely.
it must be told in lies so that you cannot see the truth blazing
behind her eyes.
in the cold hands she keeps shoved in her pocket while they wait.
wait for a train to pull into the station, for the
boxcars to pick themselves up
and move. for the man to clean the paint before it dries
and stains the rusty wall for years
until they finally collapse
in a loud, old, heap.
it’s said that talk is cheap;
so he promises nothing.
today was different.
locomotive number 9 has pulled into the station.
fallen out of heaven,
dear god was that kind.
but this was not what the boy and girl asked for,
and now they are out of time.
so the train pulled out with the boy in tow,
the girl turned and moaned for the days
they’d never know.
shaking slowly she walked towards
the boxcars in the drunk morning light.
in the field the scarecrows doubled over
one by one,
hiding their faces from the sight.
neither a beginning nor an end it’s the story of boy and girl,
how they left life to wander among the boxcars.
silent but graceful, with matured faces
but the body of children grown too
soon and rushed into something
they cannot care for.
they are boy and girl sitting on the boxcar,
engaged in their first movement.
this is a different type of story.
better explained through words because
voices cannot keep it,
will not say it.
so they run up and down the train
tracks chasing chaotic dreams.
screaming high, higher and higher;
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide.
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within its fire.
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide.
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within its fire.
a different type of story.
sunsets from the boxcars were bittersweet.
a melody playing from the carnival across a dead field
of scarecrows speared onto their hollow poles.
waving while the wind weaves between their ears,
cursing all that real, all that is now,
lamenting for the tragedies sitting on the boxcars
hopeless wishing to wail away the scars.
who tells this tale?
the angels on duty perch upon the crossing signs.
they take away bits a pieces of the story and drop them
into each. different. boxcar.
sleeping in all their rusted glory,
motionless on the tracks.
the piter pater piter pater of the children's
footfalls the rhythm.
the lyrics the accusations, frustrations, accusations, frustrations,
exit plans.
there is a man who comes to clean the ruins,
a man who cares for the boxcars.
gently sweeping each one with a broom,
swirling the dust about his head and
laughing all the while. in car
seven he was surprised to find
it strewn with glass and smelling of promise,
the walls thick with a soft pink paint. the
word broken repeatedly written in rough
strokes, shaped in three fourth of a heart.
there is no road out.
no train, this station is emptier than heaven,
colder than hell.
he never thought she could be saved in three words.
eight letter he ought not think.
three syllables she’s searched for in every boxcar.
there is one dream,
one ending that the young girl anticipates.
this is a story that cannot be told completely.
it must be told in lies so that you cannot see the truth blazing
behind her eyes.
in the cold hands she keeps shoved in her pocket while they wait.
wait for a train to pull into the station, for the
boxcars to pick themselves up
and move. for the man to clean the paint before it dries
and stains the rusty wall for years
until they finally collapse
in a loud, old, heap.
it’s said that talk is cheap;
so he promises nothing.
today was different.
locomotive number 9 has pulled into the station.
fallen out of heaven,
dear god was that kind.
but this was not what the boy and girl asked for,
and now they are out of time.
so the train pulled out with the boy in tow,
the girl turned and moaned for the days
they’d never know.
shaking slowly she walked towards
the boxcars in the drunk morning light.
in the field the scarecrows doubled over
one by one,
hiding their faces from the sight.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
cranes.
setting up things for the paper crane project, really hoping this all comes together.
i'm thinking, family portrait
in white.
i'm thinking, family portrait
in white.
Monday, April 9, 2007
the scene (land, hand)
The Scene (Land, Hand)
I am tired.
we cannot say it's just a profession,
rather it's a overflowing confession of life,
strife,
it keeps the children going through an overgrown reality.
this afternoon at the river i was baptized,
upon the hill he was crucified,
the crowd was mystified...
it was the celebration of celebrations,
a coming on age if you will allow me that.
but if you will deny me that,
then i'll will travel up the road and back
till we reach the promise land
holding the head of moses in my hand,
his holy words dripping out of his mouth
colored like a dark red wine,
jesus walked alone in the desert
to prove himself divine.
40 days later he hit the sidewalk on the other side,
screaming the message "god will provide"
this was before his death of course.
but what we will find,
when he falls and the head grows heavy
that the masses must march at a steady pace,
or i, my dear, will win this race.
no one learned it,
only one made the return,
and it was me.
so man i tried to lead your son through the desert
to the promise land.
yet he was weak and i was tired,
he was taken,
i was rewired,
and now i can say i have forgetten it all!
so i will rest,
the head gone from my hands,
and the prospect
is grand.
I am tired.
we cannot say it's just a profession,
rather it's a overflowing confession of life,
strife,
it keeps the children going through an overgrown reality.
this afternoon at the river i was baptized,
upon the hill he was crucified,
the crowd was mystified...
it was the celebration of celebrations,
a coming on age if you will allow me that.
but if you will deny me that,
then i'll will travel up the road and back
till we reach the promise land
holding the head of moses in my hand,
his holy words dripping out of his mouth
colored like a dark red wine,
jesus walked alone in the desert
to prove himself divine.
40 days later he hit the sidewalk on the other side,
screaming the message "god will provide"
this was before his death of course.
but what we will find,
when he falls and the head grows heavy
that the masses must march at a steady pace,
or i, my dear, will win this race.
no one learned it,
only one made the return,
and it was me.
so man i tried to lead your son through the desert
to the promise land.
yet he was weak and i was tired,
he was taken,
i was rewired,
and now i can say i have forgetten it all!
so i will rest,
the head gone from my hands,
and the prospect
is grand.
easter sunday
i was a good Christian this morning,
i walked into the chapel
and out of the dust,
ashes to ashes?
i crossed myself three times,
turned my eyes towards the shrine
where the man told us everything
and everyone prayed back-
and i was a good christian!
i did my bid.
i was a good christian this morning,
we sat like nails in a board,
stuck in our ways,
and shaking our mouths and our heads
towards the man hanging on the cross
he is the invisible messiah,
we worship an invisible man!
i did my bid.
the cult was mine and mine alone,
oh but it was yours too.
we must share,
we must share,
share and share a like,
in christ the messiah (the invisible merchant)
amen.
i walked into the chapel
and out of the dust,
ashes to ashes?
i crossed myself three times,
turned my eyes towards the shrine
where the man told us everything
and everyone prayed back-
and i was a good christian!
i did my bid.
i was a good christian this morning,
we sat like nails in a board,
stuck in our ways,
and shaking our mouths and our heads
towards the man hanging on the cross
he is the invisible messiah,
we worship an invisible man!
i did my bid.
the cult was mine and mine alone,
oh but it was yours too.
we must share,
we must share,
share and share a like,
in christ the messiah (the invisible merchant)
amen.
Friday, March 16, 2007
untitled. to me, from anne
There is no one who can do what I can.
This is a job unmeasured,
a life unimaginable,
which I share poets and things.
We who cannot speak
and dare not act,
we are the wordmakers.
The confidants,
not the movers,
cannot be trusted with secrets.
Our weakness will fill you,
our love will enchant,
our passions will-
We know what life is, it is our self.
Climb in this crate, the crate that is ours,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.
Quickly girl, there is so much to explore,
for we will fall through the floor,
and become the essence.
If faced with this solitude
the steady would be come undeceive.
Given this food,
one would shout poison!
But I am rowing,
oh darling! I am still rowing.
One should turn back,
the road is unpaved,
the river unkept.
It's filthy.
Do not ask of what lies beneath it's glassy skin.
Do not ask me why i shudder,
my arms are weak,
still the rowing must go on.
Pens, paper, hearts, music, rhythm, and rhyme,
fill me up to my toes,
my typewriter I eat in the morn,
his sonnets I burn by night.
Do not walk towards me with bare intentions.
If you seek time,
she does not lie here.
She dare not come here!
Help me, my little string bean,
we are rowing to bedlam and back.
Where they would ring the bells in my ear;
E-flat.
Speak your desires through ink,
dry your sermons in black,
hold fast.
Hold tight.
And these were the songs,
we sang at Bedlam,
there are the words,
scribbled under the table.
There are the words,
that imprisoned me at 45 Mercy Street!
Darling I have been your kind,
I have been his kind,
I have been god's kind,
I have been her kind.
You must be my kind!
Yes, forgive us father
for we know not.
I'd like to think,
that you've sins to be penned.
Secrets for my lay away box?
It is my immortality box...
If you must row,
then come and write. with. me.
Women like us,
are not afraid to fly.
This is a job unmeasured,
a life unimaginable,
which I share poets and things.
We who cannot speak
and dare not act,
we are the wordmakers.
The confidants,
not the movers,
cannot be trusted with secrets.
Our weakness will fill you,
our love will enchant,
our passions will-
We know what life is, it is our self.
Climb in this crate, the crate that is ours,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.
Quickly girl, there is so much to explore,
for we will fall through the floor,
and become the essence.
If faced with this solitude
the steady would be come undeceive.
Given this food,
one would shout poison!
But I am rowing,
oh darling! I am still rowing.
One should turn back,
the road is unpaved,
the river unkept.
It's filthy.
Do not ask of what lies beneath it's glassy skin.
Do not ask me why i shudder,
my arms are weak,
still the rowing must go on.
Pens, paper, hearts, music, rhythm, and rhyme,
fill me up to my toes,
my typewriter I eat in the morn,
his sonnets I burn by night.
Do not walk towards me with bare intentions.
If you seek time,
she does not lie here.
She dare not come here!
Help me, my little string bean,
we are rowing to bedlam and back.
Where they would ring the bells in my ear;
E-flat.
Speak your desires through ink,
dry your sermons in black,
hold fast.
Hold tight.
And these were the songs,
we sang at Bedlam,
there are the words,
scribbled under the table.
There are the words,
that imprisoned me at 45 Mercy Street!
Darling I have been your kind,
I have been his kind,
I have been god's kind,
I have been her kind.
You must be my kind!
Yes, forgive us father
for we know not.
I'd like to think,
that you've sins to be penned.
Secrets for my lay away box?
It is my immortality box...
If you must row,
then come and write. with. me.
Women like us,
are not afraid to fly.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
if
if i had something to say to the world everyday, well i would write it in this blogg. but usually i have nothing to say and usually anthing i have to say i don't feel like ingniting anything. Another tuesday has come and gone, without any bloodshed might i had. but with tuesday's comes half a-ed notes and such, a sense of dread with every hour and just recognition that's it's just been monday, there is really nothing good about wednsday, and friday is three whole days away. not to mention that anything bad seems to happen to me on a tuesday, not on any other day. i have the worst tuesday schedule, and to top it off i had a lesson today....
which resulted in a ghastly headache.
it's almost morning again.
until then,
Violet
which resulted in a ghastly headache.
it's almost morning again.
until then,
Violet
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
violet
in my dream i saw the bridge.
where light once danced and we once sat.
young shadows glittering upon the creek,
try to understand
what it is from tomorrow we seek.
will you be in my company,
or away from my face.
will you remember this story
and the childish romance that
took place.
or will the bridge fade from your mind,
just as the sky must change shades.
this name will vanish from your lips,
and the memory will erase.
how i wish it would stay.
how i saw you,
i want to keep you that way.
the bridge!
the bridge, my love,
there i have planted my heart,
it is yours to uproot.
where light once danced and we once sat.
young shadows glittering upon the creek,
try to understand
what it is from tomorrow we seek.
will you be in my company,
or away from my face.
will you remember this story
and the childish romance that
took place.
or will the bridge fade from your mind,
just as the sky must change shades.
this name will vanish from your lips,
and the memory will erase.
how i wish it would stay.
how i saw you,
i want to keep you that way.
the bridge!
the bridge, my love,
there i have planted my heart,
it is yours to uproot.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
to do list
seeing as i neglected to make a new years resolution (again), i'll try and redeem myself by making this to do list almost two months too late. but i think jl had the right idea, time to organize and get it together. it seems like i've thrown together a million different beginnings but i haven't sat down to think a lot of them through. c'est tres tragic, i know. so lets see if i can finally do this,
though it's a tad ealry for spring cleaning.
1. finish Diane's, no ifs ands or buts. or at least finish some sort of first draft.
2. finish "The Wington Estate" and find a way to tie reality with fiction.
3. find something to do with all those leaves i've been saving. i swear i had a plan...
4. finish the door project
5. find a shape for all these pictures i've been cutting out.
6. finally figure out what a muse is!
7. buy a rhyming dictionary so i can end the headaches for once and for all.
8. figure out what i'm going to do with these letters i've starting writing to, "my dear mrs. downing."
9. buy diana krall cd.
10. eat more apples.
11. complete contest essays (is that the right plural)
12. buy driving shoes
13. now that i finally understand the era, finish the serpent and the moon.
14. this list is a lot longer than i expected.
though it's a tad ealry for spring cleaning.
1. finish Diane's, no ifs ands or buts. or at least finish some sort of first draft.
2. finish "The Wington Estate" and find a way to tie reality with fiction.
3. find something to do with all those leaves i've been saving. i swear i had a plan...
4. finish the door project
5. find a shape for all these pictures i've been cutting out.
6. finally figure out what a muse is!
7. buy a rhyming dictionary so i can end the headaches for once and for all.
8. figure out what i'm going to do with these letters i've starting writing to, "my dear mrs. downing."
9. buy diana krall cd.
10. eat more apples.
11. complete contest essays (is that the right plural)
12. buy driving shoes
13. now that i finally understand the era, finish the serpent and the moon.
14. this list is a lot longer than i expected.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
heaven in manhattan
the devil was screaming for a duet partner.
and since my finger can play a sinner’s cord quite well
'twas i who crawled into the dirt
and came out on the other side upside down
and filled with a malicious rhythm.
if it were a seemingly normal tuesday
and you were walking the streets on manhattan
in that red dress,
in those black paten leather shoes,
with the mean city strut,
and a upper east side lean,
would you expect heaven in manhattan?
i saw with sane insanity
that this heaven was delivered when his piano,
fell into the middle of the street.
his fingers roamed those keys like
a lion would roam a womans body, the whole street froze.
a p.o.w among citizens i stole quietly in and out of the
masses and poured the daily libations on
each good man’s head
until they were sufficiently drenched and
inconceivable inaudible
all muttering furiously
panicked at the apparent lack of mobility.
six notes let them go and
like flies they scurried
past the piano and out of site,
he watched with heavy eyes,
flickering with vague amusement,
indeed i’ve believe i’ve struck a nerve in the devil himself.
leaving the gutter spirits
to lap the vodka from the cement,
he left the piano to try his luck with our courtship.
and since my finger can play a sinner’s cord quite well
'twas i who crawled into the dirt
and came out on the other side upside down
and filled with a malicious rhythm.
if it were a seemingly normal tuesday
and you were walking the streets on manhattan
in that red dress,
in those black paten leather shoes,
with the mean city strut,
and a upper east side lean,
would you expect heaven in manhattan?
i saw with sane insanity
that this heaven was delivered when his piano,
fell into the middle of the street.
his fingers roamed those keys like
a lion would roam a womans body, the whole street froze.
a p.o.w among citizens i stole quietly in and out of the
masses and poured the daily libations on
each good man’s head
until they were sufficiently drenched and
inconceivable inaudible
all muttering furiously
panicked at the apparent lack of mobility.
six notes let them go and
like flies they scurried
past the piano and out of site,
he watched with heavy eyes,
flickering with vague amusement,
indeed i’ve believe i’ve struck a nerve in the devil himself.
leaving the gutter spirits
to lap the vodka from the cement,
he left the piano to try his luck with our courtship.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
jenifer's song
jenifer's song
the metal on the bus seat
was cold and stiff;
she sat down,
submerged herself in chords,
and struck up a thought.
the afternoon blend of conversations and strings
was lulling her out of her rage,
in the meantime she watched the streets fly by
and the people that looked as if moving out of sync-
we’re two of a kind,
she said to me.
you and i,
i couldn’t fall asleep last night,
and neither could i.
but as the bus continued
to slide down the avenues,
the attack fell on her swiftly.
all charm and manners forgotten,
she put a ladies good qualities aside
and with all that said and done she dawned the general’s coat
and marched gallantly towards enemy lines.
and because she was not familiar
with the art of war
jenifer's song was interrupted
by excited hands that
drew thick lines through her heaven.
she waved her arms at them,
they waved their arms back,
and little by little people got off on their stops.
but the interruption was small,
didn’t make it that big a mess at all.
so she put her headphones back on and fumed.
you see jenifer’s song
is what’s driving us along this bus ride,
it’s the woman talking loudly in her seat,
unaware of what anyone thinks
about the steady flow of glass pieces
pouring from her mouth.
and jenifer herself
is sitting three seats down,
on the left.
playing with the buttons in her hand,
flipping them over and over,
while the flowers on the ceiling are starting to sprout.
all the while she writes me,
and i smile at the thought
that jenifer’s song,
keeps on,
keeps on.
a foot tapping
back of the bus sensation.
the metal on the bus seat
was cold and stiff;
she sat down,
submerged herself in chords,
and struck up a thought.
the afternoon blend of conversations and strings
was lulling her out of her rage,
in the meantime she watched the streets fly by
and the people that looked as if moving out of sync-
we’re two of a kind,
she said to me.
you and i,
i couldn’t fall asleep last night,
and neither could i.
but as the bus continued
to slide down the avenues,
the attack fell on her swiftly.
all charm and manners forgotten,
she put a ladies good qualities aside
and with all that said and done she dawned the general’s coat
and marched gallantly towards enemy lines.
and because she was not familiar
with the art of war
jenifer's song was interrupted
by excited hands that
drew thick lines through her heaven.
she waved her arms at them,
they waved their arms back,
and little by little people got off on their stops.
but the interruption was small,
didn’t make it that big a mess at all.
so she put her headphones back on and fumed.
you see jenifer’s song
is what’s driving us along this bus ride,
it’s the woman talking loudly in her seat,
unaware of what anyone thinks
about the steady flow of glass pieces
pouring from her mouth.
and jenifer herself
is sitting three seats down,
on the left.
playing with the buttons in her hand,
flipping them over and over,
while the flowers on the ceiling are starting to sprout.
all the while she writes me,
and i smile at the thought
that jenifer’s song,
keeps on,
keeps on.
a foot tapping
back of the bus sensation.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
now hear this....
a reminder to myself that our next journey will be made with the sandman.
that's all,
Vi
that's all,
Vi
Sunday, February 11, 2007
2 am
last night at 2 am i had a revelation.
and now half submerged in water in invite you to share the secret.
the lies that i wove, stand.
but as the rain slaps the sidewalk my thoughts drift towards a romantic tomorrow.
and the eyes that once stood blank now bleed red.
the sky has turned an astonishing orange.
i couldn’t have predicted all of this from behind the glass.
the blank canvas i stared at only contributed to my confusion.
frida was there.
hissing advice from the canvas that she trapped herself upon.
all i can do is nod my head yes while i try and think of other things.
48 left to breath.
the pavement is so impersonal; must i lie here?
trying to stick my hand through the gate seemed pointless.
so i picked up my cup and walked away.
dragging the stick along the fence as it screams for release.
once they took me to a place that i rather not explore.
but i could feel every inch of your body love.
every bone, every secret, every nightmare.
eyes closed i tried to steal them away.
feeling out their path and drawing them out.
your body trembled as i eased the thoughts from your body,
wisps of nightmares vanishing into the air,
my own body shuddering with the pleasure of your pain.
your grip on my back weakens as i whisper to you the warmth these terrors,
your heartbeat pounds into my chest.
quickening with every whisper.
oh i was devastated when it ended love,
devastated.
you know the ice is thinning and sooner or later you’re going to fall in.
then i won’t be able to enjoy my walks anymore.
there was a time when dancing down the street in a sombrero seemed eccentric.
now it’s essential.
who would have known?
i wear a watch that doesn’t work.
for now, time shall slip by me unnoticed.
and now half submerged in water in invite you to share the secret.
the lies that i wove, stand.
but as the rain slaps the sidewalk my thoughts drift towards a romantic tomorrow.
and the eyes that once stood blank now bleed red.
the sky has turned an astonishing orange.
i couldn’t have predicted all of this from behind the glass.
the blank canvas i stared at only contributed to my confusion.
frida was there.
hissing advice from the canvas that she trapped herself upon.
all i can do is nod my head yes while i try and think of other things.
48 left to breath.
the pavement is so impersonal; must i lie here?
trying to stick my hand through the gate seemed pointless.
so i picked up my cup and walked away.
dragging the stick along the fence as it screams for release.
once they took me to a place that i rather not explore.
but i could feel every inch of your body love.
every bone, every secret, every nightmare.
eyes closed i tried to steal them away.
feeling out their path and drawing them out.
your body trembled as i eased the thoughts from your body,
wisps of nightmares vanishing into the air,
my own body shuddering with the pleasure of your pain.
your grip on my back weakens as i whisper to you the warmth these terrors,
your heartbeat pounds into my chest.
quickening with every whisper.
oh i was devastated when it ended love,
devastated.
you know the ice is thinning and sooner or later you’re going to fall in.
then i won’t be able to enjoy my walks anymore.
there was a time when dancing down the street in a sombrero seemed eccentric.
now it’s essential.
who would have known?
i wear a watch that doesn’t work.
for now, time shall slip by me unnoticed.
Friday, February 9, 2007
still raining
and it's suiting me just fine. i keep trying to take a picture of my shadow in the puddle yet it is never as amazing as the concept was. same hold true for cake, most of the time presentation is so much better than eating the damn thing.
same goes for life, and all things divine.
for now i'll just sit,
vi.
same goes for life, and all things divine.
for now i'll just sit,
vi.
boxcars
this is a different type of story.
neither a beginning nor an end it’s the story of you and me,
how we left life to wander among the boxcars.
silent but graceful, with matured faces
but the body of children grown too
soon and rushed into something
we do not care for.
we are boy and girl sitting on the boxcar:
engaged in our first movement.
“there’s nothing in me too love, you can’t do it.”
“i can.”
“i think your confused.”
“no, i think you are.”
this is a different type of story.
better explained through words because
voices cannot keep it,
will not say it.
so we run up and down the train
tracks chasing our chaotic dreams- screaming higher and higher and higher
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide,
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within it’s fire.
“when we grow up we’ll fight it together you and me, we’ll be all right once we have each other.”
“i’m not sure i can wait that long.
i don’t think i can wait.”
“NO NO NO NO NO WAIT GODDAMN IT! YOU CAN’T QUIT!”
a different type of story.
sunsets from the boxcars were bittersweet.
a melody playing from the carnival across a dead field
of scarecrows,
speared onto their hollow poles,
waving while the wind weaves between their ears,
cursing all that real, all that is now,
lamenting for the tragedies sitting on the boxcars:
hopelessly wishing to wail away the scars.
“maybe she chose the smart way out in quitting on me.
just like everyone, everyone else.”
“shut up.
this isn’t even funny.”
“who’s laughing.”
who tells this tale?
the angels on duty perch upon
the crossing signs.
take away bits a pieces of the story and drop them
into each. different. boxcar.
sleeping in all their rusted glory,
motionless on the tracks.
the piter pater piter pater of our
footfalls the rhythm, the
lyrics the accusations, frustrations, accusations, frustrations,
exit plans.
“you said you would never leave.”
“so did my father.”
“so what, are you going to leave?
how could you. there is never,
a way out.”
“sure there is.”
there is a man who comes to clean the ruins,
a man who cares for the boxcars.
gently sweeping each one with a broom,
swirling the dust about his head and
laughing all the while. in car
seven he was surprised to find
it strewn with glass and
smelling of promise,
the walls thick with a soft pink paint. the
word broken crudely written in rough
strokes, the whole thing the the shape of
three fourth of a heart.
“what road are you going to take.
what train, for this station is emptier than
heaven.”
“colder than hell.”
“what train do you think is heading southbound.”
“well lets see, oxycotin, meth, cyanide, no.22, no.45-”
“this is why i do not touch people. cause this sh*t, this sh*t is always waiting at paradise’s door.”
“have you ever though i could be saved in three words?”
“eighteen letter i ought not think.”
“three syllables i’ve searched for in ever boxcar-”
“well child here it now.
i love you.”
a story that cannot be told completely.
it must be told in lies,
so that you cannot see the truth blazing
in her cold eyes,
in her cold hands,
she keeps shoved in her pocket while they wait.
for a train to pull into the station, for the
boxcars to pick themselves up
and move.
for the man to clean the paint before it dries,
and stains the rusty wall for years
until they finally collapse,
in a loud, old, heap.
it’s said that talk is cheap.
“listen, you live for me and i’ll live you for you.”
“since i’ve lost all faith in myself, i’ll do it. i guess.”
“you guess?”
“i guess, i never know.”
locomotive number 9 has pulled into the station.
“how indecisive.”
fallen out of heaven,
“that’s my train.”
dear god was that kind.
“goodbye.”
but this was not what the boy and girl asked for,
“bye.”
and now they are out of time.
“no, wait. hey!
come and dance in our boxcar once more.”
----------------------------------------------
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
Aflred Tennyson (1809-1892)
neither a beginning nor an end it’s the story of you and me,
how we left life to wander among the boxcars.
silent but graceful, with matured faces
but the body of children grown too
soon and rushed into something
we do not care for.
we are boy and girl sitting on the boxcar:
engaged in our first movement.
“there’s nothing in me too love, you can’t do it.”
“i can.”
“i think your confused.”
“no, i think you are.”
this is a different type of story.
better explained through words because
voices cannot keep it,
will not say it.
so we run up and down the train
tracks chasing our chaotic dreams- screaming higher and higher and higher
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide,
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within it’s fire.
“when we grow up we’ll fight it together you and me, we’ll be all right once we have each other.”
“i’m not sure i can wait that long.
i don’t think i can wait.”
“NO NO NO NO NO WAIT GODDAMN IT! YOU CAN’T QUIT!”
a different type of story.
sunsets from the boxcars were bittersweet.
a melody playing from the carnival across a dead field
of scarecrows,
speared onto their hollow poles,
waving while the wind weaves between their ears,
cursing all that real, all that is now,
lamenting for the tragedies sitting on the boxcars:
hopelessly wishing to wail away the scars.
“maybe she chose the smart way out in quitting on me.
just like everyone, everyone else.”
“shut up.
this isn’t even funny.”
“who’s laughing.”
who tells this tale?
the angels on duty perch upon
the crossing signs.
take away bits a pieces of the story and drop them
into each. different. boxcar.
sleeping in all their rusted glory,
motionless on the tracks.
the piter pater piter pater of our
footfalls the rhythm, the
lyrics the accusations, frustrations, accusations, frustrations,
exit plans.
“you said you would never leave.”
“so did my father.”
“so what, are you going to leave?
how could you. there is never,
a way out.”
“sure there is.”
there is a man who comes to clean the ruins,
a man who cares for the boxcars.
gently sweeping each one with a broom,
swirling the dust about his head and
laughing all the while. in car
seven he was surprised to find
it strewn with glass and
smelling of promise,
the walls thick with a soft pink paint. the
word broken crudely written in rough
strokes, the whole thing the the shape of
three fourth of a heart.
“what road are you going to take.
what train, for this station is emptier than
heaven.”
“colder than hell.”
“what train do you think is heading southbound.”
“well lets see, oxycotin, meth, cyanide, no.22, no.45-”
“this is why i do not touch people. cause this sh*t, this sh*t is always waiting at paradise’s door.”
“have you ever though i could be saved in three words?”
“eighteen letter i ought not think.”
“three syllables i’ve searched for in ever boxcar-”
“well child here it now.
i love you.”
a story that cannot be told completely.
it must be told in lies,
so that you cannot see the truth blazing
in her cold eyes,
in her cold hands,
she keeps shoved in her pocket while they wait.
for a train to pull into the station, for the
boxcars to pick themselves up
and move.
for the man to clean the paint before it dries,
and stains the rusty wall for years
until they finally collapse,
in a loud, old, heap.
it’s said that talk is cheap.
“listen, you live for me and i’ll live you for you.”
“since i’ve lost all faith in myself, i’ll do it. i guess.”
“you guess?”
“i guess, i never know.”
locomotive number 9 has pulled into the station.
“how indecisive.”
fallen out of heaven,
“that’s my train.”
dear god was that kind.
“goodbye.”
but this was not what the boy and girl asked for,
“bye.”
and now they are out of time.
“no, wait. hey!
come and dance in our boxcar once more.”
----------------------------------------------
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
Aflred Tennyson (1809-1892)
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
theatre junkies for life
before you say, you say, that you want me- i want you to think (think) what your family would say. think (think) what your throwing away. now think what the future would be with a poor boy like meeeee.....
raining
well i do believe it's raining today. i don't know about up north but we're just dealing with a light hazy rainfall. minorly relaxing, though i'm more partial to pouring rain myself. these days I find myself writing more and more sonnets, even though i think the primative ryhme scheme of the things tres mal. maybe it's the idea of trying to bend the lines so they all fit together while still chocking on the fact i'm trying to rhyme words that are such a cliche like time, and lie, and well i'll post that one at 3 or so. it's called "love sonnet 13"
love sonnet 13.
perhaps, just perhaps, this poets falling hard.
or maybe it's just my february walk,
it is after all a week till valentine's day.
vi.
love sonnet 13.
perhaps, just perhaps, this poets falling hard.
or maybe it's just my february walk,
it is after all a week till valentine's day.
vi.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
fools rush in
in the days of marie,
paris was just a little girl
and versailles, versailles was a woman-
a divine mistress, now aged.
the modern world has torn beauty to shreads
replacing the simple with complex
ovetures with beats.
yet some things remain simplistic-
some women remain versailles.
fools rush into love
fall over passion
hungry for lusts oatmeal cookies
and loves semi-sweet burn.
it’s an affair that’s long run it’s course.
but love’s more than just a fools dream,
some says it’s the path untouched,
pure in emotions,
lost in the hearts delicious fever.
one of soaring heights,
and even more impressive byiast.
paris was just a little girl
and versailles, versailles was a woman-
a divine mistress, now aged.
the modern world has torn beauty to shreads
replacing the simple with complex
ovetures with beats.
yet some things remain simplistic-
some women remain versailles.
fools rush into love
fall over passion
hungry for lusts oatmeal cookies
and loves semi-sweet burn.
it’s an affair that’s long run it’s course.
but love’s more than just a fools dream,
some says it’s the path untouched,
pure in emotions,
lost in the hearts delicious fever.
one of soaring heights,
and even more impressive byiast.
Monday, February 5, 2007
the lady and the moon [dame kate]
her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon.
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon.
a sunday rain drenched her to the bone,
lovesick she waited outside his home,
he never came.
still, it rained.
our dame studied the pistol lying in her devils hand,
raised it to her temple and-
her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon.
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon.
he found her lying flat, moonlight in her hair.
and with much too little care,
he dragged her around the back-
burying her there.
mother moon watched,
though she turned gray at the sight.
such a black soul,
was enough to chill that night.
the world shivered.
he shoveled in that last bit of dirt,
kate wailed his name from her grave,
he quickly hissed, behave.
following the threat with two blows to the mound.
the spade struck bluntly
not making a sound.
the moon put her hands upon her eyes,
so the stars would not feel the silver tears raining down-
her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon.
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon.
alas,
la lune lowered herself from her hazy home,
peering through the muddy earth,
whatever shall be done must be done is haste.
there is, no time to waste.
calling all angels,
quickly you rouge knaves!
eat away this dirt,
save a lady from a grave.
the bullet missed her heart just barely,
i’ll talk to her gently, as long as she still hears me.
hurry, before her face becomes food for the roses,
tonight we’ll practice salvation,
be sure everybody knows this.
thus took place kate’s resurrection.
once the light hit her squarely
she blinked in pitiful fear,
he had left her stark,
worry not, said la lune,
i am here.
raised from her plot
and lowered from her terror
she tentatively began counting stars,
bucking violently before the mirror.
two angels held it fast to the grass,
again she’ll see her beauty.
the pieces of her broken heart
running through her hair and flowing forth from her eyes,
the moon finally exhaled for she had done her duty,
and god was satisfied.
what was his name?
the boy i’ll not mention,
his crimes to great.
but pray, pay attention
to this story of dame kate.
in the game of hearts,
she folded too soon.
now her tales forever scribbled in the stars,
as the lady and the moon.
i’ll mail this letter,
when morning rides in the mouth of the sun.
in the sunrise i’ll pen the final details of
dame kate's murder and resurrection-
those this riddles not told in total perfection.
head this-
remember my letter when your more dramtic emotion
dips you in a glittering luster,
don’t ever forget.
caution is all i beg of you so
please continue to love,
as we all must do.
now when the moon is full and round
trace the pattern of the light she’s casting down,
follow the zig zag to the markings in the street,
where dame kate once stood foolish,
were she and death were to meet.
her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon-
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon-
bon chance,
Vi.
she lost too soon.
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon.
a sunday rain drenched her to the bone,
lovesick she waited outside his home,
he never came.
still, it rained.
our dame studied the pistol lying in her devils hand,
raised it to her temple and-
her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon.
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon.
he found her lying flat, moonlight in her hair.
and with much too little care,
he dragged her around the back-
burying her there.
mother moon watched,
though she turned gray at the sight.
such a black soul,
was enough to chill that night.
the world shivered.
he shoveled in that last bit of dirt,
kate wailed his name from her grave,
he quickly hissed, behave.
following the threat with two blows to the mound.
the spade struck bluntly
not making a sound.
the moon put her hands upon her eyes,
so the stars would not feel the silver tears raining down-
her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon.
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon.
alas,
la lune lowered herself from her hazy home,
peering through the muddy earth,
whatever shall be done must be done is haste.
there is, no time to waste.
calling all angels,
quickly you rouge knaves!
eat away this dirt,
save a lady from a grave.
the bullet missed her heart just barely,
i’ll talk to her gently, as long as she still hears me.
hurry, before her face becomes food for the roses,
tonight we’ll practice salvation,
be sure everybody knows this.
thus took place kate’s resurrection.
once the light hit her squarely
she blinked in pitiful fear,
he had left her stark,
worry not, said la lune,
i am here.
raised from her plot
and lowered from her terror
she tentatively began counting stars,
bucking violently before the mirror.
two angels held it fast to the grass,
again she’ll see her beauty.
the pieces of her broken heart
running through her hair and flowing forth from her eyes,
the moon finally exhaled for she had done her duty,
and god was satisfied.
what was his name?
the boy i’ll not mention,
his crimes to great.
but pray, pay attention
to this story of dame kate.
in the game of hearts,
she folded too soon.
now her tales forever scribbled in the stars,
as the lady and the moon.
i’ll mail this letter,
when morning rides in the mouth of the sun.
in the sunrise i’ll pen the final details of
dame kate's murder and resurrection-
those this riddles not told in total perfection.
head this-
remember my letter when your more dramtic emotion
dips you in a glittering luster,
don’t ever forget.
caution is all i beg of you so
please continue to love,
as we all must do.
now when the moon is full and round
trace the pattern of the light she’s casting down,
follow the zig zag to the markings in the street,
where dame kate once stood foolish,
were she and death were to meet.
her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon-
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon-
bon chance,
Vi.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
wanderings
Lucy and I strolled around the campus this afternoon. I find sunday to be oddly calming, unless of course it is raining. Then they are marvelous. Lucy is my dog, a stuffed terrier. Right now I should be finishing an essay on Macbeth; I've decided to contrast Macbeth and Macduff are two different views of Scotland. Should be able to turn this one out in an hour or so with or without focus. Dearest Macbeth died from the sword of a man who was "untimely ripped" from his mother at birth.
how crude.
cheers anyhow,
Vi.
how crude.
cheers anyhow,
Vi.
the muse[model]
the muse[model]
jealousy is the rhythm of this tale, to this minuet.
the story of the muse.
a hundred black keys lay hidden at her breast;
they are the children, the answers, the pages, the keys open the pages.
and doors,
keys open doors n'est pas?
tis true a muse must inspire, yet her hands are violently red.
she inspired a conductor and drove him down
in a dark red mercedes.
down the winding path to the Wington Estate,
a house of glass and glories past.
her temper is fast,
her mouth dripping with hurt,
hers is the only key she doesn't own,
is it irony?
other keys she hides, their lives she takes
and one by one she drowns them,
one by one she becomes their muse.
through sheets, whispers, ink, and blind faith.
laying lives on the glass table two hours before supper!
Wington's silence ruined her game, so she fumed,
and lit a cigarette.
she says there is no fun in a prayer, no truth in the truth,
time holds no meaning,
she would rather count cards.
this is her world.
with her sharp finger she throws the aces into the holes in the ceiling
and makes the moon spin round-
faster than she or I can take, and so the sky did shake
until the moon fell loose and sunk deep into the lake,
Wington has lost it's light.
This is her chessboard,
the sordid game -I never did care for it- they say she was a grandmaster.
how did i end up here on an ivory square,
raising my skirts for the knight and running my scepter through the queen of hearts,
her hand running through my hair in a stiff stroke.
why does the philanthropist love this flashy harlot?
why does the philanthropist drink brandy from the mouth of his demise?
why does the philanthropist want the muse?
each question can be answered in time.
the muse is wise mon cher,
so consider this a red letter, that Wington is heaven no longer.
she drinks madness as bright as her eyes,
like candy canes she eats the skies.
her beauty is her poison, keys shift and clatter in her dress
while she dances through the gardens stuffing roses in her lay away box.
like death she is the maker, though many a man would take her
twice as much as they would eat.
jealousy is the rhythm of this tale, to this minuet.
the story of the muse.
a hundred black keys lay hidden at her breast;
they are the children, the answers, the pages, the keys open the pages.
and doors,
keys open doors n'est pas?
tis true a muse must inspire, yet her hands are violently red.
she inspired a conductor and drove him down
in a dark red mercedes.
down the winding path to the Wington Estate,
a house of glass and glories past.
her temper is fast,
her mouth dripping with hurt,
hers is the only key she doesn't own,
is it irony?
other keys she hides, their lives she takes
and one by one she drowns them,
one by one she becomes their muse.
through sheets, whispers, ink, and blind faith.
laying lives on the glass table two hours before supper!
Wington's silence ruined her game, so she fumed,
and lit a cigarette.
she says there is no fun in a prayer, no truth in the truth,
time holds no meaning,
she would rather count cards.
this is her world.
with her sharp finger she throws the aces into the holes in the ceiling
and makes the moon spin round-
faster than she or I can take, and so the sky did shake
until the moon fell loose and sunk deep into the lake,
Wington has lost it's light.
This is her chessboard,
the sordid game -I never did care for it- they say she was a grandmaster.
how did i end up here on an ivory square,
raising my skirts for the knight and running my scepter through the queen of hearts,
her hand running through my hair in a stiff stroke.
why does the philanthropist love this flashy harlot?
why does the philanthropist drink brandy from the mouth of his demise?
why does the philanthropist want the muse?
each question can be answered in time.
the muse is wise mon cher,
so consider this a red letter, that Wington is heaven no longer.
she drinks madness as bright as her eyes,
like candy canes she eats the skies.
her beauty is her poison, keys shift and clatter in her dress
while she dances through the gardens stuffing roses in her lay away box.
like death she is the maker, though many a man would take her
twice as much as they would eat.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
venus
they’ll move in time.
empty circles in the fields.
crop circles she cried.
crop circles.
venus was only miles away,
clouds covering her sweet cheek.
turning notes, 17, 8:45,
arrowhead blues.
dreams.
pencils swaying softy to the trumpets smooth sound.
venus.............
elle est tres belle.
la lune et la vent danse dans la nuit.
clouds break so i can count my twinkling stars.
the constalations are without numbers.
this music will pass,
my mind will slowly wander as venus retreats into the unknown.
we’ll fade into the field looking at our constalations.
wails full of woe as mother e swallows us whole.
while the man on the moon sings those arrowhead blues.
empty circles in the fields.
crop circles she cried.
crop circles.
venus was only miles away,
clouds covering her sweet cheek.
turning notes, 17, 8:45,
arrowhead blues.
dreams.
pencils swaying softy to the trumpets smooth sound.
venus.............
elle est tres belle.
la lune et la vent danse dans la nuit.
clouds break so i can count my twinkling stars.
the constalations are without numbers.
this music will pass,
my mind will slowly wander as venus retreats into the unknown.
we’ll fade into the field looking at our constalations.
wails full of woe as mother e swallows us whole.
while the man on the moon sings those arrowhead blues.
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