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----------------------------------------------
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
