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.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
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)
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