digame. mira.
honestly, i feel like i'm living in an alternate universe here. i see human beings driving their cars, buying groceries, buying coffee, working in their stores.
working.
and i float through it all like a shadow of a being. a forgotten word. a vehicle abandoned to rust. does anyone see this? maybe just briefly mentioned on tv, but the papers are full of it--joblessness, everywhere, rising, rioting, strikes, recession depression.
cesantia es humillacion en santiago, chile.
firey protests in reykjavik, iceland.
job fairs packed like sardines in china.
it's just a news story for the employed. an 'oh my' moment like '5 die in university shooting'. just a mere economic shrink. a contraction. all just percentages and taglines.
unless.
you're the one facing the oblivion. unless you have been laid off. unless you sit at home wondering why you have to whore yourself to a hundred interviewers, what good it will do, and who is doing work and where, and are they really any more qualified, or did they just get a chance. unless you spend your days thinking 'if i buy what i need now, eventually i won't be able to', and eventually gets closer every day. cesantia es humillacion. unemployment is humiliation. needing a job is a weakness, a reason for employers to doubt you from the beginning to the end of the interview. a bargaining piece always in their favor.
prove yourself to me. what can you do? prove it, prove it, prove it. speak clearly. quickly! i'm about to take my 90 minute lunch. oh dear, another one. fine fine we'll let you know.
i suppose it's not their fault. so many workers, so few opportunities.
each day the corolla looks more like a converted Hudson truck. i stare at it, wondering how many possessions it could hold, and which ones i would choose. i hear there are fruits to be picked in california.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
sooner surrender
secret genius of these poems. stones. is the perfect image a fading wedding dress or a sunset? cobblestones, millstones, pebbles & portraits. i wonder why radin would say such a thing as "as we drank our wine and let the world fade away." all these moonrises and how the morning searches. how the morning birds whistle until noon. i am not afraid of cold nights or living alone. what bumps my gooses is without you. a pile of stones i would dare to move. it is not the way i tire myself dancing in the mirror for no one to see. it is not the paint i spread in wide brush strokes for no reason. it is not the unvaccuumed carpet. "that is not what i meant at all--that is not it at all."
suddenly the lamplight blinks, asking who has turned the key. it's me. always only me. shhh. go back to sleep. i'll find my way, i know these carpeted floors, the touch of darkened walls. there is no adventure left here. i hear "weequashing" drip from the kitchen sink. susura. yo se, yo se. it will be alright.
the moon oh so thousands of miles above us. it is a wonder, isn't it? so often written about, so often taken for granted. suppose a meteor... eh. it would all be speculation, but not so impossible as we may think (hope?). improbable, yes. unlikely, yes. synonym, yes.
but thank you, moon, and forgive me for speaking so directly to you. oh, but you don't mind, of course--all rock and dust and who-knows-what within. but again, you drip light in through my windows sans cuenta, gratis. it could be thought a magical deal, and i have thought a good deal about you, though you spin and orbit without gnosis, without senses, without neurological processes; without so much, and yet, what do you lack?
the cooling process of coffee is predictable. it is an exponential regression. isaac newton knew this. differences in temperatures. air. container. coffee. transfer of energy from one to the other through the other. T=a(b)^t. isaac newton knew this.
wrap your arms around me. wrap something around me. let us sit together, thinking of beachfront roads conservatively covered by windblown sand. let us think of lighthouses. vaya al sueno sin dormirse.
suddenly the lamplight blinks, asking who has turned the key. it's me. always only me. shhh. go back to sleep. i'll find my way, i know these carpeted floors, the touch of darkened walls. there is no adventure left here. i hear "weequashing" drip from the kitchen sink. susura. yo se, yo se. it will be alright.
the moon oh so thousands of miles above us. it is a wonder, isn't it? so often written about, so often taken for granted. suppose a meteor... eh. it would all be speculation, but not so impossible as we may think (hope?). improbable, yes. unlikely, yes. synonym, yes.
but thank you, moon, and forgive me for speaking so directly to you. oh, but you don't mind, of course--all rock and dust and who-knows-what within. but again, you drip light in through my windows sans cuenta, gratis. it could be thought a magical deal, and i have thought a good deal about you, though you spin and orbit without gnosis, without senses, without neurological processes; without so much, and yet, what do you lack?
the cooling process of coffee is predictable. it is an exponential regression. isaac newton knew this. differences in temperatures. air. container. coffee. transfer of energy from one to the other through the other. T=a(b)^t. isaac newton knew this.
wrap your arms around me. wrap something around me. let us sit together, thinking of beachfront roads conservatively covered by windblown sand. let us think of lighthouses. vaya al sueno sin dormirse.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
1 hour 32 minutes on hold. my phone died.
let me tell you a little something about how america works. america loves you. america wants you healthy. america wants you to work.
for as long as it is beneficial to america.
so get your degree. study something. learn something. find a job, sell your soul. work work work.
while you can.
your days of value are limited. there are people in positions who judge your value. there is a spreadsheet on you somewhere. how much you benefit the company. how much you are paid.
someday a decision will be made. america is the decider. america is the higher cause. the engine. the machine.
for a while, you are the oil. the spark plug. the cables. for a while you are valuable.
so get your degree. be valuable for a while. be happy for a while.
let me tell you a little something about how america works. america loves you. america wants you healthy. america wants you to work.
for as long as it is beneficial to america.
so get your degree. study something. learn something. find a job, sell your soul. work work work.
while you can.
your days of value are limited. there are people in positions who judge your value. there is a spreadsheet on you somewhere. how much you benefit the company. how much you are paid.
someday a decision will be made. america is the decider. america is the higher cause. the engine. the machine.
for a while, you are the oil. the spark plug. the cables. for a while you are valuable.
so get your degree. be valuable for a while. be happy for a while.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
una paz que nos encuentra
y un dia la tempestad termina, y hay nueva paz. the air is warm with mist: the already-started evaporation of recent rain.
y otra vez veo que soy, que soy yo, y que vivo. nada mas estare raiz en las tinieblas.
y aqui estoy.
hola, mundo.
y otra vez veo que soy, que soy yo, y que vivo. nada mas estare raiz en las tinieblas.
y aqui estoy.
hola, mundo.
last night i stayed in.
the birthday night of my friend.
i stayed in.
last night i push-pinned
postal paper to the wall,
and with markers started writing all
the lines that lay me open.
last night i stayed in.
hay en mi corazon furias y penas.
last night i went out.
the walls of my fridge shone white.
i went out last night.
last night i strolled the aisles,
picking this, choosing that,
planning future dinners
among aisles and aisles of food.
last night i went out.
i saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked...
the birthday night of my friend.
i stayed in.
last night i push-pinned
postal paper to the wall,
and with markers started writing all
the lines that lay me open.
last night i stayed in.
hay en mi corazon furias y penas.
last night i went out.
the walls of my fridge shone white.
i went out last night.
last night i strolled the aisles,
picking this, choosing that,
planning future dinners
among aisles and aisles of food.
last night i went out.
i saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked...
Friday, February 06, 2009
i think i might have landed a job that actually pays a little more than my old job. if i can get an interview next week, and i don't get so nervous that i break almost every interview taboo. not that that happened recently.
so things may be getting better. i at least have something to keep me hopeful this weekend.
what i really wanted to describe here, though, is a feeling i get on days that i have to work at starbucks. it's something that i have only felt during these past couple weeks of unemployment.
about an hour or so before i have to go into work, i feel a very strong feeling of denial. no matter where i am or what i'm doing, it suddenly because very enjoyable, and i can no longer believe that in an hour or two i'll be serving up coffee.
i don't know why this happens or what it means. it's not that i dread going to work at starbucks. i enjoy it in a lot of ways. i get to DO something, i get to interact with people. i find satisfaction in working and customer service.
but still.
it's like that feeling that used to come the night before a new semester of school started. a "what can i do to make the most of the time i have left" feeling. again, not a dread. just a strange source of excitement. that's all.
so things may be getting better. i at least have something to keep me hopeful this weekend.
what i really wanted to describe here, though, is a feeling i get on days that i have to work at starbucks. it's something that i have only felt during these past couple weeks of unemployment.
about an hour or so before i have to go into work, i feel a very strong feeling of denial. no matter where i am or what i'm doing, it suddenly because very enjoyable, and i can no longer believe that in an hour or two i'll be serving up coffee.
i don't know why this happens or what it means. it's not that i dread going to work at starbucks. i enjoy it in a lot of ways. i get to DO something, i get to interact with people. i find satisfaction in working and customer service.
but still.
it's like that feeling that used to come the night before a new semester of school started. a "what can i do to make the most of the time i have left" feeling. again, not a dread. just a strange source of excitement. that's all.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
a book of quotations sits on my kitchen table.
i read it while i eat, i keeps me
company. i read:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in this house with starry dome,
floored with gemlike plains and seas,
shall i never feel at home,
never wholly be at ease?
on from room to room i stray,
yet mine host can ne'er espy,
and i know not to this day
whether guest or captive i.
- sir william watson (1858-1936)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
and
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
why is this thus? what is the reason of this thusness?
- charles farrar browne
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i think bill and chuck are on to something, here.
i read it while i eat, i keeps me
company. i read:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in this house with starry dome,
floored with gemlike plains and seas,
shall i never feel at home,
never wholly be at ease?
on from room to room i stray,
yet mine host can ne'er espy,
and i know not to this day
whether guest or captive i.
- sir william watson (1858-1936)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
and
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
why is this thus? what is the reason of this thusness?
- charles farrar browne
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i think bill and chuck are on to something, here.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
i just realized today that i've almost survived the winter. it has been a cold, ugly winter.
in the days of westward expansion, i'm sure what i've been through wouldn't be considered so bad. at least i have a warm place to sleep every night. i have an automobile that carries me effortlessly where i need to go. for the most part, i have food whenever i need it.
i don't have to fear natives retaliating against me in anger for driving across their farmland. there are roads for me to drive on. and, it is almost unheard of that someone is eaten by any sort of wild animal these days. that is a plus. a big plus.
and the earth continues its orbit, spinning, spinning, spinning. always spinning. it's a wonder, with all this constant spinning, we can manage to hold onto our worries.
spring left me a voicemail:
"hey, tom. i'm on my way over. i thought maybe you'd be interested in getting out, seeing the world. there are still adventures to be had. let me know if you're free."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in a book i recently finished reading, the author warns against isolation. he spent nearly 6 years alone, i think, and ended up falling in love with emily dickinson. i think he saw an apparition of her, and thought she was pretty. well, i don't know about her physical appearance, but i'm starting to understand his other points a little better.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i hold these things, random things,
in my hands, in my arms.
you only know how difficult it is
to hesitate when the decision is yours.
these things could be lost, tossed, sold,
or packed away, preserved.
these things are porcelain.
these things are wood.
these things are almost forgotten.
these things are cotton.
these things hang by a thread
above a fire.
you only know how difficult it is
to hesitate when the decision is yours.
in the days of westward expansion, i'm sure what i've been through wouldn't be considered so bad. at least i have a warm place to sleep every night. i have an automobile that carries me effortlessly where i need to go. for the most part, i have food whenever i need it.
i don't have to fear natives retaliating against me in anger for driving across their farmland. there are roads for me to drive on. and, it is almost unheard of that someone is eaten by any sort of wild animal these days. that is a plus. a big plus.
and the earth continues its orbit, spinning, spinning, spinning. always spinning. it's a wonder, with all this constant spinning, we can manage to hold onto our worries.
spring left me a voicemail:
"hey, tom. i'm on my way over. i thought maybe you'd be interested in getting out, seeing the world. there are still adventures to be had. let me know if you're free."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in a book i recently finished reading, the author warns against isolation. he spent nearly 6 years alone, i think, and ended up falling in love with emily dickinson. i think he saw an apparition of her, and thought she was pretty. well, i don't know about her physical appearance, but i'm starting to understand his other points a little better.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i hold these things, random things,
in my hands, in my arms.
you only know how difficult it is
to hesitate when the decision is yours.
these things could be lost, tossed, sold,
or packed away, preserved.
these things are porcelain.
these things are wood.
these things are almost forgotten.
these things are cotton.
these things hang by a thread
above a fire.
you only know how difficult it is
to hesitate when the decision is yours.
i have an interview tomorrow. if i get the job, i'll be taking a substantial pay cut. from what i've read in the papers lately, that's what people are doing to find work. ex-corporate execs finding temp-to-hire jobs.
i used to worry about my credit getting wrecked because of unemployment and everything. but now i don't think i'm so alone in it. maybe most people still have jobs and great credit. but the recession is not my fault. i was doing all i could to carry my weight in life. i am responsible for paying the bills i have. i am not responsible for the fact that i was laid off.
anyway.
time to throw on some led zeppelin and get this done.
it's been a long time since i rock and rolled.
i used to worry about my credit getting wrecked because of unemployment and everything. but now i don't think i'm so alone in it. maybe most people still have jobs and great credit. but the recession is not my fault. i was doing all i could to carry my weight in life. i am responsible for paying the bills i have. i am not responsible for the fact that i was laid off.
anyway.
time to throw on some led zeppelin and get this done.
it's been a long time since i rock and rolled.
Monday, February 02, 2009
last night, i had another disturbing dream. i was with a friend, a girl, who was apparently a close friend, but no one specific. we were talking and she began telling me that my teeth were horribly crooked and rotten. i sat down in a dentist's chair, and, feeling the side of my face, felt that she was right. several teeth fell out, and then i pulled out several more. my friend began to prepare me for oral surgery, filling syringes with novocaine and gathering tools on a tray.
i started realizing that i was going to lose a lot of teeth, and have to go through life without them. i asked her if there was some sort of bridge or dental plate that i could have put in to help me chew. maybe, she said.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i have this sort of dream when i am stressed about life. always about my teeth falling out. i don't know why that seems to be the most stressful thing my mind can think to dream when i'm stressed. but it always freaks me out. the feeling of loose teeth.... makes me sick... like pulling the legs off of shrimp.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
at this point in life, i'm standing before a flaming hoop. i know that my life will go on, and i will be perfectly fine in time. i'm willing and capable of earning my daily bread. i'll suffer through whatever it takes, and then i'll go on living the life i want to live. like ray sings, "lesson learned". time to be happy again. too much beauty in the world, too much to do and see and create. i believe there are people who will agree with me.
i started realizing that i was going to lose a lot of teeth, and have to go through life without them. i asked her if there was some sort of bridge or dental plate that i could have put in to help me chew. maybe, she said.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i have this sort of dream when i am stressed about life. always about my teeth falling out. i don't know why that seems to be the most stressful thing my mind can think to dream when i'm stressed. but it always freaks me out. the feeling of loose teeth.... makes me sick... like pulling the legs off of shrimp.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
at this point in life, i'm standing before a flaming hoop. i know that my life will go on, and i will be perfectly fine in time. i'm willing and capable of earning my daily bread. i'll suffer through whatever it takes, and then i'll go on living the life i want to live. like ray sings, "lesson learned". time to be happy again. too much beauty in the world, too much to do and see and create. i believe there are people who will agree with me.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
while shaving today, i was thinking about the idea of knocking (on doors, etc.), and the more i thought about it, i started thinking that maybe there is a code or pattern in it all. Consider this:
1 knock: no one knocks just once. if you hear this, don't open the door.
2 knocks: someone nearby is knocking on wood for good luck.
3 knocks: someone is at the door. go see who it is.
4 knocks: a variation of 3 knocks.
5 knocks: your neighbor wants you to turn down your music. usually conveyed through the ceiling or floor.
6 knocks: depending on the speed and rhythm, this could be a friend or a salesman.
7 knocks: possibly a religious representative.
8 knocks: your landlord is at the door.
9 knocks: your landlord is at the door with police.
10 knocks: someone is being chased and your apartment was the closest refuge.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
these are the types of thoughts i have. i can offer no explanation why.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
in other news, i believe i'm officially poor. poor to the point of eviction. i did my best. i'm sorry for anyone who may be getting a letter in the mail demanding payment. i did my best. i can't do it anymore. sorry. i guess it's my turn to cut and run.
1 knock: no one knocks just once. if you hear this, don't open the door.
2 knocks: someone nearby is knocking on wood for good luck.
3 knocks: someone is at the door. go see who it is.
4 knocks: a variation of 3 knocks.
5 knocks: your neighbor wants you to turn down your music. usually conveyed through the ceiling or floor.
6 knocks: depending on the speed and rhythm, this could be a friend or a salesman.
7 knocks: possibly a religious representative.
8 knocks: your landlord is at the door.
9 knocks: your landlord is at the door with police.
10 knocks: someone is being chased and your apartment was the closest refuge.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
these are the types of thoughts i have. i can offer no explanation why.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
in other news, i believe i'm officially poor. poor to the point of eviction. i did my best. i'm sorry for anyone who may be getting a letter in the mail demanding payment. i did my best. i can't do it anymore. sorry. i guess it's my turn to cut and run.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
"wallow a little more and then no mas. get a tattoo to notch this years doorframe and then go make your mark. DO something. don't stand it. ok?" a friend says to me.
the keyboard is pressing against my fingers, begging me for something.
[the thing is, i could sit here, stagnating, if i wanted. that's not what i'm doing and that's not what's happening. but it could.]
my friend understands me, not because he knows everything about me, but because he knows my heart. or, more specifically, the kinds of things that affect my passions.
new cities. being alone. music. foreign poetry. quotations. the basic simple real things of life, the beautiful things as they are, rugged, true, inspiring, and full of coffee. a language stretched and broken. a splattering of words to express and understand what is around us and why it is around us. to be somebody to someone. faith. instants. explorations. living with doubts and faults. living unmasked among the unmasked.
i have many friends in all sorts of senses of the word. but in the smallest, most specific sense of the word, my how that list dwindles.
so yes, replace wallow soon with marshmallow or coffee swallow or paint walls or walk streets. something more pleasant.
i think i'll pass on the tattoo though, for a couple reasons. i'll leave tattoos for the others who will get them soon. if i'm going to be chasing marshmallows or coffee or walking streets, why should i paint myself a lifetime reminder? why should i be the one lingering. it doesn't seem fair that i have to try to keep track of the value of the past. maybe it's my job, if i'm the only one who values certain things in the past, but i've been there before. it takes a lot of cursive scribbling in notebooks. it takes a lot of sleepless nights. it takes listening to certain songs and thumbing through scribblings and pictures.
why should i become a museum?
i am a life. a breathing, thinking, moving life. even if i can be thrown away by someone else, i retain my original value. i am still a life.
[the thing is, am i a life, or just alive?]
to take a | step | forward, to gain momentum. i suppose it is a decision. but the difficulty is the details.
the details are: love lost. hope remains. keep hope. release hope for love.
it must just be a process that happens. if you can't say "fall in love," you can't say "get over love." they are partial decisions, maybe. they are partial responses. reactions. reflexes, maybe.
it's just when stand-stills depend on other stand-stills. but i don't want to be a gridlock. i don't mind traffic, that's not my point. my point is that sitting in traffic alone is an example. an analogy, even.
a part of me desperately needs highway 264 east.
a part of me stands back and sees how lonely that road can be.
i have absolutely nobody telling me who to be. i believe that's the way it should be. we should all have our passions, our hearts, knowledge of truth guiding us on our own.
i'm not talking about being isolationists. i'm not talking about universalism. i'm talking about individual experience of the universe. i'm talking about individual emergence from isolation.
this is where i am, then. deciding which hopes get to remain (love past vs. love future). finding out if i am a life or only alive. finding out if it matters if a specific reconciliation ever occurs.
i try to see my decisions from everyone else's point of view. from certain people's point of view, i see that it should be a simple decision. drop the past. find something else. something better. even from her perspective, i don't imagine much interest in remembering the value of past things. and maybe that should be the deal breaker. why should i be lovesick for a ghost?
i guess i was just hoping for something bigger than the way this world functions. a love that overruns quotas. a love that perseveres through it's own weaknesses. a love that is bigger than two people. a love that tastes like foreign coffee on a weekend. a love that absolutely sings.
the keyboard is pressing against my fingers, begging me for something.
[the thing is, i could sit here, stagnating, if i wanted. that's not what i'm doing and that's not what's happening. but it could.]
my friend understands me, not because he knows everything about me, but because he knows my heart. or, more specifically, the kinds of things that affect my passions.
new cities. being alone. music. foreign poetry. quotations. the basic simple real things of life, the beautiful things as they are, rugged, true, inspiring, and full of coffee. a language stretched and broken. a splattering of words to express and understand what is around us and why it is around us. to be somebody to someone. faith. instants. explorations. living with doubts and faults. living unmasked among the unmasked.
i have many friends in all sorts of senses of the word. but in the smallest, most specific sense of the word, my how that list dwindles.
so yes, replace wallow soon with marshmallow or coffee swallow or paint walls or walk streets. something more pleasant.
i think i'll pass on the tattoo though, for a couple reasons. i'll leave tattoos for the others who will get them soon. if i'm going to be chasing marshmallows or coffee or walking streets, why should i paint myself a lifetime reminder? why should i be the one lingering. it doesn't seem fair that i have to try to keep track of the value of the past. maybe it's my job, if i'm the only one who values certain things in the past, but i've been there before. it takes a lot of cursive scribbling in notebooks. it takes a lot of sleepless nights. it takes listening to certain songs and thumbing through scribblings and pictures.
why should i become a museum?
i am a life. a breathing, thinking, moving life. even if i can be thrown away by someone else, i retain my original value. i am still a life.
[the thing is, am i a life, or just alive?]
to take a | step | forward, to gain momentum. i suppose it is a decision. but the difficulty is the details.
the details are: love lost. hope remains. keep hope. release hope for love.
it must just be a process that happens. if you can't say "fall in love," you can't say "get over love." they are partial decisions, maybe. they are partial responses. reactions. reflexes, maybe.
it's just when stand-stills depend on other stand-stills. but i don't want to be a gridlock. i don't mind traffic, that's not my point. my point is that sitting in traffic alone is an example. an analogy, even.
a part of me desperately needs highway 264 east.
a part of me stands back and sees how lonely that road can be.
i have absolutely nobody telling me who to be. i believe that's the way it should be. we should all have our passions, our hearts, knowledge of truth guiding us on our own.
i'm not talking about being isolationists. i'm not talking about universalism. i'm talking about individual experience of the universe. i'm talking about individual emergence from isolation.
this is where i am, then. deciding which hopes get to remain (love past vs. love future). finding out if i am a life or only alive. finding out if it matters if a specific reconciliation ever occurs.
i try to see my decisions from everyone else's point of view. from certain people's point of view, i see that it should be a simple decision. drop the past. find something else. something better. even from her perspective, i don't imagine much interest in remembering the value of past things. and maybe that should be the deal breaker. why should i be lovesick for a ghost?
i guess i was just hoping for something bigger than the way this world functions. a love that overruns quotas. a love that perseveres through it's own weaknesses. a love that is bigger than two people. a love that tastes like foreign coffee on a weekend. a love that absolutely sings.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
today is my dad's birthday.
happy birthday, dad!
i'm sorry i couldn't make it over to see you.
i was busy working at starbucks.
while at work, my friend, who works at another starbucks, texted me. his text was:
"some lady just came in and ordered a decaf raspberry squirt."
perhaps you have to work at starbucks to understand just how funny that is.
but here's a clue.
we have never had a drink called a "squirt". i hope we never will. i just might have to quit at that point.
we get these customers all day long. they are the bane (and entertainment) of our existence as baristas. these are the customers we talk about for days and weeks and months.
happy birthday, dad!
i'm sorry i couldn't make it over to see you.
i was busy working at starbucks.
while at work, my friend, who works at another starbucks, texted me. his text was:
"some lady just came in and ordered a decaf raspberry squirt."
perhaps you have to work at starbucks to understand just how funny that is.
but here's a clue.
we have never had a drink called a "squirt". i hope we never will. i just might have to quit at that point.
we get these customers all day long. they are the bane (and entertainment) of our existence as baristas. these are the customers we talk about for days and weeks and months.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
some days i don't have the motivation to do a lot of things that i know i want to do. it's like that feeling that you know you want to go to the beach, if only it were summer, and warm. the beach is still there. the waves have been rolling in all winter long. but the desire to be there is in some sort of coma. i know i want to do things, but something is weak. something is not full enough.
my heart, i think. perhaps my heart is weak, or running low. maybe this explains it. but honestly, this is a metaphysical question that i'm not sure can be answered.
show me where my heart is.
point to it.
the best i could do to locate it is to point to a map of the world. point to the east coast, somewhere between virginia and south carolina. but even then, i'm sure i'll end up pointing to five or six other places.
here's my heart. and here.
it's there, too.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
is this a symptom of insecurity? i see it in my own efforts to write, and think. i would like to think that i merely want exact clarity. but i hear a whisper of 'for now we see through a glass, darkly..."
it's all very confusing, i suppose.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
to examine yourself. to stare into a bright mirror. glance into your own eyes. trace the lines across your face. to wonder what it is about yourself that accomplishes the things you have possibly never noticed. how you appear when you make fast looks. how your heart manages to exist in your grin, your squints, your sniffles. how it manages to show itself at all.
but it must, right?
the question remains for everyone to think about.
the question is a what and why question, and everyone must face the mirror.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
when i try to lay out my metaphysical self, i always here paul simon, singing:
'when i left my home and family, i was no more than a boy...'
honest truth. yes, it's a general statement that is true of half the world, maybe even more true of others than me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
my heart is inconsistent, ready and willing to defend and reach out in the same moment. a metaphysical eddy. an updraft/downdraft. standing and running, stomping like a horse, probably.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
i know it is strange. and this is the mirror i face. this is the notebook of unconnected, pasted little selves in me. i relate to Paul in these moments.
thank goodness i live in america, right?
thank goodness i can go to work and forget all this.
what can we get for you, sir?
what size, sir?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i should love her less by now, but i don't.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it's a very strange world we live in.
my heart, i think. perhaps my heart is weak, or running low. maybe this explains it. but honestly, this is a metaphysical question that i'm not sure can be answered.
show me where my heart is.
point to it.
the best i could do to locate it is to point to a map of the world. point to the east coast, somewhere between virginia and south carolina. but even then, i'm sure i'll end up pointing to five or six other places.
here's my heart. and here.
it's there, too.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
is this a symptom of insecurity? i see it in my own efforts to write, and think. i would like to think that i merely want exact clarity. but i hear a whisper of 'for now we see through a glass, darkly..."
it's all very confusing, i suppose.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
to examine yourself. to stare into a bright mirror. glance into your own eyes. trace the lines across your face. to wonder what it is about yourself that accomplishes the things you have possibly never noticed. how you appear when you make fast looks. how your heart manages to exist in your grin, your squints, your sniffles. how it manages to show itself at all.
but it must, right?
the question remains for everyone to think about.
the question is a what and why question, and everyone must face the mirror.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
when i try to lay out my metaphysical self, i always here paul simon, singing:
'when i left my home and family, i was no more than a boy...'
honest truth. yes, it's a general statement that is true of half the world, maybe even more true of others than me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
my heart is inconsistent, ready and willing to defend and reach out in the same moment. a metaphysical eddy. an updraft/downdraft. standing and running, stomping like a horse, probably.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
i know it is strange. and this is the mirror i face. this is the notebook of unconnected, pasted little selves in me. i relate to Paul in these moments.
thank goodness i live in america, right?
thank goodness i can go to work and forget all this.
what can we get for you, sir?
what size, sir?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i should love her less by now, but i don't.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it's a very strange world we live in.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
some musical artists you should know about and listen to:
-iron & wine
-stacy clark
-sanders bohlke
-james morrison
-robert pattinson
-madjo
-now, now every children
-david aguilar
-pictures and sound
-gregory alan isakov
-kings of leon
-andrew bird
-erin mckeown
-marry a thief
-aesop rock
-ingrid michaelson
-peter bradley adams
-trevor hall
-jolie holland
enjoy.
-iron & wine
-stacy clark
-sanders bohlke
-james morrison
-robert pattinson
-madjo
-now, now every children
-david aguilar
-pictures and sound
-gregory alan isakov
-kings of leon
-andrew bird
-erin mckeown
-marry a thief
-aesop rock
-ingrid michaelson
-peter bradley adams
-trevor hall
-jolie holland
enjoy.
Monday, January 26, 2009
when someone wants to be a storm, you cannot stop them, the way you might imagine stopping the wind or the rain, and when someone wants to be a child you had better give up. by waving and flapping, you do not lessen the wind, but contribute to it. and when someone wants to be a wild, adventurous tornado, your life is just debris. it is possible to be completely wrong about someone. it is possible to hope for improbable things. it is possible to hope that the wind will stop. it is also possible to simply let the wind blow where it will. it is possible to accept that no one owns the wind, and that the wind does not care about this fact.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
more specifically, some people are just not ready for the things you may be ready for. how will you respond to these people? will you love them? will you break your own heart a thousand times trying to let them be a wild wind? when these tornadoes roll through you, will you gather yourself up and chase after the air? when you realize that it cares nothing for you, will you change?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
more specifically, 'We are creatures of the wind./ Wild is the wind.' when lips that whispered i love yous vanish like smoke in the air, how will you respond? when once-loving lips refuse to offer any sort of kindness, will you keep breathing, unaffected? these are the emotions to be gathered from the debris.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
more specifically, i remember the good things and moments when love was evident. though they now seem like lies, i hear the i love yous, feel the soft hands. though i am despised, rejected, forgotten, i hang these things on the walls and stare at them until dawn. i will hold these memories in my hands until i lay down in the dust.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
more specifically, i was in love with the wind.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
more specifically, some people are just not ready for the things you may be ready for. how will you respond to these people? will you love them? will you break your own heart a thousand times trying to let them be a wild wind? when these tornadoes roll through you, will you gather yourself up and chase after the air? when you realize that it cares nothing for you, will you change?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
more specifically, 'We are creatures of the wind./ Wild is the wind.' when lips that whispered i love yous vanish like smoke in the air, how will you respond? when once-loving lips refuse to offer any sort of kindness, will you keep breathing, unaffected? these are the emotions to be gathered from the debris.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
more specifically, i remember the good things and moments when love was evident. though they now seem like lies, i hear the i love yous, feel the soft hands. though i am despised, rejected, forgotten, i hang these things on the walls and stare at them until dawn. i will hold these memories in my hands until i lay down in the dust.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
more specifically, i was in love with the wind.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
my application for departure
i'm sitting in a chair.
i'm staring across the room.
over there i see myself.
somewhere. peacecorping.
learning spanish.
drinking foreign coffee.
watching rain fall on cobblestones.
feeling being someplace.
a friend sings "stop suburbia".
it's the placelessness that hurts.
stop suburbia. stop noplaceness.
start foreign coffee and new knowledge.
knowledge of other tongues. other.
places.
i'm staring across the room.
over there i see myself.
somewhere. peacecorping.
learning spanish.
drinking foreign coffee.
watching rain fall on cobblestones.
feeling being someplace.
a friend sings "stop suburbia".
it's the placelessness that hurts.
stop suburbia. stop noplaceness.
start foreign coffee and new knowledge.
knowledge of other tongues. other.
places.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Some days it feels like things could possibly turn around. Like something good could happen, if only something would set it all in motion.
It is an almost feeling.
That's how it can be explained. Maybe a feeling of almost, or an actuality just shy of reality. My problem with language is that I can never quite say what I mean, exactly, or that I never quite exactly mean what I say.
Fine tune this into a specific, even this *vaguery*. Yes, perhaps it comes down to inventing terms. But "on my own terms" always carried such a negativity. A negativeness.
But I'm back to finding exactly me. Just myself. Myself on a cold Monday that, they say, is threatened by snow. Just me, listening to pictures and sound. A round table in the corner of somewhere.
Why is it that when I go to find myself I always find myself looking for someone else? I whisper Neruda in my head, and hope to find someone who will speak it out loud.
I realized today that I have a habit of shortcutting on life. This is not a pride-inducing realization. Well, maybe it *could* be.
I'm growing a beard. I'll be twenty-seven years old in August. I'm tired of fighting the facial hair. It will never end. The trimming and shaving and grooming. All one has to do is get past the itchy stage. And the desire to not look older.
I know this was a Monday. I know it.
It is an almost feeling.
That's how it can be explained. Maybe a feeling of almost, or an actuality just shy of reality. My problem with language is that I can never quite say what I mean, exactly, or that I never quite exactly mean what I say.
Fine tune this into a specific, even this *vaguery*. Yes, perhaps it comes down to inventing terms. But "on my own terms" always carried such a negativity. A negativeness.
But I'm back to finding exactly me. Just myself. Myself on a cold Monday that, they say, is threatened by snow. Just me, listening to pictures and sound. A round table in the corner of somewhere.
Why is it that when I go to find myself I always find myself looking for someone else? I whisper Neruda in my head, and hope to find someone who will speak it out loud.
I realized today that I have a habit of shortcutting on life. This is not a pride-inducing realization. Well, maybe it *could* be.
I'm growing a beard. I'll be twenty-seven years old in August. I'm tired of fighting the facial hair. It will never end. The trimming and shaving and grooming. All one has to do is get past the itchy stage. And the desire to not look older.
I know this was a Monday. I know it.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Just for the record.
Don't believe anyone who tells you that Linux is an easy operating system to use.
There is nothing easy about typing codes for everything you want to run or install.
Windows may freeze and crash a lot.
But, with Windows, you can click a button and install a program.
Beware the "apt-get". You will not like it.
Not that anyone I know uses Linux.
But still.
Don't believe anyone who tells you that Linux is an easy operating system to use.
There is nothing easy about typing codes for everything you want to run or install.
Windows may freeze and crash a lot.
But, with Windows, you can click a button and install a program.
Beware the "apt-get". You will not like it.
Not that anyone I know uses Linux.
But still.
truth is.
i thought i could save you.
not save you.
but show you something.
you worth saving.
how awful of me.
now i read my failures.
written. i read.
i must
stop. because
it is so sad of me.
i wish i could
succeed.
how naive of me.
your choices now
mock my hope.
i must stop.
i love you.
i must stop.
it is the saddest thing.
i thought i could save you.
not save you.
but show you something.
you worth saving.
how awful of me.
now i read my failures.
written. i read.
i must
stop. because
it is so sad of me.
i wish i could
succeed.
how naive of me.
your choices now
mock my hope.
i must stop.
i love you.
i must stop.
it is the saddest thing.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Seven-word stories
]If only the train had arrived earlier.[
]The door opened, revealing only the night.[
]This was his cobblestone, on his street.[
]The sea had no lack of waves.[
]She could just barely reach the window.[
]It was only an elevator bell, though.[
]Every generation sees men of his kind.[
]The door opened, revealing only the night.[
]This was his cobblestone, on his street.[
]The sea had no lack of waves.[
]She could just barely reach the window.[
]It was only an elevator bell, though.[
]Every generation sees men of his kind.[
Friday, January 09, 2009
not so the same the sit,
sidewalks lie silent in the cold.
where have the backyards gone?
where has the passion him gone?
it could this thing be articulate
-ed. if all the worlds, the world's words
mispelled, still shine there, thank
-ing the streets, holding hands.
or have him at last lost it all,
or at all, care of et al. sweep
-ing the streets, bent, with rags.
streets that cradle shuttled dreams.
go tell your secrets on a mountain,
bury them there in the troposphere,
dig heaving a hollow hole, intend
-ing all along to climb back down.
sidewalks lie silent in the cold.
where have the backyards gone?
where has the passion him gone?
it could this thing be articulate
-ed. if all the worlds, the world's words
mispelled, still shine there, thank
-ing the streets, holding hands.
or have him at last lost it all,
or at all, care of et al. sweep
-ing the streets, bent, with rags.
streets that cradle shuttled dreams.
go tell your secrets on a mountain,
bury them there in the troposphere,
dig heaving a hollow hole, intend
-ing all along to climb back down.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
either that or i just don't understand her at all. she says she still considers me her friend even if i don't consider her my friend. i can't figure out why she seems so inconsistent to me.
i sit here thinking about all the bills i have to pay. there's no way to do it. if i take the severance pay from my old job, i can't file for unemployment for almost a month. if i don't file for unemployment, i can't pay all my bills. actually, even if i do file for unemployment, i can't pay all my bills. if i work more hours at starbucks, i might not be able to get unemployment. even if i worked 40+ hours a week at starbucks, i can't afford my bills.
everyone can give advice, and no one can really help. eh, maybe some advice is helpful. it just makes you feel like an invalid. you need to call this number. you need to send this form. you need to talk to this person. you need to fax this. you need to do this now. you have to wait to do this. you should pay this. don't forget to eat healthy.
it's either humbling. or depressing. depending on how you look at it. personally, it just makes me feel low. i'm trying not to let 'i don't care' slip from my mouth. it's hard.
it's all on me now, i guess.
i sit here thinking about all the bills i have to pay. there's no way to do it. if i take the severance pay from my old job, i can't file for unemployment for almost a month. if i don't file for unemployment, i can't pay all my bills. actually, even if i do file for unemployment, i can't pay all my bills. if i work more hours at starbucks, i might not be able to get unemployment. even if i worked 40+ hours a week at starbucks, i can't afford my bills.
everyone can give advice, and no one can really help. eh, maybe some advice is helpful. it just makes you feel like an invalid. you need to call this number. you need to send this form. you need to talk to this person. you need to fax this. you need to do this now. you have to wait to do this. you should pay this. don't forget to eat healthy.
it's either humbling. or depressing. depending on how you look at it. personally, it just makes me feel low. i'm trying not to let 'i don't care' slip from my mouth. it's hard.
it's all on me now, i guess.
this life thing, well, it's amazing. one season you can have everything you think you need and want, and the next season, it's all gone. i'm sure there's endless lessons in that.
what makes it hard is that when someone you used to be in love with turns on you. losing a job, eh. worrying about your credit, eh. trying to pay bills, eh. but having someone you cared about so much call you their "personal hater," it just does. not. compute. this is how it has been for me. i lost the girl i loved. she packed up. moved across the country. stopped paying her share of the rent. misunderstood just about everything i wrote or said to her. over-analyzed things. real communication breakdown. now all my emails are "hate mails" because i'm sticking up for myself.
on top of that, there's the fact that she's already interested in other guys. as in "i can't be with you because i need to be on my own and independent and not held back" to "i really dig this guy" a month later.
whatever.
i'm just so sick of being treated like the bad guy. i tried to avoid her, because i saw that it was just causing us both stress. that got me accused of all kinds of stuff.
apparently nothing i do is good enough for this girl. not being there for her. not avoiding her. she's pegged me as her "personal hater" and i guess that's all she can see me as now.
how do you go about wishing someone well who has been all these things to you? your friend, your love, your loss, your pain. it's all so ludicrous.
but i know who i am. i'm nobody's "personal hater". i don't hate anyone, not even her. i'm a good guy. i care about other people more than myself. i have way too much stress in my life right now to deal with someone treating me that way. if i'm wrong, i'm willing to be corrected. but i see girl who is running after what she thinks she wants, leaving a mess in her path.
this was me venting. i really don't want advice. thanks.
what makes it hard is that when someone you used to be in love with turns on you. losing a job, eh. worrying about your credit, eh. trying to pay bills, eh. but having someone you cared about so much call you their "personal hater," it just does. not. compute. this is how it has been for me. i lost the girl i loved. she packed up. moved across the country. stopped paying her share of the rent. misunderstood just about everything i wrote or said to her. over-analyzed things. real communication breakdown. now all my emails are "hate mails" because i'm sticking up for myself.
on top of that, there's the fact that she's already interested in other guys. as in "i can't be with you because i need to be on my own and independent and not held back" to "i really dig this guy" a month later.
whatever.
i'm just so sick of being treated like the bad guy. i tried to avoid her, because i saw that it was just causing us both stress. that got me accused of all kinds of stuff.
apparently nothing i do is good enough for this girl. not being there for her. not avoiding her. she's pegged me as her "personal hater" and i guess that's all she can see me as now.
how do you go about wishing someone well who has been all these things to you? your friend, your love, your loss, your pain. it's all so ludicrous.
but i know who i am. i'm nobody's "personal hater". i don't hate anyone, not even her. i'm a good guy. i care about other people more than myself. i have way too much stress in my life right now to deal with someone treating me that way. if i'm wrong, i'm willing to be corrected. but i see girl who is running after what she thinks she wants, leaving a mess in her path.
this was me venting. i really don't want advice. thanks.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Sunday, January 04, 2009
this new
your sadness, your needs were the heart of me,
i always tried to solve them
frantically.
as fast as a smile can form,
make smile-stoppers insignificanceness.
and there is on and on.
it feels eternal, not that
i necessarily know what that means.
i can gamble a guess, turn
a phrase from works to an
old-fashioned maybe.
the problem is that i feel.
or is what i feel.
something so big i just word and word.
like i'll ever someday find it.
an end.
the end.
a meaning.
the meaning.
i assume there is one. both.
i try to generalize this to simplify this.
i know it doesn't help, and actually hurts.
clarity.
i honestly want to say exactly it,
but only you know what it is.
if you said it, it would be instantly clear.
simple.
what i try and try and on.
it's always so normal, predictable,
what i need to say. a raindrop
a billion times fallen.
the feelings everyone feels,
in my situation. the guilt
of feeling so cliche.
needing soap opera advice.
this is the way she left:
me.
as in, oh i don't care about
the apartment, it's not about
anything else but us.
i hide in the be there on times.
shelter: stay busy.
comfort: chasing anything else.
feeling: what do i expect, or you?
i growl with dying love.
you have no idea.
i suppose spring will help.
i always tried to solve them
frantically.
as fast as a smile can form,
make smile-stoppers insignificanceness.
and there is on and on.
it feels eternal, not that
i necessarily know what that means.
i can gamble a guess, turn
a phrase from works to an
old-fashioned maybe.
the problem is that i feel.
or is what i feel.
something so big i just word and word.
like i'll ever someday find it.
an end.
the end.
a meaning.
the meaning.
i assume there is one. both.
i try to generalize this to simplify this.
i know it doesn't help, and actually hurts.
clarity.
i honestly want to say exactly it,
but only you know what it is.
if you said it, it would be instantly clear.
simple.
what i try and try and on.
it's always so normal, predictable,
what i need to say. a raindrop
a billion times fallen.
the feelings everyone feels,
in my situation. the guilt
of feeling so cliche.
needing soap opera advice.
this is the way she left:
me.
as in, oh i don't care about
the apartment, it's not about
anything else but us.
i hide in the be there on times.
shelter: stay busy.
comfort: chasing anything else.
feeling: what do i expect, or you?
i growl with dying love.
you have no idea.
i suppose spring will help.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
ok, so running a mile or more every day isn't practical with two jobs, and doesn't really feel healthy on the knees. so i've revised my running resolution to 2+ miles every other day, with some other physical activity in between.
*****
Update: running two straight miles today felt g.o.o.d. i think i'm off to a good start.
*****
Update: running two straight miles today felt g.o.o.d. i think i'm off to a good start.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
resolutions:
1. no haircut until i'm in good shape.
2. run at least 1 mile every day, but probably more
3. write something every day, even if only a sentence.
4. sing correctly. sing more often.
5. buy musical instruments.
6. write music, and record it.
7. read more.
8. travel, possibly to the following places: charleston, new york city, montreal, riverside, great britain, italy.
9. start a musical group/band.
10. be happy being the best me that i have to offer this world.
To start it off, I ran two miles and walked a mile today. It was cold and now my lungs hurt. And my knees...they hurt too. I'm afraid of getting older. Have I wasted 26 years?
1. no haircut until i'm in good shape.
2. run at least 1 mile every day, but probably more
3. write something every day, even if only a sentence.
4. sing correctly. sing more often.
5. buy musical instruments.
6. write music, and record it.
7. read more.
8. travel, possibly to the following places: charleston, new york city, montreal, riverside, great britain, italy.
9. start a musical group/band.
10. be happy being the best me that i have to offer this world.
To start it off, I ran two miles and walked a mile today. It was cold and now my lungs hurt. And my knees...they hurt too. I'm afraid of getting older. Have I wasted 26 years?
Monday, December 29, 2008
what i've learned, like falling apart, like falling, a part of me is unstable. it is a wondering all about everything. now i feel frigid reality asking me questions at night. is it alright? do you think you will be alright? it is a constant vibration, a shaking of me inside of me. this is the truth as it seems. wondering oh and all and this. blankets keep me warm enough, yes. but in the morning i wake up warm and think, for what? is today going to explain it all? is today alright? is the answer waiting on the dashboard? is the answer somewhere in a pocket? because i hope to see her clothes hanging in the closet. because i hope to hear the sound of her breathing.
never again is unbearably cruel. over is a heartless word that knows not what it does. yes, i am seriously unhappy. when the time to grow has run out, when the answer is no, this is how you feel. luckily for me, so they say. luckily for me time goes on. it makes things done, changes how things appear. years make it all alright. and every time it all comes to an end again, it's alright. this is the truth as it seems. something and another thing will just come along, distractions. band-aids.
these are the feelings. these days i'm feeling shaken. hung high. steady. worried. working but about to be nonfunctional. feeling like a poor translation. that no one knows what this is like and means. i don't even know, myself. feeling like a leaf on the wind, long dead. who knows how deep solitude can be? i always knew that giving up is not a verb. it is a cooling of the heart, and it is usually a lie. giving up is promising to never let you know that i love you again. it is replying to "what does it all mean?" with a sigh. it is dying before dying. it is pouring concrete on a pile of broken glass.
never again is unbearably cruel. over is a heartless word that knows not what it does. yes, i am seriously unhappy. when the time to grow has run out, when the answer is no, this is how you feel. luckily for me, so they say. luckily for me time goes on. it makes things done, changes how things appear. years make it all alright. and every time it all comes to an end again, it's alright. this is the truth as it seems. something and another thing will just come along, distractions. band-aids.
these are the feelings. these days i'm feeling shaken. hung high. steady. worried. working but about to be nonfunctional. feeling like a poor translation. that no one knows what this is like and means. i don't even know, myself. feeling like a leaf on the wind, long dead. who knows how deep solitude can be? i always knew that giving up is not a verb. it is a cooling of the heart, and it is usually a lie. giving up is promising to never let you know that i love you again. it is replying to "what does it all mean?" with a sigh. it is dying before dying. it is pouring concrete on a pile of broken glass.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Saturday, December 06, 2008
leaving seattle
terminal S9, red-eye from seattle-tacoma
to detroit to memphis to raleigh-durham
to empty apartment to no love to no warmth.
this is the way it will be.
i can already feel the key turning
the deadbolt lock.
i sit here wondering why you don't
come running to me, as in
the movies and stories.
you were supposed to.
it was somewhere in the script,
i'm sure of it.
but this is the way it will be.
i'll go home. i'm going home.
i'm already here at the terminal.
i feel terminal.
somebody fire the guy who named it terminal.
fire him for having no mercy.
mercy and compassion.
Oh holy God.
“do you think mercy will save you?”
she said once. I hope it will.
I hope it saves us all.
even her.
there is not much more to say now.
there will be more to say later,
when the world stops ending
and starts not ending.
i'm not writing this to bring you down.
i'm writing this because all the people
at terminal S9 are wondering why
i'm crying.
to detroit to memphis to raleigh-durham
to empty apartment to no love to no warmth.
this is the way it will be.
i can already feel the key turning
the deadbolt lock.
i sit here wondering why you don't
come running to me, as in
the movies and stories.
you were supposed to.
it was somewhere in the script,
i'm sure of it.
but this is the way it will be.
i'll go home. i'm going home.
i'm already here at the terminal.
i feel terminal.
somebody fire the guy who named it terminal.
fire him for having no mercy.
mercy and compassion.
Oh holy God.
“do you think mercy will save you?”
she said once. I hope it will.
I hope it saves us all.
even her.
there is not much more to say now.
there will be more to say later,
when the world stops ending
and starts not ending.
i'm not writing this to bring you down.
i'm writing this because all the people
at terminal S9 are wondering why
i'm crying.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
st. petersburg and i are tired, as
are all the rest and pittsburgh. cities.
sitting in our places, unmovable as
locations are where they are located.
too much wind to see the snow, or
too few windows to let it in. ventanas.
i ask myself to prove the need to make
the temperature inside the walls different
from the temperature outside the walls.
remember: it's only seven hundred square feet
on a oblate spheroid spinning round and round
around the sun, sol, estrella proxima.
so go crack the window if you wish.
are all the rest and pittsburgh. cities.
sitting in our places, unmovable as
locations are where they are located.
too much wind to see the snow, or
too few windows to let it in. ventanas.
i ask myself to prove the need to make
the temperature inside the walls different
from the temperature outside the walls.
remember: it's only seven hundred square feet
on a oblate spheroid spinning round and round
around the sun, sol, estrella proxima.
so go crack the window if you wish.
Friday, October 31, 2008
to be movable is not to move. what i desire
is movement. a motion measurable in
location, which is relative,
speed, which is least important,
and experience, which
turns, forms, explains, and questions
the heart, and is the heart of the motion.
i grant myself permission to move.
i hear the turbines spinning jetly,
as they should. sirens--calling me.
destinations are what you make of them,
and can be reached at any speed you like.
experience is a cat-and-mouse chase
that stands there, grinning.
is movement. a motion measurable in
location, which is relative,
speed, which is least important,
and experience, which
turns, forms, explains, and questions
the heart, and is the heart of the motion.
i grant myself permission to move.
i hear the turbines spinning jetly,
as they should. sirens--calling me.
destinations are what you make of them,
and can be reached at any speed you like.
experience is a cat-and-mouse chase
that stands there, grinning.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
I think I might have posted this video before a while back, but I was listening to the song on my iPod, and...well...it's just the greatest music video ever.
Fiona Apple - Not About Love
Fiona Apple - Not About Love
Sunday, October 19, 2008
the earth, for example, is a place.
you whisper secrets that earthlings conceal
from the darkness, the vastness of other
places and not-places. we are real.
i turn off the beeping coffee pot
that knows not how to hide terminus and
the void.
you wrapped yourself in steel, streamlined
among anti-gravitational technicalities, stole
away into the dawn. i looked upon the void,
i felt my voice give way. and we know
the cuando and the por que.
these lines could be an introduction that
fails to introduce. fails to close the void.
today, i will explain that our table
has managed to remain a table, that our
cabinets have misplaced the food, that
the doors yet open and close. the floors
tolerate their coverings of tile and carpet,
the windows admit
the sunlight apathetically, and
the pillows guard the bed.
as for me, i mix myself among these things--
wander from room to room, a caged bird
fluttering from floor to waterspout,
perch to floor, perch to waterspout.
these are only poor metaphors. i am
fine, and waiting to wrap myself in steel.
the hope of fluttering to you keeps
me sane, keeps me singing.
i sing late into the night. the
neighbors, if there are any, or
if they are any,
do not seem to mind.
these places we call home are momentary
borrowings, "stays against the madness".
ours remains a simple place, a speck
among the limited locations that would
sustain us, suspend us in the void.
what i mean is that space has a lot of space.
you and i will call any place home,
adjust the blinds and pay the bills.
ad infinitum.
you whisper secrets that earthlings conceal
from the darkness, the vastness of other
places and not-places. we are real.
i turn off the beeping coffee pot
that knows not how to hide terminus and
the void.
you wrapped yourself in steel, streamlined
among anti-gravitational technicalities, stole
away into the dawn. i looked upon the void,
i felt my voice give way. and we know
the cuando and the por que.
these lines could be an introduction that
fails to introduce. fails to close the void.
today, i will explain that our table
has managed to remain a table, that our
cabinets have misplaced the food, that
the doors yet open and close. the floors
tolerate their coverings of tile and carpet,
the windows admit
the sunlight apathetically, and
the pillows guard the bed.
as for me, i mix myself among these things--
wander from room to room, a caged bird
fluttering from floor to waterspout,
perch to floor, perch to waterspout.
these are only poor metaphors. i am
fine, and waiting to wrap myself in steel.
the hope of fluttering to you keeps
me sane, keeps me singing.
i sing late into the night. the
neighbors, if there are any, or
if they are any,
do not seem to mind.
these places we call home are momentary
borrowings, "stays against the madness".
ours remains a simple place, a speck
among the limited locations that would
sustain us, suspend us in the void.
what i mean is that space has a lot of space.
you and i will call any place home,
adjust the blinds and pay the bills.
ad infinitum.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
shiny things, where will we find them? but
why most of all must we find them. i suppose
that is a question. i worry sometimes.
beds and endless thoughts they all want to
oppose the sailor and his shore. this is
more or less nothing much at all.
sand let fall will fall and hands
let sand fall this fall. and after it
all we worry about the questions, the
sailors are sure. the sea gulls call.
this is not a question at all.
why most of all must we find them. i suppose
that is a question. i worry sometimes.
beds and endless thoughts they all want to
oppose the sailor and his shore. this is
more or less nothing much at all.
sand let fall will fall and hands
let sand fall this fall. and after it
all we worry about the questions, the
sailors are sure. the sea gulls call.
this is not a question at all.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
what's new, what's new. what's up. with you
i feel a black and white picture coming on.
with you it's always waterfalls in the background.
singing in the background. singing new songs.
with you 'd' is for distance. but what is distance
for? what conversations do miles support?
mount st. helens. hello. help.
ashes covering the park, the conversation.
you are with me in a pulsing telephone wire.
together there we clear the air.
i feel a black and white picture coming on.
with you it's always waterfalls in the background.
singing in the background. singing new songs.
with you 'd' is for distance. but what is distance
for? what conversations do miles support?
mount st. helens. hello. help.
ashes covering the park, the conversation.
you are with me in a pulsing telephone wire.
together there we clear the air.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The swift poise of a head, a flutter of laughter--
And love flows in on him, its vastness pent
Within his narrow life: the pain it brings,
Boundless; for love is infinite discontent
With the poor lonely life of transient things.
-A.H.
--------------------------------------------------
what is life before you know
this infinite discontent?
an afternoon transformation of
roses, hair, and laughter--
shadowed then unshadowed by a cloud.
dimming the brilliance of these things.
a revival of these sensory dazzlings.
y sigue esta perspectiva del amor,
the infinite contained by corporal time:
stretched into and made to hold.
so tight and bursting.
full and still searching.
the source is endless
and when it flows in
you will know this.
And love flows in on him, its vastness pent
Within his narrow life: the pain it brings,
Boundless; for love is infinite discontent
With the poor lonely life of transient things.
-A.H.
--------------------------------------------------
what is life before you know
this infinite discontent?
an afternoon transformation of
roses, hair, and laughter--
shadowed then unshadowed by a cloud.
dimming the brilliance of these things.
a revival of these sensory dazzlings.
y sigue esta perspectiva del amor,
the infinite contained by corporal time:
stretched into and made to hold.
so tight and bursting.
full and still searching.
the source is endless
and when it flows in
you will know this.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
a child stares over his mother's shoulder. at me.
this cuteness doesn't last long is what you said.
yes it lasts at least until he lies down
in his father's arms, still as moonlight.
and then he's up again to stare again.
they don't know he wants to talk to me.
he knows no words, so he varies the openness of his eyes.
they don't notice he stretches a hand towards me.
this cuteness doesn't last long is what you said.
yes it lasts at least until he lies down
in his father's arms, still as moonlight.
and then he's up again to stare again.
they don't know he wants to talk to me.
he knows no words, so he varies the openness of his eyes.
they don't notice he stretches a hand towards me.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
time management is an interesting concept.
it is impossible to manage priorities
within a given amount of time.
now picture workers overcrowded on a train.
priorities existed prior to this.
priorities do not give in, they exist,
and overcrowd a given amount of time.
time management is not interesting at all.
friction not time stops a train.
time is not a train but causes friction
within priorities as they exist.
now picture yourself.
prior to this it all existed, though
you may say this train never arrived here
now as it did just now. stop crowding.
time management is a train with no station.
interests existed prior to time management,
which itself was managed prior to the arrival
and helps us picture the overcrowding.
picture luggage left on a train platform.
it is impossible to manage priorities
within a given amount of time.
now picture workers overcrowded on a train.
priorities existed prior to this.
priorities do not give in, they exist,
and overcrowd a given amount of time.
time management is not interesting at all.
friction not time stops a train.
time is not a train but causes friction
within priorities as they exist.
now picture yourself.
prior to this it all existed, though
you may say this train never arrived here
now as it did just now. stop crowding.
time management is a train with no station.
interests existed prior to time management,
which itself was managed prior to the arrival
and helps us picture the overcrowding.
picture luggage left on a train platform.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
i heard you sing busco un raro encantamiento,
and i know what that means over strummed strings,
quizas.
que significa a mi es una gloriosa mañana,
y busco tambien,
quizas.
a painting where the light exists stratified
high above, glows in tones of foreign words.
busco cuando el sol es recibido
por un patio de cemento,
quizas.
and i know what that means over strummed strings,
quizas.
que significa a mi es una gloriosa mañana,
y busco tambien,
quizas.
a painting where the light exists stratified
high above, glows in tones of foreign words.
busco cuando el sol es recibido
por un patio de cemento,
quizas.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
the narrow city road is really a walkway,
though it has not always been and may
not always be. the stones hide their limits,
but have them.
the windows all along the buildings hold true
to their temporary shape, though temporary
here is undefined, or indefinite.
sunlight falls down through the valley-like space
between the mountains, which are only man-made
buildings. the light falls as it likes.
this is only a picture on the wall.
this is not a real observation, but
a description of a temporary/captured moment.
this took me two minute's time, and i
wonder what you could write
in a similar amount of time.
these words have already begun to cease
to exist.
though it has not always been and may
not always be. the stones hide their limits,
but have them.
the windows all along the buildings hold true
to their temporary shape, though temporary
here is undefined, or indefinite.
sunlight falls down through the valley-like space
between the mountains, which are only man-made
buildings. the light falls as it likes.
this is only a picture on the wall.
this is not a real observation, but
a description of a temporary/captured moment.
this took me two minute's time, and i
wonder what you could write
in a similar amount of time.
these words have already begun to cease
to exist.
this may be called an attempt to find a nontexture.
writing is a struggle to cover plagiarism, as all
writing is recycling what has been, as all
fresh dirt on the shovel is
old dirt on the shovel.
I could think about this all afternoon.
But what I need to do is
find you, take you to the store,
buy you things --
you don't like things so much,
so what I need to do is
find a store that sells nonthings,
things with nontextures,
nondescriptions.
A store that sells nonthings does not yet exist.
I spend all afternoon trying to figure you out.
writing is a struggle to cover plagiarism, as all
writing is recycling what has been, as all
fresh dirt on the shovel is
old dirt on the shovel.
I could think about this all afternoon.
But what I need to do is
find you, take you to the store,
buy you things --
you don't like things so much,
so what I need to do is
find a store that sells nonthings,
things with nontextures,
nondescriptions.
A store that sells nonthings does not yet exist.
I spend all afternoon trying to figure you out.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
linux (abandoned) as a metaphor
/home/user/mmc-sdd/partion1/> cd
/home/user/> linux as a metaphor
Partition is easy to understand. Divide the whole to organize the whole. Partition East from West Germany, but Mr. Gorb., tear down that wall. Partition the East from the West Bank. Partition the rich from the rest. Partition my heart from my chest. Partition my hair from my head as I read the New York Times. They'll raise the prices still, they think. The supply, the supply, they say. Shove that 'per barrel' up into the stratosphere. The space-o-sphere. The universe-o-sphere. Oh sure. The price will rise to beat the Nile. They slip in from the bank, those crocodiles.
This was supposed to be about Linux. This was supposed to be about me. Installing and running so far is complex. Lines of coded language where simple icons should be. I click the |X| to live in simplicity. Files lost and errors. I suppose this is Linux. Maybe this is me.
I read the paper and I see the crocodiles swimming. Crookodiles swaggering there tails in stuff we live in.
Some King hospital in NYC. Some psychiatric ward with, often, a 24-hour wait to get a bed. Security cameras record a woman sitting for hours. She blacks out – falls down dead. Over an hour later, a hospital worker nudges the dead woman with a neglectful foot. Autopsy shows sitting so long made blood clots in her legs. Deep-veined thrombosis, I think, is the term. People can get it on long car drives or flights. Stretch your legs every once in a while. The clots moved to the womans lungs. The waiting killed her.
Same page. Man and wife have decided their too-many-thousand-foot home is too big for them. Eight-car garage, movie theater, indoor pool. Everything. It's too much. She only wants 3,000 square feet. He needs 7,000, he says. For 31 million, the house won't sell. Economy's falling and real estate has the shimmies. For 200+ thousand and the right standing, you can bid on their house. Bidding will last a month and start at 19 million dollars.
Million dollars.
19.
1 or 19 or any million dollars... Same page: a woman dies waiting for a hospital bed. The hospital will be revamped and hopefully the wait time will be reduced to just 12 hours, a spokesman says.
Is it too much to evaluate myself as a metaphoree of Linux? Linux, an operating system I don't understand in a world I don't understand in a self I don't always understand. Where do I draw the line and say, 'This is how far I'll extend my heart. This is what I will understand'? To the universe-o-sphere? To my fingertips?
Same paper. More middle-eastern villages reduced to rubble. More politics in a bind in Africa. Zimbabwe has it worse than women in some King hospital in NYC.
Maybe.
Maybe it's easier to focus on fingertips. Maybe my hands are complex enough to fill my spare time. It's unlikely that the Crookodiles will ever come snapping at my hands. I know this is because they don't need to. They have already carved their initials into my wallet.
Partition my wallet from my pants. Subdivide and budget and understand this river we're swimming in.
/home/user/> linux as a metaphor
Partition is easy to understand. Divide the whole to organize the whole. Partition East from West Germany, but Mr. Gorb., tear down that wall. Partition the East from the West Bank. Partition the rich from the rest. Partition my heart from my chest. Partition my hair from my head as I read the New York Times. They'll raise the prices still, they think. The supply, the supply, they say. Shove that 'per barrel' up into the stratosphere. The space-o-sphere. The universe-o-sphere. Oh sure. The price will rise to beat the Nile. They slip in from the bank, those crocodiles.
This was supposed to be about Linux. This was supposed to be about me. Installing and running so far is complex. Lines of coded language where simple icons should be. I click the |X| to live in simplicity. Files lost and errors. I suppose this is Linux. Maybe this is me.
I read the paper and I see the crocodiles swimming. Crookodiles swaggering there tails in stuff we live in.
Some King hospital in NYC. Some psychiatric ward with, often, a 24-hour wait to get a bed. Security cameras record a woman sitting for hours. She blacks out – falls down dead. Over an hour later, a hospital worker nudges the dead woman with a neglectful foot. Autopsy shows sitting so long made blood clots in her legs. Deep-veined thrombosis, I think, is the term. People can get it on long car drives or flights. Stretch your legs every once in a while. The clots moved to the womans lungs. The waiting killed her.
Same page. Man and wife have decided their too-many-thousand-foot home is too big for them. Eight-car garage, movie theater, indoor pool. Everything. It's too much. She only wants 3,000 square feet. He needs 7,000, he says. For 31 million, the house won't sell. Economy's falling and real estate has the shimmies. For 200+ thousand and the right standing, you can bid on their house. Bidding will last a month and start at 19 million dollars.
Million dollars.
19.
1 or 19 or any million dollars... Same page: a woman dies waiting for a hospital bed. The hospital will be revamped and hopefully the wait time will be reduced to just 12 hours, a spokesman says.
Is it too much to evaluate myself as a metaphoree of Linux? Linux, an operating system I don't understand in a world I don't understand in a self I don't always understand. Where do I draw the line and say, 'This is how far I'll extend my heart. This is what I will understand'? To the universe-o-sphere? To my fingertips?
Same paper. More middle-eastern villages reduced to rubble. More politics in a bind in Africa. Zimbabwe has it worse than women in some King hospital in NYC.
Maybe.
Maybe it's easier to focus on fingertips. Maybe my hands are complex enough to fill my spare time. It's unlikely that the Crookodiles will ever come snapping at my hands. I know this is because they don't need to. They have already carved their initials into my wallet.
Partition my wallet from my pants. Subdivide and budget and understand this river we're swimming in.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
east
hold not energy against
Mangala, over early to eat.
these things are happening
to everyone else as well. rice, fish,
roughage as a point which blends, in
Hong Kong as in Nepal; wash your face
and while handfuls of knives prepare,
and while footprints on the river dock --
freshly walked upon
to bring this naked meal
of rice in functionally sewn sacks --
evaporate into the dimming daylight,
and while you mill in the quay of the river
it is all the same. you will not
disrespect his state of mind,
nor your sense of self, nor i.
hold not energy against
Mangala, over early to eat.
these things are happening
to everyone else as well. rice, fish,
roughage as a point which blends, in
Hong Kong as in Nepal; wash your face
and while handfuls of knives prepare,
and while footprints on the river dock --
freshly walked upon
to bring this naked meal
of rice in functionally sewn sacks --
evaporate into the dimming daylight,
and while you mill in the quay of the river
it is all the same. you will not
disrespect his state of mind,
nor your sense of self, nor i.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
04.06.08 connection
connection is an assumption
.sometimes there are kisses.
or well it means some dear thing
.kisses are real connections.
solitude is real and solitude is not
solitude is a real loss of connections
.sometimes there are not kisses.
or will there be a meaning found
.solitude is not just no kisses.
connections are real and connections are not
hands are sometimes held
.sometimes there are hands held.
Sundays give no care whether this is so
.hands sometimes make connections.
Sundays are real and Sundays are not
belief
belief might be found inside
who knows
a yellow-flower petal
fallen upon Tuesday's grass
and dew-soaked
her face, her face
yes
it is that sort of day
belief might have dug
its way into a corridor,
or
decided to be no more
don't
you just sit there wondering
where this might be,
believing it is
something and somewhere
connection is an assumption
.sometimes there are kisses.
or well it means some dear thing
.kisses are real connections.
solitude is real and solitude is not
solitude is a real loss of connections
.sometimes there are not kisses.
or will there be a meaning found
.solitude is not just no kisses.
connections are real and connections are not
hands are sometimes held
.sometimes there are hands held.
Sundays give no care whether this is so
.hands sometimes make connections.
Sundays are real and Sundays are not
belief
belief might be found inside
who knows
a yellow-flower petal
fallen upon Tuesday's grass
and dew-soaked
her face, her face
yes
it is that sort of day
belief might have dug
its way into a corridor,
or
decided to be no more
don't
you just sit there wondering
where this might be,
believing it is
something and somewhere
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
sestinka
A man on the corner cracks open an ice-cold Bud;
the summer air is stagnant outside his fixed-rent efficiency.
So, he thinks, this must be the city,
where the people are fragile and the minutes are agile.
This is where subterranean sewers collect
the run-off streams of runaways' dreams – possibly
mixing them with silt and rusty needles; 'possibly'
being a polite mask for 'certainly'; few dreams bud
and bloom here – the rain falls only to collect
in puddles with motor oil and antifreeze; the efficiency
with which it creates toxic sidestreet rainbows and agile
pools of pollution tells him this must be the city.
Hoodie and jeans: his haz-mat suit for the city.
Some tenants are moving out – going nowhere – but possibly
that kind of aimlessness is what keeps us all agile;
so, when the trees down the block decide to bud,
we load a U-haul on a whim, with reckless efficiency,
quit our jobs by calling in late, sick, dead, etc. Calling collect.
High above, evaporated ideals and dreams collect
in crooked clouds above the disappointing city,
ready to purge the polluted hearts below with brimstone efficiency.
"Another place; a suburb; another country, possibly;
but not this city, where my flowers won't bud,"
says some she to some he, with a face purely agile.
In a blink, she turns fragile: less agile
than she needed to be, she stoops to collect
pieces of porcelain, dirt, a flower that wouldn't bud,
the shattered remains of the smallest city
dream ever dreamed by some she, possibly
the perfect epitome of this city's efficiency
to flash dreams in pulsing neon lights, its efficiency
to purge hope from a heart once agile.
Maybe she'll leave her dream where it dropped; possibly
crack a weary smile at it all; collect
the few things that do not and never will belong in the city;
set out towards nowhere with some he – her old bud.
over broken pavement where the agile youth play the games of the city.
A rain begins – possibly the best city memory some she and some he will collect.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
opera
lately, i have been interested in opera music. i bought luciano pavarotti's greatest hits from starbucks, and i'm diggin' it. the reason i like it so much is that it's something i can't do, and probably never will be able to. well, i found a couple videos of another opera singer, juan diego florez, singing a song i really like from the pavarotti collection, and i thought i'd share them.
Monday, December 03, 2007
i asked to taste the kisses you give
and you walked away through
the falling leaves of the night.
i'll stand and wait on your reply.
i want to hear the world in all
its many-flavored languages,
all the tongues speaking words
to symbolize ideas and thoughts.
now where did you go walking off to?
i hear leaves crackling beneath
your feet and the weight of your heart.
you are a thought and a language,
a symbol of a glimmering feeling,
walking clumsily on leaves and sticks--
these noises are a new language.
i hear you speaking it fluently,
perfectly, as if it were the sound of
"Let there be light," or "I name you 'tiger.'"
i stand still, listening to you speak
through this walk-away, crackling leaves.
you are a beautiful thought drifting to me
through the night and the leaves and
the air that i breathe.
and you walked away through
the falling leaves of the night.
i'll stand and wait on your reply.
i want to hear the world in all
its many-flavored languages,
all the tongues speaking words
to symbolize ideas and thoughts.
now where did you go walking off to?
i hear leaves crackling beneath
your feet and the weight of your heart.
you are a thought and a language,
a symbol of a glimmering feeling,
walking clumsily on leaves and sticks--
these noises are a new language.
i hear you speaking it fluently,
perfectly, as if it were the sound of
"Let there be light," or "I name you 'tiger.'"
i stand still, listening to you speak
through this walk-away, crackling leaves.
you are a beautiful thought drifting to me
through the night and the leaves and
the air that i breathe.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
you are the cloudabovemyhead
dropping rain into my h a i r
you are the shadowoftheair
and the water on my h e a d
you are the sunwhenitturnsred
slicing wide across the s k y
you are the birdthatlearnedtofly
and the rose that's not quite r e d
you are somethingyouoncesaid
as you turned in bed while d r e a m i n g
you're a cupofteathat'ssteaming
you're the words you left u n s a i d
dropping rain into my h a i r
you are the shadowoftheair
and the water on my h e a d
you are the sunwhenitturnsred
slicing wide across the s k y
you are the birdthatlearnedtofly
and the rose that's not quite r e d
you are somethingyouoncesaid
as you turned in bed while d r e a m i n g
you're a cupofteathat'ssteaming
you're the words you left u n s a i d
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
love babble
i was trying to figure out
what love is, but what it was
is not what it is. or what i
waited for was not love. It was
not love after all. now i seek
what love will be for me.
will you love me, will you let me
love you, will i love you? will
i let me love the way you love me?
will we love us and let us love us?
will we figure out what love is and
will love let us figure out love?
will we wait, will love wait, will
we figure on waiting on love?
will we try love, will love try waiting,
will we wait when love is trying?
will we try, is waiting worth trying,
is love worth trying or is love waiting?
i tried loving, i tried waiting, i
tried trying. i figure that love
is worth the wait, love is worth
the trying, worth the waiting
and the trying and the loving.
i was trying to figure out
what love is, but what it was
is not what it is. or what i
waited for was not love. It was
not love after all. now i seek
what love will be for me.
will you love me, will you let me
love you, will i love you? will
i let me love the way you love me?
will we love us and let us love us?
will we figure out what love is and
will love let us figure out love?
will we wait, will love wait, will
we figure on waiting on love?
will we try love, will love try waiting,
will we wait when love is trying?
will we try, is waiting worth trying,
is love worth trying or is love waiting?
i tried loving, i tried waiting, i
tried trying. i figure that love
is worth the wait, love is worth
the trying, worth the waiting
and the trying and the loving.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
los poemas nuevos
NO QUIERO SER LA PARED DE PIEDRA
QUE QUIERO SABER...
Me dices: Asi va la vida.
Solo quieres dar manos
despues de tomar café.
Asi va la vida y la vida pasa.
Tenias una manera de mirarme
del lado de tu ojo,
pero adios, adios mariposa.
Asi va la vida y la vida pasa.
Yo sabia que habia una razon
guardar este corazon fragil escondido.
Llamas mis defensas "bultadas y ridiculas
Me llamas con una sonrisa "herido
Contemplo las nubes sin tu permiso.
Me quedo quieto durante horas largas.
Tu pretendes echarme de menos -
no se por que, pero la vida pasa.
Este es una brisa agradable.
Y aquella pared de piedra resiste
a mil brisas agradables.
QUE QUIERO SABER...
Quiero saber si tu aliento
cambia a escarcha sobre tu almohada -
cuando el frio del anochecer
entra por las ventanas abiertas;
quiero ver tus suenos
corriendo sobre tu cara como fuego
y en la manana vera si tengas
energia o todavia seras cansada;
quiero ver como las mantas
y sabanas retuercen el arrollar
de tus caderas cuando giran lejos
de la manana;
quiero ver tu pelo
naturaleza lanzada
alrededor de tu cara;
quiero saber las cosas que susurras
a la luz debil de la manana -
los saludos y las suplicas juguetonas
para mas tiempo en este refugio de lino;
por estos razones yo quiero
que digamos juntos "
y saludamos al dia con "mi amor, mi amor
Sunday, August 19, 2007
For the past year i have been trying to finish J.M. Barrie's book The Little Minister. Well, as of 3am Saturday night, i have finally finished. I had to rebind the book several times, which is why it took me so long to finish. I really enjoyed it, though. I read books like that and i instantly have doubts that anything written these days could be that good. I'm pastoral, I guess. And then there's that feeling that I am three hundred more pages down a path that people must walk if they wish to understand me. I'm sure that if Barrie were still alive, we would be good friends -- even though i creep slowly toward the end of his books, blinking away tears and hoping that he will be kind and not cruel. that's all for now.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
"i know nothing but the bare rocks of today..." --w.c.w.
[Sorry, i never title my poems]
we will live like kings and kiss
like the poor; we will hang
our hats on rugged things and fail
to fully close the door.
we will squint our eyes at faded pages;
we will let our minds forget our ages.
you will drink your wine, or not.
i will smoke my pipe a lot.
i will call you mine, but you
will know you're not my type.
'i love you' will become an argument
when all our brittle bones are spent.
-----------------------------------------
then the voices started speaking
with their inflections and intonations.
i stood low, considered forcing air out
in the shape of "hello" or "love me."
those things we say, when we mean
the other thing, altogether something else.
'i'm fine' - a fine mask
for 'dear God, please help me.'
-----------------------------------------------
maybe i can watch the lightning skitter
through the night-darkened clouds
and believe
that emotions that once were
have faded
quickly,
the way these bursts of heat
and brilliance in the sky
burn a beautiful realization
into my heart,
but it
too
vanishes with a blink.
-------------------------------------------
when i finally admit that i have grown old,
walking on creaking legs,
seeing through outdated lenses,
thinking hard to find forgotten things,
will you still be vivid then?
when my days revolve around meals and medication,
when i stare at a flight of stairs in fear,
when my preferences for food broaden and
my tastes in music narrow,
will you still be vivid then?
---------------------------------------------------
tuesday morning is waiting for me,
not like a hungry lion, or a stiff thorn,
but like a stale red light,
or a spider web spanning my front door.
shall i slice a green apple; shall i
try to wait out the storm?
shall i let my hair grow wild;
shall i sigh; shall i?
but why turn my back on the clouds
that hang in the sky - the clouds
that brought the rain that grew the tree
that grew the apple that grabbed my eye?
does anyone know if i will eat this apple;
if i'll shave it around the core -
this apple i chose from those at the store.
will i eat this apple? will i?
-----------------------------------------------
i started talking without thinking
about 'this means that' and 'why';
i curled my hand around a bleeding pen
and watched as it spilled its truth;
i started reading scribbles of madness,
as the sun stomped across the sky;
i scuttled along forgotten ocean floors;
i snapped my mad-dog jaws at the wind;
'this' i did, and 'that' i did,
and there i left my initials carved;
i buried my ears in a thousand songs;
i walked along in the shallows of the sea.
i wet my feet in the shifting sands;
i felt the world below my hands.
--------------------------------------------
i went walking, searching for the answers
to unclear and desperate questions.
i found repetition, warm as sunshine,
flowing from the mouths of the saints.
i lost my heart, like Polaris buried
in gray haze on a cloudy night.
i saw a morbid sight,
and turned my head away.
i found doubt and deceit strolling
about the world on bleeding feet.
i heard voices as smooth as silk
singing lies into the wind.
i picked a flower, and screamed
as it bled upon my hand.
i wondered where the shadows eat,
where they place their restless feet.
i found repetition, warm as sunshine,
flowing from the mouths of the saints.
i looked up and saw the sky;
i did not see God, or angels.
i listened for voices in the wind;
i burned a bush and searched the ashes.
i walked until the sun abandoned me;
i sat down and waited.
in the warm morning sunshine i found repetition
flowing from the mouths of the saints.
-------------------------------------------------
she might have been proud
to see me finally shake off
all these self-righteous ashes
and sip my first beer.
i drank it slowly
so the bitter burn
would clear away the regrets
from the past two years.
i remember the way
i hated the way
she thought peeling away
the label made her cool.
i follow in her footsteps, though
i cannot catch her now.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Would he like it if I told him, now, not now, and now...
I came across these recordings of Gertrude Stein on myspace. If you want to hear some really crazy, talented, somewhat funny poetry, click that link and listen to "If I Told Him."
Gertrude Stein, "If I Told Him: A Completed Portrait of Picasso" (first published in Vanity Fair in 1924)
If I told him would he like it. Would he like it if I told him.
Would he like it would Napoleon would Napoleon would would he like it.
If Napoleon if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if I
told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if Napoleon if Napoleon
if I told him. If I told him if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told
him would he like it would he like it if I told him.
Now.
Not now.
And now.
Now.
Exactly as as kings.
Feeling full for it.
Exactitude as kings.
So to beseech you as full as for it.
Exactly or as kings.
Shutters shut and open so do queens. Shutters shut and shutters and so
shutters shut and shutters and so and so shutters and so shutters shut and
so shutters shut and shutters and so. And so shutters shut and so and also.
And also and so and so and also.
Exact resemblance. To exact resemblance the exact resemblance as exact
as a resemblance, exactly as resembling, exactly resembling, exactly in
resemblance exactly a resemblance, exactly and resemblance. For this is so.
Because.
Now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat
at all.
Have hold and hear, actively repeat at all.
I judge judge.
As a resemblance to him.
Who comes first. Napoleon the first.
Who comes too coming coming too, who goes there, as they go they share, who
shares all, all is as all as as yet or as yet.
Now to date now to date. Now and now and date and the date.
Who came first. Napoleon at first. Who came first Napoleon the first.
Who came first, Napoleon first.
Presently.
Exactly do they do.
First exactly.
Exactly do they do too.
First exactly.
And first exactly.
Exactly do they do.
And first exactly and exactly.
And do they do.
At first exactly and first exactly and do they do.
The first exactly.
And do they do.
The first exactly.
At first exactly.
First as exactly.
As first as exactly.
Presently
As presently.
As as presently.
He he he he and he and he and and he and he and he and and as and as he
and as he and he. He is and as he is, and as he is and he is, he is and as he
and he and as he is and he and he and and he and he.
Can curls rob can curls quote, quotable.
As presently.
As exactitude.
As trains
Has trains.
Has trains.
As trains.
As trains.
Presently.
Proportions.
Presently.
As proportions as presently.
Father and farther.
Was the king or room.
Farther and whether.
Was there was there was there what was there was there what was there
was there there was there.
Whether and in there.
As even say so.
One.
I land.
Two.
I land.
Three.
The land.
Three
The land.
Three
The land.
Two
I land.
Two
I land.
One
I land.
Two
I land.
As a so.
They cannot.
A note.
They cannot.
A float.
They cannot.
They dote.
They cannot.
They as denote.
Miracles play.
Play fairly.
Play fairly well.
A well.
As well.
As or as presently.
Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches.
Gertrude Stein, "If I Told Him: A Completed Portrait of Picasso" (first published in Vanity Fair in 1924)
If I told him would he like it. Would he like it if I told him.
Would he like it would Napoleon would Napoleon would would he like it.
If Napoleon if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if I
told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if Napoleon if Napoleon
if I told him. If I told him if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told
him would he like it would he like it if I told him.
Now.
Not now.
And now.
Now.
Exactly as as kings.
Feeling full for it.
Exactitude as kings.
So to beseech you as full as for it.
Exactly or as kings.
Shutters shut and open so do queens. Shutters shut and shutters and so
shutters shut and shutters and so and so shutters and so shutters shut and
so shutters shut and shutters and so. And so shutters shut and so and also.
And also and so and so and also.
Exact resemblance. To exact resemblance the exact resemblance as exact
as a resemblance, exactly as resembling, exactly resembling, exactly in
resemblance exactly a resemblance, exactly and resemblance. For this is so.
Because.
Now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat
at all.
Have hold and hear, actively repeat at all.
I judge judge.
As a resemblance to him.
Who comes first. Napoleon the first.
Who comes too coming coming too, who goes there, as they go they share, who
shares all, all is as all as as yet or as yet.
Now to date now to date. Now and now and date and the date.
Who came first. Napoleon at first. Who came first Napoleon the first.
Who came first, Napoleon first.
Presently.
Exactly do they do.
First exactly.
Exactly do they do too.
First exactly.
And first exactly.
Exactly do they do.
And first exactly and exactly.
And do they do.
At first exactly and first exactly and do they do.
The first exactly.
And do they do.
The first exactly.
At first exactly.
First as exactly.
As first as exactly.
Presently
As presently.
As as presently.
He he he he and he and he and and he and he and he and and as and as he
and as he and he. He is and as he is, and as he is and he is, he is and as he
and he and as he is and he and he and and he and he.
Can curls rob can curls quote, quotable.
As presently.
As exactitude.
As trains
Has trains.
Has trains.
As trains.
As trains.
Presently.
Proportions.
Presently.
As proportions as presently.
Father and farther.
Was the king or room.
Farther and whether.
Was there was there was there what was there was there what was there
was there there was there.
Whether and in there.
As even say so.
One.
I land.
Two.
I land.
Three.
The land.
Three
The land.
Three
The land.
Two
I land.
Two
I land.
One
I land.
Two
I land.
As a so.
They cannot.
A note.
They cannot.
A float.
They cannot.
They dote.
They cannot.
They as denote.
Miracles play.
Play fairly.
Play fairly well.
A well.
As well.
As or as presently.
Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
mi nuevo trabajo...
so... i got a job at MetaMetrics (www.lexile.com). thanks everyone for praying :) i start on friday. here's a tree and an alligator i drew today:
Monday, April 30, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
New Poems
Blue-sky Heart
Today is overstuffed with flowers,
whispered things and sidewalk thoughts.
Blades of fresh air and sad light
cut away at our youth,
while a stone-statue horse looks down,
standing proud.
These are the days I gather into bundles,
tie up in tight ink lines,
store quietly in leather-bound books.
Time is hiding today, afraid that these
shifting clouds and winding roads
will coldly send him packing.
Say, in your sweetest voice,
that we don’t need to fear that.
Say the flowers are bold as kings,
and the rain won’t land on us.
We don’t need to fear the heat,
the scorching leather car seat,
the seconds racing by like a line
of confused ants.
Say, in your English accent,
Oh, darling, I love this song.
Say the breeze is nice,
the rain no reason to leave.
This is where I’ll miss you:
in the yellow-sun center
of my blue-sky heart,
ninety-three million memory-miles
from the springtime hope-bird’s flight.
Remember-you will rise every morning,
hang mirrored in my midnight moon-mind,
lay me down gently, just in time
for another you-sunrise.
__________________________________________
How To Leave
When I think of trees, I see
thick, smooth, dark gray branches,
wet in cold storms | leaves falling down and
landing lightly on soil-buried roots
(deep | sometimes shallow, cracking sidewalks).
They grew for years before
I, as a child, could
cling to low branches | climb so high
My upside-down mother laughed.
But now, wide branches fail
as shelter from the rain | and me
drenched | shivering | still smiling
at the memory of climbing so high
Some leaves fall | want the early feeling,
the sliding initial slip to gravity from on high,
to float feather-light toward the ground below
where yards of grass | soft dirt catch
such impatient cracked and curled
natural sails | without ships or captains.
Gently they land | then anxiously climb
back up wind walls | shaking | spinning
flipping | dizzy tripping
but eventually settle down,
yet never regret
the dead-end journey to
a city park sidewalk.
I have gone about the streets like Neruda,
buried myself in a clear-windowed café,
sit | arm rested on a
table shaded by sun-cast shadows.
Music soothes jazz desires, but
passion fires burn pages
of stubborn sweet remembrances.
No scribbled words erase lonely hurts,
as I once hoped | maybe could still.
Out the window | long gaze reveals
cars driving streets | unconcerned fast.
Pauses never last – why wait to see
if man | no, boy | will realize his
city | country | world spins apathetic?
What means, at last, I understand
“letting go” | finally | completely?
You never seeking
or desiring my company,
or a telling tragic beat within
a heart burdened to extreme,
so no possible way to avoid a choice,
a mental voice “yes” to emotional parting,
to a separation of more than place,
a heart in denial, found and forced
through silent, breathless tears?
But no, don't stop here | press on,
as if you believe in goodbyes,
and tomorrow and more tomorrows
will pile high | weigh too much
to keep considering | clinging | lingering
in times so long ago, and longer still now.
Piles | hills | mountains of passing
back and forth, day and night,
over | and over | and under the pressure
all the time to make simple
a life | and mind | so buried by
the constant adding of her absences:
her evidence of moving on.
And then one eventual day –
Ella singing from café speakers,
a cooling cappuccino on a table,
which is just a slight bit too high –
I know:
what is left is all | and broken.
Secret, stolen remainders to
keep a dying heart going, are just
poor reflections | embellished deceptions.
(All that stays really wrongly conveys
what was | Avoids a needed change)
And don't stop here | proceed on through
giving up on giving up | Decide, you,
to walk away | out through doors and drive
on through hesitation | through reservation
second- and third- and ever-guessing
whether truly this is freedom.
_______________________________________________
Upstate NY
The cold tries to form an icy hand
to chill my spine.
I remember this:
the Canadian border so close,
drive me across, please.
Let me feel what I hear
is the cold, French stare.
Morning pancakes are soaking on a plate
in a pool of maple syrup from a can,
flies unfaithfully dancing between
the sunlit windows
and our unsuspecting shoulders.
The table crumbs are wiped to the floor.
Outside it is cold, like the first human shiver
before clothes or fire or chittering speech,
when winter meant death in cold wind snows.
Reluctance grows in thawing hands –
She stands away from drafty windows.
I’ve needed this tottering on the edge.
I’m waiting for pick-me-up,
but let-me-down, leave-me-down
finds me before her words stop spilling
over the curled little edge of her mouth.
I came north looking for
“what a happy place,
leave me here among the French faces,
with their smooth strange tongue-speak."
Don’t send me back there – I’ve lost all
desire for her, and you are a reminder
that when I spill over my little edge
there is always second-best.
_______________________________________________
Hurry, Please
I did [can] not forget you,
though [two] years have smudged
the [hurry, please] way I [afternoon] call you
to my [broken-hearted] mind like a
[siren’s] song we used to
[late night] sing but he
[hurry, please] has called you [lately] on.
Those [black and white] piano keys unlocked my
[young, once] heart to leave the [secret] contents
strewn about the [empty] room:
one [right] here, one [way over] there.
You won’t [ever] bother to [carefully] collect them.
I [glance away] pretend not to [painfully] notice.
I have not [will I?] let [completely] go
of [comfortable] voices singing together [roughly]
over [fumbling] fingers walking all across
those perfect [black and white] keys.
These [permanent] memories are [forever] safe
from his [persistent] “Hurry, please.”
______________________________________________________
Me
In the beginning there was me
staggering sideways, choking in a cloud
of regret about a woman I created.
Your figure steadied my dizzy head.
I breathed deep your intoxications
as I would the morning dew in spring.
I marveled over you, was healed of
the crippling pain of earlier drunken days.
But you, too, left me guttered in frightening streets,
all those shadows shifting about the feet
of worn-out buildings, and past the end
of everything else, there is me.
_______________________________________________________
pilot mountain
three days of listening
to the exhaling of mountains,
to the whimpering of clouds,
to the yawning of blind rivers.
pipe smoke smells sweet and
sings a low, slow song
about high-altitude heartache,
and fickle wings of birds.
night brings
the dark-toned harmonies,
like train tracks
side-by-side through the trees.
underneath his sad voice
lies a strange geography,
fearing the lonely burn
of his very first beer.
his face grows red hair,
and there in southern hills
he tastes the cheaper thrills.
____________________________________________
Pablo N–
Pablo, where are the bombs,
the bullets finding their mark,
the bones sailing out through hospital windows,
the simple blood of children in the streets –
where is the blood in the streets?
Naftali, what made you tired
of walking around, being a man?
Was it the loss of your saddest lines –
burned to keep you warm
on the heights of Macchu Picchu?
Was she so bright (“body of woman”)
to light las tinieblas,
to make the birds take flight?
Did her voice stir las olas
cuando bailan en el sol?
Neruda, como te gusta la tierra
that surrounds you all the time?
__________________________________________________
Mr. W.C.W.
Mr. W.C.W., you grotesque genius,
dancing in the floppy loneliness
of how you saw yourself:
dim-lit and still awake,
not yet asleep, like all of us,
resigned to our beds upstairs.
I came down for a glass of water,
heard the creek of floorboards
as you stepped and jumped and flailed,
peeked in and saw the hindparts
of such a brilliant man
still shaking in the moonlight.
I drew back into the darkness
in open-faced disbelief,
stumbled to the kitchen door,
wondering where my glass was.
I could hear you dancing still,
singing low: “I am lonely, lonely...”
_______________________________________________
To Webster’s, On Definitions
I see the rain, but in my suburban life,
sitting in this chain-store coffee shop,
I don’t know what it means.
I don’t know what difference it makes
that the metal tables and chairs outside
gather cold pools of this persistent rain.
When everyday customers come and go
through the bell-sounding door,
I sit and wonder what that means.
Or when I drive home at night, shivering
in my car, and my windshield wipers squeak,
should I try to understand that?
Today is overstuffed with flowers,
whispered things and sidewalk thoughts.
Blades of fresh air and sad light
cut away at our youth,
while a stone-statue horse looks down,
standing proud.
These are the days I gather into bundles,
tie up in tight ink lines,
store quietly in leather-bound books.
Time is hiding today, afraid that these
shifting clouds and winding roads
will coldly send him packing.
Say, in your sweetest voice,
that we don’t need to fear that.
Say the flowers are bold as kings,
and the rain won’t land on us.
We don’t need to fear the heat,
the scorching leather car seat,
the seconds racing by like a line
of confused ants.
Say, in your English accent,
Oh, darling, I love this song.
Say the breeze is nice,
the rain no reason to leave.
This is where I’ll miss you:
in the yellow-sun center
of my blue-sky heart,
ninety-three million memory-miles
from the springtime hope-bird’s flight.
Remember-you will rise every morning,
hang mirrored in my midnight moon-mind,
lay me down gently, just in time
for another you-sunrise.
__________________________________________
How To Leave
When I think of trees, I see
thick, smooth, dark gray branches,
wet in cold storms | leaves falling down and
landing lightly on soil-buried roots
(deep | sometimes shallow, cracking sidewalks).
They grew for years before
I, as a child, could
cling to low branches | climb so high
My upside-down mother laughed.
But now, wide branches fail
as shelter from the rain | and me
drenched | shivering | still smiling
at the memory of climbing so high
Some leaves fall | want the early feeling,
the sliding initial slip to gravity from on high,
to float feather-light toward the ground below
where yards of grass | soft dirt catch
such impatient cracked and curled
natural sails | without ships or captains.
Gently they land | then anxiously climb
back up wind walls | shaking | spinning
flipping | dizzy tripping
but eventually settle down,
yet never regret
the dead-end journey to
a city park sidewalk.
I have gone about the streets like Neruda,
buried myself in a clear-windowed café,
sit | arm rested on a
table shaded by sun-cast shadows.
Music soothes jazz desires, but
passion fires burn pages
of stubborn sweet remembrances.
No scribbled words erase lonely hurts,
as I once hoped | maybe could still.
Out the window | long gaze reveals
cars driving streets | unconcerned fast.
Pauses never last – why wait to see
if man | no, boy | will realize his
city | country | world spins apathetic?
What means, at last, I understand
“letting go” | finally | completely?
You never seeking
or desiring my company,
or a telling tragic beat within
a heart burdened to extreme,
so no possible way to avoid a choice,
a mental voice “yes” to emotional parting,
to a separation of more than place,
a heart in denial, found and forced
through silent, breathless tears?
But no, don't stop here | press on,
as if you believe in goodbyes,
and tomorrow and more tomorrows
will pile high | weigh too much
to keep considering | clinging | lingering
in times so long ago, and longer still now.
Piles | hills | mountains of passing
back and forth, day and night,
over | and over | and under the pressure
all the time to make simple
a life | and mind | so buried by
the constant adding of her absences:
her evidence of moving on.
And then one eventual day –
Ella singing from café speakers,
a cooling cappuccino on a table,
which is just a slight bit too high –
I know:
what is left is all | and broken.
Secret, stolen remainders to
keep a dying heart going, are just
poor reflections | embellished deceptions.
(All that stays really wrongly conveys
what was | Avoids a needed change)
And don't stop here | proceed on through
giving up on giving up | Decide, you,
to walk away | out through doors and drive
on through hesitation | through reservation
second- and third- and ever-guessing
whether truly this is freedom.
_______________________________________________
Upstate NY
The cold tries to form an icy hand
to chill my spine.
I remember this:
the Canadian border so close,
drive me across, please.
Let me feel what I hear
is the cold, French stare.
Morning pancakes are soaking on a plate
in a pool of maple syrup from a can,
flies unfaithfully dancing between
the sunlit windows
and our unsuspecting shoulders.
The table crumbs are wiped to the floor.
Outside it is cold, like the first human shiver
before clothes or fire or chittering speech,
when winter meant death in cold wind snows.
Reluctance grows in thawing hands –
She stands away from drafty windows.
I’ve needed this tottering on the edge.
I’m waiting for pick-me-up,
but let-me-down, leave-me-down
finds me before her words stop spilling
over the curled little edge of her mouth.
I came north looking for
“what a happy place,
leave me here among the French faces,
with their smooth strange tongue-speak."
Don’t send me back there – I’ve lost all
desire for her, and you are a reminder
that when I spill over my little edge
there is always second-best.
_______________________________________________
Hurry, Please
I did [can] not forget you,
though [two] years have smudged
the [hurry, please] way I [afternoon] call you
to my [broken-hearted] mind like a
[siren’s] song we used to
[late night] sing but he
[hurry, please] has called you [lately] on.
Those [black and white] piano keys unlocked my
[young, once] heart to leave the [secret] contents
strewn about the [empty] room:
one [right] here, one [way over] there.
You won’t [ever] bother to [carefully] collect them.
I [glance away] pretend not to [painfully] notice.
I have not [will I?] let [completely] go
of [comfortable] voices singing together [roughly]
over [fumbling] fingers walking all across
those perfect [black and white] keys.
These [permanent] memories are [forever] safe
from his [persistent] “Hurry, please.”
______________________________________________________
Me
In the beginning there was me
staggering sideways, choking in a cloud
of regret about a woman I created.
Your figure steadied my dizzy head.
I breathed deep your intoxications
as I would the morning dew in spring.
I marveled over you, was healed of
the crippling pain of earlier drunken days.
But you, too, left me guttered in frightening streets,
all those shadows shifting about the feet
of worn-out buildings, and past the end
of everything else, there is me.
_______________________________________________________
pilot mountain
three days of listening
to the exhaling of mountains,
to the whimpering of clouds,
to the yawning of blind rivers.
pipe smoke smells sweet and
sings a low, slow song
about high-altitude heartache,
and fickle wings of birds.
night brings
the dark-toned harmonies,
like train tracks
side-by-side through the trees.
underneath his sad voice
lies a strange geography,
fearing the lonely burn
of his very first beer.
his face grows red hair,
and there in southern hills
he tastes the cheaper thrills.
____________________________________________
Pablo N–
Pablo, where are the bombs,
the bullets finding their mark,
the bones sailing out through hospital windows,
the simple blood of children in the streets –
where is the blood in the streets?
Naftali, what made you tired
of walking around, being a man?
Was it the loss of your saddest lines –
burned to keep you warm
on the heights of Macchu Picchu?
Was she so bright (“body of woman”)
to light las tinieblas,
to make the birds take flight?
Did her voice stir las olas
cuando bailan en el sol?
Neruda, como te gusta la tierra
that surrounds you all the time?
__________________________________________________
Mr. W.C.W.
Mr. W.C.W., you grotesque genius,
dancing in the floppy loneliness
of how you saw yourself:
dim-lit and still awake,
not yet asleep, like all of us,
resigned to our beds upstairs.
I came down for a glass of water,
heard the creek of floorboards
as you stepped and jumped and flailed,
peeked in and saw the hindparts
of such a brilliant man
still shaking in the moonlight.
I drew back into the darkness
in open-faced disbelief,
stumbled to the kitchen door,
wondering where my glass was.
I could hear you dancing still,
singing low: “I am lonely, lonely...”
_______________________________________________
To Webster’s, On Definitions
I see the rain, but in my suburban life,
sitting in this chain-store coffee shop,
I don’t know what it means.
I don’t know what difference it makes
that the metal tables and chairs outside
gather cold pools of this persistent rain.
When everyday customers come and go
through the bell-sounding door,
I sit and wonder what that means.
Or when I drive home at night, shivering
in my car, and my windshield wipers squeak,
should I try to understand that?
Friday, April 27, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
[blows away dust and wipes off cobwebs]
yes, i have abandoned my blog for a while. i have always felt weird about telling a story more than once in the same way. i don't know why. i feel like i'm cheating. so i have avoided updating my blog with the "Captain's Log - Day 18: so very cold. nothing new to announce," to spare myself and my readers, if i still have any.
i graduate in two and a half weeks. there's about a week and a half of classes left. i have no job leads. i still haven't made a resume... ever in my life. i am stressed. i have been drinking toxic levels of coffee lately. i have severe doubts as to my ability to be in any kind of relationship with a girl. "God will send someone when you're not looking, or when you are content in life." i'm sorry, but that sounds like a very silly idea. that sounds very much like spitting on an ant farm to me. but i think that i've lost sight of whatever makes a "relationship" an important thing. i like spending the days by myself. i like the freedom to hang out with friends when i want, to spend hours at a coffee shop doing nothing that anybody else would find to be all that much fun. but there are times, too, when i feel like there should be someone in the passenger seat of my car, singing along to the music with me. i don't have an answer for those moments.
yes, i have abandoned my blog for a while. i have always felt weird about telling a story more than once in the same way. i don't know why. i feel like i'm cheating. so i have avoided updating my blog with the "Captain's Log - Day 18: so very cold. nothing new to announce," to spare myself and my readers, if i still have any.
i graduate in two and a half weeks. there's about a week and a half of classes left. i have no job leads. i still haven't made a resume... ever in my life. i am stressed. i have been drinking toxic levels of coffee lately. i have severe doubts as to my ability to be in any kind of relationship with a girl. "God will send someone when you're not looking, or when you are content in life." i'm sorry, but that sounds like a very silly idea. that sounds very much like spitting on an ant farm to me. but i think that i've lost sight of whatever makes a "relationship" an important thing. i like spending the days by myself. i like the freedom to hang out with friends when i want, to spend hours at a coffee shop doing nothing that anybody else would find to be all that much fun. but there are times, too, when i feel like there should be someone in the passenger seat of my car, singing along to the music with me. i don't have an answer for those moments.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
4/3/07
an overweight man walks
his wolf-looking dog
and i hold nothing against
this overcast
pink and purple night
not even that
in spite of my pipe
my apartment balcony
looks exactly like
every other
balcony around me
his wolf-looking dog
and i hold nothing against
this overcast
pink and purple night
not even that
in spite of my pipe
my apartment balcony
looks exactly like
every other
balcony around me
Monday, March 19, 2007
Sequences
Superman and Ginger Rogers
(her curly red hair!)
walking slowly past a row
of small town mom-and-pops,
Fred tapping furiously behind, singing
“...they can’t take that away from me...”
Poor Fred, your scripted love...
You’ll win her back, except
here comes a top-hatted dolphin,
here comes a real Tommy-gunner,
walking on his tail down the gutter,
and who is the man of steel,
and who has the butter voice?
and eek eek eeky eek
and everyone on the ground,
laying all their valuables down
and “CUT!”, everyone laughing out:
“Let’s all go in and have a drink!”
and “What do you think?”
and “Who’s buying for the dolphin,
that under-aged son-of-a-fish?”
In the smoke-drowned light,
the butter voice melts on the mic:
“I’ll pay it off, I’ll pay it all,”
with a cough and a grin
towards that red hair,
curly on her neck,
and tap tippity tap tap
and tap tippity tap beep
and beep! tap BEEP! “Wait,
no, I still want to sleep...”
Mr. Elite
Where will you stay tonight,
you fool, you outcast ghoul,
as I wedge myself between
these smiling silk sheets,
as my lamp sings lemon
light over me,
as I choose between drama
or action-adventure dreams,
and sip water from the glass bottle
I’ve placed upon my night stand?
Do you know what a night stand is,
you fool, you crazy, boring ghoul?
What will you eat tomorrow,
you skeleton, you shadow in twilight,
as I rise late to find
blue and white china buried in eggs,
bacon and pancakes,
hot coffee in my favorite mug,
as I scan leisurely through the paper:
stocks are up, bonds are down;
more violence everywhere but here;
a sale on Michelins.
Do you know what Michelins are,
you wanderer, you pig squeal?
Which streets will you stumble on,
which humble wet and crusty roads
will you pretend are home,
as you take your shameful squat?
Are you the foul, musty cloud
that illegally wafts through my car
while on my way to work,
in the cussing routine of traffic?
Do you know what traffic is,
you blind bird, you greedy road kill?
Traffic is the peak of civilization,
the utopian status of the streets
(talk radio, Bach, soft rock block
your cardboard sign, your bare feet),
the cracked windows and cigarettes,
the personalized license plates,
the Jesus fishes or the witty stickers:
“If you’re not a tattoo, get off my a**!”
Superman and Ginger Rogers
(her curly red hair!)
walking slowly past a row
of small town mom-and-pops,
Fred tapping furiously behind, singing
“...they can’t take that away from me...”
Poor Fred, your scripted love...
You’ll win her back, except
here comes a top-hatted dolphin,
here comes a real Tommy-gunner,
walking on his tail down the gutter,
and who is the man of steel,
and who has the butter voice?
and eek eek eeky eek
and everyone on the ground,
laying all their valuables down
and “CUT!”, everyone laughing out:
“Let’s all go in and have a drink!”
and “What do you think?”
and “Who’s buying for the dolphin,
that under-aged son-of-a-fish?”
In the smoke-drowned light,
the butter voice melts on the mic:
“I’ll pay it off, I’ll pay it all,”
with a cough and a grin
towards that red hair,
curly on her neck,
and tap tippity tap tap
and tap tippity tap beep
and beep! tap BEEP! “Wait,
no, I still want to sleep...”
Mr. Elite
Where will you stay tonight,
you fool, you outcast ghoul,
as I wedge myself between
these smiling silk sheets,
as my lamp sings lemon
light over me,
as I choose between drama
or action-adventure dreams,
and sip water from the glass bottle
I’ve placed upon my night stand?
Do you know what a night stand is,
you fool, you crazy, boring ghoul?
What will you eat tomorrow,
you skeleton, you shadow in twilight,
as I rise late to find
blue and white china buried in eggs,
bacon and pancakes,
hot coffee in my favorite mug,
as I scan leisurely through the paper:
stocks are up, bonds are down;
more violence everywhere but here;
a sale on Michelins.
Do you know what Michelins are,
you wanderer, you pig squeal?
Which streets will you stumble on,
which humble wet and crusty roads
will you pretend are home,
as you take your shameful squat?
Are you the foul, musty cloud
that illegally wafts through my car
while on my way to work,
in the cussing routine of traffic?
Do you know what traffic is,
you blind bird, you greedy road kill?
Traffic is the peak of civilization,
the utopian status of the streets
(talk radio, Bach, soft rock block
your cardboard sign, your bare feet),
the cracked windows and cigarettes,
the personalized license plates,
the Jesus fishes or the witty stickers:
“If you’re not a tattoo, get off my a**!”
Thursday, March 15, 2007
beware the ides of march.
the ides of march have come.
ay, caesar, but not gone.
---------------------------------
i am currently listening to james morrison's cd "undiscovered" and recommend that everyone else do the same. my favorite songs: 'if the rain must fall', because it's what i want to sound like. 'under the influence', 'this boy', 'undiscovered'. in fact, they're all my favorites.
the ides of march have come.
ay, caesar, but not gone.
---------------------------------
i am currently listening to james morrison's cd "undiscovered" and recommend that everyone else do the same. my favorite songs: 'if the rain must fall', because it's what i want to sound like. 'under the influence', 'this boy', 'undiscovered'. in fact, they're all my favorites.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
spring break
atlantic beach, nc. sunrise.
stoppin' at some train tracks on the way back to greenville.
risk: the game of world domination, at a cabin in pilot mountain, nc. also, my first beer ever. my suspicions were confirmed -- it does taste as bad as it smells.
nc bar-b-que tour/mountain jam fest '07
toddhouse rock, holdin' it down.
stoppin' at some train tracks on the way back to greenville.
risk: the game of world domination, at a cabin in pilot mountain, nc. also, my first beer ever. my suspicions were confirmed -- it does taste as bad as it smells.
nc bar-b-que tour/mountain jam fest '07
toddhouse rock, holdin' it down.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
e-lationships.
i'm going to get to the point. i hate these ads. i can't understand why these online dating companies think that they are doing the world a favor by existing, but that aside, their ads are ridiculous. what kills me is that they seem to be saying "15 million girls like this are waiting for a date with you." but let's face the facts -- a girl like the one pictured here -- though she is more than likely airbrushed beyond recognition -- is not going to be using an online dating service.
why? because she doesn't want to tell her kids and grandkids that she met their father/grandfather online?
no. she will not be using an online dating service because a girl like this already has a boyfriend. guaranteed.
don't believe me? who do you think got her all that bling that she's wearing.
and by the way, the phrase "girlfriend season is here"... i mean, seriously... i think i'm going to be sick.
dumbest ads ever.
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