Happy Holidays...Merry Christmas to all.
This Christmas I want people to try and put something above all else. Gnosis...this is Greek for knowledge, and depending on the translation, insight.
Remember when you are listening to the opinions of others to use insight, and I don't mean in the way you are thinking. I mean for you to "shut-up," listen, and take in (seriously) what that person has to say. Don't be upset if their opinion differs. Use your insight to understand why and where this person is coming from. True insight comes from your ability to listen and not to judge.
Understand that there is no "right" way to live life. It's not your way...or his...or hers. It's our way. No person is worth less than any other. Doesn't matter where you are from, or what you believe in.
I love all my readers.
~The Man in the Cave
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Poured (poem)
Poured
Tell me about the time you took your hands out of your pockets?
I thought I would pour myself out,
and into every minute
and fill all the empty time.
And I did. And it hurt.
I told her:
I love you like the moon loves water.
I did.
And now my hands suffocate again.
Tell me about the time you took your hands out of your pockets?
I thought I would pour myself out,
and into every minute
and fill all the empty time.
And I did. And it hurt.
I told her:
I love you like the moon loves water.
I did.
And now my hands suffocate again.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Sincerely (poem)
I was asked today, by a child today--
I was asked to abstain from thoughts of suicide.
You're a writer you're a writer...don't be like Hemingway
Or like Plath. Blown or fried or gassed, or any other way
I can become dead fast.
Don't worry, don't worry.
Ok ok, she said. I believe you Mr. Chris.
And I said, may I have your permission to start class?--
I have some more I want you to do before I can contemplate
pushing up the grass.
I was asked to abstain from thoughts of suicide.
You're a writer you're a writer...don't be like Hemingway
Or like Plath. Blown or fried or gassed, or any other way
I can become dead fast.
Don't worry, don't worry.
Ok ok, she said. I believe you Mr. Chris.
And I said, may I have your permission to start class?--
I have some more I want you to do before I can contemplate
pushing up the grass.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
A Comedy and Degree (poems)
Above
You sir, are not Dante.
-Jeffrey
It's upsetting to speak of heaven.
Why is it so upsetting?
Well, out of the three heavens--
Out of the three heavens
the one I have the hardest time talking about
is writing.
Even when I write a poem I eventually don't like
I'm glad I wrote it.
So far that's all I know.
Then there is heaven unseen.
The marvel of clouded images and gilded things,
I think this heaven leads most people Below.
What is the third heaven?
This room, right now.
Then, my walk home
and all that is outside is In Between
and Below.
Tomorrow I'll know more.
In Between
My landscape is blemished.
Transgressions are piles
of cairns--testimonials--
silent in their reproach.
Perhaps I'm in between
honesty and deceit,
I'm stagnation
and it's inescapable.
Climb a mountain, but
feel cratered like carcass
embedded in earth
all the while living.
Below
A small blade of moonlight slices open my eyes
and rests smooth like sand on my arm.
Everyone looks pale under this illumination;
but, my hand is half ghost.
I do not see the architect of post-Troy.
No lions, leopards, wolves--
Just a white room. Brought clear through fluorescent bulbs,
the worst kind of brightness.
The wind outside catches me in cold,
blows the foliage in fervent cyclones of fire.
Beyond those, the man in tattered blue sweats,
and the hunch,
scribbles Praise Him on guard rails again.
As I approach, church bells sound noon.
They rot without falling.
I am rot. I fell here.
You sir, are not Dante.
-Jeffrey
It's upsetting to speak of heaven.
Why is it so upsetting?
Well, out of the three heavens--
Out of the three heavens
the one I have the hardest time talking about
is writing.
Even when I write a poem I eventually don't like
I'm glad I wrote it.
So far that's all I know.
Then there is heaven unseen.
The marvel of clouded images and gilded things,
I think this heaven leads most people Below.
What is the third heaven?
This room, right now.
Then, my walk home
and all that is outside is In Between
and Below.
Tomorrow I'll know more.
In Between
My landscape is blemished.
Transgressions are piles
of cairns--testimonials--
silent in their reproach.
Perhaps I'm in between
honesty and deceit,
I'm stagnation
and it's inescapable.
Climb a mountain, but
feel cratered like carcass
embedded in earth
all the while living.
Below
A small blade of moonlight slices open my eyes
and rests smooth like sand on my arm.
Everyone looks pale under this illumination;
but, my hand is half ghost.
I do not see the architect of post-Troy.
No lions, leopards, wolves--
Just a white room. Brought clear through fluorescent bulbs,
the worst kind of brightness.
The wind outside catches me in cold,
blows the foliage in fervent cyclones of fire.
Beyond those, the man in tattered blue sweats,
and the hunch,
scribbles Praise Him on guard rails again.
As I approach, church bells sound noon.
They rot without falling.
I am rot. I fell here.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Process (poem)
Not ready after all, but, I keep typing:
leaves leaving trees
falling to death and darkness.
A smoke-colored cat chases her tail
and I bend down to say,
Do you think you're a dog?
She looks confused,
like the person she is not.
I'm not going anywhere with this,
unless I go with you, because I love you
like something the ocean does; and, I think
I'll stick with this matter. Keeping beat,
persistent--until my words cause me to choke
on the syllables of obsession.
Look at me wield weepy fingers to make these words.
And attention, attention, attention, until,
I am the most unbearable person.
But,
Still--
leaves leaving trees
falling to death and darkness.
A smoke-colored cat chases her tail
and I bend down to say,
Do you think you're a dog?
She looks confused,
like the person she is not.
I'm not going anywhere with this,
unless I go with you, because I love you
like something the ocean does; and, I think
I'll stick with this matter. Keeping beat,
persistent--until my words cause me to choke
on the syllables of obsession.
Look at me wield weepy fingers to make these words.
And attention, attention, attention, until,
I am the most unbearable person.
But,
Still--
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Adam (poem)
Adam
Blunder out of Eden, instead of fading into something forgotten;
and take her with you, but she won't look at you.
Not anymore?
Not ever.
What do I do without Eve?
Appropriate.
In my living room, with a ceiling sprung 18 feet from the floor, I can hear every sonic deviation
from my mouth repeated twice, as I put names to groups of words on paper over my mantle.
I need her.
You must stay where you are. Walk on cold floorboards, push them down so they moan
loneliness and make your legs vibrate with it.
I need her.
Not anymore.
In the midst of the apocalypse I'll come through her door, or any door,
to get to her.
She won't know you.
Blunder out of Eden, instead of fading into something forgotten;
and take her with you, but she won't look at you.
Not anymore?
Not ever.
What do I do without Eve?
Appropriate.
In my living room, with a ceiling sprung 18 feet from the floor, I can hear every sonic deviation
from my mouth repeated twice, as I put names to groups of words on paper over my mantle.
I need her.
You must stay where you are. Walk on cold floorboards, push them down so they moan
loneliness and make your legs vibrate with it.
I need her.
Not anymore.
In the midst of the apocalypse I'll come through her door, or any door,
to get to her.
She won't know you.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Stop Walking (poem)
Rushing to make the train before the last one leaves,
I came to a crosswalk sign--illuminated,
both emblems lit
(the walker and the hand),
white and red.
The city wants my attention.
I came to a crosswalk sign--illuminated,
both emblems lit
(the walker and the hand),
white and red.
The city wants my attention.
Friday, November 11, 2011
I Want You to Know (poem)
When I stare myself down in the bathroom mirror,
I snarl until I laugh.
When I think about yesterday and the day before that, I felt the need
to have a voice, but I didn't speak of it.
When I bow my head, lace up my fingers, and wear them like a mask,
pretending to listen to others, my eyes are finding the crevices in my skin,
openings just big enough to see your hands.
When I am alone for too long I think until I scare myself from thought.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Fear (poem)
This is a big one I've been working on for a while...still not sold on the title.
Fear
Terrified to be an animal,
another body fed to the earth.
Unable to process ironies and
left only with this river, wildly meandering
around my ribcage.
I caught my reflection in the plastic,
highly clouded, train door window -
A small silver hair in my beard
a stark white curl.
Terrified of my soul escaping
like a fist full of wet sand
under water.
Leaving before I can figure out why
you are so unknowable.
My shadow is stretching
with the falling star, sinking
behind my favorite mirror.
And when my dark counterpart
melts into black, all the white crabs pop
out from their holes
to keep me company.
***
On the stoop of a village building,
next to the comedy club,
unpacking us with plastered grins...
a guy in our group
Oh, Thank God!
... ...
I'm not a father.
And he pockets his phone.
I have found the tumbled angels,
wings rotted and worn off.
Feathers fall in chalk lines around
the dead...
water-logged
water-boarded
or torture-induced suicide.
***
I see the city Mommy!
I see it too Mommy!
Only these two kids see.
Millions of monoliths being covered
by tempered glass
some with grooves and gargoyles.
We are all bulleting towards it.
And later,
we arrive home...
Tiredly rocking back and forth
I see the child on the beach,
could be me.
Sitting in the shallow tide,
yelling at every wave:
You can do better!
Knock me over!
Fear
Terrified to be an animal,
another body fed to the earth.
Unable to process ironies and
left only with this river, wildly meandering
around my ribcage.
I caught my reflection in the plastic,
highly clouded, train door window -
A small silver hair in my beard
a stark white curl.
Terrified of my soul escaping
like a fist full of wet sand
under water.
Leaving before I can figure out why
you are so unknowable.
My shadow is stretching
with the falling star, sinking
behind my favorite mirror.
And when my dark counterpart
melts into black, all the white crabs pop
out from their holes
to keep me company.
***
On the stoop of a village building,
next to the comedy club,
unpacking us with plastered grins...
a guy in our group
Oh, Thank God!
... ...
I'm not a father.
And he pockets his phone.
I have found the tumbled angels,
wings rotted and worn off.
Feathers fall in chalk lines around
the dead...
water-logged
water-boarded
or torture-induced suicide.
***
I see the city Mommy!
I see it too Mommy!
Only these two kids see.
Millions of monoliths being covered
by tempered glass
some with grooves and gargoyles.
We are all bulleting towards it.
And later,
we arrive home...
Tiredly rocking back and forth
I see the child on the beach,
could be me.
Sitting in the shallow tide,
yelling at every wave:
You can do better!
Knock me over!
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Lantern (poem)
The Lantern
The soft glow through star holes
flicker crude scenes of space on the ceiling.
I think about our need to reach out,
but, the tea light in my lantern is enough.
The soft glow through star holes
flicker crude scenes of space on the ceiling.
I think about our need to reach out,
but, the tea light in my lantern is enough.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The Injector (poem)
All it takes is a steady hand
to reveal a vein and then
insert needle
right arm and left.
Efficiency is routine practice--
a backup injection.
Can't just hold the switch down anymore
the days of Old Sparky
a Texas cookout of brains
and seared flesh
under a brown leather veil
are over
unless chosen.
What barbarians!
The Injector is a calm executioner,
murder made classy
with an alcohol swab--
dignified.
Staring down men in their dimmest
moment.
And all the doctor can do
in the corner of the room
eyes closed...
is to meditate
before he declares death.
to reveal a vein and then
insert needle
right arm and left.
Efficiency is routine practice--
a backup injection.
Can't just hold the switch down anymore
the days of Old Sparky
a Texas cookout of brains
and seared flesh
under a brown leather veil
are over
unless chosen.
What barbarians!
The Injector is a calm executioner,
murder made classy
with an alcohol swab--
dignified.
Staring down men in their dimmest
moment.
And all the doctor can do
in the corner of the room
eyes closed...
is to meditate
before he declares death.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Chrysler (poem)
Rounded ledges
Invite
Beckon
To your iron-clad, shell-shingled
Beacon
Take hold
And heed the revolving doors
On guard
Eight grey-stoned gargoyles
Frozen yet arial
Rudder flaps
Radiator caps
On this futuristic missile
But still grounded in their gaze
Looking out and down
At the enterers
Some so lucky
Reaching the triangulated windows
Solar-flared decorations
For viewing
The Empire State
Made of a million monoliths
Surrounded
By tempered glass
Mirroring each other
Cities reflecting cities
Invite
Beckon
To your iron-clad, shell-shingled
Beacon
Take hold
And heed the revolving doors
On guard
Eight grey-stoned gargoyles
Frozen yet arial
Rudder flaps
Radiator caps
On this futuristic missile
But still grounded in their gaze
Looking out and down
At the enterers
Some so lucky
Reaching the triangulated windows
Solar-flared decorations
For viewing
The Empire State
Made of a million monoliths
Surrounded
By tempered glass
Mirroring each other
Cities reflecting cities
Monday, October 10, 2011
Brother's Wisdom (poem)
I'm learning from him, as he makes the car dance with another corner
a nose-dive swivel, shifting down...then quickly up
his portrait created by the doorframe, but with a moving picture show
beyond the window.
The pin-pointed ends of his smile rising with the orange needle on the speedometer.
0 and he's antsy
30 with a smirk
60 only a second later
100 is laughter
I'm secure in my seat only because I trust him in his.
Finally cruising,
A slow enough speed for an opinion.
I can stop hoarding my feelings and let loose the weights
and even though his eyes are fixed, words are accepted.
I'm learning from him. His advice, when we get out,
She's a bitch, move on.
With his hand on my shoulder.
a nose-dive swivel, shifting down...then quickly up
his portrait created by the doorframe, but with a moving picture show
beyond the window.
The pin-pointed ends of his smile rising with the orange needle on the speedometer.
0 and he's antsy
30 with a smirk
60 only a second later
100 is laughter
I'm secure in my seat only because I trust him in his.
Finally cruising,
A slow enough speed for an opinion.
I can stop hoarding my feelings and let loose the weights
and even though his eyes are fixed, words are accepted.
I'm learning from him. His advice, when we get out,
She's a bitch, move on.
With his hand on my shoulder.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
MoMA (poem)
Curly hair, twisted and twirled
Mesmerizing vines of brown
Reaching up
Up towards the painted green helicopter
In the MoMA
And on the second floor I stare
At trashy props from Godot
A grown-up's tricycle
Garbage worn and rust collected
A sand-colored stool steering wheel
Uninspiring
But, if you explain Descartes I will listen
The first time in a year my interest wasn't forced
Then a distraction
A drawing of a shadowy hand
Your impulse to mimic
You take your slender fingers
Unlike mine
Short-nailed left
Callus adorned tips
Just like mine
You gave up
"Impossible," you said
And up until then I thought so too
Mesmerizing vines of brown
Reaching up
Up towards the painted green helicopter
In the MoMA
And on the second floor I stare
At trashy props from Godot
A grown-up's tricycle
Garbage worn and rust collected
A sand-colored stool steering wheel
Uninspiring
But, if you explain Descartes I will listen
The first time in a year my interest wasn't forced
Then a distraction
A drawing of a shadowy hand
Your impulse to mimic
You take your slender fingers
Unlike mine
Short-nailed left
Callus adorned tips
Just like mine
You gave up
"Impossible," you said
And up until then I thought so too
Monday, October 3, 2011
Faith's Derivation (poem)
This is a modern sonnet written with a Petrarchan rhyme scheme.
When I do think of tender desire,
I ponder faith and what it does imply.
Is it blissful belief boiled in brine, my
salty taste buds would have me inquire,
that make a long hike for a holy crier
worth worn souls and torn skin? This bloody
pursuit to Eden troubles the mind, unsteady,
from lack of reason that faith will lift higher.
A mind of logic, not lazy consort to God,
would willfully subject to findings of reason
but will woefully not be spared the "rod."
The arcane bolt never thrown for treason;
cast aside by the tumultuous mob,
who instead slam a hammer at logic and reason.
When I do think of tender desire,
I ponder faith and what it does imply.
Is it blissful belief boiled in brine, my
salty taste buds would have me inquire,
that make a long hike for a holy crier
worth worn souls and torn skin? This bloody
pursuit to Eden troubles the mind, unsteady,
from lack of reason that faith will lift higher.
A mind of logic, not lazy consort to God,
would willfully subject to findings of reason
but will woefully not be spared the "rod."
The arcane bolt never thrown for treason;
cast aside by the tumultuous mob,
who instead slam a hammer at logic and reason.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Midnight at Starbucks (poem)
The road is bare except for a lonely white van,
the paneled kind,
slowly creaking down the street.
As it passes, the metro north
comes ramming through from grand central
and halts abruptly at the platform.
Doors open with a pleasant chime
and the words
"Please mind then gap."
And my foot...my foot starts to tap
on the zig zag red bricks
alone at the Starbucks patio.
Heel-toe
Heel-toe
Heel-toe...and the familiar creak,
a harpee in the night--the white van
passing again.
Heel-toe on my red brick patio.
Heel-toe checking time on my phone.
Heel-toe the flood lights under the rooftop gutters
of Starbucks wont let me go.
the paneled kind,
slowly creaking down the street.
As it passes, the metro north
comes ramming through from grand central
and halts abruptly at the platform.
Doors open with a pleasant chime
and the words
"Please mind then gap."
And my foot...my foot starts to tap
on the zig zag red bricks
alone at the Starbucks patio.
Heel-toe
Heel-toe
Heel-toe...and the familiar creak,
a harpee in the night--the white van
passing again.
Heel-toe on my red brick patio.
Heel-toe checking time on my phone.
Heel-toe the flood lights under the rooftop gutters
of Starbucks wont let me go.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
The Mood (poem)
Sliding my soles on this sandy road
I am the only sound
except for the shuffling of waves.
With delicate pops they mold tiny mountains
in the coastline.
The water
never betraying
always disappointing
but nobody blames the water.
A harsh response in nature is acceptable...
Tempting me to test the tidal force of my hand,
but I hesitate
and know that nobody would blame me.
However, my hands keep to my pockets
lonely on either side,
clasping nothing except my keys
and a quarter or two.
The creature within myself
feels only this suppressing force...
of vulnerability, assuredness, and cowardice.
And as high tide rolls in
I'm aware only that these suppressions
are unnatural.
I am the only sound
except for the shuffling of waves.
With delicate pops they mold tiny mountains
in the coastline.
The water
never betraying
always disappointing
but nobody blames the water.
A harsh response in nature is acceptable...
Tempting me to test the tidal force of my hand,
but I hesitate
and know that nobody would blame me.
However, my hands keep to my pockets
lonely on either side,
clasping nothing except my keys
and a quarter or two.
The creature within myself
feels only this suppressing force...
of vulnerability, assuredness, and cowardice.
And as high tide rolls in
I'm aware only that these suppressions
are unnatural.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Just a Scratch (poem)
Have fun with this one :)
Outside the bagel shop where I sit every day
I saw a black lab tied to the post of a parking meter
Tongue unfurled
Brown eyes open wide
Back legs folded under
He must've been young still
Maybe just a few months still
Because his big black paws were too big for his legs
And because he just couldn't sit still
With his leash knotted to that steel post
At the bottom of a meter now expired
Only moments after the navigator received a gift
Pink and yellow pieces of paper stashed behind a wiper
What wonderful fall colors
And afterwards the parking attendant reached down
Bending towards the black lab
His back arched further and further
And as he did the dog rolled
In time with his outstretched arm
On his back now
Exposing his stomach now
And his tongue hung to his cheek
As he received his gift now
Outside the bagel shop where I sit every day
I saw a black lab tied to the post of a parking meter
Tongue unfurled
Brown eyes open wide
Back legs folded under
He must've been young still
Maybe just a few months still
Because his big black paws were too big for his legs
And because he just couldn't sit still
With his leash knotted to that steel post
At the bottom of a meter now expired
Only moments after the navigator received a gift
Pink and yellow pieces of paper stashed behind a wiper
What wonderful fall colors
And afterwards the parking attendant reached down
Bending towards the black lab
His back arched further and further
And as he did the dog rolled
In time with his outstretched arm
On his back now
Exposing his stomach now
And his tongue hung to his cheek
As he received his gift now
Changed Philosophy (poem)
I'm not sure I'm in love with the title...any ideas would be great!
The streets are paved in grey
with cracks splitting the earth
potholes cracking cars that bottom out
and crushed, crease-hearted souls navigating
hurriedly to their destinations
The streets are paved in grey
I follow them obediently
bleakly onward in a shirt with a bird on the chest
surely you've seen a version of it on 100 others
and assuredly I have five more
The streets are paved in grey
you skip on the cracks
a slow navigation is a memorable one
and sure as I am always
about a routine
and my grey path
my eyes turn to you
The streets are paved in grey
with cracks splitting the earth
potholes cracking cars that bottom out
and crushed, crease-hearted souls navigating
hurriedly to their destinations
The streets are paved in grey
I follow them obediently
bleakly onward in a shirt with a bird on the chest
surely you've seen a version of it on 100 others
and assuredly I have five more
The streets are paved in grey
you skip on the cracks
a slow navigation is a memorable one
and sure as I am always
about a routine
and my grey path
my eyes turn to you
Monday, September 12, 2011
Decade Down (Poem)
I wrote this around 4am yesterday morning after driving back to Bronxville from Queens.
Snap snap snap...
My knuckles hang low,
and they crack
in unison.
That only started as I got older.
Minutes pass
and I'm able to recreate the sound
firecrackers
in my bones.
That only started as I got older.
Click, pop...whoosh
I slide into my car
slouch over
and throw my bag in the passenger's seat.
Slam.
And I'm ready to leave.
But not before one last glance
my bag, folded open
I used to have no room for it
up here.
Snap snap snap...
As my fingers clutch
around the wheel.
That only started as I got older.
It's dark outside.
The sky was a shroud
like when you pull a blanket over your head at night:
You can't see it
but it's there
because you can't see anything else.
I press the top edge of my palm
against the wheel
bending my fingers once again.
That only started as I got older.
Pop, whip...smack.
Fuck.
There goes my hubcap.
A lot comes crashing down
in a decade.
And I wonder where it went...
and why.
Click click.
Mother fucker!
I wail under a red light.
Now passing under the Triboro.
Dammit--R.F. Kennedy I mean.
As I peered into my rearview mirror
I spotted two paralyzing pillars,
pumping light into a sea
of hungry clouds.
Snap snap snap...
My knuckles hang low,
and they crack
in unison.
That only started as I got older.
Minutes pass
and I'm able to recreate the sound
firecrackers
in my bones.
That only started as I got older.
Click, pop...whoosh
I slide into my car
slouch over
and throw my bag in the passenger's seat.
Slam.
And I'm ready to leave.
But not before one last glance
my bag, folded open
I used to have no room for it
up here.
Snap snap snap...
As my fingers clutch
around the wheel.
That only started as I got older.
It's dark outside.
The sky was a shroud
like when you pull a blanket over your head at night:
You can't see it
but it's there
because you can't see anything else.
I press the top edge of my palm
against the wheel
bending my fingers once again.
That only started as I got older.
Pop, whip...smack.
Fuck.
There goes my hubcap.
A lot comes crashing down
in a decade.
And I wonder where it went...
and why.
Click click.
Mother fucker!
I wail under a red light.
Now passing under the Triboro.
Dammit--R.F. Kennedy I mean.
As I peered into my rearview mirror
I spotted two paralyzing pillars,
pumping light into a sea
of hungry clouds.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Love-Laced (poem)
Our fingers laced in a warm crochet of human flesh,
leaving me able to recall lonely trembling hands,
wrapped around nothing, cracking in the cold air.
and before that, holding a book. One hand thumbing
pages--passing proverbs. The other, spread, across
the spine: pinky and ring working to hold up the bulk,
pointer lying flush against the cross indent in the cover,
trying to figure it out like a braille cell. Still unsuccessful.
The day began hunched in thought over a desk,
light from a computer screen illuminating my chest
pumping so that I may know the answers, forgetting
constantly of their nonexistence. My hands hold my head
from hanging too low. A prop to hold my chin up
so lethargy can wait until nightfall, and I may rest then.
Underneath our soft protective awning my arm looms
over your body and my fingers stretch once more,
and find the woven cradle that holds the only thing
of which I'm sure.
leaving me able to recall lonely trembling hands,
wrapped around nothing, cracking in the cold air.
and before that, holding a book. One hand thumbing
pages--passing proverbs. The other, spread, across
the spine: pinky and ring working to hold up the bulk,
pointer lying flush against the cross indent in the cover,
trying to figure it out like a braille cell. Still unsuccessful.
The day began hunched in thought over a desk,
light from a computer screen illuminating my chest
pumping so that I may know the answers, forgetting
constantly of their nonexistence. My hands hold my head
from hanging too low. A prop to hold my chin up
so lethargy can wait until nightfall, and I may rest then.
Underneath our soft protective awning my arm looms
over your body and my fingers stretch once more,
and find the woven cradle that holds the only thing
of which I'm sure.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Pen and Paper (poem)
No god could show me what my mother did...
a heart to roll out, but god forbid,
I show any weakness or the clouds will roll In.
No hopes and prayers to keep me from sin,
just my own slice of heaven created
from paper and pen.
And I paint thoughts of heaven that I pulled from a whim,
a dangling idea cast down from within.
No fire and flame to make my life feel grim
and devil to rule and scare the children.
No light to approach in a tunnel so dim,
connecting heaven and earth with an idea
so thin.
The real light that guides flows from
paper and pen.
a heart to roll out, but god forbid,
I show any weakness or the clouds will roll In.
No hopes and prayers to keep me from sin,
just my own slice of heaven created
from paper and pen.
And I paint thoughts of heaven that I pulled from a whim,
a dangling idea cast down from within.
No fire and flame to make my life feel grim
and devil to rule and scare the children.
No light to approach in a tunnel so dim,
connecting heaven and earth with an idea
so thin.
The real light that guides flows from
paper and pen.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Hate (poem)
My attempt at describing a feeling...another request poem.
A dark blot of ink sinks into my chest
a dot...
hardly even a visible spot, but
with every breath it grows.
Oily, shiny sludge in my heart.
Lungs pumping harder, heavier
while the dot is gaining volume
becoming thicker and my mentality:
sicker and sicker and sicker.
And my eyes fill veiny red
instead of tearing,
which is in relation to sadness...
but this is not...this inner slimy
sludge is simmering and
consuming.
This is sadness plus a violent
push.
This is out of my hands
and in yours.
A dark blot of ink sinks into my chest
a dot...
hardly even a visible spot, but
with every breath it grows.
Oily, shiny sludge in my heart.
Lungs pumping harder, heavier
while the dot is gaining volume
becoming thicker and my mentality:
sicker and sicker and sicker.
And my eyes fill veiny red
instead of tearing,
which is in relation to sadness...
but this is not...this inner slimy
sludge is simmering and
consuming.
This is sadness plus a violent
push.
This is out of my hands
and in yours.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
When I Call You Home (song)
This tunnel keeps closing in,
a peripheral dimming, black vision.
My world is spinning away from me
rolling off the tip of a finger I can't see.
Cracking the floor, bringing thunder to my road
tears fall from my eyes...little lights of hope.
I remember how I loved laughing,
But I'm not laughing now.
Because through our small sins
You never budged an inch.
And now when I grow tired,
I grow alone.
But, when I'm inspired
I can call you home.
This engine is about to start,
the screech of a fast car humming with my heart.
The tires are burning free
crossing two white lines to misery.
Peeling up the asphalt on this thunder road
breaking ground on my one last hope.
I remember how I loved laughing
But I'm not laughing now.
Because through our small sins
You never budged an inch.
And now when I grow tired,
I grow alone.
But, when I'm inspired
I can call you home.
I used to call you home.
a peripheral dimming, black vision.
My world is spinning away from me
rolling off the tip of a finger I can't see.
Cracking the floor, bringing thunder to my road
tears fall from my eyes...little lights of hope.
I remember how I loved laughing,
But I'm not laughing now.
Because through our small sins
You never budged an inch.
And now when I grow tired,
I grow alone.
But, when I'm inspired
I can call you home.
This engine is about to start,
the screech of a fast car humming with my heart.
The tires are burning free
crossing two white lines to misery.
Peeling up the asphalt on this thunder road
breaking ground on my one last hope.
I remember how I loved laughing
But I'm not laughing now.
Because through our small sins
You never budged an inch.
And now when I grow tired,
I grow alone.
But, when I'm inspired
I can call you home.
I used to call you home.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Admiring a Work of Art (poem)
I had the best time writing this poem.
I know you only as a work of art,
staring at your portraits sprinkled in my mind like stars.
Stone cold eyes; locked, loaded and fixated on me
but, as frigid as you think they appear, your big brown eyes
are melted down by some so much darker they are almost black...
focused,
but shaking from their own hurt and loss;
the rapid friction between lid and eye ball
causes them to water.
Still seeing the calm in yours though...
the tameness beyond the wild.
I bet that your touch is delicate.
I'm looking past your Picasso-painted nails
to imagine soft finger tips, leading
limbs that bend so delicately to another hand...
Weaving wonderful flesh baskets of warmth.
My ears, grown a fraction deaf from life's high volume,
listen to the vulgarities coming from your mouth...
the same four letters that I spew out daily are handled,
by my ears, with a cushion. A love for obscenity
because I know it's a mask for vigor and a cherishing
for life.
You could not possibly recognize your beauty
as I do. I am weathered...beaten, worn and wrought:
hurt and dying slowly, like everyone, but I'm aware of it.
And through awareness I see more than a pretty woman,
a wild woman, perhaps sometimes a cold woman...
I see a harness for compassion and a shoulder for
someone so lucky to rest on.
And my dark eyes close...only to dream of yours.
I know you only as a work of art,
staring at your portraits sprinkled in my mind like stars.
Stone cold eyes; locked, loaded and fixated on me
but, as frigid as you think they appear, your big brown eyes
are melted down by some so much darker they are almost black...
focused,
but shaking from their own hurt and loss;
the rapid friction between lid and eye ball
causes them to water.
Still seeing the calm in yours though...
the tameness beyond the wild.
I bet that your touch is delicate.
I'm looking past your Picasso-painted nails
to imagine soft finger tips, leading
limbs that bend so delicately to another hand...
Weaving wonderful flesh baskets of warmth.
My ears, grown a fraction deaf from life's high volume,
listen to the vulgarities coming from your mouth...
the same four letters that I spew out daily are handled,
by my ears, with a cushion. A love for obscenity
because I know it's a mask for vigor and a cherishing
for life.
You could not possibly recognize your beauty
as I do. I am weathered...beaten, worn and wrought:
hurt and dying slowly, like everyone, but I'm aware of it.
And through awareness I see more than a pretty woman,
a wild woman, perhaps sometimes a cold woman...
I see a harness for compassion and a shoulder for
someone so lucky to rest on.
And my dark eyes close...only to dream of yours.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Bacon and Jenga (poem and song)
So a couple weeks ago a friend of mine asked me to write a poem about bacon and a song about Jenga...and I actually did it. We should all be able to have a bit of fun sometimes :)
BACON
It is, by no means, a delicate meat.
My morning salty, sizzling treat.
With eggs and ham
I'm now flipping you over in my flippidy frying pan.
Wearing my manly apron that says "I'm the cooking man."
Everyone is at the table and readily awaiting,
Holding their spoons and forks...anxiously salivating.
The toast was ready, buttered, and the biscuits were warm and flaking...
Then smoke filled the room, and everyone was pissed,
because I burnt the damn bacon.
JENGA SONG
I wish I could put it back, but now it's falling
down, down, down...
My dreams of winning big have now tumbled to the
ground, ground, ground...
You gotta play it safe to win the race
against gravity and your friends.
You gotta be real smart and pull the middle block
Or you'll never want to play Jenga again.
Oh, never play Jenga again...woo hoo woo hoo
I shouldn't have pulled from the left and now this monolith is goin
down, down, down...
My buds are all watching me cry and not making a
sound, sound, sound...
"This dude takes his Jenga seriously" "Yeah, he doesn't mess
around, round, round"
You gotta play it safe to win the race
against gravity and your friends.
You gotta be real smart and pull the middle block
Or you'll never want to play Jenga again.
Oh, never play Jenga again...woo hoo woo hoo
Now the fun is over, you guys gotta go...
leave me with my sad blocks so I can practice alone.
Don't look at me like that, you won this time bro
But next time you're up in here I'm gonna Jenga you all the way home...
And you'll be goin down...down...down.
BACON
It is, by no means, a delicate meat.
My morning salty, sizzling treat.
With eggs and ham
I'm now flipping you over in my flippidy frying pan.
Wearing my manly apron that says "I'm the cooking man."
Everyone is at the table and readily awaiting,
Holding their spoons and forks...anxiously salivating.
The toast was ready, buttered, and the biscuits were warm and flaking...
Then smoke filled the room, and everyone was pissed,
because I burnt the damn bacon.
JENGA SONG
I wish I could put it back, but now it's falling
down, down, down...
My dreams of winning big have now tumbled to the
ground, ground, ground...
You gotta play it safe to win the race
against gravity and your friends.
You gotta be real smart and pull the middle block
Or you'll never want to play Jenga again.
Oh, never play Jenga again...woo hoo woo hoo
I shouldn't have pulled from the left and now this monolith is goin
down, down, down...
My buds are all watching me cry and not making a
sound, sound, sound...
"This dude takes his Jenga seriously" "Yeah, he doesn't mess
around, round, round"
You gotta play it safe to win the race
against gravity and your friends.
You gotta be real smart and pull the middle block
Or you'll never want to play Jenga again.
Oh, never play Jenga again...woo hoo woo hoo
Now the fun is over, you guys gotta go...
leave me with my sad blocks so I can practice alone.
Don't look at me like that, you won this time bro
But next time you're up in here I'm gonna Jenga you all the way home...
And you'll be goin down...down...down.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Mr. Misery (Poem)
OK SO...this poem has been a long time in the making. For those who don't know I have a series of sing-song poetry aimed towards adults...meant to be eerie and comedic...all about the man in this poem. The poems that feature him before this are "Look Closer" (written Sept. 2010) and "The Tired Man" (April 2011)...I gave the dates in case anyone wants to see the similarities.
As always, I'm open to anyone's thoughts...AND!!!!! I've said it before and I'll say it again...any topics that anyone wants me to write about, let me know in some way...and I will try my best to do it.
OK OK OK>>>>>>HERE IS THE POEM!
The sky is black, a suffocating tarp over the world,
with no spotlight shining down on Mr. Misery.
Alone.
No rain cloud follows him, or coal colored cats
crossing his path…Mr. Misery almost always fears now,
and never laughs.
Some say he lost his trust, others that he is just
a sad sack: his head tilts downward and he has a
parabolic shape for a back.
It carries the weight of love, guilt and all other troubles.
Mr. Misery never opens his mouth to let out the
pressure, he just folds further and further,
his hidden heart cannot be measured.
And all the colors mix together to make his clothes,
you would think it beautiful; but, even when
bright colors mix, darkness shows. They match
the voided, broken, eyes where the sadness grows.
Every day disappointed because every day seems
to ignore him. Mr. Misery wakes up with the hope
that today will finally groove and contour to him.
Then one day she came, with a posture perfect back and
bright sky eyes nowhere near the same as his…
She loved Mr. Misery, and his miserly miserableness
may have finally up and ended.
…but his heart started pounding,
until his heart expanded.
It popped out of his chest
and he died when his love
crash landed.
As always, I'm open to anyone's thoughts...AND!!!!! I've said it before and I'll say it again...any topics that anyone wants me to write about, let me know in some way...and I will try my best to do it.
OK OK OK>>>>>>HERE IS THE POEM!
The sky is black, a suffocating tarp over the world,
with no spotlight shining down on Mr. Misery.
Alone.
No rain cloud follows him, or coal colored cats
crossing his path…Mr. Misery almost always fears now,
and never laughs.
Some say he lost his trust, others that he is just
a sad sack: his head tilts downward and he has a
parabolic shape for a back.
It carries the weight of love, guilt and all other troubles.
Mr. Misery never opens his mouth to let out the
pressure, he just folds further and further,
his hidden heart cannot be measured.
And all the colors mix together to make his clothes,
you would think it beautiful; but, even when
bright colors mix, darkness shows. They match
the voided, broken, eyes where the sadness grows.
Every day disappointed because every day seems
to ignore him. Mr. Misery wakes up with the hope
that today will finally groove and contour to him.
Then one day she came, with a posture perfect back and
bright sky eyes nowhere near the same as his…
She loved Mr. Misery, and his miserly miserableness
may have finally up and ended.
…but his heart started pounding,
until his heart expanded.
It popped out of his chest
and he died when his love
crash landed.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Imagine a Day (Poem...not set on the title though)
Ok...here is another poem, with a topic I was asked to write about. Turns out my heart isn't as cold as I thought.
Deep inside the belly of a home,
at the top of the stairs
and staring out a window,
I am reflecting on a willow tree.
Not weeping, but waving in the wind at me;
and I would like to think, through my thoughtful
reflection, that my imaginings are locked with yours.
These images take shape in clouded
thought bubbles, like speech boxes
in a comic book. But long enough to reach
you on the other side of the world.
The clouded thoughts of you are shrouded
with wispy wonderings…mental photographs
of what you could look like, if I remembered you…
if I know you. Either way I know I’m with you.
And looking up at the sky
I can almost see the curvature; a contact lens
sitting on top of a spiraling dome
and I’m left watching our reflection
and what my day would be like
waking up next to you. No makeup,
hair mussed up; but, I am up watching you
anyway. Beautiful anyway. And now I’m pleading
with you silently to open your eyes.
When you do, the color is a surprise every time,
like one of those things you can’t describe…too elegant
and vibrant to remember exactly how the hues went.
Once we are up and out of bed, we’ll jump in my car
and head for the ocean. The stereo is on, buzzing with
deafening rock n’roll…maybe we will lose our hearing
together. You brag about your singing and follow a song,
and you think that you’re good. I know that you’re wrong,
But I love you more that way.
I drive with one hand on the wheel and the other
on the selector, only because I’m hoping for you to hold it.
Longing for your slender fingers to tie knots with mine
and when they do, finally, I never want to stop the car.
But I will eventually, and I will get over you letting go.
Now we must lie down on the sand....stretched out
on our blankets and towels. Stressed out
about nothing. I will help you put on your lotion,
even though the stickiness gives me a gag reflex…but
your skin doesn’t. Smooth all the way to the small
of your back…and as I reach down, my lips land
on your neck. Not for long. A quick peck, just
to let you know I’m here and when you turn around
I will be, still.
Deep inside the belly of a home,
at the top of the stairs
and staring out a window,
I am reflecting on a willow tree.
Not weeping, but waving in the wind at me;
and I would like to think, through my thoughtful
reflection, that my imaginings are locked with yours.
These images take shape in clouded
thought bubbles, like speech boxes
in a comic book. But long enough to reach
you on the other side of the world.
The clouded thoughts of you are shrouded
with wispy wonderings…mental photographs
of what you could look like, if I remembered you…
if I know you. Either way I know I’m with you.
And looking up at the sky
I can almost see the curvature; a contact lens
sitting on top of a spiraling dome
and I’m left watching our reflection
and what my day would be like
waking up next to you. No makeup,
hair mussed up; but, I am up watching you
anyway. Beautiful anyway. And now I’m pleading
with you silently to open your eyes.
When you do, the color is a surprise every time,
like one of those things you can’t describe…too elegant
and vibrant to remember exactly how the hues went.
Once we are up and out of bed, we’ll jump in my car
and head for the ocean. The stereo is on, buzzing with
deafening rock n’roll…maybe we will lose our hearing
together. You brag about your singing and follow a song,
and you think that you’re good. I know that you’re wrong,
But I love you more that way.
I drive with one hand on the wheel and the other
on the selector, only because I’m hoping for you to hold it.
Longing for your slender fingers to tie knots with mine
and when they do, finally, I never want to stop the car.
But I will eventually, and I will get over you letting go.
Now we must lie down on the sand....stretched out
on our blankets and towels. Stressed out
about nothing. I will help you put on your lotion,
even though the stickiness gives me a gag reflex…but
your skin doesn’t. Smooth all the way to the small
of your back…and as I reach down, my lips land
on your neck. Not for long. A quick peck, just
to let you know I’m here and when you turn around
I will be, still.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Park Bench (Poem)
I must preface this first....I am trying a new tactic...which I'm sure I will repost about later; but, the topic for this poem was given to me by a friend (he just said, write a poem about a park bench...so I did). I liked doing that; so, if any of you all have a topic...an idea, an object...anything...tell me and I will write about it. My best friend just sent me a doosie of a topic a couple of days ago...but hell, I'm gonna try to tackle his too.
Who knew that green had a smell...
grass, whistling with the blowing wind and
winding up to my nostrils, stinging; but,
in a good way.
On my park bench I wonder about others.
If they came to this conclusion
or if contentment was reached
through pure relaxation. It's easier that way.
But, with the breeze still bellowing in my mind,
it is beckoning a focus on now...
The other benches, staggered,
zig
zag
uneven.
A man (diagonal and to my left) sits
with his eyes fixated on the ground
like a child at a soccer game, staring blankly
at the grass, wondering which piece he will rip
out next...but the man...solemn.
No boredom is resonating in his eyes, rather
contemplation. Maybe mending the hardest part
of a broken heart.
My mind would go there.
To my right, an empty bench, warmly lit
in the Virginia sun, longing for another soul
in search of answers to life's questions, or,
more often than not, a getaway from hardship.
That must be the appeal.
Why else would seats be placed so obscurely,
with nothing to look at but openness?
Who would make their way to this field
just to sit on that bench?
Unless it had some appeal, some answer, or
some safety that a chair at home
just couldn't provide.
Who knew that green had a smell...
grass, whistling with the blowing wind and
winding up to my nostrils, stinging; but,
in a good way.
On my park bench I wonder about others.
If they came to this conclusion
or if contentment was reached
through pure relaxation. It's easier that way.
But, with the breeze still bellowing in my mind,
it is beckoning a focus on now...
The other benches, staggered,
zig
zag
uneven.
A man (diagonal and to my left) sits
with his eyes fixated on the ground
like a child at a soccer game, staring blankly
at the grass, wondering which piece he will rip
out next...but the man...solemn.
No boredom is resonating in his eyes, rather
contemplation. Maybe mending the hardest part
of a broken heart.
My mind would go there.
To my right, an empty bench, warmly lit
in the Virginia sun, longing for another soul
in search of answers to life's questions, or,
more often than not, a getaway from hardship.
That must be the appeal.
Why else would seats be placed so obscurely,
with nothing to look at but openness?
Who would make their way to this field
just to sit on that bench?
Unless it had some appeal, some answer, or
some safety that a chair at home
just couldn't provide.
June
It's been a couple of weeks since I have posted...sorry...but let me get everyone up to date. My summer, well...my June!
I've been back to work now for over a month, it leaves me with a little less will to write...but I deal with it. I actually have written quite a few poems, I just haven't liked any in a while.
Anyway, I made the dreaded trip back to Syracuse to pick up the rest of my things and my other cat. And because of my brother and my friend in Syracuse, I ended up have a fantastic time all around. So, very many thanks to both of them. Frank and I also took a trip to the toy museum in Rochester...which is COOL.
After that journey, I literally hopped in a car with my mother two days later to drive to NYC and check out apartments around my school. I got to finally meet my roommate and her brother and I'm very pleased to say that they were both wonderfully cool people. AND...the perfect apartment was located in the process. We are going to have a fireplace and A SUNROOM...WHAT?!?!? YEAH
Then...I got to see my cousin on the day of her graduation from Middle School...I was very proud of her and I am quite happy I will be living near her and all my other relatives now. First cousins especially!
Let's see...what else...Alright..I've also bought some albums and seen some movies recently.
Lady Gaga's new album is, in my opinion, her best yet...go buy it! The Foo Fighters new one is also quite good. Those are the 2 I've been listening to, pretty much non-stop.
As far as movies go (and for those who don't know...I see like every movie...and I like almost every movie I choose to go see...It's all about expectations really...some movies are meant to be stupid, others aren't. You can't limit your genres when it comes to movies...go see it all.)
X-men First Class....best X-men movie today...best Marvel movie by far.
Thor...really good, but not X-men good.
Super 8...best movie I have seen so far this summer.
Hangover 2...in my opinion, just as funny as the original.
Kung Fu Panda 2...funny, but not nearly as good as the first one.
I'm sure I've seen more...I've just forgotten.
I've been back to work now for over a month, it leaves me with a little less will to write...but I deal with it. I actually have written quite a few poems, I just haven't liked any in a while.
Anyway, I made the dreaded trip back to Syracuse to pick up the rest of my things and my other cat. And because of my brother and my friend in Syracuse, I ended up have a fantastic time all around. So, very many thanks to both of them. Frank and I also took a trip to the toy museum in Rochester...which is COOL.
After that journey, I literally hopped in a car with my mother two days later to drive to NYC and check out apartments around my school. I got to finally meet my roommate and her brother and I'm very pleased to say that they were both wonderfully cool people. AND...the perfect apartment was located in the process. We are going to have a fireplace and A SUNROOM...WHAT?!?!? YEAH
Then...I got to see my cousin on the day of her graduation from Middle School...I was very proud of her and I am quite happy I will be living near her and all my other relatives now. First cousins especially!
Let's see...what else...Alright..I've also bought some albums and seen some movies recently.
Lady Gaga's new album is, in my opinion, her best yet...go buy it! The Foo Fighters new one is also quite good. Those are the 2 I've been listening to, pretty much non-stop.
As far as movies go (and for those who don't know...I see like every movie...and I like almost every movie I choose to go see...It's all about expectations really...some movies are meant to be stupid, others aren't. You can't limit your genres when it comes to movies...go see it all.)
X-men First Class....best X-men movie today...best Marvel movie by far.
Thor...really good, but not X-men good.
Super 8...best movie I have seen so far this summer.
Hangover 2...in my opinion, just as funny as the original.
Kung Fu Panda 2...funny, but not nearly as good as the first one.
I'm sure I've seen more...I've just forgotten.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Ocean Eyes and Hi (2 fun poems)
Ocean Eyes
Tranquility is a gift that must be invented.
The sweltering summer sun is no match for the sweet breeze and the even sweeter company. A picture framed by hotels, towering above the patrons on the sand below. Flowing with soft hills, like it’s an ocean of its own; but, the peaks burn the soles of my feet. Yet, you seem to glide right through, because the picture is accepting of you.
And I turn my head then to the sea, sprawling forward. Flipping foam as if mimicking the quickly fanned pages from a book, but instead of small, pocketed, gusts of air…it is a soothing mist…like a kiss. A thank you for paying attention. And even if you’re not, you may still catch it.
The ocean’s crests are caught in your eyes, crackling and crashing, yet exuding elegance and grace. I can’t help but to stare (hoping that you know the eyes are what I’m looking into).
And you ask, “What are you thinking about?”
My mind answers, “a beautiful connection.”
Hi
The world looks different from where I stand, as opposed to you. The image that my eyes hold is that of a natural beauty, the kind of breathless beauty that stronger men cat-call to, or whistle about; but, one that I admire. And with all my verbal training the words are digested. If I fain an attempt to speak, I tend to play jump rope with my tongue, stumbling through each slurred syllable. Again, all this over my mind’s perception of beauty. And it is perceived, then received, as fictitious memories. The thought that I don’t have to feel sadness during a stormy day; instead, the rain falls only to write your name upon my mind and on the ground, a sprinkling sweetness, juxtaposed with the common notion of gloominess. But, still I can’t be comfortable, your eyes can pierce through me…or so I think. Two wonderful orbs that hold every secret within on lockdown…and somehow through osmotic connection between our eyes, I hope for you to accept that all I’m trying to say to you is “Hi.”
Tranquility is a gift that must be invented.
The sweltering summer sun is no match for the sweet breeze and the even sweeter company. A picture framed by hotels, towering above the patrons on the sand below. Flowing with soft hills, like it’s an ocean of its own; but, the peaks burn the soles of my feet. Yet, you seem to glide right through, because the picture is accepting of you.
And I turn my head then to the sea, sprawling forward. Flipping foam as if mimicking the quickly fanned pages from a book, but instead of small, pocketed, gusts of air…it is a soothing mist…like a kiss. A thank you for paying attention. And even if you’re not, you may still catch it.
The ocean’s crests are caught in your eyes, crackling and crashing, yet exuding elegance and grace. I can’t help but to stare (hoping that you know the eyes are what I’m looking into).
And you ask, “What are you thinking about?”
My mind answers, “a beautiful connection.”
Hi
The world looks different from where I stand, as opposed to you. The image that my eyes hold is that of a natural beauty, the kind of breathless beauty that stronger men cat-call to, or whistle about; but, one that I admire. And with all my verbal training the words are digested. If I fain an attempt to speak, I tend to play jump rope with my tongue, stumbling through each slurred syllable. Again, all this over my mind’s perception of beauty. And it is perceived, then received, as fictitious memories. The thought that I don’t have to feel sadness during a stormy day; instead, the rain falls only to write your name upon my mind and on the ground, a sprinkling sweetness, juxtaposed with the common notion of gloominess. But, still I can’t be comfortable, your eyes can pierce through me…or so I think. Two wonderful orbs that hold every secret within on lockdown…and somehow through osmotic connection between our eyes, I hope for you to accept that all I’m trying to say to you is “Hi.”
Monday, May 30, 2011
My Gift (Poem)
A fresh wind drives
by, disheveling my hair as
I start to listen and to watch
the stories.
The sky rests on the ocean
making a spine that only falters
with the ripples of bottle noses
breaking through the perfect symmetry.
Gentle in's and out's only serve
to try to hypnotize…However
nature's giant metronome
is frequently disrupted.
Behind me a child crying
and being coddled by his mother,
her fingers cradling his head.
She tells him that he will be alright
and he begins to settle
upon hearing the good news.
The sun has created spots of light,
bouncing off the peaks of every
soft, wet, moving hill.
And as the diamond studded water begins to take me,
a frisbee slices through my line of sight
and crashes into the backside
of a woman's neck.
The gentleman's apologies
were taken with grace
and his phone number taken with a smile.
Soon it is dark...night's light is on
but the book never closes.
There is a natural, fresh calmness
woven into every tale.
It's a gift to notice.
by, disheveling my hair as
I start to listen and to watch
the stories.
The sky rests on the ocean
making a spine that only falters
with the ripples of bottle noses
breaking through the perfect symmetry.
Gentle in's and out's only serve
to try to hypnotize…However
nature's giant metronome
is frequently disrupted.
Behind me a child crying
and being coddled by his mother,
her fingers cradling his head.
She tells him that he will be alright
and he begins to settle
upon hearing the good news.
The sun has created spots of light,
bouncing off the peaks of every
soft, wet, moving hill.
And as the diamond studded water begins to take me,
a frisbee slices through my line of sight
and crashes into the backside
of a woman's neck.
The gentleman's apologies
were taken with grace
and his phone number taken with a smile.
Soon it is dark...night's light is on
but the book never closes.
There is a natural, fresh calmness
woven into every tale.
It's a gift to notice.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
3rd Floor Stairwell (poem)
The only place where I seem to have no words:
why did I come back?
It was forgotten, all the talking
you did while my words ran dry.
Now,
in a truly silent corridor I am
on my back.
Still.
The door to my left is locked,
I’m used to being shut out,
but I remember—my desk
next to yours.
Slowly my body would tilt
leaning leftwards and whispering
wise cracks then leaning away
again; but, only after you
laughed.
And now, still
on the floor…
My synapses are firing, searching
for relief as my hand hits the tile…
now sprawled totally,
my ring made an echo
and shattered the nothingness.
After a moment though, it too was lost
in the 3rd floor vortex, it was
but a single chime
in this forgotten chasm.
why did I come back?
It was forgotten, all the talking
you did while my words ran dry.
Now,
in a truly silent corridor I am
on my back.
Still.
The door to my left is locked,
I’m used to being shut out,
but I remember—my desk
next to yours.
Slowly my body would tilt
leaning leftwards and whispering
wise cracks then leaning away
again; but, only after you
laughed.
And now, still
on the floor…
My synapses are firing, searching
for relief as my hand hits the tile…
now sprawled totally,
my ring made an echo
and shattered the nothingness.
After a moment though, it too was lost
in the 3rd floor vortex, it was
but a single chime
in this forgotten chasm.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Hidden...(an Autobiographical poem)
***Not sure if this is done yet. This is a poem I wrote a while ago...that I have felt the sudden urge to resurrect ;)
Calluses adorn my fingers and sting
as beads of water seep into the fresh lacerations
from my show the night before.
Sometimes my hands look old,
like time is harder on them.
In the mirror a rough and seemingly permanent
five o’clock shadow manages to conceal
my age. I would shave; but,
morning lethargy always gets the best of me.
As my eyes track upwards
they meet themselves. Dark, soft…
and unwavering. When my mouth spills
half-truths and misguided nonsense,
those dark brown saints rat me out.
They are the guardians of my love.
Before I leave my home I shield myself,
Oakley, D&G, Ray Ban…all brands
that make my armor. Spotless, they show
people only themselves
and hide what I am feeling, even when
there may be nothing to hide.
Calluses adorn my fingers and sting
as beads of water seep into the fresh lacerations
from my show the night before.
Sometimes my hands look old,
like time is harder on them.
In the mirror a rough and seemingly permanent
five o’clock shadow manages to conceal
my age. I would shave; but,
morning lethargy always gets the best of me.
As my eyes track upwards
they meet themselves. Dark, soft…
and unwavering. When my mouth spills
half-truths and misguided nonsense,
those dark brown saints rat me out.
They are the guardians of my love.
Before I leave my home I shield myself,
Oakley, D&G, Ray Ban…all brands
that make my armor. Spotless, they show
people only themselves
and hide what I am feeling, even when
there may be nothing to hide.
The Two Walks of Love
Many who know me know my love for movies...but, in particular I have a love for Romantic Comedies...and I think these two scenes display well what I like to call the two walks of love.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXVf2hAWRQM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tJoIaXZ0rw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXVf2hAWRQM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tJoIaXZ0rw
WOOOO
I almost have 10 followers!!! (I will forget that one of them is me...and 2 of them are the same person).
I just want to send out thank you's to everyone that reads it. (I know that I have readers that aren't necessarily followers...So thank you guys too).
Graduate School starts in the Fall...So, this would-be writer/future professor feels great to have some support going into school.
Thank you all so much.
I just want to send out thank you's to everyone that reads it. (I know that I have readers that aren't necessarily followers...So thank you guys too).
Graduate School starts in the Fall...So, this would-be writer/future professor feels great to have some support going into school.
Thank you all so much.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Apparently I dabble in photos now...
It was recently my birthday and I was given my first camera ever. (a DSLR no less)...So now I can bore you all with pictures...HAHAHA. As always, let me know what you think. I really have no idea what I'm doing, photography-wise, but man am I happy doing it.
OK!!!! I need some titles for these photos.
1.) As the Music Fades (huh...huh...I know right)..maybe I should make it...As the Music Fades Verizon shall Prevail and Steal More of My Money!!!
2.) That's Not My Disco Ball
3.) Life can be a Fairy Tale
OK!!!! I need some titles for these photos.
1.) As the Music Fades (huh...huh...I know right)..maybe I should make it...As the Music Fades Verizon shall Prevail and Steal More of My Money!!!
2.) That's Not My Disco Ball
3.) Life can be a Fairy Tale
Monday, May 9, 2011
Conflicted (My thoughts on Bin Laden)
I’m sure some of you have wondered whether or not I would be commenting on this gigantic turn of events, and I will now ease the tensions by stirring some emotions. I have waited to comment because now I can stand back from the situation and tell everyone exactly how I feel while in my right mind.
When I learned of Osama’s death I was excited, along with most of the country I’m sure. I felt some contrived sense of brotherhood. Now that I am able to look back at myself, I’m a bit embarrassed by my original reaction. You see, I pride myself in my value of human life. I do not believe in things like the death penalty because I truly believe it is not our place to execute that type of judgment on another individual. However, I know that there are some situations that do not fit in a black and white world…I know very well that the President knew more than any of us ever will about the situation, and in the end it was his call to make. Upon looking at all the information we have been given though, and basing a decision solely on what we as a country have been told about this event…my decision would have been different.
I believe, based again on what America has been told, that Osama Bin Laden was murdered. I am not saying he did not deserve death, I’m also not saying he did…but these men who burst into his bedroom were trained SEALs and we were told that Bin Laden was unarmed (again…I’m basing my feelings on what we were told…because anything other than that is pure speculation). To have killed him like they did is cold-blooded murder, which I will always and forever be against. Of course, I am not stupid and I know there were risks involved as to whether we should kill him or put him on trial. But, this country stands for the right to a trial. There may have been rescue attempts or retaliation by Al Qaeda, but there could be retaliation attempts anyway. So why not make a decision based on our country's morality?
When we cheer for this accomplishment as a country, in the future I hope that we are cheering for further dismantling of terrorism and not for the death of someone this country had painted as evil. I’m not saying that he wasn’t, but I do not believe that he did any of the terrible things that he did because he thought they were wrong. We, as a country, need to understand where this evil image of us is spawned and we need to do our best to change that. Having people in America show their intolerance for Muslims is not the way…burning a Qur’an is not the way…We have to accept that we, just like everyone else have faults. That we display them every day…but that we will also try harder to be the moral country we claim to be.
I think we gained something and lost something in Osama’s death. Maybe…and it’s a big MAYBE, we gained a little piece of mind in the death of a man who let violence consume him. But, we have lost our innocence all over again because we let violence consume us. There was nothing moral about how we handled ourselves post 9/11…We as a country led a pointless war in Iraq…We as a country made fabricated connections to terrorism…AND we as a country have shown that we can make huge mistakes; but, what I hope makes America different is that we can one day own up to them and make good on our faults. And I will stop saying "we as a country" the day we put people in the Bush administration on trial for the atrocities they committed while in office.
I am pleased that Bin Laden is now only a memory…but I do not condone violence. And because of that I am a little heart-broken at the new smudge we have placed on our flag. However, no flag on Earth is without some blemish.
When I learned of Osama’s death I was excited, along with most of the country I’m sure. I felt some contrived sense of brotherhood. Now that I am able to look back at myself, I’m a bit embarrassed by my original reaction. You see, I pride myself in my value of human life. I do not believe in things like the death penalty because I truly believe it is not our place to execute that type of judgment on another individual. However, I know that there are some situations that do not fit in a black and white world…I know very well that the President knew more than any of us ever will about the situation, and in the end it was his call to make. Upon looking at all the information we have been given though, and basing a decision solely on what we as a country have been told about this event…my decision would have been different.
I believe, based again on what America has been told, that Osama Bin Laden was murdered. I am not saying he did not deserve death, I’m also not saying he did…but these men who burst into his bedroom were trained SEALs and we were told that Bin Laden was unarmed (again…I’m basing my feelings on what we were told…because anything other than that is pure speculation). To have killed him like they did is cold-blooded murder, which I will always and forever be against. Of course, I am not stupid and I know there were risks involved as to whether we should kill him or put him on trial. But, this country stands for the right to a trial. There may have been rescue attempts or retaliation by Al Qaeda, but there could be retaliation attempts anyway. So why not make a decision based on our country's morality?
When we cheer for this accomplishment as a country, in the future I hope that we are cheering for further dismantling of terrorism and not for the death of someone this country had painted as evil. I’m not saying that he wasn’t, but I do not believe that he did any of the terrible things that he did because he thought they were wrong. We, as a country, need to understand where this evil image of us is spawned and we need to do our best to change that. Having people in America show their intolerance for Muslims is not the way…burning a Qur’an is not the way…We have to accept that we, just like everyone else have faults. That we display them every day…but that we will also try harder to be the moral country we claim to be.
I think we gained something and lost something in Osama’s death. Maybe…and it’s a big MAYBE, we gained a little piece of mind in the death of a man who let violence consume him. But, we have lost our innocence all over again because we let violence consume us. There was nothing moral about how we handled ourselves post 9/11…We as a country led a pointless war in Iraq…We as a country made fabricated connections to terrorism…AND we as a country have shown that we can make huge mistakes; but, what I hope makes America different is that we can one day own up to them and make good on our faults. And I will stop saying "we as a country" the day we put people in the Bush administration on trial for the atrocities they committed while in office.
I am pleased that Bin Laden is now only a memory…but I do not condone violence. And because of that I am a little heart-broken at the new smudge we have placed on our flag. However, no flag on Earth is without some blemish.
Scum of the Earth
I spent the last week traveling around and I got to spend a good chunk of that time with my brother. While I was there I noticed how frequently he used the phrase "the scum of the earth" referring to bicyclists on the road. Now of course he said this because anybody that impedes his going super-sonic on any road is without a doubt missing from the deepest circle of hell. Maybe Satan should be holding Judas in one hand and Lance Armstrong in the other…instead of Brutus. (Just a joke of course…because whenever Lance races I'm sure those roads are shut down). But, this term and how it was used made me wonder. When someone is called 'scum', to me that means they are the lowest form of low…they are without any self-morality and are completely contemptible. And, using my brother's logic, they are anybody that impedes your progress. I will take it one step further and assert that they can be those who not only impede your physical progress, but mental growth as well.
I don't know why I felt the need to expand on this thought, but it clearly impacted me and caused me to think about the term and its place in the phrase.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Check out that cool hipster!
Life-altering revelations have come to me in these past few weeks. No, I haven't seen Jesus (nor have I 'found' him); however, I have come to realize truly everything important in my life. It seems these types of profound realizations only happen when life hands you a giant bowl of crap and tiny spoon to eat it with...(scuse the language, but I can still taste it). But maybe that is the cosmic reason for these things to happen to people.
I have to say, that despite inevitable shortcomings, I have achieved everything I have ever wanted for myself and I have had the best people in my life to help me get there. This post is truly dedicated to those who have helped me immensely in these past few weeks (and some of you were able to do it over the phone/digitally). Frankie, Teagan, Andrew, Nancy, Kevin, Janie, Marissa, Christine and Emily...thank you. You have all been there for me. You have all listened to me vent, whine, bitch and succumb to the worst feelings that life had to dish out to me...and you all did it without wanting to punch me in the face (well maybe you wanted to but were just too nice). You are all truly great friends and my heart is definitely big enough for every last one of you.
I got to spend this week at Virginia Tech with my brother and my friends Andrew and Nancy. You guys made me realize so many things this week and showed me a great time. Thank you all so much.
Frank and Teagan. The two of you are there for me every single time I ever need anything. Every person needs a best friend and brother...I feel I have two of each.
And today I've realized the last piece missing from the all-white, fucking hard jigsaw puzzle that is my life. I truly am becoming what I want to be...in fact I am already. Whether I had known it all along or not...I have the immortal words of Janie to live by... "You're a writer bitch!" And you know what, for the first time in my life, I feel like it.
I've been writing ever since middle school and I have always loved to sit down with nothing but a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. Since that time I've always drawn the conclusion that it was a mere hobby of mine...something to pass time that I enjoyed. But I believe in it now. A writer is something that I have been for years and it's something I plan to continue and to pass on.
My life is changing so quickly and so positively and I feel truly grateful to have you guys in my life. I love each one of you for helping to bring me to this point.
BTW, Expect this blog to change drastically over the course of the summer : )
~The Man in the Cave
I have to say, that despite inevitable shortcomings, I have achieved everything I have ever wanted for myself and I have had the best people in my life to help me get there. This post is truly dedicated to those who have helped me immensely in these past few weeks (and some of you were able to do it over the phone/digitally). Frankie, Teagan, Andrew, Nancy, Kevin, Janie, Marissa, Christine and Emily...thank you. You have all been there for me. You have all listened to me vent, whine, bitch and succumb to the worst feelings that life had to dish out to me...and you all did it without wanting to punch me in the face (well maybe you wanted to but were just too nice). You are all truly great friends and my heart is definitely big enough for every last one of you.
I got to spend this week at Virginia Tech with my brother and my friends Andrew and Nancy. You guys made me realize so many things this week and showed me a great time. Thank you all so much.
Frank and Teagan. The two of you are there for me every single time I ever need anything. Every person needs a best friend and brother...I feel I have two of each.
And today I've realized the last piece missing from the all-white, fucking hard jigsaw puzzle that is my life. I truly am becoming what I want to be...in fact I am already. Whether I had known it all along or not...I have the immortal words of Janie to live by... "You're a writer bitch!" And you know what, for the first time in my life, I feel like it.
I've been writing ever since middle school and I have always loved to sit down with nothing but a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. Since that time I've always drawn the conclusion that it was a mere hobby of mine...something to pass time that I enjoyed. But I believe in it now. A writer is something that I have been for years and it's something I plan to continue and to pass on.
My life is changing so quickly and so positively and I feel truly grateful to have you guys in my life. I love each one of you for helping to bring me to this point.
BTW, Expect this blog to change drastically over the course of the summer : )
~The Man in the Cave
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Feather (Poem)
Here is my everlasting goodness,
delicate, light as a feather
with warm sunset colors, gently
fluttering all the time;
through every terror-stricken situation
it slips past, not without effort.
Especially when caught off guard,
in the midst of a beautiful night
(the annual celebration of its birth).
Though goodness is ideal, trust
is sometimes its failure…a gust,
humid almost to the point of being edible,
but making it no more palpable,
deceives its friend, causing that fragile
feather to whip and carry on in
quick, unrelenting circles, until
a dazed version of its former self remains.
It lives still…with fewer barbs
radiating from the shaft.
***For my more childish friends (who, let's face it, think like me)...the 'shaft' is the part of a FEATHER that holds the barbs or the soft strands coming off it.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Tired Man (Poem)
After a hard day's work with few breaks in between
the tired man went home to rest in his chair and dream.
But, his dreams were awful and nightmarish and usually about work the next day...
"You're late...you're doing it wrong...you're an imbecile!"...his boss would say.
One day, however, the tired man did not go home, he decided to break routine.
The tired man was tired of crashing on a chair, eyes fixated on a screen.
He picked up his phone and dialed some old friends.
"You guys want to see a movie?"...the tired man said.
"Why don't we go out to club and pick up some girls instead?"
Exhausted and worn, the tired man put on new clothes: a button up silk shirt and some jeans that were torn.
But when he got to the club he felt too sluggish to impress, instead he started thinking and began to mourn.
So he drank almost an entire bottle of Jack to flush his thoughts away,
but somewhere in the middle his world changed into something beautiful: the lights, the music, the women..at least that's what his mind would say.
Back and forth every day from work to the club and back again--the new routine was created.
The tired man would be in the club long after his friends got their tabs and paid them.
The days all meshed together into one psychotic, crushing fantasy.
The tired man would drink and drink and commit to acts of misogyny.
But soon there came a day when the tired man became too tired to pass out in the cab.
While talking to a pretty young woman (or so his mind would have him think) he succumbed to the power of his drink, and fell over with nothing to grab.
His friends rushed to the hospital expecting to see their alcohol-poisoned amigo lying in a bed; but,
the doctor informed them that their friend had slipped, hit the counter, and died from a contusion to the head.
the tired man went home to rest in his chair and dream.
But, his dreams were awful and nightmarish and usually about work the next day...
"You're late...you're doing it wrong...you're an imbecile!"...his boss would say.
One day, however, the tired man did not go home, he decided to break routine.
The tired man was tired of crashing on a chair, eyes fixated on a screen.
He picked up his phone and dialed some old friends.
"You guys want to see a movie?"...the tired man said.
"Why don't we go out to club and pick up some girls instead?"
Exhausted and worn, the tired man put on new clothes: a button up silk shirt and some jeans that were torn.
But when he got to the club he felt too sluggish to impress, instead he started thinking and began to mourn.
So he drank almost an entire bottle of Jack to flush his thoughts away,
but somewhere in the middle his world changed into something beautiful: the lights, the music, the women..at least that's what his mind would say.
Back and forth every day from work to the club and back again--the new routine was created.
The tired man would be in the club long after his friends got their tabs and paid them.
The days all meshed together into one psychotic, crushing fantasy.
The tired man would drink and drink and commit to acts of misogyny.
But soon there came a day when the tired man became too tired to pass out in the cab.
While talking to a pretty young woman (or so his mind would have him think) he succumbed to the power of his drink, and fell over with nothing to grab.
His friends rushed to the hospital expecting to see their alcohol-poisoned amigo lying in a bed; but,
the doctor informed them that their friend had slipped, hit the counter, and died from a contusion to the head.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
The Right Time (poem)
A single tear cascades down
the side of my cheek, rolls off,
and hits the floor. Quickly
evaporating;but, my cheek
remains wet and remembers:
Cold, lacy fingers never held,
an awkward hug with my back pressed
against a door that I never wanted
open, and you, caressed by my sweatshirt,
eyes fixed warmly on me, never veering.
***first poem written on my iPad :)
the side of my cheek, rolls off,
and hits the floor. Quickly
evaporating;but, my cheek
remains wet and remembers:
Cold, lacy fingers never held,
an awkward hug with my back pressed
against a door that I never wanted
open, and you, caressed by my sweatshirt,
eyes fixed warmly on me, never veering.
***first poem written on my iPad :)
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Roll Away (Poem)
It's not everyday you see the dark clouds roll away:
large, bulbous, wet and grey...
going on to ruin someone else's day.
The soft simmer of the Sun's shine against my skin
is warmly received and brings out a large grin,
because my patience with the clouds
was wearing thin.
Goodbye to the gloomy masses that tore me a sunder
with your violent light flashes and your thunder.
You won't even draw from me a small shudder.
And what am I to do now with the new me,
without the overhead cloudy sea?
Just let me stop a moment to think...
It's not everyday you see the dark clouds roll away:
large, bulbous, wet and grey...
I will be waiting with an umbrella next time
you try and stop over this way.
large, bulbous, wet and grey...
going on to ruin someone else's day.
The soft simmer of the Sun's shine against my skin
is warmly received and brings out a large grin,
because my patience with the clouds
was wearing thin.
Goodbye to the gloomy masses that tore me a sunder
with your violent light flashes and your thunder.
You won't even draw from me a small shudder.
And what am I to do now with the new me,
without the overhead cloudy sea?
Just let me stop a moment to think...
It's not everyday you see the dark clouds roll away:
large, bulbous, wet and grey...
I will be waiting with an umbrella next time
you try and stop over this way.
Monday, March 28, 2011
If Only I Were Sleeping (Poem)
If only I were sleeping, I would've missed it...
My back slightly sunken in, caressed by a mattress
my head motionless inside a folded pillow and
my mind padded by sweet dreams that only show
themselves to the outside world through twitching
eyelashes.
If only I were sleeping, I would've missed it...
an evening wrapped in the frightened inevitability
of facing truthes and losing face through honesty,
clogging my lungs and twisting the handle on a vice
around my ribs.
If only I were sleeping, I would know what to do...
I would lift you up with one arm, drape you
over my shoulder and run with you. Passed
every three or four-eyed monster to come our way,
never breaking a sweat, never losing confidence,
and never wondering where my priorities went.
If only I were sleeping.
My back slightly sunken in, caressed by a mattress
my head motionless inside a folded pillow and
my mind padded by sweet dreams that only show
themselves to the outside world through twitching
eyelashes.
If only I were sleeping, I would've missed it...
an evening wrapped in the frightened inevitability
of facing truthes and losing face through honesty,
clogging my lungs and twisting the handle on a vice
around my ribs.
If only I were sleeping, I would know what to do...
I would lift you up with one arm, drape you
over my shoulder and run with you. Passed
every three or four-eyed monster to come our way,
never breaking a sweat, never losing confidence,
and never wondering where my priorities went.
If only I were sleeping.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Our Fears (poem)
***I have to preface this a bit before you can read it. First off, one of my favorite poets (Herbert) has a poem entitled "Our Fears," so I thought I would give it a shot. I don't think I come close to him, but I'll get there one day. Secondly this stemmed from experiences that I've recently been through. I've had to really put my life up to a magnifying glass. I haven't been myself in ages. I have been a sad little person who has doubted my own abilities to accomplish my own goals. I have suffered from the fear of settling and the fear of being untalented and worthless. I know this is some heavy shit, but it's all true. No more... No more am I going to doubt myself and my ability to be whomever and whatever I want to be. I know what I want to get out of life and it's time I brought that confidence forward.
ANYWAY...poem time...and please, as always...let me know what you think...(if anything is unclear, if it can be made better)...I want to know.
Our fears leave us as trembling piles, suffocating,
with each attempted breadth grinding us down
more and more, until we feel twisted and wrung out.
And we fear this self-annihilation
leaving us empty of every joyous emotion.
We fear an attack both physical and emotional,
a war, whether it's exaggerated or legitimate:
personal or involving masses.
Our fears have us question fairness only because
we cower to the thought of loneliness. Yet,
fear and loneliness walk together lovingly
destroying all the grinded down, twisted people
before it.
But we are not the damned, downtrodden and
helpless bastards unless we choose to take
a setback and turn it into defeat. Some of us slide
so low that we become mud, depressing, grey-brown,
dingy, infested and infected; leaving us impure and clouded
to all reality. Others rise so high that every beautiful star
in the sky turns into a shuriken ready to rip your fucking head
off.
Our fears keep us from the middle. They keep us from stability.
ANYWAY...poem time...and please, as always...let me know what you think...(if anything is unclear, if it can be made better)...I want to know.
Our fears leave us as trembling piles, suffocating,
with each attempted breadth grinding us down
more and more, until we feel twisted and wrung out.
And we fear this self-annihilation
leaving us empty of every joyous emotion.
We fear an attack both physical and emotional,
a war, whether it's exaggerated or legitimate:
personal or involving masses.
Our fears have us question fairness only because
we cower to the thought of loneliness. Yet,
fear and loneliness walk together lovingly
destroying all the grinded down, twisted people
before it.
But we are not the damned, downtrodden and
helpless bastards unless we choose to take
a setback and turn it into defeat. Some of us slide
so low that we become mud, depressing, grey-brown,
dingy, infested and infected; leaving us impure and clouded
to all reality. Others rise so high that every beautiful star
in the sky turns into a shuriken ready to rip your fucking head
off.
Our fears keep us from the middle. They keep us from stability.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Creative Writing Programs
I was going to wait to tell everybody this, but it seems to be getting out anyway...I have gotten accepted to my first school for Creative Writing: Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, New York. It's a top 50 school for creative writing MFA degrees. I am one of the 12-20 poets who gained an invitation for acceptance. It was also one of my top choices for a program.
Some of you know how much distress I was in because I had gotten a few rejections first...BUT, that is all over now. I am quite excited about this. I'm not positive that I will attend...I'm still waiting on a few more letters; however, there aren't many schools I would've picked over this.
So, thank you all for reading my writings...and I will hopefully be posting more frequently again, due to the fact that I am no longer walking around in a depressed and anxious haze.
~The Man in the Cave
Today (Poem)
Today she has no place, a woman with no face
who will just be here for a little while;
a grain of sand floating among thousands more
in a light gust of wind, propelling against my leg
and causing an irritation.
A festering spawned by the miniature jagged edges
of the tiny rocks bouncing off my skin, but nothing more.
And after the wind dies she will start all over again,
fitting in place with all others just like her.
Although she will deny it.
who will just be here for a little while;
a grain of sand floating among thousands more
in a light gust of wind, propelling against my leg
and causing an irritation.
A festering spawned by the miniature jagged edges
of the tiny rocks bouncing off my skin, but nothing more.
And after the wind dies she will start all over again,
fitting in place with all others just like her.
Although she will deny it.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Dust (poem)
I am subhuman.
Brittle, cracking and
somehow still irking by
with no trail left behind.
The prickly feeling of hair
standing on edge eludes
me. Not even able to cringe.
I am like a moth kicking up dust
and drying myself out.
With every pointless flap
the same...this unbreakable habit.
Motion wasted.
*I'm, sorry for all the melancholy attitude. I promise that my next poem will be an uplifting one.
Brittle, cracking and
somehow still irking by
with no trail left behind.
The prickly feeling of hair
standing on edge eludes
me. Not even able to cringe.
I am like a moth kicking up dust
and drying myself out.
With every pointless flap
the same...this unbreakable habit.
Motion wasted.
*I'm, sorry for all the melancholy attitude. I promise that my next poem will be an uplifting one.
Toxic Environments
I really think that in America we have a problem of creating enemies where there should be none. What I mean is that on every issue or small nuance there seems to be a strong dichotomy. Now in the realm of civil argumentation, dichotomy may not be a terrible thing; but, when that difference turns the two sides into enemies, rather than concerned opponents, there is a serious problem. These opposing sides are not willing to compromise for the good of the people of which they are supposed to be representing...and I'm sorry if it offends anybody, but republicans are more unwilling than democrats. That's just how it is.
The sad fact is that this way of thinking has the potential to be both, mentally and physically (sometimes violently) destructive. And it doesn't even pertain just to politics. People are bringing their beliefs to an extreme personal level and seem to be rejecting ways that others believe.
Now in this country we should be free to believe and think the way we want, however, we should be willing to pool our thoughts together and come up with a way to compromise...OR...I got my way on this..and you know what, in the future you will get your way on something and perhaps not harp on the fact that I got my way to begin with. For example: Republicans wasting American time and money trying to halt health care reform by trying to freeze funds. It's over...stop harping on it...it needed to change...do your job now please. My girlfriend so astutely said that the bill has been passed and the next place it should go is the courts...If it is unconstitutional then the courts can stop it. So congress back the fuck off. (That last obscene part was my own words).
This country has become toxic in the way that it thinks...and things have to change. I really believe that its going to take for someone to do something drastically violent for this to happen...but I hope in my heart that it does not.
So I leave everyone with a few things to think about. First and foremost, try and be civil to each other. TRY and see the other person's side of things. Second, if you have a political opinion that is supported in any way by your religion than you are wrong...I am sorry but that is not how the government works...religion is personal and should, in no way, have any role in our government (wouldn't it be nice if that were actually true). Also, and I'm sorry but this is not even a point of argument with me and I know it is very random...Gay people should be allowed to marry and live their lives just as easily as everybody else. This is a repeat of African American history if you ask me and it makes our country seem very foolish, quite cruel and most of all prejudice YET AGAIN in our own history.
I am sorry that again I've chosen to be very political but this has been building up ever since the shooting and many of these things have to stop.
I will leave you all with a couple clips of my favorite person...Please watch them and really listen. This man deserves some sort of medal for the peace and the intelligence that he is trying to spread. Don't listen to the Glenn Becks and the Sarah Palins...listen to Jon Stewart because he is trying to dismantle the mess this country is in.
http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-january-18-2011/petty-woman
http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-january-10-2011/arizona-shootings-reaction
The sad fact is that this way of thinking has the potential to be both, mentally and physically (sometimes violently) destructive. And it doesn't even pertain just to politics. People are bringing their beliefs to an extreme personal level and seem to be rejecting ways that others believe.
Now in this country we should be free to believe and think the way we want, however, we should be willing to pool our thoughts together and come up with a way to compromise...OR...I got my way on this..and you know what, in the future you will get your way on something and perhaps not harp on the fact that I got my way to begin with. For example: Republicans wasting American time and money trying to halt health care reform by trying to freeze funds. It's over...stop harping on it...it needed to change...do your job now please. My girlfriend so astutely said that the bill has been passed and the next place it should go is the courts...If it is unconstitutional then the courts can stop it. So congress back the fuck off. (That last obscene part was my own words).
This country has become toxic in the way that it thinks...and things have to change. I really believe that its going to take for someone to do something drastically violent for this to happen...but I hope in my heart that it does not.
So I leave everyone with a few things to think about. First and foremost, try and be civil to each other. TRY and see the other person's side of things. Second, if you have a political opinion that is supported in any way by your religion than you are wrong...I am sorry but that is not how the government works...religion is personal and should, in no way, have any role in our government (wouldn't it be nice if that were actually true). Also, and I'm sorry but this is not even a point of argument with me and I know it is very random...Gay people should be allowed to marry and live their lives just as easily as everybody else. This is a repeat of African American history if you ask me and it makes our country seem very foolish, quite cruel and most of all prejudice YET AGAIN in our own history.
I am sorry that again I've chosen to be very political but this has been building up ever since the shooting and many of these things have to stop.
I will leave you all with a couple clips of my favorite person...Please watch them and really listen. This man deserves some sort of medal for the peace and the intelligence that he is trying to spread. Don't listen to the Glenn Becks and the Sarah Palins...listen to Jon Stewart because he is trying to dismantle the mess this country is in.
http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-january-18-2011/petty-woman
http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-january-10-2011/arizona-shootings-reaction
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