It was strange.
For a second he could swear he smelled the Sound, like he was at a marina.
"That's strange," he thought.
And it felt like he was breathing cold air into his lungs. Cold, salty air.
But he couldn't hear the ocean. Or see it, really. Just gray.
"Wait a minute," he thought. "We're not near the ocean anyway, are we?"
When did he last see the ocean? "Was it when I landed? In Olympia?"
He wanted to look around. He tried to lift his head but couldn't.
He tried to smell the sea again. All he got this time was wet concrete.
Wet concrete and glue. "That's strange," he thought. "Maybe it's the drugs."
Come to think of it, where was he? "Where am I?"
This was troubling. He should be panicking. But he wasn't.
In fact, he felt rather detached. "Maybe it's the drugs," he thought.
He tried to move his hands but couldn't.
He tried to move his legs but couldn't.
"Where am I?" he thought. "And who is the man who is keeping me here?"
Monday, December 13, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
I have a very specific paranoia.
He was splintered and winnowed and taken apart
to get down to the quick of his core.
Still he looks for the failures and flaws in the heart
of the one left for dead on the floor.
He is missing a light to shine through the cracks.
His sight has been warped and he's blind to the black.
There's no rest, no solace, no closeness here.
He would boil his blood to be rid of the fear.
Too fragile, and yet too staid.
Too rattled, and yet too brave.
to get down to the quick of his core.
Still he looks for the failures and flaws in the heart
of the one left for dead on the floor.
He is missing a light to shine through the cracks.
His sight has been warped and he's blind to the black.
There's no rest, no solace, no closeness here.
He would boil his blood to be rid of the fear.
Too fragile, and yet too staid.
Too rattled, and yet too brave.
Friday, December 3, 2010
I don't feel safe.
tried to find myself some light but all i got was a new moon.
tried to get back on my feet but kept returning to the wound.
tried to find myself some happiness but couldn't find enough.
tried to get rid of the sickness but it's tough, man. it's tough.
tried to get back on my feet but kept returning to the wound.
tried to find myself some happiness but couldn't find enough.
tried to get rid of the sickness but it's tough, man. it's tough.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
One thing I have learned is
you cannot leave your sadness in a corner.
If you put it in the corner and tie it down
and fill its mouth up with blood and bile, and
feed it drugs to shut it up, it will not go away.
It will sit there and stare up at you through its dark
crusted hair. (It lacks the strength to lift
its head.) You will feel its gaze on you.
But when you look over at it, it will
wrench its big desperate eyes to the floor.
You will catch it just as it looks away.
When you approach it with the syringe,
then it will stare at you. Its mouth will open
in recognition. And shock, maybe. It will
keep staring at you as you sink the plunger
to the base of the barrel. And it will tremble.
It always trembles. It will drive you crazy.
You will want to just outright kill it. But
you would never forget that. That is something
you would not be able to forget.
If you put it in the corner and tie it down
and fill its mouth up with blood and bile, and
feed it drugs to shut it up, it will not go away.
It will sit there and stare up at you through its dark
crusted hair. (It lacks the strength to lift
its head.) You will feel its gaze on you.
But when you look over at it, it will
wrench its big desperate eyes to the floor.
You will catch it just as it looks away.
When you approach it with the syringe,
then it will stare at you. Its mouth will open
in recognition. And shock, maybe. It will
keep staring at you as you sink the plunger
to the base of the barrel. And it will tremble.
It always trembles. It will drive you crazy.
You will want to just outright kill it. But
you would never forget that. That is something
you would not be able to forget.
Friday, October 29, 2010
teeth
i gotta tell you, you better watch out for this kid.
he don't grin with his eyes, he grins with his teeth,
cause he's a real sonofabitch, when he laughs
you might think he's laughing with you,
big guffaws straight from his chest, but
he's never laughing with you. when you weep,
even when you smile when you weep,
it piques his curiosity. he stares at you like
a black cat and he flicks his tail and
his slit eyes blink, blink. he never goes over.
he stands nearby. he never offers you comfort.
he licks his lips and runs his tongue over
the edges of his teeth. he looks non-threatening
because his eyes can get real big, but
when he gets vulnerable it's bad.
he eats people. he takes their skin to hide behind.
he don't grin with his eyes, he grins with his teeth,
cause he's a real sonofabitch, when he laughs
you might think he's laughing with you,
big guffaws straight from his chest, but
he's never laughing with you. when you weep,
even when you smile when you weep,
it piques his curiosity. he stares at you like
a black cat and he flicks his tail and
his slit eyes blink, blink. he never goes over.
he stands nearby. he never offers you comfort.
he licks his lips and runs his tongue over
the edges of his teeth. he looks non-threatening
because his eyes can get real big, but
when he gets vulnerable it's bad.
he eats people. he takes their skin to hide behind.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
I Am In Here
Two instruments: piano and saxophone.
"Truth is, I could use some help."
The saxophone never sounds like a saxophone,
more like a violin. Sawing, moving in runs.
"The worst part was how I kept losing time."
The young professor flicks his hand to the high
end of the keys, a quick, sharp needle-prick.
In one repetition he errs. No one notices.
"The bathtub had an inch of standing
water in it, rusty-looking, moving around my feet."
Now the saxophone starts emitting feedback tones.
"I went through a lot of shit when I was young,
and it's given me a really positive outlook on life."
The young professor's hands move as if stuck
outside a car window, running over a current of air.
"No, it's great. I just never knew what I was missing out on."
There's metal on the piano strings.
"The whole other-people thing."
Cymbals. Cymbals.
"I would wake up in these strange places. In a chair.
Slumped against the wall. In the shower, with the water running. "
The saxophone twangs. Abruptly, things come to a stop.
"I could have done it if I'd just been able to concentrate."
The bend in the saxophone sounds like whale song.
"You never realize how much safety means until you
stop being able to take it for granted."
The piano draws deep and tolls, like out-of-tune church bells
on a bleak Christmas morning, slandered by fog.
"Truth is, I could use some help."
The saxophone never sounds like a saxophone,
more like a violin. Sawing, moving in runs.
"The worst part was how I kept losing time."
The young professor flicks his hand to the high
end of the keys, a quick, sharp needle-prick.
In one repetition he errs. No one notices.
"The bathtub had an inch of standing
water in it, rusty-looking, moving around my feet."
Now the saxophone starts emitting feedback tones.
"I went through a lot of shit when I was young,
and it's given me a really positive outlook on life."
The young professor's hands move as if stuck
outside a car window, running over a current of air.
"No, it's great. I just never knew what I was missing out on."
There's metal on the piano strings.
"The whole other-people thing."
Cymbals. Cymbals.
"I would wake up in these strange places. In a chair.
Slumped against the wall. In the shower, with the water running. "
The saxophone twangs. Abruptly, things come to a stop.
"I could have done it if I'd just been able to concentrate."
The bend in the saxophone sounds like whale song.
"You never realize how much safety means until you
stop being able to take it for granted."
The piano draws deep and tolls, like out-of-tune church bells
on a bleak Christmas morning, slandered by fog.
Monday, October 11, 2010
young restless
eventually i (switzerland) escaped
from the put-upon tyranny, the single
handedness (me and my sunflower) that
my grounded harping-raft survived,
bravely and with negligible injury.
i wandered instead outside, crossing
the borders of china, africa (stepping
over the kangaroos) and i tugged on my
hat, in the 60 degree weather, pulling
sun from the templed sky. i strolled.
languidly, down the hill, trailed by
a squab, or a squabber, depending on
the alcoholic's mood. the pipsqueak
ran ahead. she rushed like something
unstable. a 40-pound landslide. me,
i sat under the single lightbulb and
took his questions, tugging faintly
at my cuffs. later, on the hammock,
they finally converged, like two waves,
shrieking and giggling in synchrony.
i pushed them, languidly, down and up.
i pulled on my hat and my band t-shirt.
what would i look like now, i wonder?
from the put-upon tyranny, the single
handedness (me and my sunflower) that
my grounded harping-raft survived,
bravely and with negligible injury.
i wandered instead outside, crossing
the borders of china, africa (stepping
over the kangaroos) and i tugged on my
hat, in the 60 degree weather, pulling
sun from the templed sky. i strolled.
languidly, down the hill, trailed by
a squab, or a squabber, depending on
the alcoholic's mood. the pipsqueak
ran ahead. she rushed like something
unstable. a 40-pound landslide. me,
i sat under the single lightbulb and
took his questions, tugging faintly
at my cuffs. later, on the hammock,
they finally converged, like two waves,
shrieking and giggling in synchrony.
i pushed them, languidly, down and up.
i pulled on my hat and my band t-shirt.
what would i look like now, i wonder?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Tyler Clementi
Today I walked with a hundred other people down to
the war memorial. When I gave the microphone back
to Pamela, my heart was beating really fast. I have
to remember to be thankful for that.
the war memorial. When I gave the microphone back
to Pamela, my heart was beating really fast. I have
to remember to be thankful for that.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
I tried to think of a title for this and couldn't
The brown-haired boy flipped the pages of his book, a book he usually enjoyed but one that couldn't amuse him at a quarter past one in the morning. Hearing a pause in the background noise of words and intermittent laughter, he rose from his chair and walked over to his friend, who was much taller and blond. "Can I have my computer back now?" the boy asked, holding out his hand.
"What?" the taller one said, his forehead wrinkling. "No, I'm not done reading quotes yet."
The boy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but I want my computer back. Just use yours."
"What? I'm not going all the way up to my room," the taller boy said, as if the idea were preposterous.
"It's one floor up. Can I have my computer back now?" The brown-haired boy took hold of his computer, but his friend would not relinquish it, tugging back forcefully.
"I told you, I'm not done reading quotes. If you want a computer, you can go get mine." He held up his room key.
The boy released his computer and stepped back, an expression of surprise on his face. It wasn't at all calculated, not like the manipulative guilt trips he occasionally imagined himself orchestrating in other situations. He was, quite honestly, stunned.
"Seriously?" he muttered, retreating back to his corner of the room. Behind him, he could hear his other friends also questioning the blond, but still he would not relinquish the computer.
The boy decided to plug in to his iPod, hoping the music would help. And it did, a little. It dulled the words that the blond was reading off in the background, the words that he'd heard before and that meant nothing to him. He also played Solitaire on the iPod, sometimes placing his hand on his throat in an attempt to suppress his coughs. However, when he had played so much Solitaire that he actually won a game, he knew that this had been going on for too long.
Eventually, the blond told the boy he could have his computer back. The boy was usually civil, even amiable regarding such disagreements, but his friend's conduct had surprised him so much that he couldn't let go of it.
So the two of them fought, for a minute or two, and with no raised voices. The friend's argument was so alien to the boy, so robotic, nonsensical in his world, that he was forced to leave without making progress, so unfathomable were his friend's actions (and rationale). Walking out of the room and into the hall, he received hugs from two of his other friends, then turned and went downstairs. On his way, he couldn't help but wonder, 'Is my friend really that self-important? Or is this just another part of accepting that I'm never going to find someone else like me?' The boy pulled his hood up as he stepped outside, but by that point the rain had finally stopped falling.
"What?" the taller one said, his forehead wrinkling. "No, I'm not done reading quotes yet."
The boy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but I want my computer back. Just use yours."
"What? I'm not going all the way up to my room," the taller boy said, as if the idea were preposterous.
"It's one floor up. Can I have my computer back now?" The brown-haired boy took hold of his computer, but his friend would not relinquish it, tugging back forcefully.
"I told you, I'm not done reading quotes. If you want a computer, you can go get mine." He held up his room key.
The boy released his computer and stepped back, an expression of surprise on his face. It wasn't at all calculated, not like the manipulative guilt trips he occasionally imagined himself orchestrating in other situations. He was, quite honestly, stunned.
"Seriously?" he muttered, retreating back to his corner of the room. Behind him, he could hear his other friends also questioning the blond, but still he would not relinquish the computer.
The boy decided to plug in to his iPod, hoping the music would help. And it did, a little. It dulled the words that the blond was reading off in the background, the words that he'd heard before and that meant nothing to him. He also played Solitaire on the iPod, sometimes placing his hand on his throat in an attempt to suppress his coughs. However, when he had played so much Solitaire that he actually won a game, he knew that this had been going on for too long.
Eventually, the blond told the boy he could have his computer back. The boy was usually civil, even amiable regarding such disagreements, but his friend's conduct had surprised him so much that he couldn't let go of it.
So the two of them fought, for a minute or two, and with no raised voices. The friend's argument was so alien to the boy, so robotic, nonsensical in his world, that he was forced to leave without making progress, so unfathomable were his friend's actions (and rationale). Walking out of the room and into the hall, he received hugs from two of his other friends, then turned and went downstairs. On his way, he couldn't help but wonder, 'Is my friend really that self-important? Or is this just another part of accepting that I'm never going to find someone else like me?' The boy pulled his hood up as he stepped outside, but by that point the rain had finally stopped falling.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
anniversary II
things i have learned recently:
loneliness, contrary to appearances,
does not solve problems. things are not
always as serious as i fear.
reconciliation is not so hard.
my self-made problems are
just as easily unmade.
so i proclaim today the first anniversary
of September 29th, a Good Day
and nothing's gonna stop me so don't even try.
(although if you want to join me,
i welcome it.)
loneliness, contrary to appearances,
does not solve problems. things are not
always as serious as i fear.
reconciliation is not so hard.
my self-made problems are
just as easily unmade.
so i proclaim today the first anniversary
of September 29th, a Good Day
and nothing's gonna stop me so don't even try.
(although if you want to join me,
i welcome it.)
Thursday, September 23, 2010
In the other part of the dream, I was taking Japanese and Chinese at the same time, so that sucked too
Last night I had a dream that some guy fucked one of my friends over, so my friend told me to cave his head in with a baseball bat. I was fine with it, but I did it digitally or remotely or something. So yeah, what the fuck does that mean?
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
earthgod
all i get these days is blood,
blood in a bird's beak, blood
trailing from a coat-tail
on the ground, blood
mirroring on the floor
and flowering in the whites
of my eyes, blood pouring
down from burst pipes, bursting
upward as it fills my mouth and
i spit it into the air, blood
racing outwards at a whim,
gathering at pores and then
lurching forward as if drawn
by a magnet, blood reflected
in the reverential shine of a
freckled face. all i get these days
when i try to clear my head is
birds and bursting vessels and
blood, and blood, and blood.
blood in a bird's beak, blood
trailing from a coat-tail
on the ground, blood
mirroring on the floor
and flowering in the whites
of my eyes, blood pouring
down from burst pipes, bursting
upward as it fills my mouth and
i spit it into the air, blood
racing outwards at a whim,
gathering at pores and then
lurching forward as if drawn
by a magnet, blood reflected
in the reverential shine of a
freckled face. all i get these days
when i try to clear my head is
birds and bursting vessels and
blood, and blood, and blood.
the Devil in Ambergris
Sweat shines on his face as
he promises himself he won't lose it.
I watch his raised-eyebrow cynicism,
his optimistic mistrust. His hair shorn.
"Well, when you spend a few months in Afghanistan."
Is this what I'm missing out on?
He's been trained enough so he depends on
his body but when the lights go out, his body is gone.
Never lost. What bullshit. It's unavoidable,
and so apparent here, the bellum omnium contra omnes that
everyone sees but never expects.
I watch his optimism start to slip.
He's seen this before, but didn't recognize it
until the mirrors took their first victim.
This place is supposed to be safe.
Bellum omnium contra omnes.
Sweat shines on his face as
he's losing it.
he promises himself he won't lose it.
I watch his raised-eyebrow cynicism,
his optimistic mistrust. His hair shorn.
"Well, when you spend a few months in Afghanistan."
Is this what I'm missing out on?
He's been trained enough so he depends on
his body but when the lights go out, his body is gone.
Never lost. What bullshit. It's unavoidable,
and so apparent here, the bellum omnium contra omnes that
everyone sees but never expects.
I watch his optimism start to slip.
He's seen this before, but didn't recognize it
until the mirrors took their first victim.
This place is supposed to be safe.
Bellum omnium contra omnes.
Sweat shines on his face as
he's losing it.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bL_NcoCJgzo
everything is black and white.
it's getting late and there's not enough light.
in the back stands a girl with a violin.
sometimes i feel the sand in my skin.
"the ugliest scene, the worst mistakes."
everything is in shades of gray.
i watch the girl and her curly hair.
"i tear, oh god, and i tear, i tear."
i swear i smelled petals on my way up the hill.
their fleshy whiteness. is it summer, still?
when i sing all i get is an echoing call.
i'm hollowed and sluiced. it's time for fall.
i need howling to cover my dead-throat rasp.
i need something that i can finally grasp.
that won't dissolve into a colorless blur.
"there's no innocence like hers, just emptiness and nerves."
"such a beautiful child. such an awful waste."
i'm washed and done. she's wasting away.
it's getting late and there's not enough light.
in the back stands a girl with a violin.
sometimes i feel the sand in my skin.
"the ugliest scene, the worst mistakes."
everything is in shades of gray.
i watch the girl and her curly hair.
"i tear, oh god, and i tear, i tear."
i swear i smelled petals on my way up the hill.
their fleshy whiteness. is it summer, still?
when i sing all i get is an echoing call.
i'm hollowed and sluiced. it's time for fall.
i need howling to cover my dead-throat rasp.
i need something that i can finally grasp.
that won't dissolve into a colorless blur.
"there's no innocence like hers, just emptiness and nerves."
"such a beautiful child. such an awful waste."
i'm washed and done. she's wasting away.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
12 a.m., playing "just dance" for wii in the rainbow room
my left leg is heavy and awkward, wrapped as it is
in plastic, velcro, and fleece. this song isn't so hard.
frantic, though. i watch james's clumsy energy and i
cheer him on. harold is a little further from the tv.
i watch his big shoulders and his hips moving in circles.
regret comes in little black grains but i filter those out
and discard them like spent coffee grounds. easy as that.
in a couple weeks my foot will be healed and i'll be able
to make a fool of myself too. harold won't be around to
kick our asses anymore by then. it's okay. even sitting here
i feel this summer haze of happiness filling up my spirit
like a hot air balloon. blue and yellow and white.
in plastic, velcro, and fleece. this song isn't so hard.
frantic, though. i watch james's clumsy energy and i
cheer him on. harold is a little further from the tv.
i watch his big shoulders and his hips moving in circles.
regret comes in little black grains but i filter those out
and discard them like spent coffee grounds. easy as that.
in a couple weeks my foot will be healed and i'll be able
to make a fool of myself too. harold won't be around to
kick our asses anymore by then. it's okay. even sitting here
i feel this summer haze of happiness filling up my spirit
like a hot air balloon. blue and yellow and white.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
"always gonna keep in touch! never wanna use a crutch!" (or: This Is Why I'm Straight Edge)
Listen, man. I know you like to go out and get trashed. So does everyone else, seems like. So you're not the only one. But man, I gotta tell you how I really feel. When you come around and you're totally wasted, it just feels like you're trivializing whatever we got here. I mean us, like people, like just being people isn't cool enough. Like you want to fuck around with your brain because your brain's not enough to have a good time.
So let's be honest, man — drugs are bullshit. It's just so fucking selfish, you know? Like, hey, being around you is getting kinda boring, I'd rather not be me when we're hangin out. And hey, if you wanna get high every so often because that's fun too, then yeah, I can deal with that. I don't wanna do that shit. I like being a real person. You wanna get high now and then, I can deal with that, I'm just not gonna join you.
But when did it become the default? When did growing up turn into every weekend, going out and getting shitfaced? Aren't we smart enough to find new shit to do, and not have to use a crutch to have a good time at a party? Apparently fucking not.
Whatever, man. Keep fucking around with your brain whenever you get tired of being a person who has to live in the real world. I'm not gonna do that shit. I'm smart enough and strong enough to have a good fucking time on my own.
(note: you'll notice that I'm not actually militant/an asshole about this in real life. But this is why I hate the drug culture, and why I'm straight edge, and also why I would be very angry if you got me drugs as my birthday present.)
So let's be honest, man — drugs are bullshit. It's just so fucking selfish, you know? Like, hey, being around you is getting kinda boring, I'd rather not be me when we're hangin out. And hey, if you wanna get high every so often because that's fun too, then yeah, I can deal with that. I don't wanna do that shit. I like being a real person. You wanna get high now and then, I can deal with that, I'm just not gonna join you.
But when did it become the default? When did growing up turn into every weekend, going out and getting shitfaced? Aren't we smart enough to find new shit to do, and not have to use a crutch to have a good time at a party? Apparently fucking not.
Whatever, man. Keep fucking around with your brain whenever you get tired of being a person who has to live in the real world. I'm not gonna do that shit. I'm smart enough and strong enough to have a good fucking time on my own.
(note: you'll notice that I'm not actually militant/an asshole about this in real life. But this is why I hate the drug culture, and why I'm straight edge, and also why I would be very angry if you got me drugs as my birthday present.)
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
call me old-fashioned, but... (or: "at least pretend you didn't want to get caught.")
you think you have tricks but you're already old news.
i don't know about you, but i don't call this beauty.
you twist with your secret held close to your chest,
but when you display it you start to lose me.
so stop showing off your most prized possession
because i know just what you're worth.
your body is covered in diamonds,
but my hands are covered in earth.
i don't know about you, but i don't call this beauty.
you twist with your secret held close to your chest,
but when you display it you start to lose me.
so stop showing off your most prized possession
because i know just what you're worth.
your body is covered in diamonds,
but my hands are covered in earth.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
racking spikes with zach (snippets of my day)
When I get there at 7 a.m. he and Ricky are racking spikes. He collects one-handed and takes a drag on his cigarette with the other. He's not using gloves, but I put on a pair and then I take the spot across from him. I look again at his scar. It's a red-and-white kid-scrawl V, starting above his right ear and dribbling to a point an inch below his hairline.
"I've been cutting down though." Zach is 20 years old. "This weekend my buddy got a 30-pack, I only drank 6, he drank 24. I haven't gotten loaded in 3 weeks."
We're talking about music. We did that a lot today. "Last concert I went to, Kenny Chesney, aw man, it was so bad. Gayer than AIDS."
"...yeah, he's pretty terrible."
"It sucked, he was a total douchebag. And everyone there was drunk. Lawn seats, it fucking sucked. Everyone was just totally trashed."
Ricky knows about everyone in the factory whether he wants to or not. So he knows about Zach's scar and why one of his legs is shorter than the other. He's giving him shit about it, with his big burly Florida boondocks drawl. Zach's trying to sound less guilty. "And those guys in the ambulance, they were trying to take off my pants, and I was like, what the fuck, don't fuckin touch me!"
"D'ja think they were tryin to get at your pants 'cause you were bleedin all over the floor?"
"I woke up later, in the hospital, find out I was handcuffed to the bed!"
"Well, maybe you should stop being such a fuckhead."
They both grin like they want to laugh but neither one does.
I don't know how we got on this subject. "Like heroin. I don't fucking get it. Some of my friends from high school, they're on heroin, and I see them and I'm like 'what's up?' and they're like 'uhhhh go get eightball.' Or they don't even fucking recognize me, like, we've been friends for ten years. And I gotta see, you know, their mom, 'hey, how are you, have you talked to Jason lately?' Oh yeah, he's shooting dope into his ass. 'Have you talked to Frankie?' Yeah, he married a hooker. He's like 'oh, she works at Denny's.' One morning we wanna go fishing, says we gotta wait til 5 a.m. for his wife to get back, what do you do when you get back at 5 a.m.? 'Oh yeah, it was costume night.' Yeah, costume night in a fishnet full-body suit. And my buddy Jason, he went to rehab for 2 months, got clean for 2 months, then he went right back on the drugs."
"Crazy."
"It's fucking sad." The machine has stopped working again by this point and Ricky comes in to try and fix it.
He sings a lot (and terribly) (although his Rob Zombie impression is pretty accurate). I don't know any of the songs he's singing except when he sings along to the radio. "Hot Blooded" comes on and he sings along for a little while, then transitions to something else. Another familiar one comes on and, excited, he steps away from the table to hit his knees twice and then clap his hands. "WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!" I rack the spikes with two hands to make up for his absence. Ricky's heavy Southern accent ranges across the machine. "You know who sings this song?" Zach pauses and cocks his head. "Uh... King?" I keep racking but my smile gets bigger.
The machine isn't playing fair today, as Ricky puts it. Zach gets really angry whenever it starts spitting out broken spikes, chucks them in the barrel with a grunt and goes, "These spikes are shitty!" Maybe he gets so angry because he hates doing nothing.
I watch him dump the broken spikes into the barrel. Hey man. Maybe you should find your brain. Wring the alcohol out of it. Build a life or something.
"I've been cutting down though." Zach is 20 years old. "This weekend my buddy got a 30-pack, I only drank 6, he drank 24. I haven't gotten loaded in 3 weeks."
We're talking about music. We did that a lot today. "Last concert I went to, Kenny Chesney, aw man, it was so bad. Gayer than AIDS."
"...yeah, he's pretty terrible."
"It sucked, he was a total douchebag. And everyone there was drunk. Lawn seats, it fucking sucked. Everyone was just totally trashed."
Ricky knows about everyone in the factory whether he wants to or not. So he knows about Zach's scar and why one of his legs is shorter than the other. He's giving him shit about it, with his big burly Florida boondocks drawl. Zach's trying to sound less guilty. "And those guys in the ambulance, they were trying to take off my pants, and I was like, what the fuck, don't fuckin touch me!"
"D'ja think they were tryin to get at your pants 'cause you were bleedin all over the floor?"
"I woke up later, in the hospital, find out I was handcuffed to the bed!"
"Well, maybe you should stop being such a fuckhead."
They both grin like they want to laugh but neither one does.
I don't know how we got on this subject. "Like heroin. I don't fucking get it. Some of my friends from high school, they're on heroin, and I see them and I'm like 'what's up?' and they're like 'uhhhh go get eightball.' Or they don't even fucking recognize me, like, we've been friends for ten years. And I gotta see, you know, their mom, 'hey, how are you, have you talked to Jason lately?' Oh yeah, he's shooting dope into his ass. 'Have you talked to Frankie?' Yeah, he married a hooker. He's like 'oh, she works at Denny's.' One morning we wanna go fishing, says we gotta wait til 5 a.m. for his wife to get back, what do you do when you get back at 5 a.m.? 'Oh yeah, it was costume night.' Yeah, costume night in a fishnet full-body suit. And my buddy Jason, he went to rehab for 2 months, got clean for 2 months, then he went right back on the drugs."
"Crazy."
"It's fucking sad." The machine has stopped working again by this point and Ricky comes in to try and fix it.
He sings a lot (and terribly) (although his Rob Zombie impression is pretty accurate). I don't know any of the songs he's singing except when he sings along to the radio. "Hot Blooded" comes on and he sings along for a little while, then transitions to something else. Another familiar one comes on and, excited, he steps away from the table to hit his knees twice and then clap his hands. "WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!" I rack the spikes with two hands to make up for his absence. Ricky's heavy Southern accent ranges across the machine. "You know who sings this song?" Zach pauses and cocks his head. "Uh... King?" I keep racking but my smile gets bigger.
The machine isn't playing fair today, as Ricky puts it. Zach gets really angry whenever it starts spitting out broken spikes, chucks them in the barrel with a grunt and goes, "These spikes are shitty!" Maybe he gets so angry because he hates doing nothing.
I watch him dump the broken spikes into the barrel. Hey man. Maybe you should find your brain. Wring the alcohol out of it. Build a life or something.
Friday, August 6, 2010
"No One Cares What You Look Like."
That's the phrase I seem to be repeating to myself most often these days. I've heard the speech a couple times now — each time I've gone to see Therefore I Am, they tell us about it between songs. If I remember correctly, it's something along the lines of, "You guys standing there with your arms crossed looking cool? Come on up here and dance. You don't go to a concert to stand around and look cool. No one cares what you look like." When I go to concerts, I wear some jeans and my Minor Threat t-shirt (it's a tradition) and then when I get there I rock out like a crazy person. The risks: someone standing in the back will look at me through their sunglasses, tuck their flat-ironed hair behind their ear, and feel secure in the knowledge that no one could possibly think that they are lamer than I am.
Well, no one is looking at this kid standing in the back. No one's really looking at me either. And I would rather feel all the energy and frantic passion I get from moving around than be the coolest kid in the crowd. What does "cool" even mean? That you make all the right plays so that you're automatically better than everyone else? That you wear the right clothes, drink the right beer, and take instant gratification wherever you can get it? I'm not gonna follow someone else's set of rules. I am not better than everyone else. I'm gonna do whatever I want. I don't want to be cool. I want to be angry. I want to be angry that our everyday lives have stopped meaning something. And I want to mosh.
Listening to music works too, like when you're listening to a song driving home from work, and there's this one part that makes you grit your teeth and press the back of your head into the headrest, and you're pretty sure you're not the only one who's ever done that. But at a concert, that other kid isn't two hundred miles away. That other kid is right next to you and even if you didn't bring a friend to the concert, you're not alone anymore.
I mean that. We're all angry about something. Maybe you're stuck working a dead-end job because you can't pay for college, or maybe your big brother just lost a limb to an IED, or maybe you've got a stable life but you seem to be the only person you know who still cares about the Haiti earthquake. And you can't do a whole lot to change it. So where do you put your anger? Well, you put it in your hands and you go to a show, and the music moves you like it always has, except a lot more because the band is right there and there's no barriers between you now. Then you shove the guy next to you and he shoves you back, and pretty soon there's a pit going. And when you leave, you're sore and probably bruised, but you feel better than you've ever felt in your life.
Why? Because you can really, physically feel it now. The anger, or the pain, or whatever you've got. But it's not just yours. This is not just about you. This is about the kid who shoved you back, and the other kids you ran into, and the singer, and the band, and me and you too. It takes all of us to make that happen — to make each other move and shove and run into whomever is nearby. You wanted to express your anger? We heard you. That's why we've got black-and-blue marks on our forearms.
This is what I want. This is what means something to me. For some reason, it's against the rules to put all your emotions out there. It's weird. It's not cool. I don't care. I'm gonna go dance.
Well, no one is looking at this kid standing in the back. No one's really looking at me either. And I would rather feel all the energy and frantic passion I get from moving around than be the coolest kid in the crowd. What does "cool" even mean? That you make all the right plays so that you're automatically better than everyone else? That you wear the right clothes, drink the right beer, and take instant gratification wherever you can get it? I'm not gonna follow someone else's set of rules. I am not better than everyone else. I'm gonna do whatever I want. I don't want to be cool. I want to be angry. I want to be angry that our everyday lives have stopped meaning something. And I want to mosh.
Listening to music works too, like when you're listening to a song driving home from work, and there's this one part that makes you grit your teeth and press the back of your head into the headrest, and you're pretty sure you're not the only one who's ever done that. But at a concert, that other kid isn't two hundred miles away. That other kid is right next to you and even if you didn't bring a friend to the concert, you're not alone anymore.
I mean that. We're all angry about something. Maybe you're stuck working a dead-end job because you can't pay for college, or maybe your big brother just lost a limb to an IED, or maybe you've got a stable life but you seem to be the only person you know who still cares about the Haiti earthquake. And you can't do a whole lot to change it. So where do you put your anger? Well, you put it in your hands and you go to a show, and the music moves you like it always has, except a lot more because the band is right there and there's no barriers between you now. Then you shove the guy next to you and he shoves you back, and pretty soon there's a pit going. And when you leave, you're sore and probably bruised, but you feel better than you've ever felt in your life.
Why? Because you can really, physically feel it now. The anger, or the pain, or whatever you've got. But it's not just yours. This is not just about you. This is about the kid who shoved you back, and the other kids you ran into, and the singer, and the band, and me and you too. It takes all of us to make that happen — to make each other move and shove and run into whomever is nearby. You wanted to express your anger? We heard you. That's why we've got black-and-blue marks on our forearms.
This is what I want. This is what means something to me. For some reason, it's against the rules to put all your emotions out there. It's weird. It's not cool. I don't care. I'm gonna go dance.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
What is this story about?
This is about me and the dead heat of August.
This is about calling her "baby" in my dreams.
This is about the spy whose friends were all stolen.
This is about esophageal cancer.
And seeing him in the waiting room.
This is about finding your home and giving it to someone else.
This is about the vibrations of lightwaves.
And the way my eyes pull back like eels.
This is about the Sunfish and the wind picking up.
This is about sweat.
And catharsis.
This is about water lilies in oceans and oceans.
This is about me saving the last one for you.
This is about calling her "baby" in my dreams.
This is about the spy whose friends were all stolen.
This is about esophageal cancer.
And seeing him in the waiting room.
This is about finding your home and giving it to someone else.
This is about the vibrations of lightwaves.
And the way my eyes pull back like eels.
This is about the Sunfish and the wind picking up.
This is about sweat.
And catharsis.
This is about water lilies in oceans and oceans.
This is about me saving the last one for you.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
castles (http://castles.bandcamp.com/)
if you can get onstage and play guitar with bare feet and your pant legs rolled up to your knees, and you sing so high and loud your voice cracks over and over again, and you are gentle, and you really mean it, then you can lift me out from myself and i will hang there in the air without a body. suspended.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
i'm gone
hey man, how's things?
not great. but better. i don't know. it's weird.
what's weird? what did you dream about this time?
well, i was in my room.
this room?
back home.
home. whoa.
yeah. i was in my room. trying to read a book. but i couldn't
focus. there was so much noise, like people yelling,
outside my door. but i wasn't there.
who was yelling?
people. outside my door. i think we were at a wake. but
there was someone there who shouldn't have been. like
sand in the outer layer of my brain. i couldn't
focus. i was trying to read.
yeah? and then?
then the yelling stopped kinda, it got replaced
with this big rushing noise like we were falling
down into a mineshaft. like a grand piano
dropped from the top floor. there was someone
in the next room calling the police.
so what did you do then?
i opened the door and wandered out of the room
in my t-shirt and superman pajamas. there was no one there.
and then?
i flew away.
not great. but better. i don't know. it's weird.
what's weird? what did you dream about this time?
well, i was in my room.
this room?
back home.
home. whoa.
yeah. i was in my room. trying to read a book. but i couldn't
focus. there was so much noise, like people yelling,
outside my door. but i wasn't there.
who was yelling?
people. outside my door. i think we were at a wake. but
there was someone there who shouldn't have been. like
sand in the outer layer of my brain. i couldn't
focus. i was trying to read.
yeah? and then?
then the yelling stopped kinda, it got replaced
with this big rushing noise like we were falling
down into a mineshaft. like a grand piano
dropped from the top floor. there was someone
in the next room calling the police.
so what did you do then?
i opened the door and wandered out of the room
in my t-shirt and superman pajamas. there was no one there.
and then?
i flew away.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
clinical
a glimpse of ancient soured skin beneath
a top button undone.
flesh jutting, hanging, making shapes
i've seen on bakery shelves.
spots cut through with furrowed
streaks like modern art.
youth crawls but age slides like
jellyfish in the bottom of a pail.
and me? don't worry.
me, i'm clinical.
a top button undone.
flesh jutting, hanging, making shapes
i've seen on bakery shelves.
spots cut through with furrowed
streaks like modern art.
youth crawls but age slides like
jellyfish in the bottom of a pail.
and me? don't worry.
me, i'm clinical.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
i went to a thrice concert last night
my hair hangs off my head in ribbons
my arms vibrate
constrained in steel mesh that i rage to rip down
rallying cries shoot me up and seal over
the cracks in the small of my back
my lungs will not be lanced
they fill and fill but not fast enough
as if someone was stomping my chest in
so they empty in this rallying cry
and our fists pierce the air like soundwaves
IN SUM: next time dustin kensrue comes up and shreds three feet from your face, i dare you not to go ballistic.
my arms vibrate
constrained in steel mesh that i rage to rip down
rallying cries shoot me up and seal over
the cracks in the small of my back
my lungs will not be lanced
they fill and fill but not fast enough
as if someone was stomping my chest in
so they empty in this rallying cry
and our fists pierce the air like soundwaves
IN SUM: next time dustin kensrue comes up and shreds three feet from your face, i dare you not to go ballistic.
Monday, June 14, 2010
i have a family history of:
stolen typewriters
falling in with the wrong crowd
alcoholic fathers with mangled ears
alcoholic fathers who love their kids to death
and sleep next to denial (her name is joy)
politicking
chauvinism
"i'm just saying."
anyone want to tell me how i seem to have ended up the most well-balanced one here?
falling in with the wrong crowd
alcoholic fathers with mangled ears
alcoholic fathers who love their kids to death
and sleep next to denial (her name is joy)
politicking
chauvinism
"i'm just saying."
anyone want to tell me how i seem to have ended up the most well-balanced one here?
Monday, May 3, 2010
Narrow Rooms
(this is an imitation of Mary Jo Salter. I was given the idea by her poem "Goodbye, Train")
I'm standing in a narrow room
packed with adolescents or college-age
kids, arms-crossed, T-shirt-wearing,
staring at the stage like animals
restrained. But when the band comes on
there are no leashes or cages left.
There are open-mouthed snarls, hackles raised,
but not at each other. We are all angry
at the same thing. We all have our reasons.
The narrow room turns into a river overrun
by frothy, heaving rapids.
The kids who get caught up collide
and push off again, hands on on backs
or shoulderblades. Some of them are carried
to the front of the room and collect there,
a small, frantic mass that steadily loses
its constituents to the current. But more arrive,
flung over top in absurd and reckless flight,
held aloft and then borne groundward.
This is not the time to hunker down.
This is the time to stick out my neck
for someone else's knees to clamber on.
(I'll support them on my shoulders.)
I will be one of them. The singer comes down
from the stage. He, too, is caught up.
This is the point. The bars and barriers
are washed away. We are all bruised
from collisions with hands and elbows.
We are all sweatier than we've ever been.
We will all lose our voices from yelling so loud.
I think about how lucky I am to be eighteen,
angry and battered by rapids, instead of silenced
and subject to the gentle predictability of the tides.
I'm standing in a narrow room
packed with adolescents or college-age
kids, arms-crossed, T-shirt-wearing,
staring at the stage like animals
restrained. But when the band comes on
there are no leashes or cages left.
There are open-mouthed snarls, hackles raised,
but not at each other. We are all angry
at the same thing. We all have our reasons.
The narrow room turns into a river overrun
by frothy, heaving rapids.
The kids who get caught up collide
and push off again, hands on on backs
or shoulderblades. Some of them are carried
to the front of the room and collect there,
a small, frantic mass that steadily loses
its constituents to the current. But more arrive,
flung over top in absurd and reckless flight,
held aloft and then borne groundward.
This is not the time to hunker down.
This is the time to stick out my neck
for someone else's knees to clamber on.
(I'll support them on my shoulders.)
I will be one of them. The singer comes down
from the stage. He, too, is caught up.
This is the point. The bars and barriers
are washed away. We are all bruised
from collisions with hands and elbows.
We are all sweatier than we've ever been.
We will all lose our voices from yelling so loud.
I think about how lucky I am to be eighteen,
angry and battered by rapids, instead of silenced
and subject to the gentle predictability of the tides.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
to my friends
1.
sometimes i forget you don't like hearing the new slang
and sometimes paint doesn't come out of the walls.
so when you point your finger at me and say "bang"
i'll twist and grab my heart and i'll take my fall.
and yes, i'll stop showing you rugged-looking men.
as long as i don't have to watch "telephone" again.
2.
i don't get it either.
i don't forget it either.
i don't do stupid shit to myself anymore.
i don't sit on my hands or stand in the back.
this is about working at it.
this is about how nothing must go and
we can hold it all up. but only if we work at it.
3.
one day we're gonna go shove some dudes around
and yell a lot and get real sweaty and it's gonna rule.
sometimes i forget you don't like hearing the new slang
and sometimes paint doesn't come out of the walls.
so when you point your finger at me and say "bang"
i'll twist and grab my heart and i'll take my fall.
and yes, i'll stop showing you rugged-looking men.
as long as i don't have to watch "telephone" again.
2.
i don't get it either.
i don't forget it either.
i don't do stupid shit to myself anymore.
i don't sit on my hands or stand in the back.
this is about working at it.
this is about how nothing must go and
we can hold it all up. but only if we work at it.
3.
one day we're gonna go shove some dudes around
and yell a lot and get real sweaty and it's gonna rule.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
June Morning (Wallace Stevens imitation)
1.
Your veil darkened by rain, the steady
Tap-tapping on the tent-top overhead, and the
Teeth bleached to blind all conspire to
Wall me in and leave me there. I smile and
Lift your hands, imagining for a second
How hard I could squeeze them before
Your white teeth disappeared in an
Ungainly yell, and you searched my eyes,
Darkened by rain, looking for reason.
I spend hours alone and find no reason.
Instead I make small sacrifices to
My anger, the mangy, restless, atrophied thing
That I have walled in and left there.
The scratch marks have long since faded
Like raindrop-stains on gray linen suits.
2.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I hear a howl
Echoing in its small chamber: "There is no
Reason for you to find. I pad decrepit in the
Bottom of your throat and you feel like growling."
I built this house and now I live in it,
Gritting my teeth at arguments and burned eggs,
Feeling disgust when my children smile at me,
Bored to death before you even open your mouth.
Outside thunder rolls and sickly trails of rainwater
Lurch down the plate-glass doors. In the garden
The soil grows darker in the rain, while earthworms
Convulse in the grass to escape drowning.
My children want to go out and play, but
I growl at them and make them stay inside.
Your veil darkened by rain, the steady
Tap-tapping on the tent-top overhead, and the
Teeth bleached to blind all conspire to
Wall me in and leave me there. I smile and
Lift your hands, imagining for a second
How hard I could squeeze them before
Your white teeth disappeared in an
Ungainly yell, and you searched my eyes,
Darkened by rain, looking for reason.
I spend hours alone and find no reason.
Instead I make small sacrifices to
My anger, the mangy, restless, atrophied thing
That I have walled in and left there.
The scratch marks have long since faded
Like raindrop-stains on gray linen suits.
2.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I hear a howl
Echoing in its small chamber: "There is no
Reason for you to find. I pad decrepit in the
Bottom of your throat and you feel like growling."
I built this house and now I live in it,
Gritting my teeth at arguments and burned eggs,
Feeling disgust when my children smile at me,
Bored to death before you even open your mouth.
Outside thunder rolls and sickly trails of rainwater
Lurch down the plate-glass doors. In the garden
The soil grows darker in the rain, while earthworms
Convulse in the grass to escape drowning.
My children want to go out and play, but
I growl at them and make them stay inside.
Friday, April 16, 2010
"Out, Out-" by Robert Frost
(This is the poem I analyzed for my last paper.)
The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behing the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw,
As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap -
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all -
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart -
He saw all was spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off -
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!"
So. The hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then - the watcher at his pulse took a fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little - less - nothing! - and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behing the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw,
As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap -
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all -
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart -
He saw all was spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off -
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!"
So. The hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then - the watcher at his pulse took a fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little - less - nothing! - and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
out of time
when give and take turns into
sequined lamé letters tumbling
haphazardly down onto my head
i recoil and settle in my burrow
where boys cut off their hands
with buzz saws because at least
i can understand why that happens
sequined lamé letters tumbling
haphazardly down onto my head
i recoil and settle in my burrow
where boys cut off their hands
with buzz saws because at least
i can understand why that happens
Sunday, April 11, 2010
nothing I write ever makes me feel like this makes me feel
"Disease"
by Conor Meehan
When it happened, I didn’t understand why.
She’d been perfectly healthy yesterday.
Now there were all sorts of appointments and
doctors, and I didn’t want to be bothered.
I was just a kid on my summer break.
But at the same time this was my mother⎯
The woman who had given me my life.
She did not want me to be affected
By it, but how could I not be? I had
To stand there and lie; tell her I was fine.
I wasn’t. The fear of losing my mother
Ate at my insides. I hid it on the
Outside and put a smile on my face.
I guess I was trying to shield myself
From the pain. But there were times I wondered
If I really cared. I had to have cared,
Right? What kind of a son would I have been?
I went on living amidst everything
Even though I knew what was at stake. Would
I cry at the funeral or keep smiling?
by Conor Meehan
When it happened, I didn’t understand why.
She’d been perfectly healthy yesterday.
Now there were all sorts of appointments and
doctors, and I didn’t want to be bothered.
I was just a kid on my summer break.
But at the same time this was my mother⎯
The woman who had given me my life.
She did not want me to be affected
By it, but how could I not be? I had
To stand there and lie; tell her I was fine.
I wasn’t. The fear of losing my mother
Ate at my insides. I hid it on the
Outside and put a smile on my face.
I guess I was trying to shield myself
From the pain. But there were times I wondered
If I really cared. I had to have cared,
Right? What kind of a son would I have been?
I went on living amidst everything
Even though I knew what was at stake. Would
I cry at the funeral or keep smiling?
Amnesiac
(this week we imitate Langston Hughes)
I felt the electricity run from my limbs
And opened my eyes.
I heard some kind of sorrowful hymn
Right by my side.
It came from a woman looking all drawn and grim,
Clutching a crumpled handkerchief to her thigh.
She sang, "My very own amnesiac.
Your daddy, he won't be coming back.
I miss him like I miss you
When you wake up someone new,
My very own, my very own amnesiac."
I got the breath to ask her "What is this place,
And why are we here?"
No vestige of feeling showed on her face
But for one or two tears.
She said "Baby, I'll love you to the end of my days.
It hurts me so much but I promise I'll stay.
I'll always be near."
Then she held my hand and stroked my hair,
While I tried and tried as hard as I could
But still couldn't remember when I'd met her, or where,
Though I knew that I should —
I felt the electricity run from my limbs
And opened my eyes.
I heard some kind of sorrowful hymn
Right by my side.
It came from a woman looking all drawn and grim,
Clutching a crumpled handkerchief to her thigh.
She sang, "My very own amnesiac.
Your daddy, he won't be coming back.
So I'm stuck here all alone,
Just me and his ghost,
'Cause my baby can't remember his family or his home,
My very own, oh, my very own,
My very own amnesiac."
I felt the electricity run from my limbs
And opened my eyes.
I heard some kind of sorrowful hymn
Right by my side.
It came from a woman looking all drawn and grim,
Clutching a crumpled handkerchief to her thigh.
She sang, "My very own amnesiac.
Your daddy, he won't be coming back.
I miss him like I miss you
When you wake up someone new,
My very own, my very own amnesiac."
I got the breath to ask her "What is this place,
And why are we here?"
No vestige of feeling showed on her face
But for one or two tears.
She said "Baby, I'll love you to the end of my days.
It hurts me so much but I promise I'll stay.
I'll always be near."
Then she held my hand and stroked my hair,
While I tried and tried as hard as I could
But still couldn't remember when I'd met her, or where,
Though I knew that I should —
I felt the electricity run from my limbs
And opened my eyes.
I heard some kind of sorrowful hymn
Right by my side.
It came from a woman looking all drawn and grim,
Clutching a crumpled handkerchief to her thigh.
She sang, "My very own amnesiac.
Your daddy, he won't be coming back.
So I'm stuck here all alone,
Just me and his ghost,
'Cause my baby can't remember his family or his home,
My very own, oh, my very own,
My very own amnesiac."
Saturday, April 10, 2010
where are you
hey man, what's wrong?
i've been dreaming again. not the normal
running away kind.
well, what did you dream about?
i told my friend i'd meet up with him and
he should text me when he was set to go. but
i was hanging out with some other guys
and when i finally remembered to check my
phone, i had seven texts. the first one said
"where are you." the next one had three
question marks. then he told me to answer
him already. the one after that said
"help, i'm drifting into space and i need
you to anchor me. where are you." and then it was
"i'm losing my grip. where are you man."
then "that's it. i lost it. i don't know
how much longer i'll have reception out here
so this might be it." and the last one had
been sent 5 minutes before i checked my phone.
it just said "Goodbye jess." i sent him a
text and when he didn't reply i went out
to look for him. i couldn't find him. i never
saw him after that.
hey. look at me for a sec, man. you
didn't do anything wrong.
i know. haha, i know, man. i know.
i've been dreaming again. not the normal
running away kind.
well, what did you dream about?
i told my friend i'd meet up with him and
he should text me when he was set to go. but
i was hanging out with some other guys
and when i finally remembered to check my
phone, i had seven texts. the first one said
"where are you." the next one had three
question marks. then he told me to answer
him already. the one after that said
"help, i'm drifting into space and i need
you to anchor me. where are you." and then it was
"i'm losing my grip. where are you man."
then "that's it. i lost it. i don't know
how much longer i'll have reception out here
so this might be it." and the last one had
been sent 5 minutes before i checked my phone.
it just said "Goodbye jess." i sent him a
text and when he didn't reply i went out
to look for him. i couldn't find him. i never
saw him after that.
hey. look at me for a sec, man. you
didn't do anything wrong.
i know. haha, i know, man. i know.
Monday, April 5, 2010
dandylions
i don't speak i don't want to speak.
when i move the world sways.
when i get worked up it bucks.
it's confusing and loud.
i know there are people around me but
i can't see their faces.
i try and look but my eyes
don't do what they're supposed to
veer away on my way to connecting.
i get frustrated.
i need things in grids or i get worked up.
why can't everything just be organized?
why does it have to make me start screaming?
where does the screaming come from?
i don't have a voice i mean.
or at least one i know how to use.
once the world stopped swaying and
i could get my feet under me.
it was held down by an anchor.
the anchor was yellow and looked fuzzy.
i pinched it secure between my fingers
and pulled it up and looked at it for
a long time. eventually i heard what
the woman was saying. "brandon? do
you like it? do you like the dandylion?"
i started to eat it.
the woman grabbed my hand. i dropped it.
i looked at it for a long time.
"you can't eat dandylions, okay?"
the world started swaying again.
but i just wanted an anchor
when i move the world sways.
when i get worked up it bucks.
it's confusing and loud.
i know there are people around me but
i can't see their faces.
i try and look but my eyes
don't do what they're supposed to
veer away on my way to connecting.
i get frustrated.
i need things in grids or i get worked up.
why can't everything just be organized?
why does it have to make me start screaming?
where does the screaming come from?
i don't have a voice i mean.
or at least one i know how to use.
once the world stopped swaying and
i could get my feet under me.
it was held down by an anchor.
the anchor was yellow and looked fuzzy.
i pinched it secure between my fingers
and pulled it up and looked at it for
a long time. eventually i heard what
the woman was saying. "brandon? do
you like it? do you like the dandylion?"
i started to eat it.
the woman grabbed my hand. i dropped it.
i looked at it for a long time.
"you can't eat dandylions, okay?"
the world started swaying again.
but i just wanted an anchor
Derailed (or: sing, sing, sing along if you once had it all)
(this week we imitate Robert Frost by writing blank verse. the only rule is basically a constant number of stresses per line.)
Ever since you stopped calling for help,
It's hard for me to stand back up again.
When I would sit on summer sidewalk curbs,
I used to see all the things we'd get to do,
But now I just see all the things we've done,
Again and again until someone trips over me
Or a curious dog noses my shoulder and chin.
So I haul myself to my feet, clutching at benches,
Streetlights, sun rays, whatever will take my weight.
You're not the only ghost that haunts this place.
The day you left, you took my home with you.
Now the town where I grew up just confuses me.
All I do these days is get on my bike
And ride for hours looking for something familiar.
But these buildings are all half-dead amputees
And these people look at me like I'm terminal.
I'm told to move on but I just run circles
Around this little stretch of broken track.
But if I'm the only piece that doesn't fit,
Then please tell me, where do I go?
Please tell me, where do I go?
Ever since you stopped calling for help,
It's hard for me to stand back up again.
When I would sit on summer sidewalk curbs,
I used to see all the things we'd get to do,
But now I just see all the things we've done,
Again and again until someone trips over me
Or a curious dog noses my shoulder and chin.
So I haul myself to my feet, clutching at benches,
Streetlights, sun rays, whatever will take my weight.
You're not the only ghost that haunts this place.
The day you left, you took my home with you.
Now the town where I grew up just confuses me.
All I do these days is get on my bike
And ride for hours looking for something familiar.
But these buildings are all half-dead amputees
And these people look at me like I'm terminal.
I'm told to move on but I just run circles
Around this little stretch of broken track.
But if I'm the only piece that doesn't fit,
Then please tell me, where do I go?
Please tell me, where do I go?
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
im/personal attacks
i'm glad you're here anyway man. it's nice
having friendly faces around.
i thought you said they were treating you better.
they are. most of them. but some of them
it's not their fault.
well can't you tell them about it?
it's not that easy man. i can't just
do it. i get really scared. i ask
for answers but when i come back
all that's there is a blank page. then i
always erase my question. i'm afraid
other people will see it.
i thought you said you were happier.
i am. i definitely am. it's just
the ups make the downs so much worse, man.
like the trips home, running errands,
and acting, acting, again, over the phone,
at the receptionist's desk,
using my hat with the long earflaps as a tool,
jutting my shoulderblades out like a
failed attempt at flight.
i don't need classes.
i'm a pro.
at what? acting? failing? flying?
that's a dumb question.
having friendly faces around.
i thought you said they were treating you better.
they are. most of them. but some of them
it's not their fault.
well can't you tell them about it?
it's not that easy man. i can't just
do it. i get really scared. i ask
for answers but when i come back
all that's there is a blank page. then i
always erase my question. i'm afraid
other people will see it.
i thought you said you were happier.
i am. i definitely am. it's just
the ups make the downs so much worse, man.
like the trips home, running errands,
and acting, acting, again, over the phone,
at the receptionist's desk,
using my hat with the long earflaps as a tool,
jutting my shoulderblades out like a
failed attempt at flight.
i don't need classes.
i'm a pro.
at what? acting? failing? flying?
that's a dumb question.
Monday, March 29, 2010
innocuous
is it okay if i have dreams about
shishkebabs and american summers?
of visiting the grocery store with you on a
hot afternoon? (i'm pretty sure
i was wearing flip-flops and shorts)
living like a suburban dad without
the triviality. drinking st. pauli girl
non-alcoholic on the porch while
the sun goes down and the mosquitoes
try in vain to batter their way through
the screen. going inside and turning
on the radio, dancing stupidly to some
bad 80s rock song. feeling like the
luckiest guy on earth. is that okay?
shishkebabs and american summers?
of visiting the grocery store with you on a
hot afternoon? (i'm pretty sure
i was wearing flip-flops and shorts)
living like a suburban dad without
the triviality. drinking st. pauli girl
non-alcoholic on the porch while
the sun goes down and the mosquitoes
try in vain to batter their way through
the screen. going inside and turning
on the radio, dancing stupidly to some
bad 80s rock song. feeling like the
luckiest guy on earth. is that okay?
Last Days
(this week we imitate George Herbert. basically pull a metrical/rhyme scheme out of your ass and follow that. enjoy)
How long have you been underneath his thumb?
He preys on you with cloying pleasantries.
Let your dark reveries loose.
Muster the deaf and the dumb.
With one light touch he brings you to your knees.
How long will you submit to this abuse?
He'll hold you close to him and take your hands,
But just so he can draw the blood from them.
Skim off the film from your eyes.
Gather the grit and the sand.
I know you have it in you to condemn.
Relinquish your subservient disguise,
And cast at him what armaments you've saved.
The vultures will make him a suitable grave.
How long have you been underneath his thumb?
He preys on you with cloying pleasantries.
Let your dark reveries loose.
Muster the deaf and the dumb.
With one light touch he brings you to your knees.
How long will you submit to this abuse?
He'll hold you close to him and take your hands,
But just so he can draw the blood from them.
Skim off the film from your eyes.
Gather the grit and the sand.
I know you have it in you to condemn.
Relinquish your subservient disguise,
And cast at him what armaments you've saved.
The vultures will make him a suitable grave.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
sleeping sickness (or: 10 points if you can guess what song i've been listening to on repeat)
i was thinking of drinking you goodbye
but to drown my sorrows i will
instead use a car underwater,
where i'll have some time to think,
i hope, on when the scales
glued themselves back to my eyes
or swung to tilt the other way.
no one's going to bother me down here
so don't bother looking.
i need to step back because i keep
trying to talk through the glass
but i'm all alone right now.
i think i hit upon the first step
to recovery but the water's
pouring in too fast. i need
a little more time. can you please
slow down the clock for me? can you please?
but to drown my sorrows i will
instead use a car underwater,
where i'll have some time to think,
i hope, on when the scales
glued themselves back to my eyes
or swung to tilt the other way.
no one's going to bother me down here
so don't bother looking.
i need to step back because i keep
trying to talk through the glass
but i'm all alone right now.
i think i hit upon the first step
to recovery but the water's
pouring in too fast. i need
a little more time. can you please
slow down the clock for me? can you please?
Thursday, March 18, 2010
On listening to the False Institutions EP by Prawn too loud around 9 p.m., driving past Rhode Island's Only Truck Stop (or: stupid kid)
"it's a sad, sad ending to a real bad story"
is this the right song for me to be
listening to? i've had nightmares.
my wife died the other night.
i've drowned. twice. but i can deal.
that's why i'm still writing about it.
i take things as they come and i hold them.
i'm not paying attention and i drive too slow.
i switch off the heat and hope not to remain a
sad, sad ending to a real bad story.
is this the right song for me to be
listening to? i've had nightmares.
my wife died the other night.
i've drowned. twice. but i can deal.
that's why i'm still writing about it.
i take things as they come and i hold them.
i'm not paying attention and i drive too slow.
i switch off the heat and hope not to remain a
sad, sad ending to a real bad story.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
hard luck woman
"she's a real woman." that's what
the bartender used to say. she makes a habit of
pulling herself up by her bootstraps.
she won't accept your coat but she'll
take it from you and then light a cigarette
to keep herself warm. you're lucky.
you're not one of the casualties.
not one of the ones she shot down without breaking
a sweat. she makes a habit of that too.
and you've seen her when she sweats.
like i told you before. you're lucky.
but it's not always that clear.
sometimes she finds the blood under
your fingernails and then she gets angry.
she never walks out though. she shows you.
she cuts you up and throws your pistol on the bed.
but you don't have time for this so just
call her babydoll and lock the door behind her.
the bartender used to say. she makes a habit of
pulling herself up by her bootstraps.
she won't accept your coat but she'll
take it from you and then light a cigarette
to keep herself warm. you're lucky.
you're not one of the casualties.
not one of the ones she shot down without breaking
a sweat. she makes a habit of that too.
and you've seen her when she sweats.
like i told you before. you're lucky.
but it's not always that clear.
sometimes she finds the blood under
your fingernails and then she gets angry.
she never walks out though. she shows you.
she cuts you up and throws your pistol on the bed.
but you don't have time for this so just
call her babydoll and lock the door behind her.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Star-Crossed
(in which we imitate Gerard Manley Hopkins, so I am forced to make up some emo bullshit that rhymes)
In youth I was told over and over again
That it was virtuous to trudge on, to persevere
Through doubt, catch and conquer fear
With the help of courage and friends,
But I can barely remember the last time when
My way forward was that noble or clear
As it emerged from the end of the previous year
To extract the shining now from the mires of then,
Because I can't stop thinking about your
Turned shoulder, the resolute tilt of your chin
Above your loose-knit scarf as you shut the door.
No, I can't keep from seeing where I've been,
But soon enough I won't be seeing anymore,
So if this is giving in, I guess I'm giving in.
In youth I was told over and over again
That it was virtuous to trudge on, to persevere
Through doubt, catch and conquer fear
With the help of courage and friends,
But I can barely remember the last time when
My way forward was that noble or clear
As it emerged from the end of the previous year
To extract the shining now from the mires of then,
Because I can't stop thinking about your
Turned shoulder, the resolute tilt of your chin
Above your loose-knit scarf as you shut the door.
No, I can't keep from seeing where I've been,
But soon enough I won't be seeing anymore,
So if this is giving in, I guess I'm giving in.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
some poems make me feel like an asshole (or: a jock poem in two stanzas)
Fall
by Conor Meehan
It was a cool, crisp November morning
when he went away.
The goodbye was short.
I had school.
I didn’t know how.
Part of me wanted to believe
he’d still be there when I got home.
Part of me also knew better.
I scurried off the yellow school bus,
anxious to get home.
Maybe he’d be there.
He wasn’t.
I swam through the sea of
family that had gathered in the dining room.
Finally making it to my room upstairs,
I wept.
Lifting my head from the tear stained pillow,
I peered out the window.
His car was in the driveway.
He wasn’t.
by Conor Meehan
It was a cool, crisp November morning
when he went away.
The goodbye was short.
I had school.
I didn’t know how.
Part of me wanted to believe
he’d still be there when I got home.
Part of me also knew better.
I scurried off the yellow school bus,
anxious to get home.
Maybe he’d be there.
He wasn’t.
I swam through the sea of
family that had gathered in the dining room.
Finally making it to my room upstairs,
I wept.
Lifting my head from the tear stained pillow,
I peered out the window.
His car was in the driveway.
He wasn’t.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Fever and dream
(this week we imitate Jack Gilbert, a free verse writer.)
My head feels like a jet engine.
I spit the ground out onto the ground.
I miss when I used to feel safe
when I got sick. My cat would lie on my stomach.
He ran away when I was fifteen. Now I have nothing
but codeine and uncomfortable chairs.
No oases in sight, although
that may just be my vision going.
My friends are underwater and I desiccate.
My lungs feel like spilled cement. I start
wishing I could cough them up so
something would change. Think of asking the cat
to look for red spots in the dust. For now it's
just strings of spit, hanging like spiders
dangling from my mouth. This
is the company I keep. When I cough so hard
that my sternum grazes the upper bones
of my back, the spiders recoil.
My cat runs away to hide. Sometimes
he doesn't come back. I would look for him but
my head is spinning too fast, kicking up dust,
and I can't see.
My head feels like a jet engine.
I spit the ground out onto the ground.
I miss when I used to feel safe
when I got sick. My cat would lie on my stomach.
He ran away when I was fifteen. Now I have nothing
but codeine and uncomfortable chairs.
No oases in sight, although
that may just be my vision going.
My friends are underwater and I desiccate.
My lungs feel like spilled cement. I start
wishing I could cough them up so
something would change. Think of asking the cat
to look for red spots in the dust. For now it's
just strings of spit, hanging like spiders
dangling from my mouth. This
is the company I keep. When I cough so hard
that my sternum grazes the upper bones
of my back, the spiders recoil.
My cat runs away to hide. Sometimes
he doesn't come back. I would look for him but
my head is spinning too fast, kicking up dust,
and I can't see.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
holding someone's back hair
i hate sharing. i'm a little kid
with a tenuous grasp on the english language.
i eat bubble gum for breakfast and
play 52 pickup with the vacuum cleaner.
i can spell azerbaijan. you guys
always catch me in a good mood.
being bogged down isn't so bad when
your friends are there to make
fireworks out of the cattails.
i tell little kids to get off the lawn
when they crawl into my birdhouse.
nothing's clean and everything is
in its proper place. so stop
yelling at me, you're not my mom.
where did you put the shotgun?
these poetry tomes are staring me down so
let's attack them in
a non-linear fashion.
with a tenuous grasp on the english language.
i eat bubble gum for breakfast and
play 52 pickup with the vacuum cleaner.
i can spell azerbaijan. you guys
always catch me in a good mood.
being bogged down isn't so bad when
your friends are there to make
fireworks out of the cattails.
i tell little kids to get off the lawn
when they crawl into my birdhouse.
nothing's clean and everything is
in its proper place. so stop
yelling at me, you're not my mom.
where did you put the shotgun?
these poetry tomes are staring me down so
let's attack them in
a non-linear fashion.
Friday, February 19, 2010
archaic
i stare
at the sparkling display,
explicitly decorated with the intent to
suggest. i stare. i wonder at
all the ways they've gone wrong.
we've been programmed to encourage
objectification. we obsess over the
exhibition but deny that we're looking.
i don't know how we became like this.
we make ourselves stand out like
birds in flocks against the sky.
we're taught that we, as humans,
desire other humans. it is in our genes
and it cannot be changed.
some people spread their tail-feathers
and do showy dances. some people
stalk and dive, unseen, from above.
they always leave by twos and they
never wake up alone. they know each other's
bodies but only sometimes remember names.
tonight i'm home by myself again.
i begin to ask myself where i went wrong.
at the sparkling display,
explicitly decorated with the intent to
suggest. i stare. i wonder at
all the ways they've gone wrong.
we've been programmed to encourage
objectification. we obsess over the
exhibition but deny that we're looking.
i don't know how we became like this.
we make ourselves stand out like
birds in flocks against the sky.
we're taught that we, as humans,
desire other humans. it is in our genes
and it cannot be changed.
some people spread their tail-feathers
and do showy dances. some people
stalk and dive, unseen, from above.
they always leave by twos and they
never wake up alone. they know each other's
bodies but only sometimes remember names.
tonight i'm home by myself again.
i begin to ask myself where i went wrong.
Monday, February 15, 2010
I Love This Poem
The Candy Man
I strolled by the factory
and all my eyes could see
was a bountiful sea of milk chocolate candies
My mouth opened wide
as I peeked inside,
and tears of Almond Joy came pouring out my eyes.
I went around back,
broke open the door latch,
and ran about the factory ready for an eating attack.
I heard a Milk Dud not far away,
deciding to go on my Milky Way,
until a guard stopped me and said: “It’s just not your day.”
I Snickered at the guard,
called him a big, fat lard,
and told him he’d never put me in the prison yard.
His backup came soon enough.
They slapped me with the cuffs,
and my heart broke into Reeses Pieces⎯Man, I was crushed!
The bail was 100 Grand.
My mom came to lend a hand,
and I showered her with Hershey Kisses to show how thankful I am.
-Conor Meehan
I strolled by the factory
and all my eyes could see
was a bountiful sea of milk chocolate candies
My mouth opened wide
as I peeked inside,
and tears of Almond Joy came pouring out my eyes.
I went around back,
broke open the door latch,
and ran about the factory ready for an eating attack.
I heard a Milk Dud not far away,
deciding to go on my Milky Way,
until a guard stopped me and said: “It’s just not your day.”
I Snickered at the guard,
called him a big, fat lard,
and told him he’d never put me in the prison yard.
His backup came soon enough.
They slapped me with the cuffs,
and my heart broke into Reeses Pieces⎯Man, I was crushed!
The bail was 100 Grand.
My mom came to lend a hand,
and I showered her with Hershey Kisses to show how thankful I am.
-Conor Meehan
The Riverman
(this week I imitate Thomas Hardy. basically lots of rhyming with imbalanced lines. oh yeah and DOOM.)
I've known many men
but every now and then
I find my thoughts returning to the Riverman again.
He was born and raised
into love, fear and praise,
yoked under his parents' fervid religious craze.
He grew up on his own
with a prison for a home,
but he found comfort in the river when he couldn't stand being alone.
He refused to stay confined,
so leaving the forest behind
and carrying a trusting and immovable faith, he bid his parents goodbye.
But his brand new life
under big-city lights
corroded the iron wills of him and his young wife.
His son's breath was seized
by the fatal maw of disease
and his wife chose over madness a divine, eternal sleep.
Now in the city still
he was forced to stay until
he could begin to pay off all his son's medical bills.
I used to talk to this man
when he would work my land,
crippled under the weight of things he couldn't understand.
He told me, "Son, don't listen
to the priest or the deacon.
They preach real pretty, but they're both of 'em just lyin'. "
I would catch him casting looks
down toward the deep woods.
I think the river was the one thing that he still understood.
He just needed to hear
that rushing in his ear.
He said he was leaving Jesus for a place far better than here.
He disappeared one day.
I was told he'd run away.
I can see him on the miry banks, kneeling in the mud to pray.
He stands and wades in now,
lets the water take him down.
The only thing he ever understood was that peaceful rushing sound.
I've known many men
but every now and then
I find my thoughts returning to the Riverman again.
He was born and raised
into love, fear and praise,
yoked under his parents' fervid religious craze.
He grew up on his own
with a prison for a home,
but he found comfort in the river when he couldn't stand being alone.
He refused to stay confined,
so leaving the forest behind
and carrying a trusting and immovable faith, he bid his parents goodbye.
But his brand new life
under big-city lights
corroded the iron wills of him and his young wife.
His son's breath was seized
by the fatal maw of disease
and his wife chose over madness a divine, eternal sleep.
Now in the city still
he was forced to stay until
he could begin to pay off all his son's medical bills.
I used to talk to this man
when he would work my land,
crippled under the weight of things he couldn't understand.
He told me, "Son, don't listen
to the priest or the deacon.
They preach real pretty, but they're both of 'em just lyin'. "
I would catch him casting looks
down toward the deep woods.
I think the river was the one thing that he still understood.
He just needed to hear
that rushing in his ear.
He said he was leaving Jesus for a place far better than here.
He disappeared one day.
I was told he'd run away.
I can see him on the miry banks, kneeling in the mud to pray.
He stands and wades in now,
lets the water take him down.
The only thing he ever understood was that peaceful rushing sound.
Friday, February 12, 2010
take me to the river.
you say you'll be there, you say
you'll take my hand but you
never show up when i need you.
you never show up. always
make me make my own decisions.
i'm a supplicant. i was born
from the mud, half a bone maybe.
i turn my palms skyward and beg.
here in the dirt in this hole
i don't want. i'm always
looking down. waiting for the
sunshine on the back of my neck.
i get clouds. descending to
blur my vision. my knees are
wrapped in earth. i'm just
holding out for your hand,
begging, promising not to
kiss you, content to just
ask. listen. but you.
you never say a word to me.
and you. you never listen.
oh jesus.
i'm gonna leave you the first chance i get.
you'll take my hand but you
never show up when i need you.
you never show up. always
make me make my own decisions.
i'm a supplicant. i was born
from the mud, half a bone maybe.
i turn my palms skyward and beg.
here in the dirt in this hole
i don't want. i'm always
looking down. waiting for the
sunshine on the back of my neck.
i get clouds. descending to
blur my vision. my knees are
wrapped in earth. i'm just
holding out for your hand,
begging, promising not to
kiss you, content to just
ask. listen. but you.
you never say a word to me.
and you. you never listen.
oh jesus.
i'm gonna leave you the first chance i get.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
fiddler
(this is an imitation of Marianne Moore, who used specific syllabic schemes in all her poems.)
I lean up
against the
furthest wall.
My friends are already onstage, with
the rest of the choir,
the two gui-
tars, and the
sole fiddler.
She stands poised, breathes in, raises her bow
and delivers her
dulcet and
discordant
duet. It's
confusing to the ear but it's plain
and simple to the
part of me
that controls
the rising
feeling I get when exposed to loss,
exiles, wanderers,
the ones with-
out homes. The
fiddler frowns
at her music. I fold my arms and
watch the fireplace.
I lean up
against the
furthest wall.
My friends are already onstage, with
the rest of the choir,
the two gui-
tars, and the
sole fiddler.
She stands poised, breathes in, raises her bow
and delivers her
dulcet and
discordant
duet. It's
confusing to the ear but it's plain
and simple to the
part of me
that controls
the rising
feeling I get when exposed to loss,
exiles, wanderers,
the ones with-
out homes. The
fiddler frowns
at her music. I fold my arms and
watch the fireplace.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
snail hunting
tonight we hunt the rarest of snails,
who shies from the rays of the sun.
i warn you to breathe softly, my friend,
lest he hear you coming and run!
though i've traveled the world a hundred times,
i have never yet glimpsed a one.
i warn you to breathe quietly, my friend,
lest he hear you coming and run!
i have heard in the orient his trumpeting call,
floating by on the ocean breeze.
i warn you to tread slowly, my friend,
lest he hear your footsteps and flee!
i have seen his great teeth-marks dug into the bark
of african rainforest trees.
i warn you to tread lightly, my friend,
lest he hear your footsteps and flee!
he watches the night like a vigilant owl
and creeps like a panther black.
i warn you to stay low, my friend,
lest he hear you move, and attack!
he is leviathan, behemoth, and yet
leaves no slimy snail-foot track.
i warn you to stay still, my friend,
lest he hear you move, and attack!
the ichthyosaurs have all gone extinct,
the ammonites no longer survive;
i warn you to hide well, my friend,
lest you catch his rubber-stalked eye!
but in the darkest jungles all o'er the world,
still this monstrous creature thrives.
i warn you to take care, my friend,
lest he jump out and eat you alive!
who shies from the rays of the sun.
i warn you to breathe softly, my friend,
lest he hear you coming and run!
though i've traveled the world a hundred times,
i have never yet glimpsed a one.
i warn you to breathe quietly, my friend,
lest he hear you coming and run!
i have heard in the orient his trumpeting call,
floating by on the ocean breeze.
i warn you to tread slowly, my friend,
lest he hear your footsteps and flee!
i have seen his great teeth-marks dug into the bark
of african rainforest trees.
i warn you to tread lightly, my friend,
lest he hear your footsteps and flee!
he watches the night like a vigilant owl
and creeps like a panther black.
i warn you to stay low, my friend,
lest he hear you move, and attack!
he is leviathan, behemoth, and yet
leaves no slimy snail-foot track.
i warn you to stay still, my friend,
lest he hear you move, and attack!
the ichthyosaurs have all gone extinct,
the ammonites no longer survive;
i warn you to hide well, my friend,
lest you catch his rubber-stalked eye!
but in the darkest jungles all o'er the world,
still this monstrous creature thrives.
i warn you to take care, my friend,
lest he jump out and eat you alive!
Monday, February 1, 2010
"The Rape of the Facebook Friend Request: a Heroi-Comical Parody of Pope's 'The Rape of the Lock' " by Tom the DJ (from my English class)
What lustful pining spurs this awkward scene,
Sing out Muse! of things lewd and obscene.
A classic case of boy meets girl I tell.
Well, initially things were going well…
And now I should commence my little tale
Of love’s first spark ‘twixt plastic cups of ale:
In polo shirt and wearing cheap cologne,
Our hero yelled out above the drone.
His words received by yonder beauteous belle:
Step one of ten until his yen be quelled.
A line of poesy made the stars align;
He spoke to her his lovely pick-up line:
“Oh damsel there with tiny ping-pong ball,
You sink my cups! You sink them one and all!”
But always ‘tis the fate of lonely men,
That every party soon must meet its end.
Unable now this nymph’s sweet heart to seize,
He travelled back, but feeling ill-at-ease.
Returning home that fateful weekend night,
He leapt in bounds with all his foolish might,
But on arriving safely at his dorm,
His anxious feelings took insidious form.
What madness crept into his lustful mind
Bestruck by arrows of a shooter blind!
How calm composure amorous motive trumps,
‘Love-drunk’ was he upon her lovely lumps.
As passion from our hero now unfurled;
He cast his love into the cyber world.
A twitter tweet to her would sweetly coo;
While Facebook pokes replaced the billet-doux.
Continuing on this romantic quest,
He sent the girl a Facebook friend request.
What happened next our friend cannot recall
–Just distant memories of her Facebook wall.
In feelings tangled were his actions mixed,
So sent he her a bunch of naked pics.
His naughty words could not now be erased,
As they were etched for good in cyberspace. —Thomas Anderson
Sing out Muse! of things lewd and obscene.
A classic case of boy meets girl I tell.
Well, initially things were going well…
And now I should commence my little tale
Of love’s first spark ‘twixt plastic cups of ale:
In polo shirt and wearing cheap cologne,
Our hero yelled out above the drone.
His words received by yonder beauteous belle:
Step one of ten until his yen be quelled.
A line of poesy made the stars align;
He spoke to her his lovely pick-up line:
“Oh damsel there with tiny ping-pong ball,
You sink my cups! You sink them one and all!”
But always ‘tis the fate of lonely men,
That every party soon must meet its end.
Unable now this nymph’s sweet heart to seize,
He travelled back, but feeling ill-at-ease.
Returning home that fateful weekend night,
He leapt in bounds with all his foolish might,
But on arriving safely at his dorm,
His anxious feelings took insidious form.
What madness crept into his lustful mind
Bestruck by arrows of a shooter blind!
How calm composure amorous motive trumps,
‘Love-drunk’ was he upon her lovely lumps.
As passion from our hero now unfurled;
He cast his love into the cyber world.
A twitter tweet to her would sweetly coo;
While Facebook pokes replaced the billet-doux.
Continuing on this romantic quest,
He sent the girl a Facebook friend request.
What happened next our friend cannot recall
–Just distant memories of her Facebook wall.
In feelings tangled were his actions mixed,
So sent he her a bunch of naked pics.
His naughty words could not now be erased,
As they were etched for good in cyberspace. —Thomas Anderson
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Prodigal
(i'm taking an Imitations class in which we write poems in the styles of various famous poets. this week is alexander pope. basically, heroic couplets — iambic pentameter and exact rhyming.)
We walk the high road with no earthly care,
Defenseless to the frigid mountain air.
We took for granted skin, teeth, flesh, and bone,
Right up until we found that they were gone.
Now all that we have left are threadbare souls
With frozen breezes wafting through the holes.
So, deep in rapturous prayer, we walk and wait,
Exhausted, sightless, for the word of fate.
All our mistakes we lose and leave behind.
They spring up in our footsteps, curled and twined.
We must seem solemn to the passers-by,
Our pale and ghostly forms strange to their eye.
One asks us, "Travelers, have you lost your way?"
But no; we have no path from which to stray.
Their voices fade as we keep on our climb.
We lose their memory like we lose the time
To distant purposes that drive us on.
Our fathers said they'd meet us in the dawn.
There, all the chill of night will come undone;
So we must climb until we find the sun.
We walk the high road with no earthly care,
Defenseless to the frigid mountain air.
We took for granted skin, teeth, flesh, and bone,
Right up until we found that they were gone.
Now all that we have left are threadbare souls
With frozen breezes wafting through the holes.
So, deep in rapturous prayer, we walk and wait,
Exhausted, sightless, for the word of fate.
All our mistakes we lose and leave behind.
They spring up in our footsteps, curled and twined.
We must seem solemn to the passers-by,
Our pale and ghostly forms strange to their eye.
One asks us, "Travelers, have you lost your way?"
But no; we have no path from which to stray.
Their voices fade as we keep on our climb.
We lose their memory like we lose the time
To distant purposes that drive us on.
Our fathers said they'd meet us in the dawn.
There, all the chill of night will come undone;
So we must climb until we find the sun.
Friday, January 29, 2010
ludlow lions
when i was a young boy i would lie in wait
in the tall grass on the bank of the pond.
half-hidden i would watch the little insects,
dandelion seeds float across the surface.
i would watch you part the lily pads with
strong strokes. we were best friends.
when you got out of the water you would stand
in front of me and smile stupidly as
droplets of water fell from your nose and
your torso and your swimming trunks. i'd
watch their snaking paths down your ribs.
i never really understood it. now i sit
alone on my porch. my hair looks like
dandelion seeds. you were my best friend.
i just wish you could hear me now. i finally
get all the things i felt back then. all the
things i felt when we were growing up. all the
things i felt at your funeral. i get it.
i understand.
in the tall grass on the bank of the pond.
half-hidden i would watch the little insects,
dandelion seeds float across the surface.
i would watch you part the lily pads with
strong strokes. we were best friends.
when you got out of the water you would stand
in front of me and smile stupidly as
droplets of water fell from your nose and
your torso and your swimming trunks. i'd
watch their snaking paths down your ribs.
i never really understood it. now i sit
alone on my porch. my hair looks like
dandelion seeds. you were my best friend.
i just wish you could hear me now. i finally
get all the things i felt back then. all the
things i felt when we were growing up. all the
things i felt at your funeral. i get it.
i understand.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
emily snicket
i hold my celibacy like a paintbrush
and pretend it is an instrument of
unique and providential self-expression.
i try nightly to remember home. when i fail i
instead think of the white house up the road,
ruined by fire, clothes strewn across the porch roof.
i listen to my voice crack and wonder
how long it will take to sand it down until
it is small, flaccid, non-threatening.
i look at the vesuvius shadow of an
insect i crushed on the wall.
i feel a sudden fondness for it.
and i wade through the rain like an artist
having overcome the human horror of solitude
and become a grave angel, sexless and alone.
and pretend it is an instrument of
unique and providential self-expression.
i try nightly to remember home. when i fail i
instead think of the white house up the road,
ruined by fire, clothes strewn across the porch roof.
i listen to my voice crack and wonder
how long it will take to sand it down until
it is small, flaccid, non-threatening.
i look at the vesuvius shadow of an
insect i crushed on the wall.
i feel a sudden fondness for it.
and i wade through the rain like an artist
having overcome the human horror of solitude
and become a grave angel, sexless and alone.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
miss counted
when she leaned against his shoulder i felt
a drop of something, like an unfired bullet
slide down my windpipe and settle underneath
my throat. but the pain was in my gut.
a wrench like seeing the ghost of a dead
friend only days after you shed your
last tears. i focused on the bullet instead.
what really hurts are the lightest touches,
the things we love the most. it's a well-known
fact but only to those who found out the hard way.
her head on his shoulder.
echoes, just now coming back to me before
they leave again. i'm afraid they're
going to fade out at last and they
won't return for another time.
a drop of something, like an unfired bullet
slide down my windpipe and settle underneath
my throat. but the pain was in my gut.
a wrench like seeing the ghost of a dead
friend only days after you shed your
last tears. i focused on the bullet instead.
what really hurts are the lightest touches,
the things we love the most. it's a well-known
fact but only to those who found out the hard way.
her head on his shoulder.
echoes, just now coming back to me before
they leave again. i'm afraid they're
going to fade out at last and they
won't return for another time.
Friday, January 22, 2010
"sleep, troubled sleep, the troubled waking of the heart"
the dredges grind upriver but i do not look.
instead i turn my attentions to things more
immediate. a function to predict the phase
of periodic abysses. how to take the first
step on what was so recently thin air.
i imagine you on the opposite side and
take pause in a vision of you feeling
the same puzzlement that sometimes
crawls up onto my porch and eats the
sunflower seeds i leave out for the birds.
in my vision you also distrust your first step.
but in the ancient amnesia we get closer.
for one moment before we fall out of phase.
we are just like always.
we forget to notice we're touching.
instead i turn my attentions to things more
immediate. a function to predict the phase
of periodic abysses. how to take the first
step on what was so recently thin air.
i imagine you on the opposite side and
take pause in a vision of you feeling
the same puzzlement that sometimes
crawls up onto my porch and eats the
sunflower seeds i leave out for the birds.
in my vision you also distrust your first step.
but in the ancient amnesia we get closer.
for one moment before we fall out of phase.
we are just like always.
we forget to notice we're touching.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
state of the union
it was barely drizzling outside.
i had a hat and sweatshirt on.
my mom covered us both with an umbrella.
we got in the car and cranked the heat up
until we arrived at the restaurant.
the room was fashionably dim-lit.
we all talked about the earthquake in haiti.
we talked about how horrible it was as if
proving our compassion to each other.
"quarter of a million dead there" my dad said.
he popped another fry in his mouth.
our twenty-dollar dinners were prepared
to perfection.
my grandfather held my grandmother's
trenchcoat to help her put it on.
after i got home i turned on a hard rock song.
my mom walked into the room.
"what?! what is this?! no!" she exclaimed
as if in great distress. she held her fleece
bathrobe tight over her pajamas. i turned it off.
we watched the daily show and laughed at
the democratic party's bungling mistakes.
the men in suits. i sit on leather couches.
the television is turned to channel 148.
my laptop came with a backlit keyboard.
i don't know anything.
or maybe i know enough but i'm just being a
tight-fisted, over-privileged american.
don't tell me that i'm just as over-privileged
as anyone else. that does not lessen my fault.
how much do i have to give to be a good person?
why is my wallet still full of cash?
i had a hat and sweatshirt on.
my mom covered us both with an umbrella.
we got in the car and cranked the heat up
until we arrived at the restaurant.
the room was fashionably dim-lit.
we all talked about the earthquake in haiti.
we talked about how horrible it was as if
proving our compassion to each other.
"quarter of a million dead there" my dad said.
he popped another fry in his mouth.
our twenty-dollar dinners were prepared
to perfection.
my grandfather held my grandmother's
trenchcoat to help her put it on.
after i got home i turned on a hard rock song.
my mom walked into the room.
"what?! what is this?! no!" she exclaimed
as if in great distress. she held her fleece
bathrobe tight over her pajamas. i turned it off.
we watched the daily show and laughed at
the democratic party's bungling mistakes.
the men in suits. i sit on leather couches.
the television is turned to channel 148.
my laptop came with a backlit keyboard.
i don't know anything.
or maybe i know enough but i'm just being a
tight-fisted, over-privileged american.
don't tell me that i'm just as over-privileged
as anyone else. that does not lessen my fault.
how much do i have to give to be a good person?
why is my wallet still full of cash?
Saturday, January 16, 2010
20 feet (or: the goggles, they do nothing)
i couldn't see a thing but i've been
told blind faith looks good on me. so
i didn't stop.
it was a mistake.
first i lost the ability to integrate thoughts.
my legs became jigsaw puzzles standing on edge.
shotgun pellets brushed my face clean.
this is what we do.
we conquer hostile environments and use them
for recreation.
we give our stupid names to things that we
don't understand.
we think we've won when it's not even close to over.
the mountain calls down the ninth plague.
first i lost the ability to integrate thoughts.
my legs became jigsaw puzzles standing on edge.
i guess i was part of the hubris but it's not my fault
is it?
it's not my fault,
is it?
told blind faith looks good on me. so
i didn't stop.
it was a mistake.
first i lost the ability to integrate thoughts.
my legs became jigsaw puzzles standing on edge.
shotgun pellets brushed my face clean.
this is what we do.
we conquer hostile environments and use them
for recreation.
we give our stupid names to things that we
don't understand.
we think we've won when it's not even close to over.
the mountain calls down the ninth plague.
first i lost the ability to integrate thoughts.
my legs became jigsaw puzzles standing on edge.
i guess i was part of the hubris but it's not my fault
is it?
it's not my fault,
is it?
Sunday, January 10, 2010
impaled
i'm destined to be one more
rejected adolescent. a
stereotype or a parody.
i watch national guard
commercials twice a week.
i sit at my computer and
keep myself busy all day.
do fish care more about the
suffocation or the hook in
the roof of their mouth?
i look at other people's
photographs. soldiers
sleeping in the trenches
they've just dug or
children holding baby
goats and smiling at
the camera with no irony.
when they see flocks of
wood ducks gathering in
autumn, do cardinals feel
a pang of loneliness?
i'm dependent on other
people's work. i say
"i'm not allowed to
start doing mine."
i'm not good enough.
i've never worn a
uniform. i'm not ready.
rejected adolescent. a
stereotype or a parody.
i watch national guard
commercials twice a week.
i sit at my computer and
keep myself busy all day.
do fish care more about the
suffocation or the hook in
the roof of their mouth?
i look at other people's
photographs. soldiers
sleeping in the trenches
they've just dug or
children holding baby
goats and smiling at
the camera with no irony.
when they see flocks of
wood ducks gathering in
autumn, do cardinals feel
a pang of loneliness?
i'm dependent on other
people's work. i say
"i'm not allowed to
start doing mine."
i'm not good enough.
i've never worn a
uniform. i'm not ready.
Monday, January 4, 2010
six-legs (or: if you happen to own a copter gecko and are looking to get rid of it, i would be happy to take it off your hands)
she stole my ability to find a place
for myself, a state of mind, the
strict and sprawled sense of belonging,
and when i try and write all the wrong
things come out on the page. my right
brain is showing its age.
i'm much too young to believe in morals,
to know who she is, even begin to
fathom what's right in front of me.
because these days all i see are bones and
some are buried, but some are thrown.
sooner or later i'll have to acknowledge
that i'm not the good man here.
what do you call it when you lose
your grip to one more deserving?
i'm perfectly willing to slip i just
wish i could stop her burning
for myself, a state of mind, the
strict and sprawled sense of belonging,
and when i try and write all the wrong
things come out on the page. my right
brain is showing its age.
i'm much too young to believe in morals,
to know who she is, even begin to
fathom what's right in front of me.
because these days all i see are bones and
some are buried, but some are thrown.
sooner or later i'll have to acknowledge
that i'm not the good man here.
what do you call it when you lose
your grip to one more deserving?
i'm perfectly willing to slip i just
wish i could stop her burning
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