june 25th, 2009

hello rupert

I find myself here again and I love it. This is the closest thing to a church I have. Desperation drifts past my nose and I inhale, flaring my nostrils and thinning my chest. Chips clatter against each other in perfect harmony. I sit waiting patiently for a shot at glory. Here confidence is sold by the ounce and there is never a shortage of interested buyers. I glide the black ink across the faded green pad anxiously, confidently, quietly optimistic about the upcoming session. There are certain nights when you just know, when every blood vessel is swimming in synch; signaling victory on the internal jumbo screen. This is one of those nights. This is one of those silky nights that will send me home flying miles above the city lights and lonesome people. I begin another sentence-- and hear my initials. The bell has rung. The beast requests my presence. Hello moonlight…

poem #2

I have to keep writing, I just have to. There doesn’t have to be a reason or a complaint. I can write purely for the sake of writing; medicine for the brain. I still don’t understand the craving, but mystery is intriguing, is it not? This is not a poem but I don’t give a fuck. It’s meaningless and it will always be meaningless… but tonight it fills the page and keeps my worries distracted. They’re giggling on the swing set out back, still high from the ice cream I fed them hours ago. Out of my hair and I feel light as a feather. A swift breeze could toss me into flight, up among the clouds and the others who aren’t weighed down by life’s pressures. Oh lucky me, I think I feel a gust of wind at my back…

frustration

There are times when you feel you have done all you can; you have inserted yourself into the right place at the right time, you have been patient, you have been polite, you have been friendly, you have executed your goals just as you drew it up, yet… you are thrown on your ass and spit upon by those who personify lazy, those who use luck as a cane, those who do not think before they speak because nothing is sacred to them, those who let life pass them by each and every day and shrug their shoulders as if trying twice was enough, those who settle for mediocrity over and over again, those who look at you and only see a kid because maturity is only learned with age and you are young and what could you possibly know about life and the troubles that accompany it because you are just a kid and you probably think you know everything there is to know and you probably think that struggling is unfair, those who are too stubborn to accept change and too stupid to seek out the truth, or worse, those satisfied with complementary lies. These people stomped on my heart tonight and celebrated as I left but little do they know that I do not give up and I never will and I have more drive in my soul and more genuine bones in my body than they ever have or will. Continue to think I am just another misguided youth all you want, I love who I am and I dole out more respect to people that you are willing to accept, and for that, I couldn’t care any less about any of your opinions.

terror

Nothing confuses them more than silence. Use it wisely and they will crumble.

june 22nd, 2009

a cut-up I wrote with my girlfriend late into the night...

herculean

Word falling, photo falling, old folks at home eating and breathing quickly, expressionless.  Tina pressed a rough tongue against a rapid neck.  Your parasitic opera concerns are malnourished in this retro neighborhood.  Some day a man will be able to go for a walk and just disappear.  Here is the epicenter of economic rehabilitation, right here, in this room, where we don't have enough coffee.  Male pattern baldness narrowly escaped my evil clutches.  All the lovely diseases separating latitudes of light stumbled into the psychiatrist's office babbling hysterically.  You seem pretty sharp, ever handled a madras skirt?  The telephone rang unsuccessfully four consecutive times like a meteor hiding it's depraved face.  She murmured that the cloudy day had taken revenge on her forehead, but she was usually drunk on the porch combing her ego and stacking her black curses.

june 19th, 2009

an older poem I was unsatisfied with until now...

oh oh oh

look out, we gotta get out

triumphant sound and luscious green

something is going on inside my head

ha ha ha

don't try and convince me otherwise

you're out of your mind and you know it

          the bubble on my face is growing

and so is my impatience

get me out of here

I want to be there

over                              there

ha ha

just go away

come back tomorrow

the weather should be fairer

then

ha ha

ah what do you know

i'm drunk and your phantom limb

is all you ever cling to

you're pathetic and i'm drunk

so make your move

you're not the only one

playing chess.

june 15th, 2009

pinkies

…last night was so lovely, so spontaneous, so casually ecstatic and completely unique.  It was fun I could only have with you. 

I can’t believe it’s already six a.m., where has the night gone?  I didn’t expect an answer, but it was a question I wanted to ask.  Aphex Twin continued to massage our shoulders with ambient fingers.

I read to you and you to me.  I dropped the needle and you dropped the needle and the stack of records grew until it towered above us, eager to protect our vulnerable bodies.  I thanked our tilting guardian and felt safe, reborn.

Neither of us wanted it to end, to raise the white flag knowing we had milked all we could.  And that’s how it goes, how it always will.  Perfection does not linger, which is why it fascinates us all. 

We sat cross-legged on the bed and played go fish as the party unfolded behind the bedroom door.  I wanted to be nowhere else and your smile confirmed my desire.  Mutual love is stronger than any fucking word or poem or painting or song or vintage bottle of wine aged so well you clench your toes and ass cheeks after one short whiff.  I want to dip my nose into a nice wine glass and sip the one bottle I have dreamed of since day one, but I want that day to take me by surprise, and I want to work hard for that moment.      

I told you about the crush, how it’s harmless because you are the girl I want and you are the girl who likes me for me like no one else.  And I like you for you… isn’t it a beautiful thing?  It’s something we work on, something that will never be easy and will constantly challenge our current moral values.  I confront you and you return my serves with admirable force.  It will always be a tennis match and one of us will always have momentum.  But last night… last night we threw momentum out the bedroom window and gave a bloated middle finger to an audience expecting a formulaic outcome.  You continue to surprise me and that is what I need.  It paints a smile on my face before I drift off each night and that alone is enough to be thankful for.  

I live a plush life, even when my face is slammed into the mud.  I worry because it is in my blood, and if I constantly compare my worries to those suffering the most I will never feel truly happy.  I must learn to ration my sympathy, for it can crush a man as easily as it can save one.  You must live your life knowing you are given only one chance, one chance to do the right thing in every situation that presents itself.  No one is capable of walking down the right path every time, we are human, and unfortunately many of us have trouble with the concept of love.  Love, as well as respect, is not something you must earn, it is something you must prove unworthy of receiving.  Why should anyone have to earn my respect?  That insinuates that initially I respect no one… what an awful way to approach life.  

Have fun, consider those around you, accept who you are and never believe those who say you aren’t good enough.  You are god dammit, you can accomplish more than you know with a heart made of refusal and patience.  And when the end creeps up behind you, with that heart, who gives a shit.  Only you can judge yourself in front of the reaper, and with good intentions, you’ll dissipate relieved.  Scared as hell, but relieved.  The journey certainly isn’t for the weak hearted.  I pity the ones who are afraid to fail.

I love you.  Goodnight.

june 11th, 2009

an older poem...

yes

The pressure of a blank slate is enormous.  The sweat builds and builds and builds on my forehead until it drips onto the keyboard, seeping beneath the raised letters and out of sight.  The lack of restriction is madness personified.  The possibility of monotony hangs heavy over my head like a rain cloud in a children's cartoon.  Cigarettes burn and liquor stings and clichés knock at the door all night long.  It's glorified solitude to the audience at hand.  Sometimes the words come... and sometimes they are left behind to frolic in the breeze.  What a cliché.

june 8th, 2009

a sunday in june

The brief moments of silence didn’t bother us as we watched the afternoon unravel like a green rose.  I brought a sweatshirt to watch the ponies, but the weather was gorgeous and our smiles kept us warm.  Grace let us down and I left with an empty wallet, a sunburn, and a pack of peanut M&M’s.  We said hello to Marilyn on the way back and I felt strangely happy amongst the dead.  We rolled on with the top down and the music loud.  Do you know a better way?  We stopped for hamburgers and a young woman working her last shift rang us up.  She had the perfect blend of sincerity and desire in her voice.  The dogs made for excellent company for the remainder of the night.  I talked, he talked, and bullshit banged at the door all night.  Have fun sleeping on the porch.

What a perfect Sunday.

june 7th, 2009

an older poem...

all I did was wallow that summer

He hadn't written in months, perhaps half a dozen, but for some reason as he staggered out of bed this afternoon he did not think about the girl that got away, but instead of the tap-tap-tap-a-tap of the laptop keyboard and how easily it used to cure his problems.

It had been something like three weeks since he suffered his first broken heart, one which made him feel particularly useless. The first week he wept regularly and stared at the television blankly until odd hours of the night. The second week he naïvely woke up each morning thinking she would be waiting at the front door wearing the little league baseball shirt he gave her and that unbelievable smile she possessed, one that not long ago gave him more joy than anything else in the world. I know I've hurt you and I know there's nothing I can do to make it up but I want to give it another chance because in this time apart I realized how good you were for me and how much I love you and how much I miss waking up with your hand rested on my breast and your scraggly chin nuzzled perfectly in the notch of my shoulder. She would start to cry a little bit and her lips would begin to tremble like a small earthquake was occurring inside her mouth. She would also have the glint in her eye that only meant I want you and no one else. Yes, unfortunately he loved this girl and it was his first. He thought he felt love a while back, but he was much younger then and the idea of being in love sounded so easy to him.

The third week he started drinking and drugging more often (although he had been doing this frequently since day one), not to escape, but simply because the idea of sobriety bored him. Boredom led to massive existential analysis, something he was trying to avoid. He woke up no earlier than noon and while he told his father he was busting his ass to find employment, he was actually lying on the couch spinning classic rock vinyls, letting pretzel crumbs fall onto his pale, naked chest. It was the summer, he was 20, his heart was still under construction, and the idea of a job sounded, well... awful. So he opened up a blank page and did his best impression of a man who knew how to write.

june 5th, 2009

and older poem...

time to go to sleep

run toward the funk
run toward the wine
and the cheese
and the black
on black
on black
and make sure to run back 
home
to her
to tangle yourself up
under the sheets
like rotting pretzels
melding together
sleeping in
waking up
with a yawn
a smile
and an offer to cook breakfast
I can only make eggs and bacon
but they're the best damn eggs
you have ever tasted