Monday, March 29, 2010

Underpowered and Overthought

I start each morning calm and hopeful,
with a minty fresh mouth
and skin freshly shower steamed.
But it only takes a chain of thought
to leave me
lifeless, drained, and unwillling.
Completely
devoid of hope, destroyed from the inside out.
The overcast of overthinking, hangs heavy above my head.
So, I lay down again, hoping to sleep forever/
to sleep until things have gotten better/
to sleep until I can't think anymore.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Time to go.

I'm trapped by my desire not to communicate.
Desperately, searching for
the easiest ways to avoid contact
with people who require kid gloves.

I need to use my hands
to feel conversation as real,
embracing each curve, relishing in
the roughness of discomforts unmasked.

I have a hard time playing mind games
with people who are not my friends.
I have a hard time feigning interest
in the lives of people with whom I only share
ideological dissonance.

There has to be a way away from here.

Friday, March 26, 2010

These words

This cold night is warm with camaraderie.
Every window and every person on the street
is screaming of victory.
Somewhere in the unseen distance a firework goes off,
and everyone knows it is time.
Small groups slowly trickle down the road,
shouting and cheering, stumbling; some drunk
and others not. The road bottoms out into a mass of people,
a man-made lake of solidarity,
a large group of round dark bulbs
milling together, growing
and expanding on all sides.

Finally, a single brave youth in red motions
the crowd into the street
they begin to rock the asphalt dance floor,
jumping and tearing signposts from the ground.
In the midst of the zeal one climbs a traffic light,
throwing a middle finger to the waning gibbous moon.

On the sidelines,
men in black watch the festivities as they escalate,
waiting for their turn to join the wild rumpus.
Within half of an hour they are ready,
their charge is prepared. The sound,
(so different from the unregulated hoots of the boiling crowd)
wood pounding against plastic,
a drumbeat in two four time.
It is the clarion call for order
it is not intended to be ignored.
Unannounced and unrepentant
the line of shields march up the road
flanked and preceded by men on horseback.

Their aim, is
"to reclaim, the street in the name of order and law."
High above, it seems the moon has called its reinforcements,
a helicopter spotlight zeroes in on the unruly crowd.
The rowdy rabble rousers, stand unafraid,
these men hold no power over them.--

But then, the boiling crowd begins to seethe,
and from nowhere and everywhere
a new scream is heard.
Like a drop of Dawn® on a greasy plate
gas canisters fall
and instantly the celebration has been tainted,
fear and tears radiate
from the center
people begin running
from the trampling hooves,
becoming what they fear most.
The men of order must attempt to mitigate the chaos,
but they can only do so
by perpetuating the problem,
offering a solution of wood and gas and commands to people who want none.

Cars swerve, trying to make sense
of what was once a road, but is now a battlefield,
a massacre of unarmed joy versus the strong arm of decorum.
Watching it is worse than living it,
they have an experience to tell, and
all I will have are these words.

Poetry covers (aka things I like that have not been written by me)

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

- e.e. cummings

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Golem

The moonlight calls
you out from
the darkness sought
into the night that given.
All the world your
hiding place.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Oracle of Instinct

Survival instinct
is more than just physical:
hunger, safety, shelter
apply to both the body
and the mind.
I've been starving myself
pretending to be content
with crackers and water
they sustain, but never satisfy.

emotional Darwinism
is no more righteous than it's
social counterpart; but
I won't be a martyr for
your happiness anymore.
I suppose
I am emotionally conservative,
I am waiting for you
to pick yourself up by your "bootstraps".

I view extension of this
tragically,
as a failing.
If I cannot remove
this rotting limb
I know I will die with it.

We are only growing older;
growing Uglier, more frail.
why waste what little we've been given
on people who can't make us
as happy as we want to be.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Rhyming is for Pansies

Dear sweet baby Jesus,

or Valentine cherub

of the skies, were you blind

the day you struck me or

just really fucking high

did you consider the

ramifications of

your selfish but hilarious

act? Throwing me into

abomination and

never looking back. Were

you "trollin'" dude? Cause this

arrangment is passable

at best; it's gotten so

bad I can hardly bear

letting him watch me undress.

Not blaming you or anything,

but you caused this all to

be. I find it hard to

believe you had no clue

how miserable he'd make

me.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Carbine Peaks

The marksmanship team, the “Sawed-off Rifles”
are working their way up to the county
championships. The only thing worth cheering
for here, where the round movie theater bulbs
flash around titles from three months ago.
The best form of entertainment is a
long, often solitary, walk. At least
it is to me. When we moved here I was
old enough to feel the difference between
what was home and what is here. Still young enough
that there was nothing I could do to mitigate
all this strange newness. First day: new school, some
behemoth of red blocks and white lines. Discovering
the honeysuckle and coupling the
sweetness with catching my first friend;
we were fused by the sticky nectars of
September. Near the school, an empty lot
where kids played catch 'til sundown. (Until Mr.
Gregor Somephin would come there to rest, his
pockets always clinking with the sound of
glass, partially drained. Everything about
him seemed somehow siphoned off, sunken, slipping
-slurping away.) The lot opened into
a grove of trees in the back. Some say that
there was a beautiful patch of tree-free
grass just past the point visible from the
outside. We’d never find out, but had no
trouble imagining what could've been
that unseen place. It was always mid-spring
there, wildflowers always bloomed, there was
a baseball diamond. It wasn’t just a patch
anymore, it grew out and out, becoming
a meadow in their young minds; fostering
imagination that is hard to find
in the starkness of Carbine Peaks.

He says, She says.

I see sex in every sensuous hip
and well-toned leg,
in lips luxuriously plump
in stomachs rippling with muscle
in strong necks and smooth skin
in bright eyes,
in warm flesh.
Lying comfortably on a chest
of indeterminate origin.