Plainclothes Man
Take your curled strumming fingers,
nails chewed off ,
and pluck the strings of right now.
Turn it into a melody for me.
Sing to me the songs of tonight’s wet streets,
sing to me their mean, dirty chorus.
You grip your twisted bed sheets,
your stained coffee table,
your empty bottles,
your stupid mistakes,
you mold them into a symphony,
frail voice quivering
against the soft earthquakes of your words.
You lower your eyelids,
but you carry the disaster
time and time again.
Usually until the end.
Help me gather my neglected, nameless thoughts
that persist, that throb in sync with my breath.
Lend me your pen and I’ll number them.
Help me sweep the spider webs and dust
from the far, lonely place
where I once buried my dissonant chords.
Thanks for the roses,
I’ll bring them with me.
And thanks for the lingering lines you wrote
to soothe even the pain of your leave;
“I’m never gonna know you now,
but I’m gonna love you anyhow.”
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
weeknight and oct 2
This night is so stunning, it feels like I'm looking at the world through lilac-colored lenses. The orange sun's head struggles to stay above the horizon, but steady minutes pull it steadily down. I watched it drop in the west sky all the way home through finger-smeared windows, it looked like a radioactive orange. Now only its final screaming rays remain, then there will be nothing and this violet world will be black.
But how I love the fall. This is the climate I was meant for, when the air gently nibbles at my skin.
In the fall, any sound is melancholic, any scent is fragrant and rich. And it always smells like an apple tree is just around the corner.
Autumn is the most beautiful season of all. Season of terror and adventure, or of somber contemplation. Everything is poetic in autumn. Everything goes, anything goes. In autumn,
pain, suffering, confusion, fear, discomfort, cold, hunger, aches, spiders, demons, stenches, dirt, blood, death,
it's all poetry.
Autumn takes my problems and turns them into golden leaves, red leaves, green leaves, orange leaves, and I sit on my porch in the afternoon and watch them fall to the ground, fluttering in gusts of cool wind, with my pen in hand and there's nothing else I'd rather be doing.
Autumn turns my tears into freezing showers that I have to run through on my way to school, holding my coat over my head but still getting soaked, and I don't think I've ever enjoyed a sunny day stroll more than I enjoy running through the cold rain in the fall.
Leonard Cohen is the epitome of bittersweet. His words are ugly truth, and he writes like he's painting a picture, and every stroke makes you want to cry, avert your eyes, but then he says wait, look, this is beautiful, and it is.
But how I love the fall. This is the climate I was meant for, when the air gently nibbles at my skin.
In the fall, any sound is melancholic, any scent is fragrant and rich. And it always smells like an apple tree is just around the corner.
Autumn is the most beautiful season of all. Season of terror and adventure, or of somber contemplation. Everything is poetic in autumn. Everything goes, anything goes. In autumn,
pain, suffering, confusion, fear, discomfort, cold, hunger, aches, spiders, demons, stenches, dirt, blood, death,
it's all poetry.
Autumn takes my problems and turns them into golden leaves, red leaves, green leaves, orange leaves, and I sit on my porch in the afternoon and watch them fall to the ground, fluttering in gusts of cool wind, with my pen in hand and there's nothing else I'd rather be doing.
Autumn turns my tears into freezing showers that I have to run through on my way to school, holding my coat over my head but still getting soaked, and I don't think I've ever enjoyed a sunny day stroll more than I enjoy running through the cold rain in the fall.
Leonard Cohen is the epitome of bittersweet. His words are ugly truth, and he writes like he's painting a picture, and every stroke makes you want to cry, avert your eyes, but then he says wait, look, this is beautiful, and it is.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
morning feeling of aug 21
Weary morning,
on the porch,
humid and cool,
grey and green.
a bit uncomfortable,
in my skin,
in my clothes,
a bit sad,
a bit scared.
Yesterday I felt better.
Crow cawing,
small birds chirping in the trees... such a familiar sound;
the sound of cartwheels on the grass,
of chalk on the sidewalk,
of small bodies and infinite futures.
a bit too familiar,
a bit too reassuring,
a bit too nostalgic.
but not much of anything.
The cawing ends,
the birds flitter away to somewhere better.
I'm tired on the porch,
alone, and free as the birds,
but fearing the bumblebee buzzing near my writing hand.
It buzzes away,
and my pen didn't capture this morning quite right,
but I never really told it to.
on the porch,
humid and cool,
grey and green.
a bit uncomfortable,
in my skin,
in my clothes,
a bit sad,
a bit scared.
Yesterday I felt better.
Crow cawing,
small birds chirping in the trees... such a familiar sound;
the sound of cartwheels on the grass,
of chalk on the sidewalk,
of small bodies and infinite futures.
a bit too familiar,
a bit too reassuring,
a bit too nostalgic.
but not much of anything.
The cawing ends,
the birds flitter away to somewhere better.
I'm tired on the porch,
alone, and free as the birds,
but fearing the bumblebee buzzing near my writing hand.
It buzzes away,
and my pen didn't capture this morning quite right,
but I never really told it to.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Am I Poetic
Sitting in my backyard at our pink wooden table, reading about Buddhism in the gentle summer rain, drinking an iced coffee I made with ice cream, instead of ice and cream, I thought of that cleverly. Should I be drinking it at all? I put chocolate chips in it because I wanted to, because they taste good. I told myself I could drink it in the name of experimentation, why deprive myself of a good thing, it's healthy for the mind. What do I know, I feel chubby and self-conscious now. And too full. Why do we go inside when it rains? Isn't it a gift of sorts? In heat like this, a gentle shower. Am I very philosophical? Am I strong and wise? My paper is getting wet. What do I know. Maybe I'll call this, "What do I know", sounds catchy doesn't it. But I really do think I enjoy the rain.
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