Monday, June 6, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Plainclothes Man v2 new and improved?
Take your curled strumming fingers,
nails chewed off,
and pluck the strings of right here.
Turn it into a melody for us,
the ones you’ve been waiting for
in the rain.
We’ve peeled our own hearts raw
to be here with you too.
So sing us the songs of tonight’s wet streets,
sing us their mean, dirty chorus.
You grip your twisted bed sheets,
your stained coffee table,
your empty bottles,
your stupid mistakes,
you wring them into a symphony,
frail voice quivering
against the soft earthquakes of your words.
Help us brave the ghosts in the graveyard
where we once buried our dissonant chords.
Lift our chins to the moon,
give us rose petals for the path.
Help us gather our neglected, nameless thoughts
from under the rug,
from the back of our drawers.
We’ll let them sit on our desktops;
Lend us your pen and we’ll number them.
nails chewed off,
and pluck the strings of right here.
Turn it into a melody for us,
the ones you’ve been waiting for
in the rain.
We’ve peeled our own hearts raw
to be here with you too.
So sing us the songs of tonight’s wet streets,
sing us their mean, dirty chorus.
You grip your twisted bed sheets,
your stained coffee table,
your empty bottles,
your stupid mistakes,
you wring them into a symphony,
frail voice quivering
against the soft earthquakes of your words.
Help us brave the ghosts in the graveyard
where we once buried our dissonant chords.
Lift our chins to the moon,
give us rose petals for the path.
Help us gather our neglected, nameless thoughts
from under the rug,
from the back of our drawers.
We’ll let them sit on our desktops;
Lend us your pen and we’ll number them.
I'm sure I got your letter, I just didn't look at it. I didn't even take it out of the mailbox. Most of the time I forget I have a mailbox, it's bolted to a brick wall on the porch, I'll wake up past noon and the sun'll set behind it. It's just part of a big shadow, a big obscure thought while I stare out at the sunset with sunglasses on, so my eyes don't get hurt. I'll drink a coffee as though I need the energy to stand here and smile then dawdle through the night, and I'll do the same thing tomorrow. I'll hope that the phone doesn't ring me out of bed before the sun's where I'm used to it being, and I'll hope I don't see the heaping pile of browning letters damp with dew all pleading me to wake up earlier.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
riding the overpass
On the highway overpass
you can see half the city,
black boxes, shrunken fumes,
small silhouettes before the sunset.
It almost feels like something,
my insides almost flutter,
then I'm going down again,
stretching my neck to keep it.
you can see half the city,
black boxes, shrunken fumes,
small silhouettes before the sunset.
It almost feels like something,
my insides almost flutter,
then I'm going down again,
stretching my neck to keep it.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
How old are you really?
I like your smile,
I like your hair,
I like you here.
I don’t like that joke you made
in combination with your
pretentious suit.
I didn’t know
that suit was pretentious
until you made that joke.
Well I can tell that you like
being here too,
and that you don’t like
all the rings I wear on my hands.
I wear them because
I don’t like the way my fingers look.
They wouldn’t look good
on your pretentious suit, either.
So we can continue to glare
at each other’s distracting apparel
or we can smile politely,
unfocus our eyes slightly
and part ways.
Or you can hold
my bejeweled hand
and unbejewel it,
I’ll grab your tie
and untie it,
Let’s
come of age
together,
Let’s
take the stairs instead.
I like your hair,
I like you here.
I don’t like that joke you made
in combination with your
pretentious suit.
I didn’t know
that suit was pretentious
until you made that joke.
Well I can tell that you like
being here too,
and that you don’t like
all the rings I wear on my hands.
I wear them because
I don’t like the way my fingers look.
They wouldn’t look good
on your pretentious suit, either.
So we can continue to glare
at each other’s distracting apparel
or we can smile politely,
unfocus our eyes slightly
and part ways.
Or you can hold
my bejeweled hand
and unbejewel it,
I’ll grab your tie
and untie it,
Let’s
come of age
together,
Let’s
take the stairs instead.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
a shakespearean sonnet in iambic pentameter (hopefully, or else I will not get an A). "A Vacant House"
The dusty floor has been unswept for years,
Ceramic tiles once pearly white now grey,
Or yellow with the small, round stains of tears;
Dried flowers, mold; the drinking cups decay.
They say she doesn’t live here anymore,
They never look this way when walking by;
Outside, the grass sways long and limp and poor;
The grass, the paint, the walls – the tears are dry.
A field nearby, below a patch of soil,
His bones, her hand, forever intertwined;
She curls her fingers; milk begins to spoil,
She stares, she holds a glass of acid wine.
At night she’ll leave her chair to close the door;
They say she doesn’t live here anymore.
Ceramic tiles once pearly white now grey,
Or yellow with the small, round stains of tears;
Dried flowers, mold; the drinking cups decay.
They say she doesn’t live here anymore,
They never look this way when walking by;
Outside, the grass sways long and limp and poor;
The grass, the paint, the walls – the tears are dry.
A field nearby, below a patch of soil,
His bones, her hand, forever intertwined;
She curls her fingers; milk begins to spoil,
She stares, she holds a glass of acid wine.
At night she’ll leave her chair to close the door;
They say she doesn’t live here anymore.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
What you took in the trunk of your car
I didn’t notice
how full the trunk was,
I was too busy trying to recreate
what my eyebrows do
when I’m upset,
And I was waving with Mom and Dad
to your shrinking bumper,
so every other second
all I could see was the back of my hand.
You’d packed a few things of mine,
accidentally.
Years later
when I stopped waving
at the bare horizon,
(I could’ve sworn
there was still a speck)
I really missed them.
Had I known then
that those things of mine
were rolling away from my life,
I would’ve chased your trail of smoke,
roaring,
jumped in through the passenger window,
wild,
but you’d have booted me out the door,
lest I crash us both.
You’d have zoomed on
towards the otherworldly sunrise,
you'd have left me there
on the hot charcoal asphalt,
dirty, without my things,
in hanging dust from spinning tires,
eyes watering.
But at least in that red,
bloody moment,
my eyebrows would’ve known
exactly what to do.
how full the trunk was,
I was too busy trying to recreate
what my eyebrows do
when I’m upset,
And I was waving with Mom and Dad
to your shrinking bumper,
so every other second
all I could see was the back of my hand.
You’d packed a few things of mine,
accidentally.
Years later
when I stopped waving
at the bare horizon,
(I could’ve sworn
there was still a speck)
I really missed them.
Had I known then
that those things of mine
were rolling away from my life,
I would’ve chased your trail of smoke,
roaring,
jumped in through the passenger window,
wild,
but you’d have booted me out the door,
lest I crash us both.
You’d have zoomed on
towards the otherworldly sunrise,
you'd have left me there
on the hot charcoal asphalt,
dirty, without my things,
in hanging dust from spinning tires,
eyes watering.
But at least in that red,
bloody moment,
my eyebrows would’ve known
exactly what to do.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
momentum
rusty moon tonight,
are you as tired as I am?
Does the night seem long,
does your task feel heavy?
My soles are red,
your light is dim,
and there aren't any stars to help.
Behind that thick factory smoke,
your yellow glow disappears,
and by the thrusts of this wind,
my walking pace slows.
Do you feel like shutting off?
Like flickering back into
the serenity of nowhere,
and letting the Earth illuminate itself?
But no,
you've got the momentum of millenniums
nipping at your heels and you'll shine on,
and you'll shine on me,
and I'll drag my cold feet
all the way home.
are you as tired as I am?
Does the night seem long,
does your task feel heavy?
My soles are red,
your light is dim,
and there aren't any stars to help.
Behind that thick factory smoke,
your yellow glow disappears,
and by the thrusts of this wind,
my walking pace slows.
Do you feel like shutting off?
Like flickering back into
the serenity of nowhere,
and letting the Earth illuminate itself?
But no,
you've got the momentum of millenniums
nipping at your heels and you'll shine on,
and you'll shine on me,
and I'll drag my cold feet
all the way home.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
6 Trees
There was a band of brothers, six of them all living together in the big city, all suffering the harshness of its society. In the city the nights were bitter cold or feverishly hot, or sometimes both.
These brothers were flexible and quick, healthy and strong, fruitful, almost majestic. And with their fierce eyes they looked at their lives, at the nature of their days and they said, "That's enough." They would not stand for whatever undeserved stones this city would throw at them, day after day, and they were strong, and they were together, and they would stand only for something better.
So they walked away from the city one fiery morning, with no desire to look back, with relief at being out of the way of its mean winds, whipping in tangled spirals behind them.
They climbed whatever hills were on their path, suffered whatever storms they passed through, tired but grateful for the challenge. They were exhausted by the end of every traveling day until they found what they thought they were looking for.
The air was calm, there were many streets with many rows of houses, many driveways, many cars, many parks and many benches. And the air was calm. It was gentle, slow.
And so they stretched and they sighed, they looked at each other and they agreed, this is it, this is peace. Home at last. They stepped off their rocky path and onto the grass, they looked around and took it all in.
From then on their days weren't so tormented, and they lived with ease and everyone there stayed out of everyone's way, like they were all tailing along in a circle, all part of the same neverending monologue.
They grew so attached to this lifestyle, so accustomed to it that eventually, all six of them began to find it hard to move around, and this was because their feet became rooted to the ground. They could not keep walking their circular lives but they could not escape its confines. Their skin began to darken, their fingers turned to brittle, bare twigs, and then they were stretching, reaching out into emptiness, and then they were frozen solid. They were six trees.
jan 1 2011
These brothers were flexible and quick, healthy and strong, fruitful, almost majestic. And with their fierce eyes they looked at their lives, at the nature of their days and they said, "That's enough." They would not stand for whatever undeserved stones this city would throw at them, day after day, and they were strong, and they were together, and they would stand only for something better.
So they walked away from the city one fiery morning, with no desire to look back, with relief at being out of the way of its mean winds, whipping in tangled spirals behind them.
They climbed whatever hills were on their path, suffered whatever storms they passed through, tired but grateful for the challenge. They were exhausted by the end of every traveling day until they found what they thought they were looking for.
The air was calm, there were many streets with many rows of houses, many driveways, many cars, many parks and many benches. And the air was calm. It was gentle, slow.
And so they stretched and they sighed, they looked at each other and they agreed, this is it, this is peace. Home at last. They stepped off their rocky path and onto the grass, they looked around and took it all in.
From then on their days weren't so tormented, and they lived with ease and everyone there stayed out of everyone's way, like they were all tailing along in a circle, all part of the same neverending monologue.
They grew so attached to this lifestyle, so accustomed to it that eventually, all six of them began to find it hard to move around, and this was because their feet became rooted to the ground. They could not keep walking their circular lives but they could not escape its confines. Their skin began to darken, their fingers turned to brittle, bare twigs, and then they were stretching, reaching out into emptiness, and then they were frozen solid. They were six trees.
jan 1 2011
Just some advice.
And if you were to turn your world on its side? No, not upside-down. But take this view, take it with your hands and turn it over. You'll see all your flat lines are upright now, and maybe the dust is sliding off their surfaces. You would lose your footing, there's no doubt, you would slip down the ground and wildly try to grab something. You'd be falling. But sooner or later your feet would find something solid and then you could stand and look around at this new world where everything you used to be able to stand on is more like a wall now, which you need to climb. Which you want to climb. Because you were tired of your lines being flat. You were tired of horizons.
Who hasn't dreamed of walking on walls and climbing the floor?
The earth keeps rumbling, quaking. Pull it from under your feet and brace yourself for the fall. Do it before it splits open and you fall in.
jan 1 2011
Who hasn't dreamed of walking on walls and climbing the floor?
The earth keeps rumbling, quaking. Pull it from under your feet and brace yourself for the fall. Do it before it splits open and you fall in.
jan 1 2011
New Horizons
I took a breath and the time to loosen that chokehold my heart has on my eyes so I could see without a tint of red. I looked out my backyard door to whatever platitudes are always planted there. Flimsy sheds in all the backyards, divided by slightly crooked crosswire. But through the hazy winter sky, in the distance, there was the silhouette of a tall bulky building, which I never noticed I could see from where I stood. What building is this? I don't know my hometown enough to know. It's a building that must be far to walk to, with my jelly legs and twisted back anyway. Yet I can see it from my home.
dec 31 2010
dec 31 2010
To the Tree at the Foot of our Hill
Do you remember me? It's been a long time. My cheeks aren't so rosy anymore, my thighs have grown, my eyes don't have that sparkle. On the way up the dirt path I could see through your tangled, brittle branches our old house perched on the snowy hill. You're sleeping now because it's cold out, you're not in your glory. But I remember you when you were green and pulsing. I remember sitting in your shade.
Do the kids who live here now use you as the safe spot in tag? Did they give you a name? Do they climb your branches, or carve drawings in your bark? Do they trade cards below your leaves? Do they take turns telling scary stories in this grass? Do they argue, yell and shout? Do they split their heads open on your trunk when they roll down the hill? Do they laugh, sing and dance? Did they forget all about little Anthony's sixth birthday?
I've come to see what secrets you hold for me, to brighten my grey adult skies, and make my clouds look like teddy bears or trains.
Twisted tree, I thought you looked funny as a child. Now you look ominous and foreboding to me, your curves like snakes, your branches like long, slender thorns. If I reached out and touched you, would you prick me, bite me, or would you be funny again?
dec 20
Do the kids who live here now use you as the safe spot in tag? Did they give you a name? Do they climb your branches, or carve drawings in your bark? Do they trade cards below your leaves? Do they take turns telling scary stories in this grass? Do they argue, yell and shout? Do they split their heads open on your trunk when they roll down the hill? Do they laugh, sing and dance? Did they forget all about little Anthony's sixth birthday?
I've come to see what secrets you hold for me, to brighten my grey adult skies, and make my clouds look like teddy bears or trains.
Twisted tree, I thought you looked funny as a child. Now you look ominous and foreboding to me, your curves like snakes, your branches like long, slender thorns. If I reached out and touched you, would you prick me, bite me, or would you be funny again?
dec 20
Judi on the Deck
I have a picture from a couple years ago, it seems it hasn't been so long but it has and much has changed since then.
It's a picture of my dog Judi when she was just around a year old, I think, because she was still so small and my bare toe at the bottom tells me it was summer. She was born in the summer.
In this picture she's looking up at the camera, sitting like a teddy bear like she does, and her face is big and out of focus. There's such a long hard shadow in front of her on the pale grey deck. The deck's light pink in real life but in this picture it's grey. The sun must've been behind her. The shadow on the left must've been my mom's and it came in the picture by accident.
Judi's looking up at me and there's a big white teardrop-shaped patch of fur on her nose. I can remember my Uncle Danny seeing that patch of white on her nose for the first time when she was just a puppy and he said, "Oh, look at that. That's cute." It surprised me because he really meant it, and he was never a big fan of our dogs. I've loved that patch of white on her nose more ever since. Even more now that he's gone. I think I love it like it's a part of him for me to hold on to. Sometimes it's not easy for me to hold on to him.
Much has changed since this picture was taken. My Uncle Danny's not alive anymore and Judi's not so small anymore. It's not summer anymore either. The place that processed this picture doesn't process that kind of film anymore. I'll miss Judi when she's gone, and I'll miss that patch of white on her nose. And I think I'll love this picture like it's a part of her for me to hold on to.
dec 20 2010
It's a picture of my dog Judi when she was just around a year old, I think, because she was still so small and my bare toe at the bottom tells me it was summer. She was born in the summer.
In this picture she's looking up at the camera, sitting like a teddy bear like she does, and her face is big and out of focus. There's such a long hard shadow in front of her on the pale grey deck. The deck's light pink in real life but in this picture it's grey. The sun must've been behind her. The shadow on the left must've been my mom's and it came in the picture by accident.
Judi's looking up at me and there's a big white teardrop-shaped patch of fur on her nose. I can remember my Uncle Danny seeing that patch of white on her nose for the first time when she was just a puppy and he said, "Oh, look at that. That's cute." It surprised me because he really meant it, and he was never a big fan of our dogs. I've loved that patch of white on her nose more ever since. Even more now that he's gone. I think I love it like it's a part of him for me to hold on to. Sometimes it's not easy for me to hold on to him.
Much has changed since this picture was taken. My Uncle Danny's not alive anymore and Judi's not so small anymore. It's not summer anymore either. The place that processed this picture doesn't process that kind of film anymore. I'll miss Judi when she's gone, and I'll miss that patch of white on her nose. And I think I'll love this picture like it's a part of her for me to hold on to.
dec 20 2010
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