Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Watching

A man sits down at a desk, the chair legs whining across the old wooden floor
He lays down a single sheet of paper and a pen
For a while, he stares at the paper, and then his hands, and then again at the paper
He begins to write
His writing is long and sad, elegant in its melancholy,
The words spill on to the pages like tears, he writes

In the audience, no one talks, all eyes are on him,
In his boxer shorts, a t-shirt, an old button up

Fake sunlight pours through a fake window into his fake room
The stage is the only place alive in that moment, all eyes, all souls existing for his story

He finishes, he leaves the paper, he walks out the door

The audience is alone

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Halos and Hard-ons

Don't confuse wanting to fuck a woman
with believing in God

A Song For No More Heaven

I was lost
in the wilderness
in despair,
disrepair
with a hollow,
with a horror
with sand
in my pockets

And Jesus
he found me
he told me
heaven's gone

So I sat down
by a river
and I cast my
soul to see

There were mountains
there was water
endless water
open sea

There were mountains
there was water
endless water
all for me

And then Jesus
sat beside me
and I asked him
what he'd do

No more heaven
no more salvation
no more prayer for
eternity

And he told me
to stay here
by the river
with my soul at sea

With the mountains
with the water
endless water
open sea

With the mountains
with the water
endless water
all for me

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

I'm Not Crazy

I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you I could love you.

"I'm not crazy," he said, furiously scratching his pen across the page. "I'm not crazy, and they can fuck themselves if they try to make me believe it for an instant."
"Relax James, you're going to burst something." Steven was usually right about these things, but his determination to offer unhelpful advice was bordering on sinister. James straightened up from his hunched position over the desk. He glanced once more at his testament to passion and then took the papers and placed them alone in an empty drawer.

Meanwhile, we're all born with mothers, but some of us have lost them.


Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Kodachrome Loveletter

Last Sunday, in the orchard by your favorite pear tree
you said, "Stop, the light is good here,"
and you took your camera, and fiddled the knob
and dialed the fiddles and you adjusted something,
just right

And you said, "Now hold still, I love you."
Snap

Now I know it's a beautiful summer, and I think that you love me,
but winters come and love isn't always an Evergreen

What I'm trying to tell you is this,
that a picture's worth a thousand words and you just caught
a thousand of my best

Like honesty, kindness, gentle, forever...

But I've got more words than all your Kodachrome could capture

Like marry me...

I want you to keep more than just my film,
Keep me

Monday, July 13, 2009

Exhale

Who, new-tongue
say it ain't so
Cast indecisive trifles from tip toed moments
and embrace the inner weird

Tell me I'm beautiful for who I am but
love me any-me, for who I strive to become
or what I say I will become or even
the me I dream about

Because I paint you those dreams and you taste them,
licking all my canvases, searching for the salt sweat
mingling with sweet promise, the pleasure and satisfaction
of Me realized then materialized then actualized then third eye'd,
and in turn I taste my own why's and what's and smell the cleaner air
I breathe easy for a while

Later,
Beautiful Sunday, 8 a.m window light requiem,
songbird orgasm, yellow, pale blue,
one moment of truth and then fresh coffee,
and snapping back to reality, and bills, and drudge-fuckery,
being a grown up, within a child's cage within an adult's body,
in the boy-world of men, yes, beautiful Sunday 8 a.m window light requiem....

Wrench

She enters our conversations with pistols drawn,
drawing angry faces in the clouds with a scowl like ashes,
and laying her hands upon the glass jar that contains my love,
she squeezes and black bile and tears flow from cut fingers and broken glass


Gravity

When I was a boy, I could throw a baseball farther than anyone on the street,
and when I was a boy, I could ride faster on my red bike than any kid on our block,
and when I was a boy, seed spitting was my kingdom and the neighborhood kids, they were my people.

When I was a boy, I took fireflies at night and threw them so high in the sky, whole constellations were born.
When I was a boy, I was a God....of hide and seek.

But now, I've got more debt than any Dad on the street,
and no Jim, John or Steve in my neighborhood could top my blood pressure.
I haven't met anyone yet with bigger hemeroids,
and it seems like the only line my kids are at the front of is for their first welfare check.

Things were lookin so bright for me,
but then I remembered, "What goes up must come down."

Shit, see, when I was a boy, I could still defy gravity...

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Soul

When you eat your soul with a
helping of gracious smiles,
candid I love you's, and
stale soda crackers

When you eat your soul with honesty,
and with charm

When you eat your soul with the one you wanna be with,
and you're both sitting in the back seat of your first car,
it's raining the fattest drops, the ones that'll drown the ocean,
and taking off your clothes is the last thing on your mind,
when you're there, in that moment, eating your own soul

You get a quarter and you find a payphone, and rain or no rain,
you call me up
Cause' I wanna know what satisfaction tastes like.


Thursday, July 9, 2009

Shoelaces

The shoelaces that join our feet are longer than the summer days of our childhood,
when I would wear that ragged costume of Peter Pan and you'd be Wonderwoman.
When we'd fight the phantom crime of imagination, and never grow up doing it.
When kissing came long after Crayola, skinned knees and multiplication,
after spelling bees, climbing trees and the longest games of hide and seek I can remember,
the ones that go and go until we all come out to find you, "It",
asleep in a field, with a butterfly in one hand and the moon tattooed on your dreams.

Those shoelaces are long, longer than four years of college in another province, in another world,
the shoelaces that join our feet are longer than the names I gave to you.
Longer than the riddles your grandfather knew, longer than ten minutes of silence at eight years old.

The shoelaces that joined our feet have worn, frayed, faded.
Now I want to replace them with a wedding ring.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Dream Within Waking

I have lived this life, even though it is not mine,
I have loved friends and family, ghosts now

As I awake, back from where I started,
I feel the ache of longing for that borrowed time
My heart breaks for the illusion lost,
I would give anything to be back inside the dream.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

While

While we immerse ourselves in the echoes of animals
while we pray at an altar of plastic goods
while we dance blind in pools of crude
while we gnaw at the Terran jugular

while we sleep the day and wake the night
2009 discontent
2009 anxiety
2009 impatience
2009 uncertainty

while this
while this
while this I hope

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Bed

I'm sitting here,
at this childhood wooden desk
my usual hangout, and I'm thinking

I want to spell the poetry of Man
but I've got to go to bed.
I want to scream the secrets of my skin
but I've got the go to bed.
I want to dish on the dreams I've been having,
I want to fish around in a puddle of words,
I want to take Truth, Gonad and Amnesty
and turn those three words into the
Nobel fucking prize for literature,
but I've got to go to bed.

I wanna talk man,
but I've got to go to bed.
I wanna whisper strange incantations that I composed just to sound cool,
but I've got to go to bed.
I want to stay here all night helping the Universe realize itself
through conversation with the sky and my offwhite keyboard:
"Hey bro, I'm you, you're me, everything's gonna be okay."
But instead, I've got to go to bed.

So I close up this laptop, I take off my socks
and brush my teeth wishing teeth didn't need brushing,
and I climb in bed with a pen in my hand and a notebook under the pillow.

And when I wake up, that notebook is full of human souls
born scribbled in a stranger's hand.

See, whether I'm awake or asleep, I don't have to worry,
because my process doesn't stop.
You can't kill my creativity,
you can't beak my pencil.

So I'm going to bed.

An enquiring mind is not something to mind

God Bless Google