Thursday, January 31, 2008

1641

I remember, in the middle
of winter, around January, a
few seasons ago, which have
all blended together since, right
around the setting of the
sun, before five pm. How
depressing it was, usually. The
shadows of the sun settling
behind the hills, behind the
ocean, like a hand over
my eyes from my mother
when I was a child.
But I was on the
train, from the north of
the city, coming home to
see you. My face had
changed much since the last
time I saw you. My
eyes grew dark around, and
my hands had grown a
bit more shaky, perhaps I
had used the whiskey as
a crutch. Train 1641, passing
the time of the ride,
which seemed to drag on
and on, by reading Billy
Collins, and with my last
sip, I knew soon enough
we would be touching again.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

The Fair

A curator scolded me for stepping out of queue.
But it was hard to focus with such a long line
of dreadful projects and a mammoth, dark smudge, radiating
from the other side of what used to be a warehouse.

Nothing about a theory on economic stability
through a currency based on the speed of light
grabbed me, nor any of the countless other drudgeries.

I floated about until I came to that colossus in the distance.

An infalsifiablity bell—and an impressive one at that—all big and brass.

Poster board would have done the same work
(but then, where’s the finesse) to show the argument
of a bizarre looking deer that is extinct and was always rare.

Maybe it was just how innocent the creature looked,
but it took me back to when I was a child
and, right down the street from there,
paid a man to play Emperor and dance like a Hare Krishna.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Improvisation Over Miles Davis and the Red Headed Girl

It's late. It's gotten late. Sunday nights are the blandest, always have been. Somehow when you have music on, it's not so bad. Just keeps the wheel turning. Like a bike upside down and you're just there easing one of the pedals.

If phone calls made sense, then I would use a phone more often. Yet phones drown people. I damn near drown every time. Can't help it. No life preserver, no blow-up vest. No boat coming to help me out. I don't like telephones anymore. Maybe phone calls are like poorly executed bits of syncopation. Just too much. Too much. Makes a bad racket.

It's funny thinking of this chick. No clue how it'll work out. Where's the relation? Who knows. But I keep at it. I'm easing the pedal on that bike I turned upside down.

I always liked turning a bike upside down and turning the pedal. Makes me feel like I'm cranking an old movie camera from the twenties. Sixteen frames a second. Gotta keep a beat to get that steady sixteen. Just ease the crank.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Johnny Prozac Goes to a Show

Johnny Prozac is an overexposed
roll of French cinema ennui stereotype.
His hometown is full of stoners.
Guess they’re bored too.
They should’ve been taught
moderation in health class.

Johnny Prozac goes to a show,
finest leather on sleeveless.
No ear plugs because
he’s just a fan. Between sets, the background beats
blast loud enough to be their own band.
Chicky next to him bitches to the bouncer
about the new smoking ban,
like he was grounded for not cleaning his room.

Johnny Prozac goes to a lot of shows
so he don’t hear too good no more.
He has to crank headphones to find
lost secrecies in low frequencies.
Maybe he’ll go skiing next weekend.



I would really appreciate some feedback and criticism on this one, if anyone cares to.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Another Sonnet

Another anyday
Of basements and gilded smoke.
I’m part of the stay
Through constant come and go,
Like selective slow motion
Or the island between traffic—
A visual feedback commotion;
I suppose the word is “hectic.”
Longing for distance
From a city block of cement chimneys.
The pearly remains of pilfers clog each stack.
I imagine that some face up and others, down.
But skeletons have been known to dance
And a certain house tells me, “You’re going to be a great father someday.”



(I'm also back)

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

we live life

so i haven't written or tried to write in probably a month. partially because i never had my own computer, until now! I apologize for the inconsistencies.

we live life like we're gonna die.
the next time we close our eyes.
a sense of urgency, resins in the night.
and every bottle is our last drink.
we imbibe until we can't feel,
the phantom feeling of pending loss we share within.
shaking scared so silently
so much tension surrounding me
this bubble we've made is ready to break
caused reaction of fear and fate
it comes down to heart, it comes down to pride.
and whether or not you like what you feel inside.
so tonight, ill take this ride
to try and walk alone on the other side
and problems will surely follow
as sure as the sun will rise
a soldier of Emerson and Thoreau
in self reliance ill survive.


Wednesday, January 2, 2008

The Space Between The Streets And Dreaming

it's 2:00 am,
and you're waiting outside the window.
your breath fogs the glass,
you write "let me in."
so i let you in.
it's 2:04 am,
i stop breathing,
close the curtain,
keep the night from getting in.
so hold your breath love,
it's all we have.
so don't open the shades.
when all the bars are closed,
the city seems so dead,
please don't wake the beast.
these words are for you,
kissed with elegance,
and thrown inside the fire of my house.
this match is for you,
laced with eloquence,
and thrown inside the fire of my house.

The Ice On The River

i'll stand.
i'll stand deep in your heart.
your tongue moves as words are said.
your words.
words i've come to anticipate,
come to love.
i've saved you a place in my mind.
i'd give it up to fit you in.
a privilege, so let's begin.
please dance this dance with me.
you can lead.
it's the only one we know.
we're dancing on ice.
the river is my heart.
frozen for so long.
i need your hands against my chest.
you've broken the ice.
you've conquered the cold.
you move me in a way
i have never moved before.
swim in my veins.
turn me.
move me.
love me.
you've broken the ice.
you've saved me from myself,
and winter.
take me.
we're going under.
you are the air in my lungs.
me, with you in my heart.
me, with you in my lungs.
me, with you in my veins,
in your arms,
they keep me warm.
we're going under.

Seven

when she walked out,
i waltzed around the place where it ended,
and it should have been sooner,
and different than it was.
but she walked out,
and walked out well.
so i was left there grinning,
and spinning on the wood floor,
at my mother's place.
forward.
right.
back.
left.
we learn from our mistakes,
to never make them again.
i know what love isn't.
we move on when things are wrong,
to something we didn't expect,
and find shelter in it.
four years have passed,
two have been perfect.
one golden ring,
and i know what love is.
when she walked out,
i waltzed around the place where it ended.
and i don't dance alone,
i dance around the living room,
of our new apartment,
on the corner of main street,
and i am dancing now with you.