Story

It's that song you fell asleep to
that now keeps you awake
and it stares into your soul
through eyelids never closed.
And that nightmare left you drenched
in someone else's sweat
with the smell on salt and sand
saturating through your sheet.
You want the language all to stop:
those words you can't hear
whose demands you already know
and they bite and tease and tear.
Away. What kept you sane
you ask in anguish in volumes
of abridged anthologies: fragment
sentences and incomplete thoughts
and love letters never sent and
air you merely pretended to breathe
that's locked in the binding
and lost is the smudges.
The past turns with each page,
torn and twisted,
tinged from timidity
and everything you didn't say.
Somewhere in between each line
you taint with clever vocabulary,
there's a man with a look
about him you don't understand.
He's holding a book
and it's bigger than yours
and it tells every story,
every myth ever written or told.
You already told him you love him
and he already knows how to wreck you.
And all that remains is
that you write your story now.


************************************************

^ I haven't been sleeping well. ^

All the words in my head are really cheap knock offs of muffled KD demos and Shakespearean imagery. And there's more.



"This kind of wordplay gets you ostracized, but if you operate inside these perfect lines you'll be fine." Kevin Devine Write Your Story Now

Inside To Out To In

You take a deep breath
and a big step back
and you keep your eyes closed.
You think you can find clarity
in eye lids' locked darkness;
in your armored cocoon.
Only life breaks through;
it's edge rough and rusted
and rogue hate bleeds in.
Thick skin forms where your
ignorance couldn't protect you,
where what you know spits you open.
Desensitized and vulnerable,
careless and stubborn,
you put yourself out.
Like Coriolanus and his 27
marks of honor and valiance,
painted like medals on flesh
and you cover and hide
what you lived through, but not over
and it rots you from inside to out to in.
And then you can't live
in a world where others breathe
and you despise every smile,
each one a reminder of your failure
and by your own design;
it's such a drag.


******************************************


I stole this entire poem.


Sources:


MENENIUS: True! I'll be sworn they are true.
Where is he wounded?

[To the Tribunes]

God save your good worships! Marcius is coming
home: he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded?

VOLUMNIA: I' the shoulder and i' the left arm there will be
large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall
stand for his place. He received in the repulse of
Tarquin seven hurts i' the body.

MENENIUS: One i' the neck, and two i' the thigh,--there's
nine that I know.

VOLUMNIA: He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five
wounds upon him.

MENENIUS: Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave.

[A shout and flourish]

Hark! the trumpets.

VOLUMNIA: These are the ushers of Marcius: before him he
carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears:
Death, that dark spirit, in 's nervy arm doth lie;
Which, being advanced, declines, and then men die.

[A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the general, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crowned with an oaken garland; with Captains and Soldiers, and a Herald]

HERALD: Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight
Within Corioli gates: where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows Coriolanus.
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

[Flourish]

ALL: Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

CORIOLANUS: No more of this; it does offend my heart:
Pray now, no more.


"Coriolanus" by William Shakespeare.


-- AND --


"Time heals all wounds they say, but the self inflicted won't just fade away and in these shifting tides of blame why are you suprised to see your name? It's such a drag. Time got the best of you. Things you gave you say were taken, explaination piled over excuse. And so the story goes, but by your own design and if you look to me to find you then my eyes will pass right though..."


"By Design" by Rites Of Spring

Nerve

Another disappointment
which I've brought about.
Your disapproving eyes,
your discontented voice:
it's all that rings in the space
between my two ears.
It rattles,
like snakes do.
It growls
like the rabid
with contemptuous foam
and poisonous breath.
No proud maternal smiles,
just cold distance as I wait
for my head to be bitten off
like the runts of litters.
You are anxiety
and tension.
You smite deeds done
in the best of spirits.
You are an anchor,
locking me down.
You are the will
which raises the knife.
It's your hand
on the handle
and your strength
that breaks my nerve.
So innocent you
assume yourself to be,
yet so murderous
the result of your actions.
Thoughtless words
spoken in haste,
a happy symbol
turned to dark:
another mistake
added to your list.
I'm sure the tally's
monumental and meticulous.
Jab once or twice:
I feel nothing at all.
'Nothing?'
'Nothing.'
The breaking of skin
is numbed by experience.
The only pain I feel now
is courtesy of you.

***************************************


LEAR: To thee and thine hereditary ever
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, validity, and pleasure,
Than that conferr'd on Goneril. Now, our joy,
Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interess'd; what can you say to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

CORDELIA: Nothing, my lord.

LEAR: Nothing?

CORDELIA: Nothing.

LEAR: Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.

CORDELIA: Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond; nor more nor less.

Missed It

An addiction only addicts can romanticize,
poems written on hips and thighs.
You smile, warmly, with your eyes;
you don't know I'm keeping lies.
Secrets - like hot air - rise
up my throat, to my lips: chastise.

Bile burns my mouth and lips,
as cold skin begins to rip
from the metal I've learned to worship.
Bubbles, oozes, and drips.
Why not just one more trip?
At risk is just a friendship.

It's getting old; it's getting tired.
Don't have the will that is required
and every attempt is bruised and mired.
Words reused or long expired,
leave so much to be desired.
So, I'll just lay here uninspired.

And read this verse as my confession:
the truth in words I couldn't fashion,
a warning of the deepest caution.
Love and hate, a bubbling caldron:
ridged and rough and smooth and silken
with all the mysteries that lie within.

I loved him in ways that are listed
on limbs that are whithered and wilted.
I'd say the words if they existed,
if their spellings weren't rank and twisted.
The tale's too mangled and maliable and misted
and though I told you, I knew you missed it.

*****************************************

What this is really about is something I'm eternally unable to articulate which is why it winds up making no sense. It's like: something happened and you should know, but I can't wrap my head around it; therefore, I can't explain it.

But, really, you don't want to know anyway, so it's probably for the best that the words are gone (or were never there to begin with). And for the sake of not losing more people I love, my teeth are locked tightly atop my tongue.




"I'll just lay here uninspired, feeling bad that I threw you away..." Kevin Devine Confessional At 6am

A Luncheon With God And Satan

This is the short play I wrote last semester for Creative Writing. I've been meaning to post it and I just kept forgetting. Blogspot really doesn't format scripts very well. :/



Cast:
GOD – El
SATAN – Beelze
BOYFRIEND – Unnamed pagan deity

Synopsis:
GOD and SATAN meet to discuss what to do with the madness down on Earth, whether to begin the apocalypse. “Beelze” is short for Beelzebub and is GOD’s nickname for SATAN. “El” is a Semitic term meaning “GOD” and is SATAN’s nickname for GOD. The setting is GOD’s kitchen which includes, at least: a refrigerator (with bottles of water and orange juice inside), dishwasher, coffee maker, mugs / glasses, and a newspaper. There are finger sandwiches in the center on the table which go untouched.

****
(God sits at a table in the kitchen of her home talking with her BOYFRIEND who is preparing coffee. BOYFRIEND is wearing a flannel work shirt and jeans while GOD is dressed in a white sundress.)

GOD
(To BOYFRIEND) Why is she always late?

(BOYFRIEND sets a mug of coffee down on the table for GOD. He holds his own mug and takes a seat at the table.)

BOYFRIEND
Character flaw?

(Doorbell rings. BOYFRIEND answers and walks back into the kitchen, now accompanied by SATAN. SATAN is dressed in a red sundress, similar to GOD’s, and has tiny horns protruding from her forehead.)

GOD
Beelze!

SATAN
El!

(The two women – Beelzebub and El - embrace. BOYFRIEND fixes SATAN a mug of coffee.)

GOD
How are things in Hell these days?

SATAN
It’s summer all year ‘round. I can’t complain too much. And Heaven?

GOD
Pretty good. It’s been abnormally warm, actually. Humans are only now starting to admit that global warming exists. They’ll never believe it affects Heaven too!

(GOD and SATAN take seats at the table.)

SATAN
Well, humans have always been pretty narrow-minded creatures.

GOD
Speaking of which, I’m so sorry to call our annual meeting early, Beelze, but I’m really worried about what I’m seeing down on Earth. There’s so much destruction! I almost mistook the bombings in Iraq for hellfire…thought you were trying to stir things up.

SATAN
Oh no! Are you kidding? I’d be just as happy to wash my hands clean of that place. Those evil buggers are coming up with ideas I couldn’t even conjure up! The whole planet, all those people: I’m done with them all. You should see the types I’m getting in Hell these days. Real bastards. We’re not talking your average run-of-the-mill bastards; I’m talking real assholes.

(GOD and SATAN are sitting across from one another and BOYFRIEND takes the seat in between at the head of the table. BOYFRIEND sets mug down on table in front of SATAN.)

BOYFRIEND
(To SATAN) Be careful; it’s hot!

SATAN
(To BOYFRIEND) Oh, thank you, doll.

(SATAN carefully sips her coffee and continues.)

SATAN
And, yanno, I thought Hitler would be the end of it. When he came through my fiery gates I almost wanted to turn him away. “Hell’s closed,” I said to myself, but…what are ya gonna do?

GOD
How is Adolph doing, anyway? He’s the one that made me rethink my whole “humans should have free will” philosophy.

SATAN
Well, therapy seems to be doing him some good. He’s working through his mommy issues. I got someone to show him how to shave properly.

GOD
Wonderful! He was also the one who made me rethink facial hair as a prominent male feature. (Looks at BOYFRIEND) But I just love his five o’clock shadow.

(GOD pinches BOYFRIEND’s cheek. BOYFRIEND grins happily and makes a kissy faces.)

GOD
(To SATAN, distressed) Oh, Beelze, I just don’t know what to do anymore. I am a merciful being. I don’t punish harshly. Hell! If I denied salvation to everyone who had sex before marriage, I’d be joining your ranks. –

SATAN
Oh, you’re welcome any time! –

GOD
I’ve loosened the rules for them and all I really ask for is that they not kill my creations: themselves…and the planet they inhabit. Is that asking too much?

SATAN
Heavens no! And I sympathize, hun, I do. Look, as far as I’m concerned you should just give them their Goddamn apocalypse already…no offence.

GOD
If only it were that easy. Yanno, Jesus is so preoccupied with his band these days that if I even mention the idea of a second coming he gets all annoyed with me.

(SATAN pops up and grabs a newspaper from atop the kitchen counter. As she speaks, she holds the paper in one hand and points at it with her free hand. Then, she slams it on the table with the word: “Incorrectly.”)

SATAN
Well, has he been keeping up with the news lately? I mean: the Jews are back in the Promised Land. Granted, he didn’t put them there, but…the humans don’t seem to actually care what their God wants anymore. They just go on assuming and interpreting. Incorrectly.

(SATAN takes her seat at the table back.)

GOD
I know! Who knew Moses’ stutter would cause such misunderstandings. Not one of my best moves, I must admit.

(BOYFRIEND picks up newspaper and begins shuffling through the sections. He picks one a reads to himself as GOD and SATAN continue their conversation.)

BOYFRIEND
(Peering over newspaper at GOD) Ahh, you can’t blame yourself for this. Or Moses. There is no way – through any upside down human translation – that you ever requested the killing of people.

GOD
Did you hear that America is sending more troops? More of my young kids are gonna die!

SATAN
I’m telling you: they want the end of the world? Go give it to ‘em! Start with a clean slate. What are you really destroying anyway? (SATAN waits momentarily for an answer) Nothing you can’t easily replace! Destroy it all: their gas guzzling SUVs, their bombs, their tanks. But don’t do any of this flood shit – .

GOD
Oh, I already promised no more floods. But, whom would I save? I don’t want to save any of these wretched people. None of them get it. None of them love me just because it feels good and is right. (GOD glances at BOYFRIEND) Well, except for you. (GOD grazes BOYFRIEND’s face with a gentle hand) All they care about is salvation, salvation, salvation.

BOYFRIEND
(Lowering newspaper, still clutching the edges) Oh, hun, I’m sure they love you. I sure do! And if they don’t, they just don’t know what they’re missing. They are all very misguided, busy people.

GOD
And that’s another thing! (GOD begins to get riled up) Why are they all so busy all the time, rushing around? Don’t they know I’ve created some of the most beautiful sceneries in the entire universe just for them? Don’t they know books and music were created for their enjoyment?

(GOD jumps out of her seat, disgustedly. Having finished her coffee, she places the mug in the dishwasher and slams the dishwasher’s door shut.)

SATAN
(Watching GOD fidget with the dishwasher) Obviously not. It’s a damn shame too. Yanno, I recently revisited Mount Everest for the first time in centuries. It’s really a magnificent sight.

GOD
(Leaning against the kitchen counter located behind the table, GOD looks at SATAN and begins to tear up a little) Ohhh, Beelze. Thank you. (Walks over to the sitting SATAN, another embrace) I put a lot of work into that, but people these days are too fat and busy to take time to climb some silly old mountain anymore.

(GOD, still anxious and upset, walks to the refrigerator and searches it for a bottle of water. GOD pulls out a plastic bottle and fiddles with the cap which refuses to twist off and adds to her frustration.)

SATAN
That’s why I’m saying: destroy them all. Those ungrateful little bastards can’t appreciate the world they live in. They’re all so worried about the end? Well, give ‘em something to worry about.

BOYFRIEND
(To GOD) Let me get that.

(BOYFRIEND lowers the newspaper, grabs the bottle, and twists the cap off. He then hands it back to the flustered deity and continues reading his article.)

GOD
(Back at her post, leaning against the counter; to SATAN) I don’t know. I like being thought of as forgiving.

SATAN
I know, El, but sometimes even good kids need a spanking.

(SATAN stands and walks over to GOD. SATAN rubs GOD’s shoulders in an attempt to comfort her.)

GOD
Ugh…and all the paper work.

SATAN
Well, yeah, there will be a lot of paperwork.

GOD
And all their screaming, their begging for forgiveness. All their desperate last minute attempts to try to convince me they really do love me, that they really are moral people, interested in doing good things for their fellow men. All their lies…as if I’m not the all knowing!

SATAN
Human screaming is the worst. I get the worst headaches ever from human screaming.

GOD
Oh, I know. Isn’t it the worst?

SATAN
The worst!

GOD
Heaven is dealing with overcrowding, too: centuries of use without any upgrades. I let anyone in who attempted to do good deeds in his life, even if he didn’t always believe in me in his heart. (GOD whispers) To tell you a secret, I’ve even been letting atheists in. Some of those guys have done some pretty impressive stuff. (Back in her normal tone) But, I suppose since I am God, I can always put in a work order to expand Heaven. Again.

SATAN
Hell is dealing with overcrowding too…mainly your people. Haha. Who would have thought? You’re merciful to atheists and I’m damning believers!

GOD
I know: some crazy irony! I’d rather deal with your people than mine.

SATAN
So would I. (SATAN looks down, ponderously) So, I suppose if you brought about the apocalypse…I’d be…uh…seeing a few more of those types?

GOD
You’d be seeing more than a few. You’d probably wind up with most of the Earthy population of believers. It’s a repulsive amount of people who claim to love me and go directly against what I said.

(GOD sits back down at the table and SATAN follows suit, but they have switch chairs.)

SATAN
Well, maybe you could send someone down there…you know…to straighten them out? Send Mohammed or something. Then maybe the Muslims will cool it with their “Sharia is the only proper law” thing and maybe the Christians will back off. Tell Mohammed to tell them all to chill out.

GOD
Remember what happened the last time I sent a prophet to straighten them all out? Remember how I used to only have to worry about the Jews and then they all split into a hundred new sects, impossible to keep track of!? Remember how they…yanno…nailed Jesus to a tree!?

SATAN
(Disappointed) Oh, yeah.

BOYFRIEND
Ouch, yeah, sucks to be that dude.

GOD
No, yanno, maybe you’re right, Beelze. Maybe those little rats do deserve the second coming, but boy are the going to regret it.

(GOD stands up and begins to pace with excitement in the space between the kitchen counter and the table.)

SATAN
Oh, El, don’t be so hasty. I mean: you did create that planet and all its inhabitants. It’d kind of be like killing your own child for wetting the bed.

GOD
You cannot equate war and murder with wetting the bed! (To BOYFRIEND who has been half listening to the conversation; GOD pokes BOYFRIEND in the back with her finger to indicate he should take his nose out of the newspaper) What do you think?

(BOYFRIEND folds up the newspaper, stands, and leans against the counter.)

BOYFRIEND
I don’t know, Fluffypoo; when you told them I wasn’t a deity and that I didn’t exist, I sorta stopped paying attention to those humans down there.

GOD
(To SATAN) See? Damn misinterpretations! (To BOYFRIEND, upset; she stops pacing and stands shoulder-to-shoulder with BOYFRIEND) I never meant to convince them you didn’t exist! I still thought some of them would believe in you! I only said: “you shall have no other gods before me.” I never said you didn’t exist or that you were a bad guy!

(BOYFRIEND rests his arm around GOD.)

BOYFRIEND
Oh, honey bear, I’m not upset with you! I’m grateful, really. I wouldn’t want to have to deal with any of those pricks down there now!

(GOD huffs back over to the table and sits back down across from SATAN in the seat in which SATAN had originally sat.)

GOD
How is it possible that I created a planet full of fools?

SATAN
You were young, El. You didn’t understand what a massive responsibility Creation would be. But you know you can’t just give up on it all now.

GOD
But why not? The purpose of human existence is to live a good, moral life in which you love your neighbor as your brother and you love your God because it fills you with joy. The human experience does not reflect that at all. Instead, they kill and say it’s for me. Well, I don’t want your blood! Your killing makes me feel dirty! Maybe Earth could be my first draft. Maybe I’ll get an A the next time around.

SATAN
No, no! Come on. What about the Amazon Rain Forest, the Grand Canyon? What about the Great Barrier Reef and Niagara Falls? And what about the UN…and Doctors Without Borders? Those are a couple great causes and they’re manmade!

GOD
Well, I did always appreciate sweaty doctors working for a good cause. (BOYFRIEND, feeling a little slighted, clears his throat; to BOYFRIEND) Oh, I always appreciate you all hot and sweaty too, darling.

(BOYFRIEND smiles and walks to the refrigerator. He opens the door and shuffles around.)

SATAN
I say: you just let those silly humans down there work this thing out.

GOD
But how much more killing is it going to take? How many more wars? They no longer deserve my forgiveness or my patience.

SATAN
But damning them all on a whim isn’t fair.

(BOYFRIEND pulls out container of orange juice.)

BOYFRIEND
Anything to drink, El? Beelze?

SATAN
(To BOYFRIEND) A water would be splendid.

GOD
(To BOYFRIEND) No thanks, hun. (To SATAN) Look, I gave them guidance and they misread it. I gave them prophets to listen to and they didn’t. I’ve given them any number of things for which all I have asked in return was a little respect. Instead, I have a planet full of selfish little pigs.

SATAN
Hey, at least the whole planet isn’t American, right!?

GOD
Oh! And those Americans! Don’t even get me started! Some superpower they are! They have the ability to make the world so much better, so much healthier. But do they? No!

SATAN
You can’t fix the world in a day, El.

(BOYFRIEND pours himself a glass of orange juice. Then, he untwists another cap off a plastic water bottle and hands the bottle to SATAN. He takes his glass and sits back down in his seat.)

SATAN
(To BOYFRIEND) Thanks so much.

GOD
(To SATAN) Their idea of creating a better tomorrow is electing the right singer for American Idol! I present them with choices – because I think that’s only fair – and they elect the nincompoop to higher office instead of the one with good human rights and environmental records. They all make foolish decisions and if I don’t destroy the world, they’re going to do it themselves!

BOYFRIEND
I’m with ya, El. Screw ‘em. God giveth and God can taketh away. “Fire and brimstone” their asses.

SATAN
(To BOYFRIEND, sharply) Oh, now you have an opinion! (To GOD, caringly) Just think good and hard about this. You’ve been working for billions of years on this projects –”

GOD
And it’s a failure!

SATAN
Don’t be so hard on yourself. Patience, El, patience.

(GOD stands in defiance.)

GOD
No, Beelze. I think I’m done being a carefree deity. You’re right. If it’s apocalypse they want, then it’s apocalypse they shall get!

Desert Bombs

With your Lord on a string
choking your throat, a sting
to your intellect:
or the thoughts you can't collect.
It's your excuse for your life
and you pray that you're right.
A mistake means damnation,
only - to me - annihilation.
Clasp your hands before your face,
His blood, His body that your taste,
and the words you send to the clouds
(like desert bombs that sound too loud)
are empty claims of faith and righteousness
that death will teach is only myth.
How many lost for simple gain
before they learn to trust again?
In smoldering huts in country X,
young men chant their vengeful hex.
Their brethren forever fewer,
but they're the evil doers.
So, keep your faith and hold on tight,
it's hellfire your savior did ignite
when a country on his globe was vanished
and he declared his mission accomplished.

************************************************

There are a lot of people who've written this peom better than I did, but...whatev.


"It's his name on your mouth; it's his cross on your neck." Kevin Devine 'It's Time To Burn'

Letter

This is another letter I'll never send.
This is where I say the words I can't defend.
In silent cries to a distant friend
is how you'll know I've reached my end.
I need an ear, a hand, a love to lend
or all of it in one big blend.
Against this heat, I can't contend;
I shutter, stutter, break, and bend.

For all I've left unwritten and unsaid,
for all the weight upon my head,
I only wish you'd never fled
leaving me drained and dark and dead.
It's not your fault I bled;
it's your fault all that's ahead.
And you must have known I'd be misled
for all the words I let go unread.

I broke another promise;
I am pitiful and careless;
I am lost and hopeless
and I threw away your kindness.
I am looking for the shape of Jesus,
some salvation in his likeness;
it seems to work for the pious,
making everything bright and sinless.

I hate writing poetry that rhymes:
all the jingles we'll hear in our lifetimes.
Dead writers in their prime.
Stacks of trees you'll never climb.
No words, just chimes.
It oughtta be a crime.
Like a colorful mime,
it's not worth a dime.

So, come on now, pick up the pace
and say what you can say on white space.
I want you so close in this empty place,
but I know, at best, I'm in second place.
It's not in your words, but in your face;
I already know I lost the race.
You can dress me up in pink and lace,
but my heart is still what you'll debase.

************************************************

This is about, at least, three different people and it's all weaved together.

I'm kind of in this in-between because I don't actually want to articulate what I'm thinking and feeling, but I really want to say something about it. It's dangerous for any number of reasons, though. Of course, thinking it and feeling it is probably dangerous regardless of whether I put it in writing. I'm just not ready to admit anything yet.



"Afterall, what's wrong with second best?" Pedro The Lion Second Best

Devil's Heat

With devil's heat upon my back,
in a room that's empty and pitch-black,
I search for everything I lack;
I search to get myself on track.

There's fire right in front of me:
a burning, crumbling, dark city.
It's in my head, my vision's blurry;
It's in my palm with fingers sweaty.

Your eyes shine bright and then they burn
my timid brain in hopes I'll learn
through your mistakes and take a turn
away from sickness and my urn.

Please tell me now all that you know
of how to beat your greatest foe,
of hatred and that last death-blow,
of breathing in and letting go.


*********************************************

Last poem of winter break.




"Talk, talk, talk, talk your devils down..." Colour Revolt Naked And Red

Stray

I don't leave my house much these days.
Nobody asks for me anyway.
I think about all the other yesterdays
and all of the shit I still need to throw away.

It's funny when people try to say
that I live a life on the fray,
on the edges of disarray
as I keep my devils behind bars and at bay.

I hate myself for the way
I let you amuse me with wordplay
with your kind words and witty repartee
and even things you don't say.

I already expect you to betray
and you'll call it hearsay.
You're a verse turned essay
or a poem turned screenplay.

And to the God in whom I don't believe, I pray
that just this once He'll let you stay
to show me the path I couldn't lay
and hold my hand to ensure I won't stray.

*********************************************

I worked on this for a couple days and now that it's done I feel pretty "eh" about it. Nothing surprising there, though. Haha.




"I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed. I see God upon the ceiling; I see angels ovrerhead. And He seems so close as He reaches out His hand. We are never quite as close as we are lead to understand..." Counting Crows When I Dream of Michelangelo

Socks And Gloves

Tell me: what are your scars?
Do you drink them down at bars?
Do they sleep where your lovers are?
Do they follow you near and far?

Tell me: who holds your blade?
Do you know who lurks behind the shade?
Do they cut so deep it'll never fade?
Do they grant forgiveness you never bade?

Tell me: what are your vices?
Do you think you'll make the same mistake twice?
Do they heckle you, even when they're nice.
Do they freeze your skin cold as ice?

Tell me: what quiets the rage?
Do you learn to understand with age?
Do they leave you locked within your cage?
Do they ever let you discard that page?

Tell me: who could you love?
Does she fly away with doves?
Does she press, push, and shove?
Can you hide regrets from her under socks and gloves?

************************************

Even though I used this quote last time, in recent weeks this line / song has been rattling around in my head. Since I stole it for this poem, here it is again:

"Can't you ever treat anyone nice? I think I'm gonna make the same mistake twice, gonna make the same mistake twice." Elliott Smith Punch And Judy

Criminal

What a lie you carve
and try to sell as art,
making every mistake over
and painting it red, black, and grey.

It's the only shade you see,
but you talk yourself down
and up and over and in
side and side to side.

Stolen images as criminal
as each stolen word
you swipe
from the next small thing.

Out of garages and basements
and ribcages and veins
spill ethereal thuths
onto brick color streets.

A vocabulary more real
than any I can comprehend;
it's my personal lacking
and it's starting to show.

******************************************



"I think I'm gonna make the same mistake twice..." Elliott Smith Punch And Judy

EverybodyElse

A conversation in your head
or a broken meter lost instead:
they want to tell you what you've misses;
they want to show you that you've pissed
away all the love you've ever had
along with promises too high to add.
At your ear, God whispers your destiny:
a vault of illusions, allusions, and elusive pity.
You can't let it go
as if it's for show
and the lines you draw
on flesh that won't thaw
remind your heart to beat
and your blood to heat.
It's all in preparation
for a more perfect perfection:
a you who is human,
someone who really can.
If it's all a ploy,
just a sly decoy,
then call me out
'cause you know what I'm about.
But fuck the perception
from lack of inspection.
Think for your fucking self.
I am everybody else.

************************************

I can't seem to stop myself from fucking rhyming and it's really annoying me. I am, however, writing with less structure for whatever that adds or subtracts from what I write. Write write write write write. It's fun to type that word. I only just noticed that now. Or maybe it's just more fun typing, in general, on Jess' laptop.

I want a word for this, but I guess if I ever found one, I'd stop writing all together. It's a search I'm on, a hunt. For what? For something that will take what's inside and literally pull it out. And I do mean literally. The word doesn't exist or if it does it's elusive. This has nothing to do with anything, but - then again - what ever really does?



I'm a roman candle; my head is full of flames." Elliott Smith Roman Candle

Canvas

It's like a black canvas or
a page that's already ripped.
Such useless words
and empty gestures
with slit throats
and amputated arms.
It's just another day,
up one road and past the next.
I don't know where you are:
behind my closed eyelids,
and my soundproof walls,
holding my cold body.
Spin light through
solid shut doors,
make me see what
I've not been shown before.

**************************************

Meh.



"You are the limb I've lost, but somehow I still feel." Brand New Untitled 4

Blue

Say it's your song
and you won't be wrong.
It's inherent in a life
that slices with its knife
through your black middle:
it only hurts a little.
Close your eyes,
see those signs,
turn away,
demons at bay...today,
series of shit,
a perfect fit,
like lust and heat,
a scared heartbeat.
But ignore me when I say
I want you where I lay.
From air that rasps my throat
to soft hands and a gentle note.
I am the in-between
of invisible and seen,
of love and hate,
of now or wait,
of up and down,
a smile, a frown.
If only you knew:
you make me blue.

*************************************

In a good way. :/

Elephant

Ignoring the elephant
who's sleeping in my bed.
I tell him that I can't,
but his voice sticks in my head.

Can you see it spelled out?
It's in ink and in skin.
I don't know what it's about,
but it calls from within.

It doesn't have to make sense;
in fact it rarely does.
Then it disappears in a glance;
it's not there and never was.

I hate the rhythm
and the heart I hear beat.
So sick I could kill them
all with passion and heat.

And I don't know how to tell you,
how to say it all out loud.
So, I hide my face from view
just to dodge the cloud.

I can survive if I cover
my ears and my eyes.
No time for vague metaphors
or half-hearted rhymes.

******************************************

Still on hiatus.


"I can be your best friend and you can be the elephant." - The Miracle Of '86 G-Song

The Emperor (Pt. 4)

Upon His mountaintop, God is standing,
with bush's white flames engulfing.
Moses' mingling meditation:
the difference between war and salvation.

"A world built on faith and love," God requests,
"a world of peace and compromise is best."
With a stir in his speech that he knows is absurd,
the unwitting prophet delivers a new word.

But upon his descension:
a bleak and terrible tension.
From holy land to holy mess,
a land not even God could bless.

Six thousand miles from this hell,
pondering a battle he can no longer sell,
the emperor gloomily looks
at maps and dusty books.

"They hate our freedom,"
his tone now glum.
"Gotta fight 'em there,"
a blank stare.

A voice beckons,
lingers for seconds.
"Change course!
Remove your force!"

But the emperor, slouched on his throne,
shakes his head and ignores the tone
of his beloved savior's eager advice,
apathetic of the deaths, the weighty price.

Disappearing

I want to know
why I did what I did.
There are answers floating
in dark clouds that linger.
Overhead, from thundering skies,
thick red drops rain down.

In the name of this sin,
keep the madness within.
I am masked and unfamiliar
in a scene of clowns and actors.
No words are useful so
I'm disappearing into the abstract.

Safety is hiding
behind metallic curtains.
Tan, white, and red stripes,
I can hardly feel.
I don't want to be found;
don't come looking.

Who I am is wrong and
what you see is an impression.
Lock your heart away:
preserve it for a peaceful day.
I can only be what you see,
but the light between us manipulates.

***************************************************

I don't even like philosophy. I don't like the questions because they have no answers, no good answers anyway. They rattle inside my skull and have kept me awake at night on more than one occasion. I think it's good to question, but no one can tell you the answer. You have to get there yourself. But what happens when someone sets a trap? What happens when you set the trap? What happens when the path to your answers is skewed or unmarked? It's like an ant losing his trail back to the hole, the whole.

Nothing I say is said lightly and nothing I write is written without it being deliberate. I mean my words in every way they can be understood. I mean them when I'm truthful and even more so when I'm deceitful.

Figure out which one I am today. Seriously.

And if you find an answer, do tell. Because I haven't a clue anymore.

Yes, I'm in crisis mode. No, I don't want you to bat your pretty little eyelashes.




"It's hard to be wise and in love." (or something to that effect) Bob Dylan

With Conviction

Tell me something new
or old in a different way.
Tell me something real
or if it's fake: with conviction.

I'd rather hear a passionate lie
than the truth in a blur.
I'd rather know a clearer fiction
than my own meshed fate.

Touch me with your voice
and hold me in with your stories.
Touch me and I'll cry
or I'll laugh or scream or tremble.

I want to see your words
written out in scribbled etchings.
I want my god to know me,
but I know he has no reason.

Listen for the bullshit
in the whispers of your leaders.
Listen to a holy man's cry
in the remnants of a scortched earth.

I wish for clarity, but
in dark corners my bones do shake.
I wish for answers when
even my answers question.

Push me back
or over the edge.
Push and push
and I weakly give in.

I seek an understanding
of which no one can replicate.
I seek your taste:
love on the tip of my tongue.

***********************************************

If my words lie it's only because I have something to hide.



"I'd rather see you lie than see me believe the truth." The Miracle Of '86 Just Say When

Silent Movie

Cancer.

The word flashes in front of my eyes in greys, blues, and browns: like a bruise. It's growing inside me: this bubble, this rotting mound of poisonous body excrement. Dr. Kent's office begins to turn, swivel, and swerve. His diplomas float above his head. His mouth moves, but I'm locked within a silent movie.

Laura. My daughter. Her jaw drops. I feel her heart stop and her lungs deflated through the tense fingers that are intertwined with mine. The hairs on the back of her hand stand straight on end as they tickle my soon-to-be decaying flesh.

Doctors.

Treatments.

Hospital rooms.

Sterile white tile-floored rooms and sterile white curtains and sheets. Needles and blood. Poking and prodding.

My wife - ex-wife - discusses business with Dr. Kent. Cold and smooth as she always is. Chemo? Radiation? If there were subtitles I might know. She's undressing the fresh young doctor in her mind; I have no doubt. His lab coat opened and his tailored work shirt elegantly wrinkled. Immature baby hairs stick out from under the second button. The top unbuttoned. No tie. No class. Chump. This doctor who is ready to sign my death certificate.

Laura sits frozen still. Her eyes: glassy. She's my co-star in this movie we're trapped inside. For my wife - ex-wife - and the good doctor: it's all rainbows and flowers, singing and dancing, life. A fucking musical over there.

******************************

This really isn't anything. It was written during a monologue writing excercise in class today, but in this situation it's not really acting like a monologue. (For the few of you who read the 'private' short story, this is written from that main character's father's point of view from the scene early in the story where he's diagnosed. I think it's like the first paragraph of the second section.) Anyway, we were supposed to take a character we'd created and write a monologue for him/her and this is what I can up with. It was also an excercise in writing with a lot of detail. Figured I'd post it since I didn't post the whole story...even though this really has nothing to do with that story at all.

Excuse the poor grammar and sentence fragments. They were part of the assignment. They are to show his distance: to make things feel choppy. They are intentional, though a little painful for me.



"I have become a silent movie..." Elliott Smith Can't Make A Sound

Bore

I speak in sound bites;
they gnaw at your ear lobes.
Each cliche burns my lips,
but I say them to keep you quiet.
Not a word is true,
at least that's what I tell you.

I speak in revisions:
revisions of revisions.
Each draft less coherent
than the one before.
I have no knack for poetry
and my lines ignore me.

I'm speak in locked diaries;
my lips are sealed.
Each book: a dying part
of who I used to be.
I don't mean to bore,
so I won't speak anymore.

**************************************

I'm really tired of writing shitty poetry.


"Am I correct to defend the fist that holds this pen?" Brand New It's Good To Know...