The end of the road is clear to me
The happy-ever-after, the crystal ball's decree
It's the path between I falter on
Typical New England debris
"raised structure", "motorcycles use caution"
Mid-November fog making easy turns so hard to see
I have never been loved like this before,
The casual look almost more than I can bear
So satisfied just to be near your warmth...
So devastated to turn and find you aren't there.
This is not to say I'm new at this-
The up, and down, and disappointment setting in
I've made a career of expecting the worst
And preparing myself for the loss of what could be
But my anecdotes are failing now
Preventing a new entry to the memoirs and fables
I've relied on throughout the years.
I am left, then, staring down the road instead
Hoping the pavement smooths,
Or that the daylight might clear the air.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Role Playing (2004-2005)
If you are the King of Romance,
It's no surprise that love
is a Royal Pain in the Ass.
Now, I hope you won't take me to Court
If I should add that sometimes,
I think I may have chosen the Joker instead.
Hmm... Maybe not the Joker. A Jack, perhaps? Like a jackrabbit. Or a jackass.
Yet it is the rumor throughout the land
that perhaps this Queen
tends more towards turning tricks
than rolling heads.
And her Majesty, you ask? Well...
From the comfort of her four poster throne,
she'll decree to one and all
that what she really got,
in this kingdom of fools,
was an Ace in the hole.
It's no surprise that love
is a Royal Pain in the Ass.
Now, I hope you won't take me to Court
If I should add that sometimes,
I think I may have chosen the Joker instead.
Hmm... Maybe not the Joker. A Jack, perhaps? Like a jackrabbit. Or a jackass.
Yet it is the rumor throughout the land
that perhaps this Queen
tends more towards turning tricks
than rolling heads.
And her Majesty, you ask? Well...
From the comfort of her four poster throne,
she'll decree to one and all
that what she really got,
in this kingdom of fools,
was an Ace in the hole.
Twilight Road (2010)
***I remember coming up with this driving down the back roads of Rehoboth on the way to Willaby's one night. It needs some work.
Driving home to you, tonight
the wind whispered through my mind
we are traveling the twilight road,
where moments flash bewitchingly
like lightning bugs streaming by-
too quick and bright to pick out,
one-by-one,
but a beautiful backdrop nonetheless.
a different view of daylight's drudgery,
faded signs revitalized by sweeping lights,
kept mysterious by shadows left behind.
These softened reminisces,
made memorable by lack of strength,
are what makes us drift so softly
into the dampened desires we call night
knowing that, slipped somewhere around the bend,
another twilight road is flickering-
too faint to hold, to perfect to relinquish hope.
Driving home to you, tonight
the wind whispered through my mind
we are traveling the twilight road,
where moments flash bewitchingly
like lightning bugs streaming by-
too quick and bright to pick out,
one-by-one,
but a beautiful backdrop nonetheless.
a different view of daylight's drudgery,
faded signs revitalized by sweeping lights,
kept mysterious by shadows left behind.
These softened reminisces,
made memorable by lack of strength,
are what makes us drift so softly
into the dampened desires we call night
knowing that, slipped somewhere around the bend,
another twilight road is flickering-
too faint to hold, to perfect to relinquish hope.
Chilled
**I have no idea when or why I wrote this. I found it crumpled in my filing cabinet...
October brings a wealth of dreams,
the year's last chance to feel redeemed
Trees so full of promise, now
Too soon bared by winter's screams.
Would that maybe, just this once,
November's call were not so strong
And October's charm, while fleeting, it's true,
might long out last the next month's wrongs.
October brings a wealth of dreams,
the year's last chance to feel redeemed
Trees so full of promise, now
Too soon bared by winter's screams.
Would that maybe, just this once,
November's call were not so strong
And October's charm, while fleeting, it's true,
might long out last the next month's wrongs.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
My Bar
***Not strictly poetry.. part of a series I did with personification. But a good piece nonetheless.
Turn the corner and you'll find my bar, where I sit, night after night. It's the type of place you go to when you're down and out and nothing is right, not love, money, or life. The same crowd shows up night and night again, dour faces marked with scars of anonymity, eyes darting back and forth hoping Mr. Boss doesn't spot you drinking your life away in a place like that. The working girls done bother here, because even as the men get souses they are loyal to their wives, children, dogs, and whatever else remains of their boxed-in domestic lives. Greedy psychologists could make a fortune off clients in this place, if the people here had any money left to burn. The walls seep life gone by, recriminations and self-pity making a strange, dark hue. If you look too closely at the mirrors, you can see the past reflections of manicured, computer-efficient hands nervously fingering a bottle of pills, or sometimes an unseen knife... invisible blood coats the floors, and even I have scars I am unable to hide. This is my bar.
Here I sit, night after night, but not by choice. The first owners put me here, stapled me in, made me a fixture in this place of dead spirits and sour souls. No one noticed, though, because they lost the business early on. They were good people; it was just they didn't have enough money. I saw their son here one night, looking at the walls, clients, and floor, wondering what happened. On his fourth drink he stopped wondering and started crying. The people that bought this place have money from all the wrong places- but hey, money's money, right? No one cared who sold what, or whom, to get it, so long as the booze kept flowing.
Like I said, people never noticed me. I was just there, something for beer and fears to be spilled on, rough boots scraping off my red, blistered skin. Neon lights gave me third degree burns of the heart. People have sat on me, heedless of my groans of discomfort, because all they knew was their own discomfort. I'm not new anymore. Now, I'm the type of booth you see in seedy bars, tufts of stuffing being pulled out, hairline cracks fading into the design. I observe who comes in, and at closing, I try to sleep. But how can I? Their problems become mine; bottled rage in vary flavors and potency seep into my pores.
I heard this place is being condemned. Now where will they go, the homosexuals hiding behind a facade of married bliss, the businessmen on the brink of bankruptcy, their wives with baby in one hand and divorce papers in the other? Where will these vagrants drift to, now that their refuge is about to be torn down? I rather look forward to the garbage pile I'll be thrown into. Rejected toys and alley cats could not be more tortured than the people I have met in this bar.
**Circa 2004**
Turn the corner and you'll find my bar, where I sit, night after night. It's the type of place you go to when you're down and out and nothing is right, not love, money, or life. The same crowd shows up night and night again, dour faces marked with scars of anonymity, eyes darting back and forth hoping Mr. Boss doesn't spot you drinking your life away in a place like that. The working girls done bother here, because even as the men get souses they are loyal to their wives, children, dogs, and whatever else remains of their boxed-in domestic lives. Greedy psychologists could make a fortune off clients in this place, if the people here had any money left to burn. The walls seep life gone by, recriminations and self-pity making a strange, dark hue. If you look too closely at the mirrors, you can see the past reflections of manicured, computer-efficient hands nervously fingering a bottle of pills, or sometimes an unseen knife... invisible blood coats the floors, and even I have scars I am unable to hide. This is my bar.
Here I sit, night after night, but not by choice. The first owners put me here, stapled me in, made me a fixture in this place of dead spirits and sour souls. No one noticed, though, because they lost the business early on. They were good people; it was just they didn't have enough money. I saw their son here one night, looking at the walls, clients, and floor, wondering what happened. On his fourth drink he stopped wondering and started crying. The people that bought this place have money from all the wrong places- but hey, money's money, right? No one cared who sold what, or whom, to get it, so long as the booze kept flowing.
Like I said, people never noticed me. I was just there, something for beer and fears to be spilled on, rough boots scraping off my red, blistered skin. Neon lights gave me third degree burns of the heart. People have sat on me, heedless of my groans of discomfort, because all they knew was their own discomfort. I'm not new anymore. Now, I'm the type of booth you see in seedy bars, tufts of stuffing being pulled out, hairline cracks fading into the design. I observe who comes in, and at closing, I try to sleep. But how can I? Their problems become mine; bottled rage in vary flavors and potency seep into my pores.
I heard this place is being condemned. Now where will they go, the homosexuals hiding behind a facade of married bliss, the businessmen on the brink of bankruptcy, their wives with baby in one hand and divorce papers in the other? Where will these vagrants drift to, now that their refuge is about to be torn down? I rather look forward to the garbage pile I'll be thrown into. Rejected toys and alley cats could not be more tortured than the people I have met in this bar.
**Circa 2004**
Dilate
***This is another slam. I don't know why it's called Dilate. I think it's named after an Ani Difranco song, but in whatever fit of teen angst prompted this, I forgot to leave notes for my future adult self.
shadows seep from behind my eyes/transformed into black skies/with silver lies/and cloud linings ground/with the dirt of too much trying/and the screams of hope flying/on the wings of a dove/and/love that doesn't quite transcend/space and time/when the only crime was against/my own nature/lost in the fluxion of the crux/of the matter/ where the only feelings that matter are/yours yours yours/not MINE or THEIRS/or anybody else's who cares/and so I let you become/my permanent eclipse/the never ending ellipses to the story that I can't quite finish telling/because somewhere between the personal hells/and freedom bells/I found out what it was like to be consumed.
and there were days when I found out in a very real way the pain that flames and chains can inflict to strip the paint off the masterpiece of a life.
And when I opened my eyes/I saw shadows dispelled by the brilliance of your disguise/and the muffled cries/that streamed from the sky because my hands finally grew too weak to keep my mouth clamped shut/and somehow I managed to jump out of the rut/ but not before I was rotted through/with the pestilence of you and/now that you're gone/ I find myself finally wanting something more from someone/willing to give it/ and it's taken me too long to figure out that/I don't have to rush/to cause blame/and I don't have to anticipate the rain because/yes/it will come on its own/and maybe now I've grown/or maybe I will still need to be shown that I can live with/getting less than what I'd be willing to give.
And I think I've finally found ways to circumvent the pain that flames and chains can inflict to strip the paint off a work in progress.
***PS: I'm 99% sure this was about nick. almost all of the really depressing ones are. that would make this circa... 2002?
shadows seep from behind my eyes/transformed into black skies/with silver lies/and cloud linings ground/with the dirt of too much trying/and the screams of hope flying/on the wings of a dove/and/love that doesn't quite transcend/space and time/when the only crime was against/my own nature/lost in the fluxion of the crux/of the matter/ where the only feelings that matter are/yours yours yours/not MINE or THEIRS/or anybody else's who cares/and so I let you become/my permanent eclipse/the never ending ellipses to the story that I can't quite finish telling/because somewhere between the personal hells/and freedom bells/I found out what it was like to be consumed.
and there were days when I found out in a very real way the pain that flames and chains can inflict to strip the paint off the masterpiece of a life.
And when I opened my eyes/I saw shadows dispelled by the brilliance of your disguise/and the muffled cries/that streamed from the sky because my hands finally grew too weak to keep my mouth clamped shut/and somehow I managed to jump out of the rut/ but not before I was rotted through/with the pestilence of you and/now that you're gone/ I find myself finally wanting something more from someone/willing to give it/ and it's taken me too long to figure out that/I don't have to rush/to cause blame/and I don't have to anticipate the rain because/yes/it will come on its own/and maybe now I've grown/or maybe I will still need to be shown that I can live with/getting less than what I'd be willing to give.
And I think I've finally found ways to circumvent the pain that flames and chains can inflict to strip the paint off a work in progress.
***PS: I'm 99% sure this was about nick. almost all of the really depressing ones are. that would make this circa... 2002?
Anais and Henry
***I used to be obsessed with Anais Nin. "Henry and June: A Journal of Love" was one of my favorite books throughout high school. Hell, I named my cats after them! But if you haven't read the book... don't be surprised if this doesn't make a whole lot of sense to you.
While my life was taking place
Paris crept through my window
and settled in my room.
This Paris belongs to Anais and Henry,
and there are no crimes but those of passion.
Because what is the point of doing
anything
if you are not passionate about it?
While I read my book
at a cafe table overlooking the water
I think I see Anais, satisfied,
nodding in my direction.
Henry disapproves- the scene is too romantic for him-
and he hurries Anais away to a hotel
where he will teach her everything she will ever really learn
about love.
Meanwhile, I close my dog-eared and underlined copy of
"A Journal of Love"
and nod back to Anais.
She knows I think she out to get rid of Henry-
he is, after all, an overbearing egotist
but she just smiles, shakes her head,
and follows Henry out of the room,
shutting the door behind her.
**PS: I guess this can make sense out of context. Who hasn't done exactly what they shouldn't in the name of love?
While my life was taking place
Paris crept through my window
and settled in my room.
This Paris belongs to Anais and Henry,
and there are no crimes but those of passion.
Because what is the point of doing
anything
if you are not passionate about it?
While I read my book
at a cafe table overlooking the water
I think I see Anais, satisfied,
nodding in my direction.
Henry disapproves- the scene is too romantic for him-
and he hurries Anais away to a hotel
where he will teach her everything she will ever really learn
about love.
Meanwhile, I close my dog-eared and underlined copy of
"A Journal of Love"
and nod back to Anais.
She knows I think she out to get rid of Henry-
he is, after all, an overbearing egotist
but she just smiles, shakes her head,
and follows Henry out of the room,
shutting the door behind her.
**PS: I guess this can make sense out of context. Who hasn't done exactly what they shouldn't in the name of love?
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