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.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
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?
Haikus!
**I went through a phase where all I would write is haikus. They're quick, fun, and can hold a lot of meaning for so few words!
I am careening
down an accidental life
directly to you
The rain jumps like feet
hitting the dirt and bouncing
searching for a hold
Kiss of misletoe
sacred, sharp, traditional
full of deep green love
to taste your skin's love
would be to swallow your soul
in one greedy gulp
Unfettered eyes speak
Volumes of passion revealed
Do they speak the truth?
Rebellious last spark
Glowing irreverently
Before it succumbs
I am careening
down an accidental life
directly to you
The rain jumps like feet
hitting the dirt and bouncing
searching for a hold
Kiss of misletoe
sacred, sharp, traditional
full of deep green love
to taste your skin's love
would be to swallow your soul
in one greedy gulp
Unfettered eyes speak
Volumes of passion revealed
Do they speak the truth?
Rebellious last spark
Glowing irreverently
Before it succumbs
Consummation
***This is a poetry slam, so try to imagine speaking this out loud, with the "/" indicating a pause. Bear with me, it's very hard to "write" a slam.
sticky webs of pre-season snow/melting in the heat of fires/we know all too well and/trees in a haze/from a smoke filled daze/and I fill my days/with ways/to gaze on/this place we made/created from a phase of/insane desires and/lingering rage of rusty/lust and dust/from skeletons burned in the flames/that will ultimately save/what no one thought could be used to replace/bitter hate and tortured faces/of the people we knew/and the places we came from/and I can't help but wonder if/cold storms and/raging thunder could/ever plunder these/unexplored mountains/and fields that lie under/if this fire will ever consume/us and exhume us/ before the truth of us/be know but/I know and you'll learn/that going doesn't mean/staying and/playing doesn't mean there's no cravings of love/that we earned/and even as I turn/away/from your eyes I see the smoke/clearing lies/before they can even think to rise/and I finally find that/ I won't mind if I'm/walking through flames/entirely consumed/by the fire of/you.
**Again, 2004ish
sticky webs of pre-season snow/melting in the heat of fires/we know all too well and/trees in a haze/from a smoke filled daze/and I fill my days/with ways/to gaze on/this place we made/created from a phase of/insane desires and/lingering rage of rusty/lust and dust/from skeletons burned in the flames/that will ultimately save/what no one thought could be used to replace/bitter hate and tortured faces/of the people we knew/and the places we came from/and I can't help but wonder if/cold storms and/raging thunder could/ever plunder these/unexplored mountains/and fields that lie under/if this fire will ever consume/us and exhume us/ before the truth of us/be know but/I know and you'll learn/that going doesn't mean/staying and/playing doesn't mean there's no cravings of love/that we earned/and even as I turn/away/from your eyes I see the smoke/clearing lies/before they can even think to rise/and I finally find that/ I won't mind if I'm/walking through flames/entirely consumed/by the fire of/you.
**Again, 2004ish
Simply Revealed
I heard the rain tumblin' down the other day
like all my defenses when you kissed me that way
although rain is defenseless, and can never hold its shape
it wields a peculiar power- something nature can't contain
and some people might say, what's love got to do with rain?
Rain can be seen, yet love is much more famed.
Love doesn't fall, heavy and wet, from the sky
rain will weigh you down, while love makes you fly
my reasons for this poem then, I will now summarize:
Rain reminds me of the simple comfort I find
in sharing our thoughts and what's on our minds
of staying warm, protected; of comfort that knows no boundary lines
and I know I can't defend it, should you wish it harm
yet your constancy and companionship give me no cause for alarm
my heart trusts your love; my head, your altruistic charm
and I guess what I'm saying, to prove all this is real
is that your love has an effect on me I didn't think I could feel
Take it or leave it, now you know how I feel- this is my love for you,
simply revealed.
**Somewhere around... 2003-early 2004?
like all my defenses when you kissed me that way
although rain is defenseless, and can never hold its shape
it wields a peculiar power- something nature can't contain
and some people might say, what's love got to do with rain?
Rain can be seen, yet love is much more famed.
Love doesn't fall, heavy and wet, from the sky
rain will weigh you down, while love makes you fly
my reasons for this poem then, I will now summarize:
Rain reminds me of the simple comfort I find
in sharing our thoughts and what's on our minds
of staying warm, protected; of comfort that knows no boundary lines
and I know I can't defend it, should you wish it harm
yet your constancy and companionship give me no cause for alarm
my heart trusts your love; my head, your altruistic charm
and I guess what I'm saying, to prove all this is real
is that your love has an effect on me I didn't think I could feel
Take it or leave it, now you know how I feel- this is my love for you,
simply revealed.
**Somewhere around... 2003-early 2004?
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
In the Flesh (2003)
You are not now what you were then on those
maddeningly slow summer days
when your bike too you
south to north to my house and back to
front to hip to thigh to
designs of space
catalytic
yet
needlessly anorexic,
apocalyptic scripts and song a
siren to
my 8th grade heart-
heartlessly distant becoming
resistant to your cancerous memorandum,
remembering your defective deflection of warmth
and
whatever else we once had to have to love this
screen of adulthood over the
flesh and fantasy beliefs
that I believed
and you deceived
and the tainted space between has bled
solidified, lied into the chains of
night from too much twisting of an unrequited fate
and
of late, the steel of 4am knows all my stolen secrets
and I think that you like to think you were the one
doing the stealing...
And years from how you were then to what you've
become now
I bow down to the secret that
the mind lies even as the flesh lies with mine
and it takes time to
turn away
around
down the offer
of a forever that flesh fire only cannot sire
because your mind is too worn down to respond
and even as you are gone
and I remain
to stake my claim on the memory of the
fumbling days and the way that you thought
that I should think I was too good for you to hold me
as I hold you down and sometime around
the line that you crossed I had the thought
that
the only time you did not lie
was when you and I
were in the flesh.
***PS: I don't think that poem makes a lot of sense. It has some really great lines, but I think I tried too hard to make it spoken word and lost the meaning sometimes. But it was a pivotal time in my life, so up it goes.
maddeningly slow summer days
when your bike too you
south to north to my house and back to
front to hip to thigh to
designs of space
catalytic
yet
needlessly anorexic,
apocalyptic scripts and song a
siren to
my 8th grade heart-
heartlessly distant becoming
resistant to your cancerous memorandum,
remembering your defective deflection of warmth
and
whatever else we once had to have to love this
screen of adulthood over the
flesh and fantasy beliefs
that I believed
and you deceived
and the tainted space between has bled
solidified, lied into the chains of
night from too much twisting of an unrequited fate
and
of late, the steel of 4am knows all my stolen secrets
and I think that you like to think you were the one
doing the stealing...
And years from how you were then to what you've
become now
I bow down to the secret that
the mind lies even as the flesh lies with mine
and it takes time to
turn away
around
down the offer
of a forever that flesh fire only cannot sire
because your mind is too worn down to respond
and even as you are gone
and I remain
to stake my claim on the memory of the
fumbling days and the way that you thought
that I should think I was too good for you to hold me
as I hold you down and sometime around
the line that you crossed I had the thought
that
the only time you did not lie
was when you and I
were in the flesh.
***PS: I don't think that poem makes a lot of sense. It has some really great lines, but I think I tried too hard to make it spoken word and lost the meaning sometimes. But it was a pivotal time in my life, so up it goes.
Faith Diverted (2002)
Snowflake angel illusions
scattered
across corrupted blue jeans
God is not my savior:
you are.
People offer to show me the
-light-
I only trust those who will remain with me through
-dark-
If god is something we worship and
trust in,
something that has the power to
hurt, and heal,
then your love is god.
Illusions of innocence, while
-pretty-
cannot compare with the love of sin
and the sin of love
you offer me
scattered
across corrupted blue jeans
God is not my savior:
you are.
People offer to show me the
-light-
I only trust those who will remain with me through
-dark-
If god is something we worship and
trust in,
something that has the power to
hurt, and heal,
then your love is god.
Illusions of innocence, while
-pretty-
cannot compare with the love of sin
and the sin of love
you offer me
Morning After
It is worse, almost, than rain
sudden illumination of
hot rubber on long black lanes
slight jerk of the hand when you meet the sun's eye
and look away first
reminding you of times when
65 was way too fast
decisions were not yours to make, but ask
and bright light and crisp breath meant
cereal and fresh leaf piling
not cigarettes, and stale regrets.
Good morning.
sudden illumination of
hot rubber on long black lanes
slight jerk of the hand when you meet the sun's eye
and look away first
reminding you of times when
65 was way too fast
decisions were not yours to make, but ask
and bright light and crisp breath meant
cereal and fresh leaf piling
not cigarettes, and stale regrets.
Good morning.
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