Well, the wind keeps a-blowin’ me up and down the street

With my hat in my hand

And my boots on my feet


I got a real gal I’m lovin’
And Lord I’ll love her till I’m dead.


---


"Born-Again (A Rose In Summer)" (2012)


Now the colors flow freely,
In my blood and in my tears.
You stir those bodies in me:
Unborn children of dejected self-denial,
Daughters of depression,
Sons of withered dreams,
That sunk into the pavement,
Writhing in the heat of that summer sun.
My soul crackles and erupts again,
Light splintered through the rubble,
And I spasm from my lethargy,
In the most glorious ecstasy,
I've ever felt,
In my entire life.
Dead dreams in me climb skyward again,
And offer me that cool summer shade,
Where I may lay my head on,
The Goddess Mother's breast,
And hear the heartbeat of the land,
And of the people,
But never need to shade my eyes from that relentless summer sun.
You have made me exhale,
A breath held for too many years,
And while I cough and while I sputter,
The release is worth the pain of exhuming,
The starving artist pounding against my ribcage.
Thank you, thank you, thank you,
For sparking life in me again.
One day,
I'll repay the favor.

And the devil called him by name

Down, down, down.

---

“That Sinking Feeling” (2012)

I exist in a haze
In a blur of emotions gone unchecked
A pressure tightening as I plummet deeper into the water
I anticipate the hard thud of my body colliding with the sea floor
But it never comes
I continue to sink
And I can hold my breath no longer
I struggle, I flail
Pushing through the thick darkness surrounding me
Groping for some rung of a rusty ladder jutting towards the sky
But no light reaches here
I continue to sink
My chest collapses and my lungs expel
The last evidence of the world above
The briny air of the harbor, the sunlight breaking through the clouds
Gone
So now all I feel is the unyielding tug of gravity on the weight at my feet
My whole body stretching as I am drawn back in to the center of the earth
To a deep crevasse where no creature in the twilight dares even to dump excrement
And I go down down down
And I never hit the bottom.

A book of myths in which our names do not appear

One day you'll see this and you'll know what I mean.

---

"In Relation" (2012)

I dreamt myself as independent of you
Where we merge
and overlap
Is rich with fertile soil
hungry for the seeds of a relationship that means so much more than cheating regeneration for
Pleasure.
But on the margin, on the crest of the wave that carries me to you and you to my waiting arms
I lie in silence and I breathe and I exist alone
I let the musicality of the world flow and bend through me like a prism
so that you may not be blinded.

Where I lay I contemplate the ocean that brought you unto me
And I question if that god who I abandoned long ago had cast out your soul in a bottle in earlier days so that I may rediscover His grace and His kindness

But I am no fool and superstition no longer clouds my judgement
I have waited on these shores
and I have watched every wave
for the one that may, like any other, carry you to me.

If you brush up against my feet as the tide pulls you in
then it is my persistence, not my faith, that yields fortune to me.

Maybe you feel the same as I do

I hope I'm not the only one...
---

“Suburban Counterpoint” (2012)

there were never sidewalks here

fragments of public walking space
pepper the neighborhood intersections
suggesting some sort of intention
to pair the swelling and splintering roads with parallel lines
suited for name-brand shoes and factory-produced bicycles

thus the streets are flanked by eastbound chains with clean façades

and while I could never see clear to the other side
(as the traffic is relentless through to the evening)
now I can see nothing but a pseudo-city in love with itself

the parking lots can barely hold
the collective transport
of the voracious consumers

the mindless drones
through advertisement
and
apathy
and
artless
lifeless
debauchery
have been drawn like moths to the department store lights

no weather can abate their appetite
their need to acquire and consume

how very american of them
how very suburban of them

not a single street corner is home to a friendly conversation

picture this:
SUVs and expressionless middle-aged parents
flying by each other at dismissive speeds

frictionless

their lives confined to the living room
the bedroom
the backseat
the grave

suffocation
is a word used all too commonly
when one is smothered by an oppressive culture
but how may I be suffocated
by that which has provided me no air in the first place?

clearly
I must have come from some other planet
because
this
is not my home

Driving in your car (I never, never want to go home)

These were actually written quite a while ago, and I think they deserve some explanation (or introduction). Since my last post, I hadn't written in a long while. I was busy with other endeavors and poetry was, unfortunately, a distraction at best. But one night...one miserable night...I let loose with eleven fiercely minimalist poems, and I left them there. Sitting around. Useless.

But here they are, compiled properly (i.e. in the order I wrote them) and awaiting critique or a silent nod of acknowledgement. I am sure that this kind of writing has been done, but for me this is a conscious break from my earlier work. While I don't write often, I try to make it count on the off-chance that I do indulge that insatiable demon inside me.

...Oh, who am I kidding? Fuck demons; I'm a frustrated kid from the suburbs. Read it like that.

---

"What Words Cannot Express" (2011)

1

I I I I I I

I can I can

I can't help you

2

Slither shake slide

Um

Unimportant

3

Inky black

LED dashboard light

Rah rah rah and on and on

And stretch and back home again

Mhmm, thanks I'll see you later

4

Luv you

Luv you too

I love you

I'm not sure

5

The less I say

The better

Keep talking

6

Baby sweetie honey

Just the wall and me

7

Hello Richard

Hello

How are you

Alright I guess

That's good

How are you doing

Pretty good

That's nice to hear

8

Fuck you

I wish I could

9

Unambiguous

I feel completely indifferent

10

Alone

Again

Aah

11

What did you think?

No! Not to me... You can't do this... We have a contract!!

"Andrew Dies Alone" (2011)

The car.
The lights.
The road.
The turn.
The sound.
The silence.
Black.
Numb.
Lying under spent metal and a spinning wheel, Andrew’s brain flails, sending a desperate signal to his legs that never quite makes it. The realization doesn’t come to him just yet; he’s still reeling from the impact. His head is pounding hard. A dark fluid makes its way down his cheek. He shuts his eyes but he sees stars anyway. He tries to grit his teeth and move the vehicle just enough to crawl out from under it, but even his arms aren’t responding. The wheel stops spinning, slowly and carefully, as if not to disturb the tragedy playing out before it.

Andrew’s eyes open, wet and puffy. The tears come, but they are without the burning sensation he is familiar with. There is no feeling of release. Andrew can see that he is in pain but he can feel none of it. The rain starts. The water is just inconvenient at this point. He wants to fight, he wants to live, but the ditch is taking on water. The street is cold and dark and empty. He took the road less traveled and is dying beside it. The irony is literally killing him. He wants to laugh but he isn’t sure if it would be appropriate. Maybe he should respect his own demise.

The dark of the surrounding woodlands is oppressive, the kind of dark you only see when you’re going to die. The crunch of the fall leaves under him gives way to the even shush of the rainstorm. The rain hushes him like a comforting mother with a cloth pressed against his lips to smother him quietly. The water rises beneath him, but it cannot lift the car. He’s still pinned beneath the weight of his own salary. He isn’t anywhere near paying it off yet. The debt is almost as crushing as the metal itself. His jeans are dark in the pool of water carrying itself up his body. He hates this slow death.

Andrew always pictured his own death as a pleasant farewell in a hospital bed with friends and family surrounding him. Now, even the fauna have scurried off and abandoned him. Nobody knows where he is. He isn’t expected to come home for days. He has effectively been forgotten. He turns his head to avoid drowning in the rainfall, but his lips suck up mud and dirt instead. Even the worms have burrowed deep underground. Even the soil seems like it wants to move away from him. The world is slowly seceding from his grim, private reality…the water climbs higher and higher…he feels nothing…no lightening, just the faint glow of the moon overhead to spotlight him in his final moments.

Andrew dies alone.

Don't worry, it's not about you.

This is just how I cope. Poetry helps me get elbow deep into my emotions and encourages me to deconstruct my own feelings on whatever matter is bothering me at the time. Bothering is a bit of an exaggeration here, though. I'm not upset or sad or irked about anything. I'm just lonely. And loneliness has a way of rationalizing itself in the most negative ways possible.

Who knows, maybe it's just the weather.

Anyways, I'd like to mention that this is actually written as a song. The tune, which I have bouncing around in my head at the moment, is reminiscent of the kind of writing Swedish folk singer The Tallest Man on Earth specializes in. Maybe he'll sing it for me one day.
---

“The Wait Is Over” (2011)

Simple enough.
The brown-eyed beauty and the boys running off.
Simple enough, simple enough.

I waited by the window,
Sitting on my hands; don’t make a scene.
Just you keep your thoughts away; don’t make a scene.

Mama’s gonna catch you,
With your hands all over her; don’t make a scene.
If you know what’s good for you, don’t make a scene.

I thought I found love,
But I only found disappointment.
Running to my room; don’t make a scene.
With my teeth against my lip; don’t make a scene.

Shuffling through poetry,
Misspelled and all the same.
It’s been the same damn thing,
And now it’s happening again.

But I was patient, I was cool,
It was simple enough,
To hold my tongue and cast my thoughts,
Into oblivion.

Set down my pen and rest my hands,
There’s nothing left to hide.
All I had, I’ve shared with you;
But, sure, I’ll sit outside...