the silence comes with a sharp shear of summer
whispering it's malicious intent upon waking weight
whimpering the days that have long since passed
slowly she comes down by the eternal waterway
leaving footprints along the cold sharp sandbar
tears fill her eyes, running down, salting fast
staring the horizon steadfast, forced fortification
sliding inside the drydocked wooden watercraft
broken from the tossing turbulence of last storm
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Sublime Summer
sweet sweet sublime summer
resting fevers for each other
flowered breaths breathe bonds
between our moments far too gone
resting fevers for each other
flowered breaths breathe bonds
between our moments far too gone
Reply Complete With Errors
The human condition IS fucking frightening. From the moment we emerge from our nine-month breeding vesicle we are held up into blinding lights and cold wind currents amongst seemingly terrifying creatures, crying because that is all we know to do. But comfort comes, we are warmed in the arms of another and we adjust to the lights. There will always be comfort. Those once terrifying creatures become familiar to us and less terrifying. We are subdued peacefully into our idyllic innocence. But our comfort cannot last indefinitely, unless we are to remain hidden in the warmth of the blanket. We venture out and we grow. And adventure livens us; the wondrous senses that surround our being. And our innocence weakens. With every sensation, with every new discovery. We cannot say that we don’t know; we cannot plead ignorance; we cannot honestly believe that is all good. We fall from grace. Or is it that the world falls from our grace. We see the bullshit. The utter malicious intent of others that is willed. We feel exposed the elements of humanity and see the truthfully terrifying creatures, but we cannot cry because to show weakness is to open a door for them to enter. So we shelter ourselves with the blanket of youth but it has since become worn and we have nothing else. We inflect and see that e must either a)let it desroy us, b)become one the horrendous, or c)… there must be a third way… but it always seems so fucking pointless.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
If Children Don't Grow Up
they say that there's something wrong
when you know that there's nothing wrong
then they tell you that you're smoking lots
but you know it's not
it's just broken hearts
and we're all miss-taught
oh they think they know you
but just you know that they don't own you
oh they think they know you
but just you know that they don't own you
when the atmosphere is getting thick
and our hearts are sinking like bricks
when all the noise bursts through our seams
all we have to do is make-believe
lazily lie in your mother's bed
and later we'll lie to them instead
shine so bright under the sheets
run in the rain through the streets
when you know that there's nothing wrong
then they tell you that you're smoking lots
but you know it's not
it's just broken hearts
and we're all miss-taught
oh they think they know you
but just you know that they don't own you
oh they think they know you
but just you know that they don't own you
when the atmosphere is getting thick
and our hearts are sinking like bricks
when all the noise bursts through our seams
all we have to do is make-believe
lazily lie in your mother's bed
and later we'll lie to them instead
shine so bright under the sheets
run in the rain through the streets
Sunday, September 30, 2007
The Last Son of Jupiter
Introduction
The following is a collection of a story currently in the works. Essentially just brainstorms, they are numbered according to the order that I wrote them not chronologically in the story.
I.
She's been on my front yard for nearly two weeks now. she's just there in her make-shift vinyl tent doing whatever one would do when camping on a front lawn. she just suddenly showed up one day and she's been there ever since, not showing any signs of retreat. i never saw it coming but really, if it would happen to you neither would you. every time i peer out my front window to catch a glimpse of a passing car rumbling my floors or someone laughing in the sun i always see that fucking ugly tent there, laying seemingly haphazardly. i would really like to make her leave but surely you can admit that not everything is as easy as you may think it is. i suppose the sensible thing to do would be to invite her inside where it is warm and cozy, but the fact that she ended up in the yard in the first place is a pretty ridiculous thing and to invite her in would be, shall we say, ludicrous.
at the risk of redundancy, i just don't know how this stand off will end.
II.
It's the hum. I'll never understand it, but the hum of this place is what gives it life. You can be alone at 3am, and yet you know that you can simply submit yourself to the hum and the loneliness melts away. It saturates your soundscape and resonates in your skull, vibrating your body to the same frequency as the red brick walls, the flapping doors and the plexiglass windowpanes. In essence, you become the same as that which surrounds you and in that there is no alone, only what is. The hum is a soothing lullaby, and I, the child, crying out for comfort.
III.
Damn fucking coffee. Stale two day old coffee. Microwave can give it warmth but it can't make it taste good. Where the fuck is that delivery man? Kids playing in the street. Cars racing down the street swerving to miss them. But no fucking delivery man! At least I have my coffee. Maybe I'll learn to enjoy it while I wait for my package.
I keep looking out the window for the delivery man. There are no longer any kids and a car passes in rare occurance. Waiting is never an activity I've enjoyed. My door is opened several times in a futile attempt to see if
the package has been left in my mailbox. Each try turns up the black bottom of the steel box lined with rusty screws and other unidentifiable metal objects. My mind is racing circles now, like a cat chasing its tail.
When is my package to arrive? The racing stops. I hear a voice say "334." Well, perhaps I shouldn't describe it as a voice; it was more like jsut a thought that popped into my head. A seemingly uninteresting number to most but I take it to mean 3:34, as in the time my package is to arrive. But this is absurd. I am not a psychic. Nor have I ever believed in such things. But nonetheless, I cannot get this idea out of my head. 3:34.
It's 3:00 now and I switch the television that is on but not being watched to an episode of Seinfeld. I stare blankly at the screen but all that is in my head is that time. Not before long the show is over and the clock is showing me 3:29. I pray that 3:34, is just an overactive imagination.
IV.
The voice on the other end of the line had a hypnotic soothing to it. With each word she whispers I fall deeper into a subconscious scene. I swear I've heard this voice before but where? I look at the clock ticking away and think in my dreamy haze that I've been on the phone for nearly 40 minutes, yet I can't recall a word the voice has said to me. As if on cue, the voice suddenly speaks in a different tone, saying only "3, 34," and ending the call. I am left in my kitchen with the phone still at my ear and the dial tone absorbing into my head. I feel alone now. An indescribable transcendent loneliness. I remember feeling this way only once, after a certain surreal dream, when I was a child. This brings up the image of a man with a long jacket but I quickly re-submerge the dream back into the depths of my memory. I let the phone drop to the white laminate floor and write down the only thing I remember about the Voice. What did she mean when she said "3 34?"
V.
...and that night in the cave a strange man appeared before me about two hours into my shift. He was not a worker as he had none of the company regulated safety equipment on. He wore a long tattered forest green jacket and slick black boots and his face was haggard with a long gray beard. I had no idea from where he came - I just turned around and he was there - nor could I understand how he was still standing without a gas mask. The fumes surely would have taken care of him. Up until this point he had been merely standing there, seemingly in his own world, without any knowledge of my existence. But now he was staring directly at me, his eyes empty orbs shooting fear into me. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a shiny stainless steel object out and held it in his hands. From where I stood, I could not tell what it could be, until he raised it and slid his thumb across it, making a flame and igniting the air all around him and myself. As the flames engulfed I could feel my skin and hair melting off of me and I watched it all seep in the earth below. The bright fire blinded me and I slowly receded into an previously unknown darkness. I was alone now and all around me was empty. I looked up to where the old man once stood and in his place was a sight that sucked what breath I had left in me. To my surprise the what had taken his place was another. Someone from my past and someone I paradoxically knew far too well yet never really knew at all. I tried to speak but my lungs felt like a charred black. I simply fell back to the ground and closed my eyes, for the person before me was the 16 year old version of myself.
The following is a collection of a story currently in the works. Essentially just brainstorms, they are numbered according to the order that I wrote them not chronologically in the story.
I.
She's been on my front yard for nearly two weeks now. she's just there in her make-shift vinyl tent doing whatever one would do when camping on a front lawn. she just suddenly showed up one day and she's been there ever since, not showing any signs of retreat. i never saw it coming but really, if it would happen to you neither would you. every time i peer out my front window to catch a glimpse of a passing car rumbling my floors or someone laughing in the sun i always see that fucking ugly tent there, laying seemingly haphazardly. i would really like to make her leave but surely you can admit that not everything is as easy as you may think it is. i suppose the sensible thing to do would be to invite her inside where it is warm and cozy, but the fact that she ended up in the yard in the first place is a pretty ridiculous thing and to invite her in would be, shall we say, ludicrous.
at the risk of redundancy, i just don't know how this stand off will end.
II.
It's the hum. I'll never understand it, but the hum of this place is what gives it life. You can be alone at 3am, and yet you know that you can simply submit yourself to the hum and the loneliness melts away. It saturates your soundscape and resonates in your skull, vibrating your body to the same frequency as the red brick walls, the flapping doors and the plexiglass windowpanes. In essence, you become the same as that which surrounds you and in that there is no alone, only what is. The hum is a soothing lullaby, and I, the child, crying out for comfort.
III.
Damn fucking coffee. Stale two day old coffee. Microwave can give it warmth but it can't make it taste good. Where the fuck is that delivery man? Kids playing in the street. Cars racing down the street swerving to miss them. But no fucking delivery man! At least I have my coffee. Maybe I'll learn to enjoy it while I wait for my package.
I keep looking out the window for the delivery man. There are no longer any kids and a car passes in rare occurance. Waiting is never an activity I've enjoyed. My door is opened several times in a futile attempt to see if
the package has been left in my mailbox. Each try turns up the black bottom of the steel box lined with rusty screws and other unidentifiable metal objects. My mind is racing circles now, like a cat chasing its tail.
When is my package to arrive? The racing stops. I hear a voice say "334." Well, perhaps I shouldn't describe it as a voice; it was more like jsut a thought that popped into my head. A seemingly uninteresting number to most but I take it to mean 3:34, as in the time my package is to arrive. But this is absurd. I am not a psychic. Nor have I ever believed in such things. But nonetheless, I cannot get this idea out of my head. 3:34.
It's 3:00 now and I switch the television that is on but not being watched to an episode of Seinfeld. I stare blankly at the screen but all that is in my head is that time. Not before long the show is over and the clock is showing me 3:29. I pray that 3:34, is just an overactive imagination.
IV.
The voice on the other end of the line had a hypnotic soothing to it. With each word she whispers I fall deeper into a subconscious scene. I swear I've heard this voice before but where? I look at the clock ticking away and think in my dreamy haze that I've been on the phone for nearly 40 minutes, yet I can't recall a word the voice has said to me. As if on cue, the voice suddenly speaks in a different tone, saying only "3, 34," and ending the call. I am left in my kitchen with the phone still at my ear and the dial tone absorbing into my head. I feel alone now. An indescribable transcendent loneliness. I remember feeling this way only once, after a certain surreal dream, when I was a child. This brings up the image of a man with a long jacket but I quickly re-submerge the dream back into the depths of my memory. I let the phone drop to the white laminate floor and write down the only thing I remember about the Voice. What did she mean when she said "3 34?"
V.
...and that night in the cave a strange man appeared before me about two hours into my shift. He was not a worker as he had none of the company regulated safety equipment on. He wore a long tattered forest green jacket and slick black boots and his face was haggard with a long gray beard. I had no idea from where he came - I just turned around and he was there - nor could I understand how he was still standing without a gas mask. The fumes surely would have taken care of him. Up until this point he had been merely standing there, seemingly in his own world, without any knowledge of my existence. But now he was staring directly at me, his eyes empty orbs shooting fear into me. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a shiny stainless steel object out and held it in his hands. From where I stood, I could not tell what it could be, until he raised it and slid his thumb across it, making a flame and igniting the air all around him and myself. As the flames engulfed I could feel my skin and hair melting off of me and I watched it all seep in the earth below. The bright fire blinded me and I slowly receded into an previously unknown darkness. I was alone now and all around me was empty. I looked up to where the old man once stood and in his place was a sight that sucked what breath I had left in me. To my surprise the what had taken his place was another. Someone from my past and someone I paradoxically knew far too well yet never really knew at all. I tried to speak but my lungs felt like a charred black. I simply fell back to the ground and closed my eyes, for the person before me was the 16 year old version of myself.
In My Time Alone
in my time alone
i have found
that in our time alone
we become unbound
and in our time alone
we're found
to dislike the dissonant sound
but once that time
is done
once we can say
we've had our fun
we must retreat
from our retreat
and retreat into someone
if man is an island
then man is barren
and is only empty sand
if man stands alone
then man can understand
that heart is none
and man is damned
strike the dissonant chord
and note what we're for
strike the disguised word
and forgo what we've come to know
strike the match
and light up your eyes
if only it can be found in our endless night
in my time alone
i have found
that if ever we're alone
it is not as if we're bound
in our time
alone
i have found
that in our time alone
we become unbound
and in our time alone
we're found
to dislike the dissonant sound
but once that time
is done
once we can say
we've had our fun
we must retreat
from our retreat
and retreat into someone
if man is an island
then man is barren
and is only empty sand
if man stands alone
then man can understand
that heart is none
and man is damned
strike the dissonant chord
and note what we're for
strike the disguised word
and forgo what we've come to know
strike the match
and light up your eyes
if only it can be found in our endless night
in my time alone
i have found
that if ever we're alone
it is not as if we're bound
in our time
alone
Saturday, September 29, 2007
strange brew
such a strange thing to see
on a serene night as this
a little man with a blue cap
conjuring a brand new wish
the fire crackles beneath
the black vessel with life
spiraling towards the sky
smoke makes the night seem white
he steps to pick some herb
from his worn leather sack
breaking some apart
he makes up what was lack
a green flame rises
and a cold air blows by
the man's hair stands
and his eyes grow wide
crooked stance with a crooked smile
the old man stirs the crooked stick
a crooked intent breathes the air
a crooked potion bathes the wick
a brief turn to the moon
and the potion seems to move
quickly looking back
nothing without proof
a glare into the pot
breathes a distrust of right
but he knows that he creates
and puts forth his life
crooked stance with a crooked smile
the old man stirs the crooked stick
a crooked intent breathes the air
a crooked potion bathes the wick
on a serene night as this
a little man with a blue cap
conjuring a brand new wish
the fire crackles beneath
the black vessel with life
spiraling towards the sky
smoke makes the night seem white
he steps to pick some herb
from his worn leather sack
breaking some apart
he makes up what was lack
a green flame rises
and a cold air blows by
the man's hair stands
and his eyes grow wide
crooked stance with a crooked smile
the old man stirs the crooked stick
a crooked intent breathes the air
a crooked potion bathes the wick
a brief turn to the moon
and the potion seems to move
quickly looking back
nothing without proof
a glare into the pot
breathes a distrust of right
but he knows that he creates
and puts forth his life
crooked stance with a crooked smile
the old man stirs the crooked stick
a crooked intent breathes the air
a crooked potion bathes the wick
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