I’m not even from here, thank god.
I’m pretty sure I would’ve dived down to the stones Lining the bottom of the east river,
To retrieve a little bit of a previous home
That I sat upon some years in the valley,
As I pushed a weeping man up a hill.
It was written that a boulder became him.
But that would’ve made me propping up a shill.
And I can’t believe a comrade would have me
Do so many things that they won’t.
Their passion is awake from the lightning
That is drifting through the clouds that float above his home.
And I am sure that every person’s a person.
But I’m also pretty sure that I’m too.
And I’m in so little focus without my glasses on
That you wouldn’t recognize me if I offered you my shoes. Those shoes that stand for a weakness
To simply hold up your socks on your shins
Like the toes beneath are uneven.
I am sure that after a few days, they’d smell as bad as him. And I mean him, that guy I helped to the old man
Who seems always seated on the peak of a mountain.
I was thrilled when we arrived and he was laying there dead- I tried to revive him, but his lips were dry
And his tongue went wagged and his dick went limp.
So I backed up my self and asked the old man…
No, not that old man. I mean my old man-
If the other old man could have even helped us at all.
And my old man, he looked at me and smiled, and said to go and look it up.
Like the answer to the questions of the present
Are a faith in what’s become of the past.
I’m still grappling with figuring out why he lied
About giving me a brother who’s only half on my side. And what woman who I’ve never even seen couldn’t be so bad.
I mean, I know a few devils and I think I knew my dad- And he certainly never lived like he knew
What evil was false and which evil was true.
Because divinity is washed up on pavement
That was lain upon the grasses that I only want my toes To sink into if the soil is wet.
I said “I love you dad.”
And I think he thought, ‘Yea, I bet’
And yet while I laid there listening to him die With the air from his lungs lifting up like a vine Rising high up above us as I dreamt by his side Til my mom woke me up to say he’d gone…
If I had been awake, would I have heard him go?
Or would I have edited it out
Like so many things?
Like the streets of the suburb we lived in once.
Before I turned seven and before I ever rode a school bus. Before I learned how guitars strum.
Before I received a small set of drums.
Before I kept leaving school drunk
On mental illness.
Before I hammered away at the idea of love,
And tore apart girls who were only looking for a great big hug.
And so was I but so was she and so was she and so was she. I went from having no one, see
To having, literally, like 13.
And how unlucky certain summers have made me.
Twelve years later, and you could have a twelve-year old baby.
Fuck, what an animal turn.
To speak ill of the dead and wretch about burns
Given back and forth
Every five years.
I grapple with everything like the seasons residing deep in bowels.
Like a rat, I can’t hide it.
I feed in the subways
Like I slept in the streets…
Just always traveling around
From some point A’s to some point B’s;
Trying to ignore the sound of trains screeching to a halt. And the people screaming “Please!
Please! My god, can you please help me!”
I remember it all too famished:
Preaching to the ether that all the land is promised. Portland, a city of trees
That some people hear
And some people see.
And now here in a brand new old city
With some people listening to me
Telling my story of bringing an old man with me
To ask a dead man some questions.
And those questions?
And can you forgive me for bothering you.
The Paradox of Pain
if the fear:
that the passive production of passionate quotations quite possibly predicts a perilous predicament,
whereas the case:
the parting of past progression persuades the quiet punctuation to precede pauses in percussive prose in proving the predilection per the present, quelling the purpose of proud plasticity and instead praising portions pertaining to its quality or point therein,
the prejudice inherently perpetuated postures only to feed and be fed.
A form of warm summers adapt at no will,
But deliver it somewhere apart.
For someone to scream at me is words for my ears.
For another to whisper is lines I can’t hear.
But a ball can’t be rolling too fast or too slow,
‘Lest you walk up a street and don’t know where to go.
Yet you know there’s an artist, or a thinker, benign
For a lack of cold cash to send sprinkling.
For a face on a dollar bill is the past we ignore
And interpret, too much, incorrectly.
Like the guns that some look to for protection…
Another’s guns, loaded by angel dust- the drug.
Not the tiny specks of light I see dancing sometimes
When I take off my glasses and peer up toward the daytime. ‘Cause sky-blue calms me down; yes, it’s there for a reason: To send our heads glowing with passion in season.
There are plenty of things I can’t know to be known
And there’s even more I cannot do on my own.
But I can tell you a thing that I know to be true:
I purchase what’s cheap.
Or what reminds me of You.
Like some water that forms in the clouds up above,
And rains down upon us at times we should love
To sit at a doorstep and see what it’s for:
A cleanse of wild spirits we may not feel anymore.
But that’s just me and how I’m feeling right now.
And my feelings change often, ’cause they should anyhow. ‘Cause a mood is just a ring that someone somewhere invented
To put a color on feelings we haven’t to adapted.
And yes, I believe there is something I feel
That is something a bit more than some may think is real. But I’m certain – yes, certain – that tricks are the mind Finding bones in the river and sticks in your side.
When a tree is a tree, it grows toward the sunshine,
Even ’round what is blocking its growth. The roots take their space depending on how The ground is beneath it.
You can see it.
But so, I am darkness tonight- I don’t know.
I go where I’m going. And I notice what’s new.
I’m those that care deeply for another’s own sake
Or even what’s parted on pews.
I’ve never been read like a devil.
I’ve always been glanced at like sets.
‘Cause I don’t really care what dogma presents
Because it was wrought by some weapons
And stupidity and death.
When life is the answer to the question of why,
There remains every moment of ones own reasons to cry… To cry for the heavens surrounding the past
That form every lifetime, again and again.
But maybe I’m wrong, and who really cares
When fun is a thing I can’t hold in a stare
By myself, smoking cigarettes I have to go find
And spend all my dollars, and find only dimes
On the floor of a subway car,
With a man playing songs
For people with headphones on-
Hell, I’m one of them often.
And when sirens go by, I’m just hoping they’re nice But it isn’t myself who is worried at night.
It’s those far too young
And those far too lonely.
It’s those whose overcoat matches the sky.
I don’t know.
I’m a poet.
I’m a man raised by guilt.
And all I really want
Is someone to listen to my music.
And read my words.
And see that I’m gifted.
And hand me a paycheck I earned with my mind That nobody charged me
To gain on my own.
Almost thirty years of learning.
Almost thirty years of practice.
And all I really should be saying is this:
Do not to cocaine.
And don’t lick some tablets.
And don’t smoke a thing you can’t pick from the earth. And watch what your eyes may be saying to another.
And listen to your language:
We are sisters and brothers.
Not enemies, wilted beneath a fine Spring sunshine.
And not patterns depicted by God’s only light.
We are shapes in the dust.
There is them.
There is us.
And only when I’m looking for rhymes
Does it make all the sense to myself.
If you don’t understand something,
Then ask yourself help.
And if it’s the middle of the night, and the church doors are locked,
Wonder why, and go aching for a dollar from a stranger. And pray that there’s 24 hour fast food.
Brands know their meaning.
I erased my day unto myself;
An open stain of continuity.
I reversed these slain depicted breaths, Out for no fairer community.
I am broken with the pictures of Children who go running,
And now, I’m sitting back
Can’t cry, no.
Tears are through my blood, humming.
No carrying no tools
You carry knowing better.
And with it, a hammer
When the boards are alive
And are no nails.
With a peter pan depicted calmly.
I am not his ghost.
Children are children when they’re children, only. Adults are the ones to save their cloaks.
And clearly no one’s words will shift
Society or present drifting.
And our president’s an animal
Calling people an animal.
No people’s an animal.
All peoples are animals.
Skin pierces either way.
Find your gun astray.
Put it away.
Lock it up.
It’s no good.
And so, I pray.
Pardon With a Garden, Dwelling
With displeasure comes the land to till.
And out from peaceful earth, a crop you handle Shall drop from grips to worth.
And for forgotten seeds will find no fruits, perhaps Though dignified and true.
For only passion rakes the soil
And through it, heaven’s harvest.
So tie no interest, begging still; And for no guide to wrangle
Are angels’ will to dropping halos,
Becoming persons to gamble
On saving graces;
For mothers who bare the womb not now forsaken. ‘Twill chime for goodness, gracious.
And with unknowing love Do sin again, perhaps.
Yet still to learn our meaning Of rapt incurrences.
For good or evil?
No, best to our poor failings.
And with circumferences do cradle onward Carrying a garden’s girth.
But patched with god’s indifference,
Yet his infinite curiosity
In mistook creations.
‘Cause as temptation whittles forth to send a telegram, A recipient will go forward knowing more
To lessen their own troubled morning.
And so to stamp envelopes,
Souls do cross
To farm together with no bulbs of flowers.
Though to grow inside a shadow will find its lightness, And be meals for something
If not but for a token to someone’s greatness.
All together, it is a whistle blown for someone close. Or a break to highways to visit strangers-
‘Tis better than a lonesome anger, yes.
And with a venting comes a through-forest’s breath To nurture what becomes it:
A rising life from its language death.
A Joke; An Idea About Yawns
[These two thoughts may seem disconnected]
Two persons meet on a barge.
One says to the other, “Ya think?”
To which is replied, “What do ya mean?”
A Theory of Yawning
People yawn to reset the rhythm of their breathing as it relates to their physical and mental state.
Yawns are “contagious” because when someone sees a person yawn, they have a subconscious desire to match the rhythm of that person who yawned.
Dear God (and off like lightning)
skip the rope.
jump the tide.
no one ever has it right.
only left to be a man
until the world
all in all,
a captain’s hune
for a little passion plan.
and so we go back out.
but you play a game
that i found out.
and as the mothers are homecoming, please go dancing.
skip the rubbing
and be a good boy.
please your tells.
cause on we go…
but play a handle with no hands shooting.
the valves are begging you to press and hum. my only matter is a seeming circle.
my only dig into the world is god.
and earth is round.
beds are sweating from summer’s faucets
and you’re letting business handle human rights. and as the president aids Satan,
he just erupts into a bitter kite
to let it go
sometimes i wonder if its diamond’s telling:
a game of instincts that you’ve lost, it seems. and even if it turns out i’m pissing,
i’m off like lightning to the copper key: electrified.
now truth spills.
and now im hoping that your stupid nonsense is copping back to sit like finer thugs;
to let your tongue release its wagging;
to chase your tail or splash with slugs.
cause if you hear,
my happy days give nights their resting;
my dreams describe to me a placid well
that i go driving into like serpents.
if you can’t see that’s torture
then you never will.
and even so,
give your handshakes.
collect your whatever.
’til it’s a fucking disgrace.
and then it’s the exact same world
on a different day.
Art’s Seeming Indifference
And their ankles
To be worshiped
But art’s indifference
Seems too nice
And yet the cordial
Faints are handed
When reason’s swift
And doctors don’t understand That learned patients
Are their corners
And all the while
A lying race
That never handles
At its face value
What temperature brings to pardon I love it
And it is traced
To lectures skipped
And ethics fixed
On goodness gracious
Take a swig
-What do you call a rabbit that’s been sitting out for a while? -A dust bunny.
-Why did the dove fly south for the winter? -Because it’s warmer.
-Knock Knock -Who’s there? -Rabbits -Rabbits who? -Nah…owls who
-Piglet Jackson the third. We had an appointment…
Two people meet on a barge. One says to the other, “Ya think?” the other replies, “What do you mean?”
-What did the fan say to the paperclips?
-“I’m so glad you’re here. I’m a really big fan.”
-Why couldn’t the crow sit over the traffic any longer?
-It was out of breath from warning all the pedestrians.
-What did the flower say to the pasture? -“I’m right outside the fence”
-Who were Mozart’s influences?
This one’s not a joke, I just want to know.
-What did the doctor say to the leaky watch? -“I’m afraid you’re running out of time.” (written by allie)
things which, in the past few months, i’ve randomly thought and subsequently written down
Lies come in all shapes and sizes
but they all crush the same when added up.
One who does not know the distress of another, but believes he may,
is allowed nothing himself to know of himself.
Without the dictation of willed presentation of spirit, there is but emptiness and caustic platitude.
Those who seek to nullify another are without themselves.
A chorus without chords is silence, which holds its own music, in a way.
Preachers who move amongst the wind cannot see through it-
but in falling into it, they are thrust onto each other
and must tumble together. ***
There is no ‘zero’ in nature. Even within empty space, there is infinity.
In a land of opportunity,
My hands are on my hips and Twinkle in the sunlight, giggling; Happy and aloof.
Cigarettes too many, most Dignifying random hosts aplenty And outward on my own, no longer.
Breezes whisper motionless please, Followed by a land-lock.
Hug your people long and soft or hard… But long, please.
And huddle in.
See jazz in all beings.
That which is fixed only seems random inside ignorance, even when the odds are in your favor.
Anger is the brash of the bridled. ***
An idea i had, and an idea, an idea
Christianity is night;
Islam is day;
Judaism is the mountain; Natives, the plains;
Buddha has its forest,
And where does the forest begin? When all of these together
Is the art of eARTh.
And yet somewhere I’ve forgotten something… Oh, Scientology:
Made up bullshit based on money.
Hey look, i made poetry
About all of the above having been wrecked and buried, Because god is unclear
To the forcefully married to him.
And yet as i leave for a smoke, bewildered
I am still coming back for to say:
You are all so correct and all so fiction
‘Cause you wanted it, wanted it
Wanted it Your way.
And now i’ve remembered: Percentages cows…
Yet still pointing toward clouds.
Listen to the woods. For your soapbox is a trashcan.
A man lonely at night alone in the city is not but alone in the city at night.
With or without insanity, i still feel surrealistic. What a blessing.
Bring a pencil everywhere. The ink won’t run
And the peace won’t tear.