Every line of this is taken from a web of 4 unrelated simultaneous conversations that never intersected, blended to create as linear a perspective as possible.
I mean, we still talk
I can't say anything because
- ugh -
but we still talk.
He talks about it,
he's a lot like James
I thought it was his sister
This is my limit
If you found the right person,
and it's on a school night
he's gonna go back
Maybe he did,
you didn't catch it
If you found the right person
It's beginning to freak me out,
Every 4-6 months we have the same conversation
St. Elmo's Fire was not romantic
They were both cheating on each other
They never got back together at the end.
I was thinking about-
reverberate-
four-inch utopia.
His entire leg is a scythe
I've seen a lot of pictures on his forearm
It looks like it went through his neck
He was like the emperor Wargwal
I know I have a Lord
of the Rings tattoo
I don't live by it
Gandalf writes a letter
I don't live by it
I'm not gonna cast it and block it
That new one-drop devil
Gimmicks of ISI
In the first book
They do sacrifice
If you found the right person
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Nat'l Poetry Month Day 7: Outerthoughts
The outerthoughts
food for the bees that drone
Capturing velocity-
like whipping cream-
They want to crack the bone.
The shielded shieldproof-
insulated from echoes-
The echoes are their own
Carrying stowaway vacancy-
hungry bees untethered-
They eat through the foam
Insects inter-tied,
Staid and stale
Buzzing somehow on days that'll pass
for days.
Insects inter-tied
Form dream catchers
Rotted, brittle
Makes for easy sleep
Should one of them fly away
food for the bees that drone
Capturing velocity-
like whipping cream-
They want to crack the bone.
The shielded shieldproof-
insulated from echoes-
The echoes are their own
Carrying stowaway vacancy-
hungry bees untethered-
They eat through the foam
Insects inter-tied,
Staid and stale
Buzzing somehow on days that'll pass
for days.
Insects inter-tied
Form dream catchers
Rotted, brittle
Makes for easy sleep
Should one of them fly away
Monday, April 9, 2012
Nat'l Poetry Month Day 6: It Happens Every Day
Certain words, phrases, expressions, etc have been rendered meaningless to me, whether by overuse or too frequent improper/loose use. These are words and phrases I have to spend an extra immeasurable fraction of a second to think hard about to consciously acknowledge them as meaning anything at all. I came up with a list of them off the top of my head (and with a little help from the blogs on the Phoenix New Times) and arranged them into a poem. These are by no means universal, so if you're looking at this as a fun list of overused words and phrases that we can all agree upon, you may be disappointed.
It Happens Every Day
Only the young
live every day to the
bank
You've just gotta feel it
Just the facts
made for tv
Live life
Live your life
Wasting time
Killing me
Whole life
90% perspiration
Killing me
Buy one get one
bella undocumented
Blast books
Dysfunctional
Rock opera
Darkly comedic vultures
transformation
Proactive urban street culture
Department of Transportation
I'll handle it
Leave me alone
It Happens Every Day
Only the young
live every day to the
bank
You've just gotta feel it
Just the facts
made for tv
Live life
Live your life
Wasting time
Killing me
Whole life
90% perspiration
Killing me
Buy one get one
bella undocumented
Blast books
Dysfunctional
Rock opera
Darkly comedic vultures
transformation
Proactive urban street culture
Department of Transportation
I'll handle it
Leave me alone
Friday, April 6, 2012
Nat'l Poetry Month Day 5: Balance Sheet
Mining the past for inspiration a bit. This is about my earliest memory of exhibiting OCD behavior. Not surprisingly, it was right after I discovered Tetris for Gameboy in 4th grade.
Jostled between comforts by adult choices
My consequence-free mind swings
Chaos
out the window,
Harassment
within,
To escape rippling pavement and frantic voices
Not to repose, but reverie with wings
Jagged infinity
out the window,
Dissection
within,
I close my eyes and look down.
Toes are reverse-center, fanned
Assigned each a piano key
Keys begin to glide into entropy
I sit, standing guard at the helm
Baton glued to my hands
Fingers figure eight into oblivious
Now
The keys are assigned the wrong letter
I type in my diary anyway
And read it the next day
This was my first breeze felt between joints
My closest hunt for the weather-vane that points
From the gaping mouth whose pleasures
Demand Right and Left in equal measures
Jostled between comforts by adult choices
My consequence-free mind swings
Chaos
out the window,
Harassment
within,
To escape rippling pavement and frantic voices
Not to repose, but reverie with wings
Jagged infinity
out the window,
Dissection
within,
I close my eyes and look down.
Toes are reverse-center, fanned
Assigned each a piano key
Keys begin to glide into entropy
I sit, standing guard at the helm
Baton glued to my hands
Fingers figure eight into oblivious
Now
The keys are assigned the wrong letter
I type in my diary anyway
And read it the next day
This was my first breeze felt between joints
My closest hunt for the weather-vane that points
From the gaping mouth whose pleasures
Demand Right and Left in equal measures
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Nat'l Poetry Month Day 4: Wormlegs.
right here
quietly made for
were once marinated, flavored, accompanied.
All previous steps unseen
supposed to follow
But alone now.
could have experienced unknown shades of
hue makes independent and
Makes for re-full
replete with
On the menu.
quietly made for
were once marinated, flavored, accompanied.
All previous steps unseen
supposed to follow
But alone now.
could have experienced unknown shades of
hue makes independent and
Makes for re-full
replete with
On the menu.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Nat'l Poetry Month Days 1-3: Drifty Drift
II
When I can't hear your you
And your "you're you" sentences,
You
make sensen't
And I
make sensen'tces.
If only
The Innocence of Paper could exist
A farm of options optional boundaries,
And survivor of these alternatives foundries
Wearing those letters
Wouldn't be
Being those letters
Paper couldn't rob someone of their sincerity
And someone else of their meaning
I
Paper paid for paper's porous chorus.
Selfless absorbed, scorned
Printed
Branded
Blameless
Action-heavy, meaning thrift
Words are sudden drift
III
"Is this a record or
A toilet?"
Meaning approaches center
Why didn't I start listening
Before flipping side 2?
When I can't hear your you
And your "you're you" sentences,
You
make sensen't
And I
make sensen'tces.
If only
The Innocence of Paper could exist
A farm of options optional boundaries,
And survivor of these alternatives foundries
Wearing those letters
Wouldn't be
Being those letters
Paper couldn't rob someone of their sincerity
And someone else of their meaning
I
Paper paid for paper's porous chorus.
Selfless absorbed, scorned
Printed
Branded
Blameless
Action-heavy, meaning thrift
Words are sudden drift
III
"Is this a record or
A toilet?"
Meaning approaches center
Why didn't I start listening
Before flipping side 2?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Glass World
Skipping rocks is one of Craig's favorite pastimes. Few other activities strike so perfect a balance of effort to reward for him. Cracking peanuts is another one. Simple things. He shied away from more convoluted effort-reward systems that leave too much room for complication and variability. The worst that can come of his rock skipping is a pulled shoulder, and the best is when the stone concludes a series of stochastic skips with a gratifying bout of hydroplaning. He saw the movie "Amelie" during his unremarkably awkward transition into adulthood. Having been conditioned to find women frightening, mysterious, and intimidating, it baffled him to behold a woman who he considered a sexual being and yet was so dedicated to rock skipping. He was by no means sexist; he did not believe that anybody enjoyed skipping rocks beyond adolescence. Everybody he knew participated primarily in productive activities that lead to a stronger Earthly presence and a greater sense of their identity. Sports, politics, art, yoga, drinking. Craig built a considerable sense of self by these means, but knew he was neglecting something inside of him that was weakening, and it made him both yearn for connection but reluctant to let anybody get close.
Years passed and Craig moved to the city and entered the corporate domain where his dreams were scrapped for sustenance and his childhood appeared in marketing, graffiti, t-shirts, social networking sites, and everywhere else that wasn't inside of him. His job restricted the internet access for employees, in fact the only web site not surf blocked was Google maps, so they could give customers directions to their offices. During down time he would zoom in on specific neighborhoods in the city and look at the business names and memorize the reviews. He was hoping to find somewhere to go and connect with people. Maybe even connect with... someone. One day he found a small blue blob in his searches. He zoomed in as close as he could and the name popped up. Chelsea's Pond. He tried to imagine the ambiance of a pond in this city. Then he thought about skipping rocks. The last time he skipped rocks was long before he moved into this city, and he does not know why he stopped aside from being busy. What was he doing this weekend? He had planned on seeing live music and talking to strangers about it afterwards in vague emotional terms. Then he remembered "Amelie". This seemed like the sort of pond her character may frequent since it is on the outskirts of downtown and, assuming the lack of obstructions, would thus offer an impressive panoramic view. Over the remainder of the week, the possibility of meeting Amelie at Chelsea's Pond moved slowly from a fanciful thought to an assumed inevitability for which he ought to prepare.
Come that Saturday, he cleaned his house, stocked his kitchen with local produce and quirky snack foods that may be shared on his stoop during bouts of people watching, did his laundry, and that afternoon hopped on his bike and headed to Chelsea's Pond. Here are his thoughts during this journey.
"She will be just like me: no direction or future plans, a very existential lifestyle conscious only of the temporary, completely unaware of even the moments to follow. Given our lack of purpose apart from stone skipping, we will find direction together and nothing will ever be the same. Or wait, am I this looming oppressive mass encroaching upon her free will? No doubt her loneliness could have driven her to the same hue of near madness that I experience; perhaps we will be exploiting each others weaknesses, two vines using one another for support to aimlessly climb only to choke one another and, without guidance, never find sunlight. Woah. No, it won't be like that, it will be esoteric conversations at cafes. It will be blankets strewn with dream journals, dvd cases, and condom wrappers. For once it won't be sadly revisited when I'm cleaning my room months later to find bobby pins on bureaus, in-jokes and incomplete verse scrawled across torn pages and crusty plates under the bed. When I see her at the pond I will abruptly start making dryly humorous observations until something happens. I'm not too old to do that, right? It's not creepy when I do that yet, is it? What sort of observations can be made about a pond? Oh god have I created a self-serving fantasy? Am I sabotaging myself by creating a standard of perfect imperfection that no real person could live up to? I need to have reasonable expectations. She will probably be one of those totally obnoxious scene girls with a hideous floral print dress that matches my couch and cowboy boots even though she's from Long Island, and I need to be fine with that."
Craig arrived to find a legion of other bicycles chained to freshly painted racks. The trees and shrubbery were plentiful and clearly under control, arranged with no small amount of symmetry. It would have felt like walking through a sterile dentist office painting if it weren't for the homeless people fucking in the clusters of shrubbery. He was delighted to see no shortage of young attractive strangers conversing at the shore of the pond. While searching for stones, he felt not the least bit self-conscious but rather like he was doing something as routine as public transit. In fact he was surrounded by people who were kicking the soil in search of something, though he found it odd that there were no rocks to be skipped. A man about Craig's age dressed sharply with a German sense of efficiency approaches and says, "Isn't this great? Are you here for Amelie, too?" Craig was so shocked that he responded in exactly the manner that would make him seem not at all shocked, "Where are all the stones?" "They've all been skipped man, you got here late!" The man laughed and walked off, and as Craig turned to look at the pond two women appeared next to him and talked loudly about how neither of them remembered that pond being there before. Craig caught this obvious invitation and agreed with them, at which point the more remote girl dispersed into the crowd, leaving Craig alone with Ursula. Craig says she is the first Ursula he has ever met, and she replies "Do you like sex?" Craig confirmed that he did, then tried to add some appropriate irony which she interrupted with, "Do you like 'Amelie'?" Craig said yes, but before he could elaborate she says, "Good! Let's go over there." She motions with her eyes towards a nearby patch of shrubbery and trees. Craig realizes that those weren't homeless people he heard fucking in the bushes a few minutes prior. They start to walk, but Craig stops and asks, "But don't you want to know why we're here? Where did all of this come from?" Ursula replies, "What difference would it make?" Craig's mind reluctantly follows his body into the bushes, the way it always does.
Years passed and Craig moved to the city and entered the corporate domain where his dreams were scrapped for sustenance and his childhood appeared in marketing, graffiti, t-shirts, social networking sites, and everywhere else that wasn't inside of him. His job restricted the internet access for employees, in fact the only web site not surf blocked was Google maps, so they could give customers directions to their offices. During down time he would zoom in on specific neighborhoods in the city and look at the business names and memorize the reviews. He was hoping to find somewhere to go and connect with people. Maybe even connect with... someone. One day he found a small blue blob in his searches. He zoomed in as close as he could and the name popped up. Chelsea's Pond. He tried to imagine the ambiance of a pond in this city. Then he thought about skipping rocks. The last time he skipped rocks was long before he moved into this city, and he does not know why he stopped aside from being busy. What was he doing this weekend? He had planned on seeing live music and talking to strangers about it afterwards in vague emotional terms. Then he remembered "Amelie". This seemed like the sort of pond her character may frequent since it is on the outskirts of downtown and, assuming the lack of obstructions, would thus offer an impressive panoramic view. Over the remainder of the week, the possibility of meeting Amelie at Chelsea's Pond moved slowly from a fanciful thought to an assumed inevitability for which he ought to prepare.
Come that Saturday, he cleaned his house, stocked his kitchen with local produce and quirky snack foods that may be shared on his stoop during bouts of people watching, did his laundry, and that afternoon hopped on his bike and headed to Chelsea's Pond. Here are his thoughts during this journey.
"She will be just like me: no direction or future plans, a very existential lifestyle conscious only of the temporary, completely unaware of even the moments to follow. Given our lack of purpose apart from stone skipping, we will find direction together and nothing will ever be the same. Or wait, am I this looming oppressive mass encroaching upon her free will? No doubt her loneliness could have driven her to the same hue of near madness that I experience; perhaps we will be exploiting each others weaknesses, two vines using one another for support to aimlessly climb only to choke one another and, without guidance, never find sunlight. Woah. No, it won't be like that, it will be esoteric conversations at cafes. It will be blankets strewn with dream journals, dvd cases, and condom wrappers. For once it won't be sadly revisited when I'm cleaning my room months later to find bobby pins on bureaus, in-jokes and incomplete verse scrawled across torn pages and crusty plates under the bed. When I see her at the pond I will abruptly start making dryly humorous observations until something happens. I'm not too old to do that, right? It's not creepy when I do that yet, is it? What sort of observations can be made about a pond? Oh god have I created a self-serving fantasy? Am I sabotaging myself by creating a standard of perfect imperfection that no real person could live up to? I need to have reasonable expectations. She will probably be one of those totally obnoxious scene girls with a hideous floral print dress that matches my couch and cowboy boots even though she's from Long Island, and I need to be fine with that."
Craig arrived to find a legion of other bicycles chained to freshly painted racks. The trees and shrubbery were plentiful and clearly under control, arranged with no small amount of symmetry. It would have felt like walking through a sterile dentist office painting if it weren't for the homeless people fucking in the clusters of shrubbery. He was delighted to see no shortage of young attractive strangers conversing at the shore of the pond. While searching for stones, he felt not the least bit self-conscious but rather like he was doing something as routine as public transit. In fact he was surrounded by people who were kicking the soil in search of something, though he found it odd that there were no rocks to be skipped. A man about Craig's age dressed sharply with a German sense of efficiency approaches and says, "Isn't this great? Are you here for Amelie, too?" Craig was so shocked that he responded in exactly the manner that would make him seem not at all shocked, "Where are all the stones?" "They've all been skipped man, you got here late!" The man laughed and walked off, and as Craig turned to look at the pond two women appeared next to him and talked loudly about how neither of them remembered that pond being there before. Craig caught this obvious invitation and agreed with them, at which point the more remote girl dispersed into the crowd, leaving Craig alone with Ursula. Craig says she is the first Ursula he has ever met, and she replies "Do you like sex?" Craig confirmed that he did, then tried to add some appropriate irony which she interrupted with, "Do you like 'Amelie'?" Craig said yes, but before he could elaborate she says, "Good! Let's go over there." She motions with her eyes towards a nearby patch of shrubbery and trees. Craig realizes that those weren't homeless people he heard fucking in the bushes a few minutes prior. They start to walk, but Craig stops and asks, "But don't you want to know why we're here? Where did all of this come from?" Ursula replies, "What difference would it make?" Craig's mind reluctantly follows his body into the bushes, the way it always does.
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