i want to live life deliberately, feel as i were awake at all times,
take a piss and think about the toilet pipes
the sewer gators under the man-hole covers in the street chomping on underground cable lines;
think of the poisoned rats and their waxy skins rotting into the surface of a sewage sea.
i want to think of food but not just the meal itself, appreciate my mother's rough and bloody hands chopping at meat and bone and the tears which roll down her blush peppered cheeks which perfectly match her skin-tone
(they come from an onion she chopped
which is boiling in water
on the stove)
and the gas which fuels that, i want to know where its beginning is at, and if and whose soul-less casket it might have passed;
i want to read a novel about Jacques Derrida's son and the type of typewriter he typed on,
and play my guitar knowing what the temperature was the first day it was played on;
if i could i would walk barefoot on a beach and retreat into thoughts of Spring on a mountain in New England which the sand i walk on was once apart of;
animals that scurry off away from headlights in forests along familiar highways on drives home for the holidays,
dragonflies which splatter gone unnoticed in a tunnel colliding with a passing subway,
the dew which slides off petals of a dandelion flower as a stranger passes by in a hurried walk
are all things that i typically miss.
i want to live deliberately,
i want to wake up and smell the coffee.
SO BECLOUDED
how are you today is what brian asks me as we smoke hand-rolled cigarettes cramped in my tiny apartment.
a window cracked ever-so-slightly allows for various sounds to enter the room, for them to be heard, like the chirps of elusive cardinals seen only by poets aware of enough to see them as they whiz by in a hurry.
we unintentionally eavesdrop on the chats of city workers as they dispose of maple branches and our insides are churning along to the rhythm of wood being put in between buzz saws and i think, for a moment, i hear someone at a close distance speaking a quiet eulogy for the living now being turned to dust.
but what he really wants to say is that he's noticed a slouch in my step,
seen a light go out that should have never gone out in the first place.
when he takes in a drag and asks how are you what brian really means is are you okay?
do you need to talk, and what do you need if not?
i tell him
i'm totally fine and please, don't worry,
absolutely no worries, i'm good and
it's totally alright.
then later on, the only sound the drip of drops which fall from the spout of the faucet echoes throughout my room like pin-drops falling in the acoustics of an awkward vintage sink and
i start crying lightly to myself laying in bed with all that i can ponder being the regret of wishing that i would have simply said
no, i'm not okay
i'm really not okay
a window cracked ever-so-slightly allows for various sounds to enter the room, for them to be heard, like the chirps of elusive cardinals seen only by poets aware of enough to see them as they whiz by in a hurry.
we unintentionally eavesdrop on the chats of city workers as they dispose of maple branches and our insides are churning along to the rhythm of wood being put in between buzz saws and i think, for a moment, i hear someone at a close distance speaking a quiet eulogy for the living now being turned to dust.
but what he really wants to say is that he's noticed a slouch in my step,
seen a light go out that should have never gone out in the first place.
when he takes in a drag and asks how are you what brian really means is are you okay?
do you need to talk, and what do you need if not?
i tell him
i'm totally fine and please, don't worry,
absolutely no worries, i'm good and
it's totally alright.
then later on, the only sound the drip of drops which fall from the spout of the faucet echoes throughout my room like pin-drops falling in the acoustics of an awkward vintage sink and
i start crying lightly to myself laying in bed with all that i can ponder being the regret of wishing that i would have simply said
no, i'm not okay
i'm really not okay
OLD TO BEGIN
in the bookstore, sandwiched between origins and wolfman, i found the mix cd you left for me;
it's a secret, though, i know, it says so on the notebook paper it came wrapped in.
but since you're barely over two decades old and i'm pushing nearly fifty million twenty two thousand and sixty seven
i don't think it's possible for you and me to be able to look at that mulberry tree over there in that field and see it the same way;
for you its open branches and fullness and its fuzzy leaves doesn't beg for your touch, it doesn't seem like the most perfect and beautiful being.
since i've heard the first bird squeak the first melody and song,
since i've attended a young beethoven's first concerto in cologne,
since i have pondered life next to ancient rivers smoking a pipe, listening to its clever rhymes and its pleasant tones millions of times,
i don't think paul westberberg's voice can sound quite the same to you as it does to me.
don't you see,
for me,
this cd won't mean quite the same thing
it's a secret, though, i know, it says so on the notebook paper it came wrapped in.
but since you're barely over two decades old and i'm pushing nearly fifty million twenty two thousand and sixty seven
i don't think it's possible for you and me to be able to look at that mulberry tree over there in that field and see it the same way;
for you its open branches and fullness and its fuzzy leaves doesn't beg for your touch, it doesn't seem like the most perfect and beautiful being.
since i've heard the first bird squeak the first melody and song,
since i've attended a young beethoven's first concerto in cologne,
since i have pondered life next to ancient rivers smoking a pipe, listening to its clever rhymes and its pleasant tones millions of times,
i don't think paul westberberg's voice can sound quite the same to you as it does to me.
don't you see,
for me,
this cd won't mean quite the same thing
GALLERY PIECE
fact is, there are a few simple truths,
like this one:
dipping feet into a cool stream on a hot summer day is the most pleasant event one can experience in all their life, save for the exhilaration of clawing toes into moist sand while watching an ember sun set over the Pacific.
and speaking of clawing, monsters always have rotting teeth and single mothers and hand-in-hand with that, drunk fathers, and
their claws are so strong that when they cut through a little boy or girl's jugular
it's as if the skin where the cut takes place was pre-perforated;
and did you know that the weight of regret, especially that which comes from wishing something more was said, is about as heavy as two columns of stone from stonehenge, along with
fifteen indian elephants and twenty eight packets of splenda, six paper-clips coated in vinyl and a copy of Friedrich Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra.
here's another one: rusty bike pedals of a dark blue mountain bike abandoned and chained to a stop sign in a windy ghetto sometimes spin on their own when cars bust phat beats as they pass by.
a few more ...
we are all wiser than Cheshire cats and practically all the other animals, for that matter.
also, America is free as a bird; specifically, a hungry vulture circling the carcass of a freshly dominated klipspringer.
maroon is actually just dark red.
christians believe in ghosts.
i look cool when i smoke.
i can, at will, make my heart as hard as rhinestone.
and i will never love anyone as much as i love the mist which remains after a shower.
and through this poem i have literally said
everything i have ever wanted to say.
like this one:
dipping feet into a cool stream on a hot summer day is the most pleasant event one can experience in all their life, save for the exhilaration of clawing toes into moist sand while watching an ember sun set over the Pacific.
and speaking of clawing, monsters always have rotting teeth and single mothers and hand-in-hand with that, drunk fathers, and
their claws are so strong that when they cut through a little boy or girl's jugular
it's as if the skin where the cut takes place was pre-perforated;
and did you know that the weight of regret, especially that which comes from wishing something more was said, is about as heavy as two columns of stone from stonehenge, along with
fifteen indian elephants and twenty eight packets of splenda, six paper-clips coated in vinyl and a copy of Friedrich Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra.
here's another one: rusty bike pedals of a dark blue mountain bike abandoned and chained to a stop sign in a windy ghetto sometimes spin on their own when cars bust phat beats as they pass by.
a few more ...
we are all wiser than Cheshire cats and practically all the other animals, for that matter.
also, America is free as a bird; specifically, a hungry vulture circling the carcass of a freshly dominated klipspringer.
maroon is actually just dark red.
christians believe in ghosts.
i look cool when i smoke.
i can, at will, make my heart as hard as rhinestone.
and i will never love anyone as much as i love the mist which remains after a shower.
and through this poem i have literally said
everything i have ever wanted to say.
WILL YOU COME AND FETCH ME
what's best for you is sleep, she said,
but i was already running towards her through an open field of tall grasses as if i were intending to take off and fly away,
running towards her wanting her embrace and the smooth touch of her short blonde hair, to feel her fair cheek against mine.
there can be no wanting or desiring desire from us;
there can be no self and therefore no selfishness here,
it can't exist;
there's only a bubbly creek and a few small fish fighting strong currents, dodging
dislodged pebbles;
there's only the cool mountain water and the way in which it joins other traveling
streams to become a sea;
there are only the industrious bees buzzing around violet and magenta wildflowers,
and there is only what i think is best for you and
what you think is best for me.
i don't want to sleep
i just want to sit with you and tell you just how wonderful it is to love you so much
but i was already running towards her through an open field of tall grasses as if i were intending to take off and fly away,
running towards her wanting her embrace and the smooth touch of her short blonde hair, to feel her fair cheek against mine.
there can be no wanting or desiring desire from us;
there can be no self and therefore no selfishness here,
it can't exist;
there's only a bubbly creek and a few small fish fighting strong currents, dodging
dislodged pebbles;
there's only the cool mountain water and the way in which it joins other traveling
streams to become a sea;
there are only the industrious bees buzzing around violet and magenta wildflowers,
and there is only what i think is best for you and
what you think is best for me.
i don't want to sleep
i just want to sit with you and tell you just how wonderful it is to love you so much
SLEEP PERCHANCE TO DREAM
happens best when i have just finished writing a poem;
when my hands and feet are positioned comfortably and somehow
words which are almost always mistakes or lies or nonsense mix
and match and become truth, or at least something like that;
something like an index finger poking the softest part of a heart.
writing a poem most often comes simply, most often after a night with
you under the chandelier of constellations that fills up the night sky,
after walks across an ocean salted sand, the imprints of our feet filling.
for 2 hours and 53 minutes we speak through the darting of eyes and
noticeable sweat of shaky hands; the quick pace to the beat of my heart
like a novel, in and of itself.
to write a poem it's as simple as that, which is why tonight i won't sleep,
i won't write a single line, not one poem;
and definitely
not the most beautiful one.
when my hands and feet are positioned comfortably and somehow
words which are almost always mistakes or lies or nonsense mix
and match and become truth, or at least something like that;
something like an index finger poking the softest part of a heart.
writing a poem most often comes simply, most often after a night with
you under the chandelier of constellations that fills up the night sky,
after walks across an ocean salted sand, the imprints of our feet filling.
for 2 hours and 53 minutes we speak through the darting of eyes and
noticeable sweat of shaky hands; the quick pace to the beat of my heart
like a novel, in and of itself.
to write a poem it's as simple as that, which is why tonight i won't sleep,
i won't write a single line, not one poem;
and definitely
not the most beautiful one.
ANOTHER FOOL
yeah sure the night arrives sooner and in the early evening it's already headlights of passing cars and street lamp's orange glows
but late at night the christmas lights embrace pine trees which decorate front lawns producing an artificial rainbow morning while the children sleep in their beds
outside on the steps of my parents house in slippers wrapped in a blanket with cold toes i make a wreck of my cigarette and exhale the smoke into a chill winter air
this early in the morning and i'm surprised to hear the song of birds whose names i don't know staying warm near the chimney
out in the dark distance there's a tall human figure, scarf blowing in the wind, top hat barely staying on, smoking a pipe
his god dreams of snow days while snuggled in a tiny twin bed
his god wears star wars pajamas
and fears his grandma
and santa claus
his god has already forgotten about him, comforted in the knowledge that if and when it ends there will be always be another winter, a chance for another
when the sun returns, later on, the man in the distance will dissolve apparent and quick
he'll melt under the heat of it all,
he'll become a puddle, become all water, and
i'll be the only witness,
i am the only witness.
but late at night the christmas lights embrace pine trees which decorate front lawns producing an artificial rainbow morning while the children sleep in their beds
outside on the steps of my parents house in slippers wrapped in a blanket with cold toes i make a wreck of my cigarette and exhale the smoke into a chill winter air
this early in the morning and i'm surprised to hear the song of birds whose names i don't know staying warm near the chimney
out in the dark distance there's a tall human figure, scarf blowing in the wind, top hat barely staying on, smoking a pipe
his god dreams of snow days while snuggled in a tiny twin bed
his god wears star wars pajamas
and fears his grandma
and santa claus
his god has already forgotten about him, comforted in the knowledge that if and when it ends there will be always be another winter, a chance for another
when the sun returns, later on, the man in the distance will dissolve apparent and quick
he'll melt under the heat of it all,
he'll become a puddle, become all water, and
i'll be the only witness,
i am the only witness.
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