I wrote this with the idea that sometimes we write things for people or about people, but we never get a chance to show it to them. They don't know how we feel in the words we have time to think about, or what we think or thought of them and all that. It happens to the best of us, as I wanted to demonstrate.
Mary Magdalene
Tell me the story
of a woman's eager lips pressed
against the wet and dirty neck
of her savior
most holy
come down
in all his glory
say it so that the white soft light
tucked under her pubic bone
still glows
even without his touch
in absence of his grainy
skinned carpenter's hands,
rough from worry
and nails
and begging for death,
missing the organ from between which
their intermingled souls
will not ever squeeze
and recall the gospels, like the best poems
are written to a time
a place
a woman
and lament that even the clarity of omniscience
couldn't keep our lord's loving letters
to a whore
from reaching her far too late.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
July relvelations - dream visions, hearts, and souls
Today, without bringing me much comfort, I came to this realization: we will all live a finite number of lives. It seems quite small and obvious, and whether you believe we will live 1 life or 2 lives or it will each be different, it is true that we will never live an infinite number of lives.
Most certainly this is true, as everything with a beginning has an ending. Our lives had to start somewhere, so they must end somewhere. Do people believe the universe is infinite? Perhaps, but Time cannot be. Here's why: if time were infinite how many moments of time would it have taken to reach this moment? Infinite moments. But that doesn't make sense, does it? Either way, there are people who have said reasons better than I could.
But, the interesting thing here is the implication this carries. If we have finite lives, there are only finite moments of pleasure, of pain, of happiness, of sorrow. Nothing can or does last forever. Forever.
There's that word again.
I don't have much to say about the state of things. I have forgotten all my memories, maybe. I'm not sure if I should dwell on them, they stretch out behind me.
There's no reason to dwell on them now, I'm not sure how I feel about them anyway.
My nights are filled with wonderful and wild dreams. I had a dream that you lived next door, and we met on the streets outside of our houses, somewhere between my house and the highway. We stood and I think you wore clothes that you don't own. The sky was a gray slate, a sheet, the trees were vibrant green. There were little bits of moth-pollen in the air, dusty feathery insect wings that floated down around us, just to the two of us, holding hands in the middle of the pavement, the tall grass on either side of us. We were in a hallway between natural and man made. The same place I think my soul might exist sometimes, my soul that has experienced some strange percentage of the meager amount of energy that it contains.
A certain portion of my finite energy is dwindling.
For the first few weeks in June my car was covered in a sticky tree pollen, covered with corpses of the little blooms that fall from trees late spring. I held on to this, a strange mixture of life and death. There was a clearness in those days.
My nights are filled with terrible and dangerous dreams now, hiding, wolves, people I don't know. A girl I've never seen warned me not to go out, warned me how to kill them if I had to. Said there were men and wolves that wanted to do me harm. I woke up so sure that nothing could love me. I don't quite know the reason. I'm sure not that it's wholly untrue, something that just isn't real, but when I woke up the feeling was so strong and ingrained. What has been chasing me in my dreams, what was it that made my mind feel that way, made it so sure? I can't say. Suffice: it was a difficult way to start the day, for sure. It was humbling.
Hearts, it seems, have a finite number of times they can beat. In animals it's a very good way to discover how long they can live. Say a cat, for example, has a heart that can beat up to 80,000 times, but not much more than that. A cat's heart only has so much blood to pump before it can rest. Human's, however, are different. There is no upper limit to the number of times a human heart can beat, at least nothing uniform that we can find. We could have a heart that beats for 150,000 times or 200,000 times or 95,000 times, and for each person it's simply their time. It's individual. It just beats until it can't, we just exist until we don't.
There's no such thing has a heart, then, that beats too slow.
And our souls move along to other bodies until they don't have the power to move. Then what happens to them?
If I had the power, somehow, to find out where our souls have been, I wouldn't use it. I couldn't know that, I don't want to.
When did it first stir within you, any of you? Who has the right to know, not even you, and you probably don't.
And that's just fine.
****************************************************
Edit: This seems kinds of depressing in hindsight, and I certainly didn't mean it that way. Just something to think about, just the current state of my dreams, but dreams don't mean much, do they? Anyway, I thought all that heart stuff was interesting, and I wanted to share it.
Most certainly this is true, as everything with a beginning has an ending. Our lives had to start somewhere, so they must end somewhere. Do people believe the universe is infinite? Perhaps, but Time cannot be. Here's why: if time were infinite how many moments of time would it have taken to reach this moment? Infinite moments. But that doesn't make sense, does it? Either way, there are people who have said reasons better than I could.
But, the interesting thing here is the implication this carries. If we have finite lives, there are only finite moments of pleasure, of pain, of happiness, of sorrow. Nothing can or does last forever. Forever.
There's that word again.
I don't have much to say about the state of things. I have forgotten all my memories, maybe. I'm not sure if I should dwell on them, they stretch out behind me.
There's no reason to dwell on them now, I'm not sure how I feel about them anyway.
My nights are filled with wonderful and wild dreams. I had a dream that you lived next door, and we met on the streets outside of our houses, somewhere between my house and the highway. We stood and I think you wore clothes that you don't own. The sky was a gray slate, a sheet, the trees were vibrant green. There were little bits of moth-pollen in the air, dusty feathery insect wings that floated down around us, just to the two of us, holding hands in the middle of the pavement, the tall grass on either side of us. We were in a hallway between natural and man made. The same place I think my soul might exist sometimes, my soul that has experienced some strange percentage of the meager amount of energy that it contains.
A certain portion of my finite energy is dwindling.
For the first few weeks in June my car was covered in a sticky tree pollen, covered with corpses of the little blooms that fall from trees late spring. I held on to this, a strange mixture of life and death. There was a clearness in those days.
My nights are filled with terrible and dangerous dreams now, hiding, wolves, people I don't know. A girl I've never seen warned me not to go out, warned me how to kill them if I had to. Said there were men and wolves that wanted to do me harm. I woke up so sure that nothing could love me. I don't quite know the reason. I'm sure not that it's wholly untrue, something that just isn't real, but when I woke up the feeling was so strong and ingrained. What has been chasing me in my dreams, what was it that made my mind feel that way, made it so sure? I can't say. Suffice: it was a difficult way to start the day, for sure. It was humbling.
Hearts, it seems, have a finite number of times they can beat. In animals it's a very good way to discover how long they can live. Say a cat, for example, has a heart that can beat up to 80,000 times, but not much more than that. A cat's heart only has so much blood to pump before it can rest. Human's, however, are different. There is no upper limit to the number of times a human heart can beat, at least nothing uniform that we can find. We could have a heart that beats for 150,000 times or 200,000 times or 95,000 times, and for each person it's simply their time. It's individual. It just beats until it can't, we just exist until we don't.
There's no such thing has a heart, then, that beats too slow.
And our souls move along to other bodies until they don't have the power to move. Then what happens to them?
If I had the power, somehow, to find out where our souls have been, I wouldn't use it. I couldn't know that, I don't want to.
When did it first stir within you, any of you? Who has the right to know, not even you, and you probably don't.
And that's just fine.
****************************************************
Edit: This seems kinds of depressing in hindsight, and I certainly didn't mean it that way. Just something to think about, just the current state of my dreams, but dreams don't mean much, do they? Anyway, I thought all that heart stuff was interesting, and I wanted to share it.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
8/30
When you love a Tomato, the produce section becomes more exciting
Roma's skin isn't as firm as it used to be, the soft red I once knew is now wrinkled, brown and bruised. She seems to sense my trouble with her taste, the newfound foulness of her oozing juices. She lies in the crisper sleeping, dreaming simple vine dreams.
With a fresh garden of stuble and an overripe gut, the market is a gallery called "Things you can't have." I stare at Roma's ripe relatives, the sweet yellow of her curious cousins. I gawk at the cherries and their meager frames, wonder how much of my weight they could handle, how long it will take to notice me staring. Even crispy Videllia is looking better, and if I could only wash away her soupy stink or grow 10 years younger, I would peel away her crumbling yellow clothing and indulge in the sweetness of her layers.
Roma's skin isn't as firm as it used to be, the soft red I once knew is now wrinkled, brown and bruised. She seems to sense my trouble with her taste, the newfound foulness of her oozing juices. She lies in the crisper sleeping, dreaming simple vine dreams.
With a fresh garden of stuble and an overripe gut, the market is a gallery called "Things you can't have." I stare at Roma's ripe relatives, the sweet yellow of her curious cousins. I gawk at the cherries and their meager frames, wonder how much of my weight they could handle, how long it will take to notice me staring. Even crispy Videllia is looking better, and if I could only wash away her soupy stink or grow 10 years younger, I would peel away her crumbling yellow clothing and indulge in the sweetness of her layers.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
6/30 and 7/30
6/30
may fix spacing later
a few requests, in order of entering my mind
I want to hold my baptism
in the heavy atmosphere
that lays herself down
and deadly before
the first ovation
of thunderstorms
I want the world to stop
spinning for just one
goddamn (single)
motherfucking (oh please oh please)
SECOND but
mother nature dont care what
I want. there are dangerous
streetlamps in this city
that stop you like spot lights
or spot you like stop light and all
I want is to know the difference
between houses and homes
realty and reality
relatives and relativity my
eye wants closure
like no lid can give, scared
of scars or anything carved
into a point
I want to make interstate love
seem silent let the big trucks sleep
all night and just leave
your face in my extra empty
pillow space thats all
I want from the whole american race.
7/30
Cyber PUNK
In the long lobby mirrors, metallic and shiny like new eyes, her plastic pink raincoat is lucid. She stands square waisted, the white cotton painters pants curve to frame her hip and leg. A brain bucket in her left hand and the distant whimpers of bikes out her left ear. She pops a derm to her skin, and inhales all the dust of the world. Exhales a prism.
Behind the over-large black of her glasses her cowboy buzzes in her mind, swims in the liquid of the matrix, blind in the myriad faces of orange-yellow light. She don't ride console no more. She did hard time for hanging paper in the back of an old bodega, another time for breaking a blue boy's back, she lit up some kids with her fresh fletcher like subway lights, every one of em flatlined.
But here, her silver eyes trace a couple rent-a-cops, hired muscled that ain't gonna push as strong as I am, she says. A few seconds before the count goes off, before her cowboy coos in her ears and tells her where to make the drop. Don't let me down, Catmother. She fingers the flesh colored tape in the ridges of her chest that hold the bugs in place and names everything she knows.
Eel is the fence. Paintboys don't talk. She don't work for hotdogs. And right now she's his input and he's her cowboy.
may fix spacing later
a few requests, in order of entering my mind
I want to hold my baptism
in the heavy atmosphere
that lays herself down
and deadly before
the first ovation
of thunderstorms
I want the world to stop
spinning for just one
goddamn (single)
motherfucking (oh please oh please)
SECOND but
mother nature dont care what
I want. there are dangerous
streetlamps in this city
that stop you like spot lights
or spot you like stop light and all
I want is to know the difference
between houses and homes
realty and reality
relatives and relativity my
eye wants closure
like no lid can give, scared
of scars or anything carved
into a point
I want to make interstate love
seem silent let the big trucks sleep
all night and just leave
your face in my extra empty
pillow space thats all
I want from the whole american race.
7/30
Cyber PUNK
In the long lobby mirrors, metallic and shiny like new eyes, her plastic pink raincoat is lucid. She stands square waisted, the white cotton painters pants curve to frame her hip and leg. A brain bucket in her left hand and the distant whimpers of bikes out her left ear. She pops a derm to her skin, and inhales all the dust of the world. Exhales a prism.
Behind the over-large black of her glasses her cowboy buzzes in her mind, swims in the liquid of the matrix, blind in the myriad faces of orange-yellow light. She don't ride console no more. She did hard time for hanging paper in the back of an old bodega, another time for breaking a blue boy's back, she lit up some kids with her fresh fletcher like subway lights, every one of em flatlined.
But here, her silver eyes trace a couple rent-a-cops, hired muscled that ain't gonna push as strong as I am, she says. A few seconds before the count goes off, before her cowboy coos in her ears and tells her where to make the drop. Don't let me down, Catmother. She fingers the flesh colored tape in the ridges of her chest that hold the bugs in place and names everything she knows.
Eel is the fence. Paintboys don't talk. She don't work for hotdogs. And right now she's his input and he's her cowboy.
Monday, April 5, 2010
5/30
this is something i've been working on for a while. no verbs.
first time
The crickets shuddering secrets and the weight of every summer, with a voice a harsh whisper like a kicked and broken dog. And her dry throat, the only remains of the havoc of stale pollen off withered grass.
Under a sharp summer sky all dewy damp and too few stars. Her heaving pale cotton wraped body in an unruffled dress on the hood of a red chevy. And hard horny thighs and patient playing fingers.
She and the long tunnel of the moon, the distant cities of stars. Unsatisfied fingers and a ruffled white dress, but no whimper no moan.
first time
The crickets shuddering secrets and the weight of every summer, with a voice a harsh whisper like a kicked and broken dog. And her dry throat, the only remains of the havoc of stale pollen off withered grass.
Under a sharp summer sky all dewy damp and too few stars. Her heaving pale cotton wraped body in an unruffled dress on the hood of a red chevy. And hard horny thighs and patient playing fingers.
She and the long tunnel of the moon, the distant cities of stars. Unsatisfied fingers and a ruffled white dress, but no whimper no moan.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
4/30
The Truth About our History (since 2007)
It's not fair for me
to keep writing poems
to you
or at you
or about you.
you have your handsome
helpful husband
and a plane ticket
to russia
i have empty
hands
and pockets
and pages.
It's not fair for me
to keep writing poems
to you
or at you
or about you.
you have your handsome
helpful husband
and a plane ticket
to russia
i have empty
hands
and pockets
and pages.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
3/30
Slick Roads
hes skittish like a spider
feeling faint floor tremors
when the rain falls
across his windshield
and the big trucks
sneak by on
18 wheels
hes skittish like a spider
feeling faint floor tremors
when the rain falls
across his windshield
and the big trucks
sneak by on
18 wheels
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