Friday, January 28, 2011

Concertos and Coveted Consistency


I've been writing again. There's something familiar about sitting in a classroom, drifting in and out of coherent consciousness. It's there that my creative parts kick into gear. And reading a fair amount of Billy Collins and Dean Young doesn't help quell the fire of creative distraction and irresponsibility. So, posted below are the fruits of my 15 hour college schedule thus far.

I think I'm ready to start blogging again, not the frivolous links and quotes that have become standard, but real, personal type of blogging. You all deserve it. It's been a heavy couple of years, filled with fear and timidity and repression, contrasted to the simultaneous love and growth and life. It's all crazy, it's all false, and it's all starting back up. So, with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart on my aged and dying headphones, a cold cup of coffee awaiting a refill, and a recently devoured blueberry muffin in my belly, here's to something better.


Mondo

Fire in My Eyes


the infant stages, all selfishness
and shit. wherein lies the details
the lyrics that ring out from FM
radios, then so prominent, now
merely convenient distraction
for when we're cussing out cars

that are not so considerate about
our own priorities as we are, as
perhaps they should be. perhaps
the duking it out is the evolution
from infancy to internet, from ears
and eyes and noses, to capital gains

but, then, we were news anchors
calling out our headlines, a slip
of the tongue, a scrape of the knee,
a squeeze of the jukebox. there I
sit, all regal in my urgencies. all
pristine in my potential. i sit,

fire in my eyes like a front porch
summer night. we were capitalists
then, commodifying love. we were
cultish in our allegiances. we were
shining in our factions, listening
to marky-mark from other peoples'

porches, pretending to be ninja turtles.
then sprang up, all preemptive and
alive, ready for the external, aloof to
the internal. growing, like leaves from
the vines of ambition and simplistic
stereotype; such a fine young man

a fine young man. and each day passed
inconsolably, as hair crowded face, and
shoes grew worn, as the pigeon call grew
routine and the hot dog stand manager
learned our name, as revolutions made us
think hard and try to remember where their

country sits, all civilly unrested, spot lights
shinning like Cair Paravel atop the cliffs of overexposure
where lies too,
america.

Beauty Aides


touch the altruistic lies without even
the smallest hint of second guessing.
burn like california in the summer, so
vast and idealistic, so brown from past
blunders of fire and water and ice and
foam. and beautiful, shining liberty
boundless and baseless and barred

from need or snacking or revelation
of the prophecies. it's been thirty
minutes since the bombing, i wonder
if anyone is alive, because they are
certainly pumping in rivers of sludge,
called "aidddd." but we all know the
truth, somewhere deep inside our

psyche. cooperation, as a lifestyle is
harder than iron, bagging game and
searching to exploit the "because." I am
wearing nail polish, though my hands
stay in pockets full of lent and dollars
and the occasional wandering finger
to an itch I cannot discus here. it's not safe

it's not safe to be found wanting, to be a
living being with all of those inconsistencies
that don't line up with those images that
shine silver on screens that I can touch.
human isn't good enough anymore. it
needs to be enhanced. it needs to be
forgiven. as the loveliest of ladies, so

constrained by their own magazines, sit
locked inside prisons of pigments and
preservatives, of oils and waxes, among
ultra-violet rays with a space to lie down
and unflattering covers for their eyes, in
case they might catch a glimpse of themselves

but the tragedy of tragedies, be not the
fear from which they hide, nor the dirty
conclusions drawn from compliance.
no, the greatest of tragedies is the culprit.
for while murder breeds murderers, while
theft breeds thieves, all distantly identifiable
these prisons, mere result from me.

Becoming a Regular



there's some defining silence
in this place, filled with long
neglected books, and antique
furniture, most likely donated.

there's beauty in the solace,
it's impossible not to notice.
what, with all the old retired
hipsters, clinging to youth

and the laptop portals, granting
audience with the earth, with
the flow of mighty humanity,
all awful awe and access.

you can taste it in the coffee,
a kind of quiet solitude that
seems mandatory, among
such glorious constituents

to whom should I ascribe?
there is twain and Tolstoy
there's Homer and Hemmingway
there's a handful of Lewises

but then there is that other
soul, that brilliant lunatic
making claims about him
self, Son of God, he calls it

and I think I hear him whisper
through the silence, and
the coffee, through the books
on the shelfs, through the

thrift store art lining unfinished
walls, through the bright red
jacket, the unkept brown hair
the mustaches, long neglected.

but to buy it all, is far too much
to consider, all that nonsense
about giving and others and
love. it's bologna, it has to be.


but the silence seems convincing
there is so much death to run
from, and so much to embrace.
He seems to say, "embrace it."

Thursday, January 27, 2011

A Model of Christian Charity by John Winthrop

Therefore let us choose life,

that we and our seed may live,

by obeying His voice and cleaving to Him,

for He is our life and our prosperity.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

9th street

peace be still
the morning will
be safe until i wake
don't expect
my innocence
to last throughout the day
sunrise kept
the place i slept
alight like christmas day
first chance I get
I'll take what's left
and throw it all away

will I be loved
will I be loved
will I walk among the living
should I believe
there's reason to breathe
will you go on forgiving me?

walk with me
and we shall see
how much I might deserve
the path is lined
with bodies I
have slain for what they're worth
the piles, high
of tears I've cried
from my first breath at birth
and now, grown old
my story's told
the ruins of the earth

to be alive
is to be alone
and to be alone
is to be alive

Wednesday, January 19, 2011


I want to know what became of the changes we waited for love to bring.
Were they only the fitful dreams of some greater awakening?

Thursday, January 13, 2011

The Road Ahead

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think that I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this,
you will lead me by the right road
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore, I will trust you always
though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
- Thomas Merton

Saturday, January 01, 2011

New Years Day.

Of all sounds of all bells--(bells, the music nighest bordering upon heaven)--most solemn and touching is the peal which rings out the Old Year. I never hear it without a gathering-up of my mind to a concentration of all the images that have been diffused over the past twelvemonth; all I have done or suffered, performed or neglected--in that regretted time. I begin to know its worth, as when a person dies. It takes a personal colour.

from "New Year's Eve" by Charles Lamb

for unlike Groundhog Day or the feast of the Annunciation,
this one marks nothing but the passage of time,
I realized, as I lowered a tin diving bell
of tea leaves into a little body of roiling water

from "New Year's Day" by Billy Collins

I Rolled Into New Years Eve by Waterdeep