-------------
What are you but stone?
Rough and pulled from the ground as an imposing block
And what am I but a man?
Birthed from the wreckage of a little girls dream
At first the work is in blunt strikes
As you resist what you are
As you fear
What I see
Mallet upon chisel
Upon the sweet stone
Compressed by years of
The weight of this world
As the pieces of you gather
Upon the ground at my feet
And the unnecessary shards
Pull tears from my eyes
Your shape
Hidden from all but you and I
Is slowly revealed
And still you resist
The rasps and the rifflers
Pecking and carving
Sand cloth and files
Polish and rub
The work becomes pleasure
As you reveal a complex translucency
A static shape that moves
An undeniable beauty that dreams
What are you but art?
Fine and always there
And what am I but a man?
Now weeping in the shadow of you.
-------------
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Garden
--------------------
I have been thinking about the path
the path to her garden
wondering who laid the stones
wondering who might have helped her
a little girl so far from home
I have been thinking about the flowers
the flowers that grow wild and free
I have been craving the flowers she holds
the ones I never have seen
and I have been thinking about the journey
wondering what hope I have found
hoping the bags filled with memories
will feed me and not weigh me down
and I have been weeping for the fearful
the fearful I left at the gate
quietly hoping their darkness
their darkness won't cloud my way
and god knows I need to believe in something
and god knows that I believe in you
but god never really mattered
when it came to following through
---------------
I have been thinking about the path
the path to her garden
wondering who laid the stones
wondering who might have helped her
a little girl so far from home
I have been thinking about the flowers
the flowers that grow wild and free
I have been craving the flowers she holds
the ones I never have seen
and I have been thinking about the journey
wondering what hope I have found
hoping the bags filled with memories
will feed me and not weigh me down
and I have been weeping for the fearful
the fearful I left at the gate
quietly hoping their darkness
their darkness won't cloud my way
and god knows I need to believe in something
and god knows that I believe in you
but god never really mattered
when it came to following through
---------------
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Septembers
-----------------
once a year
I would imagine the
first day of school
I never imagined the teachers
or the classes I would inevitably fail
I would imagine her
she was from out of town
smart but so shy
that she had no friends
she was always cute but not
beautiful
not so beautiful that she was out of place
some years she would see my Star Wars
or Jaws shirt and
she would open her jacket
and show me that she was wearing the same one
other years she would trip and
I would help her up
she would touch my hand and fall for me
once I spotted her out of the window of
class
struggling with too many books
I left class and we ditched school
to go to the pier and look at sand sharks
I would wait for her for a few weeks
but, of course
she didn't come
next year
next year, I thought
she would come
--------------------
once a year
I would imagine the
first day of school
I never imagined the teachers
or the classes I would inevitably fail
I would imagine her
she was from out of town
smart but so shy
that she had no friends
she was always cute but not
beautiful
not so beautiful that she was out of place
some years she would see my Star Wars
or Jaws shirt and
she would open her jacket
and show me that she was wearing the same one
other years she would trip and
I would help her up
she would touch my hand and fall for me
once I spotted her out of the window of
class
struggling with too many books
I left class and we ditched school
to go to the pier and look at sand sharks
I would wait for her for a few weeks
but, of course
she didn't come
next year
next year, I thought
she would come
--------------------
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Aunts and Uncles
-------------
I think
that aunts and uncles are
nicer than
kids at school
Kids at school
call me weird
in loud voices
Aunts and uncles
only ask my mom
in whispered tones
if I'm normal
While I sit
and listen
on
the top step
of the stairs
----------
I think
that aunts and uncles are
nicer than
kids at school
Kids at school
call me weird
in loud voices
Aunts and uncles
only ask my mom
in whispered tones
if I'm normal
While I sit
and listen
on
the top step
of the stairs
----------
Monday, October 11, 2010
Cranbrook part one
-------------------
On Cranbrook avenue...
It happened almost every weekend. The boy who lived across the street would run out of his door, down his driveway and onto the sidewalk. Sometimes in his underwear, sometimes in his pajamas. But always with tears streaming down his face and a look of terror in his eyes. He was around 9 just like I was.
His fat fuck of a father would bust out the door shortly after the boy did. Sometimes he had his belt in his hands, sometimes he was drawing it out of his pants like an obese Knight.
I hated the thought of the father as a knight. I dreamt of being a Knight. I drew Knights in my schoolbooks. The Knights I drew rode horses and didn't have piss stained shirts bursting out with years of shitty food turned to layers of fat.
The father never caught him, but always seemed to give a genuine effort.
When I would see it happen, I always did the same thing. I would drop my bike, skateboard or scooter onto our dead lawn and stare across the street at the father with my fists involuntarily clenched. He was a good two feet taller than I stood, and he frightened me. But I wanted him to know that I was watching him, and that someday I would be powerful enough to walk across that street and kill him.
One day while he huffed back to his house, he stopped and he stared back at me He yelled, "I'll kick the shit out of you too." I felt tears well up, but I stood my ground. He made a quick move toward me and I flinched, flicking tears from my cheeks onto the warm sidewalk. I wanted to keep my head down and watch the wet marks slowly disappear, but instead, I looked back up at him. He laughed, turned, and went inside to wait for the boy to return home.
The next time he yelled at me was a mistake. My brother (who one year later would be sent to prison for unrelated reasons) happened to be home. He heard the father threaten me and without a word bolted across the street, knocked the father onto his back, and punched him until he bled. My brother was small, strong and knew how to use his fists.
I remember wanting my brother to kill him, but feeling sick inside my stomach every time Daves fist landed a blow on the fat fuck's face.
Sometimes I thought I should make friends with the boy. I lived there for at least two years, but never did.
And... I never went back to Cranbrook avenue to kill his father.
But I still want to.
---------------------------
On Cranbrook avenue...
It happened almost every weekend. The boy who lived across the street would run out of his door, down his driveway and onto the sidewalk. Sometimes in his underwear, sometimes in his pajamas. But always with tears streaming down his face and a look of terror in his eyes. He was around 9 just like I was.
His fat fuck of a father would bust out the door shortly after the boy did. Sometimes he had his belt in his hands, sometimes he was drawing it out of his pants like an obese Knight.
I hated the thought of the father as a knight. I dreamt of being a Knight. I drew Knights in my schoolbooks. The Knights I drew rode horses and didn't have piss stained shirts bursting out with years of shitty food turned to layers of fat.
The father never caught him, but always seemed to give a genuine effort.
When I would see it happen, I always did the same thing. I would drop my bike, skateboard or scooter onto our dead lawn and stare across the street at the father with my fists involuntarily clenched. He was a good two feet taller than I stood, and he frightened me. But I wanted him to know that I was watching him, and that someday I would be powerful enough to walk across that street and kill him.
One day while he huffed back to his house, he stopped and he stared back at me He yelled, "I'll kick the shit out of you too." I felt tears well up, but I stood my ground. He made a quick move toward me and I flinched, flicking tears from my cheeks onto the warm sidewalk. I wanted to keep my head down and watch the wet marks slowly disappear, but instead, I looked back up at him. He laughed, turned, and went inside to wait for the boy to return home.
The next time he yelled at me was a mistake. My brother (who one year later would be sent to prison for unrelated reasons) happened to be home. He heard the father threaten me and without a word bolted across the street, knocked the father onto his back, and punched him until he bled. My brother was small, strong and knew how to use his fists.
I remember wanting my brother to kill him, but feeling sick inside my stomach every time Daves fist landed a blow on the fat fuck's face.
Sometimes I thought I should make friends with the boy. I lived there for at least two years, but never did.
And... I never went back to Cranbrook avenue to kill his father.
But I still want to.
---------------------------
Friday, October 1, 2010
Jesse is dead.
---------------------------
Jesse is dead.
I thought that by writing those words, the words you just read,
I would somehow feel closer to him.
I thought that by scarring my arm with his name,
I would always know where to look for guidance.
I thought that by closing my eyes on a windy night,
I would sometimes hear his deep voice in my ears.
I thought that by driving past the house where we lived,
I would somehow feel his arms around me.
I thought that by playing his guitar,
I would feel him over my shoulder,
his strong hands moving mine to the right chords.
I thought that by walking to the ocean where my mom cast his ashes,
I would sense some of the light he brought to my world.
I thought that by saying his name aloud every day,
He would hear me.
I was right.
--------------------------------
Jesse is dead.
I thought that by writing those words, the words you just read,
I would somehow feel closer to him.
I thought that by scarring my arm with his name,
I would always know where to look for guidance.
I thought that by closing my eyes on a windy night,
I would sometimes hear his deep voice in my ears.
I thought that by driving past the house where we lived,
I would somehow feel his arms around me.
I thought that by playing his guitar,
I would feel him over my shoulder,
his strong hands moving mine to the right chords.
I thought that by walking to the ocean where my mom cast his ashes,
I would sense some of the light he brought to my world.
I thought that by saying his name aloud every day,
He would hear me.
I was right.
--------------------------------
Friday, September 3, 2010
Trans-Am
------------------------
At one time his gold rims looked so fine
with his black car
and matching gold pinstripes
And that leather purse she just had to have
now sits in her closet underneath a box
And she has no idea what is in that box
At one time her hair looked so fine
with its curls or whatever was
the look at the time
And that flannel shirt he just had to have
now sits crumpled in a box in her closet
and he has no idea that she still has that box
you never really loved that car
you never really loved that purse
you never really loved that girl
you never really loved your hair
you never really loved that shirt
you never really loved that guy
and you never really...
you never really loved.
---------------------------------------
At one time his gold rims looked so fine
with his black car
and matching gold pinstripes
And that leather purse she just had to have
now sits in her closet underneath a box
And she has no idea what is in that box
At one time her hair looked so fine
with its curls or whatever was
the look at the time
And that flannel shirt he just had to have
now sits crumpled in a box in her closet
and he has no idea that she still has that box
you never really loved that car
you never really loved that purse
you never really loved that girl
you never really loved your hair
you never really loved that shirt
you never really loved that guy
and you never really...
you never really loved.
---------------------------------------
Friday, August 20, 2010
Dirt
----------------
Before the dirt
Bury me with blood
Bury me with a touch so soft
With passion
Before the dirt
Bury me with hope
Bury me with a kiss so long
With pain
Before the dirt
Let me find a true lack of reason
A true desire, a true fear
Cut me, hit me, hold me, fuck me, drink all that I have to give
Then cover me with dirt
And I will help
--------------------
Before the dirt
Bury me with blood
Bury me with a touch so soft
With passion
Before the dirt
Bury me with hope
Bury me with a kiss so long
With pain
Before the dirt
Let me find a true lack of reason
A true desire, a true fear
Cut me, hit me, hold me, fuck me, drink all that I have to give
Then cover me with dirt
And I will help
--------------------
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Silken Thigh
------------------------
When I was 11, I saw the movie Tommy for the first time. Ann Margret played Tommy's mother, and she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Oliver Reed Played Tommy's stepdad Bernie. He was greasy and ugly and slurred his words and I wondered why she would be with a man like that.
There was a scene in which Tommy and his mother were staying at "Bernie's Holiday Camp" and it seemed a lousy place for a kid, but Tommy appeared to be happy and I liked that because I wanted to be Tommy, and so I wanted to be at "Bernie's" too. But still, I wondered why Tommy's mom liked Bernie because he was greasy and ugly and slurred his words.
At the camp they hold a "lovely legs contest" in which 10 or so women stand behind a board which blocks our view of their upper bodies, revealing only legs in high heel shoes. I thought that it would be impossible to pick a winner because they ALL looked like sex and skin and how would you choose? Bernie was, of course, the judge, and as he stood there he seemed even uglier and greasier next to those lovely legs. Why did she want him? Why would any of the women that owned those legs want him?
They reveal the winner, and of course it's Tommy's mom, and I thought it must be fixed because Bernie wanted to fuck her and it's his camp, and even an 11-year-old knows that picking her would work. I was angry at first because Tommy must also know this, but just after Bernie reveals her as the winner, he caresses her leg and he sings:
"Here we have the winner, folks!
Have you ever seen a lovelier pair?
What a shapely ankle!
What a perfect shin!
If you could feel this silken thigh,
You'd know who has to win!
If you could feel this silken thigh,
You'd know."
What did he say?
"If you could feel this silken thigh... you'd KNOW."
I thought two things:
One, "Dear God I want to feel a silken thigh like that one day."
And two, "THAT is what she see's in him. While all the other fools hoot and holler and fuck and cum... he took the time to appreciate that silken thigh."
I couldn't stop thinking about it. The look on his face as he stroked her leg... he knew something other men didn't. And someday I would get to touch a beautiful silken thigh, and I swore to God I would take my time. I thought from watching porn that girls just wanted me to fuck them and put my fingers in them. But I would make them wait for that... I would leave their panties on and I would spend an hour touching and kissing ONLY that silken thigh... because...
"If you could feel that silken thigh, you'd KNOW."
And despite all that ugly, and all that grease, and those slurred words... Bernie knew. He knew.
---------------------------
When I was 11, I saw the movie Tommy for the first time. Ann Margret played Tommy's mother, and she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Oliver Reed Played Tommy's stepdad Bernie. He was greasy and ugly and slurred his words and I wondered why she would be with a man like that.
There was a scene in which Tommy and his mother were staying at "Bernie's Holiday Camp" and it seemed a lousy place for a kid, but Tommy appeared to be happy and I liked that because I wanted to be Tommy, and so I wanted to be at "Bernie's" too. But still, I wondered why Tommy's mom liked Bernie because he was greasy and ugly and slurred his words.
At the camp they hold a "lovely legs contest" in which 10 or so women stand behind a board which blocks our view of their upper bodies, revealing only legs in high heel shoes. I thought that it would be impossible to pick a winner because they ALL looked like sex and skin and how would you choose? Bernie was, of course, the judge, and as he stood there he seemed even uglier and greasier next to those lovely legs. Why did she want him? Why would any of the women that owned those legs want him?
They reveal the winner, and of course it's Tommy's mom, and I thought it must be fixed because Bernie wanted to fuck her and it's his camp, and even an 11-year-old knows that picking her would work. I was angry at first because Tommy must also know this, but just after Bernie reveals her as the winner, he caresses her leg and he sings:
"Here we have the winner, folks!
Have you ever seen a lovelier pair?
What a shapely ankle!
What a perfect shin!
If you could feel this silken thigh,
You'd know who has to win!
If you could feel this silken thigh,
You'd know."
What did he say?
"If you could feel this silken thigh... you'd KNOW."
I thought two things:
One, "Dear God I want to feel a silken thigh like that one day."
And two, "THAT is what she see's in him. While all the other fools hoot and holler and fuck and cum... he took the time to appreciate that silken thigh."
I couldn't stop thinking about it. The look on his face as he stroked her leg... he knew something other men didn't. And someday I would get to touch a beautiful silken thigh, and I swore to God I would take my time. I thought from watching porn that girls just wanted me to fuck them and put my fingers in them. But I would make them wait for that... I would leave their panties on and I would spend an hour touching and kissing ONLY that silken thigh... because...
"If you could feel that silken thigh, you'd KNOW."
And despite all that ugly, and all that grease, and those slurred words... Bernie knew. He knew.
---------------------------
Thursday, July 1, 2010
cut flowers
----------------------
While I was out today I became obsessed with finding black calla lilies. I wanted to see something beautiful beyond words. I stopped at a few gardening centers. But mostly, I stopped at flower stores. There were so many flowers. They should be beautiful. They should have made me swell. They made me hate.
cut flowers.
They made me hate the assholes in the store buying flowers for their girls because they think that is what girls want. but they never take the time to look at the flowers or realize that the flowers are dying...
And THAT is where the real beauty comes from.
cut flowers.
Still, the girls will gush, and the guys will be right, because people love flowers more than words and they will fuck, and not feel much. In a while they will both cum and reassure each other that something magical had happened. And the flowers will die slower because of the packet of powder that was poured into the vase.
cut flowers
I didn't find the black flowers.
If I had found them, I would have placed them on the seat of a stranger's car.
and the flowers would have died, and perhaps a single pedal would have fallen to the floor to shrivel and change and be ground into the floorboard. And later, a lifetime from now, the owner of the car would die.
And my black calla lilies would have been a small part of that life...
...and they would have been beautiful.
--------------------
While I was out today I became obsessed with finding black calla lilies. I wanted to see something beautiful beyond words. I stopped at a few gardening centers. But mostly, I stopped at flower stores. There were so many flowers. They should be beautiful. They should have made me swell. They made me hate.
cut flowers.
They made me hate the assholes in the store buying flowers for their girls because they think that is what girls want. but they never take the time to look at the flowers or realize that the flowers are dying...
And THAT is where the real beauty comes from.
cut flowers.
Still, the girls will gush, and the guys will be right, because people love flowers more than words and they will fuck, and not feel much. In a while they will both cum and reassure each other that something magical had happened. And the flowers will die slower because of the packet of powder that was poured into the vase.
cut flowers
I didn't find the black flowers.
If I had found them, I would have placed them on the seat of a stranger's car.
and the flowers would have died, and perhaps a single pedal would have fallen to the floor to shrivel and change and be ground into the floorboard. And later, a lifetime from now, the owner of the car would die.
And my black calla lilies would have been a small part of that life...
...and they would have been beautiful.
--------------------
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Dinner with friends
-------------
I'm fine. right here. lying face down. in an alley. shirt wet. drunk.
I'll be with you in a moment. soon. I can hear the people in the street. but I prefer the sound of the water. As it drips... into the sewer.
I'm fine. right here. unaware of the world. outside my viewfinder.
I'll be with you in a moment. to sit at a table and pretend. but right now I prefer the cold of this alley.
As it breathes... in perfect time with me.
-------------
I'm fine. right here. lying face down. in an alley. shirt wet. drunk.
I'll be with you in a moment. soon. I can hear the people in the street. but I prefer the sound of the water. As it drips... into the sewer.
I'm fine. right here. unaware of the world. outside my viewfinder.
I'll be with you in a moment. to sit at a table and pretend. but right now I prefer the cold of this alley.
As it breathes... in perfect time with me.
-------------
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Steve
---
When I was twelve I had a friend named Steve. I trusted him enough to tell him that I hurt inside.
I told him, "I hurt all the time. But it's okay, because someday I will show them that I see something amazing... something deep and strange and magical. I don't know what it is, but when I show it to them they will need it as much as I do."
"No," He laughed. "They don't care, they will never want something they can't understand. They will laugh at you too."
I pushed him to the ground and started punching him.
He was bleeding, and I was crying. "No... you are wrong," I wept, "they will need it, they will."
It's not your fault.
But fuck you, Steve.
Fuck you for being right.
---
When I was twelve I had a friend named Steve. I trusted him enough to tell him that I hurt inside.
I told him, "I hurt all the time. But it's okay, because someday I will show them that I see something amazing... something deep and strange and magical. I don't know what it is, but when I show it to them they will need it as much as I do."
"No," He laughed. "They don't care, they will never want something they can't understand. They will laugh at you too."
I pushed him to the ground and started punching him.
He was bleeding, and I was crying. "No... you are wrong," I wept, "they will need it, they will."
It's not your fault.
But fuck you, Steve.
Fuck you for being right.
---
Friday, January 1, 2010
2010
-
I've never acknowledged new years as anything more than a waste of time. A day to party and make plans that you will never follow thru on.
Today, out of necessity, I need to reflect on the last year, and the year ahead.
For a while now I've been trying to relate to the world in a way that means something to me. I don't want to say that it's a "deeper," or more "important" way, but rather a more "meaningful" way. There IS something more here, now... I don't know what it is but I know it is passing us all by.
Most of those attempts to connect to others failed. One in particular didn't. And that alone may have literally saved me from myself.
I've made no secret of it, mentally, I am struggling more than I could have imagined. I've tried to open the book on why I think I'm struggling and have been met with indifference, love, anger, laughter, and the always unhelpful "it's going to be okay."
Maybe it's not going to be okay. Maybe I'll never heal. Maybe I'll never find the inner peace I crave. Maybe I'll never find my "God."
I honestly don't know where to go from here. I wrote some general tips yesterday that may help keep me grounded, but I don't know if that's enough.
I will continue to create... Paint, design, write, touch and feel with absolute passion. Complete and total passion for the moment.
I hope that you find what you crave.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I've never acknowledged new years as anything more than a waste of time. A day to party and make plans that you will never follow thru on.
Today, out of necessity, I need to reflect on the last year, and the year ahead.
For a while now I've been trying to relate to the world in a way that means something to me. I don't want to say that it's a "deeper," or more "important" way, but rather a more "meaningful" way. There IS something more here, now... I don't know what it is but I know it is passing us all by.
Most of those attempts to connect to others failed. One in particular didn't. And that alone may have literally saved me from myself.
I've made no secret of it, mentally, I am struggling more than I could have imagined. I've tried to open the book on why I think I'm struggling and have been met with indifference, love, anger, laughter, and the always unhelpful "it's going to be okay."
Maybe it's not going to be okay. Maybe I'll never heal. Maybe I'll never find the inner peace I crave. Maybe I'll never find my "God."
I honestly don't know where to go from here. I wrote some general tips yesterday that may help keep me grounded, but I don't know if that's enough.
I will continue to create... Paint, design, write, touch and feel with absolute passion. Complete and total passion for the moment.
I hope that you find what you crave.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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