Archive | November 2019

Love Is

It’s so painful, the joy of life,

Not at all what I thought.

It’s not the first I’ve been wrong,

So I have to find what I’ve got

And unsubscribe to the strife

And BE in belong.

This is my journey

Writing’s my pen

Poetry’s my filter,

feeling’s, my friend.

Mother’s Rage

Why do you argue with your boys?
why do you insist they argue with you?

Let the little ones lie
let them be their imperfect selves,
it might be good for you to see
the reality,
they are you
and no amount of arguing
will change it.

Why do Mothers have so much trouble
with their boys
And blame it
on their boys
As if the boys are not paintings
they, themselves, have created.

Every stroke, every color, every texture
is from the artist
the painting belongs to the artist
and the artist raging
against their own brush strokes
is insanity

In our world today
it’s sanctioned insanity
allowed, encouraged to be written about
and complained about
and argued about.

A more honest approach would be
to rage in a dark room against yourself
but maybe there’s too much of that already
and so the mothers choose
to rage at their creations
because it feels better for them.

Mothers Rage At Their Creations!

Stand For Something

Can you prepare for life?
Move this and cancel that
to avoid the pain and strife.
Can you wear a different hat?

Will that make me a different person
protected from the acid rain
or disguised, safe from recognition
Can you avoid the pain?

A better question is to ask,
just what is the full worth
If it’s time to take off the mask
to foster your rebirth?

To be born again inside your life
like the flower blooms in spring
from the pain of being wrapped so tight
then gentle unfolding.

But then you’re unfolded
and open for all to see
to touch and smell, emboldened,
what if they don’t agree?

What if you’re wrong,
or worse rejected
for finally being strong
and sharing your perspective

And if people point and sing
your doubts for all the world to hear
or, worse, they don’t want anything
to do with you my dear.

And even worse, there’s nothing
no one pays attention
you’ve put your heart out deafening
and no one makes connection.

Who are you my darling son,
to have so many questions
Don’t you see that you’re the one
who holds your own salvation.

And that no one pays attention
and no one really agrees
and it doesn’t hurt to mention
Love considers none of these.

But Love considers pain
pain is like the flower
and love is the unfolding
in the deepest, darkest hour.

So what is in your heart, young man
what is it you see?
And even if you are decieved
it’s true you can be free,
even if you are decieved
even if by yourself
you’ve worn the liars mask so long
you’ve forgotten how to tell.
Maybe what you’ll get is pain,
however you have invited it
and, in fact, I’m sure you will,
because until you’re dead that’s all there is
you will die upon this hill
and when you die, there’s no more pain
and no more love and care
and no more people to laugh at you
and no one left to stare
no one to humiliate
no one left to cry
no one left to hit you
no one left to die
there’s nothing left at the time of death
so it might be good to stop day dreaming
and schemeing how to keep yourself
from meeting all your demons.
You’ve only got on shot at this
and a lot of time’s gone by
you don’t know how much time is left
on the game clock in the sky.

So what’s it mean, what’s the point?
It’s simple son, just heed it
Stand for something until you’re broken
then figure out if you need it.

The Record Cafe

In God we trust,

All others Pay Cash.

It’s that type of place.

I smell it out, hole in the wall, cramped with people and competency without ambition.

And hot coffee, made like a pro for pros, others that wake up early to do their job.

It’s good enough and that’s what makes it great.

There are no trends at The Record Cafe.

It serves the same purpose as the dilapidated barn, peeling red walls, the only purpose, to soothe the soul with a sense of permeance against the unstoppable march towards an unknowable destination.

The Record Cafe, for 79 years, knowable.

That’s enough. That’s good enough.

Life Through An Eyeglass

The weight of the world is already on you
If you don’t know it,
well that could be dangerous
for you and the ones you love.

Somehow you are maintaining
it’s a miracle
a resilient miracle
there shouldn’t be anyone left.

But here we are, breathing
complaining, suffering
shrinking our world
to feel more comfortable.

But just because we’re looking
through an eyeglass
doesn’t mean the world is small
doesn’t mean existence is small
contained
a circle
far away
from yourself.

Wholly fucker
it doesn’t mean that.

You will either die of love
or die of hate

The amont that I don’t care
about how people perceive
my words
is big, like the universe.

The amount that I care
about how people percieve
my words
is big, like the universe.

Standing Against Happiness

I’d rather not, but I said I would

I’d rather not

It’s comfortable here

I want to stay

It feels so right, it feels so good

I don’t want to move

But I said I would

What is this foreign body

Now in me disrupting comfort

Dichotomy

I said I would, that’s all there is

To stand against my happiness

And why then stand against

That at all

Death and Enjoyment

White smoke against bare trees

Far away sun, like a memory

Our world is preparing for sleep

If you are not prepared, death is real

More real, more possible.

The exceptionalism of humanity

Has made a difference between

Death and enjoyment

That’s how far we’ve come

No te olvides del niño del árbol

The boy runs,
head back, glancing
arching back – like his chest is leading

and maybe it is, the heart.

Shouts and laughter
laughter and shouts
speedy directions
not fast enough to catch up
with the action
of the boy.

It’s as if he belongs in that tree,
and other kids,
like fruit
pop up and hang and swing

laughter and shouts

Little fingers, little toes
climbing on the world
loving, living, loving, living

shouts in laughter

More children come
little fingers and bark
branches and legs
skin and leaves

el árbol niño
the tree child

El chico de los árboles se fue
The tree child is gone

It can’t be
But it is.
Laughter and shouts
Skin and bark
little limbs on little limbs

oh such terribleness for what
we’ve forgotten.

We’ve forgotten the child of the tree,
Nos hemos olvidado del niño del árbol.

Do not forget the child of the tree.
Ever.

Monday, 11:58pm

I just saw it so clearly.
But now it’s gone.

I am a long way,
a long way…
from greatness.

I’ve just let go for so long,
consciously chosing
the path of least resistance
and calling it courage
to my subconscious self.

Courage: Good Work, Original,
Special, Gifted, Talented and Hardworking.
…that’s what I mean…

I never concieved
what I’m now concieving,
I’ve never thought the end
was so final
I never thought to be
grateful in a way
that would make it all worth it.

There isn’t a chance I’ll let shit go,
even if don’t ever touch it again.

I never let go.

A Blank Screen

I wanted to write
but there was a fire to start
and then there was a screen to look at
with tendrils of sweat and dirt
and candy
and so I followed them
turning on
as if I was turned off
as if I wasn’t already raging
as if I was blank
I turned them on
and was engaged
like the plow that I am
being pulled
and digging a furrow
while being dug into
If I stop looking
I will stop
with a shudder
and sit for just a moment
while the momentum
of the pull
bleeds out
and then I’ll just sit
staring at a blank screen
a blank screen.

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