thoughts bubbling up
interwoven, built, and made
but lacking meaning
i was sitting around
doing nothing
watching my friend
slip into an infinite
amount of memories—
gazing at the little devils
swirling overhead—
and in an instant,
after a short burst
of buzzing data and
unseen forces,
he glared at me
with the wildest eyes
and asked if i
could give him a ride.
i knew this look—
i knew him well, and so
i knew exactly
what he meant for us to do.
we rushed out into
the car—i hobbled along,
hoping not
to break another fall
on an already broken body—
and we started our journey.
we sang loudly,
we drove fast
past cop cars,
we got there
with very little time
to spare.
and so we said farewells
for the time being and
i went my own way—
finding myself sucked into
the front door of a book shop.
grandiose
peaceful
pleasant
so i walked about
in my crippled little sprees
of unwilling energy
and ran straight to the poetry
where of course
i found Bukowski.
picked a selection,
went to work prying open
every desirable mention
of sex and life
and his sex life
and his conversations with gals
he found so beautiful,
but in his special way
he gave a young man
some thoughts other than
how the shape of a women’s body
seemed to cheat poetic men
out of their senses.
i thought it funny
how i was learning
from the old man with
the comical stance
on sex in life,
while my friend
was choosing to find out
for himself how
he felt about a girl
he knows he cannot touch.
i put down the book
in an awful rush and leapt
as far as a crippled man can
out the door, and into my
baby blue car.
i picked him up.
we drove on home.
she was gone
but my friend,
he’d found something
to keep hold of—
he got
to look into
the ocean’s sea spray
one last time
before he had
to go back to a life
where all he did
was say goodbye
and that was the only blessing
he could provide.
we sang all the way back—
he didn’t look back.
Empty skies falling slowly,
far down the coast
they’ve floated - faltered.
Encased in perpetual motion,
their temperament as shifting
as the water and air within.
They are only less human
because they are closer to
the light we want desperately
against our pained skin,
because they are kept
under rule happily by
the wind and will of something
greater than we know.
The empty sky takes in
the thunder and the gales,
the quick licks of the sea
and the grace of the birds.
All take sanctuary
among the eternity
of cerulean majesty.
The sun gives its blessings -
and the sky gains
rubies, amber, and gold,
to sling against
the slightest gaze.
And I’m sitting here,
not knowing if
I will ever
know one thing
or another
because the answers
are never as apparent.
I will write a masterpiece.
I will exist not by name but through story.
I will change not the world, but the mind.
I will not die leaving only bone, but also words.
I will do these things,
because if I do not
then the thoughts that
I have been thinking
all along on those days
I don’t really remember
would all be
for not.
I will accomplish these all in time
because if my time is lost
then my words will be all
that remain.
This is how I will live on.
I write
to purge myself of these thoughts
I pray that if I wite them down
they’ll find a much better home on these pages
than in my brain.
Ah one
Ah two
Ah one, two, three, four.
I’ve been jumpin
Along my feet tonight
To a beat
I hadn’t ever heard
In all my life!
And it feels right!
So I’ll dance in my mind
Tonight.
(Yeah, YEAH!)
(Woooooh Oh!)
I left
My place on the ground
Vacant
To the boredom around
And I know
That I’ve been thinkin
All the right notes
To have a good time
Tonight!
Tonight,
tonight,
tonight!!
So I drift off now
To a place without sound
And I hope
That you have found
A beat or song
To sing along to
Tonight!
(Sleep in all
the small hotel rooms.
Cry in a ball
after that guy left you.
Learn how to fall
from a story tall
to let you
feel alive tonight!
Do
what
you
feel is right.)
There are parts of me
I wish to be left
alone to fester -
left to take in
exactly what they give.
I know though,
there are always those
moments when parts
are made into the whole -
and they’re what
drives every motion,
every clasped hand,
and every bloodshot glance.
Beware:
there are those pieces
that shouldn’t be given place
in this mismatched mosaic.
I desperately need
serenity - I need peace.
But my mind won’t cease.
Well aren’t you
just the kind of
jailed, and caged bird,
to sing a song
for others and
your captors.
Or, am I wrong?
What were you
back when
you could just
simply turn, and with
grace,
f
l
y ?
a
w
….. a
I’ve been living for
3 weeks like I did
back 3 years ago.
I sit in bed till 12;
I fail to eat,
I don’t want to eat,
and I’m then up,
and devouring the
fridge itself.
Nothing takes in
my attention;
I turn on a game to
play, and it’s like
I’m timing myself
to see how long
it takes for
me to throw
the controller down and
turn everything off—
because some guy
has played for 3
years longer, and can
be what you wanted
to be.
After that, I’m left
wobbling about,
angry and bored,
so I sit on my
computer—trying
to find something
to shove into my eyes,
or ears, or heart.
I get restless still,
and leave that screen,
and I go to a blank page
hoping to finally
drain my mind
of the ideas I’ve cultivated
all my life, it seems.
I fail, again,
and instead
of calling up a
publisher,
I write up
some words in
a row—calling it poetry.
I’m trying
to change these
next weeks,
but I can only
escape habit so much.
