I'm packing it all up.
This box is for all the little things, the
peaceful clutter, dead pens, a family of rubber bands,
bottle caps, a nickle, soy sauce and duck sauce looking guilty--
all destined for the expectant coffin of a to-be junk drawer.
The clocks take time with them into their box.
The digital blinks out. The cat bites her tongue.
No more bells and whistles for now.
Against the wall, 10 boxes of books
stack silent universes: epic tragedies,
cloying romance, all hell and splendor,
all holding their breath, dreaming their recurring dreams.
Some ancient boxes of forgotten secrets are excavated
and dissected for reorganization and eventual re-interment.
And I have to throw so much away.
Tickling trinkets that have lost their value, faded photos
that stick to my fingers, news clippings that have lost their
legibility and relevance, kissed, folded, and crumpled into
the solemn wastebasket.
And in this graveyard of cardboard urns I am haunted
by all the yesterdays that had settled so nicely.
All the dust from the carpet now hovers and coughs
as I squint through the fallout.
I am poked and prodded by all these drowsy wraiths,
grumpy sprites, and venomous questions.
This is moving.
Also moving on.
Pieces of myself destroyed, suffocated, banished;
Scars torn open and molested, dead skin shorn,
Making room for tomorrow
In anticipation of bloom.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Tomorrow never comes.
In the sulking dusk
weathered men clap dominoes
on a bridge overlooking
the restless urban expressway.
Cars swim away from under them,
schools of metallic fish chasing a dim horizon,
a shower of nickles spinning into a well;
wishes like temporary insanity.
Old buildings hulking around us hum inaudible
tones of serenity, Each solitary universe nestled
in its patch of faded dreams, rumpled laundry,
discarded eras and their honest shambles.
We all, so distant in our proximity,
forget as we breathe and breathe as we forget.
weathered men clap dominoes
on a bridge overlooking
the restless urban expressway.
Cars swim away from under them,
schools of metallic fish chasing a dim horizon,
a shower of nickles spinning into a well;
wishes like temporary insanity.
Old buildings hulking around us hum inaudible
tones of serenity, Each solitary universe nestled
in its patch of faded dreams, rumpled laundry,
discarded eras and their honest shambles.
We all, so distant in our proximity,
forget as we breathe and breathe as we forget.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
So deep in my Bones.
Sometimes I feel it so deep in my bones
churning my bone marrow like quicksand, like
molten magma Spirits agitated and swarming for release,
so that I can’t wait to die
so that my skin may be stripped away,
uncurled like birthday ribbons and holiday streamers
And my flesh will mix with the soil a pungent incantation
and my soul will vibrate through the earth to eternity.
I know you know what I know
I can feel it buzzing just under your skin
An electric current as honest as the sunrise
and right now we are the same
we are the same people everywhere at once
feeding and fighting and fucking each other to life.
we are hunger and satiation, ecstasy and torment,
we are comfort and desolation, we are
a mother's voice in the blue light of dawn, yes.
the first gaping coffin frozen and adorned, yes.
the heart's drum roll to first kiss, yes, and explosions, yes,
and rubble and broken picture frames and long walks
to refugee camps and the smiles that erupt there
like hidden springs of rosewater, yes we are
raw honey from dwindling bee populations sold
at supermarkets nestled in mini-malls adjacent to
walled-in subdivisions where people live to be
suspicious of their neighbors, yes. fuck. yes.
we are the collective conscious.
every building that challenges a mountain will lose.
(the ego lacks majesty.)
every mountain that challenges time will lose.
(but the mountains don't mind.)
and mighty Time is yet conquered by Soul.
and here is comfort.
In the face of death we struggle to say something beautiful
To conjure some alchemy that will carry our
Diminishing flames into the unknown.
In the face of life we struggle to say something beautiful
and end up laughing. and it's just as good.
churning my bone marrow like quicksand, like
molten magma Spirits agitated and swarming for release,
so that I can’t wait to die
so that my skin may be stripped away,
uncurled like birthday ribbons and holiday streamers
And my flesh will mix with the soil a pungent incantation
and my soul will vibrate through the earth to eternity.
I know you know what I know
I can feel it buzzing just under your skin
An electric current as honest as the sunrise
and right now we are the same
we are the same people everywhere at once
feeding and fighting and fucking each other to life.
we are hunger and satiation, ecstasy and torment,
we are comfort and desolation, we are
a mother's voice in the blue light of dawn, yes.
the first gaping coffin frozen and adorned, yes.
the heart's drum roll to first kiss, yes, and explosions, yes,
and rubble and broken picture frames and long walks
to refugee camps and the smiles that erupt there
like hidden springs of rosewater, yes we are
raw honey from dwindling bee populations sold
at supermarkets nestled in mini-malls adjacent to
walled-in subdivisions where people live to be
suspicious of their neighbors, yes. fuck. yes.
we are the collective conscious.
every building that challenges a mountain will lose.
(the ego lacks majesty.)
every mountain that challenges time will lose.
(but the mountains don't mind.)
and mighty Time is yet conquered by Soul.
and here is comfort.
In the face of death we struggle to say something beautiful
To conjure some alchemy that will carry our
Diminishing flames into the unknown.
In the face of life we struggle to say something beautiful
and end up laughing. and it's just as good.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
"Dust in my attic" Lyrics
Well, it seems the grey hairs nestled in my rats nest are cloning,
filling in the gaps, tryna silver up my dome piece, and I guess
that's great for counteracting mind control, but
what about the chips in my shoulders, wrists, and spinal cord?
Radio waves, ultramagnetic punks and ravers, dressed
to kill--their neighbors, with guns and sabers,
so I tend to rock a death-proof aura on the regs, so I
can walk without fear across this land of the dead.
It's bedtime for bonzo, crusty, homey and Kokopelli, I'll
be the saddest clown since that hobo Emmett Kelly
Riding the rails of a boxcar with a silver flask
sippin the heat of the present, killin the chill of the past.
I ask everyone I meet to take me back, but
most of them just shrug and walk a little faster.
Sometimes I wonder where they're going, or what they're after,
but that just adds to the stack of questions I've already gathered
'cause
I've got too much dust in my attic,
Addicted to the magic, the heroes in the static
Too many soldiers never get up off the matress
So I never lie down till I've blown out the cannon
Now my kicks are hella dusty so I won't be crushin models
flatfoot waddle ugly duckling smug apostle,
diggin in the crates with bright dreams of fossils,
collectin deposits on these recycled genie bottles.
It's been a hot minute since I crumbled up my wishlist,
pitched it at the trashcan, driven mad and back again.
These days I only rub my limbs to keep warm, and
save my pennies from these bottomless wells of cheap whores.
I been reborn enough to know this earth ain't the best place,
and lately all these selfish creatures want is the next taste.
So I been tryna conjur proper methods to elevate, but
all I ever got from dreaming big was a headache.
That ain't to say i'm throwin in towels or hanging hats.
I'm just takin a second to analyze the facts.
hangin with the bats, I've acquired a taste for plasma,
and if I don't settle down soon, who knows what could happen!?
'cause
I've got too much dust in my attic,
Addicted to the magic, the heroes in the static
Too many soldiers never get up off the matress
So I never lie down till I've blown out the cannon
filling in the gaps, tryna silver up my dome piece, and I guess
that's great for counteracting mind control, but
what about the chips in my shoulders, wrists, and spinal cord?
Radio waves, ultramagnetic punks and ravers, dressed
to kill--their neighbors, with guns and sabers,
so I tend to rock a death-proof aura on the regs, so I
can walk without fear across this land of the dead.
It's bedtime for bonzo, crusty, homey and Kokopelli, I'll
be the saddest clown since that hobo Emmett Kelly
Riding the rails of a boxcar with a silver flask
sippin the heat of the present, killin the chill of the past.
I ask everyone I meet to take me back, but
most of them just shrug and walk a little faster.
Sometimes I wonder where they're going, or what they're after,
but that just adds to the stack of questions I've already gathered
'cause
I've got too much dust in my attic,
Addicted to the magic, the heroes in the static
Too many soldiers never get up off the matress
So I never lie down till I've blown out the cannon
Now my kicks are hella dusty so I won't be crushin models
flatfoot waddle ugly duckling smug apostle,
diggin in the crates with bright dreams of fossils,
collectin deposits on these recycled genie bottles.
It's been a hot minute since I crumbled up my wishlist,
pitched it at the trashcan, driven mad and back again.
These days I only rub my limbs to keep warm, and
save my pennies from these bottomless wells of cheap whores.
I been reborn enough to know this earth ain't the best place,
and lately all these selfish creatures want is the next taste.
So I been tryna conjur proper methods to elevate, but
all I ever got from dreaming big was a headache.
That ain't to say i'm throwin in towels or hanging hats.
I'm just takin a second to analyze the facts.
hangin with the bats, I've acquired a taste for plasma,
and if I don't settle down soon, who knows what could happen!?
'cause
I've got too much dust in my attic,
Addicted to the magic, the heroes in the static
Too many soldiers never get up off the matress
So I never lie down till I've blown out the cannon
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Synchronicity
"Back in 1933:
I told a policeman in Grand Central Station Dan Gregory's address. He said it was only eight blocks away, and that I couldn't get lost, since that part of the city was as simple as a checkerboard. The Great Depression was going on, so that the station and the streets teemed with homeless people, just as they do today. The newspapers were full of stories of worker layoffs and farm forclosures and bank failures, just as they are today. All that has changed, in my opinion, is that, thanks to television, we can hide a Great Depression. We may even be hiding a Third World War."
- Kurt Vonnegut, Bluebeard
I read this yesterday. The book was published for the first time in 1987. I was awe struck at how relevant it is. Then, this morning on the way to work, I was thinking about synchronicity and, as I was getting on the uptown B train, a man with a deep blue (and I'm talking blue blue ocean blue) goatee brushed past me. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to raise the book and show him the cover...
I often experience synchronicity with the books I read. Another example was when I was driving across country last year and reading a book about train riders and vagabonds called HOBO. The night before I was to leave Florida and drive west, I went to the beach for a sunset drum circle. At the drum circle, some shirtless hippy fella with strawberry blond dreads and wooden jewelry kept screaming about the Rainbow Gathering:
"Who wants to go to the Rainbow Gathering with me!? Who has a car!? Let's all go together!"
It was to start the next night in Ocala. I was precisely at the chapter in the HOBO book where an old, weathered tramp leaves his young traveling buddies to head to Ocala for the Rainbow Gathering. I took it as a sign. I might even have offered that silly hippie a ride if he hadn't been so beligerently wasted by the end of the night.
And so I went. Once there, I met a clown--train riders often become clowns and create dusty circuses of impromptu ramshackle glee--who spoke in a jargon utilized prominently in the book. It was amazing.
I have encountered more instances of this lately. Maybe it's a sign of the times; a symptom of the coagulation of the global consciousness. And it's not even specific to books. How many times have you put your mp3 player on shuffle and found that it played songs that related directly to a person you were thinking about? Or you would think that you want to hear a certain song and it would magically come on?
My inner-Hippie is blathering right now:
"Electrical Impulses man! It's all energy transfer! The same impulses in your brain are reaching out and effecting your environment! If you could learn to chanel that power, you could influence all sort of things!"
Chanel your inner hippie for me. Leave some comments of examples of synchronicity in your life. I'd love to hear about other people's experiences with these strange occurrences.
I told a policeman in Grand Central Station Dan Gregory's address. He said it was only eight blocks away, and that I couldn't get lost, since that part of the city was as simple as a checkerboard. The Great Depression was going on, so that the station and the streets teemed with homeless people, just as they do today. The newspapers were full of stories of worker layoffs and farm forclosures and bank failures, just as they are today. All that has changed, in my opinion, is that, thanks to television, we can hide a Great Depression. We may even be hiding a Third World War."
- Kurt Vonnegut, Bluebeard
I read this yesterday. The book was published for the first time in 1987. I was awe struck at how relevant it is. Then, this morning on the way to work, I was thinking about synchronicity and, as I was getting on the uptown B train, a man with a deep blue (and I'm talking blue blue ocean blue) goatee brushed past me. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to raise the book and show him the cover...
I often experience synchronicity with the books I read. Another example was when I was driving across country last year and reading a book about train riders and vagabonds called HOBO. The night before I was to leave Florida and drive west, I went to the beach for a sunset drum circle. At the drum circle, some shirtless hippy fella with strawberry blond dreads and wooden jewelry kept screaming about the Rainbow Gathering:
"Who wants to go to the Rainbow Gathering with me!? Who has a car!? Let's all go together!"
It was to start the next night in Ocala. I was precisely at the chapter in the HOBO book where an old, weathered tramp leaves his young traveling buddies to head to Ocala for the Rainbow Gathering. I took it as a sign. I might even have offered that silly hippie a ride if he hadn't been so beligerently wasted by the end of the night.
And so I went. Once there, I met a clown--train riders often become clowns and create dusty circuses of impromptu ramshackle glee--who spoke in a jargon utilized prominently in the book. It was amazing.
I have encountered more instances of this lately. Maybe it's a sign of the times; a symptom of the coagulation of the global consciousness. And it's not even specific to books. How many times have you put your mp3 player on shuffle and found that it played songs that related directly to a person you were thinking about? Or you would think that you want to hear a certain song and it would magically come on?
My inner-Hippie is blathering right now:
"Electrical Impulses man! It's all energy transfer! The same impulses in your brain are reaching out and effecting your environment! If you could learn to chanel that power, you could influence all sort of things!"
Chanel your inner hippie for me. Leave some comments of examples of synchronicity in your life. I'd love to hear about other people's experiences with these strange occurrences.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
"The Discovery" Lyrics
Just my luck, I'm stuck again in a pen,
an electrified cage full of women and men.
They must be first timers lookin crippled and tense,
as if its the end, allready missing their friends.
But not me, man, I been through this before.
Shit. I should have known better than ot visit this store.
Not my usual spot to cop chicken and porn--
knew I was tricked soon as I heard the click of the doors...
I got picked up!
Please put me down...
Sized up and Spun!
Please put me down...
Just my luck!
Please put me down...
I'm about to drop some knowledge so lend me your ears:
The first time they get you, you're schitzophrenic with fear.
You wanna kill yourself as well as anyone near,
till they sedate you. Then everything disappears.
Or so they think! Turns out I'm pretty much immune
so I remember everything from these trips behind the moon;
the test, the races, the equasions they make you do,
cause they're curious about our scurvy race of buffoons!
So this is life now, a brave new world!
The human race demoted to some apes in a barrel;
a game show of peril where God's reclusive scarecrow
got juiced--reduced to some broomstick barebones.
And we're all just specimens getting tested in
their collections, getting stressed in our rectums,
hoping one day they'll fly off or drop dead, but
that probably won't happen 'till their suply's exhausted.
I got picked up...
Their civilization's advanced light years ahead,
and their consciousness is something we could never comprehend,
but our basic genetics are essentially the same
which is why our discovery's so imporant to their race.
At first they just observed us living in our habitat.
Then they started taking us as guinea pigs and lab rats,
giving us silly names like Cinnamon and FlapJack,
and strippin us of any of the dignity we had left!
They found us!
A light in the darkness, a spark in the gloom.
They found us!
A tiny oasis, an ark full of mules.
They found us!
A diamond in the rough, a penny in a pool.
They found us!
A Lonely Planet so pretty and blue.
Till I met a pretty alien lady with scaly skin,
smooth like an aligator, legs of an arabian,
makin me trip with those radiant lips.
She got all the game, but I'm playin my chips.
She got a snake tongue and she flicks it sporadically,
and her tits stay nice from a life of no gravity.
She got a cybernetic wit she loves to throw back at me--
The queen of my moon base. I call her "Yo Magesty"
She saw me in that glass case, diggin my dimples,
so she pulled me from the rat race and shoewed me her nipples.
They glowed in the dark and were thicker than thimbles,
and after a little liquor, I gave em a nibble.
She saved from the riddles, the tests, and the questions,
the psych sessions, and hypodermic injections.
She's the type of perfect that makes the savages berserk,
'cause she saved me from the misery of goin back to earth.
and broke lived happily ever after...
an electrified cage full of women and men.
They must be first timers lookin crippled and tense,
as if its the end, allready missing their friends.
But not me, man, I been through this before.
Shit. I should have known better than ot visit this store.
Not my usual spot to cop chicken and porn--
knew I was tricked soon as I heard the click of the doors...
I got picked up!
Please put me down...
Sized up and Spun!
Please put me down...
Just my luck!
Please put me down...
I'm about to drop some knowledge so lend me your ears:
The first time they get you, you're schitzophrenic with fear.
You wanna kill yourself as well as anyone near,
till they sedate you. Then everything disappears.
Or so they think! Turns out I'm pretty much immune
so I remember everything from these trips behind the moon;
the test, the races, the equasions they make you do,
cause they're curious about our scurvy race of buffoons!
So this is life now, a brave new world!
The human race demoted to some apes in a barrel;
a game show of peril where God's reclusive scarecrow
got juiced--reduced to some broomstick barebones.
And we're all just specimens getting tested in
their collections, getting stressed in our rectums,
hoping one day they'll fly off or drop dead, but
that probably won't happen 'till their suply's exhausted.
I got picked up...
Their civilization's advanced light years ahead,
and their consciousness is something we could never comprehend,
but our basic genetics are essentially the same
which is why our discovery's so imporant to their race.
At first they just observed us living in our habitat.
Then they started taking us as guinea pigs and lab rats,
giving us silly names like Cinnamon and FlapJack,
and strippin us of any of the dignity we had left!
They found us!
A light in the darkness, a spark in the gloom.
They found us!
A tiny oasis, an ark full of mules.
They found us!
A diamond in the rough, a penny in a pool.
They found us!
A Lonely Planet so pretty and blue.
Till I met a pretty alien lady with scaly skin,
smooth like an aligator, legs of an arabian,
makin me trip with those radiant lips.
She got all the game, but I'm playin my chips.
She got a snake tongue and she flicks it sporadically,
and her tits stay nice from a life of no gravity.
She got a cybernetic wit she loves to throw back at me--
The queen of my moon base. I call her "Yo Magesty"
She saw me in that glass case, diggin my dimples,
so she pulled me from the rat race and shoewed me her nipples.
They glowed in the dark and were thicker than thimbles,
and after a little liquor, I gave em a nibble.
She saved from the riddles, the tests, and the questions,
the psych sessions, and hypodermic injections.
She's the type of perfect that makes the savages berserk,
'cause she saved me from the misery of goin back to earth.
and broke lived happily ever after...
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