Egocentric narcissist wasted
Why do I care?
Rarely as a spectator unless grabbed by the balls
And then only till something shiny comes along am I captured by others’ imagery
Mine is for me and I share as a way to combat self-doubt
Seeking liberation and exaltation
…..but, the former leads my heart
And I see it broken before by the simplest of actions
The ‘click of a button’ so coldly leaves me wondering what I did to deserve such disregard
Rampant rage courses as I consider retaliation
……..no, the latter stomps my broken pumper
,rather stumped I look at the stuck sump
Fortunately ‘word combinations’ are like recreation and placation for my inspiration
Something that must be purged
And a tide is surging with me riding the tube, nude
Free to be rude
Why chastise ignorance
Its only expression…. And if hers are secret
If they are so powerful I may be destroyed by the sight…then it is for the best
And it is for my protection
Injecting levity I quip, “It’s really her loss”
I promote only free flowing Ferris wheel style fun extravaganzas
None of these sullen mournful hipsterisms on my floating boat
Circumventing the moat of stubborn irritation
I see elastic feelings rebounding from damaged to understanding
And I hold her in my ‘father’ arms without judgment or anger
Just confusion and acceptance
Which is where I live anyway.
Give me the sweet smell of struggle.
Give me the stark red cry of love.
Everyday, life victories over death in your smile,
memories of old flames become
first coats in the bitter winter.
But you see, I have learned to love the cold.
Especially when I wear your affection,
a heavy cloth, thick as wool.
Everyday, your kindness wraps me more securely inside my world.
The wintry scene becomes welcome-
because there is a warmth in the midst of it
and a warmth to be had at the end of the long walk-
the hands hastened by the fire,
the heart by your eyes.
Oh yes, life should give me a good fight
because I know my prize is you,
tottering sweetly at the end of the road, like a child.
You are my happiness.
Now that I possess your love, there is color in the world,
streaks of red on the white canvas,
the scent of roses in the otherwise sterile winter air.
Life exists where it didn't before.
I live when before I had died painful deaths,
by my own hand, by indifference, by abuse.
Every sentence to you is a poem I never bothered to write down,
because the most important poems are the ones in memory.
The first coats we loved, but they were not practical.
The collar was beautiful, the buttons neat.
It is warmth I want.
It is you, because you keep the wind out.
Because you were expensive, and therefore of good quality.
What I mean to say is:
I want to stay inside your love forever,
And not come out of it,
As if you were a welcome fever,
As if your love, and not my sadness
Is the real death, a happy one.
I forget, my love;
After death, life follows.
It is impossible to be in two places at any given instance.
An example: I live in the little house on Valley Road. All my possessions are in my room on Lancewood Street. I live with my (chosen) family. My relatives are related to each other, as they also happen to be related to me. The love of my life exhales, soundless against my neck, while I inhale the memories of a homeless Californian who found home with me.
I am awake yet I am not dreaming.
Observe: if you cut yourself up and entrust these pieces to the farthest corners of the universe, only one of the following can happen:
1. You could stay just outside and encompass the whole universe along its perimeter (e.g. she encompasses the universe);
2. You are just you still, and is within and inside the universe (e.g. she is among the stars in the universe);
3. Your pieces will no longer be different from floating debris, ‘these’ are x number of pieces, and these pieces cease to carry your identity (e.g. ‘they’ (not she) are scattered far apart).
One cannot be all of these at once.
My heart belongs to one. It yearns for another. It believes in the one. It knows of no other happiness but with the other. I want to go, I want to stay. Distance is only too relative, yet both are, regardless, so far.
In the woods,
A man built a cabin
So he could live
Freely from the trees.
His child died at sixteen.
His grandson was poor,
He sold the cabin for crumbs.
The buyer cut down
Every tree for miles
So he could live
Freely and safely.
His son wanted more.
He made the cabin a mall,
And put beetles in all
Of the trees left,
So he could live
Enslaved in fear
And in greed.
Listen to this @ https://soundcloud.com/spiritbarehear/the-living-instrument
PRESSURE - like animal skin stretched over the head of a drum,
BEATING, like ancient hands, BEATING
an even more ancient rhythm, BEATING. BEATING.
tribal eyes wide, pupils bare, BEATING
with ayahausca or psilocybin, ibogain or some sort of villlage speed
with dirt and herbs, a lion's adrenal gland to make the Super Amphetamine,
royal in it's derivatives
and it makes the heart BEAT BEAT BEAT
like a prisoner in the straight jacket of lungs it BEATS and screams blood into bursting vessels
it BEATS like the misunderstood youth of the 20th Century, the frenetic spirit HOT and LOUD
POUNDING HEART BEAT NO MORE FOR THE NON-SHIT GIVERS!
leave it to the liver to filter out those toxic connections that evoke those dire emotions
arresting both the heart and the breath
IF I AM TO FEEL CLOSE TO DEATH
let it be because if I were to live any longer in a happiness, it would just be unfair to the rest
that if I were to live any longer in a happiness
the whole of my being would fold into the openness of my chest
IF I AM TO FEEL CLOSE TO DEATH
it will not be caused by a PANIC, a PANIC caused by a PUSH, a PUSH caused by discontentment, discontentment caused by impatience, and impatience caused
by the resounding WUBwubWUBwubWUBwub of a beating heart.
THE LIVING INSTRUMENT.
living instrument, sing to me what is meant
living instrument, can you forget
what once made your strings as heavy as led?
what once made you wrench?
living instrument, twice as large as the machine in the skull, why do we bother with loving?
living instrument, are you solid enough to take this fall?
Who writes epics anymore?
Who takes the time
to indulge themselves
in what most say
are trivial pursuits?
This fast-paced society
mundane lives with
We poets reading poets,
regurgitating our daily trials,
tribulations of what we call
the human condition,
made so cliche
war games and
And I. Us, wanting to feel
scrawl such desire
on our knees begging,
please won't somebody listen.
Who writes epics anymore?
We find ourselves leading us down a most interesting way...
Stop to sit, and realize...this 'way' is not definite.
...We can choose to follow a footstep...
Or imprint the ground with our own.
Relentlessly, tirelessly but...patiently.
Wading through snow, embracing rains...
Clearly seeing the terrain that lay ahead
...And making a decision. Or rather, a reflection.
That we are not headed toward a direction at all.
But creating the ways in which we live.
All of these 'ways' are simply interpretations of ourselves.
And this world we live in, a reflection of our attitude.
I have had it all wrong,
I wonder if my grandfather
thought that, when on a steamer
he arrived a dreamer
of moving west from Montreal
single trying to find a life, better,
opened and tasted peanut butter,
and never did ever eat that again,
I have had it wrong, all of it
He kept dreaming and trying,
took the train to the northern Alberta,
saw his dreams take shape as he built
homes for other dreamers,
he met his wife, but that is a poem for another story,
he was a pacifist, he did not support, killing another,
but he sure had a temper,
for a peaceful man, he decided to retire, and that
let him get old, I admired him for what he stood for and sit at
a desk he built with my dad.
I still have had it all wrong.
The desk is nothing special
other than the hands and
knowledge that built it
and something a father and a son
did together, one of the last things
of each other, that
would be remembered, they worked well with their hands.
Both men were dreamers.
My dad had his dreams, he mostly kept to himself,
but you just knew that they were to do with
things outside of the house.
Oh don't misunderstand, he loved working with wood,
he knew firearms, he recieved a Medal for Military Merit,
for dedication above and beyond what a militiaman was
to do, he wasn't a pacifist, in many ways he was different
from his dad and so many more he was exactly the same.
Shame, I have had it all wrong.
I was not an A student, but Gee, I tried hard,
my potential was palpable we just needed to resuscitate it from time to time,
I joined the CAF, married and had three who have amazed me,
with their strong beliefs, so different from one another, see?
I have worked twenty jobs and not one among them defined as a career...
oh and yes, I have spent time in an unemployment line.
I am not a carpenter, like the other two could, my grandfather as a career
my dad took it on as a hobby, I am a pacifist, yes, but don't push to hard,
I might write you into a poem...
I have written so many serious and sombre pieces,
There is already so much sadness in the world,
If planet Earth could cry a tear, standby with the tissue,
I deal with my stuff in words, I try not to hang onto them,
Rather free them like birds, Ravens and Crows with Hummingbirds and Eagles,
My soul is sore and
Animus would rather soar,
so I pour the toxins from my mind, my skin, from my day
you already know I am not perfect I sin, from my way of life,
so I pour the garbage I live and beauty as I see
it is around me for you all to read, shame on me
I have had it all wrong.
I don't have to get it right, I must write.
My countenance cannot convey
the pint-sized slasher, with a blood-spattered clown mask,
that is hanging-out in my head.
Setting booby traps in my path,
and whispering perversions from his crawl space cubbyholes
in the walls of my subconscious.
I understand misunderstood.
I once sustained myself on nitrous oxide.
We'd hide behind the furnace in the burn-room
cracking and filling balloons,
we were misunderstood, and we understood
the need to say what shouldn't be said.
Or, more like, say what must be said,
at a time when silence would be best.
That is what I love about you most,
you flow from the soul,
you grow in the tumultuous
and you have an imp on your shoulder too.
Licking your ear, and instigating wickedness.
I heard your imp sleeps peacefully now,
and I'm proud to say
mine has faded from green
back to brown.
I understand misunderstood.
I scream when I get discouraged, I have a semtex temper,
computer glitches make me want to punch the universe,
and I have ranted to myself at the top of my lungs,
over losing a file, and yet I can smile after being slapped,
and disarm with curled lips, raise sunken ships, and spout camouflaged quips,
designed to accrue subtle smiles from those who know me true,
ten minutes after smashing my monitor off the desk with my keyboard.
I understand misunderstood.
I know flip-flopping can be a religion,
so I always wear boots, unless I'm going swimming,
the only holiday I couldn't live without is thanksgiving.
I know a billion ways to break balls, and I bet on the underdog,
unless everyone else is doing it.
I'm in pain daily, I leave my TMJ untreated,
so that I always have a reminder that pain will not deter me.
I eat healthy food, because I like eating it,
I feel at home inside my fists, I make love with my roundhouse,
I thought I'd live alone till death, and never meet a mind my graymatter would matter to.
But now I know it's not true...
Because now, I've met you.
And you understand misunderstood.
Desolation occupies the streets,
dusty debris greets me
as I kick past a pile of rubble
where my neighbor used to live.
The mailboxes of the mostly abandoned bungalows are overflowing
with FEMA fliers, and contractor business cards.
Hammer wielding men make their way through the ruination.
Trying to feed their families
on the gutted remains of disaster.
Greedily grabbing the copius charity funds,
they diligently restore houses
that will more than likely never be occupied,
They carry with them an air of determination and optimism
that covers over the film of despair that coats everything.
But, determination alone
cannot transform a shell of a house
back into a home.
In the mammoth mansions on the corner
there are signs of restored life.
The rich can afford to ignore devastation,
and rebuild, as if their neighbors haven't all fled.
Aside from an occasional pounding hammer
The streets are silent,
save for the moaning of the wind.
The burned house still stands,
a stoic reminder
that the source of pain may change,
but, beneath the smiles, it always remains.
I cross the bridge,
stopping for a second to stare
at the thin layer of ice that has formed
on the surface of the scummy stream.
A moment later I arrive at the guardrail,
and I marvel at the lack of condom wrappers,
and cigarette cellophane on the floor.
I crest the berm,
now a skeletal remnant of its former stalwart self.
The gray black rocks are exposed beneath the sand,
like the bones of a corpse,
with the skin and meat washed away.
The beach is absolutely deserted,
The wind itself refuses to walk along the shore.
It comes rushing from the landside,
and stops at the sea wall, as if to say,
there is nothing left for me to play with here.
Even the birds have abandoned the beach,
There are no tracks on the sand,
Aside from a set of dog's paws,
paired with the sneaker tracks of the dog's owner.
The sea is calm,
with baby breakers lazily lapping at the waterline.
The sky is a motley mix of frothy white, and pale blue.
Both vibrant and dull,
like the eyes of a Nazi.
The winter sun is hibernating behind the cloud cover,
shedding dull light, that chills the spirit,
steals my smile, and transmogrifies it into a sigh.
I am surprised at how clean the beach is.
Pebbles and boulders are strewn all about,
but, aside from a few pieces of pale plastic
there is nearly no trash to be seen,
and I snicker internally,
for I know where the trash has gone.
Having spotted some of it in the street
on my way to the beach.
Several of the naked trees on the hillside have tilted over,
revealing ruddy reddish roots.
I come to the tilted flag pole,
with it's once buried base
A circular concrete mass,
that I never would have expected existed.
A shredded blue strip of cloth
is all that remains of the state flag of New York,
and it thrashes violently in the wind.
Down at the far end of the beach
the hunk of blacktop jutting from the sand is still visible,
but, today there is no torso laden box beside it.
There is something comforting in its presence.
Something comforting, yet deeply saddening.
I step past the flagpole, and I am instantly assaulted by the wind.
The chill air caresses me cruelly.
Biting my ears, and slapping my cheeks.
There is still standing water at the edge of the road,
and I walk down Kissam in a shivering stupor.
The quaint house where the hens once pecked and warbled
is now just an empty lot,
with the remains of the foundation as the only proof
that people once lived here.
I am shocked to see
that nearly every house at this end of the block is gone.
A lonely inground pool looks severely out of place
without the house that once stood next to it.
A green triceratops statue sitting poolside
smiles at me as I pass,
I can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
In the middle of the block two men operate jackhammers
while another hoists hunks of the street
from a hole with a backhoe.
I can't imagine what they are doing here,
I slip past them without making eye contact.
On the other side of the vehicle
I see that most of the houses at the top of the block are still standing.
Boarded up bungalows, every one unoccupied.
A standup piano with its guts exposed
sits in front of the last house on the left.
A once treasured possession,
destroyed and discarded.
I come to Mill road, and turn left.
Here, things have mostly returned to normal.
Although the Syrian orthodox church
that has slid off its foundation,
still sits askew,
and the trailers and semi's lined up along the road,
remind me that normality is a long way away.
Construction equipment is hauling
what is left of the smashed and shredded houses
that were washed from Kissam,
and deposited in the wetlands
several hundred feet away.
I wonder why they have bothered
to clean up the debris,
trampling football field sized sections of the wetlands to do so.
I pass by the VFW post,
and stop in to see what progress has been made.
The bar has been rebuilt, and the walls have been painted
a hideous shade of purple.
I leave as quickly as I came, and continue down Mill.
Past the group home on the corner.
A three wheeled police vehicle sits there,
guarding against looters.
Two cheap Chinese made American flags flap furiously
in front of the abandoned building.
No one is smoking now.
The sunflowers are long gone,
a rich brown mud is all that remains.
I pass tragedy after tragedy as I walk up the block.
Broken windows, and abandoned death sites,
of families that had lived on this block
since before my mother was born.
The people who had defined what Oakwood Beach meant to me
had all left.
Now, only a handful of families tries to live their lives in the shadow of Sandy.
I walk past the ancient willow,
in a few moments I arrive
at the building I once called home.
I stand outside,
reluctant to enter
the moldy and bare interior.
There is nothing inside that I need,
but, there is a canteen of grain alcohol that I want.
I can see it sitting on the front windowsill.
Which is where people leave the few "valuables"
that they had salvaged during the initial cleanup,
but left behind when they moved on.
I open the door, and quickly snatch the canteen,
holding my breath to avoid inhaling spores,
and with the canteen in hand, I shut the door,
and turn my back on the world of my past.