Money is a matter of functions four,
A medium, a measure
A standard, a store.
It's a matter of hope, greed and despair,
It can make people fall in love and still be the reason for endless wars.
Money creates scars,
No matter how many pages you turn, it never gonna end, like the pages of a billionaire's memoir.
With money, you can get into a bar,
Can buy a car, may be a Landrover or Jaguar,
But who gonna heal that heart,
Whose tears can feel a reservoir.
With money, you can still have an affair,
With a starlet, if lucky may be a superstar,
But that innocent would never ever gonna come back to repair, your soul's scars.
I wait as patient as a man of age can be
I do not know just what I expect to see
I sleep the sleep of a painful aging soul
knowing it is far too late to be whole.
The world I know is trembling badly
I hold on tightly with my heart beating madly.
I would dance to one more lonely song
but being old all my steps would be wrong.
Maybe I will be luckier the next time
or maybe be a beggar clutching his last dime.
Tomorrow just remains unknown and blank
but the smell of impending death is rank.
Will I be the lucky one and skate on thin ice
or will I be the one that pays for all his vice
That is what tomorrow holds for me
so I will simply have to wait and see.
San Francisco, CA
There isn’t anything I don’t love about winter
The cold air
The frozen ground
The painted sky
And you, next to me
Wearing layers, making us look three times our normal size
And the snow, that is, if you’re lucky enough to get snow
The lingering presence of happiness in the air
And the sound the ice on the ground makes when you step on it
Pale faces and rosy cheeks
And the burning of your hands when you go inside
And the idea that every single snowflake that falls
Is not like the other
And yet, they’re all beautiful
And those mornings when the sky looks like the shiny ombré pattern
On some dumb t-shirt of a 12-year-old girl
Who isn’t quite ready to grow up just yet
Who enjoys the cold air and the frozen ground
And who loves the snow oh so much
And sees the beauty in its flakes
And is devastated when winter ends
Because everything must come to an end
Much like this poem
From wretched ancient under-dark it spills
Aerosolized hatred, malice and strife
Indiscriminate in who it kills
The southern wind, enemy of all life.
Malevolent sirocco, seething with wrath,
Melting metal, human flesh, skin and bone
Painful is death for all trapped in its path.
For what great sin will this wind atone?
Eleventh plague, locked away by god,
Grisly screams for mercy choked off by gust
Nothing dares to grow were this wind has trod.
All who smell the wretched scent turn to dust.
Movements silent, striking without warning
Lucky are those who live until morning.
Helicopter seeds descending from tree houses
resting in ponds shadowed by shaken needles;
—I awoke from a dream this morning—
Forests in fiery oranges plagued by pine beetles
a man fishing in the dusk, a sole fish he arouses.
—such a dreamin' I had me—
How about them men in the mountains, hermit'd, high, isolated,
pensive with pens in ink, draftin' a'lookin' after their suicide notes:
—it was nonsensical, such nonsense—
I can feel my bones aching,
my finger bones aching.
Don't you apologize, fish, for biting bait
lest the others hear that I commiserate
amongst the fishes in the lake water:
"She could have a mother; she could be a daughter!"
I feel that boom; I know that boom:
That's Thunder's yellow rumble a'stumblin'
'cross the oak-wood floors of my room–
That's naked, nude clothes strip'd.
A pile and a bundle,
my bones are aching.
That's a candle left burning,
that's saints speaking in tongues,
that's men hung like curtains on rungs–
This world is getting old, times are a'turning.
That's a taxi cab afterlife, a mail-order wife,
that's pills on the floor of a Motel 6 in Reno,
that's forty-four hundred lost playing keno.
We can't always be lucky, who calls that a life?
My joints are a'sprainin' aching
with the preempt of a storm.
That's writer's block and cramped hands, cramped hearts,
that's a hovel heated by an oven, heads found in hot ovens,
that's the hillside and the glens past where the track bends but
just before the dens of monsters that I swear I left behind that night.
—dreamin' a'dazin' and days in always let my demons out—
That night I hid another razor in the rafters thinking,
"My thoughts I'll bury."
I ran away to sell maps of the human heart en Algérie.
Well I guess you should
Be glad, now that
You're 'In the clear'
Though he'll never
Know the pain
Of someone he loved so dear
Carrying that problem around
She should be so lucky
Maybe some would've run
But she knows (no,not he.)
We writers are insane.
All of us.
We revel in our own sad mess
While picking green grapes
Off the wallpaper,
Smecking away like mad
At the wondrous juices
Of the imaginary, judicial
We, like Hemingway,
Take our scotch in the morning
And our gin at night
And try with brutal, lashing effort
To make it through
We have put ourselves in shoes
We will never be able to walk in.
We must walk miles as
AIDS sufferers, as
Brutalizers of women.
We must deal with their pain
As if it were housed in our own entity of being.
J.D. Salinger wrote that
His literary son, Holden,
Wore a “people-shooting” hat and
Made it damn clear that he suffered from wild
And erratic fits of overwhelming depression.
Writing from a bunker
Far from his wife, kids and home,
His stories sparked murder in the hearts
Of already oppressed men
With “people-shooting” hats of their own.
We must toil with language;
Put it in the corner,
Love it, hate it,
Shift it and slave daily with it.
We must lose hours upon hours upon
Days of sleep
Before we find ourselves
Dangerously asleep at the wheel in front of us
In order to make the slightest change in our regular ways.
Our handwriting only becomes sloppier
And our words,
Kaysen, alone in a psych ward
With women who slept around and
Tried to maul each other,
To try to release the the demon
Boiling the very blood inside her veins.
But demons do not disappear easily
Neither do the tortuous memories.
They attempt to label me
With words of the disturbed.
Floods my synapses and neurons.
Happily urinates on my serotonin levels.
I bring myself to write
The effigy of the psycho
Day by day
As my pen scratches paper
And the doctors expect razor to scratch skin
Though it never has
And never will.
Writers are psychos.
We all are.
We remain the mad, psychotic, literate monsters
Who worm our ways
Into your head.
We nestle beside your dreams and fantasies,
Waiting to strike
And tear them apart or,
If you’re lucky,
Build them up.
A woman writer named Sylvia
Once put her head in the oven
Because the writer-demons were driving her to madness
And they wouldn’t leave her be.
Handling us is a torture
Only the most eloquent and experienced reader
the things that wake us up in the morning
are the things that we looked forward to the night before
most are given stress by their heavy daily workloads
most are lucky they wouldn’t miss their favorite TV show
most are relieved that they had opened their eyes again
some feel unlucky in doing so
the things that wake us up in the after noon
are the things that rushes us out of our 8 hour paradise
most are angry about a loud noise last night
most regret staying up until dawn
most are ticked off for missing a morning flight
some are just happy to see daylight
the things that wake us up at night
are the things that have wandered our thoughts for so long
most wonder why they still need the bottle of pills on their night stand
most think of what they would wear for the big day ahead
most need someone to sing and tuck them in bed
some just wake up to the voices inside their head
the things that wake some
are the things that pains them to live
some call to say ‘I miss you’
some saw their skin to cut through
some are woken to see their friend in a casket
some with tears streaming while tucked in their blanket
some discharge the emotion
some discharge the bullet
july 1st, 2010
when your eyes met mine
for the very first time
i could not breathe
and every look at you
that i stole
made me feel like
i was alive
for the very first time
july 21st, 2010
i found you again
i steal your eyes
pin them with mine
there is someone between us
but it is as if he was not there
you leaned on me
and i leaned on you
and there was love
hanging in the dusty air
january 15th, 2011
i see your eyes
they crave mine
they whisper to me
"run away, run away"
i see your eyes
and they crave mine
and i do not know
what will come of this
but i do know
may 13th-14th, 2011
your eyes are begging me
and mine are pulling you in
your brain pushes away,
but my heart emanates
a force so strong that
you come to me in the end
june 16th, 2011
this is heaven
this is bliss
this is everything
i ever imagined
you are everything
did i die
and then came
two years of
ups and downs
and side to side
we are everything
at the same time
we fight too much
and make up too quickly
no one was ever as lucky
as i was
to have you
in my heart
love is dead
and i am too
september 19th-22nd, 2013
here we are
trying to start anew
we try and try
but the passion
cannot be replaced.
the eyes that once tugged at mine
seem so empty inside
the eyes that shone with love
now barely spark
and now it is december
and i'm trying to remember
the days whir by
one after another
here we are
and we are still
we can kiss
when i look into
all i see is
all i taste is
all i want is
but all i feel is
There's a boy
Who I've always seen in my dreams
I never saw his face
But I knew he was where my heart belonged
Ever since I was a little girl
I've wished for him
I was afraid
I'd never find him
All I've ever longed for
Is the type of love
That only exists in movies
But I wanted it in reality
So I've searched
And found nothing
I've been left unsatisfied
And also broken hearted
But one day
The sun was shining
And I found the man
I'm was going to spend eternity with
It was so unexpected
But the moment I saw him
Like they say
I knew right then and there
That he was the man I'll one day marry
Even though I'm afraid of commitment
I was stuck in the darkness for so long
And he was the light
At the end of the tunnell
I've never had someone
Who has ever looked at me as
But he does
I don't know why though
He's beyond me
He's better than me
He deserves this whole world
I guess what I'm trying to say is
That I'm 17 years old
And I found the love I've dreamed of
For all my life
And now I have it
In the palm of my hands
I could never be more thankful
God gave me an angel
Who saved me from myself
I've never looked a man in the eyes
And said "I love you"
And meant it
But with every fiber of my being
I fucking love this boy
More than anything in this whole fucking world
And if I'm lucky enough
Ill get to keep him forever