i think he matters
no unfortunately they want you
u can thank my aunts living room
are u guys gonna find me?
that's the game
god bless you kid
Wtf is a creative soul
Nice try to hypnotize me
I could eat leftovers in 2003
but what will this accomplish
oh HEY wine!
wish i could have screwed it up again
how come i hung out Bowery ballroom last night
I want to burn up inside your pop music
im not a s p y
We're not taking a risk
I don't need to talk
my cousin keeps laughing at you
i have no idea what i invented
Before i turned it off all day
you're screwing up
w/e w/e w/e w/e w/e.
He has wide eyes and dark hair.
He walks like he carries the world around
with him. With earphones constantly in his ears
and music continuously playing in his brain,
I watch and wonder what he listens to.
The dark circles around his eyes tell me that he's
into indie rock; though that may also just imply
that he lacks sleep. His deep and nonchalant gaze
tells me that he's gone; that he lives far far away,
in his mind.
the house maid
in half term
home from school
some posh place
where she had
the new young
she took off
in her room
from his fat
maths not sex)
and the young
she went to
she had sex
the first day
with the thin
on the floor
a girl with
and dark eyes
a good fuck
could play like
so cool that
would play her
she and her
then have sex
to the sound
and the girls'
sighs and moans.
If we'll ever come close,
Dancing in the dark and turning,
Tread on my toes but we'll keep on learning,
This feeling that kills,
Like the Earth I'll spin you around,
Hold you tight so you'll never fall down.
Eyes on us but we have stopped caring,
Twirling through the night while the people are staring,
I am not prepared to surrender this moment,
Keep my eyes closed and they will never open,
It's all about us until the music stops playing,
Our heartbeats drown out every word they're saying.
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
Losing myself to the speculation
of the meaning of life
I began to ponder earth's delights
Wondering why and what's the purpose of it all
I came to some conclusions and will share them all
It seems to me that man's purpose be
creating, inventing, and destroying
Very reminiscent of the ways of the Lord
Out of nothing did the Lord make the night
The declaring let there be light
Creating the earth and the heavens, and seas
Inventing the morning, the noon, and the night
thereby destroying the nothingness
that gave birth to something called life
Of all His creations it was man whom
God bestowed the gift of
creating, inventing, and destroying
but the greatest of these and the most
unique was the gift of inventing
For the purpose of life is not to
create, nor to destroy,
but the fine art of invention and the compulsion
to tell tales of battles, of love, of hate, sorrow and joy
in a word - storytelling - which can be found on the walls of caves
in ancient texts; even etched in stone, is man's purpose
All creatures create as they
all do give birth
All creatures destroy as they
all do easily kill
But only man is compelled
to lay it all down
inventing the story of how it all began
Through pictures, then words
through music and art
if one purpose is found
it is to covey the tale
Unable to create, or give birth
loath to destroy or slay life
I choose to invent and tell my tale
as I am compelled to storytell
I write it all out
may rhyme or may not
But one way or another
its the story that counts
Sharing my tales as old as time
Through pictures, music, art and words
It has been man's occupation to
find and tell the tales
and invent their stories
since the dawn of time
thus through their tales
gives us the meaning of life
A Self Portrait
I Stayed Honest
“I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings.”
-George R.R. Martin
I’m the explosion and throwing things when I fight with my mom about money or what is or is not appropriate to bring up in front of her parents.
“You’re not the only who misses him!” Screaming was the only way to get through to my mother when my dad was deployed. It was like she entered this other world that was nearly impossible to pierce, even by the people who needed her most—her three children. She was a strong woman when she left the house, but being in her living room without her best friend, sleeping every night without her husband, it took a toll on her as a human. When my dad was gone there was no music allowed in the house, because it made her cry; same with movies and TV, even board games. Joy of that nature had to be hidden away in our bedrooms. Having friends over was almost always out of the question. That held true even when my dad was home, because he finally was, it was ridiculous to want to interrupt the little time we had with him. I remember distinctly a night toward the end of my freshman year of high school. My mother, two sisters and I were sitting in the living room talking. As it often did, the conversation turned to my dad. Mom’s eyes started getting watery; she talked about how difficult things were with him being gone, and with money being tight because of the move and the new house and school uniforms and supplies and Amber starting college. I’m still not sure why I was so upset by it, her concerns were legitimate. Maybe I was angry that she was telling us this in the first place. I was fifteen, I wanted to worry about military ball and boys and school, not having to eat stir fry and beans and rice for the next seven months because it was the only thing we could afford. I didn’t want to consider the hours Amber worked at Johnny’s or the pizzas she purposely messed up so she could take them home to feed us. I threw down the pillow I’d been clutching and yelled viciously through my sobs the only thing that made sense at the time, “Would you just shut up?! You’re not the only one that misses him you know!” I didn’t take the time to look at their faces, I just went to my room, locked the door, and laid face down in my bed to cry. She came by later, knocked, but let herself in with a barbecue skewer. I think she apologized the way a parent always does when a child lashes out wrongly, but with understandable or even pitiable emotion.
A few years ago I realized my sexuality was not what my parents considered normal. I never really told them, figured I’d just leave it be until I started a serious relationship with a girl. Then, a few weeks ago, I was telling my mom a story about how my (female) best friend and I pretend to be dating to ward off annoyingly persistent boys.
My mother warned me, “You should be careful Emily; people are going to think wrongly of you.”
I was taken aback, “Mom, you know I don’t care what people think about me right? And… what’s wrong with dating a girl?”
She sighed. She knows I’m a huge advocate for equal rights, “Not everyone is as liberal as you are Emily. People aren’t always kind and accepting. I’d hate for them to think you were something you’re not and do something.”
I wanted to lose my mind. “Mom… you know I’m not straight right?” The silence on the other end was deafening.
She said something about her phone beeping and not hearing what I had said. I repeated myself. “You know I’m not straight right?”
“What are you then?” She asked, confused. I’d been with guys all through high school.
“Well, I identify mostly with pansexuality. It means I’m gender blind, I experience attraction based on looks, intelligence, whether a person makes me laugh or not as opposed to being limited to one gender.”
“So you’re bi?” She asked.
I recited my well rehearsed explanation. “No. I’m pan. Bi means two, pan means all. There are more than two genders.”
My dad said something in the background and my mother responded, “Oh just the fact that your daughter likes boys and girls.”
I remember putting my head in my hands at this point, just silently waiting for her to say something to me so I could end the conversation.
“Emily, could you just not bring this up ever again, especially in front of my parents?”
I’m the falling for someone who seems to want me too, when I’m already committed to another.
The distance between the Francis townhouses and the rest of campus may not seem like much, but combined with the distance between a second year undergrad and a graduate student, a long distance relationship of sorts is created. Said grad student may be absolutely perfect in every way you’ve thought of, but if he cannot grant you the attention during the week that a new relationship requires, you start to feel like a booty call. Before you clarify your exclusivity, you flirt like mad with the people who can grant you the attention you seek, because what’s the harm? But, even after you clarify if, you flirt like mad with those around you because, how will he ever find out and it’s not like you’re actually doing anything? You’re just trying to get the attention you require as a needy human being, that’s not a sin. But… another person comes along and they’re wonderful. They’re just as fantastic and understanding as the grad student, except they’re a senior and their townhouse is open to you during the week and the attention they give you is innocent but overflowing. What more could you want? When you start falling for the senior… what can you say to the grad student? Then, when the attention from the senior grows less innocent and you think less and less of the grad student when the senior is looking at you from across the table or helping you with your poetry, you realize you and the grad student were doomed from the start. Are you a terrible person? You tell your roommate you are every single week night you come home from “harmless” cuddling with the senior and every single weekend morning you come home from snogging the grad student. She tells you you’re just human.
I’m the two ales, three shots and half a bottle of wine later, declaring my love and sobbing about my past into a shoulder.
This past midterm break was the most story-book-like episode I’ve ever lived. I had met someone almost exactly a month before. Everything about him was perfect. We got along so freakishly well and were compatible in every way we had had time to discover. He was fiercely passionate and book smart, he cared about what I had to say. He was everything I’d been looking for in a companion. All his housemates were leaving for break, but he and I were staying. We spent the weekend in a hundred cliché romantic ways. We walked the river trail holding hands and talking about our lives, sat on benches cuddling and listening to the wind and the ducks. We stayed up all night watching movies and kissing. We also did a lot of not so cliché, but romantic things like eating pizza and watching cartoons naked. We ordered AJ’s and ate while drinking ales then finished the last few shots of someone’s liquor and then, because I had mentioned never having it before, he let me drink nearly an entire bottle of wine. We ended up on his couch, cuddling, but then I started talking. The alcohol had stolen my ability to shut up. I kept going on about my freshman year here at Bonas, about how terrible it was, how depressed I was, how many times I tried to off myself, and how I have a history of self harm. I started sobbing, he cried too, shared his secrets. Then I told him not to worry because he was loved, he said, “I love you too.” I had only meant it in a way like, God loves you, your parents, your friends, but I went with it. Why not?
I’m the stillness of not knowing what to do next.
This past weekend was the strangest I’ve ever lived. A boy at school, in my year, went missing Saturday morning after midnight. Found dead Sunday evening. The explosions death drops in our world have never landed so close to me before. I feel shell shocked. I wrote about it. I want to keep writing about it, but I feel like I’m not allowed to, like it isn’t my place. I don’t know. I’m sick with what I can only guess is grief, but it feels more like a poisonous concoction of many painful things locked in my intestines. I’m heavy with the news of him. I feel like I’m going to sink away at any minute. Everything feels like needles in the wound. The snow and the cold (loved parts of this time of year) make me wonder why he didn’t wear more than a sweatshirt, but how do I know if it would have mattered? I was out that night, well morning, Saturday, before two a.m. I was on the exact opposite side of campus though. We were walking to Walmart; I was beyond drunk and so elated. We rolled down the hill with the ST. BONAVENTURE bushes, got ourselves covered in mud. We sat at the bottom and laughed and laughed. We walked and discussed sex and books and plans for when we got back to campus within the hour. …He never made it back. And I wonder if he had plans. I wonder if his girlfriend had stayed in that night, if she was waiting for his return so they could screw, or cuddle, I didn’t know him, at least not well enough to know that. I wonder if he liked the cold and that’s why he was in a place where people couldn’t see him. The snow didn’t start until much later so others returning from parties would have seen if he was closer. Or maybe they did, maybe they thought nothing of a passed out drunk guy, isn’t that a normal thing in college? Maybe their veins were tricked warm from their strong drinks and they couldn’t imagine he was cold, they didn’t feel it, and there wasn’t even snow on the ground. Not yet. Maybe they thought it would be funny if he woke up outside. Or maybe the rumors are true. Maybe there was a fight earlier that night. Maybe he wasn’t even that drunk. Maybe some boy-men, foolishly angry, were trying to prove their false superiority. Maybe they didn’t know they’d hurt him so bad and that someone else would come along to help him. How can we ever know? I see nothing when I close my eyes except his. Looking, but not alive, his lids frozen open, his lips slightly parted, the cold paling his skin, fashioning him to look more ghost than human. I suffer in the fear that he died knowing he was going to, knowing he was alone. How afraid he must have been. How could he have known what was coming next? How can we go on living knowing his life was meaninglessly extinguished? He was undeserving of an end so lonely. I’m haunted by the image of him being trapped in that loneliness forever. I’m haunted by his face, he always seemed so happy, but don’t the dead always seem more shiny in our memories? Will he be remembered fairly or only as a good who died young? And the guilt of feeling that hurts me, eats at me, but the doubts are trying to kill me. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel about this? I hardly knew him, am I allowed to feel so blindsided? Is this allowed to send me into the tailspin I feel I’m already lost in? If I fall back into the bad habits because of the weight of what’s in my head will anyone understand or will they shame me for “wanting attention?” If I cry often, because I will think of this often, will anyone be there to comfort me? Is it selfish to ask for these things? Is it wrong to have partied Friday and Saturday because I didn’t know Sunday would pack such a punch? Is it valid to be distraught by the death of someone less than even an acquaintance? It’s just that… he was nineteen.
Assignment: Six page self portrait.
It's probably too late to write to you,
And I'm probably too old to be writing to you anyway,
But those two things aren't stopping me...
I usually love the Christmas season.
The snow gallantly falls to the ground,
Icicles hang from the frozen trees and threaten to fall any moment,
Christmas music is blaring from every single radio station on the air,
Houses on the street are all decked out in sensible, yet dazzling, lights that accentuate every little feature of the house.
People are nicer...
Everyone is in a much better mood.
The Christmas season is supposedly the best season of the year.
Apparently, you bring people joy.
Now, I don't want to burden you with questions...
I don't really care about the mechanics behind your ostracized, flying deer that have enchanted the world.
I don't really care why you wear a red suit.
I don't really care what your wife's name is.
I don't even care about how you can possibly deliver presents to millions of children all throughout the world...
I just want to know why you have forgotten me.
Why is my holiday season full of dread, procrastination, and fear
Instead of joy, peace, and love?
Why does every other boy and girl get to love every minute from now until Christmas?
Did you just forget me?
Did your reindeer just skip over my house?
Did I not show up on your radar?
All of these things make me wonder if you're even real...
If you are real,
Then my parents wouldn't have neglected me left and right.
People would remember that I am not my sister.
I would have the drive to wake up in the morning.
I would actually want to accomplish daily tasks...
I'm not sure if you're real or not,
But I'm still going to ask for something for Christmas...
I don't want anything you can wrap,
Nor do I want any super expensive item...
I just want to find love.
Because right now,
The two of us are playing hide and seek,
And Love is kicking my butt...
So if you do exist, Santa,
Then please, please, please,
Grant my Christmas wish.
love like just know time feel way pain world heart think eyes day oh night away things words say need left thoughts mind life sun want good inside body lost new true damn light make head beautiful stop free hands right small hard loves today little fuck morning thought sweet moment times bed tell dreams long white truth thing song really skin slowly start deep woods silence lies look better lay sleep realize fall sky memories far gone green breath held room dark doesn't hold dream run thank end past dead open begin knew tears yeah hear cause air blood earth self beauty real days finally care big cool north 10w turn walk lips kiss dawn remember sound making hair fingers felt door water woman black outside large she's let's tiny window face bit speak play slow god teeth smell wish heard rain tired silver great bring wants low there's won't soul got tongue live arms red house close girl years letting note music universe man soon clean trees wood thinks post stolen you've gray clouds home ones hot soft wet hate desire warm trying mom comes longer sea thinking darkness hand shore leaves broken glow fool second knows rock read cold stare feels took father sing bag release crazy stone mouth wake forever dust watch came wanted stand help use place needs brings suppose believe laugh shit seen having ways leave weight perfect stars drive miss higher high ocean feeling memory makes present view page bear wash loss snow hell aware constant magic
Thus have I heard about one of those enlightened souls playing music for all sentient beings.
A busking Buddha big beats bongo drums,
The man not merely makes a song or plays
a beat. In Boston subway busking proud
He sees so simply all the people their—
The beings beaming or just brooding ‘round.
Y hace mal moon no means to show us:
Light to the basement to balm the ol’ brain.
Minds in need of some mighty mantras now
For before earthly beings may be seen
Like some viewèd stars sole or together
And before bodhi begins to beset—
The music manifests to multitudes.
O brakeman, the trains loud billowing blast!
Moves motors so rapidly. Commuters
And tourists believe breath does begin brass,
But listen and it slowly sings a song.
But the kind bodhisattva believes that
A breath more manifests in melody
Like bells of beautiful bliss that do ring.
The music of the man is malleable,
The notes bound as hearts bled out; besides hear
That other sound, it seems to sing in praise
Of the jam being made that’s between all,
Of magic mamba mambo rhythm made.
The beautiful young bodhisattva brings
More joy to me than any maiden might,
O because she is such a beatnik babe—
She steps so silently off the subway.
A Bhikkhuni with bright star eyes—there blest—
See meaning of man in so many ways.
The beat booms back up to the high main street:
A melancholy moaning a lament.
The brooding beat then becomes bitter-sweet
By stirring the strings of hearts and of souls,
It befits bleak and euphoric bones gold.
The beat makes multitudes into Meccas.
Those notes bound for both body and psyche,
And moments made to memory imprint,
And belong to be blazon and be kind,
And simple, serene and of sustenance,
Mind begging belief, bodhi to awake,
Must melt the ego away, it must go.
The bustling of born beings from point B
To A makes me quite sad and almost mad,
As beings buscan to just belong here
Be it to something substantial or sacr’d.
It bemuses the Buddhas because the
Melodious music frees the whole psyche.
Me, being beyond birth and beyond death,
I’m without mirth or melancholy means.
Soul begs for bites of bodhisattvas soul,
While slowly stumbling and mist spiting words
Like both a drunk and bum whose bemusèd.
O merry mi bright manifestation
In the dark Metro. Beyond being both
To the mind my own reflection mirrors
It reflects off the subways small windows
And brings bout the new belief being this:
O me! The mania of mind cut diamond.
O me! A body-vessel, a boundless
Thing of mass dropt into a maelstrom’s surge,
Beat sings the surf of the soundless ol’ sea,
Been, being, be known bongos music makes
The Metro a zendo for all mankind.
Us all (just candles to be blown—whoosh—out).