Oh how I'd love that
and from a San Francisco organization no less
a month in the Santa Cruz mountains, no less
the most liberal city in America no less
and last year's winner has his picture displayed
and it is not innovative or interesting or shocking but all too predictable
Like something I saw how long now has it been? twenty five years ago...
how many times have I seen this picture
a white guy, looking very much the suffering, creating artiste
handsome, like an actor, but not an actor, a creator of meaning
of art, and he can't smile, but looks away from the camera
mimicking an ad for J. Crew
it's amazing how only white men can write about the important things in the world
and the background, how many times before have I seen it
a graffiti sprinkled nowhere in an urban jungle
somewhere where preppy white guys never go
street art, street communication created by people
who don't see this concrete as an exotic backdrop for their egoistic posing
but as a part of their lives, as part of their meaning, their world
and he stands there, in front of it,
Mr. Screenwriter, the gulf of culture separating him from that background
spans the entire country, or an entire universe
but the implication of the picture is: he is home here
this is who he is and he can emcompass everything, since white men
as we know, have a magic ability to understand and synthesize everyone
all genders, all races, all religions
the rest of us are merely stuck in our own myopic little worlds
of gender, race, socio-economic status
but these spanner of time and space and human difference, they can be anyone
they can understand and represent anyone
So I look at the picture
and think, I could apply, but I'm busy during the blissful month of the residency
but how dissapointing, that I feel looking at this picture, now online of course
that it is the same picture that I looked at over twenty five years ago
pinned to a film school wall
in Los Angeles, in New York, in those edgy more conservative places
and it is the same guy. the white screenwriter artist who will write about me
and others and it will be a lie
and we are excluded. all the rest of the human race.
but what he writes will be exalted as truth
when I know, that no matter how time he spends wandering
the foriegn worlds of ghettos and genders
the one thing he knows, the only thing he knows how to write about is
white guys, because he is no superhuman
he is like us. He will write about white guys and there will be
more films about white guys, who are supposed to represent all of us
but they don't, because they are only human,
and can only represent themselves.
Now or never
whether we want to or not
they've got us by the balls
and though we built walls
to defend against these invaders of free will
we will need to be stronger
build our walls bigger and better than ever before
and let them kick out the windows and doors
we'll just brick them up and no one gets in
and no one gets out
and no one but no one knows what this is all about.
but the walls stay because they want us to rot
they've got us by the balls and all we can do is build more and more walls
and who wins in the end?
when we're all sent to Coventry with bags of cement so we can lend some authority to the people up there
and they don't give a damn
they jam us into categories with the same krappy old stories
that it's good for our health while they're spending the wealth that they stole from the miners and while they're dining on beef
and they've got us by the balls
in glass coloured test tubes lubricated,dedicated to the rise of the monarchs
and it can't be for real
we'd never allow that
but laying flat on our back and winking eyes at the sun
is where this begun.
In the minds of the merchants and in the pockets of wise men
in the back alleys of bigots and bigshots
and what have we got?
you know it,
A box full of sawdust and a whole heap of shit
so the walls get a little longer
a little stronger
but they'll break us one day
and take us away to a recycle plant
and they'll plant us as seeds to service their needs
and their needs will get greater the later they leave it
there's a whole load of shit
a coming our way.
Early mornin dream of a prayer
I seek the blind man from the long ago street
Who held my hand
I remember the billy club policeman's face
And you too were there
An invented emotion that does not contain
Even one ounce of real emotion
We the lovers prowl the night
By the millions and billions below the stars
But we never see eachother there!
How is THIS even possible?
The prayer gets twisted into a SCREAM
Yes I LOVE you
As you know
We'll meet for certain if you want
We'll make the impossible a reality
We'll make eachother ---REAL PEOPLE
REAL PEOPLE REAL PEOPLE
not just puppet-like Pinocchios!
i walked into the night,
and felt the cool air's breeze.
stepping away every once in awhile
usually gives me enough to release.
in an attempt to sober up from binge thinking,
i noticed i was alone, moreso than usual.
not a single car on the street,
no single individual.
this is common after midnight
but i thought there had to be someone who is also deprived of sunlight.
it was then that i was blinded by unusual headlights
on a vehicle known as hindsight.
abandoned the instincts of fight or flight,
because i was curious.
it turned into my driveway.
it felt as though there were some undiscovered forces at play,
as i lay in wait.
the door opened up, and a man with a bright white aura stepped into view.
i gazed upon his face and then was at a complete loss as to what to do..
he looked at me, smiled, and said, " yes, that particular thought is correct,
i am you.
you needed someone, and so here we are.
see this distance between you and your true self aren't so far apart.
it gets hard, when dealing with passions of the heart,
but every day, every minute...moment, can be a new start."
Everything happens as it's meant to, though, right?
" destinies are in the hands of everyone who believes it,
but most don't see to seize it."
are you, God? an Angel? a jester in disguise?
"you naturally won't want to accept this statement initially,
but i will tell you no lies. i am from a faction of lightbearers,
to help illuminate the path. the variables you add and subtract though, changes the outcome like math, heh heh."
where am i to go?
" you are not to know, yet, what's the fun in that?"
true, but then what about this,' shedding light on the path'?
"all that is within you, is everything. unlimited potential and power to benefit the universe.
before i disperse back into the cosmos, i am here to ensure that your own light grows. the love you emit causes radiated blooming within the chakras of others, but your aura has diminished, do you know why this is?"
" embrace all that you are, Ryan. i needed to remind you that you are loved deeply. take care of yourself, so to not be the cause of your own reaping. your efforts are never exhausted, i see and appreciate all you do, with a smile. now go the extra mile, cross the line and let your divine shine through. you are never alone, remember things from the past you wrote. every word still holds true.
i must be leaving, but listen to what's inside when you're unsure of what to do. Namaste, Ryan."
but wait! who really are you??
as I stood in bewilderment, he ascended into the sky with a smile, and his vehicle disappeared.
would this interaction have happened had i displayed my primal urges of fear?
when he was no more than a sparkle in the eye that is the ever-expanding sky
i didn't feel so dry and lifeless, but rather moist with creative juices from all that sunk in.
and the warmth, it was a love you could touch without touching.
this is what i was missing.
and so when reminiscing, i show gratitude and blissful appreciation,
because too much can be lost in the translation of contemplation.
The night has fallen, yet the sky is a light shade of gray
The morning sky is pink like a dainty rose
The snow sparkles in the evening when the street lights shine upon it
My eyes crinkle in laughter, and tears drip down my cheeks
City lights bounce and reflect off of the lake
Friends are there to back me up
The biggest, ugliest birds look majestic in the sky when migrating South
Something looks so perfect, and I wish I had a camera to capture the splendor
A book intrigues me so much that I zip through it and don’t remember a word
I can share all of my secrets with a person I just met
My hands graze the water that rushes past the boat I am in
Something so terrible turns out to be something wonderful
I experience a literal OMG, ROFL, LOL, or LMAO
The wet sand oozes through my toes
I get a perfect score on a test that I studied hard for
I feel the cool, frigid water slap my red hot face
A song fills me with extreme adrenaline
The wind hollers, whines, and moans outside of my window
A tree starts one inch tall, and grows to be one mile tall
Someone tells me that I have inspired them
People compliment me on my work
I am able to get in front of people and be honest with them
My body feels rejuvenated and young
The veins on the back of my hands pop out and pulse rapidly
I can feel the hot air blowing on my face when I roll down the car windows
My legs are smooth because I have just shaved them
A poem seems perfect to me…
No, I was torn naked and bleeding from the mouth of a death star
and woke to find mountains laid bare by the sea.
In the shallows of blood baths and craters, where the crushers of garlic and the harlots all meet
and the stiflers of dreams, dream on (right up my street)
that's where you'll find me.
In the 'Benbow' with pirates and pieces of eight and with cords tied to timepieces
(don't want to be late)
and the show starts at nine
when after drinking two bottles of cheap German wine
Salome appears with a head in her lap
because that's what we do.
(Lost innocents are few and we ain't none of all that)
But the ship sailed at four carrying whalebones to Spain
to tighten the corsets
for those Senoritas
who put me to such shame.
What's in a name that it's spat on the floor
by crimson clad virgins
who won't leave the doorways of bodegas
and Degas paints on.
a song and the night carries me along on a wave of cheap scent
where oft' I have spent a weeks earnings on unsatisfied
In the end someone will send me a typewritten note or a telegram
to let me know just who and what I am
in the 'Benbow' 'til ten and the crows crow at midnight when the lights all go out.
The song lingers
We abuse so easily
Look at us!
The crying street
The masses move and await
The dead home from the war
Even in its way quite charming DONT you think !
Beat me up! Ha ha!
We go there
We create so
I'll be walking down the street
Or dancing at a party
Or reading a book in a coffeeshop
Or rushing to one of my college classes
and I'll feel it
The burning in my veins
The tingling in my heart
Like I'm alive for the first time
Like I can breathe
And I'll look up and find a face
Looking at me with the exact same intensity
And the beautiful, perfect understanding
He'll look at me like he knows
Because as unlikely as it is, he will
And my soul will want to scream
And rush, and hug, and kiss
Like a long lost friend
Like a long lost love
Lost in the waves of the endless sea
In our endless lives
And I'll look at the face of this familiar stranger
And we'll both smile, shaken to the core
And the world will break, and stop, and change
And when that happens, I'll know.
Your life is just a work of art
A masterpiece painted
By some big brain
With double-folding sentience?
Do you ever consider
The beauty of the detail(s)?
What if that weird coincidence
That happened today
Really wasn't a coincidence at all?
What if there are no coincidences?
What if when we go to sleep
Our brainwaves change
Because our minds go elsewhere
And it's best we just forget
When we wake?
What if reincarnation is real
And just at a universal scale?
What if life didn't originate on Earth?
What if there's something huge about
That we don't yet understand?
What if everything is a computer simulation
And everything above the first dimension
Is just a folded-up illusion?
What if we're not the only ones out there?
What if one time
At some random point
Along your vision's axis
You stared right at a planet
That harbored life?
Or even a star system?
What if religion and science collapsed in
On each other?
And what does this whole Eye business
What if the multiverse
Is more connected
Than we ever imagined?
What if God is a number? (a chuckle)
What if God is all the numbers
And combinations of them
And possible functions
And every algorithm
Every discordance and solution?
What if fate and free will
Don't really hate each other,
And it's just a game they play?
What if, just as we imagine characters,
Scenes and fiction
And paint them with words, sounds, and pigments
Our lives and interactions
Are painted by some society of higher beings,
In some fractalesque twist?
What if perception and emotional value
Are just the icing on the cake
And they are what makes life more
Than numbers and figures?
What if art
Is more than human?
What if the magical spells we once dreamed of
Have become our reality-
Songs, pictures, symbols flashed on the TV...
What if it really is like good guys vs. bad guys
And it's all just whispered above your head
Just within earshot?
What if it's not so black and white
And our only true villain
Is the stupidity of the mob?
What if it's somewhere between
Like it usually is?
What if we were always happy
Or always sad?
Would there really be a difference?
What if you could escape the circular nature
What would you see, looking down?
What if every system is circular
Because they're all gears
In some big surreal machine?
What if you're dreaming?
Nope, still here.
What if you're not dreaming at all
And it's really just that strange?
What if everything that could happen
And you are only allowed to see one of each?
What if the laws of physics
Are only so set in stone
In this universe
But there are others that vary?
What if the speed of light
Is the universal speed of time?
What if I'm actually dead
And this is just a virtual world
And I'm living through a computer?
What if reality is a very complicated computation?
What if I woke up as someone else tomorrow morning?
Would I even realize it?
What if one of my poems caused two people to meet
and fall in love? that'd be cool
What if one of my poems accidentally somehow set off
A chain of events that killed someone? that's weird and sad
What if gravity were as strong as magnetism
Or the other forces?
We'd surely have no planes
And getting up in the morning would suck even more
What if for once you were grateful and happy to wake up in the morning?
Ooh, got you with a tinge of guilt din't I?
What if the whole thing was a joke and no one likes getting up after a nice rest?
What if looks didn't affect judgment so much?
What if this is your very last breath?
If so, look out-
What if my imagination didn't have a bottom?
What if the act of believing in something
Made it true?
What if my red was your blue?
What if you could see tenfold more colors then most humans
Because you had an extra type of cone in your gene code?
What if the very fundamentals of science you were taught in school
Were mass-spread so no one could know how strange the universe really is?
What if the moon landing was fake?
What if conspiracies don't really affect you that much in the end?
What if there was an underlying pattern of questions and statements
Following a free-flowing logical train here?
What if it just crashed?
What if when the light went off on your webcam
That didn't mean it was inactive?
What if you had something to hide?
What if they're out to get you?
What if they're everywhere?
What if it's way over your head
And it's time to get out of the house?
What if Uncle Ben never got shot?
What if Tony Stark is just a friggen' badass genius dude wonder?
What if some levity never hurt anyone, but what if it did?
What if some guy was telling a joke, not paying attention
And he fell and broke his left arm?
I bet it's happened on numerous occasions.
And statistically, probably more if you change it to 'right'!
What if you didn't help that old lady cross the street?
What if the old lady never crossed the street
And she just sat there forever like a lost puppy
Doesn't it just make you want to cry?
What if you were sitting on that thing you're looking for the whole time?
What if your life is a TV show
It's all staged, Truman!
What if I'm not real
And a secret artificial intelligence project
Wrote this to test how convincing it is?
I promise I'm not but you have no way of knowing!
What if some of you start to suspect me of being a robot?
What if in some ironic twist of fate that made someone crazy obsessive about it
And writing it led to my very death?
What if I'm just here for the ride
And I don't have time to worry about things like that?
My eyes are getting heavy...
As much as they tell me
I need to focus.
I need to concentrate...
And leave the la-la-land dreamscape
Of my head,
I'm proud to even
I m a g i n e.
I will start with a hello.
A handshake, an introduction, a beginning.
Then it will grow,
from an exchange of names
to playing mind games and discussing our fames.
You've always been the talker,
the initiator, the instigator.
And I; the listener, the adviser and friend
to give you a silent prod in the right direction
when the sidewalk comes to an end.
I take no form; no shape, no size.
I'm not the truth, nor the lies.
I am not a human, or a living creature.
I have no body parts, or any features.
But I can think, sure I can.
And I can act as any other man.
The reason why I still exist
is not meant to be a mystery
buried deep inside your inner abyss.
In fact, it lingers right in front of you
and dances before your eyes.
It isn't meant to be shocking news;
or an unforeseen surprise.
Even if you can't see me,
I'm always here as company;
the guest that never leaves.
And even if I wanted
to pick up my shoes,
get up and move,
my nonexistent feet
would stop me in my tracks
and I'd be heading back to your street
fast, fast, fast.
I'd be back before the count of two;
and if you wonder why,
ask yourself this:
why is it that we've never parted,
or even said goodbye?
Here is my answer to you:
We are bonded together by super glue,
joined by the brain, the heart and soul, too.
If that sounds confusing, I'll give you another clue;
you live in me, just like I live in you.
I am poetry;
metaphors and similes,
dotted i's and crossed t's.
So fill my cup with the wine of your words,
swallow me whole and be free as the birds
flying through the endless sky
as clouds and airplanes pass you by.
Stanzas and rhymes will flow down your throat
like that of a current, which carries a boat
and takes it to its destination;
the end goal, the aspiration.
They'll travel down with ballads marked in cursive,
with scribbled sonnets and haikus and verses.
Then when they finally reach the heart,
you'll know that it's no longer just words but art.
Because your poems are colours that brighten the walls
by splashing blank canvases and bathroom stalls.
I am poetry;
the pencil and the paper.
But you are the hand, the thinker, the maker.
So paint the world a picture
through your beautiful literature
because your words are your wand
so show us the magic and create the bond
between the fixed and the broken,
the sleeping and the woken,
the written and the spoken.
Pick me up and let me scrawl
down your words and then install
them into the minds of everyone
and they'll be stunned by the
brightness of your sun.
You'll shine with radiance and glory
so keep on telling your story
because your words are your life,
your victories and your strife.
You are the creator, the teacher, the reverend;
but this time, I will subside
because you are the guide,
and your words are your legend.