#jeff
June, lost in your brown eyes June
the way you make me shiver,
when I hear you.
My modern-day Dylan,
born with a fire sign making red as your color,
a fiery spirit with a striking masculinity,
Ambiguity,
the duality is astounding in you, June
enthralling me with your coolness and childlike silliness
when you're you June
But who am I to assume when you're being the real you?
As soon as the curtains and the lights are off,
you're concealed from the whole world to see,
back home you bring with you your loneliness and existential crisis,
so you write them in paper in a form of a song or poem,
or you just pour yourself a drink until they all go away
La douleur exquise,
you who belonged to everyone
and you who belonged to no one,
you will never know my name,
you who never cared for a name.
You June, yes you and your cold brown eyes
antithetical to the tenderness of your heart
The way you capture the first two of my five senses,
the way you bedazzle the assemblage with your electric presence
June, you have no idea how grandiose my dream was for you,
in seven continents you land with your own private jet
countless nights in every city where you stand to their largest stages
and you give your all
and they watch you, they sing along
and then they cry and shout with joy
Maybe I am being too ambitious, June
but you were bigger than Dylan
in my dream,
the millions of records you sold,
to the best-selling books you wrote
'cause you were just that gold,
and brilliant
in my dream
It's not that I deserve you but they don't deserve you like your brothers do
I followed you reach your aspirations,
gone were the days of your wild youth,
when you were only misunderstood
for being conceited and carefree
Now I see you,
almost in your anonymity
and I'm afraid to say that it seems your passions have burnt-out
June,
my eyes could not even gaze at yours without feeling like crying June
even when you smile with your teeth showing,
no matter how loud you laugh.
I have already solved the mystery behind those cold brown eyes June,
that we all share the same pain of losing someone significant
and this endless wondering about the meaning of our lives
June,
I may have stopped dreaming for myself
that I could be someone like you,
because my world is too small and distant compared to your universe
June,
in my dream there were seven of you shining the brightest
and I was not sad nor anxious even the slightest.
I was happy, June
And in my dream you took me to your apartment after the show, just for you to brag me your vinyl collection.
I didn't notice how it all happen but we were writing a song together,
could have been the greatest song of all time we're about to perform tomorrow
until I woke up and you were not there,
and all I have are tears in my eyes,
June
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 3:07 PM UTC
The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)
these two allusionists (not illusionists!)
composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.
I am a career criminal. I know.
these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.
for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.
the allusionists.
the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.
I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.
I do so admire their tapestries.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
A prayer,
a whisper ..."closer".
The feathery brush of my lover's lips 'gainst mine only to share a breath then depart.
What lips can perfect love's kiss yet utter not love's words?
Then take these lips that speak; that kiss
for I love naught for love's sake but for my lover.
Be it word or deed to sustain my lover's need
with the same let my love be testified.
For what is love if not a sacrifice.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
I hate you because I love you so
with a love that's real and lasting.
I'm left with that;
the best and the worst of it.
In the quiet now,
every laugh we shared, everything I thought was real howls thru my hollow soul and in the echoes I hear "fool".
My heart screams out in agony.
Suffocating, I gasp but the air is empty.
There's a hole where you came and went where there once was a door I opened for you.
You did not pass through my life; you passed through me.
I am not okay. It does not get better and someone else will not do; he isn't you.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
Oh Jefferson Beauregard Sessions,
being bullied by President Trump
You were loyal and true
as a lapdog, but you
have been thrown 'neath the bus like a chump.
So when Donald Trump asked you to fire
Mr. Mueller, you must have thought, "How"?
From that task you're excused,
being rightly recused
from the Russian mess playing out now.
So Trump's trying to shame and demean you,
saying that you're beleaguered and weak.
What a cowardly disgrace.
He won't say to your face
that "You're fired": Those words he won't speak?
Robert Mueller's team is closing in now,
with Trump's nuts in a vice - he can tell.
Trump won't show you the door
'cause we all know for sure,
it would make him look guilty as hell!
Understand, I don't like you Jeff Sessions,
with your racist past troubling and sad,
but I hope that you'll stay,
for I so love the way
that it's driving Trump stark raving mad!
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
before i left seattle, and long before i made the mistake of returning,
i was babysitting a fish in a fishbowl,
for my brother's kids.
the water in the bowl was cloudy,
unclear, ***** because of the fish
so of course the fish died,
the bowl just sat on the counter after the fish died
but before my brother's kids came back from california
anyhow, moving back here was a mistake.
the cost of living here is ridiculous,
there is no room to be a middle class person here
only a little kid who works at amazon
whose mom found him his job.
these little kids work for amazon,
their moms type out cover letters and resumes
so their kids can get jobs at amazon
i am looking for a new job because i can't afford to keep the job i have now,
the little kids who work for amazon have it pretty good though,
they can bring their dogs to work with them
they can jack up the rents, no problem
mom is always looking out for them like that
tonight i applied for a job at amazon
i typed in my first name to submit my application
"jeffbezosisacunt", i wrote a quick cover letter
telling them i was qualified for the job because
my mom didn't have to type out my cover letters for me
and because i had a dog that hadn't been trained yet
that i could take to work with me, then i attached a pdf file of a quick reference guide for aol 9.0 as my resume
it felt good
but not for long and not good enough
mark zuckerberg makes me sick too,
i can just see him running for president one day,
needing a good slapping
the little **** has never known any form of adversity
so he just keeps on being a little ****
he has a lot in common with kim jong un
when i first moved back here, there were all these orange and white umbrellas every morning. those orange and white umbrellas had already taken over.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
TRUMP ON THE ELECTION CAMPAIGN
IT WAS THE HILLARY EMAIL SCANDAL
NOW TRUMP HAS EMAIL SCANDALS OF HIS OWN
IS HE ABLE TO HANDLE
MIKE PENCE USED PRIVATE EMAILS
AND CHATS WITH THE RUSSIANS
WILL THIS LEAD TO NOT CHATS
BUT INTENSE MAJOR DISCUSSIONS
JEFF SESSIONS LIED UNDER OATH
NOW HE IS STEPPING AWAY WILL THE
TRUMP PRESIDENCY HANDLE THE PROBLEMS
AND REMAIN TOO LEAD FOR ANOTHER DAY
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
Late days weighted heads and moonlight
crossed fingers filthy feet and new wine
I'm in love with every part of this
talk it up tell me you got a lot to say
walk me home unsteady from the heavy day
You've got me in right your prize fighter fist
Old hymns bug bites and middle school
play it off while you fail to keep your cool
I don't know what to say
God's grass I'm reborn into a family
baptized in longing when you look at me
We're all formed from the same unholy clay
and I stay up and bleach away the excess emotion
stomach sick from this heady new ocean
of wanting your fingers on my spine
I sleep late and let the dust collect
a new mystery special, a new set of dots to connect
the weight of wanting to call you 'mine'
but all I say when you ask
is 'thanks for asking I slept fine'
Early days light linen and black coffee
bedheaded and bruisin you caught me
right at the base of my chest
jeff gordon god and all his parlor tricks
morning breath bravado I'm already sick
trying to keep these feelings in check
You're five hundred and seventeen miles away
and I'm seven months from finding the right words to say
that I'm happier in the cracks of your teeth
Common senses debates time and distance
enamored by your subtleties and fighter's stance
you almost negate my unbelief
and I stay up and bleach away the excess emotion
stomach sick from this heady new ocean
of wanting your fingers on my spine
I sleep late and let the dust collect
a new mystery special, a new set of dots to connect
the weight of wanting to call you 'mine'
but all I say when you ask
is 'thanks for asking I slept fine'
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
Here is the inimitable Jeff Buckley's poem, "My New Year's Eve Prayer," which he performed live at Sin-é in Manhattan, NYC, in 1996.
"You, my love, are allowed to forget
about the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents' house.
You, my love, are allowed to shed the weight
of all the years before,
like bad disco clothes.
Save them for a night of dancing ****** with your lover.
You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown
every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.
You, my love, in sleep can unlock your youth
and your most terrifying magic;
and dreaming is for the courageous.
You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar
and sing me idiot love songs
if you've lost your ability to speak.
Keep it down to two minutes.
You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die
and to live again,
more alive and incandescent than before.
You, my love, are allowed to beat the **** out of your television,
choke it's thoughts and corrupt its mind.
**** **** **** **** the ************
before the song of zombiefied pain
and panic and malaise
and it's narrow right-winged vision
and it's cheap commercial gang ****
becomes the white noise of the world.
Turn about is fair play.
You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.
You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses
to those around you
and those up in heaven.
You, my love, are allowed to show your babies
how to dance full bodied,
starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.
You, my love, are allowed to **** in every single endeavor.
You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers' blanket
in the New York summertime
with the wonder of your own special gift.
You, my love, are allowed to receive praise.
You, my love, are allowed to have time.
You, my love, are allowed to understand.
You, my love, are allowed to love.
Woman, disobey,
when little men believe;
You, my love, are Rebellion."
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC