"cornell" poems
The clouds that gathered turned to rain
The candles on your sill burned out
The weather on your face
Turned to match the mood outside
Reading through poems that you saved
That make the gloomy hours make sense
Or do they lose their power
With the yellowing of age
I saw you suffering
Through a foggy window in the rain
When you thought no one was watching, yeah
Going through your memories
Like so many prisons to escape
And become someone else
With another face
And another name
No more suffering
You sold the best of yourself out
On a chain of gray and white lies
One syllable at a time
You should have made them pay
A higher price
I saw you suffering
Through the cracked and ***** window pane
I was ashamed that I was watching, yeah
Going through your imagination
Looking for a life you could create
And become somebody else, yeah
With another face
With another name
No more suffering
I wish that I could find a seed
And plant a tree that grows so high
So that I could climb
And harvest the ripe stars
For you and I to drink
And spit the ashes from our mouths
And put the gray back in the clouds
And send them packing with our bags
Of old regrets and sorrows
'Cause they don't do a thing but drag us down
So far down
The past is like a braided rope
Each moment tightly coiled inside
I saw you suffering
Through the yellow window of a train
With everybody watching, yeah
Too tired for imagining
That you could ever love somebody else
From somewhere far away
From another time
And another place
With another life
And another face
And another name
And another name
No more suffering
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 3:20 AM UTC
1
2
3
4
5
I count things in 5’s
one cat
two cat
three cat
hula hoop
tote bag
My notes are organized Cornell style
but it can’t fill the void you left.
Light switch
one slipper
two slippers
lotion
candle
I’ve got my life organized down to the the minutes
but you aren’t in any of them.
Long distance.
We’ll see.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC
Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling
From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes,
Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling,
As formless as our talk. Phil, drawling, bets
Cornell will win the relay in a walk,
While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants' chances;
Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at "Falk",
John gives large views about the last few dances.
And so it goes -- an idle speech and aimless,
A few chance phrases; yet I see behind
The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless,
Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind,
Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold --
Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.
1.7k
Its rare that I hear
the words truly express
things that seem so truly indescribable.
How am I to describe?
How am I to relay such thoughts to men?
It's impossible to imagine the dark from the suns point of view
It would take true pride
and blistering ignorance
to see oneself in such collosal
and lonely shoes.
the first wind chill spells geese in the sky
and the squacking made me think of you
so i took out my old 30 aught 6 and fired away
they said the stuffing was bad
but that the rest was perfect
and i think about the sky blue
but for an instant splattered red during some southern migration
good god himself was once a paradox
I'm sure something that has existed forever must be bored by now
worthless ********** that he is
Does heaven really sound that good?
i want debauchery and drunken laughter
and want my heaven to run red with immortal blood testing the limits of new found power
i want to be able to keep things strait
what am i talking about again?
wait
with who?
do i know you?
can i kiss you?
are you as drunk as i am?
Am i drunk?
no
no I'm not
**** a dog
a family insult by any standard
handed down through generations
of the worthless *********** in my family
*********** too
but then again they weren't
do *********** get to go to Cornell?
yes
yes they do
I am lost
or confused
do you have a map?
i need a choreographer
Google maps hasn't made it here yet
that sky is still blue
the geese blood fell to earth
good gravity
cute gravity
why does gravity get its own laws?
spoiled *******
How does this end?
wouldn't everyone like to know
wouldn't we all like to get our one on one
with some benevolent ****** in the skies
**** him
i would
in my one on one
its a power trip thing for me
I'm not gay
where was i going?
not here.
not ******* god.
I hope gods a woman.
Impossible
a woman couldn't **** things up this bad
unless her period was in proportion to eternity.
Men have drunken periods induced by testosterone flushed brains
We are ruthless, and indolent.
I miss the sun and beaches covered in drunkenness and freedom
I'm missing something
right
reason
who?
******
Well at least I got that over with.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
It was quite evident as a teenager , drawing Boston's guitar shaped space ship on the back of an English book , playing the opening riff to Smoke on the Water with a broomstick
Hiding in the closet , listening to Kiss's first album , singing in front of the mirror to REO Speedwagon
Bad Company on the eight track in my '63 Ford Falcon , taking a Guess Who album to show and tell in Kindergarten
Reciting every lyric on Three Dog Night albums , Foreigner turned up so loud that the windows would ratttle !
Learning Free songs note by note on the guitar , playing Born to be Wild like I was on a World Tour
My heroes are Page , Scholz , Perry and Geddy Lee ! Soundgarden , Alice in Chains , Mott the Hoople and Queen
Jimi Hendrix bringing his Strat to life , Eddie's blistering fretwork !
Crosby , Stills and Nash , three part Angelic vocal harmonies , Ronnie James Dio wailing like a banshee !
A Gibson through a Marshall , A Fender through a Vox , a Tele through a Peavey , a Rickenbacker through an Orange !
Jim Morrison turning poetry into song , Elton John baring his soul through the piano
Eddie Vedder in a trance on stage , Anne Wilson crying out in pain , Layne Staley raising the hairs on the back of your neck , the reassuring voices of McCartney and Lennon , every musical note committed to paper by George Harrison
Chris Cornell screaming into the night , the aura of Robert Plant onstage
the sweet guitar work of Eric Clapton , heart wrenching soul of Janis Joplin
The wailing guitar of Robin Trower , the blues power of Rory Gallagher
Siren song of Annie Lennox to the infectious , brilliant lyrics of Tom Petty
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
Seamus would talk about those,
"Sexually liberated Ithaca College girls."
I guess that's what I thought you were.
Cornell with it's ******* frat houses.
and ******* nasty frat parties.
We met in the basement of mine.
I was still hungover.
I don't blame you for thinking
I was just another frat boy.
I don't know for sure,
We were so far apart.
But I think we were both shocked,
That we had found real people.
Normal people.
Caring and sensitive.
Doing cute little romantic things.
Saying the right stuff,
And in between, saying the wrong stuff.
Letting the weird stuff spill out.
Then thinking maybe it wasn't so weird.
Maybe there was somebody amazing,
Hidden behind the person I made them out to be.
Maybe that wildness I saw.
It was't exotic.
It wasn't ***
It was familiar.
It was looking in a mirror.
It was a sunset at the farm,
And morning coffee with my family.
I knew it when I saw it.
But it took me a long time to know what I saw.
If I hadn't learned who I was.
If I hadn't looked in the mirror and
Understood,
Finally,
What I was seeing.
I wouldn't have understood
Why I wanted you so bad.
I want to hold your head in my hands.
See that fire in your eyes.
Relive the first time.
Every time.
See home,
From so far away.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
I once saw a man sitting at
the bar of one of my favorite dives,
and he looked so handsome in his
profile,
his lips gingerly kissing a bottle
of craft beer,
his suit fitted just right
against his sculpted
frame.
He stared intently through his
trendy glasses
at the glow of his
laptop screen,
and I imagined he was
reading something involving
important business,
or maybe a book about a
new age philosophy as he
pondered the meaning of life.
He seemed so comfortable
and familiar in his
solitude,
like he traveled often and
had grown to love himself
immensely;
he valued his alone
time.
I imagined he went to some
ivy league school,
like Brown or Cornell,
where he studied business and
made his parents proud.
He still likes to learn and finds
the world to be a
blissfully curious place.
I was enthralled with
the picture I had drawn in
my head as I
gazed at his strong jaw
and white smile,
and I couldn't help but whisper
to my friend how
infatuated I was with the
view from
my seat in our wooden booth,
when my friend chuckled
nervously,
his brows downturned as he
erased all I had
drawn and replaced the
picture with
he's homeless.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
I lean back on my factory-fresh
Couch (that still smells of IKEA)
And turn that Jeff Buckley's Grace
Up so loud the cat escapes under
The bed; ears flat, wide eyed...
And remember. I flip through
My own history -forgotten love,
Nights of such beauty they
Forged themselves onto my
Mind. I see myself stronger;
Dumber. Rougher hands and
Mind.
I hear Chris Cornell and Tori
Amos in shared recollection.
I walked Oslo's paved streets
From a job I loathed.
But it was summer.
I was free.
I was a rock star waiting
To be.
I see hopes I had that remind me
It's not too late for that.
And begin to resonate with
*This is your time.
This is when you choose your
Future. Choose.
It's never too late for
Anything*.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
i want to be everything all at once forever
— casually, like: **** dude, they said you could be president, too? i’ll rock paper scissors you for it
i **** at rock paper scissors, but i **** more at sticking with things that only make me ½, ⅓, ¼ happy
not to mention things i’m bad at but do you even know how good i am at a subject you don’t teach?
columbia, harvard, princeton, yale, brown, dartmouth, upenn, and cornell do
they just don’t know they do, so shhh. i wrote someone else’s name on those essays
i don’t care who knows mine, i’m just trying to keep it out of the obituaries
just one more year ‘till i’m too old to die young
— but who’s counting?
not me, not me, not me.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
*"Think of a life you won't take the breath from somebody else
One where you're seeking more than yourself"*
-Chris Cornell
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Hexaedros de madera y de vidrio
apenas más grandes que una caja de zapatos.
En ellos caben la noche y sus lámparas.
Monumentos a cada momento
hechos con los desechos de cada momento:
jaulas de infinito.
Canicas, botones, dedales, dados,
alfileres, timbres, cuentas de vidrio:
cuentos del tiempo.
Memoria teje y destejo los ecos:
en las cuatro esquinas de la caja
juegan al aleleví damas sin sombra.
El fuego enterrado en el espejo,
el agua dormida en el ágata:
solos de Jenny Lind y Jenny Colon.
"Hay que hacer un cuadro", dijo Degas,
"como se comete un crimen". Pero tú construiste
cajas donde las cosas se aligeran de sus nombres.
Slot machine de visiones,
vaso de encuentro de las reminiscencias,
hotel de grillos y de constelaciones.
Fragmentos mínimos, incoherentes:
al revés de la Historia, creadora de ruinas,
tú hiciste con tus ruinas creaciones.
Teatro de los espíritus:
los objetos juegan al aro
con las leyes de la identidad.
Grand Hotel Couronne: en una redoma
el tres de tréboles y, toda ojos,
Almendrita en los jardines de un reflejo.
Un peine es un harpa
pulsada por la mirada de una niña
muda de nacimiento.
El reflector del ojo mental
disipa et espectáculo:
dios solitario sobre un mundo extinto.
Las apariciones son patentes.
Sus cuerpos pesan menos que la luz.
Duran lo que dura esta frase.
Joseph Cornell: en et interior de tus cajas
mis palabras se volvieron visibles un instante.
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A Cornell bathroom
Marble doors with penciled in
Confessional poems
A hot summer day
I'm still waiting for a guide
To call up my group
I'm starting to think
That I may have finally
Found my dream college
The day is still got
But with the fun I'm having
I don't really mind
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC
So-? The skyscrapers top shelf bookstore.
Has moved to sing its self into the graudual H.Q.
orangaging around like a cadilac. Who can tell me
If she isnt crazy enouph to hide her beer and watch itnland in her lap.
Can I survive in this mess.
The fogs getting thicker and thicker,
Were sinking into the realm, the holy shrine painted along mail boxes,
Mail boxes, Dr. Cornell West sits and tells me about the weather.
He says I told ya it was going to be foggy.
I heard him do a speech once.
Hes the man.
Hes the man who gives you dirextions in the fog.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
The day you tried to live,
you could not,
and passed on to the
Superunknown
and let us fall on
black days.
You finally let yourself drown
in a way much
like suicide,
a spoon in your hand?
Spoonman?
You could never quite break
your rusty cages,
outshined by your own light,
burdened by your own hand.
You roll on like a stone,
the final hunger strike.
Someone forgot to
show you how to live,
and now you will be missed.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
For me we it
comes realizing later
that Chris Cornell is gone
same as Dad but different still
we have our Garden
of Sound with weeds sprouting against
the grim Cutter hoping
for a missed experienced
Maybe the refugee's trauma
have dried all the tears on
lonely crowded airfields
of a long ago Vietnam seeding
salt from a Grandmother, mother,
father, aunts and uncles,
paladins in our child eye dry
because of the stampeding Thestrals
we shouldn't see
And now almost 50 we know
better the slings and arrowheads
of fortune the calcifying currency
souls make by roughing the round edges
of damning tears scattered like petals
over littered cigarettes killing
us softly because they've metastasized
from intellectualized Lung ****
to a flowering carcinoma
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC
I saw the world, it was beautiful
But the rain got in and ruined it all
Then I tried to be invisible
It was impossible
Even for me
I laughed at love
It was a big mistake
In the absence of
I filled it with hate
Cause there's no such thing as nothing
Yeah there's no such thing as nothing at all
I had the brains not to think at all
But the rain got in
And I thought too hard
On the world, and as usual
I slumped too far into the void
I tried to make everything meaningless
But the rain got in and made it a mess
Cause there's no such thing as nothing
Yeah there's no such thing as nothing at all
Yeah there's no such thing as nothing
But my finger's on the trigger
And I'll turn off the world
So what gives me the right
To think that I could throw away a life?
Even mine
And what makes you believe
That you could get away with getting old?
Overlapping me
Maybe to lose or to save your soul
Is a choice of how you fill the hole
And the rain got in
Cause there's no such thing as nothing
Yeah there's no such thing as nothing at all
There's no such thing as nothing
But my finger's on the trigger
And I'll turn off the world
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 2:39 AM UTC
Isn't it true that as a kid
You have nightmares
Of boogeymen and monsters
You run scared to your parents' room
Desperate for their warmth
And that reassurance of reality they offer?
We learn as children
That the substance of our worst nightmares
Can never touch us when we wake
That the threat in the closet is just a shadow
The scratching on your window,
Nothing more than a tree.
We are comforted in knowing that when we wake we can say,
"It was all just a dream."
We cannot be reached in consciousness.
Maybe that's why it was so ******* unreal,
So horrifyingly against all my soothing logic,
When I opened your apartment door that day
Because I saw the monster from my panic-filled nights,
standing, wearing your pants, right in front of me,
And no amount of pinching could make her disappear.
Now, whenever I wake in a cold sweat,
Heart chilled,
Mind spinning,
I will never again feel sweet relief with the words,
"It was only a dream,"
Because it's never just a dream
When you're living in a nightmare.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 9:11 PM UTC
I got to imagining things like I used to in high school.
I thought, maybe I was an alien hidden here.
I imagined them charging in there. Tearing at my collar for a mark.
Some irrefutable proof that I was theirs.
I imagined it happening in front of all those people.
Having my people stand me in front of them and claim me.
Five hours later I clocked out.
It was easier at Cornell. The day dream was constant.
It was wrong.
It was a mirage in a dry, sleepless desert I had lost myself in.
But, it was nice. Living in the daydream.
For a moment.
A single godly heartbeat lost in the enormity of time.
Flying away into that void,
Before I could catch the flap of its wings.
It was insignificant.
It was a dream.
But,
God what a dream.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
*"I'd take it all,
arrows or gun,
and hundreds more
to save you from one."*
-Chris Cornell
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
It is rather unremarkable,
Or at least as so as such a pane may be,
Depicting a trinity not mentioned in Scripture,
Though their handiwork would likely merit approval
From any member of the trio cited therein,
As they went forth humbly,
In humble carriages in service
Of an ostensibly prosaic task
But certainly on the side of the angels,
As must have been noted
In each of their respective services
(Closed-casket affairs, one presumes
Given the state of the remains
After they were extracted
From the earthen dam site where they were discarded)
And their particular Caiaphas
Dispensed with sending their cases onward
For further consideration
(He too a man of the cloth, but also a mill operator,
Producing two-by-fours worthy of use on Calvary)
And after he had passed sentence,
Leaving matters to take course,
One assumes he went home, washed up
And made his usual rote recitations
Asking for Him to watch over his and his ownself.
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 12:27 PM UTC