"guthrie" poems
In my little-boy town up north
rivers were not yet plugged.
Poled men came down and watched
for silvered flashes.
Pink would be inside and make
a mouth want to melt it down.
The river power we would sing
Guthrie-style in grade school,
how rolling power and darkness
were misaligned, how wild
river and light was such empty logic,
and little boys learn to forget.
In school, where poor men send
the next young nation, a new
nation conceived in hydrodamnation
and simple salmon ******
Little boy rain from Rockies
going near my door, and whipped
whirlpools spinning funnels of
quick deadening swim traps,
so stay so far from bad river,
doing nothing more than
running off to sea. Stay near shore
and enjoy the new electricity.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
I am thankful for the mountains
I am thankful for the music that comes from the mountains
I am thankful for every fire that is lit by nothing more than the embers of a fire that raged before it
Only these fires can truly comprehend what it is like to suffer and be born again
I am thankful for the knowledge that every human being has in them a true spark
Only some don't care or are too busy
Or let their dreams be squashed or didn't have the fuel to burn in the first place
I am thankful for the holy beat poets
Kerouac and Ginsberg
I am thankful for the poet saints
Rimbaud and Lorca
And I am thankful for my saints of folk music
Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie shaped me long before any of this
But all in all I am thankful for the holy ghost of Carl Sandburg
Without him I would not be writing this poem or any
I am thankful that these poems allow me to say what I need to
I don't expect my words to be recited at weddings or funerals
But I don't mind because both atmospheres depress me just the same
I am thankful for every trail I have walked
I am thankful for every breath of Rocky or Appalachian air ever to enter my tragic lungs
I am thankful for the bonfires I have lit
I am thankful for the sticks that snap in my hands and leave scrapes that bleed only enough to remind me that I'm alive
I do not need such reminders but it's always a nice thing to have
I am thankful for every lost love
Whether I disappointed them or ****** them off is no matter
All that matters is that there is humility
I am thankful for the fact that these lost loves are leading
Completely happy lives with or without me
Knowing someone's happiness is dependent on me is a responsibility I cannot bear
I am thankful for this typewriter
It was my grandfather's when he was my age
He passed away two years ago on the week of Thanksgiving
He was born that week too
And it isn't pilgrims or stuffing that help me to feel thankful
It's the people like him
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back, just a half a mile from the railroad track
An' you can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
"Alice's Restaurant Massacree- song by Arlo Guthrie-
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 6:55 AM UTC
Written by Arlo Guthrie and Pete Seeger; adapted by Mike Essig.
Halfway around the world tonight
In a strange and foreign land
A soldier packs his memories
As he leaves Afghanistan
And back home, they don't know too much
There was just no way to tell
You know you had to be there
To know that war was hell
And there won't be any victory parades
For those that's coming back
They'll fly them in at midnight
And unload the body sacks
And the living will be walking down
A long and lonely road
Because nobody seems to care these days
When a soldier makes it home
Somewhere in America tonight
In this strange and foreign land
A soldier unpacks memories
That he saved from Vietnam
They said it wasn't easy
Just another job, well done
*Then the government in Saigon fell
To the sounds of rebel guns*
And the faces of the comrades
Who were blown out of the sky
Leaves you bitter and disgusted
That they didn't have to die
*The old men who planned that war
You know they all died safe in bed
With none of their rich and privileged sons
Ending up torn or dead*
Back home they didn't know too much
There was just no way to tell
You know you had to be there
to know that war was hell
And there wasn't any big parades
For those that made it back
They flew them home in secret
and told them to make tracks
And the living were left walking down
A long and lonely road
Because nobody seemed to care back then
When a soldier made it home
The night is coming quickly
And the stars are on their way
As I stare into the evening
Looking for the words to say
That I saw the lonely soldier
Just a boy that's far from home
And I saw that I was just like him
While upon this earth I roam
And there may not be any big parades
If I ever make it back
As I come home under cover
To a world that can't keep track
Of the heroes who have fallen
Let alone the ones who roam
Guess that's why nobody seems to care
When a soldier makes it home
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
There are railroad tracks
That run through my town
And at night when I finally receive
The silence I wished for during the day
I can hear the faint whistle
And hum against my bedroom windows
I hear the whistle now.
All my life I have heard the trains
And I find beauty in the fact that even when I'm not listening, they are there
The trains carrying coal, chemicals, lumber, and the better parts of my childhood
As a child I loved the idea of the caboose
Allowing any stretch of rail
Any length of land
To be your home
Your bed
And it was probably through this my wanderer spirit grew.
All my life these trains meant something
Escape
But not without possibility of return
I romanticized the long web of rails connecting all the land and Souls in the American night
I have always loved such pieces of antiquity
So in the latter years of my childhood in high school it's no suprise the love I had for Steinbeck, Sandburg, and Woody Guthrie
I would lament to friends that the trains became too fast to hop, but I never tried
I always sat back and watched
Or listened on quiet nights
Now my childhood has passed
I am nearly 20 but wrapped in my head is the idea that the young boy who had train posters and pictures covering his walls was nothing but a stranger or a character in just another awful coming of age rerun
But deep down that child turned to Ginsberg who wrote of boxcars boxcars boxcars
And Kerouac who followed the long stretches of road to the western edge of America
And it was through Kerouac I found
Thomas Wolfe
I feel I have Thomas Wolfe in my bones
Thomas Wolfe who left home rejoicing train rides to the North
Then realized he couldn't go home again
Thomas Wolfe who never wrote a bad train scene
Not all of Wolfe is in me
Not the 1900s Southern prejudice
Or the raving accusing of friends of great treasons, only to have to apologize the morning after
But I can feel his need
To write all I can
To never take away
To add add
To never reduce because who tells Van Gogh "yes yer paintings alright but I need you to reduce the amount of stars by 30 and I expect it on my desk Monday"
I won't take anything away from myself
Only add
So at nights
When I hear the train whistle
And soft rattling on my window
Thomas Wolfe is with me
And he loves the sound too
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 11:13 PM UTC
WOODSTOCK
They came from The South, The North and The West Coast
450,000 together for peace and music, half a million at most
Richie Havens inspired all while singing his "Freedom" song
Country Joe McDonald dropped "F" bombs his whole set long
Carlos Santana amazed us, as he gave all and sacrificed his soul
Arlo Guthrie with Woody's **** packed his pipe and smoked a bowl
Canned Heat and The Bear asked us to work together united stand
Levon Helm pounded skins and sang "The Weight" with The Band
Joe Cocker warned us more than once that he might sing out of tune
One after the other, CSNY, Alvin Lee, Sha Na Na midnight 'til noon
Janis gave a piece of her heart along with a "Ball and Chain"
Jefferson Airplane sang about Alice out in the pouring rain
The Fogerty's sang about where they were born and two girls one proud
And for the life of me I can't figure out why The Who played to this crowd
Jimi capped it off with The National Anthem and "Purple Haze"
the perfect ending to four long daze of rock and roll blaze
So if your travels take you to New York Up State
Stop at Bethel Wood, the place where Rock History was written in Slate
"1969, when music was grooved in vinyl and carved in Rock"
inspired by the song "Woodstock"
written by Joni Mitchell
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
I am Sarah Malcolm -
yes, the one they call the Irish Laundress
and the jury found me guilty of the murders
(the Infamous Murderess)
of Mrs Lydia Duncomb,
Mrs Harrison and the servant Ann Price
in Mrs Lydia’s chamber
at the Inns of Court in the Temple;
and the jury only needed 15 minutes
and there was disbelief when I admitted to robbery
but not ******
and there was disgust
when I said the blood on my clothing was my own menstrual blood
and not the blood of Ann Price:
I had broken a taboo in talking of menstrual blood
for, as they say,
only loose and the not so virtuous women speak that way
and of course even after the judgement
I have been deemed even more guilty
for I am of a different Communion
of the Catholic faith, not Anglican -
just as the Ordinary, James Guthrie described me
in instructing me here at Newgate on the Christian faith;
and I have earned the name now of many
as the evil, barbaric, and stubborn woman
And now Mr Hogarth sketches and paints
that you might have a view of me;
and the appointed date is 7 March 1733
when I will be executed...
and these lines I add to the picture
that you might remember me
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
Guthrie is a man made of garbage
His dreams they rot and leak
He has banana peel hair
Hes got old martini olive eyes
But did you see him before the light died
Years ago
Way back to a time when charm and wit flowed freely from his mouth
His tongue a silver spoon
His dealing hand like a golden talon
Tryna ***** the light out
His feet the vehicle taking him to paradise
He says "you only live once, better live the burning life."
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
A live oak, grey suit not moving,
“He’s dead,”
The strings inside him broke.
She loved mysteries so
That she became one.
-
Tonight, darling, to right
Wrongs and wrong rights
with zero dollars and zero cents
and bat mitzvah money.
-
Orlando was pretty well lit,
A LEGO set sunk, a paper town
That’s uglier close up – dementia,
Paper-thin, paper-frail fox-trot
All the way around to slow dance
And finally, “I. Will. Miss. Hanging. Out. With. You.”
-
Highlighting “Song of Myself” opens the door of your mind,
Not poetry, not metaphor, clues the size of my thumbnail
Couldn’t help but smile half straight edges and half ripped
Paper towns, you will come back.
-
If only I walked like I knew how to kiss
Guthrie sang to Whitman as Walt read of doors
And maps of mini-malls leading
To graffiti messages and skipping graduation to drive,
“Though life can **** it always beats the alternative.”
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
We've seen lone souls walking desert highways of New Mexico, barefoot hitchhikers along burnt out main drags and closed down drive-ins.
We bought moonshine and turquoise on the Navajo Trail and drank in the dusty neon ghost towns of Route 66.
We went over the Rocky Mountains and found kids singing Woody Guthrie in old gold rush towns of Colorado.
We walked along railroad tracks in the shade of date palms, listened as westward bound freight trains rumbled into the red evenings. A country as mercurial as our very moods.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
I argue the point and take a stand. How is eating food and sliding a fork in and out of your mouth so much different than a kiss? It is a sensational thing to be fully present for either but if I cannot be kissed I will eat like it is my ***
A hard chair. Sit upright. Dress right..or undress just right.Heels of course. No Tv. NO PC. Silence or the Cocteau Twins Treasure.
Treasure is the third studio album by Scottish alternative rock band Cocteau Twins. It was released on 1 November 1984, through record label 4AD. With this album, the band settled on what would, from then on, be their primary lineup: vocalist Elizabeth Fraser, guitarist Robin Guthrie and bass guitarist Simon Raymonde.
The album reached number 29 on the UK Albums Chart, becoming the band's first UK Top 40 album, and charted for 8 weeks.[9] It also became one of the band's most critically successful releases, although the band themselves have expressed dismay at it. Know your ******* music!
Sit proper and nice. Make a nice table setting-IMPRESS YOURSELF!!!! I mean **** who is in your mouth?? You have more sensations all over than you use..I might spank you if you do not do a nice setting and snap a photo..you know I want to sea green IT!!!
Now take the time to feel the complexity of the flavors built, skill involved-maybe a ******* KILT!
Feel the sliding of the FORK IN AND OUT..little strokes in your pout.
Let is slide so slowly out..feel the edges..nice and smooth..let it slide feel that tine groove.
Chew so succulent and slow..feel the textures and LET THOUGHTS GO
Feel the flow, taste everything within it sink below.
Belly warm, food is desire..imagination and being present is all that is required~
The best way to treat myself is some fine dining. Living watercress & Italian parsley- balsamic vinegar salad on the side of a tempting dish of white beans with sun dried tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, celery, cilantro,orange peppers and some garlic and chili paste with a lemon slice I ate right away and dashed the whole thing with a drizzle of balsamic. I did not taste test anything. I know what a good balance is. My meal was a 5 star worthy dish. I ate everything on my plate.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
witches adorn the front covers
of ecofeminist zines
in an anarchist bookstore
nestled on the Left Bank
of Seattle's waterfront
rare rays of sunlight
filter through sheer curtains
photons glimmering
through fading droplets
clinging to cracked panes
refracting multicolor
i sit in the window-seat
listening to a homeless
balladeer's somber renditions
of Jonny Cash and Woodie Guthrie
serenading the locals bustling
down Pike Street Market
while the Olympic Mountains
keep their vigil
across a lonely bay
Emma Goldman whispers
for Alexander Berkman
and i balance on mismatched cushions
considering Proudhon's insistent
inquiries while Bakunin smirks
nursing secret heresies of insurrection
colorful posters are paper-machéd
across the walls with slogans of struggle
scrawled in sisterhood and solidarity
stickers plaster the narrow halls
encouraging visitors to Smash Capitalism!
or *Read A ******* Book*
as jam-packed patrons chance
sly peaks at the black flag
suspended in the back room
a faint breeze flutters intermittently
drifting across the open threshold
lifting spirits as if sifting
through grains of sand
not unlike a child
digging for answers
armed with one
monosyllabic question
why?
the banner
cheerfully pirouettes
for a revolution
without dancing
is not one worth having
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
Too many of us prize the place over the person.
When I dream, I dream of hobos--6 to 8 of them--huddled around a make-shift fire next to the railroad tracks eating warmed cans of pork and beans. We chat, tell stories and jokes, and sometimes break into laughter. Maybe Woody Guthrie is among us.
Other times, I dream of the **** death camps, not an easy, not an enjoyable, thing to do. But that did happen, and not by economic circumstance. And even if fleetingly, they were together. I think that's what draws me to them.
Sometimes I dream of the Lakota Ogala Sioux before Wounded Knee put an end to them and their way of life. I see Crazy Horse, one of my few heroes, always self-effacing, and as true as the arrow he just shot as he was to his word.
And when Martin Lither King, Jr was murdered on a balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee by a single rifle bullet to his head, 4 April 1968, I dream of standing over him with others, crying.
The ugliest place I've ever seen is Versailles. Opulence on top of opulence on top of even more opulemce. Made me want to throw up.
Often, maybe too often, we prize the place over the person.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 4:35 PM UTC
I often write my poems too fast
And the emotion gets passed by
In a rush to be finished
I gotta remember
I'm not Jack
I can't write on a continuous scroll
In a Benzedrine blur
I wish I could read my poems
With a jazz backing band
I keep a terrible rhythm alone
And when I'm in my car
Listening to Thelonious Monk,
The Jazz King of my heart,
My voice has this growl of feeling
But when I'm on that stage
With the mic staring back at me
I hesitate
It doesn't come out right
It doesn't sound like I rehearsed it
In my bed late at night
Or on those countless car trips
Oh I wish I could take that car
Gun it down an empty highway
Windows down
Air rushing in
And the Miles Davis trumpet
Screaming for me to go
Go
Go
I want to write about more
Than just how I'm feeling
My hero Woody Guthrie said
"All you can write
Is what you see"
But I've spent too much time
Looking in the mirror
When I should be looking out the window
But the window reveals my reflection all the same
I can never truly escape my self
But still I write
I know they are in me
The true holy poems
And maybe they won't be howling
And maybe they will never have been to Chicago
And maybe they don't know any Rimbaud or Garcia Lorca
And maybe they can't sing the blues
But when it is all said and done
No matter what they are
They're all I've got
And you can never hate something like that
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
I was reminded of you this past weekend
I drove by your old place
Where you first let me see you naked
Yet I only stared at your face
And that just made you feel more timid
I saw it as I was driving to Spoonriver
Just to the left of the Guthrie
It was for Mother's Day lunch,
Yet it was her who payed for me
She said that she wanted this moment to be happy
Instead of something that might ******* me
She said to just hold on to all my money
Because it finally looks like I've stability
I think that what she meant to say
Was that everything's going to be okay
Instead of awkwardly denying May
... I mean me
On the way to drop my mom off
I drove back past your old place
The one up over in Nordeast
Where we would buy volcano drinks
At the tiki bar of ****** Suzi
We would walk the mile from your living room
Beneath the quiet winds of spring
And hand in hand with our pre-game buzz
Was a disregard for everything
Almost exactly a year before today
I was in a fist fight there
The bartender said, "At least it was for your girl"
and that they didn't even care
I think that what he meant to say
Was it might be time to call it a day
Instead he gave more drinks to you and May
... I mean me
The rest of that night had been a breeze
We walked back to your old place
A crooked grin,
Attained from gin,
Was sprawled across your face
We found our way inside
We found our way into your bed
Like shedding pedals, you undressed yourself
And took the flowers from your head
It took you all night just to say
That you had never felt that way
And that you thought you were in love with May
... I mean me
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
I saw the ghost of Jack Kerouac
Walking an empty highway at night
I walked with the ghost of Carl Sandburg
In the ancient streets of Charleston
I sang with the ghost of Woody Guthrie
Along Rocky Mountain trials, through Yellowstone
I played music with the ghost of Pete Seeger
On my guitar, around a campfire
I read the words of my poems with the ghost of Allen Ginsberg
Quietly, in the dark, alone in an empty room
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
This machine kills fascists
That's what it was born to do
Shared time with Woody Guthrie
As the Oklahoma cold winds blew
They played each other for the people
Moving many a poor man's soul
Riding the fine line of the times
But not enough time to grow old
Feeling the pangs of hunger
In the knowledge of right and wrong
Took what was left out of rights best
And tuned it up in song
Where this machine kills fascists
Cause that's what it was born to do
Hung out with Woody Guthrie
For a time of two
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
It’s the sound of peeling wallpaper,
Damp seeping in from the frost bitten windows.
Daytime traffic on Christmas eve,
And misted breath between pages of Pound,
Eliot and Rimbaud.
It’s the sound of mouldy drapes,
Clutched to the rail that clings to the rust.
The hiss and crackle of today,
And the wave of the colonial - of Guthrie,
Williams and Seeger.
It’s the sound of a Tangier typewriter,
Clacking to the chimes of a generation.
The scrawl of freedom
And the echoes of our fathers – of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs.
It’s the sound of the swamp,
A hoodoo beat winding through the ruins.
From bayous to boroughs,
Following the march of Washington,
Franklin and Jefferson.
It’s the anthem of a teenage disease,
The force of the Devil’s crossroads.
The returning of a light, obscured
In the ruins of time.
It’s the song of the tambourine,
And the lasting footsteps of a song and dance man.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
He stood on the "Endless Bridge" in Guthrie Theater,
And looked onward at the old abandon mill district of Minneapolis.
The crescent moon ascended to the glimmer of the city lights
As the nature of the wind pulled his hair back to shed his hidden soul.
The Mississippi River clash against the pavements of the dam,
And the moist from the river felt through the air on the pours of the skin.
Neon lights of the 35W reminded the contemporary architect of modern city,
But the old mill district had it's ever so present among the modern buildings.
In that silence she walked down the aisle from the theater entry onto the balcony,
The silent graceful walk even in heels like a prey of the jungle,
There she stood next to him to reach her arm around his.
He glanced onto her face matching his eyes to her's,
And she pulled the most warm honest smile of innocence.
Upon his gaze upon her dark glistened navy blue dress,
With golden neckless he gave her as their anniversary gift,
And pearl earring illuminated the moon light of nightly beauty.
"You look majestic," barely able to mutter as he faced her side by side,
And his back against the solid balcony wall.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Tides of change are like the tides of the ocean
Tides of the ocean I watched on an island off the coast of Charleston SC
Cemented in my childhood memories as a scene of holy simplicity
And like the ocean, these tides can bring forth
Great waves of progress
Hunter Thompson speaks of the great San Francisco wave of the 60s, and how it surged, raged, but could not make the journey farther than they peyote nightmares of Vegas
And still in dreams at night I hear Woody Guthrie singing how there's "a better world a-coming"
If you listen closely
In the alleys around trashcan fires
Or in the last of the occupied boxcars
You can hear the same thing
It's coming
It's coming
Yet tides come in and then recede back
And in the roar of the ocean I could hear it telling me to be calm
The better world is coming
But there is still much more time to wait
I don't like to be a pessimist about such things
But all one generation can do is reap and learn the last generations harvest,
And then go and plant their own
In these reflections I realize why I can't write exactly how I feel about politics or progress
I am not a warrior
I am not a brick thrower or speech giver, though both have necessity in their own respect
Like Hunter and Woody
I am a teller of stories and presenter of truth and life
I can spend endless nights and days writing of experiences
But the future is beyond my grasp
Yet when the times come
When blood is spilt and windows shatter
I will be there
I will experience every moment
And I won't let the effort be forgotten or in vain
For the tides come in
Then go back again
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:17 AM UTC
-
in case you may not know, it was the last car
at the end of a train, usually it was a red or
occasionally a yellow color which would be
clearly noticed
this car was manned in order to monitor the
train from that end for any issues, particularly
in case an axle from one of the coal cars locks
up and catches on fire
but i guess this feature was eliminated due to
improvements in the wheel assemblies, or maybe
because they had new electronic monitoring for the
crews in the locomotives
if you are under the age of thirty, this may not have
been general knowledge to you since the use of these
cars were phased out sometime in the 1980's, now a
red flashing light signifies the end of the train
you can see one of these cars parked near the city
square just north of the Tennessee/Kentucky
border in Guthrie— there is just enough rail
underneath to hold it braked in place
i think the rails once extended to the mainline
and the car was trapped there when acetylene
cutters terminated its route in either direction.
the men who rode it are now
the ghosts of everlasting
employment.
now we have thousands riding the
caboose of their careers amidst
red blaring lights that flash
from all imaginable
directions—
many of them sitting motionless
upon routes that go nowhere...
s jones
2010-2020
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 6:48 AM UTC
Woody Guthrie
Came along when
A poor man barely survived
We are now faced
With the same place
Wishing Woody was still alive
Woody Guthrie
He would write of
The heavy thumb of the government
And how we need to
Scream at the sky blue
Till we change views
Is what Woody meant
Woody Guthrie
The voice of a nation
Tired and aching
Needing to be heard
Now I hang on
To every phrase in every song
Every dot that comes along
In every word
If Woody were alive today
Wonder what he would say
At the state of our decay
In what he sees
Would he shake his head
Cause we've made our on bed
Perhaps he's better dead
Woody Guthrie rest in peace
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
~Dedicated to the memory of the brave men and women of the Spanish Republican Militias, who bravely fought in the name of true freedom and a better world for all people~
Are we good enough to see the sun rise tomorrow?
Are we good enough to ever be free?
Can we forgive those who we think crossed us?
Can we ever convince ourselves that some people are worth protecting?
Will I remember to pray to God when I need to?
Maybe for me the revolution has to be personal
I was always more of an Allen Ginsberg than a Che Guevara
I worry that if I don't look like I'm fighting I'll never be taken seriously
They need to see me bleed to know I'm serious
But even when I was younger I acted different than everyone I knew
And I always get to the parties late
And I always have to leave early
My revolution is within me
The barricades are around my heart
This is a bad strategy and I'm getting nowhere fast
My life is passing me by as I count the days until a war entirely in my head
Are we good enough to live in a better world?
Well I sure as hell know we aren't perfect
But Joe Strummer thought we were good enough
And Woody Guthrie thought we were good enough
And Peter Kropotkin thought we were good enough
And maybe that's going to have to be good enough
If you have no windows
No windows will get broken
But then again
How will you let the sun come in?
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 1:07 AM UTC
When I look into the mirror
I see the fragments of all the people I used to be
I have written enough poems about this
But it never seems to escape my mind
I used to be obsessed with time
In love with passing days and ticking clocks
Treated each day like a chapter in a book
But now everything just blurs into one unending cycle of the same events again and again
I have no inspiration for art
I haven't touched the typewriter for months
I've forgotten the smell of incense
Books of poetry sit unread and uncared for
Someone needs to go back to this summer
And tell me to slow it down
Don't take all of this for granted
Don't move so fast
You're not burning out
You're burning up
Setting fire to your sanity and crying deep in the back of your skull
You won't get out of bed anymore
You sit in the dark in your car
Not wanting to go inside not wanting to face anyone else not wanting the cycle to make its next round
If I could talk to my younger self
I'd say don't lose sight of what is beautiful
Listen to Woody Guthrie odes to all smiling people
Think about Kerouac meditations under pine trees
Love each friend like Ginsberg would want you to
Take the wild Hunter S Thompson ride
Don't lose who you are
Because it will take some time to find yourself again
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
It's a chilly October morning
As I sit down and reflect
On this summer
I can see my breath
And my sleeves are long
Soon it will have been a year
Since this whole mess started
I'm not entirely sure
About how I've grown
Or the lesson I needed to learn
I don't even know what I want to write
But thank God for this music I'm playing
Focusing my mind
I sit on a ledge in the Quad
Blasting this music from a small black box
If I learned a single thing from
The summer of my "discontent"
Is that there were parts of this world
And parts of myself
I was missing when I was with you
I am more whole without you
This notebook is filling up
Notebook I brought to Montana
Notebook I had in Yellowstone
Notebook I had in San Antonio
Where I tried to write
Woody Guthrie folk songs
And I first started
My Ginsberg-Kerouac-Sandburg
Poetics
I am not ready for this chapter to close
But like all things
It must
And I will love it always
Like every other chapter
I've lived
Even the one with her
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC