"handedly" poems
And when you give
Give like the widow would
Quietly and thoughtfully
Wholeheartedly and consciously
Like you know the value of costly
The value of giving til you laughingly
Really hurt in your fund for a holiday.
And when you give
Keep your other hand wondering
If it's sufficiently
Not knowing if it was slight of handedly
Or open handedly
So you're tempted into giving more
Than you intended previously.
And when you give
Give hilariously
Generously
Be gutsy til angels agree
On the degree
To which you plunge
The depths of your karki jeans
And if in doubt
Just focus on the tree
And the costly sacrifice
He willingly made
For you and me.
Give like the widow would -
Like it's just between you and God
And then you'll be free.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
Do you know how many times my mother coughs so hard in an hour that it still surprises me she hasn’t lost a lung?
I wonder if all the money that she spends at the gas station on that tiny cardboard box was saved instead of spent, if she could manage to pay the bills before the late notice arrived in the mail.
How many times do you think she tries to quiet the change being pushed around the tabletop as she counts out the quarters, the dimes, the nickels, the pennies before she has enough to slide the coins across the counter at the station?
How many times is her anger thrown at me because nicotine is absent from the house?
I can only imagine the color inside her chest, protecting her lungs with a black tar after too many years of flicking a flame to a thin white candlestick stuck between her lips.
The house smells of smoke and the yellow filter lines the walls, around the frames that hang themselves by nails.
I clean the mirror and see the paper towel golden from the lingering tobacco. My clothes reek of a stench so strong no amount of perfume seems to be enough.
I’m paranoid that every time I’m in a room of people and someone mentions that it smells like smoke, if they know I harbor such a scent that I pour it off second handedly as if I inhale the drug too.
I open the mailbox and the temptation to “lose” the coupon booklet addressed to her grows stronger.
The business cards labeled with a barcode on the back subtracting a dollar off when you buy two packs strengthens the urge to scrabble up the silver coins or summons the question, “do you have five dollars? I’ll pay you back when I get paid on Friday.”
Friday never comes.
I often think about how much longer it will be until all the money spent on tiny cardboard boxes will be split between tobacco and medical bills.
How long can you smoke a pack a day and still be cancer-free?
And I wonder how it’s fair to watch your mother gamble with her life each time she places a thin cigarette between her lips.
Russian roulette with cancer is a game she’s become too good at.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Chameleon of Pretense
True colors
Not always colorful
No absolutes
No boundaries
Shades of gray
Deep dark deceit
Disguises shallow self
A chameleon of pretense
Forever changing
Their spectrum of sincerity
To temporarily fit
The moment at hand
Pretending and professing
Haughty hypocrites are we
Selfishly
And single-handedly
Glorifying
A colorful
Glittering glutton
Of pride...
(C)~Travis
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 10:41 PM UTC
How to design a killer society
by president whiteness
the imperial imagination
drone culture
drone language
drone purpose
a rough process
of putting your conscience
back into yourself
far away from what you look like
while having your experience
surrounded by those who fear
having their experience alone
awkward comparisons of experience
acting out in play
called
“how normal melts into experience”
you ****** expired
you are looking now
at yourself having been experienced
expired and ready for the next program
I destroyed leisure
white celebration
single handedly
found its brittle structure
and took it apart
piece by piece
as it squeezed and begged
I smiled as it crumbled
down back to nature
begging for mercy
begging to be taught how to live
how to be alive
i can give time
I can take it away
does time need electricity
to be charged
does time need to socialize
the harder it seems
the more easy my words come
the better they touch you
graze your skin barely
tickles
like I could never with my hands
I want my words to be a spark
I want you to be flammable
I want you to be mesmerized
by the flame I made out of your attention
I want you to feel warm and cozy
burning passion
scared of fire out of control
spreading
you need
yet fear so boldly
desperate nuclear dissociation
like the affection of whiteness
stampeding innocence
feining my writing
like drugs needles
love
too deep in limbs
they are coming
imperialism
*******
longing for
bodies
I want your mind
keep her body
naked hostage
of imperial lust
what happened to your attention
being an adult
I don’t know what the **** is in the future
but I do
so do you
I wanted to write to you
so I could just focus
on your eyes the next time I am with you
your moistness
melts my desire
I become more of a mystery
more mystery
until nothing but mystery
and then nothing at all
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
Love affairs
Seem fair
To those
In despair
This pair
Of cheaters
Single-handedly
Broke the vows
Of divine law
Runaway bride
Rides
In a getaway car
With
A stolen groom
Driving
Up hell’s rode
Laughing loudly
Menacing
Thought to be missing
By the abandoned
Lovers
Undercover haters
Of commitment
Committing
Their first ******
Further destruction
Of the sanctity
Of marriage
Has yet to come
But will
Once the wheels
Slow
At their final destination
A place
Where foul
Actions
Will be enacted
Loud enough
For all to hear
Mr. and Mrs.
Turned
Mister and Misses
Mistresses misled
By the aisle
In which they walk
To positions
They would rather not
Say I do
But
The diamond ring
Pops the question
A girl’s best friend
Is not a man
And man’s
Is his dog
A *****
With intent
To dissent from real love
As she ***** him
On the altar
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:41 AM UTC
The white fluorescent lights buzz over my head, as if a method of determined annoyance.
Studying is a truly lackluster operation
Students methodically find ways to keep themselves distracted
Looking around, trying to catch glimpses of how others are managing their time so well, a frantic approach to studying that I have single handedly mastered
A very tan incongruous man, seats himself with the Miami Herald in hand
His skin has a leathery texture
He is a tall and gangly, strange looking man of at least 50
3 inch thick sideburns, red corduroy pants that reveal his mustard yellow socks and brown-black shoes
Button-down shirt with the vertical stripes, sure to match every color with the rest of his outfit
Off-white straw fedora hat with a forest green trimming,
He sports a fabulous mustache, that puts every biker’s or Italian baker’s whiskers to shame.
Something tells me he's not a student
Seated across from me are two foreign women that are studying the English language.
I know because they are the only ones talking, pushing my diversion from work a little further.
The sky is turning grey outside the colossal library windows
I’m hungry.
That kid in the corner keeps staring at me.
I have been here too long.
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 4:28 AM UTC
I heard the hiss of a snake
When you asked if I could forgive this mistake
The serpent sound your lips would make
Still fresh with the taste
Of his skin
Hide your fangs in your grin
Your forked tongued fallacies
That drain the life out of me
Black coffee so bitter
As I imagine you slip and slither
Under the covers of another
You'd call us star crossed lovers
Heavy handedly putting the blame on outside sources
My heart feeling the forces
Of gravity
Tear pull and grab at me
Pinned to this seat
As you taint I love you with deceit
Legs fail me I am trapped from leaving
Heard the hiss of a snake when you were breathing...
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
Im the girl that will do two wrongs before she ever does a right
Forever with chipped fingernails and untamable hair
And maybe I talk a little fast and think a little slow,
but I never let my self be embarrassed by my short comings
Yes a little short
But I never let the courage that I carry like a back pack
Rest handedly at my side
I wear my unconditional love like a sleeve
And I'll pick the wrong guy 9 times out of ten
Or maybe 22
But I always bounce back
And I know myself a little to well
Or maybe not at all
And my obsession with the stars wavers on unhealthy
And I love the way the moon looks in the morning
And the way my sisters look at their spouses
And I fake confidence
Like black jack players biggest gamble
And I ramble
And I'm great at awkward moments
Like a 6th graders first open mouth kiss
I cry a little to often
And watch a little too much bad tv
But you won't find me judging your poor choices
Because I've made them too
Like 5000 knives my words can unravel you
But I try to place pressure
On the tiny hurts
Because sometimes that's the only way i know I'm alive
I identify with my gemini traits
Swimming from happy to miserable in 3 seconds flat
And I probably admire you
But would never say
Because rejection is a game I rarely ever play
And I would rather be singing with a 5 yr old
Then dealing with grown up stuff
Because I still see myself at 16
Sometimes insecure but never flat chested
And I'm never satisfied with ordinary
Because this world holds way to much beauty for ordinary to be trusted
And when I laugh I really mean it
And when I cry I mean that too
I hate being late
And the feeling of being left behind
And I surprise myself with internal motivation
Like running in knee deep water
Or lifting 500 lbs
But I always miss the people that mean the most
I almost never have good timing
But when the end is near
When all the songs have been sung
When all my dreams have been reached
When all my failures have been exposed
I will always always always
Stand arms outstretched waiting to embrace life's possibility
Cause that's not just the tight rope I walk on
That's just me.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
I've blasted my way
across the entire universe,
a member of a special operations team, we take no prisoners,
leave a wasteland behind us.
Once,
I stopped an alien invasion.
I single-handedly destroyed
an entire nation of grays
from taking over the planet Earth.
I was a hero in the cyborg wars, too.
I blew apart all of their starships,
& even unwired their motherboard.
Last month,
I defeated a whole fleet of pirates,
used my sword to cut body parts
& whack bearded-heads,
sunk a lot of their ships as well.
In fact,
every opponent
I've ever faced,
I've left belly up,
stone cold dead
behind my closed doors.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
Was it as easy for you
As it was for me
To drop your defenses
And live our lives out eagerly
The over anxiety from my loves lack of piety
Or better yet how I tried to populate her minds society
With the idea of an image
We both dreamed to consume
The dark goddess
Breathing new life into my futures sullen bedroom
But the way her mind acted as prison guard for what her heart truly wished
This tiger was trapped in a cage of life’s never ending vanquish
And I gave with my heart
My will behind my ideals
Every artery embroidered on my arm slowly splits and spills
The red liquid that we both seemed to hunger
My music and my words that breast-feed this god-forsaken thunder
The concept of time appears to lose all of its meaning
Distances in space are
Disregarding and demeaning
For the depths that I’ve reached
Engulfed in this woman’s shadow
As she gently cut the cord to my everlasting battle
With life
With love
With all of the above
Scapegoats and memories in a field of push and shove
A ****** of myself, the things I can’t control
If love controls my fate, then let my future go
And I wish I could hate you
But I’m too busy trying to relate to
Your brains past events that caused
This corruption of the person we all knew
So true
But now the feeling of fear in your heart
Has single handedly reattached the strings of puppet manipulation to your trembling arms
And I curse the day you realize your heart has no vacancy
Undermining the unmotivated prayer of “God wont you **** me please”
Understand that your art is something to guide you through the thick and of the filling
Of the cup that was once half empty, but now has shattered and is spilling
On the floor, that I lay
Head like a ball of clay
The summer was a time for me to digest all that was on my plate
Music and syllables to describe how I felt when you looked me in the eyes
Still sit in my note books but I no longer ask the reason why
I didn’t know better
From the decomposition that you dealt
The anger, lack of pride and destruction of myself
Left behind, no longer
No time for this distress
I’m moving forward through this desert
On my everlasting quest
With life
With love
With all of the above
Scapegoats and memories in a field of push and shove
A ****** of myself, the things I can’t control
If love controls my fate, then let my future go
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
I don't remember the first song ever made
I was not there to taste the sweet marmalade
dripping to this earth like rain in September
when it rained out from the afterbirth of
The first clever musical endeavor.
It was not i.
I was not the first to sit back
And rap my knuckles
Or tap my feet to the sweet rhythm
Of chirping cricket orchestrals
All written on the spot and never
Even thought about again. Like secrets
Carried to the grave of every short lived section
Of six legged minstrels.
It wasn't you either.
Just like you weren't the first to be inspired
By a cone spiders spiraling spire
Of a trap set for all music makers.
I was not the first to hear the melody
But if I could've been,
I probably wouldn't have taken it to memory
Or woken from my revelries
Because not everything new to me
Is the most beautiful flower you'd ever see.
But I could never rouse a lie like one that states
I wouldn't hum it off handedly later when
The sun went to wake the other side of the world.
And the orchestra whirled and settled into their
Whittled orchestra seats.
I wish I was there.
I wish I was the one who first
Was stricken speechless amid giving countless speeches when they first heard a cricket chirp in time with a meadowlark.
and Sparks danced amid the silence,
Too humble to adhere a single silhouette of sound
or even hint at the presence of an audience.
The sound wasn't meant to have applause
Or be critiqued of its brilliance.
Because it was the beginning
Of the resilience of the never ending sound we call
Music.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
*To pyramids and pygmies,
all things mighty and puny-
I wouldn't be able to fathom
the true depth, they have
with my limited yard stick, "mind"
with a heavy heart, I bow low,
apologize and seek pardon
in the name of the one
unified cosmic consciousness
that dwells in all of us
from aliens to astronauts.
Why don't we pulsate in unison?
not your fault, but mine,
I understand, life has many secrets
dark energies fill all vacant spaces,
I too am it's slave, I must be beware,
by dismissing all those
as inconsequential as ever,
I'd create darkness single-handedly, I am aware*
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
I've been told my whole life that my life is easy.
I don't disagree. I have a house and a bed and free education, I'm not hungry.
But I've never thought that these are things to be held against me.
As far as I can tell, I've never done this before, I did not choose the way of life where the problems on this earth barely reach me. The questions left behind today, the ones we only now seem to have the power to fix, they're not my fault. If I could, I wouldn't have chose this kind of guilt-tripping, doom-impending "easy".
Things used to be better, so I'm told.
Family's used to stay together, so I'm told.
There were still things left to discover, so I'm told.
Men kept their word, women were more respectable, there were still things left to fight for.
As if we have left nothing to worry about anymore.
We have new age problems that started with your first engine.
Your first lightbulb.
Your first sweatshop.
Your first cellphone.
We are left fighting for balance between an undeniable human nature and nature itself, dwindling.
This isn't the age of sin, it's the age of freedom,
Where you feel the need to point out that too much of a good thing can single handedly destroy the world. You should know.
And we are not taking things easy, We are not lying down easy,
We are working.
Things are different now but we are working.
Trying to tell ourselves: Its not our fault
Danger, is just a household game for children.
Normal is no longer a house hold name.
Everything is so ******* up these days.
But we are working
to think everything through before we go ahead and do whatever might be a temporary fix to the mess that was made.
A mess you created, and no I'm not ungrateful 'cause you only ever did what you thought was best for us, to make life easier for us. You worked hard and lived hard and everything was hard, at least that's what you tell me. And God, I hope it's true.
Because that's the only way I can wrap my brain around the thought forgiving you.
I don't believe you never saw this coming. Unless,
Were you simply working too hard for a brighter future, a world for your children and their children and their children to live life easier to stop and wonder what might happen if?
This is not the dying world I would want to bring a baby into.
I wouldn't want my child's life to be that kind of condemning easy, lazy
I'd want it to be simple and stress free.
But never easy.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
He shakes his bones around
And wears them overhead like flags
By night he stalks through shipping yards,
Amusement parks by day,
In time with all the parts he's stolen,
He will build a mausoleum
Seal himself inside just to
Emerge when moonlight fades from view
And night is darker than blindness
He stumbles in an out
His brains are full of fire
He tastes the morning sun
And falls aghast with pleasure.
He stands and brushes off
The filth and turbulence.
He barks into a mask
His sweat sustains him
He presses pennies through
Your skin and seals them
Inside their package there
Where you can feel them
He laughs indifferently
He cries with pleasure
Ignites the tablecloth
And folds it twice
He slips ideas into
The money boxes
He hears the rain upstairs:
What? What's that? That's a fat cat! That's a fine hat hat hat hat hat...
He calls his mystery
Out through the sunlight
The birds don't ask him why,
But spread the message
He stings on either side
Whoever watches
He wets his hands and sets his watch
He waits with pleasure
He gathers firewood
In stacks that tower
And when they tumble down
He loses power
The skies break down their door,
Ask him to wonder
Does he belong up there?
He knows the answer.
The skies defend themselves
They rain and thunder
They pelt him down with flames
And tear asunder
A hundred artifacts
Beneath his bootsteps
He grasps at them in fear
And dives on after
Into the tunnel here
Where others like him stay
Paved into the ceiling
He hears the clattering
On down the way
He chases after echoes
Trips over shadows
He loses himself
He loses himself with pleasure
He comments on himself
So no one else can
He's overweight and he
Could use a sun tan
He waits for you to leave
Before he'll follow
He feels inside his skull
And thinks it's hollow
He hears his name and he
Takes flight at noon so he
Can make it back again
Before the moon
He single-handedly
Gives up our secrets
To any spy who'll pay
A healthy ransom
He's spoken innocence and
He's spoken nonsense
He comes to me each night
Proposing new games
I've never played before
And always feared
He cannot calmly state but scream
His shopping list
He tries to change his name
He's on top of his life
Cos he's the only one
The only one who lives it
Nobody will do it for him
Nobody will do it for him
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
Those eyes.
Those angry, angry eyes.
Those angry eyes are the last thing I see before I sleep.
Inspiring the thought that is there for only just a moment,
and then slips into my subconscious,
Low beneath the surface where it will stay buried and withdrawn
and it is this:
You will always be this way
and I will always have to live with it.
It’s that thing I hate about you and love about you at the same time.
You’re full of passion, you’re zoned in a moment, you let your knobs turn to 11.
Emphatic, impassioned, ****** energy
floats in the spaces between atoms in the world around you.
But when you turn to anger…
I see a madman, with fire in his belly and hate in his heart.
The same man who storms into the flames
and barn burning antics consume his mind.
The switch is on and it won’t turn off,
it is single-handedly the most petrifying disposition you have.
and I know you will always be this way
and I will have to live with it.
and every night as I go to bed,
I hope to God I don’t see
Those angry, angry eyes.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
I thought humans learnt from their mistakes?
Perhaps I'm the exception to the rule?
One would think you'd learn not to put so much trust in others,
In the end.... They'll abuse it.
When my best friend turned around and stabbed me in the back,
Hacked into everything I knew, everything I owned and used it all as blackmail against me, I thought I knew how it felt to Hurt
To feel genuiene Anger towards someone.
I of course was wrong...
Now, couple years down the track, I put too much trust into someone I now know I should never have. He turned around and stabbed me in the back and broke me. I though I knew how it felt to be Crippled
To feel like everything inside me Shattered
Single handedly ruined me and my life, shattered my trust in people and when there was no one there to support me... I fell deeper into the abyss. I sought refuge and support from the people I still held trust and faith in
They too abused my trust in them and broke me further, By now my pieces are too small to fit back together.
A shattered mine and a crippled soul but...
Everyone has problems. Everyone is hurting right?
I shouldn't complain, shouldn't tell you my problems because they're not your problems and why would you want them?
That's absurd
No matter what I say anymore, it is with an ill will
No matter what I do anymore, it is with an ill will
No matter how I feel anymore... it carries with it an ill will...
I am nothing but what people tell me I am
I can't begin to list how others make me appear anymore than I can begin to list how I appear in the mirror...
There is no thinking positively
There is no "It gets better"
When you're me...
...Even the saddest of emotions turn to anger.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
Think about it,
She off-handedly remarks:
Formality is separateness
Lost in one of the nebulous folds
Of my cerebellum
I acknowledge her comment with a thousand yard stare
Eagle eyed, I surf a warm updraft
To rise above it all
But I can't slip the prison of pre-conception
Amuse me, she says.
Whisper me your pretty little lyrics,
Sing me your song
You have one of the most interesting faces I’ve ever met
I brazenly tell her, and
My minds eye is full of anticipation
I know it’s pedantic
I am not so romantic
Maybe we should not peel back the veneer, but
A peak
It’s inexplicable
Naive and unassuming, with
Bashful sincerity, and
An enduring patience
Awaken: open your eyes
The serpent goddess counsels
And you will find your way
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
Empress won’t impress
just to please
With a vendetta against aggression
she brings violence to its knees
Tiger striped thighs tantalise
though single handedly she
plays tonight
on a mission, led by zebra striped eyes
she rides the northern lights
Peace and presence, her only weapon
an Empress needn’t corruption to threaten
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC
It was an atmosphere
It was an oxygen mixed with southern fog
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind
The rolling hills behind property lines
It was the question you asked
not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass
as I leaned against your Corolla
And we sang under the overpass
It was graffiti
It was graffiti
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple hair and acid wash jean jackets
melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement
It was the way the reverb spread the major seventh across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor ninth
which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars)
and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd-
surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.
It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat
soaking up the air of my A/C heat
and the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall
and now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all
But I'll let this night be interstellar
I'll take a bath in the Big Dipper and write you a letter about Orion's Belt
or how I miss the stars sparkling in your eyes making contact with the E.T. in me.
Phone me home, darling.
I'm lost at sea.
-W.J. Thompson
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC
I get sick of cliches, I get sick of the tropes
I get sick of affected twits and how love had them on the ropes
If I let myself breathe the same air as everyone else I'm gonna choke
I can't help but breathe her in and feel I've gone beyond the scope
Of my, simple visions of destroyed inhibitions
and I, can't help but get nervous how she changes up my focus
Can I, convey this handedly while knowing understandably
That I'm leaning on a danger to a core that I've exposed
We've leaned down for contact, she pushed me I push back
The pressure on our hearts has potential for explosion
The languish I had locked inside interior erosion
Implodes, he dotes of notes he'd wrote to quote a query quietly
Distrusting of emotions, just a quiver can inspire me
Fearing no enemy, fearing no evil entity
Fearing only connection and if I'm wasting my energy
Love brought me happiness but it stirred up the cobwebs
Little demons laying dormant til I explored them in every form
in every figure in every norm til they've distorted my performance
But as pandora's box was 1st class special ordered to my doorstep
I dove in straight for signs of hope, a passing look could soon afford this.
She voices her fears, connections lost by the distance
I'll bridge the gap to defend her, no need she says with persistence
She's scared of monotony, she gets scared of the tropes
She gets sick of affected twits and how they leave her with no hope
If she's forced to breathe the same as before she's gonna choke
I leaned in for contact, I push her, she pushed back
We're two shades of the same Wavelength
Our angles just refract.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
“Yes, kid, I speak no lie when I say
That I’ve seen the whole world with my eyes,
I’ve sailed through waters, trudged barren lands,
Climbed tricky mountains, dived from high skies.
Different masters, different creases pressing
Into my not-soft but not-so-hard skin, I’ve graced
Different shoes of different colors,
Materials, textures and shapes!
A hundred years I’ve lived in the best shoes, yes sir.
Finest, smartest leather sole, that’s me.
Don’t go by the frayed edges, kiddo,
There ain't no place where this black body hasn't been.
Ha! Look at those young eyes grow big already.
I hope you don’t faint in awe when I tell you
The story of the famous hunter who would
Silently surf deep jungles in his pointed boots.
Lions would yelp and tigers would weep,
For he'd never miss a mark when he’d shoot!
Or the one about that daring pirate whose lucky sole I was!
Only with me would he climb wealth-laden ships to loot.
Or maybe, that one, about the valiant soldier,
What an honor it was, kid, to accompany him as he ran,
Gun in hand, grit in heart, yours truly in shoe,
Single-handedly slaying armies for his Mother Land.
And you must have heard about the mighty landlord?
No? the one with the bungalow with a thousand rooms?
No? the one with the gold and silver in piles?
No? oh I was there too, inside one jewel-studded shoe!
Your ten-year old imagination can’t even wander
To where I’ve been for real.
And after an exciting lifetime of adventure,
I just decided to retire, and so I ended up here.”
Little mouth opened and shut in wonder,
As the tattered sole lay in his hands covered with dirt,
He listened in rapture to stories of victories and riches,
The tales penetrating his innocent heart.
*O great leather deity, come with me, I’ll take you home,
You’re going to have fun with me too!*
He squeaks; takes a piece of rope and ties the sole
Around his uncovered right foot.
And walks away, pleased, hitching up
His rag-picking bag on his thin shoulder.
One foot strapped with discarded, torn leather,
The other, dragging bare over the earth.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
I tend to follow the key notion of something that balances on a single harmless 'tightrope.' Something that can't look down (even in the slightest of quick 'desirable' glimpses). Because if you do...then you will pay the price of simply having then seen something that has yet to make proper sense. This idea, hints at a single notion...that had yet to fully introduce itself to the main issue at hand...that starts with one thing and one single thing, only... You become entirely something that you’re not, when and only when...you have seen what that single notion truly speaks about. And what the very idea truly speaks of (once you know this...), you can then fully begin to not feel scared anymore. Because being scared when up high on a single piece of material (that definitely, regardless of what it looks, or seems like, fully resembles without a doubt… A harmless…tightrope.) Now, you all the sudden start randomly walking forward on that seemingly harmless tightrope, and suddenly as by no far-stretch of the imagination to handle, properly, and appropriately), you start immediately using your incredible creativity to simply imagine the straightest line, imaginable. All so that very creativity could then of course help you align a single (properly hopeful) imaginary linear line (for your own line of sight to slow down your own pace of everything in your entire self). Slow down concentration (to help you see more visuals and the insights that piece together faster, where you'd find the pattern a lot quicker, then before). Even going as far as to simply (also) slow-down your own focus (where that will fully determine the very readiness in itself, you reacted upon), just so you could then better prepare yourself accordingly (ahead of time). While now VASTLY concentrating on not single-handedly falling for your dear life! Then you have yet to properly read between the lines. If you succeed in doing that very thing... You will see (not just why 'I write'...) But how you succeed in finding the missing key (inside your very self), that actually makes you witness the very dynamic meaning simply as too... ‘Why Do You Write?’”
May 13, 2021
May 13, 2021 at 7:31 PM UTC
Your smile is humble, your laugh enchants.
As we walk back home I absorb your words,
your coy allusions to some past romance,
your mentions of your discerning taste,
of how you only drink expensive wine
and how French Roast is superior to Pikes Place.
And your breath quickens as you recount that time
years ago, when you were in Europe and
you single handedly rescued your family
with your Spanish and now you’ve gained the upper hand
by casually admitting you’ve seen every film I’ve seen
and more and even read the books they’d been adapted from and—
You’re speaking only beguiling lies.
I wish I could just tell you to shut up.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
i've tried
many times, i have
but i cannot single handedly put together a puzzle
with all the wrong pieces
perhaps in time
some people just cannot fit together
Mar 20, 2024
Mar 20, 2024 at 2:39 AM UTC
Another college tour, another favor. This time it was an old schoolmate, George and his parents who were taking the official tour. I was going to babysit his little sister Mary (5) while they walked around.
It was good to see someone from home and sad in a way. For a moment, I had a tugging feeling, like there was a hook deep inside me and the reel was back home.
When I first saw George I remembered a time, in 10th grade, before COVID. I was leaving school early and waiting to be picked up. Twenty track boys, fresh from their daily run, were lounging, seductively around. George, in particular, in a pose rather like Michelangelo’s Adam. *** I remember thinking at the time.
I smiled at that long-ago tableau. “What?” George asked, he was watching me. “Nothing,” I smiled, “Just looking forward to babysitting”
Mary and I exercised to a video, had a pizza delivered and colored - crayons aren’t easy to find in the modern college environment so we used high-lighters to create delicate, watercolor-like masterpieces.
As we drew, Mary said, off-handedly, “You’re really nice,” as if the nature of my character had been in some dispute. Still, I still felt warmly complemented.
When the tour was over, we were walking up science hill toward their car and the sun was declining to sunset. “How do you like it,” George asked, confidentially, head lowered, voice low enough not to be overheard by his parents who were walking a few yards behind us with Mary. “There’s a LOT of reading,” I said, shruggingly. “but I’m keeping up.” Last year I was a junior, this year I’m in college. It seemed absurd.
How do you conjure a vision for someone of what college would be like, when college experiences are so individual? The writer's dilemma, interpreted by a babysitter.
As we reached their car, the caroling bells started ringing (5pm) from Harkness Tower. It was the perfect send-off. Again I felt the pull of homesickness but my phone plinked and the emotion didn’t even last as long as dusk.
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 7:39 AM UTC