I promise I'll be on my best behavior
But I hear a thing calling me for the keys
As lofty as I try, they drop into oblivion
Serious, I better come back to inhibit
The picture opens up sideways
And they single me out like a crusty chutzpah
The peeling pages ffffffffffffff nnnn
Coccinellidae attacks his family grave light
A nod to the growling and glistening moray next to me
He is big, and he is covered in my spit -- I tell him one
Find a better party whose postponed
I have no idea what this one is about.
It was great for a time
*** and wine
Wine and ***
Then commitment and open and shut curtains.
Special delivery of child made the bond complete
Six months down the line
Breast feeding was action watched from a distance
Intimacy was a tired look
The neighbours cat looked hot
Killed the lonely nights
Killed the commitment outright
Got to know the lawyer through rapid bank withdrawals
Weekly child visit watched over by Brutus
Bar visits watched over by the world's condemned
Special occasion became a twice yearly treat
Birthday and Christmas, bit of hate thrown sideways.
Then the new man.
Felt good for her.
Maybe some pressure off.
Maybe missed that lobotomy bar lecture.
Years dragged the hate forward.
Time moved on.
One day I wrote her a letter expressing my anger.
She wrote back in triplicate.
I wrote back in double triplicate.
She sent a thesis on men and *****.
Suddenly without thinking, we had dialogue.
After a while, we moved on from the anger.
We became human again.
I actually liked writing her letters and receiving them.
We never got back together.
But the letters kept us close.
Sometimes there would be a kiss at the end.
The little bit of love I probably never deserved.
I would mention it to her in my next letter.
Even an *** deserves a solitary kiss now and again.
The bar room lawyers would probably agree.
Let's speed down the highway
85 under the street lights
Watching the towns grow small behind us
The music murmuring in the background
The cars fading
Shadows dancing across your face
And no matter what's ahead of us
I can't stop looking sideways
As we drive into the night
Making memories in the moonlight
Holding hands under the bridge
Exchanging kisses at the stop lights
Staring at you while you drive
Cause you can't stare back
with both eyes on the road
Laying my head against your arm
Wishing this **** console wasn't here
Wishing the night would last forever
So I could ride along with you
I was going to start work on a poem last night
Focusing on a metaphor of migrating swans
Then, well, this film started
About Japanese Warriors and I watched
The first 5 minutes until I picked up
On a quote of Confucius' about
Not giving a sword to a man who can't dance
Which of course I had to look up because
I thought Tarantino had used it somewhere
Maybe in Pulp Fiction but that was a dead end
Then I was onto YouTube watching **** Bill
And the O-Ren Ishii animation sequence
With the insight, totally, why it was an animated sequence
Was because the fake blood budget alone
Would have run to 7 figures …
Looking up to the TV to catch a beheading sequence
Looking down to the Laptop to find Lucy Liu's
Best 10 Bad *** Film Moments!
Which led to the Elementary series and
Sherlock and Doctor Joan facing off with Bamboo Shina
Until despite my joy in the deep coincidences of things
My tired brain was overloaded with martial arts imagery
And to try and get back to the embryo poem idea
I typed migrating swans into google and just got
Lots of V shapes …
… I … paused … to … let … the … message … sink … in ...
At times like this I search for opposites
And thus set out on a random ramble through my shelves
Ashbury – Creeley – Schuyler and the like
For a sideways nudge to an image or a rhythm that inspired
Until my tired brain ran aground and I thought about my bed
My poem hanging and my intention in tatters
Sitting before a glass of Single malt and Tom Lehrer in my ears
I didn't write a single word but heard some lines from a man who wasn't there
“this is the way it goes
with everybody and everything
as fiercely in the highlands,
the black swan burns.”
Thank you Charles Bukowski, and goodnight.
He would walk to Bears Den when the weather allowed
when his old bones felt as if they could take the steep mountain road
he would sit upon the rock that faced West
and here he would search for inspiration
despite the pain in his shoulder and knees
he could block that out long enough
to find a few words
the poet of Pine Grove
they would see him on occasion
mention to the country store clerk that
the old man with the pad of paper
was heading up the mountain again
no-one knew who he was exactly
or where he came from
they just knew he was no kin to the local folk
one Winter's day a few kids made their way to Bears Den
to throw stones off the edge
they found the old man
laying sideways on the rock
clutching a pencil
and on the pad
they read the first few lines of a poem;
'Here I can see forever
here I am above the fray'
He was buried in the little cemetery
where the Birdman and Wiley rest
it is quiet there
the breeze is constant and the view is open
it is a good place for an old poet's soul
to contemplate his art
sometimes i feel hopeless
like it's never going to get better
it's been a roller coaster
of ups and downs
i want to get off this ride
too many hills
too many loops
too many abrupt halts
but i can't
i can't get off without hurting someone
what's one person though?
not like i have so many people
who love and adore me
who care and are concerned
i'll give this ride another chance
life is like a never ending rollercoaster
ups and downs and sideways
all i can do is go up, my friend
Once upon a time:
An aged rabbi talking with two men
Asked them about their holiday in Paris
The first man said: Oh, I hated Paris
There was muck and filth everywhere I went
Stray dogs and prostitutes roamed the foul streets
And the Parisians were incessantly rude
The second man said: Oh, I loved Paris
There were flowers everywhere I went
Artists and beauty, writers scribbling away
And the Parisians were so kind to me
The rabbi said to them (his voice was kind):
Each of you found the Paris you wanted to find
(Worked up [or down, or sideways…] from a story Rabbi Joel Goor, a visiting lecturer at the University of San Diego in 1975, told his students.)
silence hits again, you're
with me in a sense because
you kissed me (recently)
and i felt the soft dimpled wrinkles
of your lips, even through
all the time,
all the distance
and i escape the void,
sideways slanting as my toes
shatter against the footprints in
damp, in sparkling cement
that i'm sure you left for me
, i'm sure
they were there, imprinted
in the same pattern your tongue waggles
in the same dance your knees wobble
when they remind me of the sidesteps
we swipe in the future,
dangling eachother's pasts
through the nighttime daisies
glancing moonlight into tiny petals
so they're glowing;,
wiping our grins onto bobbing faces
of middle-class houses
who's once stubborn stark windows
suddenly start winking
skipping fruitful until dawn, and finding,
in the grey summer waking light,
a small raspberry in the brambles
the side of the road
and remembering we do have favourites,
and remembembering that everything
can be home again
and that everything, will be alright
clearly, the days slip past
i nearly lasted, keeping track
tags and descriptions, each one placed
as if a benefit falls upon the lot
for drawing connective lines
god's dead, god's not dead,
i'm god, the god of sand,
ephemera at my command
but what's it mean? these things
take time, but not seriously, because
the sun hits the wax on a paper cup
and it blinds us from the bushes
and so low, can't care
so low, lone, done dead
can't care for upsides
but asides and sideways
Some songs will make you cry,
some verses will make you wonder why
it feels as though no time has passed.
Some lyrics will make you think
spend your time perplexed
as you obsess over the talents
that other artists possess.
Some painting will
to alter your view
as you turn your head
to the left
and at an awkward angle
to the right,
even upside down,
in a curious query.
Some works of art
will stir a hardened heart
of minor and major compassion.
Everyone seems to be complaining we ain't doing sh*t.
But when we step up, you say we're too young for it.
Treating us like we don’t know the issues.
Acting like it isn't all over the news.
We're all living in a world that's trying to silence our voices.
People looking at us sideways when we're making bold choices.
Choosing to speak on all the topics people stray away from.
Got suicide, addiction, shootings, depression, sickness, and some.
All of us becoming way too familiar with all this loss.
Accepting it's a part of life, not giving it any thoughts.
It's time to stop saying we're too young for this.
This is something you really don't want to miss.
The fact is: it takes more than one.
So shut your mouth and get things done.
raindrops slowly streaking sideways
of train cars splashing through wet train tracks
a blanket of black speckled with glimmers
and moonlit water puddles of the bleak winter rain
streetlights glide through in rhythmic monotone
the distant neon lights of the city by the horizon
desolate and hollowed souls no longer going back
during the soulless night of the cold winter rain
of the mourning dusk and gloomy daybreak
final chapters of a favorite book worn down over time
a kaleidoscope of times—old and new—relived
in the back of my mind during the winter rain
bright neon lights, now like stars in the distant sky
from the train running through the winter rain