"subdivisions" poems
RUSH
"SUBDIVISIONS"
Words by Neil Peart, Music by Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson
The Trees
There is unrest in the forest,
There is trouble with the trees,
For the maples want more sunlight
And the oaks ignore their pleas.
The trouble with the maples,
(And they're quite convinced the're right)
They say the oaks are just too lofty
And they grab up all the light.
But the oaks can't help their feelings
If they like the way they're made.
And they wonder why the maples
Can't be happy in their shade?
There is trouble in the Forest
And the creatures all have fled
As the Maples scream 'Oppression!'
And the Oaks, just shake their heads
So the maples formed a union
And demanded equal rights.
'These oaks are just too greedy;
We will make them give us light.'
Now there's no more oak oppression,
For they passed a noble law,
And the trees are all kept equal
By hatchet,
Axe,
And saw.
by Rush
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
This was once all that we knew.
A world in parts before we knew
it
as such subdivisions as this, that and
more beneath that still: there was
once good and evil, god and them,
the rest of us, and
Jesus, simply looking upwards after
he flung himself forth from the dust
to the sky and the light was bleached
off and the colours leaked from our
eyes to our canvases. What more
can I say before we take more
of ourselves away from each other? What more
before you implant me into some other's
body, and the prayer completed,
and I am finally a computer? In
the meanwhile my eyes will look and
my neck will strain as the sun sets and
so does my little life: how long have I
wanted to see you again, o lord, since
my first scream of myself all so long
ago when I left my mother's salt
and was flashed into the flood of your
world?
How long, o lord, will you have me here
to see your work through these ceiling
songs, such sonorous ringings, fleshy
twists and turns of paint as muscle
and what's that behind the cloud?
Your finger
appareled in such golden rays?
Endless. When your ships brought such
dark skin as mine across these
times and spaces, what?, where you
surprised of my dreams to see it,
this,
all engulfed in flames? And
yet here you are and here I am and
here is the quiet my birth your
glory your joy the brushstrokes
the colours and the full fleshy taste
of my non-belief, leaking into my fingers,
sticky, frisk, and always.
When I leave these, they will fall
and crumble. It will all go. In the hallways,
as I walk away: several big windows:
Rome, sunset.
When I leave these, they will go
and disappear. Into salt. Those large windows:
blue-shadowed branches begin some small slow dance.
When I leave these temples they will dust
and return to dust the soil of our hands.
And the trees remain beautiful.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:49 AM UTC
at dusk above,
clouds scud like loose teeth in upper gums
purple-pink in twilight. a deep night, seemingly ' on pause '
as all dust tumbles from bare skin
into the naked cause... our minds defunct. our minds undone.
our soul's law
at the very heart
like all
gods
where the birch and elm keep
lean rabbits, and stab at thee with long shadows with ashy knees
and bramble rabble; a riotous acreage of predation and escapeful providence
far beyond fences and subdivisions
where men add
by dividing
and knit with schisms...
where the earth has fangs in the ocean
and long nights.
your
answer is sovereign
and hunts
foxes
with your
eyes
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
Take me back to the start
When the world had a heart.
Let the subdivisions
Fall to oblivion
As kings wait patiently
For the public buses.
The dizzy drunkenness
Of the lioness cub
Shocks the perched bald eagle
As he swallows the world
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
i am lost in the wisp of your faltering
the fluttering of concrete entrenched
into stoic rigmarole
to reach out layer by layer
peeling unearthing
a catatonic subdivision of disjoint subdivisions
a limit ordinal
between touch and feeling
where we kiss on the cusp of that silent ocean on the edge of sound
drowned in the nebulous familiarity of
a distant melody
a tired resolve
re solve the old puzzle muscle memory's misted amnesia
half the pieces falling out the warn tinderbox
inarticulate drowned severed isomorphisms over
brea(d)thless infinities
self adjoint matted topologies
nestled snugly in the amniotic absolution
of form before being
hands of matted ice
contorted into perfection
by the sculpting propensities
of undulations of estrangement,
where we touch in the cusp of self reflections thousand mirrors inverted propensities
infinite infinitesimals
nestled meromorphic partitions
hidden corners in the brevity of dusk
multiplicities fragmenting behind empty veils
( to be seen is to be made discrete
to be discrete is to flicker
and disappear
(inevitably invariable
inevitable invariability))
we
stand in a waterfall of gravel
and drown our voices in the choke of our cellophane hearts
caked
into fillets of aphasic tundra
where we whisper our nothings in the desert on the boundary of silence
our words
escape us
like rats from shipwreck
we are
disembowelled catharsis
intentional and fatuous
retching upon itself
severed
and free
and dead
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
FLAT lands on the end of town where real estate men are crying new subdivisions,
The sunsets pour blood and fire over you hundreds and hundreds of nights, flat lands-blood and fire of sunsets thousands of years have been pouring over you.
And the stars follow the sunsets. One gold star. A shower of blue stars. Blurs of white and gray stars. Vast marching processions of stars arching over you flat lands where frogs sob this April night.
"Lots for Sale-Easy Terms" run letters painted on a board-and the stars wheel onward, the frogs sob this April night.
1.4k
i.
In the hysteria of absolute clarity
- *Otherwise known as the aftermath
Of an epiphanic experience or
47 revelations of elemental semblance* -
One sees one in all, and in
All men, Angels.
____________
ii.
I live in the suburbs;
New subdivisions sitting on
Sliced up ground, where elvish houses sat
Comfortably twelve years prior.
The flowerbeds tell stories
In a Tolkeinesque script.
iii.
But the air's clear here, I can't complain.
We've sunshine and enough rain to sustain
The whole football team... we're in A division this year,
My last in high school...
*but I still pigged out on candy today,
don't tell mom*
iv.
I've been listening more to the silence
And counted seventeen days,
Sequentially (and to my disgruntlement;
thus I dare not jest),
Wherein alarum bells did roar
From iron red chest
v.
Took Casper to the hospital downtown
On a day like today, hey
It was raining then too...
He had candy in his veins,
And purpley-white too tight skin.
I still pray for his life every Sunday night.
vi.
All Hallows' Eve, now two years past,
Beneath a blood moon
Did the two dance, and sat inside
A crippled tree
To laugh and kiss;
Make merry of a mutual sense of entropy
vii.
In slow motion with
devils dust and funguses and herbs
They brewed and spewed as
We watched and sang to each other
And I learned that demons are in
All men
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
I am from my grandmother,who snuck out of the house to smoke camel non-filtered
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from the pine tree with a water hose tied on it, where I imagined I was Indiana Jones.
I am from the woods, where the cicadas sang at night.
I am from the kudzu that blanketed the trees and menaced the garden.
I am from the apple trees in the front yard, whose fruit never turned red.
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from my grandfather’s plaid pockets, where he would pull out suckers.
I am from my father’s mustang that i crashed into the driveway.
I am from my great-grandfather’s picture, proudly displayed on the wooden mantle.
I am from my grandmother’s bible stories, in the back bedroom where she read every night.
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from Highway 494, where the trees were leveled to build subdivisions.
I am from the soft red clay and moist brown earth of the backyard.
I am from the moonlight I could see from the top of my house late at night.
I am from the sweltering heat and uncut grass in the front yard.
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from the small cemetary past the corner store, where my grandfather lies next to my grandmother,
and my father next to her.
I am from Uptown New Orleans, where my daughter learns her A.B.C’s in the back bedroom
where she prays every night
I am from the brown bag from the Shell station that i fill with suckers, and sneak to her when her mom isn’t watching.
I am from the picture of us dancing at a music festival, her on my shoulders, displayed proudly on the wooden mantle.
I am not from from anywhere, in the middle of town
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
Do you see what I see?
We have descended into the belly of the beast.
Houses crowd together, their dead eyes staring out.
They’ve sprung up overnight like
Ugly toadstools.
The machines on the hill are busy
Scraping away the old. By that I mean
What was there before,
A forest naturally,
And putting up these monstrosities instead.
It can’t be let well enough alone.
There are too many people and someone’s got to make a buck.
The world burns down to the filter.
We suffer the fevers of the dry needle people,
And are left with what has been
Torn out from under us.
Some privy chair propped us up with potions.
Dutiful pawns, riding the arcs they have fashioned,
They pay us a small ransom
To cull and sell their wares.
Simple sticks and carrots are not enough to wake us.
The damage thus wrought we pay no mind to –
Subdivisions, shopping malls, parking lots.
There are too many people and someone has to pay.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
the raw confusion of the nucleotide fusion,
the great concoction of recombinant DNA,
when we cross over our own boundaries
and subsume, integrate, reformulate our
very selves, with inhalation complete of
another human being; the danger’s inherent,
absorbing a foreign body totally is the creation of a new being entire, vulnerable
despite the new totality of the resources of
two hearts acquired for mergence
and the rush of two different bloodstreams
now circulating, stronger by far, and equally
vulnerable to diseases never prior considered,
these tissues patches, interwoven skins, two
fabrics, silk and wool, a smooth itchy, that
makes us stronger with yet unknowns of weaknesses, and then we encounter what
cannot easily be digested, comprehended,
for even new cells split apart, and the terrible
terror of dividing division that is the side effect of integration, new subdivisions never
ever forever foreseen cause volcanic tremors
and trusting your other half is awful,
until the fear subsides
*this is the why
I write of
only love poetry,
the study of this process
so poorly and powerfully
misunderstood
is the atom bomb
of the human psyche
in rivers dark we travel,
oars with cotton muffled,
for there are dangers on each bank,
and in the waters beneath
the salt and the fresh
excitingly & violently blending,
different weights
somethings fall to the bottom,
others rise to the top
*and when the process is nearly resolved
(for never ending,
by default defined,
for end is a conflict
constant
interrupted by truces fraught,
fragrant and vulnerable)
*this then
is living,
this physic of the
bio-il-logic process
called love,
and the endlessness
that it requires
the inconstancy
of the
constancy
of the
deepening well,
and the
redemption of
redefinition
of what is
well*
<>
2:10pm
nyc
10/21/24
Oct 21, 2024
Oct 21, 2024 at 2:11 PM UTC
Emperor patriarch enemy family
encyclopedia room flamboyance
and the minions of civilization bow
creviced foreheads etched
with hieroglyphic concentration
pantomiming the harmony of
banana splits dripping
on fireplace slippers
woven into the stories
your neighbors greeted you with
from the other side of the hedge
on the night the great comet arced
into our living rooms
and we kissed oh so
TV-like with the laugh track
clapping in time with the sprinklers
cha cha change the diaper ditty
after supper over done
under the influence
and in a fix
me another martini
extra olives
the smell of negligence
on her creamy pampered thighs
and the aromatic evidence
of lawn mower trim
on her teddy
bareness slipping away into comfort
the children wagering battle
plans with a mouse clicking
crayons left in box
cars matched tickets scratched
windows latched
onto
hobo toxic shock n awe
to see abandominiums
littering lots in crackopolis
virtual and simulated
between the in laws
and the outlaws
the grand apparentless routine
on display
could I borrow a toaster
or waffle with your wife
over the last stick of butter
backdoor banter about
Soldier of fortune
your last subscription
to the mercenary position of
the cul de sac coup d’état
taking place in spinning
class conscious of the fourth
estate third world second
generation first born zero
down home subdivisions
of the disenchanted
evening news is on excuse
that the whole thing is fixed
mortgages futures the lottery
tuition and everybody wins
army navy air force marines
corpses floating cross culture
reference guides to prescription
medication of futile society
Jonesing with the keeping
ups and out of product till
prime time reminds us
why we’re all here
waiting for the aliens
to excavate us.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
When you left it was hard to see through the vapour that was left by your soul,
just transient corridors paved with emptiness, echoes of your voice,
staring through windows as if they were mirrors reflecting the spirit within, foreboding, dark skies, rain as cold as my tears
these walls hide your face, they come alive and ****** the memories away, mocking in synergy, the fast approaching coldness of the new day
that transient moment between the comfort of night and the rising sun quickens the weeping spirit
we seek the subdivisions of love, whilst hiding in the darkness of despair, yet when it comes and the countenance is lifted, the hand of the shadow takes away our light.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
They used to worship the Creator
Now they worship job creators
Because of their blind nature
And aggressive nomenclature
They sacrifice life and limb
Bringing all that is grim
Making the world dim
Not listening to Him
They won’t budge
While they judge
And hold a grudge
As they trudge
Behind whoever has the answers
Or can cure their cancer
Like a magic necromancer
Raising skeleton dancers
They’re sheep
They’re slaves
I’m not deep
I’m just saying
Their praying
Donkey braying
Causes slaying
Fish filleting
Christianity seems stupid
After they’ve used it
Which is ********
From a ghoul’s wit
Who can’t cool it
Becoming enslaved by anger
And afraid of strangers
Any threat of danger
Nullifies Jesus’ manger
The pious anoint them
The rich exploit them
I wish I could avoid them
Instead I just annoy them
They say the Bible is the greatest thing ever written
But I really love the song Subdivisions
Which they call derision
But Jesus said we would do greater works
Yet the mere idea of that hurts
So they act like jerks
When I tell them not to compare Hattori Hanzo swords
They formulate violent hateful hordes
Expelling anger they’ve stored
Towards me
Trying to set them free
From a more manipulative breed
Until I hate them
And underrate them
After they understated
Jesus’ compassion
I can’t see in their fashion
Building a fascist far right bastion
They scream
And yell
Their dream
A hell
I can’t tell
How they fell
Under the spell
Of a holy well
They’re lured
By a cure
And obscure
The truer
Who can make progress
But meet resistance
In holy offense
And insistence
We may need some distance
To make up this difference
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 5:31 PM UTC
The realization that the notion of change means nothing, brought in by tears at the exact magic stroke of midnight in Donald Trump’s New York hotel, Manhattan. Bookstores buying everything in sight to build an impression, being calm being calm, loving hands are held. Seeing winter trees so quiet in such a small mulled-wine-man-made town, searching for dead women down the curves of subdivisions in the dark. Waking wrapped inside scratchy childhood blankets that kept me awake last night, kissing that face near running hot water, shivering legs always trying not to be heard
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
Today I shed some tired eyes
Under leaves, leaves with corners
and sharp edges
Today I shed some weary legs
Upward over the mountain
down into the streams
The fragrant and decaying
The cloying and the stagnant
Odd how a man can look over miles of open country
& see nothing but subdivisions
Odd how a man can look at another
& **** for a belief
Odd how a man can smile into the empty bottle
& see no light through the glass
Bones buried under sand a time, bulldozed another foot deeper
Someones kid hidden behind a picture in a wallet
We hid somewhere, in those bushes in the field
Hid from ourselves
Listened to the creek and tried to decipher language
The tea your brewed sits cold in my hands
And the smiles you shared sit cold in my lips
We drank together on the beach, me and these guys
Selling cigarettes to put food on the table
While their sisters sold themselves
And all I could decipher through my drunkness
Was that I wasn't supposed to be there
Never was, never was
I sit with these ugly ballpoint words and think of you
I sit with these grasshopper thoughts and think of nothing
I sit with my feet in still water, my eyes on dead clouds
I think of the broken days
Blackout wine bottle days
Writing on the wall on where to ride trains to
Through New Mexico, to drift
Fall off the face of it for a while
Bootknife nights
We spoke through the cigarette smoke
How we didn't choke I'm not sure
Made me put them down
For good
It was odd, watching those dogs eat those camels
In the sand dunes
The bodies of a car accident lopsided and covered in someones
sheets
Drove for days, small cities, large refineries
An empty ocean that seemed to carry its sand into the horizon
Dune after dune
Somehow we bargained a pack of smokes for two
Saudi riyal
I drank to much and said to little, she always said
Over and gone, pictures on the fridge
Sleeping at 2, waking at 5
Eyes heavy and the first cigarette
A cup of coffee and the slow realization
That the sun remains to rise
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
Have you seen the newest
subdivisions they are building
these days? Tiny two story
******* box things all alike
standing cheek to jowl with
maybe three feet in between,
one might be ok standing alone,
but thirty in a row is shockingly
disturbing. With no yard front
or back to plant any flowers or
even let your dog take a crap.
I suppose they are affordable
for new first-time buyers in
this everything overpriced
world we seem to be living.
As for me, I would rather live
in a van down by the river.
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 7:54 PM UTC
they make the plans,
subdivisions of perfectly aligned streets,
and small lots that were once filled with trees,
building houses that represent
what you're supposed to strive for:
money, opulence, a wealth that now exists in ones and zeroes
on a monthly statement that may or may not even be true,
that we can't even trust,
countless numbers of people being told this is what they want,
filling these homes with extra things
they don't need or use
except when entertaining,
all driven by a company that tells them this is the American Dream -
to live in cookie-cutter houses
with no personality,
no imperfections,
a pretend facade,
to hide the imperfections of ourselves
in the guise of manicured lawns and beige paint.
give me a house that isn't perfect,
that needs paint and maybe a new porch,
where the corners aren't perfectly square,
and the yard grows weeds in between the grasses,
where the gutters need to be cleaned
because the trees are just a little too close,
and the spiders in the basement need to be relocated to outside.
give me the realness of imperfection,
a home that reflects who we are:
a little chaos
a little polish
a little messy
a little comfy
a little crazy
a little loving
a little bit of everything, out in the open
no longer hiding.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
Figmental retrospection.
A delusion. A castle in the sky.
Peering from the far side of some sequestered perspective.
Perceived as a fictious daydream.
An incohesive reality.
Your subdivisions experience an incommensurable verisimilitude.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 6:45 AM UTC
We got drunk on 70’s media
Deep in suburbia mind states..
No one had to wonder
Nixon was definitely a fake!
Vietnam was viewed
Through a fisheye lens
Body bags on helicopters
****** a moral sin
When it was over
There was little respect
For any of them…
Mar 4, 2022
Mar 4, 2022 at 3:02 PM UTC