The stolen continent, in the center of the map
Now that we have destroyed it, can we give it back?
You heft your bag, wish you could flag a taxi cab
It's not so, not so bad, but man, does it make you mad
We solved these problems all before, or so it had seemed
History's just a window glimpsed in a dimming screen
We whisper, never again, but there was so much of it
Will it chase your touch? Will it rise from the place your fingers split?
Crave isolation, tape each wintry window shut
And praise stagnation until your shook hands spill the cup
Can there ever be months or years of a blissful, safe routine
Or must we never let our sharp edges grow less keen?
Waste not, want not: desolate homelands fill each shelf
What you pay for, say, what you bought, may as well have done yourself
That apartment you can't afford is built on a pauper's grave
And your sleek new outfit reeks with the stitched-in sweat of slaves
How can you carve out rot when the tools you've got are smeared
With the blood on the hands that made them, marinaded for years
Where there is oxygen, there's fire, though it burns us slow
When every inch of soil is ash - tell me where we'll go
This is the old world now: not even the lies are new
All the truth I know is I don't know what I have got to do
Showing posts with label poetry and lyrics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry and lyrics. Show all posts
on standard candles
A "standard candle" is the twin supernova that marks the death of a certain type of double star system. Its uniform brightness allows astronomers to measure time and distance.
What is the standard candle of a life?
a predatory action so banal
it measures us, as drum thuds under fife
so we must speak with it to speak at all
A parent passed - a lover out of touch
one last fight cut between us, jagged, sears
fortunate I have only hurt so much;
there's so much heartache I have yet to fear
A child who dies, whose parent must yet live
a city razed, never to be rebuilt
a trust betrayed, that no one can forgive
hearts too far gone to even measure guilt -
I cannot ink the map of her or him
on whom my sorrow sheds a light so dim
What is the standard candle of a life?
a predatory action so banal
it measures us, as drum thuds under fife
so we must speak with it to speak at all
A parent passed - a lover out of touch
one last fight cut between us, jagged, sears
fortunate I have only hurt so much;
there's so much heartache I have yet to fear
A child who dies, whose parent must yet live
a city razed, never to be rebuilt
a trust betrayed, that no one can forgive
hearts too far gone to even measure guilt -
I cannot ink the map of her or him
on whom my sorrow sheds a light so dim
sola orbit
Inspired in part by the unlikely but wonderfully fruitful friendship between Edmond Halley and Sir Isaac Newton.
The only substance in the world is fire
and flecks of ash, slow-drifting down the draft
the exhalation of a god Who laughed
a burning art that sparked its heart's desire
a warmth that gathers all things in its grasp,
for which the shape of space itself makes room
it breathes in; every atom it consumes
cracks open with a last excited gasp
so every man and woman is a star
aflame within with outward loves and pains
in hidden realms too precious to defend
from friends who ask - oh, gently! - where you are
only your path across the dark explains
what bright Sun's at your destination's end
The only substance in the world is fire
and flecks of ash, slow-drifting down the draft
the exhalation of a god Who laughed
a burning art that sparked its heart's desire
a warmth that gathers all things in its grasp,
for which the shape of space itself makes room
it breathes in; every atom it consumes
cracks open with a last excited gasp
so every man and woman is a star
aflame within with outward loves and pains
in hidden realms too precious to defend
from friends who ask - oh, gently! - where you are
only your path across the dark explains
what bright Sun's at your destination's end
together
All things are held together in the dark
with desperation and a twist of wire.
Why fix it till it's actually on fire,
or breaks in ways that leave no outward mark?
A thirsty dog drinks water, splashing loud;
devices cry for power till they die;
a tree's roots shrug through concrete streets, and I
hunt for familiar faces in the crowd.
All souls are bound together - but by what?
The whispered shout, I AM, within the skull?
Some secret note, impossible to know,
hummed in blind bone - warm, twisting through the gut?
My heart still hungers, though my belly's full,
for that ghost smile, before you say "hello."
with desperation and a twist of wire.
Why fix it till it's actually on fire,
or breaks in ways that leave no outward mark?
A thirsty dog drinks water, splashing loud;
devices cry for power till they die;
a tree's roots shrug through concrete streets, and I
hunt for familiar faces in the crowd.
All souls are bound together - but by what?
The whispered shout, I AM, within the skull?
Some secret note, impossible to know,
hummed in blind bone - warm, twisting through the gut?
My heart still hungers, though my belly's full,
for that ghost smile, before you say "hello."
to you
Look here:
there's iron in your veins,
trains in your blood,
the hearts of burnt-out stars
that thundered in the dark ten billion years,
here, still -
your heart that beats, unbeaten, still.
This treasure cost your mothers, fathers, tons -
their innocence;
your innocence,
their will.
Until
we turn our faces each from each,
each child of dust holds heaven in its hands
and stands
a life spat in the cold night's empty eye
one spark struck, deep in crushing dust
ignites a sun
and one lit flame makes death itself untrue
and every movement pierces stillness through
the cosmos melts down, and is forged anew
in you
there's iron in your veins,
trains in your blood,
the hearts of burnt-out stars
that thundered in the dark ten billion years,
here, still -
your heart that beats, unbeaten, still.
This treasure cost your mothers, fathers, tons -
their innocence;
your innocence,
their will.
Until
we turn our faces each from each,
each child of dust holds heaven in its hands
and stands
a life spat in the cold night's empty eye
one spark struck, deep in crushing dust
ignites a sun
and one lit flame makes death itself untrue
and every movement pierces stillness through
the cosmos melts down, and is forged anew
in you
beastly
Tell pleasing lies, two decades out of date.
He lied about you: I should pat your hand
And sadly say I understood too late.
Long gone fears growl, howl, batter at the gate,
Summoned, undead, like bones from barren land;
Tell pleasing lies, two decades out of date.
No feelings now - let faith and judgment wait
For documents and witnesses. Demand,
O heart, a beast this meat will never sate.
Cut, gut me, heap me on your empty plate.
Win in the end, as you had always planned.
Tell pleasing lies, two decades out of date.
No wild hope, no, nor noble-minded trait
Sinks tales like yours neck-deep in desert sand.
O heart! A beast this meat will never sate.
And you, my mother, could have been so great.
Here's cursed forgiveness you won't understand.
Tell pleasing lies two decades out of date,
O heart - a beast this meat will never sate.
He lied about you: I should pat your hand
And sadly say I understood too late.
Long gone fears growl, howl, batter at the gate,
Summoned, undead, like bones from barren land;
Tell pleasing lies, two decades out of date.
No feelings now - let faith and judgment wait
For documents and witnesses. Demand,
O heart, a beast this meat will never sate.
Cut, gut me, heap me on your empty plate.
Win in the end, as you had always planned.
Tell pleasing lies, two decades out of date.
No wild hope, no, nor noble-minded trait
Sinks tales like yours neck-deep in desert sand.
O heart! A beast this meat will never sate.
And you, my mother, could have been so great.
Here's cursed forgiveness you won't understand.
Tell pleasing lies two decades out of date,
O heart - a beast this meat will never sate.
photosynthesis
Second doppler poem! I'm gonna offset the alternating lines in this one so it's easier to see the two distinct poems within the poem. Here the "blueshift" perspective (read alternating lines from beginning to end) is that of a forest absorbing the light of the sun and using that energy to transform itself. The "redshift" perspective is the light of the sun being captured by a forest and finding itself totally consumed as a result of living processes. I finally figured out a regular rhyme pattern that works for a doppler poem. Fiendishly difficult, but it helped a lot when I get stuck, writing it outward from the center, to have a rhyme-word to draw out the next equal but opposite image-concept in the transformation process.
as rock's a molten planet's skin
so forests are the way life found
to harness all of sunlight's toil
the sun's rays stripped of every tone
its lush growth captures, winnows thin
through withered husks heaped up in mounds
strands stick like honey, glide like oil
gouge trenches out between hard stones
what sky rains down, the earth drinks in
strip broken rootlets from dry ground
sink fingers into cool wet soil
earth shrugs off flesh, sky scrapes clean bones
plow furrows where new life begins
dust, windswept, granulate, unbound
as delicate fresh furls uncoil
where once white naked light had shone
they give the rainbow back again
absorb the spectrum up and down
life cools light; brings itself to boil
to make stars' radiance its own
as rock's a molten planet's skin
so forests are the way life found
to harness all of sunlight's toil
the sun's rays stripped of every tone
its lush growth captures, winnows thin
through withered husks heaped up in mounds
strands stick like honey, glide like oil
gouge trenches out between hard stones
what sky rains down, the earth drinks in
strip broken rootlets from dry ground
sink fingers into cool wet soil
earth shrugs off flesh, sky scrapes clean bones
plow furrows where new life begins
dust, windswept, granulate, unbound
as delicate fresh furls uncoil
where once white naked light had shone
they give the rainbow back again
absorb the spectrum up and down
life cools light; brings itself to boil
to make stars' radiance its own
the distance from C
At both the wake and the funeral for my cousin JP, I heard people relate the story that he could hear a note and recognize instantly where it was on the keyboard, which note and which octave. I knew I wouldn't be able to feel grief right away but I knew it would show up in the form of a song and that this would be the title. Then it showed up today; I was at Amber's house and found out my aunt Rosie, JP's mom, was going to come visit. So the song's in first person but, y'know, it's not supposed to be me talking. I want the song to do the thing it's for; Rosie wasn't up for listening to me play it today, she's been through a lot lately. But I hope it can do the thing it showed up to do, for her, at some point. It's gonna drive me nuts till I get it recorded, but putting the lyrics down here will help some till I get back to my place.
so I fought but the last battle cost me the war
but I never forgot whom I was fighting for
never meant to be cold, I just couldn't be sure
wish that I could have stayed just a little but more
yeah, you love me, but take your words out of my name
I wanted your affection, to hell with my fame
it's in me to give thanks, never once to lay blame
just please say you are different than when I came
well if God wrote my life as a jest
He ain't laughing at me
it's a shout in the dark
that goes echoing endlessly
when I get to the nest where the sun hatched
He'll know it's me
like the bright little ache in my chest
knows the distance from C
so I fought but the last battle cost me the war
but I never forgot whom I was fighting for
never meant to be cold, I just couldn't be sure
wish that I could have stayed just a little but more
yeah, you love me, but take your words out of my name
I wanted your affection, to hell with my fame
it's in me to give thanks, never once to lay blame
just please say you are different than when I came
well if God wrote my life as a jest
He ain't laughing at me
it's a shout in the dark
that goes echoing endlessly
when I get to the nest where the sun hatched
He'll know it's me
like the bright little ache in my chest
knows the distance from C
the naked eye
Distrust what grasps to give perception shape
to hold and tilt it, cuplike, lip to face
slot every object in its proper place
pedestrian, dark door: danger, escape.
It is a shade drawn over broken glass
thick makeup covering a pockmarked cheek
I wrench my mind from it, call myself weak
for letting expectation gather mass,
but God! the terror of all things made new--
these strangers' fingers sprouted from my hand
this tongue writhes wetly under every note
I sing with joy for rubbish, mountains, dew,
the risen sun, the stone beneath the land,
the spike of hope stuck sideways in my throat.
to hold and tilt it, cuplike, lip to face
slot every object in its proper place
pedestrian, dark door: danger, escape.
It is a shade drawn over broken glass
thick makeup covering a pockmarked cheek
I wrench my mind from it, call myself weak
for letting expectation gather mass,
but God! the terror of all things made new--
these strangers' fingers sprouted from my hand
this tongue writhes wetly under every note
I sing with joy for rubbish, mountains, dew,
the risen sun, the stone beneath the land,
the spike of hope stuck sideways in my throat.
Life is very good and I have a lot to be thankful for, and I know it.
This poem, though, does not arise out of that gratitude. I have to be honest with myself and let myself go ahead and feel grumpy about the few things I do have to be grumpy about. My little sister's in jail, my ex won't take me back, my computer died with a lot of cherished stuff on it and my closest friends are all either seriously depressed or really worried about stuff going on in their own lives. And I still haven't got my creative fire stoked hot enough yet to even write a blues song about it. So early this morning I at least managed to put it into a sonnet. I'm grateful for that.
The poems used to pull me out of bed,
but now I need the motherfucking sleep.
Cause cash is king and poetry is cheap,
I'll take the extra half an hour instead.
Too soon I'll just be ashes in an urn
and you'll be withered, impotent and frail.
Who'll know if all your bold ambitions failed
or care I perished with so much to learn?
It makes me sick to look at my guitar
when every line I've written sounds so trite,
square, overclocked with words that won't burst through
to where I sit, not knowing where you are
or why the hell it matters what I do
or how the fuck I'm managing to write.
This poem, though, does not arise out of that gratitude. I have to be honest with myself and let myself go ahead and feel grumpy about the few things I do have to be grumpy about. My little sister's in jail, my ex won't take me back, my computer died with a lot of cherished stuff on it and my closest friends are all either seriously depressed or really worried about stuff going on in their own lives. And I still haven't got my creative fire stoked hot enough yet to even write a blues song about it. So early this morning I at least managed to put it into a sonnet. I'm grateful for that.
The poems used to pull me out of bed,
but now I need the motherfucking sleep.
Cause cash is king and poetry is cheap,
I'll take the extra half an hour instead.
Too soon I'll just be ashes in an urn
and you'll be withered, impotent and frail.
Who'll know if all your bold ambitions failed
or care I perished with so much to learn?
It makes me sick to look at my guitar
when every line I've written sounds so trite,
square, overclocked with words that won't burst through
to where I sit, not knowing where you are
or why the hell it matters what I do
or how the fuck I'm managing to write.
it's enough
Wrote most of this back on the 6th, got the rest today. Twenty days is a little above average for how long it takes for a song to germinate; "teeth of the storm" is still my record-holder at a little over two years.
Mychal, you'll perhaps be happy to know this one took most of its inspiration from you. You've been wanting me to write a song about you for years! XD Of course it's as much about my own experience as anything, wouldn't have been able to write it otherwise. And as always hopefully lots of people can find something in it that says "oh yeah, that feeling. I know that one."
Guitar chords on the left, in case I should happen to lose the hard copy.
D] it isn't enough
Am G] to know how it feels and be able to say
D] you have to be anchored outside of it, grateful
Am G] that what came to pass did not stay
D] it isn't enough
Am G] to love without limit, forsaking all pride
D] no one has to let you
Am G] even be on their side, even be on their side
Em Bm A] but you hear the prayer
D A] in the song of the wheels
Em Bm A] travel there along
G A] something stronger than steel
D] and you roll out of bed into shelter and comfort
Am G] and calm and it isn't enough
D] and you roll right through walls that stood tall against sieges
Am G] and storms and it isn't enough
D] and you roll back the sky and the skin of the globe
Am G] and stand naked and cold in the night
D] and it isn't enough
Am G] and there's nothing to fight
Em Bm A] but you hear the voice
D A] that it breaks you to hear
Em Bm A] cause it's not your choice
D A] that can beckon you near
G Bm A Em] slide your tongue inside till you cannot pull it out
G Bm A Em] open red eyes wide on what you used to dream about
G Bm A Em] pull your hand from the hand that ain't your lover's anymore
G Bm A Em] when the void gapes wide where there used to be a floor
G Bm A Em] spend your sweat and blood till every heartbeat is a crime
G Bm A Em] the torrent rips it from you till there's nothing left but time
G D G] only gravity never gives up
Bm A] so it must be love
G Bm G A] tell me, who can tell you who can tell you
G Bm G A] who can tell you who can tell you
G D A] who can tell you
D] it's enough
Mychal, you'll perhaps be happy to know this one took most of its inspiration from you. You've been wanting me to write a song about you for years! XD Of course it's as much about my own experience as anything, wouldn't have been able to write it otherwise. And as always hopefully lots of people can find something in it that says "oh yeah, that feeling. I know that one."
Guitar chords on the left, in case I should happen to lose the hard copy.
D] it isn't enough
Am G] to know how it feels and be able to say
D] you have to be anchored outside of it, grateful
Am G] that what came to pass did not stay
D] it isn't enough
Am G] to love without limit, forsaking all pride
D] no one has to let you
Am G] even be on their side, even be on their side
Em Bm A] but you hear the prayer
D A] in the song of the wheels
Em Bm A] travel there along
G A] something stronger than steel
D] and you roll out of bed into shelter and comfort
Am G] and calm and it isn't enough
D] and you roll right through walls that stood tall against sieges
Am G] and storms and it isn't enough
D] and you roll back the sky and the skin of the globe
Am G] and stand naked and cold in the night
D] and it isn't enough
Am G] and there's nothing to fight
Em Bm A] but you hear the voice
D A] that it breaks you to hear
Em Bm A] cause it's not your choice
D A] that can beckon you near
G Bm A Em] slide your tongue inside till you cannot pull it out
G Bm A Em] open red eyes wide on what you used to dream about
G Bm A Em] pull your hand from the hand that ain't your lover's anymore
G Bm A Em] when the void gapes wide where there used to be a floor
G Bm A Em] spend your sweat and blood till every heartbeat is a crime
G Bm A Em] the torrent rips it from you till there's nothing left but time
G D G] only gravity never gives up
Bm A] so it must be love
G Bm G A] tell me, who can tell you who can tell you
G Bm G A] who can tell you who can tell you
G D A] who can tell you
D] it's enough
I can't convince my foolish friends to leave
the Hollywood casino on the Fox.
Lights, camera, action! -- crafted to deceive,
stretch out a losing streak and dull the shocks.
"Good Luck" they say, "Top Spin" and "What A Play!"
as though my skill or knowledge touched the reels
as though tomorrow's substance, spent today,
could buy more than bounced rent checks and missed meals.
The dream unfolds: bright fairies, lions, proud
young women garbed in nothing very much,
gold coins that sting my eyes like wreaths of smoke.
Lights chase themselves across as drums thud, loud
as my poor hopeful heart, command my touch
till I'm slack-jawed with longing -- and flat broke.
the Hollywood casino on the Fox.
Lights, camera, action! -- crafted to deceive,
stretch out a losing streak and dull the shocks.
"Good Luck" they say, "Top Spin" and "What A Play!"
as though my skill or knowledge touched the reels
as though tomorrow's substance, spent today,
could buy more than bounced rent checks and missed meals.
The dream unfolds: bright fairies, lions, proud
young women garbed in nothing very much,
gold coins that sting my eyes like wreaths of smoke.
Lights chase themselves across as drums thud, loud
as my poor hopeful heart, command my touch
till I'm slack-jawed with longing -- and flat broke.
the right thing
Yeah, a lot of times when a person does what they know is right they get shafted. That doesn't mean stop doing it. Following your conscience just means you end up with the least bad option in a situation where all the choices lead to suffering.
she does the right thing
she takes the hit for
an innocent one
they're keeping indoors
it doesn't matter who you call the patient
if the doctor's a fraud
a hero gets retaliation
from the people who should applaud
applaud, when you do the right thing
I do the right thing
I turn the beer down
I let the man talk
he's moving downtown
tells me how he wants to make me
comfy in his passenger seat
won't believe I have the will to tell him no
the right to retreat
retreat, to do the right thing
you do the right thing
you let your heart ache
prepared to live with
a loving mistake
cause if she never comes around again
you know you'll mourn for her soul
to be her lover and to be her friend
you'd even give up control
control, to do the right thing
we do the right thing
we get the short stick
we take a gutshot
like it's a pinprick
we know we got to look into the mirror
at the end of the day
cause only God is worthy of our fear
and honey, he will repay
repay, we do the right thing
she does the right thing
she takes the hit for
an innocent one
they're keeping indoors
it doesn't matter who you call the patient
if the doctor's a fraud
a hero gets retaliation
from the people who should applaud
applaud, when you do the right thing
I do the right thing
I turn the beer down
I let the man talk
he's moving downtown
tells me how he wants to make me
comfy in his passenger seat
won't believe I have the will to tell him no
the right to retreat
retreat, to do the right thing
you do the right thing
you let your heart ache
prepared to live with
a loving mistake
cause if she never comes around again
you know you'll mourn for her soul
to be her lover and to be her friend
you'd even give up control
control, to do the right thing
we do the right thing
we get the short stick
we take a gutshot
like it's a pinprick
we know we got to look into the mirror
at the end of the day
cause only God is worthy of our fear
and honey, he will repay
repay, we do the right thing
lonely as
My neighborhood has a program which allows local artists to display their work in the windows of vacant shops. Which I think is awesome--I love art and it makes the economic decline of my city feel more palatable. There's this one painting--I'll try to get a pic up in the next couple of days--entitled "Lonelier than God". It's a depiction of telephone wires strung from a pole with buildings in the background done in outlandish colors and the artist wants $1200 for it. Alas I don't have $1200, and apparently that's also the title of a (decent but I don't really love it) metal album by the band Blacklisted.
While the painting spoke to me, my mind got stuck on the title. It rang sort of hollow. People speak more often of God's love or mercy or wisdom or wrath, but his loneliness, to me, seems more impenetrable than any of those. He loves us and we're designed to love him back, but we usually don't. And we will never, can never understand him, can never see ourselves or anything else he's made with even a tiny fraction of the passion and possessive pride and anguished loss which, for God, are eternal and infinite.
Feel kind of...I think embarrassed is the word. Feel kind of stupid. Not about the stuff I wrote, cause it's written well enough, but about the fact that this is what I have to say.
This one goes Bm, A, C, G for each line, except the last line of each which gets Bm, G, E. There's lots of triplets which keeps the rhythm interesting. But it's still kind of reptitive melodically and clocks in at about 2 minutes. Still! It's been awhile since I wrote a song. Yay.
totally devoted
and unable to relax
constantly defensive
woman, these are not attacks
they offer what makes them feel strong; I understand, I play along
but so little of it is real
totally unable
to be more than human, weak
wish I could explain it
wish you'd give me leave to speak
for every step I have a plan to draw your hands into my hands
love's the only thing I can't steal
totally defended
oh you hold yourself so tight
your majestic architecture
does it let in any light
I don't know how to care this much and only look and never touch
God says, "now you know how it feels"
he loves us like I love the way
your eyes close when you choke the rage
back down, your laugh, your childlike smile
oh stay love, come stay for just a little while
nobody's as lonely as God
nobody's as lonely as God
nobody's as lonely as God
slake
once the music gushed like rain along a gutter;
swept out, in tangles, every shredded leaf.
sky slit like flesh bled till the red ran dry
and there was only water itself, water after the end of life,
the wound exhausted.
the street drank it in till even the twigs in the cracks
grew succulent.
to an animal the rot of trees smells fresh.
so breathe like a plant;
peel back your parchment skin
and drink the sunlight raw,
set down roots in your own
dry carcass.
now the melody runs under you,
bedded in soil, in the cool round dream
that your scampering heart never let it dream.
the seasons swell your trunk,
crumpling up the concrete
like an old receipt. you stretch, a languid yawn
that takes years. palms to the shifting sky,
waist-deep in street, that thirst spools down
till it draws up crimson
and every trembling branch bursts into song.
swept out, in tangles, every shredded leaf.
sky slit like flesh bled till the red ran dry
and there was only water itself, water after the end of life,
the wound exhausted.
the street drank it in till even the twigs in the cracks
grew succulent.
to an animal the rot of trees smells fresh.
so breathe like a plant;
peel back your parchment skin
and drink the sunlight raw,
set down roots in your own
dry carcass.
now the melody runs under you,
bedded in soil, in the cool round dream
that your scampering heart never let it dream.
the seasons swell your trunk,
crumpling up the concrete
like an old receipt. you stretch, a languid yawn
that takes years. palms to the shifting sky,
waist-deep in street, that thirst spools down
till it draws up crimson
and every trembling branch bursts into song.
did it right
Feel like this song isn't finished. It rose in part from a dream I had, which was disturbing because it was (as I described it to a couple friends) my first-ever torture dream in which I was the perpetrator and not the victim.
The desire to wreak devastation on another person is what happens to the desire for interpersonal connection when one gives in to despair. When I believe, deep down, to the point where it's something I know and have tested many times and proven factual, that there is a depth and flavor of understanding which other people will not or cannot give me, there is the temptation to despair. If I give in to that temptation, then I desire to hurt others as I feel I have been hurt, to force a connection that can't or won't be given voluntarily.
I'm uncertain of the song in part because it doesn't go far enough. And it needs guitar chords. And some of the rhymes feel forced.
Also I'm wrestling with my ability to feel self-generated purpose to the degree that I'm asking myself, with some irritation, why I want to bother.
[did it right] 10/6
when the eyes roll back
when the breath croaks out
when the spine goes slack
then there ain't no doubt
when the bitch can't run
when the kid don't fight
that's how you know, that's how you know
that's how you know, that's how you know
that's how you know, that's how you know
you did it right
when the vomit's dried
when the knife grinds bone
all the way inside
then you're left alone
with the heart's last beat
though you're their last sight
at least you know, at least you know
at least you know, at least you know
at least you know, at least you know
you did it right
baby please don't speak
you'll dislodge the hose
I'm the one who's weak
I know where it goes
when you understand
you will smile so bright
cause I never let you go
never let you go, never never
never let you go
cause I hold your heart so tight
never let you go, never let you go, go
no, no
that's how I know you know
that's how you know I know
that's how you know I know you know
I did it
I did it right
The desire to wreak devastation on another person is what happens to the desire for interpersonal connection when one gives in to despair. When I believe, deep down, to the point where it's something I know and have tested many times and proven factual, that there is a depth and flavor of understanding which other people will not or cannot give me, there is the temptation to despair. If I give in to that temptation, then I desire to hurt others as I feel I have been hurt, to force a connection that can't or won't be given voluntarily.
I'm uncertain of the song in part because it doesn't go far enough. And it needs guitar chords. And some of the rhymes feel forced.
Also I'm wrestling with my ability to feel self-generated purpose to the degree that I'm asking myself, with some irritation, why I want to bother.
[did it right] 10/6
when the eyes roll back
when the breath croaks out
when the spine goes slack
then there ain't no doubt
when the bitch can't run
when the kid don't fight
that's how you know, that's how you know
that's how you know, that's how you know
that's how you know, that's how you know
you did it right
when the vomit's dried
when the knife grinds bone
all the way inside
then you're left alone
with the heart's last beat
though you're their last sight
at least you know, at least you know
at least you know, at least you know
at least you know, at least you know
you did it right
baby please don't speak
you'll dislodge the hose
I'm the one who's weak
I know where it goes
when you understand
you will smile so bright
cause I never let you go
never let you go, never never
never let you go
cause I hold your heart so tight
never let you go, never let you go, go
no, no
that's how I know you know
that's how you know I know
that's how you know I know you know
I did it
I did it right
what is artificial?
What is natural? via Christian Taoism:
All artifice is natural to us.
We sprang from flesh pressed, sweating, till it heaved:
till hers and his thrust, shuddered, let loose. Thus
are persons made, is all design conceived.
Ants march in ordered rows down broken ground,
each shouldering a mote of dust, a crumb.
Queen, servants, soldiers shelter in the mound
raised from their labors, eloquent and dumb.
So what if nature's structure's wound so tight
that schemes we build to couch it come unsprung?
Our craftsmanship's a grass-high pile of dust
riddled with tunnels never meant for light
to penetrate, nor words shaped wet on tongues.
We are. We make. We can. We will. We must.
What is natural?
Anything free
of human invention.
What is nature?
Everything outside
of human intention.
All artifice is natural to us.
We sprang from flesh pressed, sweating, till it heaved:
till hers and his thrust, shuddered, let loose. Thus
are persons made, is all design conceived.
Ants march in ordered rows down broken ground,
each shouldering a mote of dust, a crumb.
Queen, servants, soldiers shelter in the mound
raised from their labors, eloquent and dumb.
So what if nature's structure's wound so tight
that schemes we build to couch it come unsprung?
Our craftsmanship's a grass-high pile of dust
riddled with tunnels never meant for light
to penetrate, nor words shaped wet on tongues.
We are. We make. We can. We will. We must.
eating out
This is a Shakespearean sonnet and also a pantoum. The sonnet contributes the meter and length, the pantoum the pattern of repeated lines in which the stanzas interweave with one another.
People who are used to keeping themselves aloof, in one way or another, over time can discover they've grown fond. And the fondness, even the comfort of growing accustomed to the comfort it brings, can be an uncertain thing that wisdom dictates one dance around. Like two people treading the spirals of a labyrinth, starting at opposite ends in opposite directions, their paths draw near together and then wind apart many times before they reach the center.
we two hands circle, meeting at the twelves,
spread from the rung round which the world revolves.
we lift the cup, pay up, indebt ourselves,
and even domesticity evolves.
spread from the rung round which the world revolves,
a wave of calm strokes down the ruffled spines.
and even domesticity evolves:
a slaughtered beast, poised succulent on tines.
a wave of calm strokes down the ruffled spines.
we sit up straight in hard-backed chairs and smile.
a slaughtered beast, poised succulent on tines,
rests warm within us, cradled there awhile.
we lift the cup, pay up; indebt ourselves.
we, two hands, circle, meeting at the twelves.
People who are used to keeping themselves aloof, in one way or another, over time can discover they've grown fond. And the fondness, even the comfort of growing accustomed to the comfort it brings, can be an uncertain thing that wisdom dictates one dance around. Like two people treading the spirals of a labyrinth, starting at opposite ends in opposite directions, their paths draw near together and then wind apart many times before they reach the center.
we two hands circle, meeting at the twelves,
spread from the rung round which the world revolves.
we lift the cup, pay up, indebt ourselves,
and even domesticity evolves.
spread from the rung round which the world revolves,
a wave of calm strokes down the ruffled spines.
and even domesticity evolves:
a slaughtered beast, poised succulent on tines.
a wave of calm strokes down the ruffled spines.
we sit up straight in hard-backed chairs and smile.
a slaughtered beast, poised succulent on tines,
rests warm within us, cradled there awhile.
we lift the cup, pay up; indebt ourselves.
we, two hands, circle, meeting at the twelves.
destroying ontology
"We must, on the contrary, stake out the positive possibilities of that tradition [of the question of Being], and this always means keeping it within its limits [...]"
~ Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, p. 44
I, relentless, name only truth addictive.
Ricochet, burst open to spill within it,
then bow down to kiss what is most restrictive:
absolute limit.
I, undone, define me in opposition.
What uproots me? This, to be sure, has touched me.
All I have submits. At the core, ignition
sparks in what must be
I, inmost, ownmost, who cannot be taken,
broken, torn away from the self which shows me
to the world, and shows me a world to wake in.
Thus my God knows me.
~ Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, p. 44
I, relentless, name only truth addictive.
Ricochet, burst open to spill within it,
then bow down to kiss what is most restrictive:
absolute limit.
I, undone, define me in opposition.
What uproots me? This, to be sure, has touched me.
All I have submits. At the core, ignition
sparks in what must be
I, inmost, ownmost, who cannot be taken,
broken, torn away from the self which shows me
to the world, and shows me a world to wake in.
Thus my God knows me.
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