This is the first freeverse I've written in a loooong time.
I look at it and sort of have to facepalm. Just look at the stupid images. It's mega obvious. And the title, of course, you know, the hopefully apocryphal pagan tradition of killing a guy and plowing him into the fields as a fertility rite, major hint. Okay, girl, we get it, you wanna get laid.
you yearn
to shuck the blankets from your knees
and finish convalescing
wobble out to glint, glossy,
nude in the golden afternoon
as the pearl-sheened kernels
under the husk.
there is enough, you know there is enough
plump succulence
nestled in the silken strands
to be both planted
and devoured
bitten into, butter-drenched
and folded into cool, dark earth
to come up young again.
I orient myself towards some pain
and look upon it, and its source, with love.
Trace how it's rooted in the forces of
repulsion and adhesion. Feel the strain
of separated things to join once more:
the wrinkled edges of a healing cut.
My answer when you're wrong about me: "but
you're wrong about me" chafes me till I'm sore,
until I stitch the separated sides
together--roughly, bloody. Good enough
to foil the flies that fresh red blood attracts.
What's torn apart is hurt, but pain abides
in distance, searing every edge that's rough
till it fits smooth as evidence fits facts.
and look upon it, and its source, with love.
Trace how it's rooted in the forces of
repulsion and adhesion. Feel the strain
of separated things to join once more:
the wrinkled edges of a healing cut.
My answer when you're wrong about me: "but
you're wrong about me" chafes me till I'm sore,
until I stitch the separated sides
together--roughly, bloody. Good enough
to foil the flies that fresh red blood attracts.
What's torn apart is hurt, but pain abides
in distance, searing every edge that's rough
till it fits smooth as evidence fits facts.
like riding a bike
now wrap a chain around two wheels with teeth
watch splayed-out bits of metal learn to fly
down long roads nocked like arrows at the sky
this blur of chrome and paint, these two swift feet
just pause, rock back, recalculating, poised
the hands rest loose, the long cool alloy frame
rider and ridden, destination same
bound by that ready twang, the joyful noise
of rubber pealing over pavement, flesh
pressed in, embracing interfaces tight
to feel the contact coursing through, the song
"rise up, daughter of Zion, rise and thresh"
to human and machine, stood up at right
angles to earth, and no direction wrong
watch splayed-out bits of metal learn to fly
down long roads nocked like arrows at the sky
this blur of chrome and paint, these two swift feet
just pause, rock back, recalculating, poised
the hands rest loose, the long cool alloy frame
rider and ridden, destination same
bound by that ready twang, the joyful noise
of rubber pealing over pavement, flesh
pressed in, embracing interfaces tight
to feel the contact coursing through, the song
"rise up, daughter of Zion, rise and thresh"
to human and machine, stood up at right
angles to earth, and no direction wrong
Unlubricated gears and levers scream.
Come, scrape the skin-snug coat of rust aside
until it opens wide. It opens wide
to lap up light and air like cats drink cream.
What scuttles scatters shrapnel in its haste
to carve a deeper crack and crawl inside.
Rust, filth and dust and I lived where they hide.
Fed on my love, they ate and could not taste.
Now here comes sun, to lay their home to waste
to heal my twisted, mechanistic name,
re-forge me, sleek, new, polished till I glow.
They flee who once consumed me now. I chased
the morning star until my hands caught flame
and burned down hell, the only place I know.
..........................
It kinda sucks. Yeah, yeah it really does. Cause I've had a long, long spell without writing any poetry at all and my image-maker is rusty. Eventually I will move out of sonnets, but I feel like I want to hide in sonnets for while because they're so easy. Like you know you can make spaghetti with cheese'n'peas and it's easy as hell and good, so you make it like four days in a row. Sonnets are totally my spaghetti. Easy and always at least vaguely edible.
Come, scrape the skin-snug coat of rust aside
until it opens wide. It opens wide
to lap up light and air like cats drink cream.
What scuttles scatters shrapnel in its haste
to carve a deeper crack and crawl inside.
Rust, filth and dust and I lived where they hide.
Fed on my love, they ate and could not taste.
Now here comes sun, to lay their home to waste
to heal my twisted, mechanistic name,
re-forge me, sleek, new, polished till I glow.
They flee who once consumed me now. I chased
the morning star until my hands caught flame
and burned down hell, the only place I know.
..........................
It kinda sucks. Yeah, yeah it really does. Cause I've had a long, long spell without writing any poetry at all and my image-maker is rusty. Eventually I will move out of sonnets, but I feel like I want to hide in sonnets for while because they're so easy. Like you know you can make spaghetti with cheese'n'peas and it's easy as hell and good, so you make it like four days in a row. Sonnets are totally my spaghetti. Easy and always at least vaguely edible.
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.
nice place you got there
all by your lonesome
you'll be surprised what
you'll find if you want some
if you want some
bricked up the chimneys
boarded the windows
plugged all the drainpipes
you still let her in though
let her in though
painted the mirrors
to not let her out
can't say why you fear her
she lives in your mouth
in your mouth
(ooo)
nice place you got there
which do you preserve
the inside or outside
you ain't got the nerve
got the nerve
to touch them together
and find out how small
is everything heaped up
inside of your wall
of your wall
she's just a baby
she drinks till she sleeps
wake up if you want to
to hear how she weeps
how she weeps
(ooo)
all by your lonesome
you'll be surprised what
you'll find if you want some
if you want some
bricked up the chimneys
boarded the windows
plugged all the drainpipes
you still let her in though
let her in though
painted the mirrors
to not let her out
can't say why you fear her
she lives in your mouth
in your mouth
(ooo)
nice place you got there
which do you preserve
the inside or outside
you ain't got the nerve
got the nerve
to touch them together
and find out how small
is everything heaped up
inside of your wall
of your wall
she's just a baby
she drinks till she sleeps
wake up if you want to
to hear how she weeps
how she weeps
(ooo)
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.
tornado love
(Reposted from Facebook cause I like this thought and want to hang on to it.)
Had big fun at the MSI today with Amber! :D We saw the Omnimax version of Tornado Alley. It was directed by, and partly starring, longtime storm chaser Sean Casey. Dude built a homemade tank for the sole purpose of driving into the center of a tornado and filming it. One of the shots early in the movie showed him fitting the tank together and you see a wedding ring. I said afterwards, "he's married to his wife, but he's in love with the tornado."
It made me think, do I love anything the way that guy loves the tornado?
After a movie's worth of near misses and a lot of good science, the storm chasing team finally dooes it. You see a brief shot of Casey's face--helpless, weeping, but filled with a kind of awe and gratitude and pure raw love that you can't fake. Like a storm, that kind of love can rip through a life and devastate it in an instant; it can gather passionate people together and send them out racing in the rain hoping to catch a glimpse of it, hoping to brush up against it.
For me, getting to see someone have an experience like that--that's my tornado. The loves we build our lives around, the dreams and passions wherein we feel a slight inkling of the kind of relentless joy God must take in his creation, must have felt to have formed it in the first place, these things fuel us and shape who we become. Your driving love in a sense is your name, the touchstone on which your being rests. Sean Casey is a storm chaser, and in the climax of that movie, he caught one.
I live to see names come true. Like a storm, I can't make it happen. But I can do good science and look for the signs and hang on through long dry seasons for the hint of a glimpse of it. It doesn't happen in a place, and it doesn't leave scars across the landscape as such. But it's getting to see in people, just for a moment, what God must have seen when he first imagined them, what they know themselves to truly be in that secret place beneath all the pettiness and worry.
How do you chase that? Where do you go to find more of it? There's no Tornado Alley for the human heart; one place, one social group, one endeavor is really as good as another. But I'm glad to have that image for it.
Had big fun at the MSI today with Amber! :D We saw the Omnimax version of Tornado Alley. It was directed by, and partly starring, longtime storm chaser Sean Casey. Dude built a homemade tank for the sole purpose of driving into the center of a tornado and filming it. One of the shots early in the movie showed him fitting the tank together and you see a wedding ring. I said afterwards, "he's married to his wife, but he's in love with the tornado."
It made me think, do I love anything the way that guy loves the tornado?
After a movie's worth of near misses and a lot of good science, the storm chasing team finally dooes it. You see a brief shot of Casey's face--helpless, weeping, but filled with a kind of awe and gratitude and pure raw love that you can't fake. Like a storm, that kind of love can rip through a life and devastate it in an instant; it can gather passionate people together and send them out racing in the rain hoping to catch a glimpse of it, hoping to brush up against it.
For me, getting to see someone have an experience like that--that's my tornado. The loves we build our lives around, the dreams and passions wherein we feel a slight inkling of the kind of relentless joy God must take in his creation, must have felt to have formed it in the first place, these things fuel us and shape who we become. Your driving love in a sense is your name, the touchstone on which your being rests. Sean Casey is a storm chaser, and in the climax of that movie, he caught one.
I live to see names come true. Like a storm, I can't make it happen. But I can do good science and look for the signs and hang on through long dry seasons for the hint of a glimpse of it. It doesn't happen in a place, and it doesn't leave scars across the landscape as such. But it's getting to see in people, just for a moment, what God must have seen when he first imagined them, what they know themselves to truly be in that secret place beneath all the pettiness and worry.
How do you chase that? Where do you go to find more of it? There's no Tornado Alley for the human heart; one place, one social group, one endeavor is really as good as another. But I'm glad to have that image for it.
what it takes
So I haven't actually "spilled my guts" in this thing in awhile. It really is, and always has been, my online diary, though I did go through a phase when I wanted to gain wider readership for it. Far as I'm concerned now, that's not what a blog is for. It's where I stash that portion of my poetry and song lyrics which are not too private to keep hidden away in my notebooks at home, but a little too edgy, let's say, to post on Facebook.
Forget which movie this quote comes from, but I hear in my mind some British fellow saying "it's been a topsy fuckin weird year." That about sums it up. I still kinda have no idea where I am right now. Scratch that. I know exactly where I am--my neighborhood has become a part of my identity in a way no place ever has been before, my home in the sense that I've chosen to feel it so in addition to the fact that I reside here. But as for who I am and what I'm going to do with my life, that's still up in the air. Settling slowly like leaves in a light breeze.
Note to self: "settle groundward, slow" would be a great phrase to use in a poem.
A great sign of increased mental stability, though, is that I'm getting back both the urge and the ability to write. Not quite up to my four thousand word a day habit from former days. But Mom actually gave me a great metaphor for this yesterday. I was telling her how I'd been worried because lacking the fear motive which used to drive me towards writing, as a form of release from the internal pressure, had left me sort of adrift, hard pressed to find other sources of motivation. And she said, "If you've been driving a car 90 miles an hour in reverse and you want to go forward, first you have to come to a full and complete stop. Then you can start going forward--but at first you go slowly."
We also spoke about our family and the past in a general way. And I got to say something to her that I'd been meaning to say for awhile. Forgiveness means it's over. There were a lot of dark and scary times in our lives, but whatever happens in the future, the past will never return. Even if only because we're all different people now, tempered and matured through experience, and the things which were once unthinkably scary because there was no frame of reference for them will never be new again, never again be totally unexpected.
For a good thing to be familiar makes the joy in it deeper, richer and ever new again. For a bad thing to be familiar actually weakens its power. Even if you confront a terrible event from which there is no escape, if it's something known, something you understand, there's a place inside from which you can laugh at it. Not, of course, because it's any less terrible. Rather that even the terror of it can't eradicate you, can't take you away from yourself.
This, I think, is why I've always gone running towards the things that frighten me. To know, to have made the acquaintance, of anything in life, is to understand yourself in relation to it. And with this understanding comes the experiential boundary between self and threat source, the knowledge of just what it can and cannot take from you. Ultimately everything can be taken except the naked spark. Consciousness, soul, will--names sort of collapse into it--that part of ourselves with which we choose. But the sense in which, as I see it, we are made in God's image, is that a whole self can be built from that spark, just as in Genesis the whole universe is spawned from a single fiat, let there be. And there is is. And here I am.
Even now I have a problem with this, have trouble believing sometimes that I'm really here. I keep seeking out ways to strip myself down to it, as if to reassure myself that it's still there. Which can be as disturbing to anyone who's close to me as it is destructive to myself.
Forget which movie this quote comes from, but I hear in my mind some British fellow saying "it's been a topsy fuckin weird year." That about sums it up. I still kinda have no idea where I am right now. Scratch that. I know exactly where I am--my neighborhood has become a part of my identity in a way no place ever has been before, my home in the sense that I've chosen to feel it so in addition to the fact that I reside here. But as for who I am and what I'm going to do with my life, that's still up in the air. Settling slowly like leaves in a light breeze.
Note to self: "settle groundward, slow" would be a great phrase to use in a poem.
A great sign of increased mental stability, though, is that I'm getting back both the urge and the ability to write. Not quite up to my four thousand word a day habit from former days. But Mom actually gave me a great metaphor for this yesterday. I was telling her how I'd been worried because lacking the fear motive which used to drive me towards writing, as a form of release from the internal pressure, had left me sort of adrift, hard pressed to find other sources of motivation. And she said, "If you've been driving a car 90 miles an hour in reverse and you want to go forward, first you have to come to a full and complete stop. Then you can start going forward--but at first you go slowly."
We also spoke about our family and the past in a general way. And I got to say something to her that I'd been meaning to say for awhile. Forgiveness means it's over. There were a lot of dark and scary times in our lives, but whatever happens in the future, the past will never return. Even if only because we're all different people now, tempered and matured through experience, and the things which were once unthinkably scary because there was no frame of reference for them will never be new again, never again be totally unexpected.
For a good thing to be familiar makes the joy in it deeper, richer and ever new again. For a bad thing to be familiar actually weakens its power. Even if you confront a terrible event from which there is no escape, if it's something known, something you understand, there's a place inside from which you can laugh at it. Not, of course, because it's any less terrible. Rather that even the terror of it can't eradicate you, can't take you away from yourself.
This, I think, is why I've always gone running towards the things that frighten me. To know, to have made the acquaintance, of anything in life, is to understand yourself in relation to it. And with this understanding comes the experiential boundary between self and threat source, the knowledge of just what it can and cannot take from you. Ultimately everything can be taken except the naked spark. Consciousness, soul, will--names sort of collapse into it--that part of ourselves with which we choose. But the sense in which, as I see it, we are made in God's image, is that a whole self can be built from that spark, just as in Genesis the whole universe is spawned from a single fiat, let there be. And there is is. And here I am.
Even now I have a problem with this, have trouble believing sometimes that I'm really here. I keep seeking out ways to strip myself down to it, as if to reassure myself that it's still there. Which can be as disturbing to anyone who's close to me as it is destructive to myself.
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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