Q: Why Are Things Purple?|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 12 most recent journal entries recorded in
MAKING TEH POEMS GO SINCE 2004's LiveJournal:
|Wednesday, February 15th, 2006|
Dreaming of New Mexico in all her sagebrushed mystery,
as her indigo midnight glows, car wheels humming on a
dark lonesome highway -- faintly crackling country songs
sputter out of the stereo drowning out the engine
drowning out the night. Tucumcari diners tend to have
problems with scorpions on their cold bathroom floors...
just a word of warning to the wise, don't go open-toed --
wear shoes instead, & send my love to her wide open skies.
|Monday, October 18th, 2004|
lay your pennies on the rail
because it's time to go home
let the constant weight and pressure
leave the copper hot and flat
we'll return first thing tomorrow
to refill our empty pockets
which will jingle down the line
just like they did before
we put our ear to the steel
and listened too intently
for the rumble miles off,
for the ringing drawing near
and slinking off in saturday silence
with the midnight whistle blowing down the track,
one solitary headlamp to be seen off in the distance
we crept back home through the deathly quiet forest
as tiny drops of cold condensation drip drip drip
from the canopy above down onto our frumpled brows,
rain trickling through newly dampened hairlines
it's tickling your scalp & you let out a giggle
so i shush you impatiently, like a big brother should
we slow up in sadness as we pass a placid playground,
for there's no time to stop and swing on swings
or slide on slides or stand on the big rock,
because tonight, it seems, we're on a mission
that we've deemed too top secret to tell
brother and brother must sometimes go it alone together
dancing in the moonlight, midnight mischief makers,
with only the bears and the bucks and the bugs
to hear our whispers through the woods, sound waves slicing, cutting
whipping on the wind through whiskers & antennae to hairy sleeping ears.
|Thursday, October 7th, 2004|
dreams (the whiskeytown version!)
Sometimes, there’s nothing worse than waking up in the night.
Half asleep, still meandering through your dream,
You try to make sense of your surroundings.
Instead, you find yourself stuck on a thought,
So firmly embedded your whole body burns with it.
It can be anything.
An itch you need to spend the rest of your life scratching all of a sudden.
A fear you can’t quite name.
More of a color or feeling than a concrete idea.
A disquieting out-of-body sense in the relative silence of the apartment.
It comes to me after fighting off feelings.
Love, lack of love...sometimes it all blurs together.
Lust may be a better word, but in a very abstract way, you understand.
Funny how sleep breeds obsession.
You’d think it would be the other way around.
|Tuesday, October 5th, 2004|
The heartbreaking story of Nate's ego or, rather, his insanity
Nate uses the word "virtuoso"
when he describes himself in
the third person, & it's not
because of his inflated ego,
but rather because he's lost
his marbles. You see, Nate
doesn't know who Nate is, &
his parents don't have the
heart to tell him, or rather
maybe they've just stopped
noticing. You know all those
commercials that give tips for
good parenting as an anti-drug,
like 'ask questions
'? Well, Nate's
parents don't really watch t.v.,
so they don't know any better.
They're too busy reading books
on quantum physics (dad) or
trashy romances of the old west
(mom). Meanwhile, Nate is doing
lines of coke off the tits of the
third person he's fucked today.
she heightened everything
“She heightened everything,” or so the song goes,
playing on random shuffle on my iTunes.
I have to wonder – was it a girl heightening things for you,
Or did she take some initiative?
Heighten things for herself?
If you want to heighten your senses,
I strongly recommend letting go.
Notice the peculiarities of your situation –
And trust me, it’s all peculiar.
How did I get here, after all?
It must have been for a reason,
Otherwise the clichés all lie, and we can’t have that.
So this next step must also be for a reason, which I know
But it’s hard to remember when you feel like you’re missing out.
Romance yourself, and give up a peace offering.
Long walks on the beach, moonlit nights.
Days clear as bells, laughter ringing – also like bells, I guess.
As many as you can cram in, as quickly as possible.
As another song goes, “Distance has no way of making love understandable.”
5 minutes ago
This is one I just wrote, really quick. I don't care if it's bad. It's the first poem I've written in a very, very, very long time.
Everything I want
or think I want
Winds up floating away
Hitching a ride on the wind
I bought into your lies
I paid the price
But you can keep the change
I know you're not going to change
As badly as I want you to
It's been a long time since I felt like this
But join the ranks
You ran me through the wringer
I was up and down, even as much as you hate that cliche
And even as much as I tried to stay safe
I had to let you in
I just don't think you had a clue
I was tentative. I knew I probably shouldn't trust you
And you were lucky No. 13
I don't think you'll ever know how lucky you were
Just like you didn't know me
And I knew that, and I didn't care
I do now.
|Sunday, October 3rd, 2004|
the no callback
how does one define the threshold between
liking someone & LIKING LIKING someone?
is it broken plans with no phone call?
because that would make a lot of sense.
now i don't want to come off as dense,
but this word right here marks the first --
a twinge of hurt jealous suspicion, which so
often poisons men's minds. i don't know from whence
it came, but rather only that it lives here now,
like the mouse who haunts my kitchen late at night,
& pitters & patters across the floor's reflected moon
the shadows of my thoughts won't retreat in light
until she calls me back or we hit the next high noon. Current Mood: 11:11 make-a-wish
|Thursday, September 30th, 2004|
How will I write
a poem a day?
I only feel inspired
when the sky is gray.
But the redwoods stand tall
in the woods of muir
The Little Toaster found his master
So maybe I can, sure.
There is hope for me yet
And this LJ community
I probably still won't post
I still claim immunity.
The daily ramblings of my mundane life
Aren't near as exciting
As the doings of Pete and Lizzie
And when we listen to iPod and sing.
Someday I'll return
to that city by the Bay
Until then, my dears,
A poem a day.
A poem a day. Current Mood: artistic
also, for inspiration
this is the worst poem in history. it was written about me when I was, I think, 15 or 16? I claim no responsibility for what it says about me, as he made it all up out of nowhere. please also note the absurd lack of meter or anything coherent. the last line is the best/worst, as well as the random store metaphor.
did you see her on that podium yesterday?
a debater, a dictator, a procrastinator for sure
focused on the challenge at hand
sly enough to never allow the others access to the brain, to the bloodshot pain crawling into her angel view, if they only knew
her laughter covering the necessary fear
but for today it's trophies and circuses
window shopping with one eye open
her finger on that one thing
it's always outside her reach
and it looks like another 8 hours' bus ride today
hope you're happy with the hell on wheels
never got to ask her if she was bitter
did she ever miss out on the formidable years?
but as her life turned, the tears churned
to be someone else, to be somewhere else
I didn't understand what you were asking for, certainly can't understand what the hell you were always screaming for
but you were so damn polite
when you were shot into the limelight
can't turn around now
the store is closing and you have nothing to wear
I laughed as you tore down the closed sign
completing the war dance in your opponent's nightmare
you never fell down then
and now look at you with that permanent smile
a silent sigh and a magic style
nothing but a champion, a daughter, a friend til the end.
untitled #1 of many =)
I curl up, patient, at your feet.
You suggest what are really commandments.
Inside, my built-up heart growls.
Afterward, my body pounds, but secretly.
A strange blend of demure and wild, don’t you think?
I’m never quite sure when to stop being nervous.
I get myself into these scrapes all the time now.
So they say – whoever they might be.
Oh yeah. They are the ones who see me through these clouds.
You can include my energy in your mind.
I’ve left a mark there, at least when you’re counting.
Someday, I think it will mean something.
I do this gently, but with critical force.
I think it’s a straighter path from here, a new day.
But the clouds cluster, and I wonder where I am.
I create my illusions from this muscle, that smile.
A map for comfort needs only a few lines.
But are you well-read enough to recognize me?
|Wednesday, September 29th, 2004|
Suburban angst boils over at the company picnic.
I found you at the Undercover FBI Agents picnic
stuffing your face with seedless watermelon and
washing it down with a Corona sans lime. Putting
out your secrets on the clothesline to dry, your
Blue team won the kickball tournament, while fat
men on the bench wondered at length and in depth
about who really killed Kennedy. The speculation
continued as you stuffed your face with chocolate
cake. Who might have access to the files from the
assassination? Perhaps Kerner, you agreed. After
all, doesn't he have level six clearance? Yes, he
does. OMG. It was the lamest thing I've ever seen.
I hate you, Dad, and I hate your stupid PT Cruiser.
Dr. Fujimori walks the
hallways always wearing
his dirty white labcoat,
one hand strangling the neck
of a gigantic Ehrlenmeyer
flask, the other conspicously
in his pants. None of the
girls ever wants to sign up
for his section of chemistry,
and it's either because he's
a freak or because he's dead
sexy. The answer really depends
on who you ask -- the girls,
or Dr. Fujimori. The fact of
the matter is that both sides
regularly use the phrase
"Bunson Burner" as innuendo.