new blog blah blah

to whoever may come across this page by some odd occurrence:

i now have my stuff over at www.smokerbuddy.com

i'll be updating that one from now on. thanks.

having a life of a time

so, i wrote this last summer ( June 16th to be exact)- it was unbearably hot in Stockton and, needless to say, i fucking hated it. though night-rides on the bike helped to make up for my hatred of the sun, valley summers are something i am trying to avoid experiencing ever again.

what i was trying to touch on in this piece, i suppose, is the way in which we project our priorities onto the world around us. it's entertaining to me how we build our lives like a book-like it's supposed to lead to this riveting memoir-or maybe that's just what i do…

having a life of a time

the day isn't perturbed
by our little motions around
the earth

the dead leaves
in my word choice
still won't kill me
like
wearing the legs of
the wounded
doesn't keep me from walking

a petty voice
and pretty words
is no gift, really
(especially when you don't give it)
and
lies are like stories-

fiction mixed with open
power lines

novelty crossed with
pure electricity

noble intentions to
kindle and warm and
burn like brush like
the paper-thin people
around me
like
the temper that flares in my face-
in my running feet-
in my overheating hands that
can barely keep from reaching out and
grabbing the fire that surrounds them

finish the job, lazy ass

no matter how intently i focus on getting things accomplished, i find that i am often distracted. there are so many things to stray my attention toward. the bottom line is, there is not enough order in the world for me to complete every task i undertake.

it is just fucking impossible.

finish the job, lazy ass

never a blank look, for

there’s work to be done


shots to be fired and
peoples’ jobs to lose-

every time we downsize
an SUV gets its wings
and the seemingly insignificant
happenings will appear
much brighter in High-Definition

and since my hometown is
a basement gone digital, i am ready to convert

still,
there is work to be done

messiahs to bribe and
accomplishments to be stolen

there’s constructs in our heads
that need names-
let’s call them all deities and pretend they talk,

convince ourselves that
we aren’t lonely, just concerned

just connected,
bound by rope to the trees we remove

drowned by the ash from
the bones we burn
and
there’s work to be done

there are things to make
DEAD
and air to be blessed with
our routine breathing

there’s an empty part
of every bed
and there are lungs next to
that heart, you know-

there’s a bitterness in the brain
and love that
has died like stars do


there are flowers that
wilt and whither before
they are given,
kept wrapped and dry as a reminder

that always,
there is work to be done

sitting in front of the heater, breathing in

this was something that just sort of came out while i was in class. not that i often lose focus enough to write poems, but every once in a while i find an excuse to distract myself from lecture; or rather, the excuse finds me after i have already floated off into the smoke that lingers in my thoughts. i don't mean to space out, and by no means is it a frequent occurrence, but this time, when i realized that i hadn't been listening to anything my professor had said in the last forty-five minutes or so, i laughed at how much it reminded me of high school. what little time i spent there. 

i fucking hated high school. with a sincere passion. anyway, i digress... the title of this piece is where i thought i'd rather be while i was writing it. 

sitting in front of the heater, breathing in 

who talks 

  and who thinks out loud?

who whispers and

  where do they get the air?

speaking and screaming 

   can't take the rain away. they are

poor substitutes for a coat and

      it never helps to slip off my jacket

my nerves know the elements well, now

   and

the cold is no different than

the sun is no different than

the clouds that hide my face

  from the stars that wouldn't want

     to leave my head if they had a choice

             --i just know it--

                             

                    

another broken window

this started out as some sort of ode to the planet, or to the inhabitants of it-or something. i was hoping to depart, at least a bit, from the whole confessional cry-baby sort of shit that i usually write, but i am still unsure as to how well i accomplished that.

either way, here it is.

oh, i almost forgot..."Yay for Earth!" Earth Day is April 22; let's all keep that in our wasteful minds.

another broken window

what a pretty little
hamster wheel we've landed on
-so blue, so bright, so green-

it just might be the
cutest little marble
to split this either, yet-

it seems to me that pearls
are simply palettes
to be prettied-up and fancied to
reflect the verdure of our
perfect little bead;

how beautiful it is,
sparkling amidst the
violent starlight

how bound to its plight, it remains
just for being what and where it is-

so inspiring
and
pathetic, it spins

how tediously self-wrought
with imperfections

how wry she smiles
unaware of our resemblance-

owning her elliptical grin, she makes
over one thousand promises every second
that we break with every sound our chests make...

mother,
we have not yet learned to fly quietly

when you can't escape your destination

this poem was assembled in my head over the course of a week or so. i had been thinking a lot about art, in all of its forms, and wondering about the state of our common plight. as people make things, i think it is important for us to remember why those things were made. when art loses its genuine nature and humble candor it becomes a mockery of what it is intended to be. it is no easy question of philosophy or integrity, i know, but i don't think it is too much for us all to give a level of deference to the crafts we use to make ourselves human.

when you can't escape your destination

seeing familiar names  

in a story never helps  

when surrounded by strangers

 all voices are new

and unnerving; it's true

 

it's why we

talk to ourselves

it's

why i misplace

facial expressions and

save loose change 

(because i don't know what i'm doing)

because i need

sounds i can count

 

rhythms that resound and implore me to

write a song about no one 

(and play it like it's for everyone)

hum melodies and lie to myself humbly

like the headliners who are stuck at home

smile for the camera-shy and

fill the blanks with modulations 

hoping to bless integrity with tactful wings

just by singing to unknowns or pestering those closest

or maybe i'll listen only

to the background noise for our

performance on strings,

(rusting hinges in all our joints)

like little dolls made to look happy

focus (or lack thereof)

i often sit, as i always blabber-on about, in a room by myself, reading or listening to music--things like that; but i also spend a lot of time wandering in my head. the walls i leave mostly blank for this reason. i enjoy staring at a wall and letting it put the empty space in my mind that i need to facilitate my meanderings--it brings me a relaxation that is paralleled by few things. 

now, this is not to be mistaken for some traditional sort of meditation; where one would seek to clear their mind of all thoughts in order to properly meditate, i would rather catch every loose thought and throw it in to a basket that i can set aflame--breathing in smoke is also something i enjoy. 

and speaking of breathing... this piece was inspired by the action of sitting and trying to take deep breaths to calm my nerves; though it doesn't always work, it is a great excuse to not move much for a while. i enjoy not moving, as well.

focus (or lack thereof)

people make better
  statues than puppets

really-
  if we could catch
 clouds in our mouths
at least our whispers would
   live up to their namesake; but

instead our sighs rise like smoke-
  taking obvious answers to a height
       that belies their origin

while we remain
    framed in pictures
 covered in ash that don't talk about anything
   no matter how well they float (or flail)

it's all the fault of the air-
  but we never complain while inhaling

we spoil the sky, the 
  oxygen with our weak lungs
and we expect to breathe wantonly
      until our last gasp
(and we'll try without meaning to)

we'll never fly without assistance
  but it will become a more 
comfortable fall every time we lighten our heads-

the atmosphere assures it:
  it thins itself out; mocking our
 smiles that are forced into place
       (mostly) by the wind