i'm here to help

you know, i wish there was a way to escape my own brain, but there isn't. it's disappointing how sleep is the best thing there is and, not even then, can i get away from my unconscious, in all of its glorious mass of confusion.

sitting in a small room by myself for hours usually leads to a lot of dwelling on things. i think this piece is simply a representation of the quiet battle i engage in amidst unused work-out equipment and a stack of books.

i'm here to help

there's no space on
my palm for poetry

no shelter for my hands
other than my pockets, but
i don't find warmth inside of an old sweater

i can't challenge the weather with
burning leaves and flowers

standing still takes time that i don't have
and
though not feeling the beautiful world hurts,
it's difficult to catch emotions gone astray

it takes a self i can't give

reflects an absence i won't see:
secrets lost behind
glossy hazel filters and sun-scratched efforts--

"it's not a matter of remembering what's said,"
i've told myself

but the words are fond of my fingers

my hands and hair no distraction
for the nails that break my skin so articulately

talking to a screen

i was catching up on some of my friends' writing earlier, namely my dear friend Marina Torres (a beautifully amazing poet), and i read her most recently posted poem, "Thrills." it contains a reference to Allen Ginsberg's "Ego Confession," about wanting to be brilliant. 

it started a whole line of thought for me: aspirations, disillusions, dreams, personal and artistic identity. i eventually related it to a conversation i had with my roommate, Greg, about how we have so many health problems for being in our mid-twenties. 

it went fast and i typed it out as i thought it; weird for me, since i very seldom type something out before i write it down somewhere--i work better with pens and pencils. 

anyway, what it is about is obvious--at least to me; so i won't, nor do i want to, go into it. i am far too restless and hungry.

and bitter. and tired. and exhausted. and hungry. and yeah.

talking to a screen

trying to not let a leaf escape me

i compile my belongings, those temporary and 

those as permanent as intangible memories can be

and i do what i know best

i entertain the walls and make excuses to

my make-shift bed

-i am absent most nights-

i listen to the migraine's steady whisper while

it holds my ears--tells me to scream and

i listen with my mouth closed;

keep the cries warm with anything that can

blanket these sobering shivers

i break paper and imaginary lines and

ones and zeroes and i fill my fingers with 

anything that can heavy my hands

i lay myself

unrevised

across all that i make to call my own 

and share it with the me hiding inside my backpack

i convince my feet to pace along to my heartbeat

but i find my steps limited by 

an apartment with a glorified fire escape and

an ocean sunset view behind a moldy kitchen window

i follow the lines forming under my eyes

and trace the distance back to a place where

my guitar can sing to me,

you're too young to be this old, aren't you?

who said progression?

so, i was looking through my school notebook from earlier this semester, and i found this piece that i had written in my Classic English Literature class. a great course, awesome Professor and we read a lot of John Wilmot, one of my favorite English poets, as well as Alexander Pope and Jonathan Swift, two of my favorite critics; so it was a chance for me to indulge.

it is always an inspiring reminder of the authenticity of poetry to see rhyming verse that is (the furthest from) corny and lame. 

if you've never read any of these guys (many have probably heard of, read, or watched one of the movies based on Swift's Gulliver's Travels), i would beg you to do so; they are worth the time, i promise.

this piece is half structured. it started with an arbitrary rhyme pattern, but changed in the third stanza to just repeating the first letter of the last two words of the previous stanza; but what follows the third stanza (this assuming any of them can be referred to by such nomenclature, Walter*) lacks any of the previous frameworks, so... 

i tried. i did. but sometimes my hands and my brain and the other parts of my brain don't do the best with consistency.

give me a break.

who said progression?

lest pure motives be outwardly 

       told and known

i remove all remnants of the glimmering,

             old crown

that muffled my voice with echoes of

           gold-plated language

that will not shine like a star nor

     stir-up fresh damage; no--

an adornment now splintered 

   leaves each piece to trace the face onto

             the outline of a dead noun

denying a likeness to adjectives

  i've become unwittingly tense--i wait

searching my closed eyelids for signs of a fable

   a story to keep warm and with me

      while i try to sleep--but can't--

words i can repeat on daunting walks,

    wanting only to not sing flat

at some point

my friend Esteban Aguila and i exchanged some thoughts on mental illness and existential ways of thinking--biological/psychological factors of depression, the plight of our brains, that kind of weirdness--after which he asked if i could add some lyrics to a song he was working on, the theme of which was related to our conversation. i'd written this piece the day prior and with only minor alterations, pieces of the poem became part of the lyrics to, "Unsure, I Think," one of the tracks on the album Steb is working on. i was flattered and, no diggety-doubt, graciously accepted the opportunity to collaborate with one of my favorite musicians. 

i think the poem has something to do with this undeniable urge i have to move somewhere new and far away from where i am now; but i'm not completely sure about that. 

though i can be pretty confident in my tendencies being strong enough to keep me a slave to habit.

my goodness...this gets more pointless every time. 

at some point

i know only

  that i am unsure

that i just feel and try 

 my best to make sense of what's not

but it's all strange to me

  and most folks don't like strange-

sometimes i do

 sometimes i don't

sometimes i'm here

         and

sometimes i'm gone

i'm angry. so angry i complain and make others angry just so i don't have to feel so miserable and alone in how mad i am at everything

so i was, once again, back home in stockton. this time for two reasons: 

1) the excruciatingly monotonous celebration of thanksgiving (a completely bunk holiday to begin with); and

2) my sister, Melissa's wedding.

the latter was obviously the more enjoyable. i walked my sister down the aisle, in place of our father, who wasn't much of one, really. anyway, neither of those two things has much to do with this piece. 

i wrote this partially in San Francisco, a day or two before heading back to the death-hole central valley, and i was interrupted by an irrepressible impulse to clean the house. it happens, so i go with it. 

needless to say the manic/obsessive/compulsive fit kind of killed the previous endeavors dead. murdered them into not-living. slain them to death. slaughtered them to their demise. drained the life from them until they had passed on. 

that was really stupid. i think i may have to reconsider this prologue thing. whatever.

here's the poem, the title is self-explanatory. i figured it is best to be honest with myself no matter how dumb an idea it is...right?

i'm angry. so angry i complain and make others angry just so i don't 

have to feel so miserable and alone in how mad i am at everything

scared of my phone

and the messages it will receive  

i now realize there isn't a correct way 

to end a conversation  

supposed intersections 

are only frames for 

quickly-painted collision scenes  

-it's all such a terrible film-  

a nice crash 

but not enough 

broken windows  

-i could split the picture in two 

but it would still show the same image-  

the lighters don't speak 

and the people just burn  

the outside isn't going anywhere 

and delays amass quickly and slow the pace 

to a palpitating rhythm 

-and "interestingly unpredictable"  

 is a cheap description of life  

like bursting into tears 

or bursting into flames 

are pretty much the same thing-

 

a sweet impact  

but not enough detail  

a long ride  

with too many airbags 

and just the right amount of damage 

to still call it an accident

sleeping on the floor

so i sat for a while, as i usually do, and i decided that there is something seriously wrong here. ha ha. nothing new. 

i wrote this yesterday but it felt unfinished. i came back to it a few minutes ago and wrote the last line. my hometown of stockton, Ca has one of the lowest literacy levels of all cities in the nation with a population over 250 thousand people. it is really sad. books, comic books, graphic novels, magazines--those were some of the only reasons i got through most of my life, and to think that people can't appreciate all the literature there is out there enough to make it a staple of a child's education is incredibly disheartening. 

sometime i worry about us all. sometimes i just don't care. sometimes i want to care, but can't; other times, i just think it is all really stupid.

sleeping on the floor

i step

  where the past wants me to

and i know better than to tread inland-

i stay cliff-side

i like the open-ended views i'm offered

   but the scenery lacks ingenuity 

the most opportune moments

      have side-effects

unchecked pens ruin notebooks

a non-stop brain stays still and 

 worries leave a mark on every place you visit

the handwriting speaks only to me 

       and i can't blame it:

not enough people read, back where i'm from

counting on things

my immune system isn't the greatest, (a result of years of not taking care of myself, i suppose) and because of that i am often sick with something. whether it be a cold that can sometimes last months, a flu that takes a fifth of my body weight or an infection that starts from the smallest of injuries, i find myself uncomfortably ill on too many occasions. though my effort to improve my health is a pathetic one, i do not enjoy always being sick, as is commonly assumed. 

okay, so maybe i like it a bit---but i surely don't like going to the hospital, which i have to do when i need to be seen by a doctor since i am one of the lucky students of our glorious country that is not insured. i especially hate being put on intravenous drips. those things are no fun. 

god damn white blood cells not keeping up their end up the bargain in my bloodstream.

anyway, i wrote this in july sometime when i was in the hospital. i wish i would have had the morphine button, for real.

counting on things

sitting with needles in

my arm and
tubing all around me
i lie uncomfortably still

listening to machines
tick-off the time that
(i can't see)
is passing outside

paying close attention to
the quiet screams creeping
into my ears:
louder than expected and
more resonant here,
among such barren walls

with hours-long echoes
that eek their way into
my home life

quarantined
in my room
like i am always contagious

and indeed,
i've noticed how
people dig holes
between us
and when i say "us"
i mean "themselves"-

i wouldn't bother
braving burgeoning gaps

my legs don't break
for brittle replacements

though they've been repeatedly
forced into elevation-
at the mercy of a mattress and
the mind left to seep into it

as a fraction of a life

failing as an equation

accepting patterns like
they hurt or could reveal
to me my inconsistencies-

when, as a lone being,
i could never much rely on numbers:

like "how many"
never explains the disappointments

i think 10:52 pm

my life is incredibly dull. this is one thing i am absolutely sure of. 

many days i spend reading and smoking while pacing anxiously around my apartment. i stare out the windows. go up on to the roof. sometimes i catch the bus somewhere or walk around for a while, but it is always done with this sense of failed urgency. like i want there to be things i have to do, but there are none. like i have all the impetus i can muster, but i am sleeping in a box instead of doing something with it. 

it's fucked up. really. 

hate it sometimes, love it always, right?

i think 10:52 pm

hit repeat and

  keep forcing the same sounds

       out of my mouth-

no ideas arrive

  as the string dangles

something lively just above my head

i hold on and

  walk it across towns

wrap it around mailboxes and doorknobs

hide knots and tangles in

    alleys and emails

cover it with paint and 

   magazine clippings and

              call it art

double-loop it to

  my shoelaces and 

wear it to sleep around my kneck-

give it to the sunshine or

   keep it on scratch paper

despite what i know will happen

despite not giving-in to

  disappointment when it snaps

(at least i'm still intact)

it's just:

  being tied-up can only 

    entertain for so long

on the rocks, buddy

disclaimer:

this poem and the pre-poem rambling was written on September 23, 2008. i just got around to posting it, though.

so i got fired from my job this morning, and i decided that instead of moping i would just go to the ocean and think of how easy it would be to drown in it. i went to the Sutro Bath House ruins and walked around for a bit. i climbed over a wall and went down some rocks to a very secluded spot that was sheltered on three sides by rock wall and had a straight view of the ocean. there was also a hole in the floor where the wall would meet the floor and through it you could see the tide flowing into an opening in the rock. when a big wave hit it would send water through and sometimes it would get a couple feet above my head. using pure strategy, i positioned myself and smoked a few bowls while trying to write this poem.

the job sucked, so i wasn't that upset about getting canned. fucking presidio heights weirdos. 

on the rocks, buddy

surrounded by the

     ocean

i think bigger than

  the ship in the

    distance

and the crescent

  moon in the daytime

         sky

i can't be reached here

     in my second

          home

christened by the

            waves

  that could swallow me

          whole

i like to think i crash or

        collide

like the angry edges of the

            sea

but i know

    evaporation

  gets the best of my

       impact--

the muses i'm driven 

   toward are aimed and 

    headed right for me--it's

            confusing

instead of 

  motivation

     i get bruises

beatings meant to 

      improve

meticulous scrutiny for jewelry 

my hopeless

     hands

my only clothing

-my lack of desire for hire-

it's all i'm holding

but i move too 

     quietly

this water gets

    jealous

and the rising

      tide

 tells me to

     leave

no more, i worry

this sucks...need i say more?

no more, i worry

to be overly-conscious of 

 just how often my eyes blink

       is no safety, for sure

-i've sat, unaware of that for years-

i laughed

  confidently abstract

and at nothing in particular

i regularly split

  sentences into three or more parts

and embellish the syntax for security

-i lie to myself-

and it only 

   keeps a few cents in my pocket--

doesn't hand me someone else's wallet

the results make decisions for me but 

  can't make my smile fit the 

difference i have to pay or the look on my face

and it's shameful how i trace it over

       so many dead leaves when

most times

    there's nothing worth writing about--

i wait            i pretend to sketch the landscape

   

        i fake a phone call or faint

but they're all the same: they all stagnate in vacancy

-if i whispered the word "scream"

     it wouldn't save any of us

it wouldn't spare the ground from our shadows

   

and it wouldn't spare me from the 

    sun always hurting my eyes

waking up on the wrong side of your face

i wrote this piece after sitting in a nearly-empty room and staring at the walls for a while. i was considering my place in things--in my hometown, in the city where i live, in regards to art and any movements that may or may not be taking place--and after a few hours i just got a headache. i think i was sitting there waiting for some flash of inspiration to punch me in the throat; but when nothing appeared out of thin air to scissor kick me into writing something, i started to think about just how often i am desperate for subject-matter. the intense desire to create floods peoples' brains and they begin to think that it is something that must be done to get through the day--and it is. sitting there for that prolonged period helped me to realize that i have to be more receptive to things going on that can be used to fill my notebooks: if i fail to recognize enough on a daily basis, it leaves me setting fire to my eyes and the ceiling when i am scrambling to calm the flames. 

i need more xanax.

waking up on the wrong side of your face

the plot was nice

   thickened and ripe

and i sat to watch tied to a chair-

bound there by my crossed fingers 

    that can't raise me like they can hike-up 

       the price of stability in  letters scribed

  --i am rich delusional--

my hands tell me

   my spirit never existed and

 everything i've earned is mine and

my mind knows the consciousness 

    it's acquired  to be nice

sweetened with a hurt i 

    don't fully grasp 

but love more than the whole of my self

  

(though not much, it tries;

   and that ought to be enough)

and i build it up

   while upside-down on the scaffolding

hanging there from neatly-tied shoelaces and

     unwashed hair i lose by the fist-full

i bury my face in pages that 

  won't be salvaged when i'm gone

and that's nice:

  brightened by the limitations of time

--rules that don't bend like the dead--

huddled tight inside the

 absence i've nurtured every night alone

with my motivation that melts into

     the sidewalk it paces over

amidst cold that doesn't numb as it should

  

i feel 

 i've found something i wasn't looking for

where i go from here

so, this is the second thing i wrote with a particular friend in mind. i was waiting for her to arrive at the Ferry Building, here in san francisco, and this is what happened during my roughly-an-hour wait. it starts with a pure intent on my friend, but ends in an abrupt and sharp turn downward. sort of like every relationship i have ever attempted to cultivate.

anyway...

where i go from here

to decide 

  what it is 

i'm looking for

 would serve me no benefit

it's not so much what for, 

  as it is where you're looking

and

  where she sleeps

   -i'm wondering-

  where she walks

   -i'm wandering-

  and when we talk

          -i stop-

the breathing

  never ceases

and the fingers want to follow

  but they can't break through the screen

(though they seem like they should reach)

 

and they can't float on air

  no matter how far i throw my voice-

while the essence of the room

  turns along with 

the ceiling fan that hums in harmony with her 

    (as she gets closer to my ear)

i go for her arms but i have to leave the speakers

 and venture outside the room i've padded with

     scratch paper to burn

  books to hold and legs to run into the ground-

now

  the comfort of concrete knows

 little compassion for faint patience

and i've payed debts with enough steps

   to take me to every home i've ever known

back to every bed i've left

and back from every future i hold

  engraved in the rings around my eyes

i've sacrificed my vision

   staring at blank surfaces and

the outcome is  always written out by my 

      perpetually-darting glance

i've thrown away teeth

   removed by my own fingers

but was too young to recognize how

        well i was adapting--

and

   i've compensated the asphalt with my skin:

          torn between a fall and where it belongs---

 if i could tell 

    a young me where he was headed, 

           i would just say "up"

to be no longer afraid of barriers

this is a poem about someone who, though she resides many many miles away in another country, is still very very close to me. 

one thing i have surely learned from her is just how sad airports are. those places are really no place to say goodbye, let me tell you that.

complications become increasingly complicated as distance between solutions lengthens. whatever sense that makes doesn't make-up for the senses it disturbs.

to be no longer afraid of barriers

wheels spinning to

  dreams of writing letters in 

        foreign languages

a tongue-induced connection

  fueled by an easily-translatable

             passion

and every word delivered

 makes sentences that

will forever cross borders-

warmth from the first spark

  that spans miles and vacations

the light, from which, gives

  no consideration to imaginary

      lines drawn in the dirt-

a gift from the stars

  that now resides in my atmosphere

-we share the same sky-

with eyes the color of the earth

 she tells me that i don't love her smile,

           i love her

-and it's more than true-

it resounds louder than

  two mountains moving in unison

the peaks coming together in between

     my ears where her reflection sits and says,

                "te amo, tambien"-

i needn't mention

   the gravity of the ledges we're on:

 sharing the same destination in space

but

 i am no match for 

    the distance i am headed for

where i'll run across countries

  to share the same ground as her

      the same self

         

           the same vices

  

   the same hands

 because they're what we hold on with

and i'll break every finger doing just that

in lieu of repairs

this is pretty obvious, right? if i gave too many details it would just be me admitting to crush. 

i only do that when i'm drunk, i know that by now.

in lieu of repairs

there was a bird
flew away with my string
before i could finish piecing
my back together

my stitches were lost
to build new nests
in trees i climb only
in my dreams

a make-shift spy branch
has little use when grounded-
when twigs can't restore
their connections with lost leaves

so i stay perched
and lie in wait
of a breeze to float
me up to where she sleeps-

dangerously close to the rest of space

deep breaths now

i think this poem is, essentially, about my bad habits and how i really haven't gotten rid of many of them.

now that i think about it, i'm not sure i've freed myself from any of them. oh well.

deep breaths now

when the thoughts
are better left in
the pockets
i can feel it in between my eyes

so i steal pens to
kill time

when i feel it all i
run with it

but i go away from
where it belongs and
i end up on the course of
someone
who is not me

these traits have watched me
wait
nearly tweny-five years to see it all
cut-up and left on the table for
whoever wants to take it

left as
fine enough
and ready to
move quickly with the air

while i sit,
staring right outside the night

recognizing that
the day is not my destination:

there is something
seriously wrong there

that i should stay away from

not too far from where i've been

so this is yet another waste of my time dedicated to a great waste of time Ms. Be Hope , herself. 

of course, that isn't her real name, but it gives enough for her to know i mean her. pathetic, i know.

not far from where i've been

i'll be there
when your glass slippers
crack-

it will be worse than
the eggshells we keep in
our feet and around ourselves

and the shattering
will scatter things beautifully

enough to paint the floor
with our toes
(our pretty prints)

and we'll write out
our lives,
there in our steps
with lo(v/n)ely shades of red we
can water down without assistance

with clearly defined lines
for us to dance upon-

an ephemeral waltz
conducted without regard to whether
or not we were on or over those
dense edges

those bloody boundaries

those peripheral margins which
these shoes were meant to walk on
and that's just what they'll do

and they'll trample down this
god damn city looking for the answers
you left in the bandages
that haven't stayed on

and never will