accidents happen

so i was visiting home (Stockton, Ca) and had much free time on my hands. this time i spent smoking excessive amounts of pot, drinking ludicrous amounts of coffee and smoking an incredibly unhealthy amount of cigarettes. i also spent a lot of my three weeks there walking around and enjoying the amazing summer morning weather there in the valley. it was a little before the fires started ravaging so much of the surrounding areas so the dawns were clear and cool. blue skies and not a lot of people out. it was a nice break from san francisco type mornings, where there are swathes of folks out even in the wee hours of the morn. i saw a lot of different things than i used to see there, in stockton. it really pulled at my gut in an unpleasant way. i barely slept the entire time i was there, my appetite was nearly nonexistent, i was a mess and that place only fuels that type of disposition. it is only "good" for confusion and headaches. for hunger pangs and blinding sunlight. for melting and evaporating into a mist that just bothers everyone around it. for hating yourself and the place you came from. for seeing things with a perspective you wish you didn't HAVE to have. 

but things are as they are, so i will swallow everything i can to help me not shake uncontrollably in the face of all the things i loathe and fear more than my own instability... namely the horrible position we are all in as a collective. we've got a lot to work on, people.

anyway, that is only somewhat relative here. this piece is more about an instance of seeing something potentially amazing shine from under the rubble and digging insipidly through some sort of verse to form some connection with the randomness in my head. 

i am really no good at this preface writing thing. it isn't like the poems aren't bad enough i have to ramble incessantly. 

sometimes i wonder why i even bother. but anyhow, here is the poem:

accidents happen

there are qualities
in places i rarely visit
that not even i can talk my way passed

there has to be
a starting point
somewhere on my hands

because
if i can't rely on those
what am i trying to hold on to?

the heartbeat that
sounds a lot like the
thumbs popping
in and out of the reach of
eyes that hold a gaze that
only they could hold?

-and my fingers
stay still
(finding a place on
my face upon release)
and continue to search for
a way to scratch at this
skin i'm in

(it doesn't fit quite right
but i'm researching diets
and using past efforts
as motivation)--

i bare torn flesh and
wounds that won't stay shut
and it's not enough for most

we share
a rebirth into descent
and an awkward acceptance
of what goes on in our heads

we've carried ghosts on
our backs and
walked away from home

we've crashed and laughed

we've seen our
(inherited?)
knack for falling and have
at least
learned to land facing the sky

all while maintaining teeth and lips
to show we haven't stopped
grinning just yet

i somehow find my way
to wherever it is we'll sit
and i always keep words in peripheral-

the sharp ones slice any and all

and i've clipped too many
live branches reaching for the sun

-i must mind my blade-

-i must fill myself with shade-

i've must remain in
character when pretending to
be on the phone so as to
get away with talking to myself

and i've got to ask the things
written on my sleeve before returning to the cold-

lest i fail to show
what we know she knows
and i fall back into the sand

kissing only the harsh wind

whispering letters left
imprisoned in an abused pen
(stuck with only a shadow of
a smile that offered more than shine)

but
my failures
are always
confined to nighttime

when no mark i make
can bring voices out of my ears

and no word i write
is able to sound like her

and i am forced to wait
for the many lights i am surrounded by
to bring word (from the peace in she)
of the new morning
and it's inscrutable designs on our day...

lug 'em or leave 'em

so the setting for this one is kind of obvious. i was high and on my roof again. sitting. staring. the sun is a bad mother fucker, that's for sure. i like how there is almost always a slight mist, a haze even, that floats around the bay and especially in my neck of the woods: the outest sunset in san francisco. i wonder if my neighbors love it out here as much as i do. i can go out onto the fire escape, climb a disintegrating (due to the salty and sandy air that gets blown by the random bursts of wind) ladder and i can watch the sun set into the pacific-with an awesome view of the beach and sand dunes as well. i can see mount tamalpais in the distance and the top of the golden gate bridge. i am glad to have moved here from the valley. i hate that place.

i sat on my roof and realized 

 there are a lot of things i should say

    but fail to mention

just staring blankly i know

  there's something about the treetops

there's something about the sounds

  that come from a cigarette

and there's something about the ash in my eye

   that makes me smile

i rarely fail to laugh-

my fractured lips are less than laudable 

    but the role i play is minor

         (sounds like it, too)

so i can't be expected to keep grins flawless

my time alone

   is only eleven letters long

  just like

       the insomnia

but even if they didn't overlap

   and i could string them together

it wouldn't get the words any closer to

  writing on the clouds than they are in our pens-

it's a shame we only project

  our faults onto each other

when there are so many bigger screens

    floating through the sky

it seems it may be too late

  since we've accepted rejection

and relinquished so many sentences 

 to the depths of the oceans inside us that

     so closely resemble the waters we sail across--

i switched majors

 from Reverse Psychology

    to Technical Gasping

  in hopes of being able to help

make it easier for people like me to breathe--

i collect stoicism from

  the faces i see in the mirror

and swallow it with my morning coffee

i stir it with 

  smoke and compressed miracles 

      and

  i've got my motivation!

i sweeten it with

   stolen glances and

cognitive sprints that would 

  outrun my shadow if i gave them the opportunity-

but i cover my cup with books-

  leaving room for the thoughts to dilute

reasserting the behaviors that support my habits

noticing something about 

   windows and roofs

and how the waves have to

   reflect the fire that taunts them

6/20/08

*summer solstice*

gravity is not a virtue

this poem was sparked in my head after reading a poem by my friend Alex (Physics student and fellow science-junky) and discussing the nature of friction and the concept of growing nearer to someone. i was visiting stockton (the black hole overgrown i call home) and was confronted with many disturbing facts about myself and the city i grew up in. it is a breeding ground for disruption, really. anyway, i digress -- this is what i ended up with after lots of hours spent rehashing my conversation with Alex:

not even with

   chimes against my back

 could i make the creaks sound

pleasant or at all well-mannered

even with shoes

  twelve steps is too many

and against my cheek

   my hand is never enough-

thought it spells out

    what i need it to

   the fingers bend by their own rules

(knowing my head is trying to control them)

they mill about my possessions

  making sure what's mine is theirs

    (shakily holding on to everything)

watching my mouth 

    in the mirror

[ i know 

     i said, "love"

  and i meant it

              every time]        [ every time ]

i draw inspiration 

   on my face and on napkins

and it always looks like a backward sky

my visual sense 

   makes poor change 

for paper left blank

the integral bends

   make shapes into words

that read like an unsteady escalator-

the same two directions

   in the middle of

         no one

  to write poems about

the ever-thickening roads

 that feed off our body heat and

      conversational breath-

it's an incomplete

 attraction i have to

 smiling cell phones:

always flashing date and time

   as if to reassure me i'm still running late

like 

 an alarm in my blood-

    

coloring my wrists and 

  keeping time on names

i can barely remember but

  have to remind myself to forget

like comments kept in

 while thoughts slip passed

the guard i hold in the palm that

     covers my mouth

-i've obligations to announce-

there are negotiations

   pronounced by visceral 

responses we aren't aware we're giving

      and

by our own volition

 we believe otherwise

(when we should know better

  than to fuck with the forces of nature)

like our sense of touch

  which a friend pointed out

is a result of electrons pushing 

     away from one another--

"people think 

    they're getting closer," 

              he said

and

  almost everything

         about it

    made us laugh

*thanks to Alex A., the Stupid-Ass Genius