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