Wrong Heavens

Whenever I pass on from here

I will take that proverbial journey with glee
I will climb the highest mountain

Way on up through rainbow-rimmed clouds

And gorgeous singing white-robed ladies

Past the Great Immortal Shepherd with his ancient noble staff

And past the gleaming, crowned Queen of Heaven

I will crawl into the giant lap of bearded Grandpa God

And then I’ll cuddle up close as I ask him,

“So, this is Heaven, huh?”

And imagine my surprise as He’ll smile and say, “No

my precious idolatrous wretch

You’ve come to the wrong place”

And he will introduce himself as Zeus

And then acquaint me with his favorite son Apollo

His regal queen Hera, and the Muses

Give the nickel tour of Mount Olympus

And then ask me if I want to stay.

I will say no, and thank him for his welcome

Explain that there is someone who I rather need to meet

And he, moody as his reputation claims,

Will rashly cast me out of his domain

And as I fall, I’ll flit past all my favorite images

And shed them all

And somewhere or eventually

Beyond the dreams of Dante

And past Milton’s greatest fantasies

when even Merton’s nothingness has too much form to it

I will…

‘arrive’ is not the right word.

I have always been here. 

Sleeping Ugly on the Bus

When you move into Los Angeles,

or at least, when you learn to dance

with its extravagant poverty, or at least,

when its city streets transform themselves

to home beneath your feet,

the fear inside the voice inside your head

will not-so-slowly wane,

and then that same small voice will wax poetic,

take the boulevards that used to cut

like scars across your mental maps

and turn them into lifelines,

take the hostile cacophony and make it

a giant, thriving, collaborative artspace,

hand you a paintbrush, and make you an artist.

You’ll see beauty in all things—

you’ll seem delusional.

You will literally sit down on sidewalks

to write poems that won’t wait

(like this one);

you’ll 'accidentally' get off the bus

at the wrong stop

just to enjoy the sights of the long walk--

and the smells;

you’ll notice that this whole place smells like home(lessness),

but that’s fine, because by now,

you want to greet old homeless men as ‘grandfather’,

you’ll want conceited college kids to wonder if you’re one of them,

because you’re one of them.

And so you let go

with the same eagerness with which you once held tight.

You will stop caring what you look like;

you’ll run to catch stoplights and buses you weren’t gonna miss

for the thrill of the chase,

just to feel your heart race--

you gotta feel your heart race,

and then rest,

at home here…

so you sleep ugly on the bus,

head back, mouth cracked,

and nostrils blooming,

because you are tired--

good tired--

and because its rocking rhythms turn you child again,

you are child again,

except… less afraid.

7/16/2014

(24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30)

Thus concludes a month of absolutely abhorrent and unpublishable poetry. Well, actually, to be strictly honest, I met my goal. I wrote an average of one scribble per day. My guiding principle has been 'fits and starts', and I had quite a bit of both.

Writing obligatory makes me more and more nauseous each time I do this, so I'm not sure if I'll continue in the future. But for now, anyway, here's the obligatory first FIRST super raw and ugly drafts of poems with none of the discrimination or selective quality filters I'd normally put on what leaves the notebook. Please don't take this as a measure of my work (but maybe, maybe, a measure of my play?).

(24)Lazy Haiku

Last day of April,

and seven poems behind.

It's time for haikus!

25. Faithful

an instant and resounding crack

envelops all of it--

bone and muscle, blood and fat,

leaves nothing but the smell

of someone else's fire

in my nostrils

in my ears,

the echo of a nameless god

calling,

“this is my body”

and though I know that it was not for me,

i am ready to be broken. 

(for a priest of Baal in the Elijah story)

(26)Day 6

Dear Mom and Dad: I am settling into li

fe here fairly well. Today I received my r

oom assignment; I've been placed in o

ne of those flats which loses an inch ea

ch year. Of course, I am not complainin

g. They do say that the Reduction Com

mittee has marvelous plans for all of the

extra space which will be collected, and

several years from now I will not even n

eed the extension cord which was furni

shed with the room. Which reminds m

e, the furnishings are all a pleasant colo

r which they call, “Deep Mist.” I suspect

this has something to do with the simil

arity to the weather outside. I have fou

nd it quite synergizing to sit in my cha

ir and look out the window; everything

is in line. Which reminds me, how are t

hings back home? Has there been any

improvement with the situation? Pleas

e write back to me soon, Love, Ariadne

(27)Day 13

Dear Mom and Dad, All is well h

ere. I am fulfilling all of my oblig

ations. Making friends has prove

d as difficult as ever. Three days

ago, I met Mrs. Brunstmeyer fro

m the flat above when her cat k

nocked a flower pot from her pa

tio onto mine. Fortunately the f

urnishings also included a small

grey broom, so I was able to sw

eep up and return the pieces to

her. I asked whether she had a p

ermit to grow flowers, but I sup

pose it is like you said, many pe

ople take curiosity for rudeness

and I do not think we are friend

s now. However, I console myse

lf in watching the grey mist thr

ough my window; it is so peace

ful. I really hope all is well at ho

me. Faithfully yours, Ariadne.

(28)New

Mankind stands thigh-high

in God's boots,

trying to walk with grace like Daddy does.

We try to insist on our own legitimacy

and it's cute,

really,

how we try for humble

and then stumble into self-denial

how we try for grace and land

at amnesia

how we try for making all things new

and fall for making all new things.

But it's lovely

how we show so little desire

to try on boots our size.

(29)Hide Not

It is musical how a spring could

tune the world to wonder

but many (who) imagine differently

turn out troubled

some thoughts born in sky will fall

all that is new will start stumbling

(30)Ode to a Lost Journal

I left you

at the Church.

I suppose it was poetic.

I was surprised to find you missing.

I'd taken all the proper precautions

and still you were inevitably gone.

It's amazing how unable I became

to write in any other medium.

It is amazing how fast

I resigned myself

to your absence.

(17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) & (23)

I sat at a bar listening to experimental instrumental technical music for two and a half hours, and this is what happened.

(17) Ode To A Jaywalker on Third and Indian

You're walking like you've got someplace to be
and maybe you do.
Maybe your life is just brimming with really important shit.
And that's all right,
I mean really,
it's kind of refreshing to meet a guy
who won't be bullied into treating me like I'm the boss,
just because I'm doing 30 in a thousand pounds of steel.
It's great!
I just really hope you don't get squashed,
it'd kind of be a buzzkill...
for both of us.

(18) To the Uninspiring Artists Whose Work Is On Display at the DBA

If I could gather all six of you into one room
for the pep talk of your life,
I would not know where to start...
except to say that you're not finished yet.
I would have to tell you that technique and vision
are the two dimensions of exellence,
two sides of a coin that must both be molded
if you expect your art to be worth anything
(and I don't mean monetarily).

I'd remind myself that I am not any better
(and then I'd remind myself that I'm not trying to sell my sub-par art
for upwards of three hundred dollars, either)--
and I'd think how painful it'd be to hear the same thing;
I'd flash back to the hours upon hours I spent trying to get it right,
only to have my art instructor send me back to work again...
and then I'd remember how much it grew me,
how thankful I was that he believed I could be excellent--
You could be excellent!
You're just not finished yet.

And at some point before they drift away to hate me
or make something of themselves
or both,
I'd find a way to pull aside the artist from the north wall,
whoever you are,
and I'd tell you that you're getting close,
to just push through,
that I can see you're made of bottled visions,
and your fingers just need to master the art of uncorking them.
Don't hold back.
I could've been that close, but I gave up
(we each only have one lifetime)--
you only have one lifetime,
so don't settle for almost excellent.
This is not your ultimate.
You're not finished yet.

(19) Hanging out with Hippies at the DBA

I assume that he's an honest man
because he plays the banjo.
I guess we're all a little
instrumentalist.

(20) Sensory Perception Sensitivity

It's like someone turned up the volume
on texture.
You can't even think about touching anything,
it's too revolting.
Polished pine is almost slimy-smooth,
brick walls are abrasive as sandpaper,
leather feels like smething licking you,
everything plush just wants to suffocate your skin,
wind and water both become rough rivers
     waiting to take your skin off,
          microscopic layer
               by microscopic layer.
Your clothes enclose you just like too-close walls,
at once repressing you, and yet protecting you
from everything else
...except the sweat of your hands;
why can't they stay dry?
Why does it feel like everything is crawling in on you?
And how do you make it stop
when even in your sleep your dreams are this alive?
So if it's true that we're all given amped-up bodies after death,
where the hell are you gonna go to rest from this sensation?

(21) Artwork

Tell yourself that they're just baby-dolls
Tell yourself a thousand newborn lives
     aren't left inside of plastic bags to die each day.
Was this supposed to be a statement?
If so,
well stated.

(22) Busted

Your whole world is made of balloons,
and you are a cyborg with needles for fingers.

Now, you could choose to be careful,
you could go in for damage control,
or you could choose to screw it all
and go on a deflation rampage--
take it all down with a bang!

You could reduce the world
to its smallest, most honest components,
find out if there's anything beneath all this hot air,
and then
you could rebuild it better.

(23) How The Myth Started

By the time the knight arrived,
she had already saved herself.
But she appreciated his consideration,
so they decided to say he had done it alone
(after all, it made it that much easier
to justify the fruition of their mutual attraction
to The Patriarchy).
After the wedding,
she always let him open all the pickle jars
because he liked to.
And he always let her dump the trash
and mow the lawn
because she liked to.
Neighbors who happened to pass by on these occasions felt quite sorry for her.
She appreciated their consideration.

(16) Hands

(16) Hands

These hands were made for more than this--
these hands, like anger,
created to remake the world,
and yet we mostly twirl our thumbs,
spin in our own circles,
tame our rage to mild irritation
against only that injustice
which happens to touch us.
But these hands were made for more than this.
Our anger was made to indicate humanity's worst evils,
to trace it as it moves through human systems,
and to paint, then boldly raise the banner
that could mark our way back home...
but no,
we only train our anger to make cruel cartoons
of fellow human beings who we 'just don't get along with'.
Can't we think of anything better to do
with this... rage?
Yes--
we could tear the facade from the faces
of those who masquerade as saints
while taking from the 'least of these,'
we could disassemble every idol
that has bent our human dignity...
but it's just like they say--
idle hands are Satan's favorite place to play
and so he hands us idles,
shiny things to keep us occupied,
hoping we don't notice we could crush them
in an instant,
If we'd reach our angry fingers
we could take down our worst myths--
redemption via violence,
excess as a measure of success,
humans being viewed as utilities,
we could make the world tell honest stories,
songs which sing humanity's great suffering;
we can join these hands and stand in solidarity,
but we stay separate
in resentment
that our hands cannot stretch wide enough
our anger can't reach far enough to catch a broken world alone,
so we replace relationship with emptiness,
we curl our anger on itself until it's bitterness,
bitterness like fists that only prick the skin that holds it;
bitterness like fists, it only exists as long as you hold it;
let go...
Because these hands were made for more,
and you don't have to go too far to figure out what for,
cause just two houses down from you,
there's a little kid who isn't even flinching
when his father calls him that
because he's used to it,
and so he needs you to be angry.
Two towns down the freeway
there's a man who grows food for your family
just to go home empty-handed to his own,
he needs you to be angry;
two cities over there's a girl who's being told
it was her fault for walking home alone at night,
and she is staring to believe it,
she needs you to be angry;
they need us to be angry,
cause in those times when they're too tired to raise their hands to shield their faces,
they need someone brave enough to catch the rocks that people throw at them,
to get between them and the enemy and just say 'stop',
and our fury could unbind their own,
so we can join our hands with theirs and lift them high,
so they will see that we were here,
we were living, feeling human beings,
and yes, we were angry
together.

(15) I'm not supposed to be a poet.

(15) I'm not supposed to be a poet.

Lately I've been thinking I'm not supposed to be a poet

that I am not that architect

that's welding word to word to structure bridges

that are long enough to bring the world together

I'm not qualified

to write poems I can trust not to collapse

beneath the feet of the people I've been trying to lift up

and I've been trying

convinced that I am some kind of gardener

that if I just take in the perfect seeds

then poetry would start to grow inside of me,

that it would bloom out of my mouth

and sprout out of my fingertips

and crawl out of my eyeballs,

I would come alive

so I've been eating like 12 helpings each

of granola bars and sunsets and the whole world's brokenness,

cause that's what poems are made of, right?

And I tried to fertilize these seeds

with other poets' pre-processed emotions

spent hours surfing youtube hoping it would grow me

but it didn't do a thing

because I already know how to sound poetic

I already know how to operate inside the six orthodox topics

of spoken word poetry;

it's all love and sex

and political oppression,

and the next generation,

and life as a minority,

and the nature of divinity

and... oh yeah...

POETRY.

And while we're speaking in convention,

I might as well mention that I can create

a cocktail of metaphors

perfectly mixed to mess with my audience's heads,

make them drop inhibitions they didn't even know they had,

yeah,

I know how to sound poetic

I can even craft my pace and cadence

to elevate my language into prophecy

then pause

right when you were thinking that you needed time

to process

yes, I can read this script

my only question is, who wrote it,

cause this used to be the art form of the rainbow-colored underclass

breaking expectations to join excellence with true expression

but now it's just a safe release for angsty hipsters

and Canadians

no offense if you're either

I'm just trying to be honest,

to be honest, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to

'be a poet'

if all it means is crafting poem-shaped emotions

just to make them sound acceptable/accessible

but sometimes

right when I'm trying to sleep

or when I'm thinking about people that I've only seen in dreams

or even when I'm walking down the street

poetry finds me

see, poetry's my predator

and I am just

prey

ing that I find the strength to overcome the urge to run away

as it makes me

a poem.

(14) Around April 19th It Becomes Acceptable to Write Haikus

(14) Around April 19th It Becomes Acceptable to Write Haikus

He speaks in haikus
just to see who notices
(only the clouds do).