Slay The Past
Levitate beneath the dust
of unseen tragedies, secrets & lost melodies
captivated by nonexistent consistency &
gravitate towards what could be, ...
leaving what was to mold in unmarked graves
echoing silence of addictions & delusions ...
conform not to the ribbon of sin that wraps
around bone & marrow ...
instead, make today your shiny new story.
if you do, shortly you will see
through a clear glass of Beauty ...
Somehow being next to you, or inside or outside you was not enough;
No matter what, I couldn't get any closer,
I needed everything you could give me, I was so selfish.
I wanted you a thousand times over, and then again.
And I hated myself for it but I wanted you far too much to stop.
The fire that left the wood charred, that was you and I.
vagabonds of vowels we.
we,
the poets.
the novelists.
the unemployed.
the unnoticed.
all of us writers
telling a story
with consonants and vowels
with rhymes, reason, and rebellion
at times philosophers with no equals
at time salsa-dancing with ourselves
on the fringes of sanity.
why you ask
did we choose this?
why starve, why fight,
why struggle, why write?
well, god gave us seven sins and seven virtues
but us mortals
as we cry out
screaming
speaking against the sun
blinded
by that bright coin-flip in the sky
six questions
is all we could come up with.
five fucking “w”s
and a lone “h”
but we?
we are the restless
we are the lustful
we are the unsatisfied
revolutionaries!
(in our heads at least.)
but it’s a matter of life or death
dream or die, motherfucker!
lest the wanderlust
eat you alive.
so we let god do his thing
chanting 'till his flashlight comes on.
i mean
we didn’t even exist yet.
and not like we could part the sea
or command the dusk to kill the day
so we waited.
we let him make giraffes and chinchillas
as he told them to fuck and make more
giraffes and chinchillas.
then we let him make us.
but that lazy fuck
didn’t finish what he started!
"sabbath" my ass.
so on the seventh day WE said,
—let there be words!
“ain’t no rest for the wicked” as they say
so on the seventh day
came the death of silence
murder by metaphor
because now
we exist.
the ones born to write.
born into this
oh vagabonds of vowels, we!
we are the madmen
wielding dictionaries
thesauruses
we are the innocent
the archaic
i still have each library card from my youth
as if they were something more
than just faded scraps of plastic
because now we have condominiums and timeshares
where the sun used to be.
so all i can do now
is try and answer
those six question marks.
those six marks of our mortality.
i suppose that counted
as an answer to “why” we write.
so now you ask
“who” are we?
“who” are the writers?
we are roses without thorns
we are the drunks, the drug-addicts, the unstable
we are the sober, the working-class, the average
we are the geniuses, the savants, the damned
we are origami roses
the insomnia and the empty pill bottles
the whiskey, wine, and cigarettes
where our thorns used to be.
so don’t fuck with us.
because papercuts hurt like a bitch.
please excuse the rambling style by the way
mr. editor.
and thank you not only for revising
remaking
rebuilding
this disjointed wall of words
but also thank you
because you spend your days
polishing the metaphors of madmen
making beauty
out of oh so many beasts.
helios, allah, yahweh, apollo, elohim, jehova
or just god i guess?
i’ll humor you today
and pick up where you left off.
as i’ve already done the “who” and the “why”
a portrait of the writer
my best attempt to caricature
this chronic disease of ours.
it’s warm
subtle
an ache in our hearts.
it’s a longing for that wonderful chaos
those few ravishing sentences
hidden
in the spaces between our emotions.
sick are we
from the cradle to the grave
with this pain that will never leave us
never abandon us
never betray us.
slow
dull
throbbing
a pain that hurts oh so well.
oh, and as you have probably discerned by now
i am not much for order
so humor me
i’m trying to do math with the alphabet here, after all.
as i multiply each word
upon sentence
upon poem
upon prose
then i add everything
to this A.D.D. of mine
to my carpal tunnel
to my cubital tunnel
but “where” the fuck
is the the LIGHT
that should be there
at the end of my tunnel?
“where” the fuck
have the words gone
when i needed them the most?
still, i can’t help myself
i love writing, i must confess,
though my nerves may burn
i’ll just use them to light my cigarettes.
because all i want
because all i've ever wanted
is for it all to equal something in the end.
something real.
dear god, the “when”
the when is torture.
i must confess for this piece alone
i spent a week holed up in empty rooms and stifling garages
making wishes to the genie of my ashtray.
hoping against hope
drowning the hours
drowning myself
in sleepless nights and menthol lights.
so i read.
and readreadereadreadreadREAD.
goddammit.
'cause fuck writer’s block.
it is a hangover like no other.
from nights spent binging
on cheap plastic bottles
of nouns, verbs, pronouns, adjectives, adverbs
on too many shots of goddamn grammar
chased with glass after glass
of bitter prepositions.
but that’s all past-tense now
because it was all worth it.
i am now typing this with frantic abandon
the words have finally replied to my love letters
as Mahler sings in the background
as the crickets chirp in tune with the world
and the night—
ah, for once—
the night is beautiful.
so “who” writers are
“why” we write
“when” the words flood your very being, drowning you, Noah, and his whole fucking ark.
“when” the words leave you alone with three cars loans, two kids, and one broken heart.
“where” did they go?
“where” shall we elope to once we’ve found each other again?
there are too many things to say
about pens and paper
about typewriters and laptops
about laughter and whiskey
about the blood, sweat, and tears
about the many trite axioms and shallow metaphors
about rare moments of genius and wondrous masterpieces
about every fucking inch of our insides and outsides
about the letters
the words
the sentences
the stanzas
the poetry
the prose
the stories
the novels
the art.
because “what” we are not
“what” writing is not
writing is not anything close
NOTHING
like the facade worn by that final “h”
A LIE.
the biggest of all.
because it doesn’t matter “how” we write.
fuck.
that.
it doesn’t mean shit
how large your vocabulary is.
how numerous your synonyms, antonyms, homonyms,
or just plain old sins are.
how high your IQ is.
how low your self-esteem is.
how drunk, or high,
or stoned, or sober you are.
how much Shakespeare you have digested.
how well you have know the works of Frost, Hemingway, Ezra, or Steinbeck.
how—shit—IF
you even know who Gorky, Lawrence, cummings, Huxley, Thoreau,
or either of the Sinclairs even are.
none of it matters.
none of those things mean shit at all.
because “what” writing is
“what” the wondrous truth is
behind that scarlet “h”
worn proudly by the few
the writers and singers
and housewives and criminals
and actors and presidents
and six-figure CEOs
and even cold corpses six-feet under the stars
who have left their legacies on an 8.5″x11″ canvas
an unflinching immortality
wrought from their anxieties
their desires
their thoughts
their feelings
their hopes
their dreams
their despair
their pain
their bits of rapture
and fleeting fucking emotions.
their entire life savings!
all of it a toll.
the price to cross
this ugly, burnt bridge.
but jesus, man,
just tell us already!
“what” the fuck is on the other side?
“what” could possibly be worth any of this?
“what” does that useless fucking “h” stand for
if the “how” doesn’t mean shit?
“what”
“what”
“WHAT”
is writing?
well,
it’s the only thing
that will always be there to remind us
even through all of this shit
even if the sun explodes
even if the trees all die and the earth withers black
even if the wars of men reduce billions to hundreds
even if the reaper himself is driven mad
overworked.
death
now sick
of death.
even if the deafening silence of nothing
moves into the houses and suburbs
into the cities and sidewalks
into the streets and schools
where the cacophony of car-horns
and the laughter of children used to be.
and though most of it will be gone
most of it burnt and discarded
most of it torn and trashed
most of it used as towels and toilet paper
but most?
is never all.
and the writing that will still exist
will remind those few poor souls
those survivors of an unresponsive god
that the one thing
no crazed man
no ravenous beast
no apathetic deity
can kill—
is “hope.”
Not Mine To Write
When I have strong feelings for a guy
I tend to write him into my stories.
Maybe not as a whole specific character
But I'll use his characteristics
Because they're so appealing to me
You know?
I'll write his soulful sea-green eyes,
That sidelong glance he gives me
After he's told an awful pun;
The way his shoulder blades
Protrude slightly from the back of his t-shirt,
And how his face gets so red in the cold.
I'll write the calm deepness of his voice
And the lightness of his laughter,
The way he looks when he's
Lost in thought,
The blush that creeps onto his cheeks and ears
When I give him a compliment;
The shape of his arms when he's lifting something.
I'll write how he mirthfully narrows his eyes
In false dislike
When we run into each other without planning to,
And how his lips then immediately spread into a smile
He can't control
As his eyes sparkle with mischief and a hint of something
I don't understand
And want to understand.
I'll write how he tries to be a Cool Guy,
Suavely nodding to anyone around him,
And how he turns into an absolute dork
When I'm around.
How his smooth words
Turn into awkward but endearing comments;
And how he's so hardcore when he raps,
But gets just a little bit nervous around me,
And how he wrote a song about me
But won't admit it because he's embarrassed
Even though it's obviously about me.
And I fall in love all over again with the character I wrote.
And sometimes my writing makes it hard to distinguish
The difference
Between it and the actual person.
I have to remind myself:
You are not my character.
You are not my character.
My character is based on you,
And just because my character would do or say this and that
It doesn't mean you would.
Just because my character has this flaw,
Doesn't mean you have the same one.
Just because my character becomes a hero when he least expects it,
Doesn't mean you will.
Just because my character falls in love with the girl who loves him,
Doesn't mean you did.
Just because my character doesn't leave her at the end,
Alone and wishing
She'd never told him how she felt,
And never let herself be so vulnerable
And feel so intensely
For someone who would just
Let her down,
Doesn't mean you didn't.
Because you did.
I can control my character,
To some extent.
But you are not my character.
Bipolar Romance
GET THE FUCK
-you're my love
OUT OF MY HEAD
-and my crystal skies
YOU REPLACED MY EUPHORIA
-i might as well carve you
WITH DESOLATION INSTEAD
-right into my eyes
IF I SMASHED MY FACE
-you're everything green
INTO THE WALL
-and everything tall
THEN WOULD YOU LEAVE
-you're a perfectly clear
MY THOUGHTS ONCE AND FOR ALL
-strong waterfall
AT FIRST YOU WERE WELCOMED HERE
-you helped me rid
BUT NOT ANYMORE
-my mind of weeds
YOU DID NOTHING FOR ME
-you patched up the bruises
BUT MAKE MY LIMBS SORE
-that littered my knees
WHY DON’T YOU RETURN
-you are the sun rays
TO THE DARK PITS OF HELL
-that keep my pale skin warm
MAYBE THEN I COULD BREAK
-you are nothing less
THROUGH LOVES FRAGILE SHELL
-than a perfect rain storm
I WAS FOOLISH BUT THIRSTY
-your waters i used
AND MADE THE MISTAKE
-to cool down my heart
OF DRINKING FROM NARCISSUS’S
-you're my perfect
STUPID LOVE STAKE
-counterpart
NOW IT’S BEEN SHOVED
-our souls, i am sure
INTO THE DEPTHS OF MY HEART
-fit in each others embrace
PERHAPS NOW MY SOUL
-reveling in
CAN GRIMLY DEPART
-our minor grace
*Format inspired by @paintingskies
