MY OFFICIAL POETRY BLOG HAS BEEN MOVED!!!
I'LL STILL BE ACTIVE ON MYSPACE AND OCCASIONALLY I'LL UPDATE THIS BLOG FROM TIME TO TIME, BUT IF YOU WANT TO SEE WHAT I'M WRITING AND WORKING ON AS I DO IT
YOU CAN FIND ME ON QUARTERLIFE.COM
just click the picture below
And read the following: Regarding my Poetry:
-All critiquing, good or bad, is welcome. and encouraged.
-All works are to be considered works in progress, and are susceptible to change however, and whenever I see fit.
-Poems expressing dark or suggestive themes may offend, If they do so, I have NO pity for the offended.
To my child yet to be conceived...
Current mood: dwelling on the future
for your sixteenth birthday I will make you a mixtape. full of your favorite songs, well, the ones that I can remember, and the ones I had you listen to as we grew up together, and I learned how to be a father and you learned how to be a better you through trial and error, like we all do, despite the terror presented by choice but through that voyage you will find your voice and I know by now, you've made a mistake or two but don't dwell too long on them or they stick like glue. There will be a lot of regrets in the future to forget, so for now just put on these headphones and let go. For your sixteenth birthday I will make you a mixtape. Not a mixed CD or a custom playlist of mp3s, I mean seriously, oldschool - so old that the world forgets it exists the late great cassette tape mix. I'll even dig up my old trusty and true antique Walkman tape player, whipe off the layers of dust and pass it on to you. and every couple songs I'll sick in a poem or two to remind you that it's not always about the music, but what it has to say and I hope you play it through more than once, and listen closely cause I'll have messages hidden in there just little puns that no one in the world would get but you and me. and you'll laugh to yourself and the other kids will think you're crazy they won't know the half of it, having fallen from our nutty family tree. So, for your sixteenth birthday I am making you a mixtape that way, your won't forget your roots and don't forget your rainboots, it gets muddy out there. and if at anytime along your road, you feel like you're all alone just pop in that mixtape and you'll know I've been there all along, in between every song reminding you that it's okay to sing along.
Leave your name in my blog comments. Once you do that, this is what I'll do ... (I will respond to you here on my blog page)
1. I'll respond with something random about you. 2. I'll tell you which song or movie you remind me of. 3. I'll pick a kind of beer to share with you. 4. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me. (if possible. if not, I'll say something that only makes sense to me.) 5. I'll tell you my first memory of you. 6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of. 7. I'll ask you something I've always wondered about you. 8. If you play, you MUST post this on your blog.
The difference beentween a Flower and a weed.
Current mood: calm
Category: Writing and Poetry
I wonder, who was the first person to look at a field of dandelions and say "That is something ugly"? I've been thinking about my youth lately, particularly my childhood. I remember that they were my favorite flower -not weeds, not yet- because they were beautiful and yellow like her hair, and there were so many of them, so I could easily gather them into a bouquet to give to her, as a token of my feelings - although I didn't know exactly what those feelings were quite yet. I'd heard the word said before, in poetry and in movies. Her smile lit my heart up like the sun lights up the sky each morning when she saw my present. We spent the rest of that summer exploring this newly discovered thing they called "Love". Sneaking behind our parents' backs because they said we weren't old enough to date, which honestly made it all the more exhilarating. We'd meet up in the woods behind the Walmart every afternoon. We'd hold hands and play games like house. I'd be the Dad and shed be the mom, and our kids would be at school. We'd mimic our parents, I'd pretend to come home with a brief case and she'd pretend to great me at the door with a hug and some food and we'd break into giggle fits cause we knew no real family was like that. We'd lay in the grass with the dandelions and watch the clouds, and yell out when one looked remotely like something. "Theres a dragon!" she'd say. "There's a Dinosaur!" I'd reply. We'd both be looking at the same cloud. One time she looked over at me and smiled "there's something on your mouth." she said. I rubbed my mouth off with my shirt and ask if I'd gotten it. She said no and than said let me. She proceeded to press her lips against mine, for just a second and pull away. My heart was racing and butterflies fluttered in my stomach. she smirked at me, her face red with embarrassment. "did you like it?" she asked. I nodded and squeezed her hand. We'd pick the dandelions once they grew their fluffballs. We'd close our eyes and wish and blow the fluff away. I'd always wish that summer would never end, but as all good things do. School began that fall. Between class, chores and homework we hardly got to see eachother- save for weekends. Eventually she stopped coming over entirely. One Saturday i went to her place to see how she was doing. I knocked on the door and there was no answer. I peaked through the window and the inside was barren. I passed a field of dandelions on the walk back home. I don't know who said it first, but I think I know why.
Currently
listening
:
Garage
By
Cross Canadian Ragweed
Release date: 2005-10-04
...the sun’s light sneaks through the window, tapping me so softly on the shoulder, like a little boy who seeks to wake his father from his slumber without bringing about his unwanted wrath, or more so, like a mother to her infant daughter, gently nudging the baby’s shoulder so that she slowly comes to in the world of her mother’s comforting smile, i open my eyes, sit up and stretch, like that infant would stretch out for her mother’s touch, i get up form my bed to see that my roommate has prepared a pot of coffee, she smiles at me from across the kitchen and says ’good morning sleepyhead’ and sips from her cup, she’s still in her pjs and her hair is a mess, she’s not wearing any makeup and she’s siting with a unconcerning slouch, and i fight the urge to tell her that she’s beautiful, not like she’d believe me anyway.
We sit in the living room, dining room, whatever room it is, and watch cartoons and complain about how today’s cartoons suck, which is a segue into a conversation about old cartoons we grew up watching and laughing in nostalgia, the television just background music to our discussion of Hey Arnold! and how odd it was that it took place in the ghetto and yet there were very few black people in the show. I could live in her laughter forever. when our talk ends and there’s nothing left on TV but endless talk, we turn off the box and jam to old mixed CDs from a time before ipods and mp3s, this insights a thoughtful discussion about music, emotion, love, and a sudden realization that out apartment is a mess.
We spend the next few hours cleaning and rearranging the furniture, for no real reason other than we can, and then profess our hunger to each other, we debate going to McDonald’s, which is down the street from us, but after examining out wallets i burn omelets instead. We play wrestle for the last piece of delivery pizza, and i let myself think that i let her win, than we go to our separate rooms, she finishes her English paper, i write a poem or two, we share the fruit of our labors over chicken flavored Ramen Noodles and then watch Rent for what seems to be the fourhundredth time ever, and she cries when Angel dies, like she does every time, and since we both have places to be in the morning, we go to bed early.
The night cradles me in my blankets, and i hold onto my body pillow, secretly wishing it was her, and i drift off to sleep, becoming the father, who will stubbornly resist waking in the morning.
Psst. Can you keep a secret? Nay? Well, I’ll tell it to you anyway, At least than, maybe, these thoughts won’t any longer feel heavy as stone Maybe than I won’t feel so alone in my wandering, endlessly pondering. I’ve been restless as of late. I’ll go to bed, get back up, check Myspace, masturbate, Eat a late night snack, and atempt sleep again. Only to awaken an hour or so later for the cycle to begin yet again. So here I am. I can keep a secret. I won’t tell a soul, So if theres anything you think I ought to know... No? Well, that’s alright, It’s just that I’ve been up all night, and- See, someone once told me you can, Predict the future through the lines on your hands Now I don’t know if that’s necessarily true. But I can tell you that those hands can depict your past pretty well, Like, this fist here, once punched through glass, and it hurt like hell. No real reason for it, just teen angst or some shit. Still the moment is forever engraved in my skin, As it is within my mind, like a tattoo there to remind one of lost youth, And a lost you, buried somewhere, here Under these layers of age, time has graced us with. And now, I’m wondering how much of it I’ve missed, Being too busy on a Monday, or too lazy on a Sunday afternoon, To take the chance, and watch the dandelions bloom, and dance in the wind. I’m so lost. If you don’t mind me asking, Where did I begin? I’d like to go back, and start over again, or take a different path- Oh I see. You didn’t see the direction from which I came, Thanks anyway. Hey, by the way, Can you keep a secret? No? Oh. Nevermind than, Have a nice day.
It was one of those...I can't think of the word for it...moments The kind that blindside you, and kill your buzz. Are you sitting down She asked Mom, what's wrong? You should be siting down she said. As I took my seat, The worst case scenario played itself out in my head. My immediate conclusion was that Grandma was dead. She was old. She'd been sick. Everyone knew this, I had expected it.
This was one of those unexpected epiphany-like moments. One for which I could not have prepared for. Your uncle, Rick, passed away last night, He was found this morning, in his bed, Face up, clutching his chest. she said. Oh. Was all I could say, as I sighed with mild relief. I had not known this man. I never saw him before in my life -No, I take that back, I may have met him once or twice, Nevertheless I do not recall it.-
This was one of those...powerful...no...meaningful..no...one of those...I dunno...moments. Rick was a year or so younger than my father is now. I realized this as I sat down, Talking to my grieving mother, mourning the loss of her little brother. I did not know Rick personally, But in my wallet now lives his obituary. To remind myself that life is short, To remind me to grab the bull by the horns, To make every heartbeat count, Because you never know which one could be your last.
So I didn't need to sit down that day, Not really, I mean, emotionally I would have been fine. Like I said before, I didn't know the guy. But I'm glad I did (sit down, that is.) It was once of those...sobering...yeah...that's the word.
Trees. Fields. Cows. More trees. Desert. Clouds. Traffic. A lot Of Traffic. This was the scenery outside of the bus as Issac's eyes surveyed the view, his mind composing distinct music with each new landscape they passed though. 'Twixt the sleeping and the bus transfers, this was Issac's long awaited westward odyssey. Partly, he wished for the bus to wander into a wormhole off the highway and magically get teleported to the bus stop in southern California, already. However, he also partly wished for hat same imaginary wormhole to take him back home to Ohio, or the Bahamas, or anywhere else for that matter, but alas, wormholes only exist in dramatic science fiction stories, And Isaac's life was by far not a science fiction story. Although, his beginnings where not unlike something from a fairytale. Issac's mind drifted back. He didn't know whether it was a dream he had once, or a distant memory he managed to keep hold of all these years. Her hair was black, like his. The tears made her bronze eyes glisten in the light form the nearby headlights. Issac reached his little baby hands to grab for her hair. She pushed them away with a forced smile on her face, as she set his cradle down and prepared to do the unthinkable. "Issac, I love you. I'm doing this because I love you, Issac."A muffled car horn sounded. She began crying again, and her makeup ran. "Mommy's gotta go now, I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry." She ran off to the car as she teared up once again, Little Issac's heart stopped as the tired turned and the vehicle sped odd into the night. Issac wiped a lone tear from his cheek. His mind turned to the years that followed. A montage of firsts: His first day of school. His first Crush - Diana Grey (The girl who sat behind him in third grade). His First Love- the piano. His first song. His first lover- Mackenzie Martin (she sat behind Diana in third grade.) His first collage acceptance letter. His first time away from home. His arrival to California, and success in seemingly defying his fate. As Issac exited the bus that afternoon, he had total control of his destiny, for once in his life. Looking back now, I don't know if it was fate that had brought Issac Murphy to us, or if it was a miraculous series of coincidences. Either way, it all started with a key.
Albert Crum was a short, fat man. He had a nearly toothless grin on his face when he handed Issac the silver key to his apartment. Despite his homely appearance, Al had a lot going for him as the new owner and superintendent of West End Place. He had the overpowering scent of overpriced cologne that made Issac want to choke in his presence. "Yer apartment sixteen." He said, while jotting something down on a legal pad, perhaps to seem more important. "Not a big place, but it's...um..." Al stopped writing for a moment t find the word he was looking for. "Cozy., Yeah, cozy. So, uh, rent s four hundie a month. That includes sewer and shit like that. Maybe water too, I'll have to get back to ya on that. So Um...any questions?" Issac did not, in fact, have any questions; but if he had any , he certainly was not about to ask then, for fear of breathing in too much Calvin Klein and sneezing all over the man. Cozy was not the word to describe apartment sixteen. Small, cramped, and empty would have been better words. Issac layed down on his new floor with his four suitcases and gym bag, closed his eyes and imagined notes floating around him, coming together to form a soothing song. When he had his inspiration, he opened up his suitcase and began to play the melody on his keyboard. That is when he heard a voice though the went, singing along with the music. She made up her own lyrics as he played., in perfect harmony with the music. Issac smiled to himself and cleverly coined a title to the piece: Angel In The Attic...
He is a boy no longer. From this day forth he is to be known solely, in every aspect of his life, As a Man. For the deathday of his innocence, Was the birthday of this burden, He must accept it without resistance, For that is what a Man would do. Yet the boy inside the wouldbe Man does question. The boy inside the wouldbe Man does resist, For that is what a boy does. The fear that the boy has, Thats the Man shouldn't, That is our conflict. For the Man is to be, exactly that, A Man, strong in every way. Thus, the pursuit begins. The unstable boy must learn what it is to be a stable Man, And how to become one, without losing himself in the process, In a world that expects to to have already done so. He does this often through a quest of sorts. A series of challenges that are to prove his manhood, Not only to himself, but to others who have, or will ever, question it. On this journey the boy will face his greatest fear., Assuming doing so, will make him fearless and thus, a true Man But the boy remains afraid, even in victory. Upon reaching the end of his adventure, As he acquires the head of a beast, gold, or whatever the symbol may be, The boy comes to a realization, as all true Men eventually do, That manhood is a myth, fearlessness does not exist, And most of all, that all true Men, are just boys pretending to be
calm
