The Other Day,

I was carrying her clothes,

And her most comfortable shoes,

In a grocery bag, because I thought

A suitcase would be too big,

And I did not want to give her

The impression that I thought

She would be there for long.

As I followed the nurse down the hall,

I thought, This place isn't so bad,

If you ignore the ugly carpet, and

All the crazies walking around,

Staring, smelling the freedom on you,

And wanting it for themselves.

They let me come back to her room,

Since she was having a bad day,

Instead of regular visitation in the commissary,

Like the others. When I walked in,

She was lying on her bed in a cocoon of sheets,

Peering at nothing in particular.

She did not sit up when she saw me,

Her eyes following my movement

To the edge of the bed, and I tried to recognize

The look about her face, finally realizing

It was the look of Daddy when he used to sober up.

I began to hope that meant she was well.

"Get me out of here," she whispered.

"They're going to kill me."

"They're not going to kill you, mother,"

I said calmly, with hope crushed and disappointment hidden.

I sat there, listening, as she spoke of her roommate and various

Other patrons of the ward, none of which she liked,

Except for one lady that she said used to be a doctor.

"She's nervous like me. She knows things."

I spend the rest of the visit trying to convince her that

I cannot take her home, that she is in the right place,

And that she will be safe here. All I can think about,

While I am explaining why she has to stay,

Is how very badly I want to leave myself.

Feeling selfish, but ignoring the feeling,

 I couldn't reach the car fast enough when

Visitation was done. I sat with the door open

As I peeled off the Psychiatric Hospital Visitor Badge,

Sticking it to my overheated dashboard, and wishing

I knew how to stop that dinging sound the door makes

With the key in the ignition.

Before I began to put events out of my mind,

I had two discouraging thoughts about the day.

I hoped that I would never do this to my kids, and

I hoped that if I did, they would be nicer than I was.

I started home with the radio blaring loudly,

And the sun setting another day.

8:45 PM - 31 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

Skittles
Current mood: calm
Category: Writing and Poetry

You had

Skittles for breakfast,

That he'd bought at the liquor store

The night before, thinking that

Made him an ok parent,

Even if he left you alone,

With a phone, but no number

That worked when you were scared of those dogs barking again.

Backpack dragging along,

You'd taste the rainbow,

On the way to the bus that you'd woken yourself up for,

Trudging through the day in a world that was not your own,

Where parents made sack lunches and showed up with cookies,

And for meetings,

And the children never were ridiculed for dirty

clothes.

Everyone hates you, (of this you are sure),

From your ragged old reeboks,

Off white and torn,

To your stupid-ass questions that should have been answered

The night before, on the homework that you had no help with.

Surrounded by pretty people.

Clean people.

Rich people.

People that seem smart because they don't hear dogs at night,

or at least don't worry so much about them.

And even so young you knew it wasn't fair.

You'd hear your dad's voice in your head,

"Life's not fair, boy. Don't be a pussy."

He loved you.

He was just tired.

And depressed,

Addicted and busy convincing himself

He was the only one half-way doing right by you.

And he was.

He'd buy you skittles, sometimes. And that was more than some

Starving kids in Africa got.

2:43 AM - 48 Comments - 50 Kudos - Add Comment

A New Object for Pele
Category: Writing and Poetry

Seeing you first,

By the phone booth,

In the airport,

Signals scrambled,

Much as my world;

I had thought

You’d forgotten.

I watched you

Hold your

Unlit cigarette,

Fumbling for

Clarity in your

Military jacket,

"Fuck America"

Written Where

A name badge

should be.

Your hair, long,

Your Eyes full of skies

And artful dynamics,

Stagnation never evident,

In your presence,

Pockets hiding,

Strong hands,

Delicate, and electric,

Putting to pen,

The words of

A timid genius.

I knew our minds,

And our days,

Would be filling with

Well hung rabbits,

Moonlight,

Moonbites,

And a Christian God,

By name;

I’ll be your angel.

Resting my head,

In the curve of

Your spine,

Eardrums primed,

With Einstein

And dissonance,

I breathed and

Basked in new life,

Along with the thickness

Of scented smoke,

And the chilled

Air of contented

Mornings.

A hunter,

A monk,

A skeleton,

You were;

(stolen metaphors

By a star struck fan)

I was breaking apart

On the sand,

A new object

For Pele.

Seeing you last,

Pulling bags,

At the airport,

You turned north

To see if I

Was looking south.

8:18 AM - 21 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Voices
Category: News and Politics

If there is something to say, do you hear it?

Can you put on a voice and wear it,

Like it’s a prideful thing?

Or do you let conscience cower,

In a mass of reason, not more righteous, but louder?

I’ve slipped into reality again,

Found my fear and sin and

Am facing life in naked fashion,

No assistance from my gin.

And it sucks.

I couldn’t understand

Why he drank,

When I was small and the house,

Was smoke-filled and rank with vodka;

But I get it now.

Thoughts plowing my mind,

Endlessly, and not being able to decipher,

Indefinitely one from the other.

Worrying, about toothpaste and war

And my children’s future,

With the future of all men,

Amid skies turning red,

In a holocaust of flame.

Knowing there’s nothing I can do,

But wait and pass the time

Playing real by parroting,

And playing in my rhyme,

Pretending I really get why

A road that ends in Prozac,

Is better than one weed-ridden,

And other responsible things,

That make no sense.

I can hear truth, speaking to me

Through the cacophony of dissention

Between all souls.

No one else knows,

Because I remain silent,

Since trying on the voice that did not fit,

Left me with a bit of sour taste,

And asking:

If there is something to say, do you hear it?

Can you put on a voice and wear it,

Like it’s a prideful thing?

Or do you let conscience cower,

In a mass of reason, not more righteous, but louder?

7:39 PM - 39 Comments - 35 Kudos - Add Comment

Because a very interesting man said this was his favorite poem of mine...
Category: Writing and Poetry

Which I found to be rather strange. I wrote this long ago, during a time in my life that was adventurous and young, back when I still had hope that the world was actually a better place than it seems on most days and furthermore, that I could somehow influence the world with goodness. Ironic then, that this poem seems now to describe my current philosophy rather than the one I actually held at the time. Perhaps I am a prophet. I hope I don't dissapoint anyone that came looking for some new stuff. I present to you an old skeleton collection favorite:

2 of the skeleton conversations

Falling into sky'

Racing through the dreams'

Clouds high,guarding flight'

Climbing moonlight beams into

Heavens.

Earth holds no promise.

Democracy as failure is

The best that we can do;

My country, My Country

Produces nothing new,

Down in the trenches.

That was me, being arrogant again.

A neuron in the eye of the bully,

Note, I don't control the brain,

Still sane, but growing old.

Societies rise, men die, and a foot soldier

Salutes me at the gate as I drive by,

On my way to fuck a foreign dream.

Smoking a joint from the 19th floor

We watched them prepare for war,and giggled.

If hypocrisy is a talent,

Damn, I'm good.

Falling into sky', dreams fly by,

As the moonlight beams

6:00 PM - 22 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

Unclean
Category: Writing and Poetry

"Unclean"

He'd made a mess, that's for sure;

Blood smeared all over the cell,

Red spackled the concrete walls;

A pint or more spilled from

His young arms onto that cold floor;

The rips glistened, on his wrists,

Under the florescent lighting of

 His stark accommodations, Tears

 In tender skin, made from a half-inch

 Piece of white tile, he'd managed

 To steal from the bathroom.

"Feeling bad today, Davey?"

 But he only stares.

 He doesn't want to talk,

 By the time the pain is seeping out

 In crimson, and his eyes

 Go all  hollow and dim.

He doesn't want to tell you

How hard its been at that point,

How his parents died, and his

Foster father raped him;

How he'd learned to rape too,

And found himself in here,

With nothing but tiles to steal.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

 And as he goes through the motions,

 And enjoys feeling something

 For a moment, he seems almost happy.

 And you just have to wonder

 How much blood its gonna take

 To make him forget so much.

4:25 PM - 54 Comments - 52 Kudos - Add Comment

Because You Dont Even Know.
Category: Writing and Poetry

Half serious and half hysterical, this pokes a little fun at all of us. Take and leave which parts I mean and please enjoy this edition of gangsta shades ; ), oh, and don't play this with the kiddos around, its a little potty mouthed ; ) undefined Because You Dont Even Know.



Add to My Profile | More Videos

5:35 PM - 62 Comments - 60 Kudos - Add Comment

An Elaboration in Icing
Category: Writing and Poetry

He wrote
"Jew"
In White icing,
Across my
Toaster Strudel.

The lines,
Running together
With the heat,
Delicate web
Of sugar, sweet-

Went down
Fast, like crack whores.

Thanks for the discussion.  I've enjoyed hearing various interpretations and think that as with all art, there is so much beauty in the ability to accomodate many views.  My expressed sentiment was one of race, of title and the blurring of lines, sweetly deceitful to ourselves about the direction we are headed, which is quite obviously down (like crack whores).  Our own self destruction makes our categorization of everyone even more petty and nonsensical.  We're all going down : ) By the way, this actually did happen, though. Jonathan attempted to write "Jew" on my toaster strudel, so Peter was onto something ; ).

6:33 AM - 26 Comments - 9 Kudos - Add Comment

Jew on a Strudel
Category: Writing and Poetry

He wrote
"Jew"
In White icing,
Across my
Toaster Strudel.

The lines,
Running together
With the heat,
Delicate web
Of sugar, sweet-

Went down
Fast, like crack whores.

7:09 AM - 9 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

undefined "Selfish"
Category: Writing and Poetry

I am working on a more upbeat video, but I couldn't resist making another one like this in the mean time. Apologies for the depression : ) The happy and hopeful video I am working on is an animation, which takes time. I was inspired by ILKS, who has the best one to date, in my opinion. The following is titled "Selfish". I am finding that my favorite written poems do not translate well into the videos, but maybe I just need to be more creative. In any case, I thought I would mention that my favorite poems seem to have difficulty translating to video and that the selecion process is one which is quite random and depends heavily on how workable the images are.