Monday, December 15, 2008

If I wrote a Love Sonnet

Through my lenses
with sleepy eyes
I derive
other sides
to your insides
behind walls
within rooms
unvisited
barred entry
but I snuck in
through windows
climbed over a fenceway
in a doorway
and under a skylight
to gather insight
to see why you fight
the sunshine
from trickling down
stairwells
only starry eyed frowns
when I will my smile
to be contagious
infectious
maybe even delicious
to awaken
other senses
to pry you away
from preconceived notions
and
underdeveloped potentials
of navigational patterns

Friday, November 7, 2008

digestion

Time
my misstep
taken with
water,
small blue pill
swallowed
same time
every day
one in the morning
one in the evening
allows me
to forget
I am weary
wary
what if things
unfolded into a
different collection
captured moments
through corneas
frozen
onto the ripples of my brain
with digital imaging
worry is my weakness
sweaty palms
panic babies
kicking me
all over my guts
small blue pill
swallowed same time every day
one in the morning
one in the evening
it eats away my fear
like pacman
even if my ghosts
keep chasing
the good
away
leaving me
with myself

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Suffocation

Giftwrap my hurt feelings
with yards of blue ribbon
I can pull from my insides
spilling to oceans
presenting myself
with the best of intentions
my heart doesn't learn
without teaching it lessons

the words get backed up
like traffic jams
flood gates held back like
river dams
when I don't speak aloud
I choke on swallowed alphabets
to suffocation

Take my favorite pen
to write down the details
checklist my imperfections
to create novels
best selling myself
with the best of intentions
my heart doesn't learn
without teaching it lessons

the words get backed up like traffic jams
flood gates held back like
river dams
when I don't speak aloud
I choke on swallowed alphabets
to suffocation

Spinning Tops

Just as you are
with flaws, imperfections
frustrations involve
spinning tops on the hard wood floor
so close to an open door

Fall through the cracks
like forgotten faces
eyes look around
in every direction
except right on me
where they ought to be
spilling hearts like a open wound
from my side

Just as you are
with flaws, imperfections,
frustrations involve
spinning tops
on the hardwood floor
so close to an open door
Fall through the cracks
like forgotten faces

I love you still
even if you don't mention
the fit of my dress
the cut of my hair
or the way it sweeps over my eyes
focused on you

Just as you are
with flaws, imperfections,
frustrations involve
spinning topson the hardwood floor
so close to an open door
Fall through the cracks
like forgotten faces

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Syncopation

the house smelled of
Heineken and parliaments
always seeming dimly lit
smoky, sad walls and cold floors
that watched me enter silently
hours after dark had fallen quietlyto abandoned suburban streets
your piano played with musical scars
from angry days of time signature bludgeons yet,
your hands were elegantweapons of your trade
handing me the blues in syncopated time
smooth tunings of a radio dial on the am audible waves
with curving lines of bass clefs wrapping from your hands to mine
forgetting days of those who held too tightly
some men do not leave marks
I remember you would say while playing miles davis
and introducing me to a thing called jazz music
still leaving imprints deep through my skin
like audible tattoos,
turning the walls in the room to deep cobalt blues,
saxophone telling this sad story
with notes like tears,
spitting syncopated
the rhythms from my silent fears, my insides
all wrapped up in your outsides
deep set eyes that never saw the light
your heart had a downbeat from jump street
keeping time with my memory line
turning my sorrows into sweet red wine
lyrical soliloquies
you left a stain on me
from outpoured sensibility
the house smelled of Heineken and parliaments
turning my senses to something like awakening
from a sleep deprived nightmare of complancency
into artistic reawakenings

February

Unfolding origami bodiesDropping messages with secret images Whispered in tongues foreign To arms becoming hands
Becoming then just
skin upon skin
Yet again memories surface On coat tails of emotions That moment of caught hands Lingering too long Delicate papers with stamps that could Send words to distant worlds
Paper envelopes sealed by lipsTwo cranes Blue lit by moon sight unseen Relearning the delicate art of Such intricate patternmaking Once taught through touch Innocent fingers would thread ribbons Through braids Unfolding origami So quick to disassemble years of creation Paper chain link fences crumble Beneath large rain drops Dried tear drops leaving salt traces
Like crystals In curved lines abundant To smooth out all
The rough edges
Relearning the softness that
Nestles in with intensities
Restless yearning, clawing, pulling
Back to this place

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Heartbeats

The fist shaped organ beating in the heart of hollywood, flowing life through los angeles, and those whose feet pound pavement, searching in vain for lost scripts, and forgotten lines, and existing plots.
Maybe it was the music but I was reminded of old faces and a more innocent time. Either forgetting hurt feelings or perhaps heightening the experience,
recalling a time when I was less jaded by the hills surrounding us.

Maybe the music broke my heartChipped away at surrounding ribcage protection to invade me
It cried out from below my feet and tumnled like crowd floating to the pulsating drumbeat of the stage
Offering up my lonliness on this alter that understands me better than the status quo. Telling me to be optmistic in such a pessimistic town, absorbing the collective energy of those around.

The red lights beat light like an EKG and my own responds unable to let go of an unsaid force inside of me that is begging for the moment things turn from bright hot sun to the cool gray dusk of stillness.

this place is like a church, as we all face forward to find our spirituality. In modern uniforms of faded tshirts and boots, we are the cynics looking for something, lost and found, upon starry sidewalks

Monday, August 25, 2008

Chapters

As stories go,
there is usually pain
death or some drama,
created by let downs of some type
feeling jumpy,
needing to get out of somewhere to get going somewhere else
maybe it's like when you quit smoking,
after five minutes the itch subsides
evident to the unapparent misuse of someone's heart
he sits now bleeding quite freely
you see from both skinned knees
heavy hearted and waiting for it to start feeling better
maybe eventually his heart will not be used for her pin cushion
he has been told that the pains numbs a bit
with two parts denial,
one part whiskey
stirred slightly with a long look in the mirror.
As stories go,
there is usually pain
death or some drama,
created by let downs of some type
feeling the quiet,
its surrounding her and burrowing through ear canals
maybe its like going deaf,
after a while the white noise just fades
like a lullaby to drift you away to a healthier state of mind
she is quiet for the first time
her own voice in hibernation to herself
she is feeling sadness harder than usual but
she has been told things are usually for the best
she is growing her thin skin out to callused a bit
to live without that empty self induced guilty feeling
as stories go

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

recording

im taking my words to a different place,
walking through streets at a different pace
with lowered eyes
lowered blinds
lowered lights
i would like to write upon the insides of the eyelids
view visions of the visionaries
share a part of something amazing
with broken walls
broken shards
broken records are playing back
words a song that never ends
when i challenge you for inspiration
to light fires

Thursday, July 24, 2008

plain jane

i am beginning to feel ordinary
the excitement is waning with age
sweating palms just to be alone with a boy
silent and thrilled at the touch of a hand
like a whirlwind you find yourself in awkward positions
there is always a first time
when curiosity wins out over what is expected of you
i wonder what happens when you are 30
what can bring that feeling to the pit of your stomach
that hot flash of something new
back then it was making out in the back seat
steaming up windows
smoking a cigarette
driving fast down ventura blvd
when we were still invincible and noone we loved had ever left us
before i had the capacity for love that i do now
and feelings were so minimal
i am beginning to feel ordinary
sometimes a haircut or tattoo is not enough to reclaim
the fire inside your ribcage that keeps you moving
quickly down the highway blowing stop signs
now slowing and looking around,
acknowledging the things lost, and left behind
trailing behind you like a tin can string
from a dented fender
moving fast enough to make sparks
i am beginning to feel ordinary
like the things i've done were really quite charming
i am wanting new doors to be opening
so i dont have to see the eyes of the cool girls roll anymore
when i tell my stories
now dusty and dated
there is more now to me than the people i've hated
and that angst and boredom
has dissipated
i'm beginning to feel ordinary

Forgetful

I like familiar voices
spoken through a memory
described by a halted moment
blindsiding you with the repeated message
of typed words on paper,
names and places
these are post its stuck to the insides of me
I think I only remember the lower register of your voice
I practically recall the smell from my grandmothers herb garden
I may be able to draw the tattoo he had on his shoulder
but i know i cannot find my way to my first home
it could possibly be
next door to a korean church
if I remember correctly
but I could have written it all down wrong

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

soggy pinafores

sitting in puddles of water, with soggy pinafores
little girls are all waiting in line to grow up
tapping scuffed patent leather impatiently
biting fingernails with chipped nail polish
sitting up tall with shoulders back as they were taught
they hold nameplates reading words like
INNOCENCE
NAIVITY
PRECIOUS
eventually all the nameplates are collected
or stolen by the shadows of disappointment
leaving torn fragments of newspapers
to provide new messages
JADED
WISE
EXPERIENCED
something in their eyes changes
once freckled noses with wide smiles
seeing things through cyical sideways glances now
squinting to remember where they misplaced their childhood
moving quickly with sexuality
ill fitting soggy pinafores from
sobs dropping into clenched hands
omission of handling with care

Monday, July 14, 2008

symphony of strained words

They cut and burn my tongue upon exiting
these vile lyrics
meant to unleash a lashing
with fire balls
thrown from pierced eyes
blind to reason
offering no insight to the inside
these syllables are formed
with a forked tongue
made from pieces of me I hide at dinner parties
where there is no charm
no vibrancy to shield a conspicuous look
I watch too closely for my own comfort
convincing there
is conniving yet
knowing in my heart it is my own conducting
this dramatic orchestra of invisible musicisians
play songs I am writing
from my histories of lost faith
out of tune

The First Entry

I'm not sure when I lost sight of my ability to discern truth from crazy.
Recently the reality of lost youth and mortality has turned my sense of urgency up in regards to situations I never noticed previously. I have stopped writing. Perhaps those feelings deep inside that developed all my insecurities are not being purged appropriately.
So now there will be a blog.
we'll see.