Silence is a prison sometimes
But I like it that way
It's a prison I've built myself
Brick by brick for years
I talk
Hundreds of thousands of shiny bright words
That wrinkle at a touch like foil
Words that tarnish, ideas that rust
Stories told that oxidize
As soon as they fall from my lips and are exposed to the air
Lift the lid of my heart though
Where the hinges squeak
Where there are no words, only silences
A soundproof-loveproof chamber
A lead box where the radioactive waves of feeling are caught up, all sealed in
Soldered shut, and then locked in a room
Silence is a prison sometimes
But I've built it myself
Brick by brick for years
Saturday, July 25, 2009
On Coming North, and Not Liking it Much Sometimes 2009
This hard, flinty North has done me in
I believe there is now something like a shard of winter lodged inside me
I feel cold, wind-chapped, stiffened, perma-frosted
I have chiseled out a piece of my heart and stored it in my freezer
If I put that piece in my mouth and sucked on it like candy
It would taste like a penny
Hard and icy on my lips
Melting coppery-metallic and very bitter between my teeth.
I believe there is now something like a shard of winter lodged inside me
I feel cold, wind-chapped, stiffened, perma-frosted
I have chiseled out a piece of my heart and stored it in my freezer
If I put that piece in my mouth and sucked on it like candy
It would taste like a penny
Hard and icy on my lips
Melting coppery-metallic and very bitter between my teeth.
Shoppinglist 1991/2009
As I stand in the grocery store
vistas
of food all around me
The shelves are so stinking tall
That I cannot reach my favorite cereal
Cap'n Crunch
I think that stinks
My money, greasy bills, sweaty palm-scented coins
Is all balled up in my left jeans pocket
I will reach for my right jeans pocket first
Giving the impression that I've lost my money
I have lost some of it
A Quarter
Lying on a yellow stripe in the parking lot
Weighting down a single fluttering strip of torn paper
Like a dying butterfly
With my mother's handwriting on it.
vistas
of food all around me
The shelves are so stinking tall
That I cannot reach my favorite cereal
Cap'n Crunch
I think that stinks
My money, greasy bills, sweaty palm-scented coins
Is all balled up in my left jeans pocket
I will reach for my right jeans pocket first
Giving the impression that I've lost my money
I have lost some of it
A Quarter
Lying on a yellow stripe in the parking lot
Weighting down a single fluttering strip of torn paper
Like a dying butterfly
With my mother's handwriting on it.
Dandelions 1995
All I want you to give me are dandelions
The keepers of the yard
Outright militants stretching stubborn roots down
They are always there
You can fight, clip, poison, shred
They are always there, they disappear only to reappear
When and where they are least wanted
I remember being small
Picking wilted dandelions for my mother
All I want are dandelions in a pot
Strong the flowers
Well watered
The grass used to be greener
With small yellow suns burning in the lawn
Fairy seeds blowing everywhere, clouds speeding fast-forward across the skies
Many an idyllic childhood day spent lying on the ground
Next to the dandelions
Dreams down among the roots, hopes and memories floating up to heaven
Drifting like pollen which makes me sneeze
Dont' give me roses
Or weak-willed hothouse gardenias that wither at a breath of arid air
All I want are dandelions in a pot
Grown strong
The keepers of the yard
Outright militants stretching stubborn roots down
They are always there
You can fight, clip, poison, shred
They are always there, they disappear only to reappear
When and where they are least wanted
I remember being small
Picking wilted dandelions for my mother
All I want are dandelions in a pot
Strong the flowers
Well watered
The grass used to be greener
With small yellow suns burning in the lawn
Fairy seeds blowing everywhere, clouds speeding fast-forward across the skies
Many an idyllic childhood day spent lying on the ground
Next to the dandelions
Dreams down among the roots, hopes and memories floating up to heaven
Drifting like pollen which makes me sneeze
Dont' give me roses
Or weak-willed hothouse gardenias that wither at a breath of arid air
All I want are dandelions in a pot
Grown strong
Dispatches from the train. Not really poetry, but maybe a reason.
7/03/09
So today I decided to be adventurous and take the train to Boston instead of taking the bus. Train fare was cheaper, and besides the scenery would be a nice change. I had plenty of time to travel at a leisurely pace. Well so far, I've figured out that I hate people. Especially people who have nothing better to do to amuse themselves than to talk loudly on their cell phones when everyone else is being quiet and speaking in lowered tones. They are speaking so loudly that I can hear their annoying chatter quite clearly even though they are sitting three seats away. I'm just happy that I'm not sitting next to them. Of course, I may be extra-testy because we had to sit on the tracks for something like an hour and a half waiting for two other trains to pass. The announcer kept saying 10 minutes, but he said it at half-hour intervals, so I'm going to ignore him from now on. I guess the crappy weather ruins more than picnics and beach days. The storm that came through just as I was boarding the train knocked out the signals, which forces the train to go much slower, and do stupid crap like sit on the tracks immobile for an hour plus.
After a rocky start where I sat on my hot cup of coffee before I even got a sip, the first leg of the trip was pretty cool. I got to see some of the scenery that I don't normally see from the bus. Let's face it, I've seen I-90 between Albany and Boston fifty-'leven times and it no longer holds much interest. We passed some pretty farmland, and I saw a big herd of Buffalo grazing in a pasture. There was even a picturesque old farm truck with a faded billboard on the side. Then we sat in the rain until I felt cranky. Once we started moving again, Mr Loud Talker finally broke off his phone call, and I stopped feeling so much like I was going to stab someone. I don't mind moving slowly, as long as we are moving. Of course this doesn't mean anything good for my arrival time. The schedule originally said that we'd be arriving in Boston at 9:10 or some such, but it's definitely going to be more like 11pm before I see anything that looks like Boston. I'm really glad that I brought my laptop. This way I can watch movies and mess around with my playlists on iTunes. Oh and also sit and type dispatches about my trip as if I'm going to post them for someone to read. I might though, since this has turned out more interesting than I initially though. I was really just venting at first, but now I'm feeling in the groove of things. It's been a long time since I've sat down to write, other than stuff for my food blog. I can't even think of the last time I wrote a poem. Maybe it's time for that to end. Maybe it takes stopped train frustration to get me writing again.
At least I can move around here, and the seats are spacious. I even got up and did some stretches while we were stopped. Right along now though I think it's naptime.
So today I decided to be adventurous and take the train to Boston instead of taking the bus. Train fare was cheaper, and besides the scenery would be a nice change. I had plenty of time to travel at a leisurely pace. Well so far, I've figured out that I hate people. Especially people who have nothing better to do to amuse themselves than to talk loudly on their cell phones when everyone else is being quiet and speaking in lowered tones. They are speaking so loudly that I can hear their annoying chatter quite clearly even though they are sitting three seats away. I'm just happy that I'm not sitting next to them. Of course, I may be extra-testy because we had to sit on the tracks for something like an hour and a half waiting for two other trains to pass. The announcer kept saying 10 minutes, but he said it at half-hour intervals, so I'm going to ignore him from now on. I guess the crappy weather ruins more than picnics and beach days. The storm that came through just as I was boarding the train knocked out the signals, which forces the train to go much slower, and do stupid crap like sit on the tracks immobile for an hour plus.
After a rocky start where I sat on my hot cup of coffee before I even got a sip, the first leg of the trip was pretty cool. I got to see some of the scenery that I don't normally see from the bus. Let's face it, I've seen I-90 between Albany and Boston fifty-'leven times and it no longer holds much interest. We passed some pretty farmland, and I saw a big herd of Buffalo grazing in a pasture. There was even a picturesque old farm truck with a faded billboard on the side. Then we sat in the rain until I felt cranky. Once we started moving again, Mr Loud Talker finally broke off his phone call, and I stopped feeling so much like I was going to stab someone. I don't mind moving slowly, as long as we are moving. Of course this doesn't mean anything good for my arrival time. The schedule originally said that we'd be arriving in Boston at 9:10 or some such, but it's definitely going to be more like 11pm before I see anything that looks like Boston. I'm really glad that I brought my laptop. This way I can watch movies and mess around with my playlists on iTunes. Oh and also sit and type dispatches about my trip as if I'm going to post them for someone to read. I might though, since this has turned out more interesting than I initially though. I was really just venting at first, but now I'm feeling in the groove of things. It's been a long time since I've sat down to write, other than stuff for my food blog. I can't even think of the last time I wrote a poem. Maybe it's time for that to end. Maybe it takes stopped train frustration to get me writing again.
At least I can move around here, and the seats are spacious. I even got up and did some stretches while we were stopped. Right along now though I think it's naptime.
Sodden Summer 2009
Am I dissolving into youth again?
Revisiting pubescence?
Once again I find myself unexpectedly full of emotions
Most of them as unwieldy and difficult to deal with as a suitcase with one wheel
Weighting me down at the airport, making me oh so late and I will miss my flight.
I have already missed my flight.
Now I am sunk in melancholy, twisted up in angst.
Every sunbeam is beautiful, but they blush me red and remind me that I am pinned to the earth.
I am missing my flight.
Every raincloud is so apropos. It suits my mood, and even my clothes are turning gray to match.
When lighting flashes it is an expression of my anger stabbing into the ground
It can be felt in the earth that is still right underfoot.
And it's so frustrating because I'm grounded.
Torrential downpours of hormones fall on my head.
They soak every inch of my skin and dampen my surroundings.
So that I am sodden with lust, soaked with
and saturated with emotions that change as quickly as the color of the sky changes.
And it changes quickly during this summer I spend not going but staying.
Who knows when I will feel lifted again?
Who knows when I'll grow the fuck up and stop wallowing?
When I can't find the answers I find myself falling back
To the things that soothed me when I was young and frustrated,
I pick up my pen (which is really a mac book, but in my mind's eye a pen) and I write.
I need to have something to do
Until I can catch the next flight.
Revisiting pubescence?
Once again I find myself unexpectedly full of emotions
Most of them as unwieldy and difficult to deal with as a suitcase with one wheel
Weighting me down at the airport, making me oh so late and I will miss my flight.
I have already missed my flight.
Now I am sunk in melancholy, twisted up in angst.
Every sunbeam is beautiful, but they blush me red and remind me that I am pinned to the earth.
I am missing my flight.
Every raincloud is so apropos. It suits my mood, and even my clothes are turning gray to match.
When lighting flashes it is an expression of my anger stabbing into the ground
It can be felt in the earth that is still right underfoot.
And it's so frustrating because I'm grounded.
Torrential downpours of hormones fall on my head.
They soak every inch of my skin and dampen my surroundings.
So that I am sodden with lust, soaked with
and saturated with emotions that change as quickly as the color of the sky changes.
And it changes quickly during this summer I spend not going but staying.
Who knows when I will feel lifted again?
Who knows when I'll grow the fuck up and stop wallowing?
When I can't find the answers I find myself falling back
To the things that soothed me when I was young and frustrated,
I pick up my pen (which is really a mac book, but in my mind's eye a pen) and I write.
I need to have something to do
Until I can catch the next flight.
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