oh my god
I didn't write a poem for class today
I didn't even remember what it was until I read the prompt at the top of the page
What's my problem that I can't take ten minutes to crap out some verse? or jot down a rhyme like this one, scribbled in class while Kort speaks and reads her poetry
you're so mean when you want to die
you say you're ready but you don't know why
don't you hide your pain from the whole wide world
Don't you miss the days when you used to swim?
with she and her, and him and him.
but the water has no beauty now, no faceted diamond glints
you don't think of anyone but yourself,
you're a bully and a **** and a beautiful person
when you're out in the light
It's a little sick the way you're so weak
and your weakness has everyone wrapped around your finger
even you
you let a black hole grow inside your chest,
if you don't block it out it'll eat your air
you will choke and die
like butterflies pinned open
or lit from within
I grasp at straws while pigeons crap all over the rooftops
this is a cafe scene
I have holes in my shoes, and 7 bucks fewer in my wallet
you've got a dirty look on as you answer yet another text
it's not much of a date, I'm certain
but like butterflies, we are perched here for the world to see
snipped out of our meadows, car exhaust preserving us
the night comes all the time,
but we don't die when the sunlight drags itself down the wall with a heavy touch
and the radio sits, waiting to sing
and the kettle burns, all the time
but it doesn't scream out without reason
while the trains pass not a hundred yards away shaking the walls of the house and kicking dust up into the sun
glass bottles sit all the time
flavoring my food, dreaming like an animal
I grow twisted when my body grows larger
People live in the Midwest because there is a certain kind of beauty in watching things die. In the South, things die and grow all at once, in a kind of continuous cacophony of nature. In the middle states, things are born in the spring, grow in the summer, die in the fall, and all is a graveyard for the winter. Some people enjoy this; it is in their natures. Their genes resonate with the boom boom boom boom of the changing air, the cycle of scenes, the rich metaphor of weather patterns. For others, this chokes them; they need everlasting life. But the europeans, the folk in whose veins an understanding between them and death flows, they enjoy the battle. They feel in their bones that, while they might not live forever, they can live through death-of-the-land for many years, as a way to prove...something. I am not sure yet where I belong.
I am going to try and put this down
I am going to be the scribe to do this shit
I am going to take a keyboard and a blog and pin down my emotions, the fear of the trap, my instinct to burn burn all the old away
I am going to make you understand the sickness I feel when I think of staying where I am for one second longer
I am going to do something drastic and beautiful that will blow the thoughts of the people that know me open for a second before they start to close again
I am about to thrash and kick in my computer chair and dash outside in a desperate attempt to escape, before I slip on some ice and freeze to death
I am going to do this all as soon as I can get myself together, I know it, I just know it
I am waiting to stop waiting
Looking for the strength to proceed at full speed with eyes clenched shut
Trying to find my voice so I can sing the world into adoring silence
Figuring out the proof needed to convince my math teacher and everyone else in the world that I am unique and favored by God in my uniquicity
Struggling to see beauty despite the struggle that's always with me
Happy to be happy even though at night I'm sick with lonely
Taste-testing every girl I can get to agree, so I can find someone to take my virginity and hand in an eternalish vow of unnervingly strong love
Freaking out over stupid shit like a fear of falling from small heights.
“Oh hey what are you doing what is up with you tonight my friend”
“Not too much can’t really say I’m up to anything what are you up to?”
“O I am just not doing much of anything with a couple of my friends if you get what I mean”
“What”
“Not doing anything if you catch my drift”
“O okay I see”
“Yeah should be a good time”
“Where are you going”
“Pat’s house”
“Ahhh Pat”
“Haha, yes Pat”
“How is Pat lately I have not talked to him lately”
“Pat’s been good he is graduating early and he’s got a job at that record store and shit”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah he has a girlfriend too she is pretty hot and…”
“and…”
“And pretty good if you know what I mean”
“Oh you bastard”
“Haha”
“Heheh”
“I’m gonna head out, see ya later man”
“Hey, mind if I come with”
[an awkward moment. the momentum of the situation appears to be at a crossroads. 1st young man has an unreadable countenance. the potential of antagony hangs in the air. the café is full of people and the sound of their conversations flows like pebbles being washed down a steep rock slope. the warmth surrounds them, the heat turned up to balance the below-freezing temps outside. 2nd young man has flushed cheeks from the heat, 1st young man seemingly unaffected by the temperature.]
“How about another time buddy, I’ve really gotta go this time”
“Okay that’s cool that’s fine”
“Alright cool see ya man”
“See ya”
I am about ready to give up
So tired I am leaning over, not quite capable of sitting up straight
And I am yearning for a love and a place to live and a life that's my own
And an eventual peace
A smooth brow at last
Before this too-old heart in this too-young body decides it doesn't want to beat any longer without the kind of reassurance I am waiting for
it's pathetic and nasty, but
i can dedicate this poem to a couple different people
because i was going to write it to have the message of, "i want to be your lover"
which is the primary reason for art
but still
there are a few of you that make my legs weak
and my tired face pull into a smile
and i'll tell you what i want to happen
i want to move away to another city far away with you
and we can drink tea in a hidden café
walk back home along the docks and the warehouses
up into our attic apartment
all one room, so we're never alone when we're both home
and then we could lie down in bed, kiss, and make love
then talk, or just be quiet
read awhile in the afternoon light
then i could get up, and fix us a snack
some spanish rice or stir fry or such
then we could sit and eat and write
or do what the world says need be done
but way up in that small warm room, we're the happiest of anyone
you & me are the happiest of anyone
Oh, Obama won, who guessed it.
But that is okay, if he shuts down a bunch of pro-life emergency care shelters or repeals the Hyde Amendment, I will take a rock and throw it through his window. And on the rock will be written, "You prick. You didn't have to do that."
And then this blog will be lacking on updates unless they have computers in federal prisons.
if I had to choose I guess I'd say that my main problem is a lack of contentment
but I don't want to write about that, and I don't think anyone else wants to read about it
the emotional struggles of a middle class white boy in America
I don't know what else to cover, though, that isn't soaked in the oil of cliché
too many poems have been written on depression, or the love-pangs of adolescence
and not much of worth can be added there
on the other hand, I just wrote a poem about writer's block
which has been done too many times to count
this lack of new material, this is what it is about
the reason poets snap their pens, and authors divorce their muses
I could die right now
My heart could give out
Or my brain collapse
For I have felt the sun
And I have eaten fruit picked from the tree
I have loved and been loved
And most of all I've accepted the fact that I won't ever do 10% of what I want to do
but that's okay
I know lovers will cry,
but I've cried over people too
and seen months without a light at the end of the tunnel
so they should be alright, I've made it through myself
But can I survive so well adjusted, so early?
Am I not a sitting target for smiling death?
someone that won't even fight it?
I don't think I want to die
This is a short response I wrote for school in response to Gloria Steinem's article, "The Good News Is: These Are Not the Best Years of Your Life".
I thought that Steinem’s essay was very well written and that she has many good points. The article made clear the reasons for college being the worst time for a woman to be truly radical or revolutionary, and why the middle age is where the real feminist activism comes out. It pointed out many of the flaws of our current male-dominated society, and the effects those have on women.
However, reading the article made me think about the role that men have in the sexual power struggles that are a central form of conflict in our society. The standard feminist ideals center on overthrowing the males that control the culture, and making the roles that both sexes play anew, and ending discrimination and differentiation between the two sets of roles. I believe that this total overthrowing by women is not necessary. While, yes, our cultural attitudes need to be fixed, they should not be fixed through force by the ones being victimized. This continues the cycle of victim rising up against victimizer, and continuing the power struggle. There is nothing wrong with one group having more power than the other; the problem comes in when the one group uses that power to force the other group to submit. The problems between the sexes are caused by male ignorance, incorrect ideas about women, and a huge lack of respect for women. The ideal method of fixing our culture’s problems lies not in having women rise up and overthrow the male dictators; instead it is in having the “dictators” realize the role they are playing, and step down from it to choose equality and respect. If men could be made to realize the way they are trained to think, and choose to think otherwise, most of our problems could probably be fixed within a generation or two. I realize this may not be the likeliest possibility, but I feel it is an ideal worth shooting for. In a sense, reading Steinem’s article on feminism and radicalism has made me into what could very well be considered a radical masculinist.
i went and kissed you
just after school
and you smiled and hugged me
said "i've been waiting for you to do that
all afternoon"
i don't know how to tell you how beautiful i think you are
the way your hair shines in the sun
or the way that you smile that just melts my heart
you make life seem realer, and i'm glad you do
because sometimes it's just too washed out and colorless
for me to tell what i'm supposed to do
or endure
can you spend every moment with me
i get cold and so do you
maybe we could be cold together, or even keep each other warm
i'd hold your hand and try to think of things to say to you
while life just moved on quicker than ever
with both of us just walking on the side
I've been looking for somebody just as broken as me
And I mean that in the best way possible
And I found you, so see the above sentence
Take it, turn it over, put on the lamp
Look at it in a new light
We are both ridiculous, which is why we didn't work
But I love you and I lust you and I need you till it hurts
And that is Alright, that is Just Fine
I can still sleep at night
I'm content and fully accepting of my mortality and the possibility of death. I'm also only sixteen.
How does that work?
Should it?
For those of you that don't know, David Foster Wallace, one of the most talented writers and thinkers in the history of everything and a personal hero of mine, killed himself last Friday at the age of 46. I'm not really sure yet how I feel about everything.
