Lately.
Patriarch.
Bad Romance.
Smiles.
1/19/2011
1/12/2011
1/11/2011
Howl
Monday.
Now my heart stumbles on things I don't know/My weaknesses I feel I must finally show.
Long day today. Hard day today. Hard to take the pain, the sting, the ring of constant animal fighting, of grilling the remains, of forking the coals over open heart wound. My eyes cannot close when I am always already in open world when not asleep. So, NBC, CNBC, ABC, CBC, A+E, all in HD, wanna rake our backyard for any traces of our once intact (but divided) spirits we had- When they cannot stop for one goddamn minute the poking the prodding the speculation the hating the finger pointing the theorizing
When they cannot for one goddamn minute consider that the people who have lost so much are the ones who need silence the most. Can't fall asleep, can't eyes closed, can't be on my pedal bike without passing a reminder, an image, a vigil or an orange cone. Can't grieve, can't get away, can't sorrow, can't love. Can't hurt. Only saccharine packets and strong brew, so our hearts are heavy and irregular and beating to no beat but threaten to make each one the last. Too many dead, too many sad, too many scared of crazy that dwells now in a cell and maybe just a little bit inside all of us.
I woke up with a headache today- no, not that same one as yesterday. This one came body first, emotion second. It belayed that my limbs were to offer no extension- the night crew had taken the day off and left the repairs.
I had a headache but no rest, only brief respite after 3 am cup of coffee and brief hello from Madrid. Sumatripan for the head but no match for headlines.
This is what is in my heart.
Now my heart stumbles on things I don't know/My weaknesses I feel I must finally show.
Long day today. Hard day today. Hard to take the pain, the sting, the ring of constant animal fighting, of grilling the remains, of forking the coals over open heart wound. My eyes cannot close when I am always already in open world when not asleep. So, NBC, CNBC, ABC, CBC, A+E, all in HD, wanna rake our backyard for any traces of our once intact (but divided) spirits we had- When they cannot stop for one goddamn minute the poking the prodding the speculation the hating the finger pointing the theorizing
When they cannot for one goddamn minute consider that the people who have lost so much are the ones who need silence the most. Can't fall asleep, can't eyes closed, can't be on my pedal bike without passing a reminder, an image, a vigil or an orange cone. Can't grieve, can't get away, can't sorrow, can't love. Can't hurt. Only saccharine packets and strong brew, so our hearts are heavy and irregular and beating to no beat but threaten to make each one the last. Too many dead, too many sad, too many scared of crazy that dwells now in a cell and maybe just a little bit inside all of us.
I woke up with a headache today- no, not that same one as yesterday. This one came body first, emotion second. It belayed that my limbs were to offer no extension- the night crew had taken the day off and left the repairs.
I had a headache but no rest, only brief respite after 3 am cup of coffee and brief hello from Madrid. Sumatripan for the head but no match for headlines.
This is what is in my heart.
1/02/2011
Some Words for the New Year
The Widow's Toast
Specters move like pilot flames
Their widows toast at St. Angel
Better times collide with now
The tears were warm, I feel them still
Their heat to vapor and disperse
and cloud our eyes with weary glaze
You raise your glass and may exclaim
"I'll put my hands on the truth, my God!"
But its faster, love, than you and me
Faster than the speed of gravity
That's how it catches you from falling
And how it always slips away
Specters move like pilot flames
Their widows toast at St. Angel
Better times collide with now
and better times
Better times are coming still.
Neko Case
The Rhodora
On being asked, whence is the flower.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in the damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
and court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! If the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose,
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Specters move like pilot flames
Their widows toast at St. Angel
Better times collide with now
The tears were warm, I feel them still
Their heat to vapor and disperse
and cloud our eyes with weary glaze
You raise your glass and may exclaim
"I'll put my hands on the truth, my God!"
But its faster, love, than you and me
Faster than the speed of gravity
That's how it catches you from falling
And how it always slips away
Specters move like pilot flames
Their widows toast at St. Angel
Better times collide with now
and better times
Better times are coming still.
Neko Case
The Rhodora
On being asked, whence is the flower.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in the damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
and court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! If the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose,
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
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