I once saw a young girl
place her hand on the
inside of a window,
staring out
as I watched from the sidewalk.
The girl was locked in
and I was locked out with
this world, my companion.
If it is putrid or lovely,
I would not know,
for the road stretched like
spangles of a sea anenome--I
knew of nowhere to be
and nothing to see.
The curtain shut,
swept into some desperate arms,
and her face dispersed in an
explosion of butterfly wings.
They left a faint shimmer.
As I faced a well-lit street in suburbia,
I felt the ghost
of a carriage skirt the
nearest corner, or the
presence of a lingering friend
sweep behind a birch tree;
I felt both in my fingertips.
Light erupts and lamposts are
all space and time,
and as the girl's feet, buoyant
and filled with bounce, moved against
the plushness of a warm carpet,
I had to tear through the unforgiving
bark of my own roots,
growing into the frozen ground.
This night is mine in a
feather bed I frequently
share with my imagination.
I am both free and contricted unto myself.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Surveyor
"I've never even heard of a barbituate,"
she laughed and told him to click
on an answer. Her nephew
played with REM and that impressed him
but I think it she handed him
a bag of bud it would impress him
more.
she laughed and told him to click
on an answer. Her nephew
played with REM and that impressed him
but I think it she handed him
a bag of bud it would impress him
more.
Sometimes it's hard to remember what things
are all about
The story of that old Lorax, the wild things, the
goodnight moon
God it's a struggle to search through
the past,
like finding a soft pair of hands in fog,
even for things that once meant the world and a
wonderful head full of dreams
I can make such a mess of a
memory by trying to fix it all nice
like I'm trimming hedges
Or sewing up an open wound--
plastic surgery.
are all about
The story of that old Lorax, the wild things, the
goodnight moon
God it's a struggle to search through
the past,
like finding a soft pair of hands in fog,
even for things that once meant the world and a
wonderful head full of dreams
I can make such a mess of a
memory by trying to fix it all nice
like I'm trimming hedges
Or sewing up an open wound--
plastic surgery.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Small Feet in Big Shoes
Buy pot, smoke pot
Buy beer, drink beer
Buy drug, take drug
This magnificnt
vessel of a body
is a lake
of polluted,
lifeless water.
It is still.
Stagnant. On my
last vacation here
I hooked a
fine, large bass
and it told me that
life thrives and
dwindles among the
sediment, yet
it cannot seek the sun.
We graze in a
feld of green
that will never
receive what it
needs to
flourish alone;
life is fruitless
or heavy, like
carrying a
suitcase full
of money on a
subway train. We
know neither
where we
take
it,
nor what it even
means. With
each step away
from the tracks
downward facing crystals
grow inside
of us and
they make us
feel like life
is weight.
They make us feel
like shit.
Where are the
the lilies blooming
this year? Not
in our eyes or
our souls, but
instead potpourri
the shores of
a far
away lake.
Nothing but a green
giant grows
within us,
within you. Jack
must face the world
from the peak
of his beanstalk,
and his hands
are cut
and bloody
from handling
seeds and
leaves, but he
continues to
the summit.
And where is this
virtue in
his (our) journey?
Weed, money.
A train
A web
A race--nervousness.
It is ironic
that such insipid
forms of inanimacy
are where the
weak find their
salvation.
Buy beer, drink beer
Buy drug, take drug
This magnificnt
vessel of a body
is a lake
of polluted,
lifeless water.
It is still.
Stagnant. On my
last vacation here
I hooked a
fine, large bass
and it told me that
life thrives and
dwindles among the
sediment, yet
it cannot seek the sun.
We graze in a
feld of green
that will never
receive what it
needs to
flourish alone;
life is fruitless
or heavy, like
carrying a
suitcase full
of money on a
subway train. We
know neither
where we
take
it,
nor what it even
means. With
each step away
from the tracks
downward facing crystals
grow inside
of us and
they make us
feel like life
is weight.
They make us feel
like shit.
Where are the
the lilies blooming
this year? Not
in our eyes or
our souls, but
instead potpourri
the shores of
a far
away lake.
Nothing but a green
giant grows
within us,
within you. Jack
must face the world
from the peak
of his beanstalk,
and his hands
are cut
and bloody
from handling
seeds and
leaves, but he
continues to
the summit.
And where is this
virtue in
his (our) journey?
Weed, money.
A train
A web
A race--nervousness.
It is ironic
that such insipid
forms of inanimacy
are where the
weak find their
salvation.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Dark
I am dark matter
solid as Hades
transparent as the twirling
tendrils of ghostly
breath, rising like mist
from the river styx.
I scream questionable things
from the tops of large buildings
hoping somebody will look
up, not at me,
but the sky-
face tilted toward eternity
and an orchestra of
celestial beauty, neck exposed.
I am stable, yet also
exquisite in the looseness
of my weave.
solid as Hades
transparent as the twirling
tendrils of ghostly
breath, rising like mist
from the river styx.
I scream questionable things
from the tops of large buildings
hoping somebody will look
up, not at me,
but the sky-
face tilted toward eternity
and an orchestra of
celestial beauty, neck exposed.
I am stable, yet also
exquisite in the looseness
of my weave.
As thin as a single hair
We leave this bed
and we are two goblin faces
standing in a debauched, crowded city.
This place is as empty as we are
and spirits whirl, whirl, whirl
spitting silk. We get all caught up,
malaise and tangled.
What was once a mosaic is now
graffitti, but it is
a painful truth, just as we are.
Strangers are people, isotopes of a solid,
a soft web of criticism and denial,
but friends are a flora, blossoming
under the light of stars. Here,
we consume
love, true love
what am I? A stranger, a friend, a goblin?
Or just a spirit, spitting the silk
that keeps us apart
and we are two goblin faces
standing in a debauched, crowded city.
This place is as empty as we are
and spirits whirl, whirl, whirl
spitting silk. We get all caught up,
malaise and tangled.
What was once a mosaic is now
graffitti, but it is
a painful truth, just as we are.
Strangers are people, isotopes of a solid,
a soft web of criticism and denial,
but friends are a flora, blossoming
under the light of stars. Here,
we consume
love, true love
what am I? A stranger, a friend, a goblin?
Or just a spirit, spitting the silk
that keeps us apart
The Stranger
Dear Stranger,
Come find me.
I am
lost, but
you are
strangely
invaluable
to me
even though
your fingernails
constantly
rip
at the quilt
that keeps me
together.
Come find me.
I am
lost, but
you are
strangely
invaluable
to me
even though
your fingernails
constantly
rip
at the quilt
that keeps me
together.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Funeral
A boy once killed a song for me
I never listened to it on my own,
Only with him.
So when he died to me—
vanished into a suburb close to mine,
but not quite mine,
the song died with him.
The breathy, titillating sound
from the singer’s throat
was but a spirit
a church bell from a different earth
without tone, or flaw—
simply flat, and dead.
The song offered itself unexpectedly,
and the aimless, estranged voice that met my ears
held the tremble and woe of a pauper—
a sound that I had long forgotten.
Spring air seems cold;
aloof.
My breath clouds the windshield
and I touch it lightly upon instinct.
My fingertips leave dreadful prints,
like rose petals in the snow,
abandoned and forgotten on a January morning
Crisp air turns my lips red
Stung by a kiss
This voice on the radio was no longer the singer’s,
but his,
enchanting, yet akin to the falseness of memory itself
I sat in the heatless car
listening to the radio
to the song that defined him
to the words he would betray
We listened to the music as if it were the gentlest pulse
As if this beat would guide us to the heart of the song
The heart that you would break,
much like you broke my own.
The dial is turned
and suddenly,
the grass is lush—
quivering, under the tender caress of the spring air
All around me is alive
including the love from another
But your song,
our song
is dead forever.
I never listened to it on my own,
Only with him.
So when he died to me—
vanished into a suburb close to mine,
but not quite mine,
the song died with him.
The breathy, titillating sound
from the singer’s throat
was but a spirit
a church bell from a different earth
without tone, or flaw—
simply flat, and dead.
The song offered itself unexpectedly,
and the aimless, estranged voice that met my ears
held the tremble and woe of a pauper—
a sound that I had long forgotten.
Spring air seems cold;
aloof.
My breath clouds the windshield
and I touch it lightly upon instinct.
My fingertips leave dreadful prints,
like rose petals in the snow,
abandoned and forgotten on a January morning
Crisp air turns my lips red
Stung by a kiss
This voice on the radio was no longer the singer’s,
but his,
enchanting, yet akin to the falseness of memory itself
I sat in the heatless car
listening to the radio
to the song that defined him
to the words he would betray
We listened to the music as if it were the gentlest pulse
As if this beat would guide us to the heart of the song
The heart that you would break,
much like you broke my own.
The dial is turned
and suddenly,
the grass is lush—
quivering, under the tender caress of the spring air
All around me is alive
including the love from another
But your song,
our song
is dead forever.
poetry
I feel like singular thoughts don't have to be consistent with one another. You can feel and think one thing for a moment, then all of those thoughts could disperse like pollen in the wind, lost forever. I respect my mind for these kind of things, I really do. Every thought that contradicts how I know I feel creates a challenge for my heart. It's like my brain is trying to trick me into figuring out who I truly am. Poetry captures this, and shows that the transience of thoughts can be used to capture life's twists and turns and the beauty of it all. One moment you can feel at home in a person's arms, and the next you can feel like a stranger...but only you know what's truly there inside of you.
That's what this poem is about. Love is both fragile and infinite, but we are taught to constantly question it. This isn't a bad thing because all we want is something true (at least, I do). There are moments when I have been so angry or upset that I have questioned my love, and was then forced to look deep inside of myself to understand what I really feel. That's hard to do, sometimes.
Loves and seasons pass alike
Their songs become kisses
from ghosts. Whispers
that stumble and falter trough dark rooms,
caressing my ears with
te tenacity of a distant bell
wrapped in a blanket.
Faces, lips, and bodies. They
are notes, eaten from the
palm of a hand that once
held a symphony.
You are an incision in ice that was exposed to the sun.
That's what this poem is about. Love is both fragile and infinite, but we are taught to constantly question it. This isn't a bad thing because all we want is something true (at least, I do). There are moments when I have been so angry or upset that I have questioned my love, and was then forced to look deep inside of myself to understand what I really feel. That's hard to do, sometimes.
Loves and seasons pass alike
Their songs become kisses
from ghosts. Whispers
that stumble and falter trough dark rooms,
caressing my ears with
te tenacity of a distant bell
wrapped in a blanket.
Faces, lips, and bodies. They
are notes, eaten from the
palm of a hand that once
held a symphony.
You are an incision in ice that was exposed to the sun.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Pastel colors
hues of blue and pink born from morning light
are too frail, too delicate
for his bedroom walls
We lay in embrace
and kiss like slugs
clumsily, without direction
pulling at each others’ lips
We breathe into each others mouths
and speak silent words like dead fish
putrid, slippery lines
from gaping mouths and bulging eyes
I know that this is nothing, yet
Months later
I tilt my head backwards
and look out the window
above his bed
Orange trees burn flagrant
against a sky
that looks like the sea
In this light
his irises are scales
of a twinkling, majestic fish
and my eyes squint and burn
like the brightness of autumn leaves
I, in the sky
He, in the sea
This room dazzles us with color
hues of blue and pink born from morning light
are too frail, too delicate
for his bedroom walls
We lay in embrace
and kiss like slugs
clumsily, without direction
pulling at each others’ lips
We breathe into each others mouths
and speak silent words like dead fish
putrid, slippery lines
from gaping mouths and bulging eyes
I know that this is nothing, yet
Months later
I tilt my head backwards
and look out the window
above his bed
Orange trees burn flagrant
against a sky
that looks like the sea
In this light
his irises are scales
of a twinkling, majestic fish
and my eyes squint and burn
like the brightness of autumn leaves
I, in the sky
He, in the sea
This room dazzles us with color
Friday, December 5, 2008
I feel like I'm a part of something I can't escape. Everything around me is moving too fast and I'm moving too slow. I'm caught in a whirwind of black, white, and gray, trying to juggle too much at once and spreading myself too thin. I'm too in love. I'm too needy. I'm too tired. I'm too sick of academia. All I want it something real. Something that is simple and that I can explain. But life just isn't that way. I've spent so much time searching for challenges, and seeking out quasi-answers to unanswerable questions. I like to see the world from different perspectives...to push my mind, my body, and my soul to their limits just to find a dimension that doesn't exist, or a state of mind that has yet to be confounded. It has all exhausted me...worn me down into a straw man, feeble and frail to the touch. I feel like is if the wrong fingertips carressed me I would simply crumble and shriek and cry. Just floundering like the flounder I am.
Monday, October 20, 2008
I think it's time for my weekly trips to Woodstar to begin. The weather is cold- too cold. I was all excited for fall and then I remembered that cold weather makes me want to stay in bed all day watching DVDs and drinking hot cider. I just finished watching Muse's "H.A.A.R.P" DVD. It was fabulous. The cinematography was amazing for a live music DVD and Matthew Bellamy is a God. In general, but also on guitar and piano.
My room is just really really cold.
Well I guess it's off to Comstock for some coffee with the Nasshan.
My room is just really really cold.
Well I guess it's off to Comstock for some coffee with the Nasshan.
Monday, October 13, 2008
mordecai
The week of school before vacation was terrible. Just...so much work...so much coffee...and so much doubt. There was no need for the doubt and I got through the week, so I guessm there's no reason to talk about that any more. My life has been consumed by playing guitar, chilling with Paul, hanging out with my dan, scrounging for gas money, and reading for class. This vacation has been so relaxing. I finished everything I needed to and now I can just listen to music or play music with Dan/Sydney.
Last night everything kind of came out. I confronted the issue, and the fact that he understood where I was coming from says a lot about him. I will be by his side through everything and I really just want him to get his life on track again.
Last night everything kind of came out. I confronted the issue, and the fact that he understood where I was coming from says a lot about him. I will be by his side through everything and I really just want him to get his life on track again.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
:)
I had the most amazing birthday in the entire world. Seriously, there's no way it could have been better.
Sparknotes:
-The great apple heist
-Making caramel apples for ourselves and the world
-Playing music
-Traveling to Amherst for wings
-Riky drawing a moustache on me
-Being with people I love
-Dancing, singing, hookah, and feeling awesome
I'm so excited for Wednesday but not so much excited for the rest of the week. Then fall break comes and things are spectacular.
Sparknotes:
-The great apple heist
-Making caramel apples for ourselves and the world
-Playing music
-Traveling to Amherst for wings
-Riky drawing a moustache on me
-Being with people I love
-Dancing, singing, hookah, and feeling awesome
I'm so excited for Wednesday but not so much excited for the rest of the week. Then fall break comes and things are spectacular.
Friday, September 26, 2008
play that song until purple glitter emerges from the woods
Lethargy
Antibiotics
Paper-writing
I can't make myself enjoy school right now. I've been trying, though. Met a really good vocalist from Umass. We're trying to get together a band and went to Panera last Tuesday to talk about what we want to do. He had the city from Coheed and Cambria's first album tattooed on his arm and I thought that was pretty rad. Reminded me of Kevin because he has a similar tattoo. Regardless of what I said in my last post, making new friends is awfully exciting.
I made my birthday list and there are like three things on it. A necklace, some booties, and a baseball shirt from AA. This is the post of sentence fragments. Oh well.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
spring and by summer fall
The weather is changing and I am excited. Nothing evokes a warm feeling like putting on a hoodie and a scarf, or a pair of boots and a blazer. My birthday is coming up soon and I need to think of something fantastic to ask for. Clothes are unexciting and uncreative to me.
I am slowly finding myself in a more positive place even though my dependency on caffeine is outrageous and my class readings are strangers to my eyes. My love for solitude has been replenished since returning to Smith and I find great pleasure in alone time. Maybe too much alone time. I don't really talk to many people around campus except for the people I already know and I feel like I may be wasting an opportunity to put myself out there as a person. Strangely I feel comfortable and settled with what I have, and when the time comes where I want more, I have the tools to do so. I don't need to have a lot of friends to be happy. There are at least 13 people in my contacts who I could have a four hour conversation with whenever I feel like it. That to me, is irreplaceable and special. I'd rather have close friends anyway. I find myself much more satisfied when people fall into my life unexpectedly and without force.
I am slowly finding myself in a more positive place even though my dependency on caffeine is outrageous and my class readings are strangers to my eyes. My love for solitude has been replenished since returning to Smith and I find great pleasure in alone time. Maybe too much alone time. I don't really talk to many people around campus except for the people I already know and I feel like I may be wasting an opportunity to put myself out there as a person. Strangely I feel comfortable and settled with what I have, and when the time comes where I want more, I have the tools to do so. I don't need to have a lot of friends to be happy. There are at least 13 people in my contacts who I could have a four hour conversation with whenever I feel like it. That to me, is irreplaceable and special. I'd rather have close friends anyway. I find myself much more satisfied when people fall into my life unexpectedly and without force.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
when losing a mind is like losing a pair of car keys
I lost my mind somewhere over the border
Can't remember my name or my favorite song
Words don't come easily anymore
But I guess somebody gave me this pen
Still though
It will never be my own pen
I don't know where that is
Someday I hope to meet my vocabulary
My birthday, my love, my music--all unexpectedly
Maybe encounter them in a dark alley one night
Lacerate them, then put them back together
Because they need to fit just right
With no gaps or spaces
Then I'll tell them to go home
That is
If I can recognize them in the first place
Can't remember my name or my favorite song
Words don't come easily anymore
But I guess somebody gave me this pen
Still though
It will never be my own pen
I don't know where that is
Someday I hope to meet my vocabulary
My birthday, my love, my music--all unexpectedly
Maybe encounter them in a dark alley one night
Lacerate them, then put them back together
Because they need to fit just right
With no gaps or spaces
Then I'll tell them to go home
That is
If I can recognize them in the first place
Sunday, August 24, 2008
'where does it hurt, baby-babe? i know your head hurts, i can feel it.'
pondering the things I have learned:
i am becoming desensitized to my friends' drug use
i can make a pretty huge mess with a can of paint
shopping makes me depressed and thus, i hate it
car keys hide in the oddest places
i am becoming desensitized to my friends' drug use
i can make a pretty huge mess with a can of paint
shopping makes me depressed and thus, i hate it
car keys hide in the oddest places
Thursday, August 21, 2008
do you know what i love the most?
The past fews days have been perfect and amazing in every way. Some days I look at the people I'm friends with and find myself so absolutely in awe of them that I wonder why I know them. Last Monday I went to a waterpark by the Portland bridge with Matt, Eddie, and Syd. There was a zipline, cliff jumping, kayaking, a giant waterslide and wakeboarding. We went on the blob and Matt launched me ten feet in the air, then the lifeguard yelled at me because Syd and I went on the trampouline and apparently it was disrupting the 'younger Brownstone visitors.' Because you know, we're both about 500 pounds and hugely tall. On Wednesday I took a spontaneous trip to Whitecastle with Dan, Jordan, and Riky. We decided that our Whitecastle cherry had to be popped at some point, so we took a scenic drive, smoked some weed, and raped Whitecastle of their double cheeseburgers. I'm almost happy that Panera didn't schedule me much for this week. All I've been doing is hanging out in various beautiful places. The other night we went to Dividend Pond and found ourselves surrounded by bats. They were swooping in between us and right above my head and it may have been one of the coolest things I've ever seen.
Depsite all of the good stuff, I feel like I don't live at my house any more. It's really fucking with me. Technically this house is no longer mine, it's my dad's. And my mom's new condo that she's moving into isn't mine either, it's hers. I really have no home when I think about it. My mom and I file in and out at different times so we barely see each other. My dad is there, but he's not actually there. Whenever I look at Smith as home, it's fleeting and always lasts for about three days until I realize that I have an immense amount of trouble getting along with girls. I will never fit there, but I need to accept that and do what I can do to make myself happy. Last year I got so caught up in who was 'cool' on campus and who did this and that that I almost forgot who I was and what I love.
Not to sound self-centered or careless, but this year is all about refinding what I lost during my first year of college. I am bringing my electric, acoustic, bass guitar, recording speakers, and all of my recording equipment. I am going to make music like I have been all summer and keep really focused on my schoolwork. No sleeping past ten, no sitting around, and no late-night pizza. I also have to cut back on smoking weed...like, a lot.
I feel like suddenly being in a room alone for long periods of time is going to drive me nuts considering I've been with people pretty much all of the time this summer. If I'm not out, I'll give Syd or Trevor a call and we'll just hang out at my house and talk. Most nights during the week I'm somewhere crazy like camping in Canton, driving to New York for no reason, staying at Dan's, or he's staying at my house. It hurts to be away from him for three days...what about two weeks? Every time I talk about leaving we end up having to wipe each other's eyes and it absolutely makes me miserable.
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