Deer
It's the refrain of life that keeps humming
your doe eyes, hoofs, your freckled coat.
It's the ghost of a smile draped from your snowy
lips. These tender circadian frequencies―
your den is nestled under heavenly wing.
It's the early dawn you slip out into, casting shadows
on the dew, while the lost nocturnes drift overhead.
The chatter of the leaves as you bend your neck,
put your nose to the ground. It's the crack of a twig,
your stiff jaunt upwards, your bristling ears,
your whisper, Why?
Friday, December 12
Monday, November 24
Two Poems
October Moods
1.
sticky, massive Indian Summer,
mosquitoes reawakened, rising
like carbonation, their blooming
limbs made of nothing more than
false hope
2.
spent the morning bartering
with the sheets, now I must droop
two sacks of English Breakfast,
because the moon shifted in the night
and frost will soon graze
these feet like cacti needles―
that plant, so fully aware
of the worth of its own fruit
3.
—I haven't had blinds since July,
that's four months, that's four
months where you saw me,
in my awkward dance, sliding
one leg in, then the other, then stretching
the whole wretched cocoon over my head
4.
tonight, the sky,
a salmon shimmering
above the fog before
it settles on the soft pond
near all the identical houses
where whore is a word that hovers over
5.
I know you will passover soon,
Indian Giver, the welcome mat
has been dipped in tomato soup,
a contemporary metaphor
for the blood
you so rightly crave
Nick Cave Cento
Once she lay open like a road,
sprinkled with wedding confettis—I married my wife
on the day of the eclipse. Torn to pieces
by her long-fingered hand, her hair was falling
down her shoulders, she stroked a kitten in her lap.
I put my hand over her; My typewriter turned mute
like dying moons. “I searched the seas and I’ve looked
under the carpet. There is a dead man
in my bed,” she said—the gaunt fruit of passion
dies in the light.
She put her hand over mine
while all the men and women slept under
fifteen feet of pure white snow.
And I kissed her goodbye, said, “All beauty must die,
get ready for love, praise Him.”
1.
sticky, massive Indian Summer,
mosquitoes reawakened, rising
like carbonation, their blooming
limbs made of nothing more than
false hope
2.
spent the morning bartering
with the sheets, now I must droop
two sacks of English Breakfast,
because the moon shifted in the night
and frost will soon graze
these feet like cacti needles―
that plant, so fully aware
of the worth of its own fruit
3.
—I haven't had blinds since July,
that's four months, that's four
months where you saw me,
in my awkward dance, sliding
one leg in, then the other, then stretching
the whole wretched cocoon over my head
4.
tonight, the sky,
a salmon shimmering
above the fog before
it settles on the soft pond
near all the identical houses
where whore is a word that hovers over
5.
I know you will passover soon,
Indian Giver, the welcome mat
has been dipped in tomato soup,
a contemporary metaphor
for the blood
you so rightly crave
Nick Cave Cento
Once she lay open like a road,
sprinkled with wedding confettis—I married my wife
on the day of the eclipse. Torn to pieces
by her long-fingered hand, her hair was falling
down her shoulders, she stroked a kitten in her lap.
I put my hand over her; My typewriter turned mute
like dying moons. “I searched the seas and I’ve looked
under the carpet. There is a dead man
in my bed,” she said—the gaunt fruit of passion
dies in the light.
She put her hand over mine
while all the men and women slept under
fifteen feet of pure white snow.
And I kissed her goodbye, said, “All beauty must die,
get ready for love, praise Him.”
Tuesday, November 4
Just a few things I want to show off
I played my first show last night at Mixtape Cafe, and I've got two more shows booked there in the future. I started a MySpace page for my music
Also, two of my poems have been published by the online journal Through the Third Eye. You can check them out here.
Things are in the works--I'll be playing more shows, writing new songs, new poems, new essays, new stories, and hopefully will be ready to record a full-on album of songs and poems come Winter. When it's finished, I'll be sure to post it here.
Also, two of my poems have been published by the online journal Through the Third Eye. You can check them out here.
Things are in the works--I'll be playing more shows, writing new songs, new poems, new essays, new stories, and hopefully will be ready to record a full-on album of songs and poems come Winter. When it's finished, I'll be sure to post it here.
Tuesday, October 14
Indian Summer poems
I haven't written any poetry in a long while. This is some stuff I started working on recently.
This is the first part of what will be a collection of short-short poems:
The Indian Summer I Wandered
1.
sticky, massive October night,
mosquitoes reawakened, rising
like carbonation, their blooming
limbs made of nothing more than
false hope
The next is a poem that was going to be the second part, but I decided to make it a stand-alone poem:
midnight driving barefoot,
rolling my own windows, wrestling
with a cardigan, there's a rambling radio speaking of stock market crash,
and I picture it like a spacecraft full of angels shuddering right
down into earth, the angels coughing up out of the wreckage,
only bruised, no broken bones, because they're angels and angels
don't have bones, and they're wondering why the hell
it had to be this sorry planet they crash-landed on, I share with Jeremy
my Stock Market Vision, he tells me to stop being such an eccentric
twat, I turn the station to funk, throw on a scarf, switch off the light
inside my mouth
This is the first part of what will be a collection of short-short poems:
The Indian Summer I Wandered
1.
sticky, massive October night,
mosquitoes reawakened, rising
like carbonation, their blooming
limbs made of nothing more than
false hope
The next is a poem that was going to be the second part, but I decided to make it a stand-alone poem:
midnight driving barefoot,
rolling my own windows, wrestling
with a cardigan, there's a rambling radio speaking of stock market crash,
and I picture it like a spacecraft full of angels shuddering right
down into earth, the angels coughing up out of the wreckage,
only bruised, no broken bones, because they're angels and angels
don't have bones, and they're wondering why the hell
it had to be this sorry planet they crash-landed on, I share with Jeremy
my Stock Market Vision, he tells me to stop being such an eccentric
twat, I turn the station to funk, throw on a scarf, switch off the light
inside my mouth
Saturday, October 11
This Blog Post Is a Pipe Bomb/A Reflection on Creative Academia
There is something to be said about the academization of creativity. For most of the past four-and-a-half years I've been working on an undergrad degree in Creative Writing, and may in the not-so-near future spend more years in at least one graduate program. I am conflicted about the idea about spending further time and effort in the academic institution, however. On one hand, it is great place to learn guidelines for writing and literature. It's a nice, incubated community to gather feedback and grow in. The more I'm here, the more I hate it. I find that the rough edges of a lot of work I see in student's writing, those things we're taught to smooth out or "make work"--I find with several of these pieces that the parts that are unrefined are the most daring and exciting. I guess I'm compelled by works of art that break the rules.
In the 1950s these angelheaded hipsters revolted against staunch academia with stream-of-conscious spoken word and reckless disregard. Writers such as Neal Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder, and so on created without care for whatever the academic world had to say. And the academic world largely ignored them much the same way, considering them low-brow and immature.
But over the past 50 years, attitudes have changed. Maybe this is due to the turnover of professors, where the people who understood and loved the Beats have become part of the system, and decided to teach them. Or maybe it's because now that their work has proven itself over time, the academics have deemed it valuable. Regardless of why, the fact is that The Beats have been absorbed by academia, a few of which are considered some of the greatest American writers of the 20th century.
Similarly, before The Beats, the expressionist painters of the early 20th century were often considered revolting, fringe, and crude. From Franz Marc to Henri Rousseau to Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Expressionism was a facet of the early 20th century art-world that challenged deeply-held boundaries of artistic value. But as anyone who's taken an Art History class knows, these painters have been judged worthy and important by academia and have thus become part of the snooze-fest curriculum of most Art History classes.
And of course there was DuChamp, Barth, Thomas Pynchon, Abbie Hoffman, and on and on and on--all sucked up by universities abroad, all resting in the cobwebs of the brains of snooty intellectuals and hipster literati everywhere. Nowadays as soon as someone breaks the mold, the mold closes over them.
The problem with academia is not that it isn't full of great art and literature; its fault is that much of this art and literature does not survive beyond its borders. Ah, but isn't that because of the dullness and ignorance of Western Culture? I disagree. Western Culture is dull and ignorant only because of the isolationism that art created in the comforts of academia promotes. And while I'm unsure about other fields in the arts, I know that good reading and good writing has become more of a club for the initiated than an open, communal experience.
So to those of us who do create and contribute, what do we do? Is pursuing a degree worth it?
Let me make something straight, I don't think my education was a waste of time--I learned a lot about literature, people, writing, myself, etc. I would not be the same person I am right now without the past four and a half years. But I went into this thing knowing that a Bachelor of Arts in Writing means nothing to me. I went into it knowing I write poems and wouldn't stop writing poems. I knew it would push me to write more, and in different ways, and that it would provide me with a place to show my writing and get feedback--this is why I chose to get a degree in Creative Writing. But in hindsight, I could have done much of these things on my own accord if I had the drive for it. I'm not entirely sure if I would have. Now that I'm almost through this degree-seeking rigmarole, the Dutch in me figures that it would be an awful waste of money if I didn't finish this degree.
Regardless of academia or popularity, everyone who creates must do so as an act salvation. All these thoughts I've been mulling over, they all can be summed up with a poem that speaks the outright damned truth, though your literary friends might scoff at the person who wrote it.
"So You Want to Be a Writer?" by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.
-------
In other news, I'm playing some of my songs at at least one open mic night next week, maybe two.
In the 1950s these angelheaded hipsters revolted against staunch academia with stream-of-conscious spoken word and reckless disregard. Writers such as Neal Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder, and so on created without care for whatever the academic world had to say. And the academic world largely ignored them much the same way, considering them low-brow and immature.
But over the past 50 years, attitudes have changed. Maybe this is due to the turnover of professors, where the people who understood and loved the Beats have become part of the system, and decided to teach them. Or maybe it's because now that their work has proven itself over time, the academics have deemed it valuable. Regardless of why, the fact is that The Beats have been absorbed by academia, a few of which are considered some of the greatest American writers of the 20th century.
Similarly, before The Beats, the expressionist painters of the early 20th century were often considered revolting, fringe, and crude. From Franz Marc to Henri Rousseau to Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Expressionism was a facet of the early 20th century art-world that challenged deeply-held boundaries of artistic value. But as anyone who's taken an Art History class knows, these painters have been judged worthy and important by academia and have thus become part of the snooze-fest curriculum of most Art History classes.
And of course there was DuChamp, Barth, Thomas Pynchon, Abbie Hoffman, and on and on and on--all sucked up by universities abroad, all resting in the cobwebs of the brains of snooty intellectuals and hipster literati everywhere. Nowadays as soon as someone breaks the mold, the mold closes over them.
The problem with academia is not that it isn't full of great art and literature; its fault is that much of this art and literature does not survive beyond its borders. Ah, but isn't that because of the dullness and ignorance of Western Culture? I disagree. Western Culture is dull and ignorant only because of the isolationism that art created in the comforts of academia promotes. And while I'm unsure about other fields in the arts, I know that good reading and good writing has become more of a club for the initiated than an open, communal experience.
So to those of us who do create and contribute, what do we do? Is pursuing a degree worth it?
Let me make something straight, I don't think my education was a waste of time--I learned a lot about literature, people, writing, myself, etc. I would not be the same person I am right now without the past four and a half years. But I went into this thing knowing that a Bachelor of Arts in Writing means nothing to me. I went into it knowing I write poems and wouldn't stop writing poems. I knew it would push me to write more, and in different ways, and that it would provide me with a place to show my writing and get feedback--this is why I chose to get a degree in Creative Writing. But in hindsight, I could have done much of these things on my own accord if I had the drive for it. I'm not entirely sure if I would have. Now that I'm almost through this degree-seeking rigmarole, the Dutch in me figures that it would be an awful waste of money if I didn't finish this degree.
Regardless of academia or popularity, everyone who creates must do so as an act salvation. All these thoughts I've been mulling over, they all can be summed up with a poem that speaks the outright damned truth, though your literary friends might scoff at the person who wrote it.
"So You Want to Be a Writer?" by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.
-------
In other news, I'm playing some of my songs at at least one open mic night next week, maybe two.
Sunday, May 18
The First Part of Something Larger
Things have been busy these past few days. Quite a change from the fallout doldrum of the end of the school. I've started working again and it's good for the soul, I believe, even if the job itself is fairly sour. Anyway, I came here to post part of a poem I'm working on. I think it stands alone fairly well, so if you read it, I hope you like it, and if you don't, please tell me still.
1.
I spent the morning knocking cobwebs
from the metal rafters of the first Baptist,
and an early evening facedown in bed, four fingers
of bourbon in my belly, no blankets, no pillows,
stretching my limbs to the cardinal points.
Tomorrow I wonder when she’ll come home,
across the border, a daffodil behind her ear,
and show me how to pine for Guadalajara again.
Thanks,
Andrew
1.
I spent the morning knocking cobwebs
from the metal rafters of the first Baptist,
and an early evening facedown in bed, four fingers
of bourbon in my belly, no blankets, no pillows,
stretching my limbs to the cardinal points.
Tomorrow I wonder when she’ll come home,
across the border, a daffodil behind her ear,
and show me how to pine for Guadalajara again.
Thanks,
Andrew
Thursday, May 8
Ugh
I've been having a rough time completing things lately, and I've spent so much time grinding away at this poem. It still needs work, but I think I'm going to just move on and maybe come back to it when I figure it out.
Protest Song ‘08/Old Noise
We are the little
squeaking ghosts
with cardboard mantras
and bruised pamphlets.
Our dissent
blooms in the pinched
ignition of paper
matches, deliberate
and bright, as if
they could speak
to slow us down.
Amateurs—yes,
we squeak, fists
in the air, and ruffle
the fuzz, whose parade
of peekaboo lights
and bullhorns add
only static. We invoke
the city’s whisper—
the unrequited pillow-
talk of blind justice.
We stir the old noise;
the murmuring underbelly;
the hand-me-down appetite
quieted by a night of cee-lo
and booze. Alone, we find
the slow vigor in our list of demands
that we don’t expect to be met.
Protest Song ‘08/Old Noise
We are the little
squeaking ghosts
with cardboard mantras
and bruised pamphlets.
Our dissent
blooms in the pinched
ignition of paper
matches, deliberate
and bright, as if
they could speak
to slow us down.
Amateurs—yes,
we squeak, fists
in the air, and ruffle
the fuzz, whose parade
of peekaboo lights
and bullhorns add
only static. We invoke
the city’s whisper—
the unrequited pillow-
talk of blind justice.
We stir the old noise;
the murmuring underbelly;
the hand-me-down appetite
quieted by a night of cee-lo
and booze. Alone, we find
the slow vigor in our list of demands
that we don’t expect to be met.
Sunday, May 4
First Light, Last Light (part 4)
Eyes opened, head bent to the side, I saw the pale blue of the pre-dawn. Emma's head laid on Roscoe's shoulder. Roscoe puffed on the exhale. I got up and stretched. The aura of the sun was just penetrating the eastern horizon. Roscoe and Emma woke slowly as I was beginning to walk away. "Hey!" Emma shouted and came running after me, Roscoe following behind. The gravel road was in a thin haze of fog for all the way home.
The kitchen clock read 7:35am when we got home, with the small arrow casting a shadow in the white space between the 7 and the 8. With sun up and raining in through the living room windows, Roscoe and Emma crashed on the couch while I threw together a mound of Krusteaz pancakes and brewed a pot of Americana coffee.
Roscoe got up and put the needle on some dusty, Neil Young wax. I came out of the kitchen—hands full of flapjacks and plates, pot of Joe, one coffee mug—to “A Man Needs a Maid” and set everything down on the coffee table.
“Thanks a lot, man,” Roscoe said. Emma nodded.
“No problem.”
And that was all that was said until everything was devoured—just Neil Young, those pillows of fried batter, and black black coffee all for me.
I took a cool shower while Roscoe and Emma passed out in the living room, then put on my best clothes—a pair of black jeans and a burgundy polo. And I was out the door and off to the bus stop a block away.
The kitchen clock read 7:35am when we got home, with the small arrow casting a shadow in the white space between the 7 and the 8. With sun up and raining in through the living room windows, Roscoe and Emma crashed on the couch while I threw together a mound of Krusteaz pancakes and brewed a pot of Americana coffee.
Roscoe got up and put the needle on some dusty, Neil Young wax. I came out of the kitchen—hands full of flapjacks and plates, pot of Joe, one coffee mug—to “A Man Needs a Maid” and set everything down on the coffee table.
“Thanks a lot, man,” Roscoe said. Emma nodded.
“No problem.”
And that was all that was said until everything was devoured—just Neil Young, those pillows of fried batter, and black black coffee all for me.
I took a cool shower while Roscoe and Emma passed out in the living room, then put on my best clothes—a pair of black jeans and a burgundy polo. And I was out the door and off to the bus stop a block away.
Thursday, May 1
First Light, Last Light (part 3)
People often say autumn is the time of year where everything dies, where nature around gives itself up to the vacancy and frost of winter. In the orchard with Emma and Roscoe, I could have never felt that way. That thought misses the whole charade. It doesn't allow for the subtle grand finale of the turning of smells and colors. And not to mention harvest season.
All around us was the burgundy of Empires hanging from the vigorous limbs of the trees lined like soldiers in a grid. Roscoe was beginning to sober up.
"Maybe this wasn't the best idea," Roscoe whispered.
"Oh, who cares?" Said Emma, grabbing a nearly perfect apple from a tree. She chomped down on it, getting its skin stuck in her gums, and she wiped from her face its ample mist.
"You've got one silly-ass grin going there, Frank," She said.
I yanked off an apple for myself and didn't say a word. I took off my shoes and sank my bare feet into the tall, wet grass. Everything was crisp. I squatted against a tree and slid to the ground. Emma sat next to me. The moon had escaped the clouds and left her pale forehead aglow. She pulled her hood over her short, brown hair. Roscoe stood off a little ways, staring down a row of trees that looked like black licorice.
Emma leaned over to me. "I love you, Frank" and she kissed my cheek, got up, and danced over to where Roscoe was standing.
The last thing I remember before the alcohol fuzzed over and I fell asleep was the faint sound of them singing "That's me in the c-corner, l-losing my religion..."
Eyes opened, head bent to the side, I saw the pale blue of the pre-dawn. Emma's head laid on Roscoe's shoulder. Roscoe puffed on the exhale. I got up and stretched. The aura of the sun was just penetrating the eastern horizon. Roscoe and Emma woke slowly as I was beginning to walk away. "Hey!" Emma shouted and came running after me, Roscoe following behind. The gravel road was in a thin haze of fog for all the way home.
All around us was the burgundy of Empires hanging from the vigorous limbs of the trees lined like soldiers in a grid. Roscoe was beginning to sober up.
"Maybe this wasn't the best idea," Roscoe whispered.
"Oh, who cares?" Said Emma, grabbing a nearly perfect apple from a tree. She chomped down on it, getting its skin stuck in her gums, and she wiped from her face its ample mist.
"You've got one silly-ass grin going there, Frank," She said.
I yanked off an apple for myself and didn't say a word. I took off my shoes and sank my bare feet into the tall, wet grass. Everything was crisp. I squatted against a tree and slid to the ground. Emma sat next to me. The moon had escaped the clouds and left her pale forehead aglow. She pulled her hood over her short, brown hair. Roscoe stood off a little ways, staring down a row of trees that looked like black licorice.
Emma leaned over to me. "I love you, Frank" and she kissed my cheek, got up, and danced over to where Roscoe was standing.
The last thing I remember before the alcohol fuzzed over and I fell asleep was the faint sound of them singing "That's me in the c-corner, l-losing my religion..."
Eyes opened, head bent to the side, I saw the pale blue of the pre-dawn. Emma's head laid on Roscoe's shoulder. Roscoe puffed on the exhale. I got up and stretched. The aura of the sun was just penetrating the eastern horizon. Roscoe and Emma woke slowly as I was beginning to walk away. "Hey!" Emma shouted and came running after me, Roscoe following behind. The gravel road was in a thin haze of fog for all the way home.
Tuesday, April 29
First Light, Last Light (part 2)
I invited Roscoe and Emma over to celebrate. They were both old friends from art school--Roscoe was into large-scale expressionist paintings, and Emma did politically-motivated performance art. We often got together to enjoy the minuscule successes in our lives. It was an excuse to splurge on a jug of Carlo Rossi and spend the night lazying around on someone's couch or stairwell or whatever heaven we could find.
When they got here we sat down on the back patio and had some toast with orange marmalade and cracked open that bottle of wine. The sun was slowly lowering itself, becoming the hue of our marmalade.
"So y-you got an interview at s-Sears?" Roscoe asked. Roscoe was tall and blonde, with wide shoulders. Five years ago, just after graduating, he took a huge load of LSD and "w-w-wigged out on the sicky gnar-gnar," as he once put it. He was in some asylum for the next six months.
"Yeah, man. Tomorrow morning. In the portrait studio."
Emma smirked. "Oh great, really putting that photography degree to good use, huh? Helping out all those yuppie moms with brainwashing their children. Good for you."
I shrugged, we all laughed at our ridiculous selves. And this was how the night went on until well past sundown. At around 10pm, when the jug had a good 6 inches gone, Emma stood up, her cheeks rosy, and said "Let's go do something spontaneous. Let's walk to orchard and go steal us some apples!"
Roscoe and I grinned. It was too good of an idea to turn down.
The autumn air nipped at our noses as we set out, past my backyard, along the gravel road. Covered mostly in a thick cream of clouds, the moon was small and powerless. We wobbled and skipped and took comfort in the warmth of the alcohol and laughter.
When they got here we sat down on the back patio and had some toast with orange marmalade and cracked open that bottle of wine. The sun was slowly lowering itself, becoming the hue of our marmalade.
"So y-you got an interview at s-Sears?" Roscoe asked. Roscoe was tall and blonde, with wide shoulders. Five years ago, just after graduating, he took a huge load of LSD and "w-w-wigged out on the sicky gnar-gnar," as he once put it. He was in some asylum for the next six months.
"Yeah, man. Tomorrow morning. In the portrait studio."
Emma smirked. "Oh great, really putting that photography degree to good use, huh? Helping out all those yuppie moms with brainwashing their children. Good for you."
I shrugged, we all laughed at our ridiculous selves. And this was how the night went on until well past sundown. At around 10pm, when the jug had a good 6 inches gone, Emma stood up, her cheeks rosy, and said "Let's go do something spontaneous. Let's walk to orchard and go steal us some apples!"
Roscoe and I grinned. It was too good of an idea to turn down.
The autumn air nipped at our noses as we set out, past my backyard, along the gravel road. Covered mostly in a thick cream of clouds, the moon was small and powerless. We wobbled and skipped and took comfort in the warmth of the alcohol and laughter.
Sunday, April 27
First Light, Last Light (part 1)
I set my lawn gnome down in the grey and white gravel next to the row of decapitated pink flamingos that lined the walkway to my home. I had modified them to spray and sputter cranberry Kool-Aid out their necks whenever some curious sap pressed my doorbell. It always made for a fun and sticky Halloween. I had just finished repainting Alfred, the lawn gnome. His happy blue shirt was stained black; his skin was made two shades paler; his eyes, once dark and beady, had become a dismal, reflective abyss of metallic silver sheen. The only thing that remained untouched was his silly red cap, which now appeared to be more like a road-flare.
I fold my arms and stood back to observe the suburban walkway. A grin crept up upon each corner of my mouth. “Satisfaction,” I said quietly to myself. I walked inside, kicked off my shoes, and laid out on our ragged sofa. It had several rips in the upholstery, and stuffing was coming out everywhere like extra appendages. I inherited it from my parents. Its springs made me feel like their bodies were hidden just below the cushions; resting on that couch was the only time I could remember feeling so close to them. I stretched my arms out and yawned. My eyelids closed, slow.
“Frank! What the heck did you do to Sebastian?!” Horace yelled as he slammed the front door shut. I would have sworn if I were him, but Horace never swore. “I leave you here, all day, only to come home and find my stuff ruined.”
“Hey, his name is Alfred now. For goodness sakes, you have a lisp. Why would a man, such as you, name his lawn gnome Sebastian? It’s masochism, and it’s torturing me.”
Horace let out a hmmph and stamped off to his room. He slammed the door. Or, rather, he tried slamming the door. It was too flimsy to cut through the air. He gave it a good kick.
I stared at the ceiling until the white-spackle made my eyelids heavy. The ceiling-fan whirred. Each second ticked from the kitchen clock. I shifted my weight a little. The couch squealed and giggled. But slowly, as if my ears were being packed gently, unnoticeably with cotton, the sounds disappeared.
===
A shove wakes me. I look up to see Horace standing there with the telephone in hand, tapping his foot.
“It’s for you.”
I grab the phone, lean up on the sofa, curling my toes on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Rita from Sears Family Portrait Studios. Is this Frank?”
“It is.”
“Well Frank, we have your application here and were wondering if you could come in for interview tomorrow morning, say, 9:30?
I didn’t remember turning in an application.
“Oh? Umm, yes. I guess that would work.”
“Okaaay. We’ll see you at 9:30 then.”
“Alright, we will.”
I sat up on the couch and rubbed my eyes. My stomach grumbled a little as my face was lost in my hands.
“Who was that, Frank?” Horace shouted from the kitchen.
“Sears” I groaned.
He stuck his head out from the kitchen, then walked over to the couch. “And what did they want?” he asked and sat down too close to me.
“They want me to come interview for a job tomorrow morning.”
“Really?! This is splendid news! Now you’ll be able to pay your rent.” He said that last part and slapped my knee. I gave him grim look.
“Umm, we should celebrate,” he said.
“I guess. Why not?”
He eased off, sipping on a large glass of iced tea. I grabbed an old copy of National Geographic off of the coffee table. I had bought a whole stack of them for twenty-five cents last week at a garage sale. The pictures always brought a level of comfort to me, particularly those of sea-life. Smiling seals staring into the camera, eyes like vats of chocolate pudding. Coral reefs swaying in the ever-moving waters, fish-heads poking out from the shadows of their cover. Caribbean fishermen smoking corn cobs through the gaps in their teeth as deep meridians of white splash across the pier. Angelic calloused hands, making ends meet.
I have been unemployed for the past two months. At my last job I pasted advertisements on billboards. I made good money doing that, but the heights were awful. Plus Larry, my broad-shouldered boss, caught me with my newly finished work of art—a William-Shatner-stencil-meets-Prozac-Ad next to which I had free-handed “Get happy!” Fortunately I made it back to solid ground before he found me, but when he did find me, he gave me a good round in the gut, and I got to know the ground’s solidity a little better.
Later that week I got a gig selling wholesale door-to-door. The boss decided to take the day and come train me. He was your average salesman scum. We took my car out to some suburban sprawl 20 miles from the suburban sprawl we were in, and went knocking. He sat there, smoked and talked about how awesome Survivor is. Eleven hours, two Scooby-Doo Educational Fun Packs and four Tom & Jerry Spin-O-Rama Top Sets later I was the worst first-day salesman they’d had. I quit and never got paid.
I fold my arms and stood back to observe the suburban walkway. A grin crept up upon each corner of my mouth. “Satisfaction,” I said quietly to myself. I walked inside, kicked off my shoes, and laid out on our ragged sofa. It had several rips in the upholstery, and stuffing was coming out everywhere like extra appendages. I inherited it from my parents. Its springs made me feel like their bodies were hidden just below the cushions; resting on that couch was the only time I could remember feeling so close to them. I stretched my arms out and yawned. My eyelids closed, slow.
“Frank! What the heck did you do to Sebastian?!” Horace yelled as he slammed the front door shut. I would have sworn if I were him, but Horace never swore. “I leave you here, all day, only to come home and find my stuff ruined.”
“Hey, his name is Alfred now. For goodness sakes, you have a lisp. Why would a man, such as you, name his lawn gnome Sebastian? It’s masochism, and it’s torturing me.”
Horace let out a hmmph and stamped off to his room. He slammed the door. Or, rather, he tried slamming the door. It was too flimsy to cut through the air. He gave it a good kick.
I stared at the ceiling until the white-spackle made my eyelids heavy. The ceiling-fan whirred. Each second ticked from the kitchen clock. I shifted my weight a little. The couch squealed and giggled. But slowly, as if my ears were being packed gently, unnoticeably with cotton, the sounds disappeared.
===
A shove wakes me. I look up to see Horace standing there with the telephone in hand, tapping his foot.
“It’s for you.”
I grab the phone, lean up on the sofa, curling my toes on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Rita from Sears Family Portrait Studios. Is this Frank?”
“It is.”
“Well Frank, we have your application here and were wondering if you could come in for interview tomorrow morning, say, 9:30?
I didn’t remember turning in an application.
“Oh? Umm, yes. I guess that would work.”
“Okaaay. We’ll see you at 9:30 then.”
“Alright, we will.”
I sat up on the couch and rubbed my eyes. My stomach grumbled a little as my face was lost in my hands.
“Who was that, Frank?” Horace shouted from the kitchen.
“Sears” I groaned.
He stuck his head out from the kitchen, then walked over to the couch. “And what did they want?” he asked and sat down too close to me.
“They want me to come interview for a job tomorrow morning.”
“Really?! This is splendid news! Now you’ll be able to pay your rent.” He said that last part and slapped my knee. I gave him grim look.
“Umm, we should celebrate,” he said.
“I guess. Why not?”
He eased off, sipping on a large glass of iced tea. I grabbed an old copy of National Geographic off of the coffee table. I had bought a whole stack of them for twenty-five cents last week at a garage sale. The pictures always brought a level of comfort to me, particularly those of sea-life. Smiling seals staring into the camera, eyes like vats of chocolate pudding. Coral reefs swaying in the ever-moving waters, fish-heads poking out from the shadows of their cover. Caribbean fishermen smoking corn cobs through the gaps in their teeth as deep meridians of white splash across the pier. Angelic calloused hands, making ends meet.
I have been unemployed for the past two months. At my last job I pasted advertisements on billboards. I made good money doing that, but the heights were awful. Plus Larry, my broad-shouldered boss, caught me with my newly finished work of art—a William-Shatner-stencil-meets-Prozac-Ad next to which I had free-handed “Get happy!” Fortunately I made it back to solid ground before he found me, but when he did find me, he gave me a good round in the gut, and I got to know the ground’s solidity a little better.
Later that week I got a gig selling wholesale door-to-door. The boss decided to take the day and come train me. He was your average salesman scum. We took my car out to some suburban sprawl 20 miles from the suburban sprawl we were in, and went knocking. He sat there, smoked and talked about how awesome Survivor is. Eleven hours, two Scooby-Doo Educational Fun Packs and four Tom & Jerry Spin-O-Rama Top Sets later I was the worst first-day salesman they’d had. I quit and never got paid.
Saturday, April 26
Come now and join the feast!
Last night, Mitch, Amy, Mike, Jeremy and I dove about 6 different dumpsters around the GVSU campus. Our findings included:
-A box of pirated VHS tapes
-Tons of great artwork
-Two Playstation 2's
-The Idiot's Guide to Amazing Sex
-A nice subwoofer
-A Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt
And you know, it was just a blast digging through trash to find something you can put to use. I think we may be doing it next week when Campus View moves out? You're welcome to come join us, of course.
So I caught up on sleep and I'm finally back in Grand Rapids. I feel like I went a little overboard on the sleep though. Let's hope it doesn't follow me around too much today.
I'm so glad to have music I love back in my life. After living in Allendale for nearly the past three days, I haven't listened to much music that I wanted to. But now I have my guitar and my computer and it's cool.
Speaking of music, you should check out www.muxtape.com and my mix on there. (Though it's not much right now.)
-A box of pirated VHS tapes
-Tons of great artwork
-Two Playstation 2's
-The Idiot's Guide to Amazing Sex
-A nice subwoofer
-A Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt
And you know, it was just a blast digging through trash to find something you can put to use. I think we may be doing it next week when Campus View moves out? You're welcome to come join us, of course.
So I caught up on sleep and I'm finally back in Grand Rapids. I feel like I went a little overboard on the sleep though. Let's hope it doesn't follow me around too much today.
I'm so glad to have music I love back in my life. After living in Allendale for nearly the past three days, I haven't listened to much music that I wanted to. But now I have my guitar and my computer and it's cool.
Speaking of music, you should check out www.muxtape.com and my mix on there. (Though it's not much right now.)
Monday, April 21
Quotes on Poets/Poetry
A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much as to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul." -Soren Kierkegaard
There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing. -John Cage
I shall not write any poetry unless I conceive a spite against the readers. -Mark Twain
You can't write poetry on the computer. -Quentin Tarantino
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things. -T.S. Eliot, Tradition and the Individual Talent, 1919
I would as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down. -Robert Frost, 1935
It is a sad fact about our culture that a poet can earn much more money writing or talking about his art than he can by practicing it. -W.H. Auden
The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end and aim. It is the sublimest activity of the human mind. It is the achievement of beauty and delicacy. The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes. -W. Somerset Maugham
The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth. -Jean Cocteau
A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep. -Salman Rushdie
Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason. -Novalis
Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. -Carl Sandburg, Poetry Considered
Ha! Some of that's such crap.
There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing. -John Cage
I shall not write any poetry unless I conceive a spite against the readers. -Mark Twain
You can't write poetry on the computer. -Quentin Tarantino
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things. -T.S. Eliot, Tradition and the Individual Talent, 1919
I would as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down. -Robert Frost, 1935
It is a sad fact about our culture that a poet can earn much more money writing or talking about his art than he can by practicing it. -W.H. Auden
The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end and aim. It is the sublimest activity of the human mind. It is the achievement of beauty and delicacy. The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes. -W. Somerset Maugham
The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth. -Jean Cocteau
A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep. -Salman Rushdie
Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason. -Novalis
Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. -Carl Sandburg, Poetry Considered
Ha! Some of that's such crap.
Saturday, April 19
New Ends
I'm wrapping up my portfolios for the semester. I don't have much more writing to share yet. I'm planning a fiction project that I want to work on this summer. That's all the info I'm going to share on that for now.
Also, if anyone in the Grand Rapids area wants to make music together, or wants to hear me make music, let me know. I've got a song I'm working on.
"When the world is sick, can't no one be well?
But I dreamt we was all beautiful and strong."
I want to share this poem by someone else, though. It's from a book called An Architecture by Chad Sweeney:
5
We searched the cities
in ones--each
for the other, orphans without
memory, the divorced, the
prisoners--we
ate among cars and wires,
in the concrete was
no mother, in halls ten
floors up no
father--and sent each day
our children
into huge buildings
into rows. It's
how we lived.
Also, if anyone in the Grand Rapids area wants to make music together, or wants to hear me make music, let me know. I've got a song I'm working on.
"When the world is sick, can't no one be well?
But I dreamt we was all beautiful and strong."
I want to share this poem by someone else, though. It's from a book called An Architecture by Chad Sweeney:
5
We searched the cities
in ones--each
for the other, orphans without
memory, the divorced, the
prisoners--we
ate among cars and wires,
in the concrete was
no mother, in halls ten
floors up no
father--and sent each day
our children
into huge buildings
into rows. It's
how we lived.
Tuesday, April 15
Haiku
Night Road Haiku
Monday, April 14
Ghazal Poem
Archipelago
This is how the body splits: on a sidewalk I can nearly brush
your arm with mine, the hairs turning like sunflowers to the day.
The last time I saw you, you gave me a knotted rope in a buffet line. Parmesan
scattered across my mouth, you showed me all the ways I could be unbound.
I know my span. I know how far I can skip stones, their ellipses
meandering. Today I’ll miss you by the length of your sternum.
You prefer the howling turbine to the clap of water, or bare feet and cool
September sand. Where I miss songbirds; you miss a clock telling you it’s morning.
Boats are a sobering thought. Even moreso, a man-made
Isthmus, silver and magnetic, stretching its spine in Sunday’s dawn.
You spread yourself on your bed like a patch of wood anemones on the floor
of a forest. You follow the faces of the popcorn ceiling, praying in your career.
I ride a red Varsity to the curves around the red-brick mansions.
Dogs bay at the city’s warbling two-note sirens just as if I was at home.
Yet you’re seeing mountains. Soon Lake Wanaka, New Zealand,
or Mt. Hook, where earth fails to brush the heavens.
I wish to be barefoot and poor, pulling open a fresh lacatan
in a muddy Filipino alley, each breath of me indulging in sweet yellow.
The radio says both doves and pigeons are Columbidae, familial
ménage, the holy and the common—both eat from the crumbs of day.
This is how the body splits: on a sidewalk I can nearly brush
your arm with mine, the hairs turning like sunflowers to the day.
The last time I saw you, you gave me a knotted rope in a buffet line. Parmesan
scattered across my mouth, you showed me all the ways I could be unbound.
I know my span. I know how far I can skip stones, their ellipses
meandering. Today I’ll miss you by the length of your sternum.
You prefer the howling turbine to the clap of water, or bare feet and cool
September sand. Where I miss songbirds; you miss a clock telling you it’s morning.
Boats are a sobering thought. Even moreso, a man-made
Isthmus, silver and magnetic, stretching its spine in Sunday’s dawn.
You spread yourself on your bed like a patch of wood anemones on the floor
of a forest. You follow the faces of the popcorn ceiling, praying in your career.
I ride a red Varsity to the curves around the red-brick mansions.
Dogs bay at the city’s warbling two-note sirens just as if I was at home.
Yet you’re seeing mountains. Soon Lake Wanaka, New Zealand,
or Mt. Hook, where earth fails to brush the heavens.
I wish to be barefoot and poor, pulling open a fresh lacatan
in a muddy Filipino alley, each breath of me indulging in sweet yellow.
The radio says both doves and pigeons are Columbidae, familial
ménage, the holy and the common—both eat from the crumbs of day.
Poor?
My bank account is dry. In fact, it's in the red due to a couple overdrafts. I barely managed to get home from work this morning, and I may not have if it weren't for the $3.80 I got in gas. ($.80 in cash, $3 from another now-empty bank account.) I missed out on a few things because of this, like having (fresh and healthy) food, and being able to go to church.
But it's not so bad living so basically. It doesn't bother me so much (perhaps not as much as it should). I have most of my needs met, and I'm fairly content just sitting here in my cluttered room, drinking some tea my mom gave me, avoiding homework and listening to M83. I spent nearly 5 hours curled up on our love seat, watching Star Wars today, right after a nice bike ride. It does bug me, though, to know that I'm going to have to put a deposit down on a new place sometime soon, and I'm not sure if I'll have the dough. I'm also not sure if I'll have a job this summer, at least, not right away.
I used to think having all of these responsibilities of bills and whatnot was such an unwanted pain in the ass, but they're not so bad (if you can meet them). Like my Grandpa De Haan and my dad before me, money isn't very important to me. Once I've met basic needs of food, shelter, and transportation, I'm okay. Granted, it's nice to have so you can bless others or live a little more comfortably, but I don't fit with this idea of needing success through money. Maybe that's the farmer or the preacher in me.
But I get paid tomorrow, and it's going to be nice to be able to pay Mitch for utilities, get some milk and bread (and maybe some bananas?), and put a few gallons in ol' Scott. The Lord does provide.
In the mean time, I need to get to bed so I can wake up tomorrow and get to campus to wrap-up a couple papers. I don't know if I'll be passing Studies in Nonfiction even if I do. Man, I just want to write poems or work on a couple essays instead, but I've been having such a hard time even doing that lately.
Goodnight!
But it's not so bad living so basically. It doesn't bother me so much (perhaps not as much as it should). I have most of my needs met, and I'm fairly content just sitting here in my cluttered room, drinking some tea my mom gave me, avoiding homework and listening to M83. I spent nearly 5 hours curled up on our love seat, watching Star Wars today, right after a nice bike ride. It does bug me, though, to know that I'm going to have to put a deposit down on a new place sometime soon, and I'm not sure if I'll have the dough. I'm also not sure if I'll have a job this summer, at least, not right away.
I used to think having all of these responsibilities of bills and whatnot was such an unwanted pain in the ass, but they're not so bad (if you can meet them). Like my Grandpa De Haan and my dad before me, money isn't very important to me. Once I've met basic needs of food, shelter, and transportation, I'm okay. Granted, it's nice to have so you can bless others or live a little more comfortably, but I don't fit with this idea of needing success through money. Maybe that's the farmer or the preacher in me.
But I get paid tomorrow, and it's going to be nice to be able to pay Mitch for utilities, get some milk and bread (and maybe some bananas?), and put a few gallons in ol' Scott. The Lord does provide.
In the mean time, I need to get to bed so I can wake up tomorrow and get to campus to wrap-up a couple papers. I don't know if I'll be passing Studies in Nonfiction even if I do. Man, I just want to write poems or work on a couple essays instead, but I've been having such a hard time even doing that lately.
Goodnight!
Sunday, April 13
(A Poem
Here is a poem I wrote nearly a week ago:
Spring Prayer, 2008
Dear Lord, you are tight and heavy
and so loose with your coda; let
me be a vessel for your echo.
Thank you for a fuzz of sun;
the revocable winter and its meta-no;
for not allowing the Oscar Mayer Genie
to grant my wish; the shifting gravel
teeth in the sock of life which I swing
above my head in jest of the boredom
movement; the wooo; the yeee;
the rites of nowly mischief.
Forgive me as I trespass in the dumpster
behind America {the new Eden}; pardon
all the honey on my tongue.
Please be with all the children that are now
packaged meat; the songbirds, timorous
and fragile; the lichens; each botch
@ love; the holy ghost and her touching
and reaching and hushing;
and bless the comma fiend {who hates me};
the Sandinista who never knew history
could rhyme so well; the puddleglums;
the guiding-lights-or-suicide’s; the whistling
busdriver in his nausea salon of “Good Morning.”
And deliver us from the five-sided fistagon,
O Lord; from the triangle factory fire’s
ember joints; and the untrue bicycle wheel.
Spring Prayer, 2008
Dear Lord, you are tight and heavy
and so loose with your coda; let
me be a vessel for your echo.
Thank you for a fuzz of sun;
the revocable winter and its meta-no;
for not allowing the Oscar Mayer Genie
to grant my wish; the shifting gravel
teeth in the sock of life which I swing
above my head in jest of the boredom
movement; the wooo; the yeee;
the rites of nowly mischief.
Forgive me as I trespass in the dumpster
behind America {the new Eden}; pardon
all the honey on my tongue.
Please be with all the children that are now
packaged meat; the songbirds, timorous
and fragile; the lichens; each botch
@ love; the holy ghost and her touching
and reaching and hushing;
and bless the comma fiend {who hates me};
the Sandinista who never knew history
could rhyme so well; the puddleglums;
the guiding-lights-or-suicide’s; the whistling
busdriver in his nausea salon of “Good Morning.”
And deliver us from the five-sided fistagon,
O Lord; from the triangle factory fire’s
ember joints; and the untrue bicycle wheel.
Saturday, April 12
(An Introduction
It has been over a year since a blog of mine has made a light impression on the skin of the internet. It has felt like much longer than that, really. (My old "blogs" can be found here and here.)
So I suppose I ought to explain why I have decided to blog/journal again in this form. Perhaps if I write it down I can figure it out myself. This is an effort to stay writing; an effort to defy boredom, duldrum, and de-motivation; a small showcase and diagram of extrapersonal and intrapersonal interests. Let's hope it pans out.
So I suppose I ought to explain why I have decided to blog/journal again in this form. Perhaps if I write it down I can figure it out myself. This is an effort to stay writing; an effort to defy boredom, duldrum, and de-motivation; a small showcase and diagram of extrapersonal and intrapersonal interests. Let's hope it pans out.
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