New Stuff

untitled


false in god,
but the truth
came running
through the devil's tongue--
fast, too, and curling
like smoke and just
gazing, amazed at the silver
swirling around me,
trying to place
that familiar feeling--
until suffocation
at the hands
of that encroaching
cloud.

on its own,
another chip.
but taken together,
the final break
in the facade held
fast those years
I smiled and pretended.

two cities,
my faith and the evidence
poised to shatter.
a city of proof,
and blaring color and life--
the decadence of metropolitan
bliss, the faces blurring
through all street-side
possibilities, the collision
of strangers who, in one moment
upon a frozen sidewalk
in the early grasp of winter,
become co-owners of a unique
experience and toss away
their prize in the gutter
for me to cherish.
this city is not mine,
but i roam its edges hungry,
growling and mad, caged in a different
city, a city of my own making,
transposed in dreary grey
upon the vibrant other-city,
a mockery of its youth
and love.

a stillborn phoenix,
breached the crust of the earth,
trembled dust
and died,
unseen by miracle-starved eyes.




youths


young guns, gone, trudging through,
echoing hypnotic false prophecies,
twisted order in their twirling chaos,
usurping the steady churning
of the Established Way,
rounding up the quiet ones
with flashing maniac teeth.

fresh faces tossed dumpster-side,
turned hardtack cannibals
chewing on the rot of Fellow Man
until every last one is gore-cracked and crazy,
terror as an everyday,
wanton apathy festering violently,
oligarchical anarchy,
sticking together to stay apart.

almost brilliant, those New Ones with their charm,
lying sweet and stabbing--
blindness drives their twisting sight,
underneath their carefree cool, a newborn shriek,
mothers folding their hands on lost bets.

I see their feast for what it is:
shards of hope driving their madness against one another,
salvation from solitude and the withering life,
a murder of like-minded crows
following mindless leaders until
everything is repeated
in blood again forever.

the devil made me

It makes sense that, in an attempt to craft an "edgier" poem, I ended up bringing in some christian themes.  I just have trouble approaching a topic without some sort of mystic reverence.  That's sort of overstated.  When I think of a topic I want to write about, I see it through a mental fog.  The lack of clarity, to me, gives it a certain appeal-- undefined edges wherein the story being told by the memory can shift, different interpretations can arise.  Those shadows, if explored, lose their mystery and their appeal.  Unless, of course, the reveal is shocking.


And so I wrap boring things in pretty clothes.  So it goes.

On a side note,

spectral sound

Let's say I bought the shirt based on the percentage of my record collection with that logo on it.  Also, I couldn't find a Deutsche Grammophon shirt for sale.


Also, something else new (then I'm done):

the devil made me

the city’s cold—
                let’s start a fire.
I’ll grab the matches,
be a doll and grab
the kerosene—
                a satisfying blaze.

obscene as we fucked
on the ashes
of the world—
                mixing it with our sweat,
you built bricks
from the turmoil,
the ensuing sin—

                a new city,
your flood, and our fire, subsided,
and a self-indulgent covenant
sealed with rainbow legs—

I swear, you were
floating away on bridges
I left burned, rebuilt
through divinely
entwined hands.
a creation myth
of twin gods, repenting—

                but godhood, robbed,
                and made satanic
                in your reborn cosmology,
                a new testament sold
                to willing young saints,
                zealous tongues
                repeating your gospel
                until the echoes
                solidify into the one truth.

when asked about the ancient arson,
you laugh and, simple, say—
                the devil made me do it.

but if he made you,
the devil made me, too.

the detailed devil

going back to 2007 again, i found another one. a long one, at least compared to what i seem to be writing now. i opened this because something i was writing today reminded me of it. it's interesting to me to look at the differences.

EDITED

now, the very long one (deep breath):

Walking Winter City Streets

Wandering the city soulless,
The titans drifted to home towns
And snow gently perching on
The paths, reclaiming the
Heated shuffle of the day
To layer white upon concrete uncontested.
Late night journey into the subtle
Emptiness.

I trudged a trail well knowing
Snow conquest would have
Her buried in moments of night.
I stole looks at pairings left
In quiet city, sitting on
Couches in their homes.
Their paths not yet buried,
Tiny prints and large,
First walking side by side
Then sliding, enjoying
The frictionless sidewalks
While thinking of friction in
Warm-sheeted beds.

I wished then that beside
Me on the winter nocturnal
That some starry-eyed reciprocator
Cast with delicate features
In night-light moon-binding
Would match my stride and,
In a moment of nostalgic
Love of childhood fun just
Slide.

But such gems of lovers
Vanished at the thought that
I was not lonely in my
Solitary wanderings.
The snowfall beauty was my
Mistress– Seeing her dancing
To settle was enough.
Her shadow cast as falling,
Black dim flakes rising from
The ground.

I imagined wandering in the woods
Of my home.
No longer afraid of the vicious
Fangs of darkness, having
Become so much a part of
The silent proceedings.
Etched upon my face the
Marks of many journeys through
Those different streets.
I could walk with the coyotes
Of my home, not waking
Them from slow talk pondering
Under the awnings of the brick
Churches.
I carried that hopeless musk
Of unfit yearning.
I was no longer an intruder
In their darkness, rituals of
Survival– an outsider, but
Knowing slightly, enough.

The target of the trip,
Laced with neon signs
Singing of “Lotto, Slush, Phone Cards” –
A quick stop masked by
The gravity of walking, a
Moment forgotten staring into
The mirror of concrete snowfall contemplation–
A root to reality.

My path burned with fragmented
Verse, pace quickened at the thought
Of scribbling down so madly, to
Capture the mind’s ejaculation.
To describe the beauty of those
Slide marks and the imagined
Lovely words and smiles on
The lips of that sweet, small-footed
Girl.
The snow had not masked her from me.
I cherished her–
Bent on distilling her minute in the snow
Into words, to bestow upon her love
She’ll never know.

Only the empty doors, opened into the
Metal shining elevator, know,
And maybe the bums hidden under
That brick church awning–
They are the silent watchers
Of the unreal night world,
Marking the paths and siphoning
Thoughts of the displaced day-time
Travelers.
Let them know of my love,
And note that I was not
Cold in that frozen world,
White under fresh fall.

what an unabashed romantic i was back then. that was written over spring break in ann arbor. everyone was gone. the laundry room had burned down. i had nothing to do. it was amazing.