29 April 2010

Shit-Stained Penny Loafers

In your bruise-blocked glances at the gravel
kicked up by the shit-stained penny loafers
of streetwise drunkards, you catch the reflection of
a cracked-glass-half-ass ally clock
in the greasy puddle a few inches away.

2:17 a.m.
Your fast flood of tears sting running through
new cuts and reopened nightly wounds, but they
ache more so in your fickle consciousness and
lack there of because this scene is not new to you.
Your internal bleeding forces you into contortions
but before you can curl up for comfort attempts,
those shit-stained penny loafers drive themselves
through thick clods of tar and cigarette ash --
on a dingy New York night between abandoned broken buildings
that force your vitality under shadowed beatings --
and thrust into your sweat-covered swollen ribs.

And you tolerate sickening swallows of those volatile fluids
rushing up your throat, drowning out fistfuls of
scratched cries of despair, and you can do nothing
but sit there and plead with God that, if he exists,
he'll obstruct the pain and leave your every-night-wounded body
to those shit-stained penny loafers
and the poor excuse of a man standing in them
who calls himself your dad.

21 April 2010

Sort of Home

Listless in the crevices of
this once-upon-a-
heartward bound train we used
to call a sort of home,
we lay,
we listen to
clockwork ticks
measuring time passes
in this lapse of
better times before cracks in
grey walls
flicked aimlessly toward narrow
corners and
before we recognized
the lines unintended in this
sort of home
leaned into us like a heartward
bound train,
removed from its tracks,
following unmarked paths
leading to crevices filled
with listless girls and boys.
And the grey scale walls
fell into pools
of black and white sheet rock
rocking steady
touching each other heavy under
piles of un-intentions
blown in circles around our
sort of home we used
to crawl to when things like heartward
bound trains crashed
and collapsed beneath our feet,
before sets of spirals that
cranked together and ticked above
our heads reminded us
of lighter-day
fairy tales and unawake
better times in our lapses of days
before the cracks
showed in
"Once upon a time."

Plastic Overlays

In our not in-obvious
and laced with unprepared junctions
of finger tip to cheek
bone and lip curves grazing
neck lines leaving soft trails of
are lackluster warm breaths we
continue to emit and
pretend to enjoy but hide our pretenses
with sweat drops
lightly lying under our
thin plastic overlays
rubbing against each other and
ripping fissures
and provoking unprepared

Montagnes Creuses

Sans souhaite insipide, nous
buvons nos pensées de profonde
montagnes creuses et
regardons nos réflexions dans les
souffles brumeaux
Et trembler les
murs comme ils
ne parviennent pas à nous empêcher
de nous-mêmes parce
que nous voulons
la vérité
et oublions nos propres secouant
quand nos pensées
déversement de
nos montagnes creuses.

20 April 2010

Transient Dark Skies

Rapidly clasping
liquid dreams,
slipping between interlaced fingers
and through uncovered
bends not embraced, you and
I hold together the pieces --
with raw, untouched skins --
of naive nights,
offer nearly bare brushes ensconced
by inklings of starlit splatter
scattered past
dust-feathered window
glass on
crisp contours neglected
before wondering heeds
wandered needlessly across uncovered
bends to
embrace untouched skins
beneath transient dark skies.
Emerald reflections of dew-
glazed grass blades
cast onto newfound passions die
under lacked light
crusted over with stinging silence while
barely near hushes
whisper unaffected rhythms,
surges of slow
heart beats
falling from crescendos glowing
dimly through uncovered
bends embraced
as we hold together the
pieces of this
naive night beneath
transient dark skies.


The only real thought on my mind as of late, repeating on a sequence, is whether or not consequences are always this drawn out. About three weeks ago, I got into a shit load, so to speak. Well, I didn't really get into it willingly--not like it was some cute skirt I wanted to slip on and take for a night on the town; I was more or less cannoned into it--like a horrendous pair of polyester overalls with a butt flap, but no buttons to keep it up. And I wasn't alone; oh no -- they made sure that anyone involved in my little hiccup was to be punished. It was their number one goal, which shouldn't have come as a surprise, but for some reason, our recollection of their tendencies slipped from our memories.

I made a mistake. I recognize that. I am sorry for that. But I am nowhere near deserving of the ongoing punitive measures that they insist to pursue and dump on me in these, well, shit loads. Sure, "shit happens," as they say, but if that's the attitude we're supposed to take, then why can they not take it and portray it in an equal manner? "You're a leader," they say. "You need not a title to prove your worth," they say. "We want you to move on and up to show the rest of the school that you can turn this around and get back to where you were before this mistake." Well you see, I would, if it weren't for the fact that they prohibit me from merely placing my name on a ballot for leadership positions. My name! My name, for Christ's sake. "Well, we don't want someone like you in a leadership position here. We want people who can be good leaders." Um...

Well, anyway, contradictions aside. Oh, but hypocrisy? Well I'd love to discuss that. Yes, let's. How the hell am I supposed to be a leader without their approval? Titles honestly are not that big of a deal to me, but when they specifically tell me they don't want "someone like" me in a leading role here, that's a bit disconcerting. I mean they took my head prefect position for next year away; they took my house manager position from this year away; they put my on final notice (I'll explain that in a bit); I had two meetings with the headmaster; I now see a psychologist; I served a week of work detail, along with Saturday School; and the list goes on. Anyway. They tell me I messed up and yeah, I did, and I need not validate their statement with an attempt at recreating my fuck up with words, 'cause I've already done that far too much to handle. But when they don't take responsibility for the fact that they let plenty of the richest children here slip up without a consistent punishment regiment, it kinda pisses me off. If the parents donate thousands, they are more inclined to keep the precious kids here. Terrific, right? Not corrupt or avaricious in the slightest.

Lies are terrible and I truthfully am about honour, notwithstanding the lies I told in this little mess up. But aren't lies on the same level of dishonour as stealing? 'Cause I definitely thought they were. But according to the recent decisions made, I'd say some disagree with such an assumption. And hey, that's how the world works. You win some, you lose some. But if you've got connections and if there's money in it, you're much safer in the long run. I'm TERRIBLY sorry that my financial situation isn't equal to that of some of the other students here. And I couldn't more thoroughly regret the fact that my grandparents donate here, my mom donates here, my mom went here, I go here, and that I am (or was) considering sending my children here. It's not like the legacy says anything great about this place. No. It did, but for now, it says jack shit.

Too many times have others gotten away with murder and not been treated the way they have treated me lately. And that's no understatement whatsoever. I just wish they were capable of seeing that they are at fault as well with the choices they've made in the last couple of weeks. This place has changed. And it's changed for the worse.

Messy Dreams

Tripping over tangled
tongue ties and
fertile love lies,
as they lie between us
contoured with skin seams,
your messy dreams
allude to grey feelings
and long misleadings that,
in our subtle hesitation,
swim through sticky
tangled tongue ties.
And the love lies to us
with its lackluster shine,
false coat of gold,
it beguiles us finely.

19 April 2010

Shane Koyczan and His Ingenuity

I have never been more impressed with a written work than I am with Shane Koyczan's The Crickets Have Arthritis. With his "slam monologue," for lack of a better phrase, Koyczan turns an otherwise potentially simple story into a poetic orgasm. At first glance, the title doesn't make much sense; even while reading or listening to the monologue, the title is seemingly irrelevant. But when he gets to the sixth paragraph, Koyczan reaches the "moral of the story" and conveys his view on life and the fairness of who experiences the miracles it provides. It's his portrayal to Louis, a nine-year-old boy dying of cancer, of the possibility of him receiving one of those rarities we call miracles.

"The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around kid, and there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis, and the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us. And right now, Louis, the crickets have arthritis."

There's a sort of arthritic tone in Koyczan's voice when he expresses his empathy with Louis; the knots he swallows while trying to force out impossibly depressing words create an ailment to his ability to properly tell Louis he's not going to make it. But why would it ever be easy to tell a nine-year-old boy he's going to die? Notwithstanding, however, the devastating story of Louis dealing with cancer, Koyczan kills the negative mood with an inspiring attitude and a desperate need to force to reader to understand that we've got it good. Louis, at the age of nine, understands more about selflessness, the values of life, and the world as a whole than anyone I've ever known. He knows, with aid of a monster that wants to take his life, that his life is worth something and that every single thing he has is a reminder that whether or not he makes it, he's done everything possible in the time allotted to him.

And even if Louis is merely a fictitious character, his voice is louder than any I've heard. And through Koyczan's rhymes through the lines, he creates a flow, which is what Louis wants out of life. He wants more than anything a road without bumps, which is why he cherishes the smooth parts of his journey. He takes each bit for what it's worth and holds it tight to his soul.

Life is slightly on the uneventful side for the time being, so thinking about this piece was something to get my mind off my own lackluster life.

12 April 2010

Feelings of Betrayal

We glide through crescendos,
upsurges of down-throws
through thick brick walls.
And the know-it-alls who reach for your throat
teach the audience all they need to know --

Had we kept our inside voices
and not sung 'til our words died,
we'd have followed conduct
and been given a reason to cry.

But the knots, now tied, keep
constricted our God-given right to
scream our dreams and
fight for our life.

"I'm on your side."
Heard five hundred times and
that twelve-letter phrase
is a dozen per dime.

The papers, intangible, are,
by our keepers, signed.
Now all that we have
is treason defined.

10 April 2010

Ego Systems

Necessarily, we step down paths,
under overcast eyes,
through old-growth forfeits,
and to my surmise,
the ego systems outshine rationality,
dispute credibility, and
reject actuality.

Faces of judgment, unwilling
to forget, distill the impure components
and purge any regrets.
Apologies ricochet against the
walls of the skulls, and thoughts hang heavy
until threads break and forgiveness
is absent.

And the words seem worthless while they
slip from my mouth,
but your ears catch the meaning
and cradle the sounds.
Through recognition of resistance,
despite my fervent persistence,
I see the doubt of the crowd.

08 April 2010

Follow the Leader

Guilt, as it stands,
Has grown on me,
Erupted through my epidermis
Like a blemish, an imperfection,
A tumor.
Benign, so they say,
And it's soon to go away,
After maybe a day,
Maybe two, or ten, or
However long it may take --
But what they say
(Let it be or as it may)
Builds onto this cancer
And it's tearing me down.

"Upside down," they warn,
Is how I should wear my frown.
As if their name is at stake.

Please excuse my unforgivable
Lack of empathy.
But don't forget that you're the ones
Who get tense with me
And act as if I'm too dense to see
Right through your ever-present

Let, however, the word be spread
That my contempt is frail
And my hope is dead.

But have no worries and
Retain no concern,
Because from what I can discern,
Your pity parties
Are tiresome and time-consuming;
The false apologies
And tears turned dry
Sink heavy on your faces
While you attempt to lie.

Try, next time, to see past the fault,
Bring your mirror with you.
You set the example
And we're all waiting to slip up again.
Follow the leader is my favourite game.