pieces of the jazz age and thayer street

no lie

2008-03-10T06:35:00.000-07:00

it was wild

no one would believe it, really, except that i would not make that up

lying is only good when the lie is not

lying about excitement is pity

she was pretty

he was there

and there, behind closed doors, of all sorts

oh, if the doors had been open, the neighbors would have stared

and they never would have started

finished so many times

alive and light

in the small of the morning's back

it was wild

to make up for what we lack.

experience the weather

2008-03-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

The weather has an awful

sense of humor

It isn't funny to imitate

my tears

or whisper about my rendezvous

from tree to tree

with gray clouds laughing

endlessly

It really isn't funny

I don't laugh at you

When you are heavy winds

thundershowers passing through

Low to mid-forties

I am unamused

when the leaves chase each other

desperately,

like me

swirling counterclockwise, head down

and the sky is lit wildly

occasionally

I'm not moved

I respect your eloquence

so couldn't you at least

understand my neglect

and not get me wet

when my umbrella broke

My clothes are soaked

and all I ever wanted was

a cigarette?

-poetry two assignment six

Anorexia is not as attractive as hula

2008-03-01T18:55:00.000-08:00

It is for everyone, an equalizer death is the great equalizer but death is not Hawaii

is not sunrise and palm trees and paradise. Paradise is only for the beautiful you know

so they shift and spin and at 280o revolutions per minute (the only concrete sense involved)

their trouble drips off ounce by ounce Hawaii drivers' licenses make great fake IDs, they say

And ounce by ounce adds up in either case to tan lines and wasted time

So buy now buy now buy now.

We are happy in illusions illusions make our lives worth living illusions are beautiful

And under such ideas it is certain, isn't it, that success in loss in imminent

Dizzy twisting continuously with palm trees dazzling in the background like so many

pictures that aren't real some people were not meant to do that

And so the cords are cut society is but we go on living like it's fair

Work without work is only liaisons in lies and laughter

Our hearts beat faster with the thought of the people dreams are made of tanned bodies on the beach that might not be so out of reach if it weren't for the foolish appearance of

his rouged cheeks after all, we spend a lot of time alone

First time reactions are not necessarily real only unrehearsed

They say that it's amazing, that it feels good who wouldn't want that?

-poetry two assignment five

Labor of lust

2008-02-29T09:39:00.000-08:00

Maybe because he wears

cuff links and smiles in a suit,

even though his lips are small,

he is in demand and the girls

who believe his magazine words

are willing to pretend that

He is worthy of the front page.

Headlines are not made like this

but we are in a recession

of ideas, words, the short run

that will shift soon enough

and leave us lying there

lying about the supply

for a chance to rise.

He is not a partner yet

but they know that he is coming

and looking at the reflection

their expectations are dollars

and it makes fiscal sense

to capitalize on their offense

grafts for gains.

Dad, you would be so proud.

I noticed the cuff links and knew

the type of shirt and he

bought me a martini, gin doesn't stain

which was appropriate for his silk tie,

the end of which as later

means to pull him aside and kiss.

We drove, top down, irrationally

Down one-way streets and dark alleys

but the output and the income were

the same and we were happy

to let it be and play the game

theory being that we would forget it

in the morning, a small price.

I am only a journalist.

For my account, he was an aggregate

of effects, displaying effectively

the effects of well-being, being well off,

well-liked and I hold him accountable

for pulling me down so smoothly.

I should have laissez-faire.

-poetry two assignment four

too much too fast

2008-02-15T11:58:00.000-08:00

Hemingway's vital, vibrant masculinity became depression upon a sudden realization that he could no longer measure up to the legend that he had created.

Too much logic has made me feel forced to prove the worth and relevancy of this statement and that's a problem. It isn't about logic or relevancy, if then, transitive, that isn't important. It stands on its own and it doesn't need to be proven true because it is, it is true for anyone who has ever done anything great and gorgeous and felt that then crushing stifling sense at the end of it that they will never do anything so great again. That the climax of life came too early.

Looking at some words I wonder how they ever got there, because I don't even recall thinking of them, no less putting them to paper, and I feel sure that I could never recreate such an emotion again.

Some people walk the world as deities and some people fall. It is not so hard to accept a fate that has taken a direction other than deification. It is only hard if once have been on that road the road drops off and falling fast you wish you'd never been so high because being already on the ground would have hurt so much less. Never having tasted ambrosia, mortality comes easily.

But I was there

Ambrosia on my lips and I could taste it

Sweet, ripe, round

Luscious dripping down

Trailing sticky sweet over chest

To bare legs and green grass

And then it fell, following

The nectar to some place we knew not of

And forgive me for I couldn't follow

With empty hands

Words were hollow, worthless things

Never having tasted it

They were so sorry that I'd lost it all

Pity burned the traces of the taste

It would have been a fairer fate

To have started somewhere there

Down where it had fallen

And falling far too fast

I collapsed, flying past the fruit

Onto cold, hard ground

The passers-by didn't seem to mind

They'd been there such a long time

"It isn't so bad," they said

I felt the course of sugar on my skin then

And closed my eyes

Licking my finger

Reminding myself that they were wrong

The taste was not a lie.

Wild with anticipation

2008-02-11T11:50:00.000-08:00

Click click click

Up and down and up again

Or was it down and up and down again

The table would know better

As he in his

Aptly placed cacophony

Searches for inspiration

Click click

Now there isn't even

The illusion of a point

And so it must have been

Down up down

I think

If I counted the clicks correctly

And now they come with maddening

Constancy and he is getting nowhere

And the page is blank

His mind is full of noise

Click

And suddenly he starts

To scribble furiously

Ferocity finds the page

And he puts pen to paper

Until

Suddenly

It stops.

-poetry two assignment two

blink and breathe

2008-02-03T12:24:00.000-08:00

There is nothing like this

life of immediacy and instant

gratification, guilty satisfaction

pleasure and isn't it perfect

That I dreamed it all this way

Recalling walking down the hall and knowing

just knowing that beginnings would be better

beyond the occasional flicker of feeling

from those youthful kings and queens of memories

Who never will have the proof

but for Scotch and soda

That the world has changed and

I am unbearably better, and honestly happy

Their poignant politics of pretty things

Rings rife with nostalgia and regret

While now my heart beats twice as fast with a half-smile

I look at them and laugh that they are lost

It is painful to pretend that those years had no cost

But now the world is warm at my fingertips

And they were an illusion that can be eclipsed.

-poetry two assignment one

I am not tied to time.

2008-02-02T10:36:00.001-08:00

I forgot to lock the door. There is even a sign that says LOCK THE DOOR, and I forgot. It's just that it isn't something that I would think of... anyway. At least the exit signs that weren't torn down last weekend remained intact. For now. It is only Saturday morning. Afternoon?

I don't understand how the world doesn't stop

and it's always spinning fastest when I have something to say.

It used to be midterms and finals, now it is general life, courses, that simply don't

allow me the time to write enough

and I am always most inspired when I can't be.

If you don't let it come it hurts a little. Mostly not physically.

And there was so much time before, and I wasted

wasted it.

Now I don't even lock the door

(though to be honest, I didn't before)

and clothes are piling up and there are post-its with dates and papers.

I have so much to say but I would rather mean it.

That is time.

We are currently seeing other people.

I'm thinking of wearing a watch today, though it may send the wrong impression.

I want to write, but I wouldn't like to be exclusive.

When I know more, I'll rendezvous again here.

"Take me." "Take you where?"

2008-01-30T20:47:00.000-08:00

i've never done this before.

public poetry... all my words on stage? okay. well, welcome to locked doors and whispered lips and all things unfinished.

i usually pour out complete poems but i haven't quite gotten to that point here

i usually don't tell everyone what i'm thinking like this

but i'll try

it's like a sort of verbal voyeurism

pretty private displays

this is the first time

drink it in.