Cold Fire

I don’t believe in passion.
Find it. They tell me.

Occasionally, I find myself
In the grips of ecstasy
Yes, this is what I will do
This is what my life is meant for
This is my purpose

Moments of pure emotion
False epiphanies bursting like fireworks
So bright
Only to quickly fade
Replaced by darkness

I fumble in the darkness
I don’t want your advice
I don’t believe in passion.

Don’t give me your gunpowder.
I want twigs.

I’ll build a cold fire
In my heart.
Something that will burn
Even in subzero temperatures
As I slog through the valleys
During life’s winters

After the firework’s burst
You hear the cold fire’s
Slow. Relentless. Crackle.

I don’t believe in passion.
All I see is smoke.
No, let me burn forever.

i drop my blueberry muffin on the cellar door

oh satan, it’s too salty again

where can I get a good burrito, i wonder?

all the burritos here are sterile and American

healthy and yet they give you diarrhea anyway

knock knock knoc

the last knock is missing a k

all the billiard tables tilt to the right

except for one

which is used for storage

perpetual 56k with an extra helping of spam

lines are longer and linger

10 items or less and everyone brings 10 and a half

everything always starts tomorrow

which is when he promises to make a good muffin

so i sleep on the floor or

the unstable bed

every once in a while, i get a good night’s sleep

[Even this random blathering I find more satisfying than my next essay.]

I found this poem on my computer. I don’t remember when I wrote it, but it was last edited in April. It still needs a lot of work, but the capital C holds a certain resonance for me.

Uncertain Age

I see them.

In an uncertain age,

they are Certain.

They are the ones to fear.

False prophets

Leading you through lands uncharted

Pretending they have a map

I think I want to be one of them.

The part of the poem that really intrigues me is the last line. What would compel me to write that? The last line feels out of place now, but I wonder if the poem hinged on that last line originally. Aside from the last line, it partly captures a feeling I feel more strongly now, particularly, “They are the ones to fear.”

magic 8-ball worn with use

cast me a spell that’ll grant me youth

never let me grow withered or wise

i’d rather have you than truth or lies

I haven’t posted poetry up here much because I want this my stuff to be eventually published. I figured this one was sufficiently mediocre to post on this weblog…

oh dreary summer

i could waste away

lounging in your river of apathy

although the better term for it would be:

drowning

dips so long in the nothing

that i forget to eat

forget to live

yes, i should

get up

They do not move.

i wish

[note to self: finish this later]

A river
becomes a waterfall
A seed
becomes a tree
A leader
becomes a dictator
That tiny star
is bigger than it looks
But the darkness
is bigger than the star

The waterfall will stop
The tree will fall
The dictator will die
The star will too

But the already mighty darkness grows
A waterfall of darkness
Standing tall
Ruling all
Eating the stars
One by one

How dark was my thought? — star?
(Not as dark as the unthought

Headline news:
Bush falls off bicycle
Headline news:
Bush chokes on pretzel

Who hasn’t fallen off a bicycle, or choked on something?
This is headline news?

“Well, you’re not the president.”

Hell, I could be if that’s all that’s important about being a president.

Butterfly dancing

I can’t tell him his beauty

So, I dance with him

All my life, I hunted Now

But knew not how to catch it

With a camera, I tried to capture Now

All I got was a photo

A still, unmoving picture

Incomplete

A fragment of what was seen

All my life, I hunted Now

But knew not how to catch it

With a pen, I tried to capture Now

All I got was a story

A linear record

Telling what I felt but

Incomplete

Missing how I felt

Missing feelings

That a word can’t catch

All my life, I hunted Now

But knew not how to catch it

With my mind, I tried to capture Now

All I got was a memory

Each time I remembered

Something slightly changed

And the memory fades with

Time

Incomplete

And sometimes the mind

Lies

All my life, I hunted Now

But knew not how to catch it

I used a new approach

Combining many methods

Each one contained a fragment

Perhaps together

They’d be a whole

But no matter what

I never got it all

A jigsaw puzzle

Incomplete

With most its pieces missing

All my life, I hunted Now

But knew not how to catch it

I thought

If I can catch a dance on tape

Why can’t I catch Now?

But wait

A dance caught on tape

Is just a recording

Incomplete

It misses all the

Fun

How can I catch a dance

Without dancing?

And song on tape

Incomplete

Too!

How can I catch a song

Without singing?

All my life, I hunted Now

But knew not how to catch it

I can’t catch Now

It’s impossible

I was thinking of it wrong

Fresh air in a bottle

Becomes bottled air

Incomplete

Why put it in a bottle

When you can just

Breathe it in?

So, why put Now in a bottle?

Don’t catch Now

Be

Now

All my life, I hunted Now

Now, I Am Now

“When I’m dead, I’ll miss

Flowers which give me allergies and make it impossible to breath from both nostrils at once. I’ll miss

Sunlight reflecting off cars to blind me while I drive. I’ll miss

Broccoli, which tastes so disgusting on my tongue. I’ll miss

Smoke drifting off a cigarette and molesting my nostrils, making me cough. I’ll miss

Summers too hot to think. I’ll miss

Winter, when everyone is sniffling and, instead of staying home, passing on their cold or flu. I’ll miss

E-mails that are just spam, flooding my inbox, taking forever to sort out and delete. I’ll miss

Movies so bad that they’re a waste of my money. I’ll miss

Ants invading my new food, and the reek of the ant repellant. I’ll miss

Food poisoning from the occasional bad restaurant with mediocre service, and how I stupidly still left a tip. I’ll miss

Waiting in line forever at places like the DMV. I’ll miss

Vacuuming, dusting, washing the dishes, and all the other boring chores. I’ll miss

Feet in pain from stepping on sharp object or from falling asleep. I’ll miss

People too inconsiderate to avoid walking into you or to turn down their obnoxious radios. I’ll miss

, yes sir, I’ll even miss

You.”

And then he shot him. And he missed

MAYBE

  SOMETIMES

WHEN   PEOPLE  ARE  YELLING AT YOU IT’SJUST BECAUSETHEY FORGOTTOTURN    OFF
 CAPSLOCKSOYOUSHOULDN’T yell back

                   listen.   .  . (

ramblerambleramblerambleramblerambledeath

.

It is the last day of summer.

The last tiny grains of sand slipping into the bottom of the hourglass.

No time to enjoy it.

Dread has already taken freedom’s place.

And I’m trapped.

Already trapped by a school that hasn’t begun.

Trapped by a school from last year that never really ended.

Last year’s school that remained, trapped in my mind.

Just waiting for its freedom.

Obligations.

Homework.

I’m trapped by the homework.

Outside the sun is shining.

But not on my face.

I am outside in the sun.

But my face is in a book.

The sun is shining on my body

But not my mind.

The work traps me.

Struggling to finish.

Is this really the end?

It is the time between summer and school.

Summer not quite dead.

School not quite started.

An empty time.

A time between times.

It is the time between being asleep and waking up.

Not quite awake.

Not quite asleep.

Is that alarm part of my dreams?

It is three snooze buttons later.

Awake in the time between times.

There is hot water, yet still I shiver

I shiver from the inside.

From the inside to the outside.

It’s so cold in the time between times.

And as I walk down the stairs, I can feel something.

It’s nipping at my heels.

Maybe it’s summer.

Summer doesn’t want to leave.

It doesn’t want me to leave it behind.

It’s no longer nipping.

It’s biting. Biting my heels.

Digging its fangs into my heels.

I keep going.

I don’t want to leave it behind.

Something is pulling me forward.

Obligation.

I am in the building.

Up the stairs.

Trombone unpacked.

Grab a music stand.

Sit down.

Routine.

My mind isn’t there.

Still in summer.

Routine.

I am playing music.

Jazz is an escape.

Any music is an escape.

You can forget your troubles.

While I’m playing, there is nothing else.

I’ve escaped.

Summer is not dead.

Summer is not alive.

There is no summer.

There is no school.

There is only the music.

There is obligation.

But only to play my part.

There is obligation.

But I’m not trapped.

I’ve escaped.

Inside the music.

It is the time right before the end of summer.

The last grain of sand sits at the edge.

Deciding whether to fall or not.

But knowing its decision makes no difference.

It will fall.

There is no music.

I’m back in the world.

Waiting for the last grain of sand to fall.

Packing up the trombone.

Detach the bell.

Put the bell in the case.

Detach the mouthpiece.

Put the slide in the case.

Put the mouthpiece in the case.

Close the case.

Put the case in the locker.

Routine.

The last grain there, waiting to fall.

I’m waiting to fall.

The second hand between 59 and 0.

Ring.

It is time after summer.

Summer is dead.

Freedom is dead.

Obligation has returned.

Routine has returned.

School has returned.

To strangle me.

To choke me.

To trap me.

I’m trapped.

And there is only school.

There is no summer.

It is the final hope.

Maybe this isn’t really school.

Maybe it’s a dream.

No.

When it’s reality, it’s reality.

I know.

Deep in my mind, I know.

No matter how much I deny it.

Deep in my mind

I have given up.

I mourn the death of summer.

It is the day after the beginning of school.

It is the weekend.

It is the time of limited freedom.

There is already work to be done, but

Never has there been freedom like this.

Never.

Wait.

Yes, there was.

There was a time.

A time from long ago.

Before the obligation.

There was a time with no worries.

No obligations.

Freedom.

But when was it?

What was it?

I can no longer remember it.

Ages ago.

No, two days ago.

What was it?

It is the end of summer.

It is the end of…

It is the end…

It is the…

It is…

It…

I…

…

.