Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Lyrics: “Here There Be Monsters”

Friday, March 31st, 2006

Where is safety? What is freedom?
I don’t know
The sounds of pleasure and of failure
Cannot stow
Abord my heart and in the attic
We lose out
Heavy breathing, heavy burdens
Heavy burdens

Here there be monsters
Bloodcurdling hot calls
Inside is anger
Chipped teeth on our walls

I am one with all my brethren
Shards of meaning find their way home
Back to hate
Can they say monsters are here now
Or do they
Breathe in silence, watch in anger
watch in anger


Building fences, killing the lights
Our own past
Haunts us freely, daunts us daily
Chooses well
Monsters find us wherever we
Choose to hide
The chase beats us, we beat ourselves
We beat ourselves

Splinters, outbursts
They are coming for you and me
Preying on fear
The monsters aren’t coming anymore
They’re already

Here there be monsters
Devouring from within
Feeding on anger
Bathing in our sins
Here there be monsters
The monsters in us all
Feeding on anger
From within our walls


Thursday, November 4th, 2004

You perverts deem her a virgin vision of

stroking. I see not the value

of the pen-stroke, the prick-stroke.

Tongue wagging, drool-sprayed hands

grope for her, but she resists.

The beauty there is lost

in the grunts and pants

about the ankles of chest-thumpers

grasping in vain for a feel on the page.

Tender flesh, the picture, cannot be felt

or change through the screen of paper.

But lasciviously you persist: a reproduction

borne of hedonism, not love.

My — what a beauty she was.

Form — flawless. Heart — golden. Prose — beautiful.

Still. But now she reposes on a

wrinkled page, yellowed with age and sweat and your strain,

(your stain), genesis of spilled seed.

You holf her aloft only to size her up,

a self-serving firehose of recycled sputum

directed at her. Sticky soak-rags pale

next to the pale skin provoking the stroke, the coax.

The rag rests in the trashcan,

the other secreted away for another go-round,

chaste against the deepest probles of your thrusting

pen. Is it repoduction? Yes and no.

Facsimile, a child scribbling, masturbation,

you bastard, you pseudofucker,

you scholar.


Wednesday, June 30th, 2004

A pattern of explosions, like Zeus doing his laundry,
and a festive drop of a thick-again, thin-again hat:
these, and a million more. When shutters pull
apart to reveal a pearly white something, or
when a mop of fine silk is contained,
I am content.

Stars explode across the sky,
until they are outmaneuvered by the sun,
casting back the cold emptiness from whence it came.
Shadows crawl to life, and a din of dark-damped sounds
emerges from nowhere.
The earth pirouettes in an intricate
number with her partners, choreographed by a madman
with an eye for numbers but not logic.
Somewhere across the globe all manner of
creatures peer at one another before rushing to
(and through) their days, until they retire.
Shadows cry out as their souls stretch to infinity,
and crickets chirp a symphony of questions.

All that remains of our scurrying brothers
is a series of headlamps, foolishly mimicking
their parents – the stars.

Foolish. It’s all so foolish when you
and I are here, and the rest
equates to a crossword best left

New Album in Works

Sunday, November 2nd, 2003
Current Listening:
Drag the River: “Forgiveness”
My daddy preached to me

Everyday for years

The day that he died

I swallowed my tears

The tip of the bottle

And a wish you were here

I’d trade forgiveness for a beer

Wow. Somebody threw strands of toilet paper through the trees in front of Jesse. In its own way, it’s really pretty. Like streamers of garland. That are supposed to wipe asses.

I was a Ninja for Halloween. Black pants, a black t-shirt, and another black t-shirt to make into my mask. There was this other guy in a ninja costume, but he was wearing a long sleeve shirt (with a logo!) and a bandana for a mask. I was so much sweeter than he. We did Trick or Eating, which meant we went to the Davidsons College and got a route, then went door-to-door collecting canned food. We got two bags full, which is a decent amount. Then we watched a late-night screening of The Shining. Interesting flick. So much so that I want to read the book.

I got some books at the library, thanks to Carrie. an Amiri Baraka treasury, Dave Barry’s Complete Guide to Guys (A Very Short Book), and Stephen King’s autobiography/work about writing, On Writing. I’m about thirty pages into each.

So I’m slowly collecting another album’s worth of material. If all goes well, I should record it over the Thanksgiving break. This album will be my most acoustic yet: acoustic guitar, piano, and few electric guitars. It has some of my strongest stuff yet, though (I think). “Starting a Religion”, a slow, hymnal number; “Double Take”, an offbeat song about the similarty of the two ‘opposite’ political parties, and “Danse Macabre”, a visual, piano-driven piece.

Left Hanging

Nobody wants to explore anymore.

All we want is a copy of National Geographic and

a bologna sandwich, preferably with Super-Size Fries.

Can you blame us? Who’d want to leave

the serenity of a newspaper floor, our own feces

floating in a water dish, and pretty, shiny bars?

Thank God for the bars. If we squint and look

with what little imagination we’ve got,

we just might see a menacing cat staring us down.

He’s got mange, he’s missing an eye,

and a gleam in his good eye like a madman’s watch.

Watching the birds outside the window, we laugh nervously,

dismissing what we fear most. Let them live on the edge each day,

just outside the cat’s cracked paws. Let them live.

At least they don’t have to read old issues of National Geographic until they die.


Monday, October 13th, 2003


Peril surrounds him, yet he

soldiers on snuffling for nuts,

the grass the cattails

about him. He pushes past

brown fallen crinkly leaves,

casting them aside without a second thought.

He finds a treasure more valuable than

entire caches of gold

and stuffs it in his mouth.

A challenger the size of a twelve-story building

lumbers too close. He throws his

tail into the air, making a question mark of it.

Then, as the leviathan clomps closer

our tiny friend arcs his body with

his leaps, darts up a tree, peers

from a branch — eyes so wide for being so small –

and chitters

a challenge.

His foolish opponent

sees his peril and walks on.

he chitters again, satisfied he’s vanquished his foe,

then munches on a nut.


Monday, October 13th, 2003






Four eyes


or a

head on



A deep,



Two men.



Some Poems

Tuesday, October 7th, 2003
Current Listening:
Ataris: “Broken Promise Ring”
Well I guess that I’m wrong

For falling in love

But you’re still the one

That I’m dreaming of

Broadway & Pattee

Black pavement pushes

back the neon blues

and oranges of words I

won’t read. Streetlights

stand above all, haloed in their

silent foggy vigil.

The rain danced in my

nose, soft sounds of

drizzling and sloshing

cool my ears.

The bite of my coffee

recalls a pull on my

tongue, the taste of

your lips. My fingertips

press inward,

water warming, the fuzz

inside my pockets alive.

A hazy dripping shape

ambles past, four legs

and two heads joined.

My arm recalls the feel of yours.

The sky, my face,

water mingling.


Hot chocolate,

A heavy musky book,

A thick blanket barely reaches my toes,

My soft couch.


Holy dark of morn

awaiting the sun’s first glimpse.

The world swings open.

The Butterfly in the Mill

Monday, September 29th, 2003
Current Listening:
REM: “Sweetness Follows”
It’s these little things,

They can pull you under.

Live your life filled

With joy and thunder.

Yeah, yeah we were altogether

lost in our little lives.

Oh. Oh. Ah.

Sweetness follows

Wow. I skipped Applied Literary Criticism this morning and my acting class was canceled. So today was basically like a weekend. Nifty. 😉 I called Chance and it looks like we’re gonna practice, so the show will probably happen.

The Butterfly in the Mill

A clattering cacaphony of saws and shears.

Sawdust billows breathlessly through the air

and mingles with the stench of

men, and grease, and caustic exhaust.

Boards clatter into sanders one at a time —

the slamming strangely arrhythmic. A saw whines

as it slices boards into manageable lengths.

The shrill whistle of a forklift slashes

through the random heartbeat of the mill.

The parching dust now fills the mill

and fills the air inside and outside the

men. A window is opened.

Butterfly wings

Gossamer things.

About her the slamming continues —

each noise falls off of her beat,

so harsh compared to the perfect time

of her fluttering wings.

She graces a belt sander until

it eats the next board. then she is


She draws a path through the mill,

loopinging, cresting, coming abreast

of everything.

Straight lines bleak corners white paint

She finds her window and leaves and


the mill is a mill.

Elegy for Summer

Thursday, September 25th, 2003
Current Listening:
Tori Amos: “Mother”
Mother the car is here

Somebody leave the light on

Green limosine for the redhead dancing girl

And when I dance for him

Somebody leave the light on

Just in just in case I like the dancing

I can remember where I come from

Elegy For Summer
A fragment

The last tired vestige of summer lingers

In the dwindling fires of the sun.

Naked trees stretch out their bony fingers

To our star, as if begging, “Please, give some.”

But he is now a miser, giving none.

The last leaves begin to quake, start to shake,

In a spiraling plunge they come undone.

As they melt into the ground one cannot mistake

The head of winter, the constant seasonal ache.

The world above my eyes begins to fade

Into an endless expanse of dire gray,

A cold, barren world of empty sights made

Of the ghosts of all that has passed away.

With the withering sky soon wanes the day.

The world becomes a silent film, of black

And white, a monchromatic boquet.

The world in vision is defined by a lack,

The year unwinding, made up in the end of slack.


Wednesday, September 24th, 2003
Current Listening:
Do Henley: “The Last Worthless Evening”
Every night it’s the same old crowd

in smokey rooms

You catch a faint glimpse of love sometimes

But it never blooms

I’ve been around this block a time or two

And I’ve made some big mistakes

But girl I promise you, I promise you

This is the last worthless evening

That you’ll have to spend

Just gimme a chance

To show you how to love again

This is the last worthless evening

that you’ll have to spend

‘Cause it won’t be long

‘Till your little heart is on the mend

Bob Dylan Biography

Bob Dylan biography. Between

pages 23 & 24:

a receipt.

Due back May 3, 2001.

on the back, a ballpoint

scrawl: “Don’t forget—”

the slip is ripped, what was not

to be forgot


On The Table in the Spotlight

They slew the beast in a glen

Then prepared it for the feast.

First they ripped of the bird’s limbs

Then they pucked clean the carass,

Cooke, cut, and served up the beast.

Feasters, slobs, vicious, minds dim,

Gather ‘round the table en masse.

These shifty, ravenous men

Leave nothing but hunks of skin,

Bare bones, cracked plates, and stained glass.

They lean back, beliies gorged. When

Full, all left of the deceased

Will be their shit, bones picked clean —

No clues to what it had been.


The sky is spinning slowly tonight

as my friends dance in the stars without music.

In the dark they have not a care; they

know that the recess bell will not ring.

Danny rides the merry-go-round,

spinning with the moon. His hair flies

out in every direction, bouncing with the

wind. He fills his face with his lunatic grin.

Timmy is climbing the tree

growing next to the jungle gym. He races

an imaginary foe to the top and almost

loses his grip, one hand swinging in the

air wildly.

Courtney sits below him with her

Knees akimbo.

She plays

with her Troll dolls, oblivious to

the others around her and the peril above.

Mike leads a company of adventurers with

baseball bats for swords and gloves for shields

around the baseball diamond, which could

be an island, a spaceship, or nothing in particular.

I lean my head against the cold metal of the fence, smiling fondly.

My fingers are looped through its metal, stuck in a way.

I want to climb and join in but something holds me back behind the chain link.

Justin leads some other children — faceless now and

nameless with time — in a game of

tag. “One, two three… not it!”

“Not it!”

“Not it!”