I am nobody's Nobody.

There’s something about hiding

that reminds me

pain is what makes us human

and loneliness is what makes us monsters.

They say envy is powerful.
It will consume you if you let it
and where I'm from,
it rules like kings do:
that subtle control
everyone falls victim to
and that history will say
was constructed from fear
but really,
it's that want for what you can never have.

I wonder if You will remember me tomorrow.
Or if You will simply fade into forever
like "it will be OK" or "this too shall pass."
These cliches are not things to be hidden behind.
I have finally figured out who You love more.
Forgive me for the sin of not knowing your favorite color
or the dreams you had before your crucifixion.
I just didn't want to overstep my bounds.
How was I to know it would lead me to being forsaken?

Pretend to like me long enough
and You'll never be rid of me.
I should have known then what I know now:
if we were created in God's image,
then He ignores calls from broken friends
and makes up excuses not to see his kids, too.
But I just want to know what makes them so special.

NO! NO!
I will not go gently.
NO!
Not until You've answered me.
NO!
Not until you've noticed me.

I wonder if You'll remember me tomorrow.
I wonder how many days of one prayer short
and one miracle late it will take
but I know better than to think
it will change by the morning.
But in case you do read this
I guess I should give its proper end:
in your son's name I pray,

Amen.

Whispers

Barely existing,
some rumors are meant
to hang in the air.
As it caresses
the ever-shrinking space
between his ear and her's
or her's and her's
he doesn't even know
the meaning behind it.

Two days ago,
it was
"I heard his poppa's not well."
today, he could swear it was
"what's the use in crying now?"

Dusk

The smell of rain
her hair
gunpowder
The smell may change
as he sits on his stoop
the streetlights blinking
into and out of sync
sinking, sinking
as he reads the paper.

The day ages, inches
towards sunset
painting his tenement
technicolor.
Seven ways to midnight
it's green tonight
right in the middle
no rainbow too big or too small
to fit in his old pipe.

Hush

Hushed

prayers fall on deaf Ears

in mosques where women cannot reunite their hands with the maker

Allah Akbar, but bars me from meeting him face to face

Venus has never been so far from Mars

and he carries on his war alone

so the Jihad is

Hushed

As the night

in a neighborhood

different from the ones I grew up in.

The silence hides secrets

searing into skin

bruising my body the brittleness

of glass slippers.

I wonder if Phillip ever laid hands on Cinderella

if I should just

Hush

clocks as time stops

and Outkasts aren’t the only ones sending bombs over Baghdad.

My tongue cannot perfect the complexities of rebellious language

so I communicate by blinking and nodding

the silence is the most powerful scream

so I yell at the top of my lungs to a husband

who fights against himself.

Is he coming home tonight?

Or does the patriotism have him bleeding his true colors?

The intuition says yes but the logic says

Hush

and don’t ruin a good thing with doubt. . .

He’ll be better tomorrow.

Rough day at the office. . .

he’s under a lot of stress.

And I will not forget my place

even if it’s a square peg forced fist-over-fist

eyes painted the color of the midnight

a knowing nod to the lipstick stains when I do the laundry. . .

What would your mother say?

Probably say the same thing as she did then.

“Sometimes all you are is a trophy.

Be grateful for what you’ve got.”

Hush

like I always have, and listen to the radio for news.

Locked within the confines of volume knob and military code;

I forget how old it is sometimes. The realization

that this war just turned 9 and the knob only goes to 10

makes me hopeful that the conflict will soon end.

Send home those prisoners of war

and let the wives of war stop being prisoners

to the din of gunshots and hollow eyes.

There is no turning back.

You can’t go home again

after terrorist attacks

and the conflicts that spark them.

I just want the walls to

“Hush!”

He says, lest I wake the neighbors.

“Wipe your own blood from the floor.

I don’t want to hear it anymore!”

I wonder what I’m worth.

Too sweet to be arm-candy

hanging on for dear life

as the ghosts of social circles

that look at each other but never see anything

provide the backdrop to backhands behind closed doors.

But how much more will you take?

You can’t go home again

but I’ve got to get the Hell out of here.

I was not made to

Hush

the raindrops in the desert and shake the dust.

These dust-devils toss and turn my landscape like bad dreams

but my position won’t allow me to say anything

though it’s just a jumble of syllables to me now

my vow is as broken as my crown was the night he took me

but it won’t break the seal on the back of my throat.

These words spoken through whispers and coded language

and my cipher can no longer decipher them.

Am I ready for the change?

Or am I just ready for the day when I don’t have to

HUSH

Let me figure things out.

Pack my things into a single suitcase

leave

Never return.

Where am I going from here? In dead of night,

In silence. In medias res

because I’m so confused right now.

I am louder than this.

You are louder than this. . .

DEAR SELF

HUSH

And load your guns with slugs made from tatters of my hijab

AND I WILL PROVE TO YOU FISTS DO KNOW GENDER ROLES

as the explosion sounds like a storm and pierces your heart

TO BURST YOUR SOUL INTO A PYRE OF ACKNOWLEDGEMNT!

I WANT YOUR FIRE TO BURN AS VIVIDLY AS MINE DOES

BUT YOU NEVER NOTICE ME. I BITE INTO SHOULD BE

BUT I NEVER GET A TASTE!

Never get a taste. . .

I just

Hush

Hush

Hush

Hush

HUSH

As I sit, silent, wondering what’s next

I see:

I AM LOUDER THAN THIS

I AM RUCKUS

AN EXPERIMENT IN NOISE

From Allah all the way to the tip of my tongue

Pursed lips, cocked back, LET GO

READY, AIM FIRE

BREAK THE SILENCE!

The Last Song

I made a promise to you at midnight.
I had grown weary and it was dark.
And up there, I fell asleep,
and dreamed the dream we once called "hope".

It was a dream that was the only reason
you'd wake up most days
but I'm past that mistake;
the couples kissing,
the leaves changing,

the children falling
and laughing about it
remind me of every reason
I've grown tired of living

Face

I want to use my bathroom
with the lights on
but I'm scared of the ugly in my reflection.
Even I'm succumbing
to the law
that you're only worth looking at
when the magazines say so

Do We Always Have a Choice?

In light of recent and pretty terrible events, I've been mulling over this question in my head. I told my best friend (and I do believe this to the fullest) that it's not about what's right, or what's fair, but what's necessary. However, another very dear friend of mine said that she disagreed, and that the word "necessary" implied to her that we were without the ability to determine our own fate in certain circumstances. Basically, that we always have a choice, so how do we determine what we want to do? I used to believe that I never had a choice, it was just doing what needed to be done and nothing else. I realize now: I'm not trapped, I'm decisive. We do always have a choice and I'm so comfortable in myself that I can make that choice without hesitation. That was freeing beyond words and I owe her greatly for that. It's like a weight has been lifted knowing that I do what I CHOOSE, not what I'm MADE to do. Almost like my worth isn't defined by the people I have the help but the choices I made and make to help them. What do you think?

9.5.2010

Dear Journal,

When you make a promise, who does it belong to? And isn't it hilarious how one little thing can be the catalyst for so much? We always have a choice. We simply choose to ignore it. But we ALWAYS have it. Next time you're cornered, remember that. Love.

Michiko and the Thousand Paper Cranes

I want to be unfolded
into a perfect square of construction
crisp around the corners; cut me to pieces
and the beauty of your imagination
will break my wings.

There's something about origami
that reminds me of struggle,
and hands that are to big to grasp
some of the details
are always destined to view the big picture
but never fly.

There's an old superstition
that says 1000 paper cranes
can save you
but I don't know if my fingers
are that elegant,
if the blood from papercuts taints the fortune
or if you get credit for trying.

Some of the wings are lopsided,
some of the corners are torn
but these are the beauties of imperfections.
And I want to make them out of tissue paper
in honor of your thinning hair
but I'm afraid of breaking you
like I've broken
1000 things
that I love.

So I will make them
rugged as your exoskeleton
a folded masterpiece too beautiful
for tumors. And radiation may hurt but always remember -
Hiroshima survived chemotherapy.
And I'll keep folding
until I've loved you
1000 times over
into the only Japanese words I really know -
kibou, hope.
origami, paper folding.
yatta
We did it.

I sometimes feel bad that I mix personal stuff with writing-related stuff here. Then I realize nobody reads this anyway. Just wanted to drop in and say:

It's a good thing you're not going to stand here and wait for a hero. Because fuck you, I'm going on vacation. Leave your complaints on my office door.

Brandon's Lullaby

Ghost prisoner dances in an old window.

The girl dies when the music stops

and this house has been quiet for years now,

with footsteps echoing through the cracks in the attic floor

but never reaching the bottom of the stairs

I wonder how many haunting are self-imposed.

Don’t cry tonight, my baby. . .

Last week, I saw something I thought I’d never witness.

Saw a man’s stone façade falter

alternate between guilt and sadness

the now and the then

the past and the present

but now. . .I can see the spirit fading from his eyes

tell he is human for the first time

and see he is not a polished rock flowing from the river of family photos

my father is no stone.

He’s simply a trucker.

And in the sleeper of a semi it’s nothing but him

his radio and his memories

dancing in the swaying of curtains and sounds like

similes when you’re trying to write a poem

always present but just out of reach

so he captures them in homemade music boxes.

Don’t cry, you’ll always be loved. . .

And ‘always’ is always longer when you make a decision you can’t take back,

so he finds solace in songs and sheet music

jagged and smudged like the signature across the bottom of a release form.

My brother

passes through these walls like a phantom, fast as a haiku like

a stranger to me.

Often wonder if our eyes

are the same color.

He dances in that window

a captive my father cannot let go

waiting for the day that 15-year old feet

bounce off the bottom of the landing

and out the door

to rebel against him

bring back a report card, a trophy, a girl, a mistake

but that sound never comes

when my father’s memory is only lit by that window

and I wonder how much harder it is to abort a child

when you can look him in the eyes.

Now I realize why he always tells me

to appreciate the beauty of the little things.

Knowing that even though his blood runs through that boy’s veins

he’ll never be there to keep Brandon warm again

knowing he held a masterpiece in the palm of his hand

and let it free for the “better life” he was promised

giving up on the music he made with a lover

I’ve judged without truly knowing.

Nothing I could say could make the music box gears spin

I could cry moment but that them up again

and the silence in my father’s house is deafening.

Maybe that’s why I left.

I could make him proud

I could make him smile

But I’m only one son.

And even when I have the audacity to wonder

how often he dreams of Brahm’s lullaby

or days playing in the Colorado snow –

I know there is no poem

that can bring Brandon back but please poppa

if you can listen to the music instead of just making it.

Ready.Steady.GO!

Sorry I've been so slack on updates, whomever may be reading this. Just wanted to drop in right quick (God how I love the south and our idioms) and say that this week has rocked HARD. I feel on top of the world and no force is going to stop that. I think this video about sums it up:

Seal - Waiting for you
Uploaded by foxysoul. - See the latest featured music videos.

I have been waiting, I have been waiting for you. . .

until next time, dear reader.

8 Things to Say to a Blizzard.

1

Fortune favors the bold

but it’s hard not to shiver

when you’re so icy.

2

As a kid in the south,

it’s always been more likely to rain

than to snow.

The 1001 variables must weave into one another

like dancers looking for partners

or future lovers catching each other at perfect moment

for the air to crystallize between their gazes

and cool off the heat that separates love from lust,

dissolving like dust from diamonds –

the dashing we do changes everything.

3

The weather outside is frightful,

and the rest, as they say, is history.

And there’s a lot of that

in the wreath on my door

the photos on my shelves

and the person I used to share both with.

The storm isn’t so scary

from in front of the fire –

I admit: though I no longer hang your stocking,

and through sips of my grandmother’s recipe eggnog

I often forget you, there are still nights

where I wish you’d fall into my arms

like a 73” dream-catcher and lay your head down.

4

Tell me say me cher

my belle

I’ll be gone till November. . .

Leaving in some places and just arriving others,

your very essence is a matter of perspective

and they call your beauty debatable.

You remind me of a dawn or dusk

in the arctic circle: all good things

begin and end sooner or later

and most of all it depends

on where you’re watching the sun go down.

5

I hold a north star in my bloodline.

I always wander, never get lost

and never snowblind

but I keep finding myself back where I began.

Maybe I’m a supernova

distant from society, waiting to collapse

wondering why it hasn’t happened yet.

All the gravity of the city

trying to bring us together

only serves to break us apart.

This is what dead things do.

6

If I ever meet an ice road trucker

or talk to my dad again

I’ll let them know

it’s nothing personal.

7

If this is what the end of the world feels like,

I welcome it. With the cackling crackle of embers

on Christmas Eve

and the wind whipping the world,

causing the trees to bend and kiss one another

under the mistletoe they’ve grown in the 100 years

they have been planted here shows me:

now is the gift we call the present.

8

If I could have one wish for the world

for my loved ones and for myself,

they’d all be the same:

that we learn we are all more similar

than we are separate.

Every single flake is unique

yet they manage to stick together

love the simple things like snow days

and hot cocoa,

sledding

and silence.

And since all that’s left of the storm is silence

let me say:

We are so different.

So different,

yet exactly the same.

Ruminations at 3AM

I think

that the little gnomes

that steal socks from the dryer

have gone on break.

I have matching socks

(that I never wear)

but the house feels just a bit too quiet

and I don't trust myself

in a house that's too quiet.

I think the toaster's going off

that the toilet's overflowing

that the rosebush outside needs pruning

but not until I find the sock gnomes.

They're probably drinking little drinks

with little straws with little umbrellas sticking out

finally combing the lint from their beards

as I'm putting out a search party

for the sound I've grown so accustomed to.

And even up until today,

when my house is a disaster

I can't stop searching

and all I want

is to be everywhere at once

but my fingers only stretch so far,

can only grip so much,

only touch 10 points within the 73"

of my wingspan.

And I think I've deadened the white noise

listening for my socks to go missing

while I walk around barefoot in neglect.

Atlas

Sometimes,

no matter what you do

you are caught in the crossfire

of dirt in flux.

When the earth moves,

the people blame Atlas

for having the audacity to catch a cramp

instead of blaming their own moving feet.

I used to wonder what it would be like

to be a Titan.

And then the world fell

and now I have to fight through the pain

Facing the Giant that is the Future.

I feel like I write up here plenty, but I really don't blog enough. Or maybe I blog just as much as I should. I really have no idea. So I guess this will be my state of the blogger address.

My fellow interweb lurkers,

There comes a time in ever (wo)man's life where (s)he comes to a crossroad. For this writer, this time is coming as I'm working on a chapbook and looking towards my future after college. Searching for publishers, shopping grad schools, job hunting. . .it's all rather difficult to pull off but it's going smoothly.

Now that the boring's out of the way, let me just say this: I have not disappeared. I have not died and I have not by any means quit writing. But if you don't hear from me for a bit, it may just be life trying to take me under. I'll let you know now, though, there's two things that I never do easy: scare and die. I will not be bested by stress, anger, fear, jealousy, or all the ugly things in this world. I almost succumbed to them, but I was not defeated. I never give up.

On that note, I'd like to urge you to do the same. Never yield. Live on your feet, die when you're ready and with a smile on your face ready to greet the reaper saying "bring it motherfucker, I'm not afraid of you anymore." I can honestly say that while I don't feel ready to die (obviously, I'm 21), I don't fear death anymore. It's nothing personal. The waves don't crash for a reason. They crash because that is what waves do. Things happen and they are inevitable. Don't anticipate, but live each day like the waves are about to take you under and when you go, go knowing that you put in all you could to make your life as awesome as possible. Remember, you are beautiful, you have meaning, and someone somewhere loves you more than they love themselves. Make their love worth sharing. As my good friend G would say:

". . .but she'd NEVER be defeated."

Will you? Will you allow yourself to fall to the rigors of the world or will you face them with a smile and say "It's time to go to work"? Tomorrow's waiting. Who's coming with me?

Peace to you, dear reader.

PS: In relation to the above quote:

Big shouts to G for putting down an epic piece.

7-word story

The note was between the "Cosmo"'s pages.

6-word Novel.

The violets wilted later that winter.

Violet

The scientists tell me
that color
is made by bending light
to x length.
Past that length it's a different color
and for reasons we don't understand,
can't understand,
only those colors in that length range
are visible
and each is tied to memory
and emotions.
Maybe that's why I'm so enamored
by violet
rose
lilac
lavender.
I should have known
it was all a trick of the eye

Eden

There's something about Johnston County in the summertime
that reminds me of the garden of Eden.
When we met,
we were like two rosebuds
untouched by man and waiting to grow
fully formed
naked and unashamed
with the voices of shade trees
and overgrown meadows
to guide us.
Children of the land,
bones formed from sand and faith
soft but firm, like a father's handshake
shaken into being by the storms of creation.

I wanted to fade into innocence with you,
but I didn't even know how often the world burns out.

I could call myself enamored
but before words
all we had were our eyes
and intertwined hands
the love the land
before deforestation
coal mines
mills
power plants and all the glowing things of this world
drew us apart but never finished the picture.

The sculptor's hands
twisted like taproots
trying to navigate underground power lines.
They, too must die
like man-made stars collapsing half a world away
unable to kiss protons into periodic smiles
turning my wooden heart
into a waterwheel
then hydroelectric engine
then a radioactive chamber
churning Chernobyl into my blood vessels.
This is the stuff disasters are made of.
From European fallout
to California forest fires

Our serpents could be called genocides.

When every action has a reaction
and every hidden flame has a backdraft
that chars Eden to the ground
because everything burns.

It makes me wonder
if I could stand the sight of you
even after original sin
and the knowledge is a curse.
And I'm the smartest man left on the cinder
and I thought we'd fade into innocence together
but our love is so artificial
I can see the gears turning in your lies.
I can't even remember our stems anymore.

And in spite of it all,
I can't help but replace the green of life
with the green of envy
and wish I was him.

Ugly

Clear, tranquil.
I fear the ponds
with the clearest water.
As the flowers float
weightless as newborn consciences
on the surface,
I get a glimpse
of what life truly is.

Is any of this for real, or not?


In this moment I think
I'll burn the lotus pods
so they can remain forever innocent
but before I light the match,
I change my mind.
Let them see the world as I do.
Incomplete
ugly

Fresh Water

Trickling down,
fresh water reflects the sun
a thousand paper rainbows
as it drips into the bucket.
Strung up over the garden
during the rainy season,
it fills up,
tips over,
and flips into into upright position again.

Some years later
a new family bought the house,
got a gardener
put the bucket in the shed
never to be rained on again.
Staying forever young,
but dried up,
deserted.

It was never broken,
but does one even need
to be destroyed
to be forgotten
anymore?

Hollywood

I'm still frustrated
with summer blockbusters -
flash over substance.
But I'm learning to like
unreal explosions
and movie physics.
If someday
I learned how to control gravity
I think it'd be cool.
But I know I'd have
some other ridiculous dream
to strive for.
Maybe it's time
to stop innovating
and start
appreciating.

The Bell Ringer and the Prince.

And eventually
you must learn your place.

A Long June.

Intense thought led me to this song. I almost died once. Some nights, I wish God had just finished the job. And some nights, I want December to end finally.

Some realizations burn. But the truth is a necessary evil. It's just that sometimes I wish people would appreciate me for who I am and not what I can do for them. Then again, I guess it'd be difficult to give to craps about me when compared to him or her. I feel guilty writing that, but a jealousy this intense has to be let out somewhere. I figure this is the safest place. . .

It's been a rough week; I have words to spare.

So unimportant
eyes flutter when lips open.
Sleep calls you away.

Through my winkless nights,
I have stood, a steadfast dream.
I know life's not fair.

I remember when
the hardest part of my day
was convincing you
to stay up past midnight.
Now it calls me to sleep.

I've officially lived long enough to see myself become the villain. Real post later.

"Your mind goes to dark places and you wonder why I hide things. . ."

I had an actual thought to put here earlier. This has since disappeared. Now, I will post a smattering of my thoughts and see if my original thought appears within.

- I hate playing second fiddle, but often end up doing so due to being the "ugly friend". I wonder who would even speak to me if I didn't have access to the other guy/girl. The answer? Not many.

- I think people (me included) too often confuse pessimism with realism. Always looking on the bright side doesn't make me unrealistic, nor does the pessimist always end up being right. It's 50/50, just like many other things in life.

- Some days I want to pack a bag and leave everything behind me. Permanently. I write in things like this to prevent such thoughts from taking over. I feel this way more often than I care to admit, which may be why I cling to so many of these things. Which is funny, since there are so few worldly things I place any value in. Which leads to my next point. . .

- I have a terrible habit of considering everything transient. I can never rid myself the thought that no matter what I do, people will just tire of me, run out of use for me, and just leave. I feel like in a way many people I'm close to have, or will. There's no real explaining why, I just don't see a reason why they'd think any different. It's really not fair for them to, at least.

- I haven't written anything in a while. I miss it, but have no idea what I'd say if I started a new poem. Maybe later (said the clock to the deathbed).

That's it for today folks. Have a good morning, and in case you never grace this page again, afternoon, evening, night, baptism, bat mitzvah, prom, wedding, and funeral.

With love,
DJ

Color complex

Thought of the day: carrying yourself with class and knowing how to control your urges will get you far in life. I don't want to say I'm "assimilated" to white culture, because that would mean that there was some brainwashing process or some other nonsense. I'm not for that. If my mind's been altered at all, it's simply been augmented so that I don't see people as colors, but as people. I'd say the world would be better without color, but it wouldn't. We as a society would simply find other ways to judge one another, like length of hair or something equally ridiculous.

I dream in color,
but I don't define myself
by racist rainbows.

Until next time, dear reader, safety and peace.

Loneliest Star

I know what it's like
to find meaning in stardust
when no comets have
come your way in a long while.
We just have to keep wishing.

Not a whole lot to say this time, reader. Feeling some kinda way about some things, but letting things sort out in good time. Time heals all things, so they say. I'd sure to Hell like to find out. . .

I'm looking through the glass. . .

On the outside looking in,
it's a struggle to keep wandering memories
off of my cot at night.

If home is where the heart is
I have perched in an alley
cut a R.I.P. sign out of a cardboard box

and hoped it would keep me warm at night.
Falling into the burlap
where bad dreams go to die.

Weaving relations into nightmares
and then having the nerve
to complain

that it keeps me awake.
No memories,
just worn down shoes

three shirts
and a hat
that never quite fit

These days, I want my heart back
but wouldn't know what to do with it
if God spit it up.

When You've Done Something Right, People Won't Know You've Done Anything At All.

I was once taught that if you do something perfectly, people won't be sure you've really done anything. This sentiment was later woven into an episode of "Futurama", and has achieved a touch more fame. Just a little, though.
I start like that because lately, I've found myself in an odd predicament. Now that all the lives of my loved ones are pretty much stable, I've found myself unnecessary, and therefore not included in the new lives they have gone on to lead. In essence, people are drifting away because they don't need me.

That in itself is fine, and it makes me very happy. It's just led to some very frustrating and depressing moments lately. I wonder if I'm only good as a booster or an object to be used, and wonder if that's just my station or if I'm that way because somewhere in me I choose to be. I then wonder about how things would be different if I were different and I realize that who I am is truly who I need to be. In the end, even if no one I care about has seen or will acknowledge my effort, I know it's there and have no clue what the world would be like if it wasn't.
It hurts. People always slipping away from me after they've gotten what they need from me hurts tremendously, and I will sit here on my own outlet and pretend that it does not. Being alone burns by itself. Being alone, and then realizing that maybe things have to be this way so that people can be happy, that's a level of pain I don't think I have words for. But in the end, people can be happy.

And if that means I can't be, so be it. The messages of today are twofold: the first is the title of this entry. The second is this:

Appreciate beauty, no matter how hard it is to find.

Feels like we're falling,
feels like we're slipping away.
Please say if you can
that this all will be OK
just like you said way back then.

Be well, be blessed, know that you are loved, dear reader.

Clockwork Hearts

In the blink of an eye
we come face to face
with the ticking hands
that cannot grasp the sands
falling through the hourglass.

In the time it takes us
to see
that some things will always be the same
so much more has changed
that it all feels
like a matter of perspective
more than evolution.

A Moment in the Life of a Last Goodbye.

As I escaped his grasp
I almost couldn't squeeze
through the iron curtain.

His teeth wanted to sabotage
his tongue wanted to obey
his mind wanted to go
his heart

beat in syncopated rhythm
to the raindrops
ripped from the thunderclouds
on a moonless night.

Baby, baby. . .won't you come inside?
It's cold out here
and there's a story in your eyes
with ink spilling from the corners.

As I formed on a stiff breeze
come flying by in the darkness
I knew that I was flash in the pan
transient waves
that don't even extend the length of their fingers.

There is energy in parting
saccharine sorrow sewn into the splitting sides
of thunderheads.
Said the lightning bolt to the gust,
"and we wonder why life is a comedy of errors?"
If only you could see the world as I do

you could understand the bursting laughter
of the falsities spoken into stormy nights.
They have put an end to more beautiful dusks
than I care to count
taking destruction
cold, pain
masking it as beauty
it is afraid of me.

Maybe I have seen its true face
etched into a raindrop
by their feet

Baby, baby, won't you come inside?
it's cold out here and I wonder,
what was the use of crying?

I don't want to leave
the sanctuary
of thoughts without being.
But how things have to be
is how they have the be
floating into the space between
the parted clouds
of their palms, I wonder:
what would this storm be like if I'd never been born?

I asked her what I sounded like.

She kissed him,
and the lightning struck,
and she walked away.

Pinball Wizard

Deaf, dumb and blind boy
plays flippers as if his wrists
were replaced with God's.
He touched my heart and healed it,
with those hands, of a wizard.

The World's Strongest Man

The weights collect dust
in the corner.
A sign hangs off of one nail
at the door, border
bound by decrepit paint
chips into oblivion
as the water falling through
cracks in the ceiling
drips at the rhythm or mortality.

Recently
waxing and waning phases
of masculinity
have found the gym fading
fading, faded.
Forever young memories
set between bent syringes
and burst pipe-dreams
have let the machines rust
rot
remind us
that nothing is forever,

but old habits leave brains
faster than muscles leave limbs.

Mother's Day.

She may never know
that she inspires the fireflies
tucked beneath my sternum.

He may never look in the mirror
and see the wind beneath my wings
staring back at him.

These dreams
sit on a coffee table
in my living room
under a halo from a floor lamp
and light my words like a brighter tomorrow.
My parents are not muses.

They don’t even like poetry that much.

But for every thousand words I pour onto a page,
I see there eyes, and remember where I come from.

Ever Easy

Nothing worth having is ever easy. So then, are easy to obtain things worthless?

Let the Muses Loose.

"Limousines and sycophants,
don't leave now,
'cause I'm afraid
what you've done to me
is now the wolf in my bed."

-Seal

What is it about a good lyric that can lead to great amounts of thought on any subject? I tried asking that question and got no real answer. I also tried writing lyrics and that was a terrible, pointless endeavor (don't ask me why; just not my forte I suppose).

I admit, sometimes I'm very afraid to step out of my comfort zone. I think this becomes obvious when I perform. Just for the amusement of whoever may be reading this (peace and blessings to you), this is a video of my first performance:




Nerves: they're what's for dinner.

At any rate, I say all that to ask this: what have you done to make yourself uncomfortable lately? Have you written something in a style you didn't think possible? Did you talk to that girl/guy you've been crushing on for years but you didn't know what to say but the timing was never right but she has a boyfriend. . .

OK, that was a little personal. But seriously, try something new. The muse resting in your brain will appreciate it. They get bored easily, you know.

You can't be everyone's hero. It'll kill you.

I just want to fly.
To get away from this place.
But I have duty.

Daily Inspiration #2.

Sometimes, it simply doesn't do to stay in the realm of one art form. For millenia, humans have cross-examined media in order to create new art. From the greek ekphrastic (a poem or specifically a verse based on a work of art that is not originally a poem) up to the idea of automatic writing (producing prose based on what comes to your head, Freud-style), we have always delved to weird places to find our inspiration. The above song is an old favorite of mine. Honestly, the Foo Fighters rarely disappoint, and I rocks with Rock Lee (nerd swag on deck: check). Anyway, when I can't find any jumpoff point in poetry, I often turn to song. Sometimes it can be a painting:




and sometimes, it can be a video (like above). Sometimes, it can be as abstract as a tap-dance routine. . .basically, everyone has that thing that gets their gears going. Find yours. And when you do, I have a challenge for you.

Take a song, piece of art, etc. and write a poem on it. Doesn't have to be long; in fact, I'd love to see a haiku based on your work. So, if this happens to pass your eye, just leave a comment.

Be inspired, true believers. Love.

A White Rose in Nagasaki.

It's that time of the week again, true believers. It's going to be a tough week, but not impossible ("aim for its head!" A nice shiny quarter for the guy who can tell me what that's from.). Anyway, I decided to post one of my own today and see how you like it. If you like it, show some love. If you don't show some hate. If you're in between, show some in between-ness. And if you just don't care, then I hope you feel like it was 2 minutes of your time well spent. Stay up. Safety and peace, as always.


A White Rose in Nagasaki

He speaks his troubles before an altar.
Men twice his size surround him on either side
heads bowed without a second thought.
This is what it means to be respected.
He lets prayers in a language I don’t quite understand
fall from his lips and his fingers
into the walls of sumo halls where the cherry blossom smell still lingers
like tradition lost in time. He leads the prayer like every morning, but it’s hotter than usual.
And sensei, was it you
who told me the heat drives people crazy
and was it you who told me
death is but life’s next great adventure?
I wonder sensei, what it’s was like to be that man.
in a place I’ve never been
with people I’ve never seen
was it like a dream
when waves washed over practiced praying hands
that were not made of water.
And I wonder if they still smelled cherry blossoms
as the moments counted down to flames
or if there was a single white rose in Nagasaki.
A white rose, from Nagasaki. A white, ROSE from Nagasaki
and there was nothing left.
He sits, still as plutonium a second before the atom splits,
in a place I’ve never been
with people I’ve never seen
was it like a dream
and is it a dream he remembered?
Two bombs fell that August.
Hiroshima hit Monday
but the little boy played so violently
that no one remembers a Fat Man laughing from Thursday
I thumb through my history books
and see a tragic footnote.
War is tragic and I wonder
if we remember it? If we remember him,
if we remember the flower growing from the blank cenotaph
that stands on the land where a hero once lived
the old man leading a stable was respected
and now his name means nothing
and neither does the smell.
when the Fat Man’s last belly laugh
comes from the epicenter of the sweetest fallout I have ever smelled.
I feel lost in time.
He sits, waiting to be remembered with flowers placed on his grave
but does not expect any. He just chants
for the mistakes a world has made when we let little boys out to play
and left Fat Men out there to molest them
this city is dead and yet we still
can’t hear his guidance, too busy trying to drive one another out of a sumo ring
and I know war is not the fairest of things
and the world is in my hands and I don’t care
I’m just waiting on the roses to grow. To replace cherry blossoms
that this city’s touch cannot even remember
when foreign hands have tried to mend it
with shears too big and aspirations too small I wonder
if flowers can sprout from concrete why can’t fallout smell as sweet
as roses of a different name, marking the grave of our mistake.

Daily Inspiration #1.

Safety and peace to all reading this on Valentine's Day (as opposed to doing something with a significant other (not that you need on or anything (ok, I'm done now))). Anyway, I just wanted to drop by and drop something on you for today that truly made me stop and go "Damn. Go in poet!" This comes from one Shane Koyczan. I was texted/called no less than 8 times as soon as this gentleman lit up the stage in the opening ceremony of the Vancouver Olympic games, so I spent the next couple of days looking for him and this is the first thing I came up with. Let me just say, I was blown away, and I hope you are too. And remember, you are never worthless. As I feel is the point of this piece, I just want to say that you mean something. We all have talents, stories, meaning. It just takes finding it. Have a good one, true believers.

Valentine's Day.

Gonna be a short one tonight, true believers. V day's a-loomin', and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I know I talk about love quite a bit up here, but this is the only time I feel that love is my albatross carried across this ancient mariner we call life. It's just a very lonely time for the love-broken. Enough of my whining though. Enjoy this. Though from a feminine perspective, this vid definitely describes how I feel at the moment, though I'll withhold on who it is addressed to (muhahaha):




Good night, and love to you all. May your Valentine's day be about 214235253243252462081759847623974329857295373298476910283798403.3 times more magical than mine.

But lately, words would escape me. . .

Somewhere along the line we all walk between "making moves in our lives" and "doing too much", I was left behind. Is it really a new year? A new decade? I insist that life slow down right now.

. . .
. . .
. . .

OK, so I'm fully aware that that's not how it works. I can't stop time, turn back time, make time get on the corner and get that money, anything like that. What I can do is have a heart-to-heart with her. Plead with her to squeeze the few extra seconds that I need to get anything done anymore, ask for a break from all the work that stacks up on us all.

I miss being younger. I miss feeling connected. Now, it feels like I'm all by myself all the time and while it has its perks, it's mostly just that empty feeling you get when you go to bed on Valentine's with not a single card to show for it. Oh, St. Valentine, you my friend are another post for another day.

Today, I just want whoever is reading this to remember their loved ones, remember the past, and use it to help shape your future. You only get one so make it count. And remember:

Love is the reason. For everything. Take that as you will.

Safety and peace, dear reader.

Making Moves. . .

Hope you got your helmet. Safety and peace to whomever may be reading this right now. It's time to grab our lives by the throats and never let them go. The future is now (and then, and will be. . .weird) and if we simply watch it pass us, we are doing ourselves a great injustice.
I find myself on the verge of taking a huge step in my life and I couldn't be more excited. Wish me luck, true believers.

The Most Wonderful Time of the. . .Wait.

Valentine's day will be upon us before you know it. You don't think so now, but then. . .boom! Hearts and pastel-colored cover-ups of your true feelings abound. It's like a Pearl Harbor of sappy romance and overpriced candy, really. In honor of this wondrous holiday, I'm attempting to finish something. Maybe I'll actually finish it this year. In closing, I suppose I can leave you with my favorite love song. . .

I'd Duck if I Were You.

Life comes at you fast. One day, nobody knows who you are. The next, you can't walk across campus without being stopped, applauded, greeted. I almost miss the anonymity that came with being a nobody. Almost :) It feels good to be making moves. Onward and upward, true believers.



EXCELSIOR!

Word?

I figure I should give a debriefing of last night. After all was said and done. . .I pretty sure I tore the walls off the Kenan theater with my pieces, but in the end, I got 4th. I'm happy with the result, seeing as I was competing against these 2 and my friend Jamila, all 3 of which are absolutely vicious on the mic. I really wanted that iPod but I can't begrudge the defeat I suffered, and it was so much fun! lol. Anyway, time to enjoy my morning mango tea and/or take my behind back to bed. Have a good one, true believers.

How close are you to the rest of your life?

So I was looking at what courses I need in order to fulfill my graduation requirements today. I didn't dawn on me until just now, but it really hit like a ton of feathers today: I'm a semester from the rest of my life. I'm a stone's throw away from the real world, and honestly, I'm not afraid. I'm living life, honestly, and I hope you can do the same. Honesty leads to fearlessness. Fearlessness leads to bravery. Bravery leads to selflessness, to kindness. To love. To love: it is the best and worst of things. It houses within a great aptitude for destruction, and a great appetite for it. Yet it is the lifeblood of all of our truly passionate endeavors, the catch-22 of catch-22s. It is change. Change is hard. Painful, torturous, but necessary. Changing is necessary, and that takes discipline. Requires grace, courage.

It requires love.

Six days. . .

Howdy, true believers. Next week I'm entering a competition that is, in essence, a single-poem slam. I would love if you read the piece I'm considering and helped me in revising it. Comments (try not to be too inflammatory; I haven't mastered that "mind over ego" thing yet lol) welcome!


Microcosm

I woke up with morning with the whole universe in my hands.
Origami north stars outlining a liquid-paper moon
fading into the distance as the sun comes out to play
with the planets sitting on my palm.
I see the world, driven before me, all the brushstrokes
painting the big picture teachers told me I’d never see,
neglecting to mention that pictures can be scaled down.
What’s microcosmic?

I’ve seen your face before
but the hello from my lips is as misplaced as vulnerability to a stranger.
You don’t know who I am but I want you to feel something today
like the homeless man whose face lit up
and whose smile could’ve answered God’s plea for light when I spared a dollar
and some change. Four quarters and the time it took to plant the seeds of hope in the hopeless
and it made my solar system vibrant.
What’s microcosmic?

That dew on the point of a rose’s thorn has adorned it since the dawn of dawn.
Days like these don’t sprout spontaneously from the climaxes of our wildest dreams;
You just started dreaming as though dreams could never be real.
As if we couldn’t feel the embrace of a world in flux,
as if we haven’t felt it for lives on end
I hold lives on end. Hold a magnifying glass to the planet
so close I can taste colors, pull back until I’m nearly blinded by blindsiding beauty
of a day you could fall in love on,
just to get a better perspective on things,
giving vivacity to creation.

Those things you pass on your journey to work or class
have been there the whole time; do you remember them?
Or were we too wrapped up in looking at the what
quantifying all things breathtaking with accolades
all “ist” and no “art”
all what and no why.

Look at all the kids ignoring religions and races
scribbling names into the faces of mother nature
like sharp-edged “RIP innocence” signs in the bark of trees.
I want to hold on to that time like a child to mommy’s hand and never let go
but I’m an adult now. Leaning too heavily on my imaginary stars in miniature
trying to fly with a post-adolescent body left wingless
forgetting that at one time I knew how to be
and forgetting that at one time feeling was more than touch and go.
What’s microcosmic?

Can you help me find my glasses, and my vision?
Of a red-hot summer silhouetted in white where
Love love love love love love love
makes the worlds go round, giving birth to motion?
Is it so silly to believe in the beauty of a world
I’ve been taught my whole life is an ugly place?
The beauty of a world where the roofless are left behind,
and graves are the only places roses grow from concrete?
The big picture is right in front of you.
All you have to do is open your fucking eyes!
What’s microcosmic?

I’m an adult now.
And these days I hold the universe on my fingertips like a basketball
both tumors on my hands at different phases of my life.
I’m an adult now.
And these days I’ve got hair that doesn’t sit like I want it to,
a tragically unpleasant disposition and a fucked-up definition of immortality.
I’m an adult now.
And these days I’ve got the getting old blues
and these days I feel younger than ever.
I’m a walking mass of complexes, don’t like introductions as much as goodbyes,
am a raging hypocrite with a titanic imagination and I’m ready to embrace it.
What’s microcosmic? This, life, is my world in miniature.

There goes my hero

walking out the screen door with a suitcase in one hand and his pride in another.
I don't know if he ever came back again
(I was too young then to know who he was)
but part of me misses my hero every holiday that I see him.


Don't really have a whole lot to say today, true believers. Working on something for next week, and something for tomorrow. In one of those, 'don't really have an aim but I'm still aiming' kinda moods, doing stuff towards no real, specific goal. We'll see how things turn out. Until next time.

Too much time on the 360.

Always follow the creed.
Prove your honor to me,
that I know it's true.


I sometimes have random acts of haiku. I'm not really sure why, but we all have our quirks. Speaking of quirks, it's been a good day. Got money to look forward to (cha-ching), friends to look forward to seeing (and one in particular who I'd love to see but am not holding my breath for. . .) and an outlook on life that is optimistic while maintaining its reality. I feel that that's important. Balance is the key to all things. A life in excess rarely yields good results, and neither does the life of a miser. Maybe that's the justification I can come up with for buying a PS3. . .

I should buy it now.
I spend too little money.
Eh, probably not.

Have a good one, folks.

And on the fourth hour, he stayed awake.

I've been putting this thing off far too long. It's like a microcosm of an awkward life. I'm an adult now, with a beard, bank account, and blog. And, naturally, none of them look quite How I want them to. I guess I should start with a name. I'm D.J.. Yeah, I'm very particular about the periods separating the letters (ok, not THAT particular. But that's how I do it most of the time.). I'm a poet, who cannot express himself as vocally as he would like. I'm very loyal, patient, loving, and understanding, and I sometimes refer to myself in the 3rd person. I'm not a pretentious d-bag, I swear. I guess that's all I have to say for now. I guess I'll explain where the blog name came from. It came from this:




Have a good night(morning).