(This is a short exercise I did for a workshop. The prompt was to write a story that took place over 10-15 years in two pages using only three-word sentences. Definitely worth a try). I told stories. They started small. Built with Legos. Sometimes with nothing. Sometimes I’d sit. Looking out windows. I’d start talking. Four years old. An only child. I’d start talking. Not to anyone. I’d talk whenever. Talk to whoever. Anyone who listened. And I listened. When people talked. They told me. Four years old. I’d talk whenever. My head moved. The film projected. People told me. And I listened. What they said. It helped me. Leaving was possible. Stories were possible. Because of them. Because of others. Because of listening. My brain talked. Whenever it could. The film projected. I saw people. I wished constantly. I wanted expression. Language found me. I learned quickly. I told stories. Built with Legos. But Legos disappeared. An empty room. My favorite toy. Everything happened there. My friends loved. I loved them. They were siblings. But the walls. The walls lasted. Blank, empty walls. The film projected. My brain talked. Picture and sound. Far away things. Places colorful, distant. I told stories. By myself, happy. Happy to leave. Loving my home. Loving my parents. Still loving rooms. An empty room. Nothing was there. Nothing but me. I was everything. Everything I’d heard. First grade, writing. Teachers named it. Called them “stories”. An “active imagination”. My leaving, named. Imagination, beautiful word. A sudden realization. Others knew them. Others felt them. Others heard stories. Had their own. I fell quickly. I loved people. I talked whenever. 7 years old. Anyone who listened. I slowly grew. I held fast. Loved and sang. Happy wherever, glad. Glad to listen. Glad people talked. Satisfied, being there. 11 years old. In sixth grade. Writing I hated. An obligation, chore. Meant for schoolwork. Fancy a girl. Heart gets broken. Sixth grade heartbreak. The sharpest kind. Ignored the walls. Forgot the rooms. Remembered the girls. Always remembered girls. Remembered my friends. 13 years old. Got a phone. Remembered my inbox. Remembered my grades. Legos long gone. &nb
[I wrote this a number of years back. It was more for myself than anything, but for some reason a lot of people liked it, so I've decided to make it public. Be kind :P It was originally a journal entry.] Jesus was Jewish. It came as quite a surprise when I realized through all that hair and that monstrous, unkindly-set nose that this was indeed a fact. He wasn’t necessarily what many a woman would find beautiful, if even good-looking. I had to admit that I’d never have figured that my Lord, my Savior would be a long (I had to cough: extremely long) way from being the ‘Sexiest Man Alive’. “You think I’m ugly?” Jesus asked as he cast out his rather novel-looking fishing rod; it looked as though he’d carved it himself (and did a rather poor job of it too). “Well, you’re definitely not someone I would stare at in wonder,” I said; incapable of stepping ahead of my thoughts and filtering them. Jesus laughed, and in a rather high-pitch too. “It tends to work in my favor.” “How’s that?” “Well, if I was indeed beautiful, and as perfect as I am on the inside, there wouldn’t be many women left for all you average-looking folks,” Jesus said, his folding beard the only hint that he was smirking. “Average? I’m average?” “Let me put it this way: Joe, you won’t be winning any ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ awards any time soon.” I looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Ha, ha, Mr. Omniscient.” Jesus laughed, his high-pitched, effeminate laught- “-Effeminate?” Jesus interrupted my thoughts. “Not only am I ugly, but I’m also effeminate. You’re not a very nice person, you know.” “Would you stop doing that?” “Then stop thinking in conclusions.” The disgruntled look on my face made him laugh again; his belly shaking and him holding it as if cradling a womb. For once, I decided to speak no further, in the hopes that I wouldn’t dig myself a deeper hole. In such a short amount of responses, Jesus had managed to set me against my own mind, fluster me, and make me feel like a child who’d done wrong. Now, I didn’t know what to think, because what I was thinking was based off presuppositions and whatever answers I could come to so that I could combat this would come from assumptions justified by knowledge that
10/5/2011Allen, I kiss your saintly wrinkelbrowGrandfather poetSharer of namesakeFor mysake standAs a strong brave pillar of unabashed faggotryPoems that are sexualfreeDom chasers, hope gracersFear erasersAllen, my spiritual fatherSweet and whole and unlovelyWarts and all and founder of loveFinder of beautifulthings in uglythingsWorshipper of foul things as sacredthingsSpinner of anthems that spoke and still speak to my soulAllen, my predecessor, my poetfatherI want to cruise the dingey late night groceries with youMost profane and veiny and wholefacedArt of our degredation, sacred sacred thingsUnpretty, un-easy, un fetteredYou are my spirit spaces, my foreverplacesYou will help me to be wholeNot because you knew or Know meBut because you are or were meAs you were then, as I am nowBecomingUntil death becomingtil final breathBecomingBecomingBecomingbecoming
Jealousy don’t look good on you,In fact, it makes you look fat.And old.And lame.And Stupid.And did I mention old?And that’s why you jealous, cause you spend too much time hatin and mad to actually do something with yaself.Lemme help you,I’m not the reason you stuck where you areAnd I damn sure a’int the reason you a’int get too farSo please don’t be upset that I have happy things to say,The hell I look like…Miserable?If that were the case, you wouldn’t have anything to be jealous of…And I’d be just like youSitting,Hating,Jealous.Tell me, if you’re the one that’s hating….Who’s the loser in this situation?Jealous?
You know how people have out-of-body experiences? I'm having one right now. Myself is sitting on the couch in the back of the coffee shop. I, right next to me. I look at myself and I see right through the wall that i built so long ao. Dad told me never to cry, never to show weakness. But, I did, and I do. I'm not afraid to say that I cry. A lot. In front of others? No way. I look back into my life and see my pain. I hate being this way. I hate those scars and I hate how I've let you people get under my skin. There was a time where I saw myself as a person. Now? I see a painting. Splattered paint and strangled emotions. Certainly not a Picasso or a Michelangelo, but something of some value.
I don't know exactly what value, but something, I mean I've got to be worth something, right?
Give me a minute here.
To the kids in school; I know that I'm different and, in your words, weird. Please, don't give me crap about it. It's how I get over stuff.
To the kids on the bus; Don't start with me, please. My best friend just killed himself.
To the freshman; I know your backpacks are heavy, but don't let that affect you. You are the next generation. No prenny-throwing, senior will change that.
And to my so-called "father;" I have nothing to say to you.
To myself; Hi, there. Do me a favor? Would you just live? Forget the kids, forget your...dad, forget all of the abuse and tears. Just live.
Some call it "love." Some call it a fallacy. Some call it "karma." Some call it a mess. I call it life. It is a mess and it most definitely is a fallacy, but in reality, it is all that we have. It's the only inkling of hope that we hold.
You and I, we have something in common. We're both lost; not lost like a puppy, lost like a soul. We're holding on for dear life, and if we let go...
I'm still sitting in the back of the coffee shop with myself. I'm trying to make sense of this all.
Stop, stop making sense of it. Breathe in a out. Slowly. Live.
Reflecting on the fragile ability of technology to bring the world closer together and also to make it more isolated.
this piece is a poetic collaboration between brett & I. we decided to write something free-form, alternating authors every two or three lines.
[more elaborate introduction forthcoming]
Here's something I just recently put together. Simple, short. I'm not very poetic, and I know very little about modern poetry, so I'm mostly just slapping words on paper.