I call this one, "I Hope You Enjoy Making Below Minimum Wage At That Ice Cream Gig Tyler, Because It's Not Like That Art Degree Is Going To Really Get You Anywhere."
Only he who hangs himself from the tree
(The tree of the fruit of all knowledge)
Will be plucked and consumed in the glorious gloom
In those darkest of days we call college.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
My name is Casey
It is sometimes regrettable to be only four feet from the ground, your view skewed by an angle dealt deftly by genetic makeups; not applied to the face, but the faces of others see applied. Your angled perspective does not necessarily reveal the truth of the matter when scenes unfold before you, only inches away, even in slow motion. It does tend to lay tricks slowly upon your eyes. Gentle they are, yet laced with glue that keeps the eyes shut afterword...
But, I guess this disadvantage appears at every height, so I do feel less alone.
But I cannot be a credible source, for many other reasons I have neither the time nor the energy to reveal, just trust that when I see a blue car softly turn the corner by the street light, and the man in the long grey coat get out, that I cannot prove that I saw anything. I can't say that he didn't get out, or that he did in fact continue on his way, swerving into the hedges just beyond me, just out of my view before I turned my head.
No, not at my height, I cannot attest to any of this. I know that man, and I've seen him before in my house with my mother, calling me "son" but not in the paternal sense. I can't say that I saw him that night, or ever at all.
I can only hope that the stripes of my shirt blend slowly off into the night, yellow and mauve tinted hues, floating off in the form of fireflies whose lives have far more signifigance when they are silent.
I can only hope that nobody ever asks me what I think I saw, or why. Nobody would ask me why I was out alone at night to begin with, anyone who knows me at least. I just hope they don't ask about that man and what I saw him careen into before the metal crunch found it's way into my ears and made me run off crying, tearing the knees on my overalls from force of exertion. Rocks and gravel are my sworn enemy, so my cut hands may prove that I was there, but at my height, really, that could have happened anywhere.
It really could have been anywhere.
But, I guess this disadvantage appears at every height, so I do feel less alone.
But I cannot be a credible source, for many other reasons I have neither the time nor the energy to reveal, just trust that when I see a blue car softly turn the corner by the street light, and the man in the long grey coat get out, that I cannot prove that I saw anything. I can't say that he didn't get out, or that he did in fact continue on his way, swerving into the hedges just beyond me, just out of my view before I turned my head.
No, not at my height, I cannot attest to any of this. I know that man, and I've seen him before in my house with my mother, calling me "son" but not in the paternal sense. I can't say that I saw him that night, or ever at all.
I can only hope that the stripes of my shirt blend slowly off into the night, yellow and mauve tinted hues, floating off in the form of fireflies whose lives have far more signifigance when they are silent.
I can only hope that nobody ever asks me what I think I saw, or why. Nobody would ask me why I was out alone at night to begin with, anyone who knows me at least. I just hope they don't ask about that man and what I saw him careen into before the metal crunch found it's way into my ears and made me run off crying, tearing the knees on my overalls from force of exertion. Rocks and gravel are my sworn enemy, so my cut hands may prove that I was there, but at my height, really, that could have happened anywhere.
It really could have been anywhere.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Gray/Grey 28
You slip up and out feet first
Magnets float past gravity, plant your toes
You hold manuscripts, scribbled dream sequences
This is everything you will ever have to offer
You will claw your throat's corded coffers
For strangers few and far appart
To gratify that which was so almost; unreal?
Let's examine this.
Dark dreams lead leaky eyes to be blackened
Outside while purple skies reflect the tenant's lies
Your inside shines with barnacles and brine
Your urge to let words slip lips and converge
Makes you a target, self-painted for roaming poet claimers
They tarp your wild words with vines and herbs
They trap your bubble speech with trivial weeds and fleas
Bite your own eyes out or seek to see
That nobody really speaks to trees.
But every dreamer seaks to dream, so you must be a prodigy.
Or, unless you claim to know by name the song that remains the same
You are a wicked liar and must be made to spit fire
Not that which you profess, only that made from red silk dresses
Only that carved by hammer-formed messes
Only those listen that can't afford to best it.
Only be real when reality is subjective.
So you use dark skies to undermine the wicked word wielders.
You draw lines that scratch past pleasure.
You must conform to new measures.
And this is discordance.
Do not deem the story dead though until it is.
Until only the real young minds that find time for blue skies
Can reach down and save your life.
You can't really afford not to cry or nobody pays attention.
Weird.
Magnets float past gravity, plant your toes
You hold manuscripts, scribbled dream sequences
This is everything you will ever have to offer
You will claw your throat's corded coffers
For strangers few and far appart
To gratify that which was so almost; unreal?
Let's examine this.
Dark dreams lead leaky eyes to be blackened
Outside while purple skies reflect the tenant's lies
Your inside shines with barnacles and brine
Your urge to let words slip lips and converge
Makes you a target, self-painted for roaming poet claimers
They tarp your wild words with vines and herbs
They trap your bubble speech with trivial weeds and fleas
Bite your own eyes out or seek to see
That nobody really speaks to trees.
But every dreamer seaks to dream, so you must be a prodigy.
Or, unless you claim to know by name the song that remains the same
You are a wicked liar and must be made to spit fire
Not that which you profess, only that made from red silk dresses
Only that carved by hammer-formed messes
Only those listen that can't afford to best it.
Only be real when reality is subjective.
So you use dark skies to undermine the wicked word wielders.
You draw lines that scratch past pleasure.
You must conform to new measures.
And this is discordance.
Do not deem the story dead though until it is.
Until only the real young minds that find time for blue skies
Can reach down and save your life.
You can't really afford not to cry or nobody pays attention.
Weird.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Red #1 (aka "Crunchy Crunchy Carrots")
Sleep softly sweet prince
As swallowtail songbirds serenade your sobering eyes
Wrinkles lie only to testify to nights time, passing by.
Who else cuts shallow and runs red lines across scarlett?
Who but you could breathe sweet ease into such lively debris?
Remains of a name, passed and dropped like watermelons of imaginary stock
Who let go last? Don't know. Could show up in retinal scans
Of the brass bands playing past showtime by five
But nobody stuck around to hear jive shit from Clive and The Kids
Because nobody cares to dance like real people.
Who here said last, in big teeth grins
"I want to be king and sing merrily of better days
When knights were bold and we were told that safety ways
Lie in golden goblets and manuals to long to be read
But just short enough to provide pillow space for a weary head."
Rest soft on paper sod, compost recomposed
Black curls tangle with light swirls, mingle and might burn
But only in divine light, which we are short of tonight.
So enjoy eight hours in your tall purple tower
As the Moon mingles with your doubled chin
Every wrong right will soon be wronged again.
As swallowtail songbirds serenade your sobering eyes
Wrinkles lie only to testify to nights time, passing by.
Who else cuts shallow and runs red lines across scarlett?
Who but you could breathe sweet ease into such lively debris?
Remains of a name, passed and dropped like watermelons of imaginary stock
Who let go last? Don't know. Could show up in retinal scans
Of the brass bands playing past showtime by five
But nobody stuck around to hear jive shit from Clive and The Kids
Because nobody cares to dance like real people.
Who here said last, in big teeth grins
"I want to be king and sing merrily of better days
When knights were bold and we were told that safety ways
Lie in golden goblets and manuals to long to be read
But just short enough to provide pillow space for a weary head."
Rest soft on paper sod, compost recomposed
Black curls tangle with light swirls, mingle and might burn
But only in divine light, which we are short of tonight.
So enjoy eight hours in your tall purple tower
As the Moon mingles with your doubled chin
Every wrong right will soon be wronged again.
Friday, April 23, 2010
One Tousand
I scurry to settle, subdue, subvert a silk noose
I lick my finger to smear your face
Blur tools erase stains until little remains
But off white and faded black, why not off black?
Why not everyone be free of objectivity?
But I cannot cancel the concerning, the working class.
One cannot surpass the limits of silence until one learns of this.
One cannot grasp violence in the palms of his fists
And let it drip down his fingertips in acrylic wisps
Of fine air, crisp and free on Fridays.
One must allow for arrogance, therefore letting in the cold breeze
Of faded white tee's.
But only on weekends.
During the week it's faded white sleeves.
Listen to the meek and praise their humdrumings.
Without one million little arms to carry your weight
Your subcollective would be emptied quickly by meer men
And then your full features would be emptied again.
What a shame.
What a shame to pretend you stand, unxeroxed.
The revolution will be inside of your television.
You will ignore the calamity like a calm casino bee
You lounge in good graces, gifted by giving arms
Such harm could be avoided were you to lay down your jaw
Let go of this paw, this tale, this lion
Let forth the streams of subtle air bubbles
Until nobody notices the noise anymore.
Because everyone seeks to decompose wholly
But nobody knows that dirt is made from skin
So if we do take what we give as we intend
Then nothing is new, so nothing is left but sad grins
On grimy faces and few traces of that even.
So let it end here, in false pretense
Let imagination emerge from internal combustion
Of sparked synapses and blurted lusting
Let go of grabbing hold and let flow the stone cutter's colds
Soon the sick will control the old
So now the grass is green from decay, not dismay, simple certainty.
Alarming, yes.
I lick my finger to smear your face
Blur tools erase stains until little remains
But off white and faded black, why not off black?
Why not everyone be free of objectivity?
But I cannot cancel the concerning, the working class.
One cannot surpass the limits of silence until one learns of this.
One cannot grasp violence in the palms of his fists
And let it drip down his fingertips in acrylic wisps
Of fine air, crisp and free on Fridays.
One must allow for arrogance, therefore letting in the cold breeze
Of faded white tee's.
During the week it's faded white sleeves.
Listen to the meek and praise their humdrumings.
Without one million little arms to carry your weight
Your subcollective would be emptied quickly by meer men
And then your full features would be emptied again.
What a shame.
What a shame to pretend you stand, unxeroxed.
The revolution will be inside of your television.
You will ignore the calamity like a calm casino bee
You lounge in good graces, gifted by giving arms
Such harm could be avoided were you to lay down your jaw
Let go of this paw, this tale, this lion
Let forth the streams of subtle air bubbles
Until nobody notices the noise anymore.
Because everyone seeks to decompose wholly
But nobody knows that dirt is made from skin
So if we do take what we give as we intend
Then nothing is new, so nothing is left but sad grins
On grimy faces and few traces of that even.
Let imagination emerge from internal combustion
Of sparked synapses and blurted lusting
Let go of grabbing hold and let flow the stone cutter's colds
Soon the sick will control the old
So now the grass is green from decay, not dismay, simple certainty.
Alarming, yes.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Hey look I'm blogging again. Who's excited? I am.
I found this in an email sent to myself two months ago...no idea when I wrote it
Walk through the woods, painting
The trees a yellow string
Watching the world watching you
Stairs where you tripped and stumbled
Led you up to your noiseless
Rooftop view of the downtown scene
The traffic lights turn off
The endless human stars
You point your fingers toward
The world you tore apart
A mountain mouth grew up and
Some sunken eyes appeared
You planned to flood the room but
You're straddled by fears
That any other hands could grace the walls
You topple over
Your flourish is admittance
That painted trees look much too real
Walk through the woods, painting
The trees a yellow string
Watching the world watching you
Stairs where you tripped and stumbled
Led you up to your noiseless
Rooftop view of the downtown scene
The traffic lights turn off
The endless human stars
You point your fingers toward
The world you tore apart
A mountain mouth grew up and
Some sunken eyes appeared
You planned to flood the room but
You're straddled by fears
That any other hands could grace the walls
You topple over
Your flourish is admittance
That painted trees look much too real
Monday, April 12, 2010
This is the first song I've written in four months.
My eyes watch you divide
I'm caught in your cold
In a breeze that could hold
And all your words made of snow
And I know where this goes
I just don't want to give up on all my ghosts
At all, at all, at all.
So would you choose my disease?
The one they can't diagnose
The cure is right under your nose
Or would you rather to know
Well I could tell you you're ill
But nobody could cure those chills
At all, at all, at all.
Well we've always made the best with what we've got.
You let your dreams spill over to your thoughts
You let the clouds and the oceans all collide
You fold me in so I can watch you divide.
I'm caught in your cold
In a breeze that could hold
And all your words made of snow
And I know where this goes
I just don't want to give up on all my ghosts
At all, at all, at all.
So would you choose my disease?
The one they can't diagnose
The cure is right under your nose
Or would you rather to know
Well I could tell you you're ill
But nobody could cure those chills
At all, at all, at all.
Well we've always made the best with what we've got.
You let your dreams spill over to your thoughts
You let the clouds and the oceans all collide
You fold me in so I can watch you divide.
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