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I lay on the floor and look up at the cracks in the ceiling
The fan whirs, going over and over again in circles
I imagine I am floating in space
And the little speckled marks on the ceiling are stars
I float freely, away from this room
I'm unencumbered by worldly issues
I am happy
I am unhappy
Laying on the floor of this room
Tears roll from the corner of my eye and collect in puddles in my ear
I cross my arms over my face and I am in blackness
I try to disappear
I imagine a stranger comes into the room where I am laying
And takes me away
I am not scared, it's almost a relief
I don't know where I'm going and I don't care
The sound of meows brings me back
From my daydream, back to this room
The kitty is hungry
It's bowl of dry food is low
I fill it up and pet her as she purrs and eats
As if that's all she wants
Affection, attention and food
It seems so simple, and it is, for her
But maybe that's all I want too
I pour myself a bowl of cereal
Go sit in a chair at the table, away from that room
And think, and think
And think
And think
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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Thursday, March 5th, 2009
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I couldn't sleep again tonite
The choppers were out, circling the area
looking for someone, or something
I suppose
Again
tonite
I wonder...
The other night when they were out it was
"Come out with your hands up"
And a few nights ago they were looking for a young black man
Terrell
In a gray sweatshirt and dark pants
And telling me that if I know where he is to give them a call
at 911, pronto
Eventually they stopped
I mean eventually I got to sleep
and when I woke up they weren't still flying around
So...
I wonder if they caught up with him
I wonder how he got away from them in the first place
Or if they ever had him
I wonder how they knew what he had on
I wonder what he did to make them come
I wonder if he was going to have to do "time"
I wonder if it was his fault
Maybe someone else's beef got pinned on him
Like Hurricane
I wonder if I did knew where he was
if I would call
I wonder if he's in my backyard right now
Lemme see...
Nope
just the omnipotent Moon, gleaming
and the glacial night air
I wonder if he was there
If we could be friends
Maybe he could hide in my garage til this biz with the fuzz blew over
Could we be cool?
I wonder if he would stab me in the back
when I wasn't looking
and take my stuff
"Hey man, just not my records... OK?"
I wonder if Terrell even exists
Or if I might have just imagined this all
In the copters of my mind
Or I wonder if this is just a lil scare tactic of the government
A facet of our fear-based post-9/11 anti-terror please-keep-me-safe-from-the-monsters police state
"Big Brotha is watching" (Boo!)
Something just to keep us in line
Thankful that they're there at all
--
I don't know
I really don't know any of it at all
Never will
Actually
I've decided
One thing I do know:
Terrell
you're cool with me
I won't tell
Just don't fuck with my records, man.
OK?
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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Sunday, November 9th, 2008
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You know that narrow time when veils dissolve and disappear? Your tongue is free; the view is clear.
...
If you could only stay half-loaded all the time, you could know all the time those things you know only when you're half-loaded. You can't sustain it, though: it widens into drunkenness. Too bad. The kind of thing you get between veils may be like this: To the next generation, you are as important as your idols were to you. Sorry about what this does to your idols, but sooner or later we have to be weaned.
...
I don't know which is more painful, having your skin ripped off all at once or having it abraded off over a long time. Either way--and it's probably some of both--the growing-up process is painful but beneficial. Thus exposed, you know your associates and yourself; you face the fact that now you're Mommy or Daddy; and after a while the pain stops and you can start taking care of business. The giants always move on.
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, March 14th, 2007
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we are two, but you're the reason i started all this.
well not started, but continued:
late nights, long hours, failed enterprise
relocation.
i don't like to start over
and that feeling of being hurt and forlorn,
distinct and isolated.
it'd be what and who i am and have become
undone by your simple slight of hand.
relieved and proud, though, i stand to the morn
at this heightened temperature i smell the flesh burn and eyes melt
into the deeps of his cavernous mouth,
but i don't slip inside when you pass by.
wind and sleet, blown over and slipped up
but still full of blood, walking up straight
up above it all, not God but good enough
i won't, nor you, get down when the world is so up
because although there are all these stars in the sky,
none burn so bright as our imposing sun.
but none so far as those bits long away
bring treasures of future past-tensed so sweet.
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Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
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Friday, October 13th, 2006
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It was because of him that I became a writer. I was only eight when he killed my mother. He probably doesn't even remember her anymore.
Her name was Rachel.
I never forgot the little things that made Mom special to me. Her laugh. Her wonderful smile. No wonder Dad loved her.
I guess you could say he killed my Dad, too. After Mom...died...dad started drinking heavily.
He was drunk the night he drove his car off the embankment.
I've never forgotten who killed them, either. My first written piece, actually, was titled in his "honor" : "Dracula: Written In Blood"
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While I was in college, I used to think about Dracula a lot. I'd doze off at my desk at night... and he would be there! As he had in life, he turned my dreams into nightmares! Using a makeshift cross, I'd always drive him off just as he came at me!
But most nights I didn't sleep at all.
I still dream about Mom. And someday... somehow... I'm going to end the life of the one who killed her!
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But I often wonder, having read dozens of books on the subject, if Dracula can be killed.
Truly killed.
Sometimes, before I fall asleep, I dream of killing him. (I've completed a piece on that subject, as well.) And in my dreams he comes back to life again... to kill me!
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Does Dracula dream?
Does he dream of blood and sweetly-scented coffins? Does he dream of his far-off homeland, or of scantily clad vampire brides waiting for his return each night?
Does he dream as we dream... or are his dreams somehow attuned to the dreams of the living?
If so, does he dream of killing me, even as I dream of killing him?
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One morning I awoke and found that I had rendered a scene of hell in my sleep.
In the story, I had sealed myself inside a silver bunker surrounded by garlic and adorned with hastily-painted crosses. Outside, Dracula waited as patiently as a vulture. Sooner or later, I would have to leave my sanctuary for food and water.
Unless my soul found refuge with another who might come to my aid.
But my soul numbered only one, where Dracula enlisted hundreds of souls!
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My salvation came, as works of mine began to get published. Public demand for my work became greater and greater, rising at an exponential rate!
Little did I know, at the time, just how successful my work was to become!
Such irony! That the creature whose very existence had plagued my nightmares for so long should now become the inspiration for my success was more than I could bear at first.
But time has a way of muting such things, and I have come to accept Dracula's presence in my waking hours... just as he has ceased to torment me in my sleep.
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Where once my work was filled with fear and dread, there is now an infusion of menace... and warning. I do not know the lifespan of a nightmare such as Dracula. Nor do I know if he will care to menace future generations.
Nonetheless, I hope my work shall stand as a warning to future generations. An illumination of death, in but one of its guises.
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Comments: Read 9 or Add Your Own.
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Sunday, October 8th, 2006
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dada dlack sheep
da? da?
da - da?
da + da?
DA + DA?
DADA?
blah? blah?
blah - blah?
blah + blah?
BLAH + BLAH?
BLAH BLAH?
as i was dropped here as i am
i was not as i am but imploded to a new
free of the twigs and whigs and those slow drops of sustenance
still a separtist and yet still engaged to your ways
dropped and blown and eaten and digested not even a clods toss away
i reach it out and feel it out blinded by the dark
but i knock it out and dredge it out surely my trove lies not in the ocean.
and i'm here
and i'm thick and i'm rough
plentiful and beautiful
far away, alas
but i'm here
i can gaze far and fly solo, slam it down on the slab of wood, tell stories of those days gone past
listen and diagnose feel the connection and disconnection
rise to the ozone in this contraption
...
but still feel the empty holes, see the ripped canvas
and when i fall i don't do it in the name of my family or my love
i do it for duty and humanity, debonair
good looks and shiny stars
the romance of my dead death
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Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
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and i dont want to eat but i don't want to starve
i'm not sick or anorexic, eating is just unnerving and unconvenient-
grumbling like a child, not giving in til it gets what it wants-
i dont want to work but i don't want to go broke:
i need to pay rent and loans, and buy food and the occasional record to keep my sanity-
slaving away for 9 hours a day, and making a measly wage-
i hate being the prude but i have no choice-
and i dont want to learn but i don't want to work at shit jobs forever:
i feel so feeble, how can i compare-
lack of motivation and ability-
and i dont want to be lonely, but here i have no choice.
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Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
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Tuesday, December 21st, 2004
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where i regularly speed past, i now walk slow,
seeping,
seeming to finally realize what to do about it all:
just go in quick; but be soft light gentle pink
flick but not fink, pull away but not awkward
'shiny boots of leather,' dull crack of the whip'
soft heart getting harder from the weather
then it seems that my one chance to shine passes by like freight
at 99mph.
'strike dim mistress and secure his heart'
but i have no blood that is not already been bled.
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Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, August 4th, 2004
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| Time: | 6:47 pm. |
| Mood: | unkept. |
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Despite my empty days that drown the fates,
I wake from living dreams to greet the morn,
Reliving memories of long past dates,
Adorning hours with a face forlorn.
Alone my nights did shudder for this curse
And cry collapse to bring them sweet release.
Dulling the blade that once did guard life’s purse,
I robbed him of his pow’r to crush my peace.
As through a murky glass mine eyes now see
Lights of the sun gone dust before time‘s end:
My wish now mine, I smile, fine'ly free;
This morning cold is now my soul’s last friend.
Perchance one day my gaze will raise up to the sky
And land on thee, my love, perfecting days gone by.
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Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
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he used to read over my shoulder,
he'd make it all make sense.
he'd mumble as he read.
i'd ask him to explain things,
things too complex for me.
now i eat just to feel my insides occupied;
i drink just to send something through me.
i laugh at a dark room,
bright pictures dancing on my face.
i feel ants on my skin.
they can tell that he isn't here anymore.
slapping my bare skin,
i beat at wave after wave of insectoid insurgents.
well, i guess they'll just have to eat me then.
let's not pretend. there's no narrative here,
just a little loneliness.
i miss him.
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Comments: Read 6 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, June 9th, 2004
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Wednesday, June 2nd, 2004
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tonite i picked up
and, disheveled, moved around everything in my half of a half room
placed it back down somewhere else this time
somewhere, for some reason, seeming 'better'
more fitting now.
i went through my record collection and pondered each one
when did i get this? with who? had i heard it before i bought it? how much was it?
do i still want it? can i sell it?
maybe i'll keep it after all,
after all i did just buy this expensive turntable
sleek black and fast with a dab of yellow and a tacky sticker.
i move on:
here they are! my polaroids, finally!
no wait, only two:
(1)one of me and my two brothers, standing tall and happy--
but my back is turned,
"Jazz Heritage Foundation" and a picture of a saxophone is all that can be seen of me,
printed in black on the back of my ill-fitting eggshell-tinted shirt.
(2)the other, slightly damaged is one i found on the ground
in front of my neighbors house as i headed out to work early one morning--
it is of women with false colored hair, as happy as my brothers
and one androgynous male, just staring
not smiling
just staring into the camera, standing in someone's kitchen.
what happened to the fun??
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Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
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i hope you are sleeping
and i hope you are swell,
as i sit here late-nite
typing by myself.
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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i continued to lay there after you left, waiting
secretly for you to return, only to be swiftly punched in the stomach by your little fist.
so i just laid, calm, hand on brow
and lay until you came back out, now
in refreshed attire and attitude
and layed with me again.
but when you turned your back
is when i got up and left
without a peep, a doorslam or loud footsteps.
now who lays alone?
when will i realize that punk rock is not about blue hair?
when will i realize the world doesn't and can't be run anarchically?
when will my 'bob' meet his untimely fate and help me realize what it is i am supposed to do?
when,
when and why?
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Comments: Read 18 or Add Your Own.
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Thursday, March 18th, 2004
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i climbed the stairs high--
and sat upon all the knowlege in the world, bound in hardcover edition
yet
as i stand atop this hi-point
and through thick glass all i can think of
is to jump.
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Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.
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Tuesday, February 24th, 2004
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coming back to the apartment
late nite/early morning
sit down and cover my face
with my hands. rubbing them
up and down across my rough stubble.
the window is open and i am freezing
yet i take off my jacket and refuse to cease the breeze.
i guess its just that something so good
is just not meant to last.
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Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, February 4th, 2004
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all the world's a stage
or at least the land parts
i hate performing on water
toes soaked and flesh shivering
i sputter out my lines
as fish eat my toes.
so most of the world's a stage
i sell myself on this one
a town crier losing his voice
sicklied over with pale overcast
something or another,
i always forget this part,
melding classical verse with
this post-modern prose, these
heaps of fly-infested manure
stinking to high heaven
and breeding the grounds for this
dance of expression
firmer than water and not quite land
my feet sink in, enveloped by the stench
but warmed, i must admit
even if it makes for difficult dancing.
my metaphors suck.
a lot.
so does this poem.
is this still part of the poem?
am i being metatheatrical?
no, this isnt a stage, damnit.
meta...lyrical?
these questions suck, too.
maybe i can pick apart this poem before you do
ripping off the ugly parts
ridiculing the bad
until it stands, bare-boned,
sans truth, sans expression, sans thought, sans worth
sans everything
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Comments: Read 5 or Add Your Own.
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Sunday, February 1st, 2004
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my passion and vigor-in life-
builds off of you
yet you show me only that malignant mouth
sucking that dying breath out of my limp
and lifeless being.
is it strife or mishap
or love or ?
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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Friday, January 30th, 2004
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i too have an autobiography
i painted it one rainy summer
brushstroke upon brushstroke
i created a face i once had
that glint in the eye
carefully crafted to recreate
the tunes i hummed in my past
now i write in black ink
scrawling letters that define
something less than poetry
my canvas as my skin as my paper
i too feel inspiration
pushing me toward these silly acts
sitting alone in the naked light
i glimpsed a frozen frame of yesterday
and the light was almost enough
so that i could see my reflection
soft and blurry in the picture
somewhere beneath myself i lurked
looking over my shoulder
and spying on secret moments
between lost lusts
im waiting for someone to delve through
these structures ive made
a scholar
to make it all make sense
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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dute's journal