Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Left Overs

Found this in my notes from 4 March 09. I remember being in the throws of self-doubt at the time, questioning my life and my choices. I re-read The Stranger. It was bad. Then spring happened and all was right with the world.

Cyclical Square?

The extistential crisis -how do you reconcile
What You Preach with What You Practice?
Day to day, tomorrow after tomorrow, until the lost.
But by now, you have amounted to nothing -
You are more a friend than a father,
And all your work is a hypocritical hoax which
Cannot be mended.

Break! Free yourself, free your mind.
Who are you but a
Cog in a larger wheel
(of Fate perhaps?)
That turns and rotates, mimicking
The Sun, the Moon, the Starts.

After all, aren't you just space dust anyway?
Aren't you
No More Than Dirt?
Look down
Under your soles to find your soul-
Nirvana is under your feet.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Rainy Day Jams

As a preface, for some reason my sweatshirt smells like old milk and I don't know why. But all my other sweatshirts are in the wash and it is cold so I'll have to deal.

And now more original "poems."

Weena, May We Never Forget.

Rain falls and I'm stuck in the house.
No worries -
It's only the start of spring, "Rain before beauty,"
And May holds open the gate for April to enter the garden.

"Together we'll walk and admire the butterflies,"
She'd say. "And the daffodils and the rhododendron."
Which always reminds me of The Time Machine by Wells
And then the future, eight hundred thousand years worth,
When men are midget-cows
And matches and cigarettes are kept in the museum rather then at the gas station.

And how together they walked in that future garden,
Near the rhododendron.
But the rain keeps me in with the dog,
Seemingly drugged by age, asleep on my hands,
Shifting my worn bulk and occasionally sighing.
But no worries, it's only the start of spring.


Emily Dickinson wrote thousands of poems
Homer is famous for two
There are one-hit wonders in literature too
Those who toil their whole lives for an
Oprah's Book Club sticker
(And those who get is posthumously)
And who decides what's tomorrow's classics?
Oprah's Ph. D. in literature.

A Night to Remember.

From the time we're born we're special;
Preschool conditions individuality, high school destroys free thought.
Remember finger painting? Snack? Recess?
Remember lockers and gym class and prom -
The epitome of cookie-cutter pre-collegiate cotillion,
The following vain attempts to continue the species,
The fumblings in dark, drunken closets, the first vomit.
Enduring, subconscious, glossed-over, gold-plated memories.
We were stars. We were heroes.
For one night we were individuals again. Then,
Like the ravages of Alzheimer's or too much whiskey,
We were forgotten.