Posts published in “Year: 2011”

I don’t care to write stylized and metered verse. I like to be raw. I like to jot down how I feel and give it to the world. The very small world that reads these.

Honestly– to be completely honest– I don’t take ownership of what I write. That allows me a freedom to always disavow intent to be good. It’s silly to say an uncut diamond is dull; of course it is when unpolished. I always say my work is unedited, unfinished, “just an idea.” Really, it’s not loved enough to be revised. Sure, when one or two stick out, I’ll edit them and act like I’ve taken the time to grow them as a form of art, but really I just didn’t want to show them THAT raw. I have like 2 (!) poems that I think of when I recall what I’ve written, and that’s it. I’ve literally written thousands (don’t think this site has everything– I save a few for myself if too whimsical or personal or confusing, and a few out of thousands adds up). I’m nearing my 500th poem on this site. That hasn’t escaped my gentle humility, and I’ve thought of how to make sure the poem uploaded as the 500th is as normal as the rest. But, truth is, I don’t want it to be. I want to be the writer I can be, having been through what I have and going through what I am now. No life is ordinary, and few are not worth reading. Those few would be of the vain. No, I know the 500th will be typical. Otherwise, I may not meet expectations, and that would set me back.

“People look for depth in the most shallow of pools, and become enamored with their own reflections rather than see the chaotic dribble of the rain.”

To my buddy Ted, who dislikes people thinking those of an early demise are somehow deeper/better than they actually were.

If you ain’t fertilizing the earth, you’re just shit.

Repurposing a line from Wu-Tang’s, “Reunited”

Time. Time slips by as redundant tickings of the keys. A melody is made, though no great note is made. Of pools the eyes swim. In little jabs at this sensory bubble, we notice only that which has been made evident to us. All else is new discovery not brought up in our training. Words wander, thoughts throw themselves, and eyes endure. We know what has been taught to us. We remember the silly things to think they are unique to us. But, the bee remembers. The beetle knows I altered its path. My friend will remind me every now and again of that moment. The silky things are shared– for the most part, though I know our conversations remain bewildering to memory. I like it that way. You would tell me in whispers of a passing wind. I would listen. I, who listened only to himself and they who have a melodic beat. I would listen. You turned my head from tunneled site to branch of humanity. Humanity. That silly word which means what we are but describes few of us. Odd.