Tag: Poetry

When people ask “How are you feeling?”, I wish they wanted this sort of answer.

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When people ask “How are you feeling?”, I wish they wanted this sort of answer:

I have this…

Deep, rich, weeping.

Eyes tight, throat… Tingling down my back and a dry mouth.

I shiver though I don’t move.

A cold breeze passes through my head.

A cold breath, a dry mouth, a buzz across the back; a tight lower back, furrowed brow.

 

Wide, blubbery second chin.  Dry mouth, fast breath.

Stab right shoulder, under scapula.

Stab throbs.

Furrowed Brow.

Stab sinks.

I’ll test this sometime: dropping in and describing my felt sensations in real time.

 

I’ll test it 6 times in different contexts (because I’ll only get comfortable after the first few experiments).

Ode to Xfinity

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Xfinity, you tease

In the unlikeliest of places

By stoking my hopes with the promise of bars

Then dashing them all with a “cannot connect!”

 

I must say I’d rather

Have no WiFi at all—

Be forced ‘pon my phone’s hotspot

Than hear your wispy false claims.

 

But sometimes, my dear,

You appease this old soul—

Like this ‘forenoon, when I video called

My boss from the street.

Though your robustness did waver

So we switched to “just audio,”

You did remain connected! Aye, you stood strong throughout,

Leaving boss none the wiser

That I’m a van-confined hobo.

 

Why do you toy so, dear Xfinity,

With me, of all people—loyal lover of your service

As I try to log in

With my dad’s friend’s account?

Ode to a keychain

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Keychain,

Tiny desire for identity

In a cookie-cutter world.

 

But this one’s “so you,”

Just like thousands

Have thought before.

 

Original–truly novel–

Frightens the close-minded…

And we’re all close-minded.

So we stick to

The same safe deviance

As everyone else.

 

But it brings you joy.

What more do you seek?

What more is there?

It’s only two dollars.

Just buy it already.

After a month or two or three or four, I’ll finally admit I wanted you more

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When we dated, I hated the Satan we created,

But being dumped has lumped those bumps into the rough, tough suffering of a motherfucker.

After a month or two or three or four, I’ll finally admit I wanted you more

Than I was willing—how thrilling and chilling,

But I was the villain, or maybe I still am.

 

The fast past we lasted unmasked a part of my heart; it started smarting.

That caressing mess tested this repressed hesitant lesser

Who now piles miles of style on humble, tumbling mumbles to crumble your wall, crawling his all

To your mind-wracking shack, where a taxing hacks dances without pants, hands landing in bands on yours, the shores of sores that hastened mace to our faces, disgracing us apace,

Then the end, when I bended to mend but you send us friends, me in tender shreds.

 

I’m sad and mad for a lad’s behavior, but you’re no savior.

It’s unfair, but sharing care would tear at you more, so formerly yours will be sore for the pair.

When you miss kissing me, sissy, I’ll be listening, glistening with desire, no liar—

Just a failed male who paled in your presence, too hesitant.

I’m told more bold would leave me cold but I’m old enough to scoff.

It’s rough to be cuffed to a shelf of hell. Who can tell when I’ll fell

For another lover who recovers my suffering.

Just empty space—dear Lord, what a waste! This place doesn’t taste of your scent so I’m bent with pent up emotion, an ocean of notions.

 

No lies, just a tired writer’s inspired cries,

Pining in lines to know you’re trying too—

It’s hard for you. You miss me and list me as a risk to stop kissing.

 

Now shown, I bemoan roaming the loneliest road,

No shores of your pores that tore at my core.

So hey, Lady grey, I’d pay you today: explain pain in a way

That tames this crew, say you I matter too.

For Writing’s Sake!

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What do I do when I don’t want to write?

I write about how I’m annoyed.

Dozens of writings begin with the phrase,

“I don’t want to write today.”

After a while it evolves into poem

Or into emotional quandary.

The process can feel like picking a scab

Or bleaching ratty laundry.

 

Sometimes I only know five minutes in

That my first few beginnings were flounders

Eventually arriving at the place in my mind

Where seconds are minutes are hours.

Time stands still and speeds along

As I’m lost in expressing myself.

I nibble at feelings, explore one of my sides

Before putting it back on the shelf.

 

Most of the time I write end-of-day;

It typically feels like a chore.

Why do I do it? Why write every day?

Because that’s what a writer is for.

A stabilizing force, it keeps me sane,

Reminding me life has no breaks.

Even if just one sentence: “I don’t wish to write,”

I write for writing’s sake.

The band Bastille acts like a stripper

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The band Bastille acts like a stripper

or

“Why you up there dancing for cash? I guess a whole lot’s changed since I’ve seen you last.”

An Open Letter to Bastille, Regarding Their Version of This Song

 

Bastille,

“What would you do if your son was at home, crying all alone on the bedroom floor because he’s hungry… for an emotional range and your song destroys any chance for change?”

When you make this song poppier, more direct, and clearer, why do you also eliminate the whole point of its existence? The original is impactful. It’s an empowering parable. It says the suffering of single motherhood is beatable. You cut that part. Why?

  • Do you think an audience can only process one emotion per song?
  • Would you rather have memorable repetition than impact your listeners?
  • Is empowerment off-brand?

These cuts are a cop-out. They’re the bad version of selling out—not the “selling out” that just means “making money,” but the one that means making directly harmful art. Specifically, here’s what I’m talking about:

 

The original version of the song’s bridge, as written by City High:

(What would you do?)

Get up on my feet and let go of every excuse

’Cause I wouldn’t want my baby to go through what I went through.

(What would you do?)

Get up on my feet and stop making tired excuses

Girl, I know if my mother can do it, baby you can do it.

 

Bastille’s cover version:

(What would you do?)

Get up off my feet and stop making tired excuses

Get up off my feet and stop making tired excuses

(What would you do?)

Get up off my feet and stop making tired excuses

Get up off my feet.

 

Sure, this is a small change, but it’s the whole point of the song. As Wikipedia describes:

“The song, along with the accompanying music video, is a motivational anthem for single parents dealing with poverty and especially acknowledging all the single mothers who feel forced into prostitution due to the need to support their children.[4] It encourages them to keep strong, and keep going on for the sake of their loved ones, and passes no judgment on their profession.”

 

It’s a motivational anthem. To motivate someone, you have to change their emotional state. All you’ve changed is the song, from empowering to wallowing.

… And what about “Get up OFF my feet?” Your new line doesn’t make sense! The original line is “Get up ON my feet”—as in “get up and make a change.” Do you really mean to tell the stripper, “Relax! Take a load off?” Did you cover the song without first understanding it?

Without these changes, I’d prefer your version over City High’s, but you cut the only part that made me cry. I hope this is welcome commentary–if I made such a misstep (and I believe it’s a misstep, not just a matter of taste), I’d want someone to tell me. You might have cut the track to make it more digestible or easier to play on the radio. But even through the corporate lens, if a song has no effect, why listen again?

I listen to City High’s version on repeat to feel better. It moves me. It makes me want more than their one released album. When I hear your version, I feel angry at the state of stripped-down, repetitive, surface-level mass media that would rather profit from suffering than improve lives. If you could re-record it, Bastille, what would you do? 

Reading isn’t doing. It’s barely even reading. 

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The wiry man I thought was homeless

Too quickly suggests he can help sell my book,

With phrases like “sales funnel” and “affiliate links”

And name-drops of famous cult leaders.

 

His face shape and speech pattern

Conjure images of the family friend

Whose emotional problems

Prompted expulsion from school for threatening another student.

 

I emailed this man, thinking, “Eh, what’s the harm?”

He hasn’t set off alarm bells—

Only over-bold signs of earnest devotion,

And who am I to punish him for that?

A Pirate Looks at 25

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I sailed five hundred miles today, of course to see a girl.

Docking tonight on this Pacific beach, pausing my quest ‘round the world.

She’s just one of many, and she knows it too, and that makes her mightily sad.

But if she wants more or less than I am, she best find a different lad.

 

Two long years I built this life: learned a trade, hired mates, built a ship.

Launching each day into uncharted lands—maturing is quite the trip.

 

If you ne’er stood alone on a beach in the night, you’re missing Poseidon’s roar.

The waves crash about you, scalp shivers in tingles and heart begins to soar.

You’ll thank every lighthouse and follow the wind. Try it. It’s what we are:

We’re conquerors, explorers, skullduggers and knaves. We pillage and rape and steal.

And when you’re done plund’ring your fill of the booty, pray the wench will cook you a hot meal.

I had a feeling I could be someone.

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You’ll only feel me by listening

to the same song,

fifty versions,

but none better than the downtown boy

with hair like Dylan

accepted to Yale when I was

but dropped out

and now plays to a Farmers’ market audience–

an empty picnic blanket and me.

 

At 24 years old,

he looks more like twelve

and sings folk like a wizened bluesman.

Will he go anywhere

or stay in Fairfax forever,

wearing the same uncool shoes

as the classmate I bullied in 4th grade.

 

If America’s misfits come to San Francisco

and SF’s go to Oakland,

where go Oakland’s?

We’re only fifteen miles north of The City,

but you can believe astrology

and we’ll still believe in you.

 

If you move too quick,

you hit the speed of loneliness

like a too-fast car,

breaking the sound barrier,

collapsing personality,

emptying you out.