Whitewashed and whistling
down empty corridors made of stone
Abandoned like a falling star
that falls into a vacuum

Advertisements

Replacement Parts

rusted-parts

I’m wearing my dad’s shoes now and giving him advice. Or is it his necktie? I don’t know for sure. Boys will become fathers and fathers will become boys. Mothers will cry to their sons for hours on the telephone and sons will cover up the receiver so their mothers don’t hear them crying. Because now they’re the man.

Sons will leave long pauses in conversations. Thinking of chess boards. They will look right past you, through you, to the house where they grew up. They will be distant.

They will have trouble sleeping. They will realize some things about marriage. Mostly, it is choosing to love.

Sons will fumble through prepared speeches basically written on note cards to their fathers. They will say things like, “I hope you know…” and “I’ve been thinking…” and “For now…”

I hope you know I can’t bear to hear my mother cry like that. I will die before I let that happen again.

I’ve been thinking that you probably feel like you’re under a microscope. I know it will feel forced and awkward. Nothing you do will feel right.

For now, you got to get back to even. For now, you have to learn to be a man.

For now…I guess I’ll have to do.

Video to come

My view this morning. Standing on top of Longworth Hall, with Cincinnati’s skyline behind me. I preformed a spoken word piece in the freezing cold (my hands were shaking) and with the help of my friend Christine, I hope it will become an awesome poetry video. Be on the lookout!

water_tower

Why do some people hate poetry?

feather_target

Poetry had undergone a fantastic transformation. Poetry, Shelley says, is “connate with the origin of man,” and “a poet participates in the eternal, the infinite, and the one.” Poetry comprises every creative activity of human nature, including the arts, politics, and science: “The institutors of laws, and the founders of civil society, and the inventors of the arts of life” are all in some sense poets, since they shape reality in the light of their vision. Shelley even speaks of “the poetry in the doctrines of Jesus Christ,” as if Christianity itself were just one enormous poem.

FULL ARTICLE HERE

You’re a dead man

I’m listening to a dead man’s CD. He made it on a Fisher-Price recorder. He’s been dead a while now. I never knew him.

The deep dark hole inside
Hmm hmm hmm
The deep dark hole inside

But I did know him, understand? His genius is depressing. I’ll never make music like the dead man. I’ll never be that haunting even when I’m dead. It’s beautiful. It makes me never want to write again. It makes we want to give up, but in a good way, ya know?

I feel like a burglar broke into my house and stole something I didn’t even know I had. I’m wondering if it took me years to find it, it doesn’t matter though ‘cause now it’s gone.

He’s in this big tree in the backyard playing his guitar on the most bottom branch; singing and swaying in the breeze. I’m pretty sure he is anyway.

The dead man was my friend.
The dead man makes music for the dead.
Please, listen to his song.