Beaten With a Hose

Articulate expressions read syntax
Literally—translate it into prose. Look
Up! What? You don't understand?
Who? Where? When? What? Why?
Does it matter? Does it mean?
How?
Does form contribute?
To effect and to mean: how?

Does "poem" draw on poetic traditions?

Before I Was Alive

I killed myself: I took my own soul
In the midst of the summer before I was alive.
I gave up on everything that hands cannot hold.
I chose this for me. I chose, and I died.


In the midst of the summer before I was alive,
I had to do something. I had to be strong.
I chose this for me. I chose, and I died
Knowingly. Choosing right over wrong.


I had to do something. I had to be strong
For my mother, my father, my brothers and friends.
Knowingly choosing right over wrong,
I sought my own bitter end


For my mother, my father, my brothers and friends.
They deserved that: some lack of surprise.
I sought my own bitter end
With tears stinging and blurring my eyes.


They deserved that: some lack of surprise.
I gave up on everything that hands cannot hold.
With tears stinging and blurring my eyes
I killed myself. I took my own soul.

Etnies

I have a brown pair of Etnies. They're a size and a half too small, but they look fly so I where 'em.  The only weird thing about 'em is the button on the back. It's like the designer wanted to have an openable loop on the shoe, but didn't know where to put it. Sometimes, when I jam my foot into the shoe, the button clasp comes undone and it clicks while I walk around. Sometimes I don't notice it, but when my conscience is heavy and I'm listening—hoping—for the world to tell me what to do, I hear this clicking. I check all my pockets, nothin' makin' that click noise. I look down and realize which shoes I'm wearing. One more thing I did wrong today, I guess. Kinda like that Green Light's tryin' to follow me around.

Interpretations

You have to listen

Cause the words you heard

Don’t mean a thing

Unless you let them

Mean. 

We all hear a different

Story. We all tell one too.

A lot of that’s not real though.

But who cares? Lies tell something true.

What I want you to see.

Is it real or not?

Do I love you?

Do I hate you?

Do I tell you?

I can’t stand here and not hear.

I can’t have ears and not listen.

How do you do that?

How do you close your eyes?

Everything says something

Especially when it doesn’t say something else.

I’m sorry if you can stop listening.

I wrote again:

Why does tomorrow count more than today? In all reality, tomorrow has a continuously decreasing probability of existing for the individual.

So why do we look ahead so frequently? Would you bet your bottom dollar that you;ll be alive tomorrow? That's stupid: gambling your last dollar in a situation that provides motivation for murder. You might as well hand someone your wallet and drink the Kool-aid. Ya, the sun'll come up, but you might not. I might not. Nothing is guaranteed, and you deserve nothing more than what you make. Stop waiting. Change today.

Hahaha, I'm a hypocrite. I'm in love. She has no idea (Not Fish, that was a comment on infatuation). Maybe She'll find out tomorrow! Ya, I'll tell her tomorrow. Too bad tomorrow never comes.

Cube

I wrote again:

I like to ask questions and I like to write. I've not been wronged, but I like to write. I want to say something, but I have nothing to say; nothing of import, at least. What's wrong with me? Am I empty? Is the hollow bird on my back more than a name tag?

I am a vase. Flawed and imperfect. I hide my imperfections under gloss, hats, paint, clothing. Something to be seen, then appreciated, but unused. Not useful. Useless. Empty. Filling with dust. Why am I empty? Why can't I be the vase that houses and keeps alive the flowers?

This is what I want to be. This is what I want to do. This is what I want to create, and in creation, live. I want to live. Not survive. 

Archaeology

I have an archaeology course. Today, my computer died. Nothing happens in archaeology. Ever. Lots of free time to peruse the interwebs. So I wrote something. Like, with a pen. On paper. And since that never happens, I'm going to transcribe it here.

Trying to figure out how to indent on blogger right now.

It's the button that looks like a quote. Probably for long quotes. Anyway:

 Am I a wallflower?

There's a girl at 10 o'clock. She always starts class with a gameboy SP. It's silver. I don't know what she's playing. Right now, she's propagating art. Pencil sketch is most likely. She has a slim and pale face. I don't know her name. I probably won't. Shelby. Her hair is rich and beautiful. In a natural way. like she doesn't mean to be. she just can't help it. I think I love her. I laughed while I wrote that last bit. I don't love anyone. Except mom and dad. And Steve. And Mike. And William Shatner Haha just kidding. Topical humor. I have to make jokes.The world is empty and quiet without them. I wonder if Shelby looks at me. Does she see me writing this? Irony? Nah, maybe dramatic irony. She can't know. What if she did? She sits at like 8:30 to me. Maybe 9, I just looked again. A short glance. How often do I glance? Is she counting?

 Does she know I exist?

     should she?

That is all. Some clarifications: gameboy girl is not Shelby. I have met Shelby. Once. She didn't seem to like me. Well, that's not true; she was going to sit with me in archaeology—she even told my friend Gus that. But she didn't. Am I intimidating? Or repellant? I'm afraid of love. also.

That seems so raw to me. Like I just flowed through the pen. I think I'm a little more cautious when typing. I form myself. In a font with a size. I think in the pursuit of organic content, I might switch mediums (which I don't believe should be a word) and continue to transcribe/analyze them here. Thanks.

 

 

Today

Today is one of those days. When you go outside because inside is a prison. And you marvel at the impossible shade of blue that the sky is wearing. And you see art in every corner of the world. Every shadow is a silhouette of something beautiful. And you see greens, different greens, in a forest that was gray yesterday. And it would be a crime to put on sunglasses and tint the world your own way. And you just want to experience everything at once and live life right now and only right now. And you want to listen to the happiest music you have, but you also want to listen to nature, so you leave your iPod at home. And you walk around with a smile all the way across your face that everyone must wonder about. Why is he so happy? Maybe he got a promotion? Ya, or maybe he just got out of prison. Or maybe he just had his first son. What's he doing outside? That can't be it. He's weird.

I wonder if they see what I see. Is today beautiful? Or did my eyes just turn on?

Mediums

It's not a word, but it seems to be. What is it about language that gives us to freedom to believe something that simply isn't? It's dark. It's morbid. It's all lies. Every word that doesn't exist: meese and moslings, for one.

I left this blog. I closed my computer and walked away. I'm frustrated. Why can't I write anymore? Do I have to trade for my arts? My drawing has improved. Did it steal from my rhetoric? Did I forget any words? Could I remember which words I had forgotten? I don't think so. I'm really afraid of losing my words. They're my way out. My release. My pensieve (if only). I'm afraid.

Beauty

Rain. Starts, then ends. Thousands, millions of thousands of drops descend upon us. They only hope to do so again. But the forest. The most beautiful thing I have ever experienced. The forest. After the rain has fallen, after the assault and battery of the ground by a billion O's and twice as many H's, the forest has its own rain. Shelter from the initial attack, the trees protect their inhabitants for some time, but they allow the water to fall through after enough has built up. They wait for the rest of the world to stop raining. Then they have their own rain. Falling only within the bounds of the forest. Replenishing the most base of plants. A private rain. What a beautiful thing.

Feeling

Have you ever had that feeling when you walk out into the sunshine and realize exactly how bright it is? How warm it is, but especially warm on those dark bits of graphic on your tee? When you can put your music on shuffle and appreciate anything on there, just because it's art and art makes the world beautiful? Where should that go? What do we do with that feeling? And, while I'm on the subject, is it bad to "bottle up" good feelings? I know it's common practice to approach advising others with the ideal that we never hold on to the darker spectrum of emotion: hate, anger, fear, love, sadness, depression, bitterness, cold (did you catch it?). It's all trash and lies, but nobody ever talks about bottling up those emotions that we want to hold on to. If anything, let out the negative emotions and bottle up a smile. Hold on to it for later. So when you're not sure exactly how bright the sun is shining, you can whip out your bottle and measure the warmth of the graphic on your tee. And when you can't seem to find the right song to listen to, unload some suppressed childhood memory of comfort or a peaceable evening to make every song the right song. I need a bottle. Everything gets away from me. I live now, but I wish I could bring yesterday with me. I feel like it just follows me around and reminds me it's there. Not to help. Just to be. We should all just be. And enjoy our respective bottles. Good night.

Notifications

Sometimes, when I want to go to sleep, I look at the ceiling. Inches from my face. And it keeps flashing. Green, then nothing. Then green. Then nothing. Like a notification. You have mail. Someone commented on your aimless public rambling. You got +1’d by someone in your circles. This isn’t on the internet. This is real. This is a life notification. Does that have a positive or negative connotation? Neither? Both? What does it mean? You forgot something today. You hurt somebody. You’ve caused irreparable damage to another human being. You left your clothes in the wash. You did a good deed. You helped someone. You’re ruining your life. You could be more. You have an assignment due this week. You aren’t allowed to sleep right now. Flashing. Green, then nothing. Then green. Then nothing. Like a friend trying to keep you awake. Or a captor preventing you from escaping torture into a dream. Is it real? Really? Is it in my head? I initially was worried that my pupils were just rapidly expanding and contracting. Then I caught the green. That’s what gave it away. It’s a green light. My coffee machine has an unset clock that flashes until you set it. I hate my coffee maker. I hope it never stops flashing. Ever.