A Man Sets Out to Run the World… May 18, 2008
Posted by david in Musings, Poetry.add a comment
A man sets out to run the world
With slanting side streets
And hills overlooking harbours.
Under torrid day light
And the musty haze of dusk.
With stars in his eyes and stars overhead
With drums in his ears and drums in his chest.
He runs in straight lines and gentle curves,
He runs in circles and paths that fold back and back upon themselves.
.
He covers the gate of his father, and his brothers,
his contrymen and his lovers…
Borges tells that all these trails of blood and water
Trace his iron clad labyrinth of fate against the persistant time.
.
Sometimes when I run
I block out the wind, the groans of the city, and stop my metronimic heart.
In that silence I hear only
The kiss and cuss
Of fine gravel being spread out;
Tumbling across the face of the earth to find rest again.
And I wonder, with all the gravel that I have pushed out,
All the blades of grass I have swept aside with my bare heel,
And all the grains that I rushed away with the soul of my foot –
What strange face am I drawing in the sand?
*
* *
*
¹It seems to me, that the more important question I can’t let rest, is that when the drums in my chest begin to weaken and fail – when the trail of blood that once trickled begins to lap down upon the hot asphalt, when my knees and my face press themselves and lay themselves down upon the earth… — in that silence — will I hear the beating horse hooves of my salvation? Will the deep swells and hollows of the earth echo this ressonance as to gently shake my stillest face? Will I feel my saviour’s hands firmly hold my cheek bones as they percieve the same touch they felt, only once, on the day when they were moulded from the dust?
I think I might have just answered my own question…because all I can imagine are nail-pierced hands stretching out in front of the artist’s eyes…
The Red Line March 6, 2008
Posted by david in Poetry.add a comment
A red crayon waxy, and messy,
Bought as part of a set in full color
For the coins that most people throw away
Into forgotten corners of clothing.
For home the line is drawn,
With the red crayon.
The noon-day sun breaking in and out and around clouds, iluminates
The dusty air rsing from the stone floor – cut with red wax
Crooked: rising, falling, pushing this way and that,
The borthers draw a line to divide the concrete castle they live in.
.
Let us dance and watch, and play and watch, let us cry for peace –
On our side of the red line.
Let us battle and devour flesh, let us put the world right
For truly this line was drawn with a blood that shall never loose its voice.
the muscles of a crying man February 25, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction, Poetry.1 comment so far
David wants to run away.
maybe david is a little boy,
and maybe,
he is confused.
maybe he might find something buried in the woods. underneath a thick, green, and shady silence, he might find a play. falling out of an elderly balsam tree; an old play, with tattered pages and a good title.
maybe david is afraid; ashamed.
maybe david has made some mistakes.
.
maybe david will go on. telling people that he made the shape of a bonfire in their coffee’s bubles, or a picture of their grandmother with the crème fresh that tops their soup.
maybe he has lost something that was something.
.
maybe he is not a little boy, david, who wants to run away. maybe he is that prophet of the old testament, who, walked over men with his sword
and then washed his hands of their blood.
who called down fire from heaven and turned away as it shattered the stones
and burned a divine glow onto the face of the ticket-holders
turned sons.
.
that prophet
is not a little boy, he has big muscles and dark pools for eyes –
in all the sunday school posters.
his cloak is made of rough cloth, that is, until it reaches his apprentice, with a softer name, and thus a softer picture drawn for the little children
with clean faces.
.
that prophet is not a little boy, but he ran like one,
away from the girl that stuck out her tongue at him, and pulled his hair.
have i just offended you?
and your old testament hero
turned pants-wetting child?
he is, though, me,
maybe.
a man without big muscles, as the artists would believe.
but a man who, at one time, had
faith the size of a
mustard seed.
now,
with no face,
covered,
weeping for the sake of a whisper.
hopeing for
a
moving on,
a
making good
on his
jelousy.
an epigraph to: ‘the muscles of a crying man’ February 25, 2008
Posted by david in Poetry.add a comment
::: my epigraph to the facebook status, i’m kinda into epigraphs lately :::
Golden rod and the 4-H stone
The things I brought you
When I found out you had cancer of the boneYour father cried on the telephone
And he drove his car to the Navy yard
Just to prove that he was sorry
In the morning through the window shade
When the light pressed up against your shoulder blade
I could see what you were reading
Oh the glory that the lord has made
And the complications you could do without
When I kissed you on the mouth
Tuesday night at the bible study
We lift our hands and pray over your body
But nothing ever happens
I remember at Michael’s house
In the living room when you kissed my neck
And I almost touched your blouse
In the morning at the top of the stairs
When your father found out what we did that night
And you told me you were scared
Oh the glory when you ran outside
With your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied
And you told me not to follow you
Sunday night when I cleaned the house
I find the card where you wrote it out
With the pictures of your mother
On the floor at the great divide
With my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied
I am crying in the bathroom
In the morning when you finally go
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low
And the cardinal hits the window
In the morning in the winter shade
On the first of March on the holiday
I thought I saw you breathing
Oh the glory that the lord has made
And the complications when I see his face
In the morning in the window
Oh the glory when he took our place
But he took my shoulders and he shook my face
And he takes and he takes and he takes
david is thankful for: November 29, 2007
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction, Poetry.1 comment so far
david is thankful for:
friends who take him to the symphony
friends who take him to olive garden
friends who open up their freezer and start throwing things into a bag for him to take back to his humble abode
friends who make him laugh
friends who never stop being friends
the fact that he has a warm bed to sleep in, plenty of food, and a nice university to go to
friends who drive out to his gassless car and fill its tank
the sandwich but
david is most thankful for friends with great lines like: “i can’t possibly hate anybodies dancing” — translation “give er biscuits white boy”
and just in case your wondering, after the day that i had, giving er biscuits felt pretty darn good.
promises June 22, 2007
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction, Poetry.1 comment so far
it starts out as a ping in a silent place
a ripple going out
passing through the white walls into the sunlight
traveling an even meter above the ground at a determined speed
it runs for miles
and miles
and miles.
but it fades,
out of sight, out of memory,
and even out of imagination,
and without imagination for what will you hope?
that is a dark place indeed.
till one day your eyes rise to meet the horizon,
you decide to let the rays of the sun find your insides
and you see the clouds,
imense white figures
traveling at a determined speed
like a fleet of ships, or a legion of horsmen
coming to put you back to together.
and you remember that it was all promised from the start.
[well i had a good vacation, spent some time with my friends, some time in the sun, and some time getting shamed on the golf course. but over all my favorite part was running in josh's front yard (its a big one), i felt like a kid again. and we played this weird game with these flouresent pink raquetts and i was sweating and happy. really happy. the happiest i have been in a long time. just in case any of you guys were wondering God is really amazing i feel like i am his 8 year old child that had had a bad day at school and he just picked me up, and wrestled/hugged me and made everything feel better. it was a really good feeling. anyways sorry i havn't posted in a while i'll try to keep up more frequently, but here is the truth i've got an album on the way that will be way better quality than the single giving me no excuse to suck.]
post written by a friday night server coming down from the adrenalin and brisk ice tea of boston pizza…i need something real to eat March 23, 2007
Posted by david in Creative Fiction, Poetry.add a comment
fire burning
cold twisting
empty places and
sun rising…
