An Occasion and Countenance.
Your body lay concealed in mine; I kiss your shoulder and taste sweat. The moon hung low as I lay awake, watching your chest rise and fall. Running my fingers over your broad shoulders and down your back I tried to imagine a life with you, but knew my faults kept getting in the way of any hope I may have. This year has compromised me.
You stir in your sleep, roll over and close your arms around me. Whisper love that you won’t remember in the morning and sleepily open one eye; the kisses will remain with me for years after you have gone. I push my body against yours, move my legs and nibble on your nipples. Your smirk opens your mouth and presses against mine.
You remain inside of me as we lay butterfly kisses on each other. A small glimpse of trust finds its way inside our mouths as we disengage and lay in pieces next to each other. You roll over and sleep takes you as I place my hand gently on your side and try not to cry.
Days later there is devastation in the aftermath of intense heat. I await your return only to finally recognize your lack of self-awareness. Your number changed and mine stayed the same. I caught a jet to a city of flashing lights and stilettos whilst you resided to a state of ice and nocturnal daydreams.
In the moments before slumber your smile gains my nostalgia and the thoughts of your laughter intrudes my ears. The sirens pierce the nights and the volts of electricity firing within my reason conduct themselves to a peaceful rest.
The reluctance of fluidity spars the occasion and countenance. After all, it was all we ever knew.
--
se la vie. I need to get out of this depressing prose poetry rut. Argh.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
still thinking of someone who does not call
Obsession is Another Word For "Love"
Passing into antiquity – I thought only then of the fireflies glistering in between the rail tracks – each absorbing a small ruminates of love in this post-modern world. The buildings are all replicated in a fashion sense of North by Northwest.
Passing an old building that had remained lost in time that aged about the region of A Glass Menagerie. It was all very Tennessee Williams. You quoted a phrase from Gertrude Stein where I much rather speak in words of E. E. Cummings. He is too hip you argue over sparkling water and cucumbers. The air is a toxic smell of rain, sunshine and paper mills. In the distance a mountain rises over the horizon and claims the lives at least three skiers each year.
It was Tacoma, Washington that stole love from me. A hard pressed day to find romance in its business center but at a small record store next to a strip joint you bought me The Police first album. I tried to pass this indignity off without too much trouble but knew if you had just spent that extra dollar and bought that Mingus album then maybe we would have had a chance.
It was Olympia then that had us sleeping on floors with flamenco pounding outside in this mid-July sort of exuberant heat. Down by the docks -- the smell of salt defined out smiles – we tried to hold together but knew that the wine had settled and the only thing holding love was a small string that could have expanded to rope if I had just let it. It was the sun and the clouds that fought for days imploring matters both existential and mathematical. The heat came as the sun rose to speak and your eye quivered and changed colors. I questioned if your wax wings could hold my glaze and then you fell like Icarus and I lost you then but I had won the debate.
As time progressed I found a certain hope for the loss of prophetic fate. Sabotage is not answering questions.
---
Passing into antiquity – I thought only then of the fireflies glistering in between the rail tracks – each absorbing a small ruminates of love in this post-modern world. The buildings are all replicated in a fashion sense of North by Northwest.
Passing an old building that had remained lost in time that aged about the region of A Glass Menagerie. It was all very Tennessee Williams. You quoted a phrase from Gertrude Stein where I much rather speak in words of E. E. Cummings. He is too hip you argue over sparkling water and cucumbers. The air is a toxic smell of rain, sunshine and paper mills. In the distance a mountain rises over the horizon and claims the lives at least three skiers each year.
It was Tacoma, Washington that stole love from me. A hard pressed day to find romance in its business center but at a small record store next to a strip joint you bought me The Police first album. I tried to pass this indignity off without too much trouble but knew if you had just spent that extra dollar and bought that Mingus album then maybe we would have had a chance.
It was Olympia then that had us sleeping on floors with flamenco pounding outside in this mid-July sort of exuberant heat. Down by the docks -- the smell of salt defined out smiles – we tried to hold together but knew that the wine had settled and the only thing holding love was a small string that could have expanded to rope if I had just let it. It was the sun and the clouds that fought for days imploring matters both existential and mathematical. The heat came as the sun rose to speak and your eye quivered and changed colors. I questioned if your wax wings could hold my glaze and then you fell like Icarus and I lost you then but I had won the debate.
As time progressed I found a certain hope for the loss of prophetic fate. Sabotage is not answering questions.
---
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Falling For Apperances
Waiting for the train, the safest place to hide from you, the platform stirring with the passing students from around the city. The smell of your left over cologne lingered in my black coat, you know – the one with the sailor buttons. The words could not be forgotten as they raced over and over again while the trains passed in the opposite direction. Fingering the necklace you bought me that day portside near Tacoma, Washington, San Francisco seemed to be the loneliest place on earth.
Platform rumbled and the doors open. The smell of the putrid body order and stale alcohol took over the nostalgic smell of you. Back in Oakland I went to that small café of Webster where we had once wrote in silence while drinking drip coffee and not talked about how we cannot live with each other. It wasn’t love we both had realized, but the idea of love.
We had walked around the Mission days previous and saw the Christmas lights glitter with hope of families and decorated trees. Holding hands and talking of a future not involving each other although we did not admit it. You wanted little ones running throughout your earthquake bound townhouse. I wanted a home by the bay and a room for writing and waiting/ we could never agree on the color of salmon but quibbled endlessly over the tone of peach.
Before the platform, before the tunnel to Oakland, before the café where we had not talked we had seen the future boil down to an incident that reflected all the reasons that we could not make it.
Your painting still hangs over my bed and I’m sure you look at that poem I wrote you on a daily basis. All we lost was time, a name and some nonsensical debates.
Platform rumbled and the doors open. The smell of the putrid body order and stale alcohol took over the nostalgic smell of you. Back in Oakland I went to that small café of Webster where we had once wrote in silence while drinking drip coffee and not talked about how we cannot live with each other. It wasn’t love we both had realized, but the idea of love.
We had walked around the Mission days previous and saw the Christmas lights glitter with hope of families and decorated trees. Holding hands and talking of a future not involving each other although we did not admit it. You wanted little ones running throughout your earthquake bound townhouse. I wanted a home by the bay and a room for writing and waiting/ we could never agree on the color of salmon but quibbled endlessly over the tone of peach.
Before the platform, before the tunnel to Oakland, before the café where we had not talked we had seen the future boil down to an incident that reflected all the reasons that we could not make it.
Your painting still hangs over my bed and I’m sure you look at that poem I wrote you on a daily basis. All we lost was time, a name and some nonsensical debates.
Monday, August 17, 2009
between you me and paris i find myself alone (again or)
It’s been three years or more and I still can’t get into it. An ordinary angel tossed about feeling disrespected and disillusioned. It’s a junkyard of false starts and reoccurring mistakes. I see reflections of the future in the cup of water. I’m not everything I am supposed to be.
The dog sits silently besides the window, watching rain fall and looking longingly at the leash. We haven’t been outside for days. I can handle this myself but why torture the dog? I grow tired of the dim-witted answers he barks back at me.
I think I can make it back after the end of the day. It’s a slow concept, reconciling myself with only my thoughts to bother me. I’ll try sleep, my body wanting independence from my brain. It’s a closeted process.
First I lay on the right, think of all the possibilities. Then I turn to the left and find all the faults I thought I could escape. On my back my mind is tormented with thoughts of both but then sudden it turns to Paris. In Paris, my mind tells me, you were happy. Europe knows disaster and I am not it. It is the country of cheese, wine and languages
In America I could never figure out what made you so unhappy. Pictures from countries before relapse in the safety of a pitch black mind. A condolence of regrets and remorse little the floor after the winter has past. Cliché, but your vulgar silence offends me. It’s all about what we did and didn’t do.
Instead of talking to me, your repetition and repletion of persecution surrenders to the pain of your mother’s guilt. The first half of my cigarette smoked itself. I cannot tell as you tell me over and over again to “finally show some goddamn emotion”. It was never about the high we discovered but more about the connection that I really craved. The remote memories come seeping back and place me in their righteous addiction.
I’m here today and they expect me to be tomorrow. Looking out at the substitute scene placed before me, I can’t see the future without knowing you now. Decomposition of found objects, shifting my weight from side to side. The main attraction was me, but I tried to pass it off as you. Hiding from the mic and looking in from the side.
In confidence I eagerly promised to stand and deliver. All in all I felt justified to take apart all what wasn’t right. Our versions of honesty are very skewed.
The dog sits silently besides the window, watching rain fall and looking longingly at the leash. We haven’t been outside for days. I can handle this myself but why torture the dog? I grow tired of the dim-witted answers he barks back at me.
I think I can make it back after the end of the day. It’s a slow concept, reconciling myself with only my thoughts to bother me. I’ll try sleep, my body wanting independence from my brain. It’s a closeted process.
First I lay on the right, think of all the possibilities. Then I turn to the left and find all the faults I thought I could escape. On my back my mind is tormented with thoughts of both but then sudden it turns to Paris. In Paris, my mind tells me, you were happy. Europe knows disaster and I am not it. It is the country of cheese, wine and languages
In America I could never figure out what made you so unhappy. Pictures from countries before relapse in the safety of a pitch black mind. A condolence of regrets and remorse little the floor after the winter has past. Cliché, but your vulgar silence offends me. It’s all about what we did and didn’t do.
Instead of talking to me, your repetition and repletion of persecution surrenders to the pain of your mother’s guilt. The first half of my cigarette smoked itself. I cannot tell as you tell me over and over again to “finally show some goddamn emotion”. It was never about the high we discovered but more about the connection that I really craved. The remote memories come seeping back and place me in their righteous addiction.
I’m here today and they expect me to be tomorrow. Looking out at the substitute scene placed before me, I can’t see the future without knowing you now. Decomposition of found objects, shifting my weight from side to side. The main attraction was me, but I tried to pass it off as you. Hiding from the mic and looking in from the side.
In confidence I eagerly promised to stand and deliver. All in all I felt justified to take apart all what wasn’t right. Our versions of honesty are very skewed.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
I lost what I wrote last night (which was really good) but wrote this today instead
Civilian Wars
Placing resentments on the kitchen table. We forget – never forgive. In moment of anger and lust we resign to our garage door loneliness and take for granted the silence that comes before the dawn. In the background Spanish singers speak of stealing souls of lovers – we are spared that for the time being.
Later, in a moment after the tin foil and lace, we twine together like pieces of string and spices. This lack of momentum is all we care for as the sun breaks the contempt between us. Kisses replaced tongue tied lightening as we undressed like cross-eyed strangers, not sure what the other had in store. The obsequious gesture of your finger tracing my nipple had an uncertainty that could not go un-notice but yet made it hard.
The vigorous judgment lay between the sheets soiled in a magnitude of lust and betrayal. I always do something your not quite sure is right and your eyes list all my simple mistakes. I am young, I say, I will learn. The borderline between sanity and remaining calm in the placating morning light that never really touches the corners of my mind.
Later we resign to the shower that exhumes all doubt of reasonable debate. The mirror shows two lovers stripping the dirt and misunderstandings and washing it down the drain with the soap and water. Your skin becomes a mellow light of gold while mine might embarrass a porcelain plate. You ask why we never did this before and I think so innocently that it might not have come to mind. Your hands wash my hair and I touch your back so softly it might have been the breeze from the open window.
The dawn turns to midday and midday to afternoon and so on and so forth. We lay in silence as the day looses itself to nightfall. The warmth of your skin turned snow to ice. The moon smiled in a beautiful but yet annihilating way and in the distance we hear fireworks left over from a celebration of independence.
The rose colored glasses you bought me stand aside the bed waiting to be worn. Gathering your resentments from the kitchen table, I realize it is always you who leaves first.
Placing resentments on the kitchen table. We forget – never forgive. In moment of anger and lust we resign to our garage door loneliness and take for granted the silence that comes before the dawn. In the background Spanish singers speak of stealing souls of lovers – we are spared that for the time being.
Later, in a moment after the tin foil and lace, we twine together like pieces of string and spices. This lack of momentum is all we care for as the sun breaks the contempt between us. Kisses replaced tongue tied lightening as we undressed like cross-eyed strangers, not sure what the other had in store. The obsequious gesture of your finger tracing my nipple had an uncertainty that could not go un-notice but yet made it hard.
The vigorous judgment lay between the sheets soiled in a magnitude of lust and betrayal. I always do something your not quite sure is right and your eyes list all my simple mistakes. I am young, I say, I will learn. The borderline between sanity and remaining calm in the placating morning light that never really touches the corners of my mind.
Later we resign to the shower that exhumes all doubt of reasonable debate. The mirror shows two lovers stripping the dirt and misunderstandings and washing it down the drain with the soap and water. Your skin becomes a mellow light of gold while mine might embarrass a porcelain plate. You ask why we never did this before and I think so innocently that it might not have come to mind. Your hands wash my hair and I touch your back so softly it might have been the breeze from the open window.
The dawn turns to midday and midday to afternoon and so on and so forth. We lay in silence as the day looses itself to nightfall. The warmth of your skin turned snow to ice. The moon smiled in a beautiful but yet annihilating way and in the distance we hear fireworks left over from a celebration of independence.
The rose colored glasses you bought me stand aside the bed waiting to be worn. Gathering your resentments from the kitchen table, I realize it is always you who leaves first.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
and in which this is how i see the world
You Took Me To The Sea And I Forgot To Count The Days
Fold small pieces of paper memories – objects in motion hold no regards to personal injustice. Looking in your eyes I find ruminates of rejected pigments of your lack of momentum. You falter on the flaws of mine and the perversion of finger tips on smooth skin. In the remaining afterglow of havoc formed by cries of thunder, the motorists on the street below have little trouble commuting while we speak slowly words only poets and bakers know. We fold like croissants into each other and merge in a combination of cheesecake and Marion berry – perfection comes in time.
Eyes closed and whispered “be patient” and I try but I fail and the dough falls and you lose touch. Inside my answers lay a question not ready to be posed but in order to continue we must address what we already have at stake.
In a port by the sea we lost days in discipline of unanswered cell phones and mindless self indulgence. In the bookstore we stole used books that needed to be freed and drank coffee and when in the silence of the small of your back we looked forwards towards Babylon and lost again what we had failed hard to regain.
Years later, when all has healed, we shall return to the city by the sea and find lust and love in the constellations of streetlights and the moon that sits atop the waters edge.
There is a sorrowful tenderness but also an emotional expressionism which augments an ectoplasmic eeriness. Caressing your words so softly, careful they might fall through the cracks of time, I slide into the idea of songs, sonnets and sorrow.
Unlikely
Pieces of recent moments are lining up in the doorway – the coffee pot watching us make love and the bookshelf is falling to pieces. You are a Catcher in the Rye kind of liar and I can’t seem to distinguish reality from fantasy. The augmented adjacent sounds of perversion—love and redemption – scatter on my skin with your fingers tracing the lines of all decent regrets.
Evening dawns and the fleeting happiness goes with the light. Whiskey and poetry merge in a combined hatred of each other. I’m trying to resemble a person not suffering in jest of needles and love. You line up soldiers on the table – napoleons army crashing wave after wave down the esophagus – somewhere far away the sky cries out in thunder – and all I do in sit on my stairs and portray a slow suicide.
But in the positive syncopation of apparent behavior -- your vulgar silence offends me. I am not conveniently described but yet there is a simplicity in my seven types of ambiguity. Have heard rumors of who I used to be? To tell the truth I started most of them. There is a sadness in the various positions of vocal chords.
Fold small pieces of paper memories – objects in motion hold no regards to personal injustice. Looking in your eyes I find ruminates of rejected pigments of your lack of momentum. You falter on the flaws of mine and the perversion of finger tips on smooth skin. In the remaining afterglow of havoc formed by cries of thunder, the motorists on the street below have little trouble commuting while we speak slowly words only poets and bakers know. We fold like croissants into each other and merge in a combination of cheesecake and Marion berry – perfection comes in time.
Eyes closed and whispered “be patient” and I try but I fail and the dough falls and you lose touch. Inside my answers lay a question not ready to be posed but in order to continue we must address what we already have at stake.
In a port by the sea we lost days in discipline of unanswered cell phones and mindless self indulgence. In the bookstore we stole used books that needed to be freed and drank coffee and when in the silence of the small of your back we looked forwards towards Babylon and lost again what we had failed hard to regain.
Years later, when all has healed, we shall return to the city by the sea and find lust and love in the constellations of streetlights and the moon that sits atop the waters edge.
There is a sorrowful tenderness but also an emotional expressionism which augments an ectoplasmic eeriness. Caressing your words so softly, careful they might fall through the cracks of time, I slide into the idea of songs, sonnets and sorrow.
Unlikely
Pieces of recent moments are lining up in the doorway – the coffee pot watching us make love and the bookshelf is falling to pieces. You are a Catcher in the Rye kind of liar and I can’t seem to distinguish reality from fantasy. The augmented adjacent sounds of perversion—love and redemption – scatter on my skin with your fingers tracing the lines of all decent regrets.
Evening dawns and the fleeting happiness goes with the light. Whiskey and poetry merge in a combined hatred of each other. I’m trying to resemble a person not suffering in jest of needles and love. You line up soldiers on the table – napoleons army crashing wave after wave down the esophagus – somewhere far away the sky cries out in thunder – and all I do in sit on my stairs and portray a slow suicide.
But in the positive syncopation of apparent behavior -- your vulgar silence offends me. I am not conveniently described but yet there is a simplicity in my seven types of ambiguity. Have heard rumors of who I used to be? To tell the truth I started most of them. There is a sadness in the various positions of vocal chords.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus
And this is where I am Jim White
By Tamarah Phillips
In Seattle there is a regular dose of religious rebirths. Walking by the signs on the side of the road I swore I would never believe another man who claimed freedom. Jesus and poverty work hand in hand – birthing from phrases and sighs of religious existence. I had resigned myself to agnosticism and had taken for granted the stars that were so much brighter when I was girl. But one night in Belltown – the only place were dieties can drink without persecution – I found him.
Standing there he looked like he had just stepped out of a southern Baptist cowboy music video. He was always hidden under that hat. Eyes thrown ground down and a simple smile perched on his lips. Boots was a broken-down saint if there ever was one. He was an eloquent screamer, a soft-spoken rageoholic, a madman with a great manuscript. I fell in love with the way he caressed his words like a old man would his young lover.
Neon lights and marquees littered the sky where the rain threatened to ruin any hopes of salvation. Love, redemption, forget it. I was near the space needle looking up --God couldn’t have created a better sight – the red bud of my cigarette howling at the moon. He stepped out of the shadows -- into the light -- I thought I heard an angel sing but realized it was only the South Lake Union Transit running by.
Leaning over – breathing deep – my ears went soft with lust and love for hands that I thought I would never hold. He whispered something from across the road -- spoke in eloquance that held its breath while going through tunnels.
Behind his ears were tattoos. His right ear heard the screams of the ∞ and hidden quietly behind his left was a spiral of 3.14159. One morning after a night of heavy dreaming I asked him why does his right screams so loudly and his left like a mousey little poet. He chuckled then. Never answered questions in straight lines but in concentrict circles.
“If you stand in the middle of the freeway reciting poetry no one will ever hear it. And if you lay low in readings and mumble rose colored glasses no one will pay attention. The question is not about voice but about love.”
And he smiled and that was it for then. His eyes stood out of his head in this pale blue wonder. I never lingered long on what he said. The only point was that he said it. I lost months in that disciplin.
The corner of 3rd and Bell – the Space Needle glimmers down the street past the monorail where the heretics and madmen scream broken down dreams and half assed revivals – we spoke in hymns long forgotten and he asks to move in with me and before I could refuse he has unpacked and placed his hat on my bedrail and for a moment I am happy and for a moment I am sad. I am not sure where to end it but it has just started and I am thinking this is good.
The bed rail held down conversations late at night. It was wooden – dark wood with fine grain – and the bed sheets were constantly changing due to bodily fluids. One day it would be white the next black and the next grey and after a while we settled on the ending color of white with black trim. The curtains were blue and the window never fully closed properly. I had no door to my bedroom and the noise from the kitchen where he cooked seeped ever so gently into the bed where I lay reading.
Between January and April the winter held us inside where we lay in tongues spoken in Latin and Leonard Cohen. The unanswered questions I had posed had been answered and I had fed him his last meal and all the remained was the coming of the snow.
“Dreams are for those who sleep in beds,” Boots told me the last night he climbed into bed with me, “and the sweetness in your arms could take a fool for granted.” And he snored that night but took off his clothes. It was mid-august and the noise on the street was begging for more and the stars were just streetlamps that flickered behind the whites of his eyes.
I’m not sure why I did it. I guess I was born to play the role of Judas. He was Jesus – albeit a sadly cross-eyed wrong flavored son of a bitch – but he had promised to save my soul. I had promised to betray him. It all came down to that. That night, before I killed him, he looked into my eyes and said thank you. I asked him what for and he said you’ll see.
While he slept I plotted my betrayal. I thought endlessly of the words he spoke that never made sense. I thought of his loving me only for a roof over his head and I thought of how I would lay awake at night and listen to the street while he snored and I haven’t slept soundly since December. I thought of how he never fought for me. How he would turn a song into five dollars for a crack head passed out in the dog park but couldn’t help find something to eat when I was out of money.
I walked down to the corner store – pacing thoughts ruptured in my head – and bought a couple of Mickey’s Big Mouths. Sat on the stairs to the apartment drinking them – obsessing over the details that I had in my mind. The red rug I would lay him on after I killed him. How I would let him decompose in the dog park for three days. If he would return to earth after that like any Son of God should.
I tied him to the bed frame. He was a heavy sleeper and didn’t notice. His snored punctuated my anger as I tightened the knots. I had a stainless steel nail gun. I slammed one nail into his right hand – he woke and said nothing. The pain of betrayal in his eyes born into mine and I knew I was doing the right thing.
I popped another nail home into his left hand and all I had left were the feet and he still hadn’t made a sound. Tears slid silently down his cheeks and then I thought of the moments of reading books in the supermarket with him. I thought of the days of wine and roses and for a moment I was almost sad about what I was doing.
I tied his feet together with hemp and slammed the final nail through. He was still alive and I stood above him. The blood on my hands was his and he looked beautiful. My lover, my deity – bound and broken before me – I kissed him one last time and left.
The street sounded torture. The noise of screams echoed throughout the block and the wailing of sirens commenced in flickering lights. I walked in candor towards the greyhound bus depot. Cleaning my hands and face in the rusted sink and giving a smoke to the bums I was humbled by my actions. I bought a ticket to Chicago and thought of the new life I was going to have. I almost cried when we pulled onto the interstate. Leaving behind my religious persecutions I was hoping for freedom in the windy city.
I was approaching forgiveness by the time we pulled into 95th and Dan Ryan in Chicago – God couldn’t have created a more desolate place. The cash machine was blue and green and I took out dollars from a name I hadn’t used in over five years. I bought a pack of cigarettes and a diet coke. Making my way to Wicker Park -- I found a small apartment and a new name.
At the Earwax café I saw the unfrequented religious holdings of paper cups and small change. Looking up from my coffee I saw the familiar smile of persecution. The eyes starving for someone to listen – he was a broken down saint if there ever was one -- an eloquent screamer, a soft-spoken rageoholic, a madman with a great manuscript. Standing before me I saw the tattoos on his hands and the love in his pants. He was my chance for redemption – my wrong-eyed Jesus.
By Tamarah Phillips
In Seattle there is a regular dose of religious rebirths. Walking by the signs on the side of the road I swore I would never believe another man who claimed freedom. Jesus and poverty work hand in hand – birthing from phrases and sighs of religious existence. I had resigned myself to agnosticism and had taken for granted the stars that were so much brighter when I was girl. But one night in Belltown – the only place were dieties can drink without persecution – I found him.
Standing there he looked like he had just stepped out of a southern Baptist cowboy music video. He was always hidden under that hat. Eyes thrown ground down and a simple smile perched on his lips. Boots was a broken-down saint if there ever was one. He was an eloquent screamer, a soft-spoken rageoholic, a madman with a great manuscript. I fell in love with the way he caressed his words like a old man would his young lover.
Neon lights and marquees littered the sky where the rain threatened to ruin any hopes of salvation. Love, redemption, forget it. I was near the space needle looking up --God couldn’t have created a better sight – the red bud of my cigarette howling at the moon. He stepped out of the shadows -- into the light -- I thought I heard an angel sing but realized it was only the South Lake Union Transit running by.
Leaning over – breathing deep – my ears went soft with lust and love for hands that I thought I would never hold. He whispered something from across the road -- spoke in eloquance that held its breath while going through tunnels.
Behind his ears were tattoos. His right ear heard the screams of the ∞ and hidden quietly behind his left was a spiral of 3.14159. One morning after a night of heavy dreaming I asked him why does his right screams so loudly and his left like a mousey little poet. He chuckled then. Never answered questions in straight lines but in concentrict circles.
“If you stand in the middle of the freeway reciting poetry no one will ever hear it. And if you lay low in readings and mumble rose colored glasses no one will pay attention. The question is not about voice but about love.”
And he smiled and that was it for then. His eyes stood out of his head in this pale blue wonder. I never lingered long on what he said. The only point was that he said it. I lost months in that disciplin.
The corner of 3rd and Bell – the Space Needle glimmers down the street past the monorail where the heretics and madmen scream broken down dreams and half assed revivals – we spoke in hymns long forgotten and he asks to move in with me and before I could refuse he has unpacked and placed his hat on my bedrail and for a moment I am happy and for a moment I am sad. I am not sure where to end it but it has just started and I am thinking this is good.
The bed rail held down conversations late at night. It was wooden – dark wood with fine grain – and the bed sheets were constantly changing due to bodily fluids. One day it would be white the next black and the next grey and after a while we settled on the ending color of white with black trim. The curtains were blue and the window never fully closed properly. I had no door to my bedroom and the noise from the kitchen where he cooked seeped ever so gently into the bed where I lay reading.
Between January and April the winter held us inside where we lay in tongues spoken in Latin and Leonard Cohen. The unanswered questions I had posed had been answered and I had fed him his last meal and all the remained was the coming of the snow.
“Dreams are for those who sleep in beds,” Boots told me the last night he climbed into bed with me, “and the sweetness in your arms could take a fool for granted.” And he snored that night but took off his clothes. It was mid-august and the noise on the street was begging for more and the stars were just streetlamps that flickered behind the whites of his eyes.
I’m not sure why I did it. I guess I was born to play the role of Judas. He was Jesus – albeit a sadly cross-eyed wrong flavored son of a bitch – but he had promised to save my soul. I had promised to betray him. It all came down to that. That night, before I killed him, he looked into my eyes and said thank you. I asked him what for and he said you’ll see.
While he slept I plotted my betrayal. I thought endlessly of the words he spoke that never made sense. I thought of his loving me only for a roof over his head and I thought of how I would lay awake at night and listen to the street while he snored and I haven’t slept soundly since December. I thought of how he never fought for me. How he would turn a song into five dollars for a crack head passed out in the dog park but couldn’t help find something to eat when I was out of money.
I walked down to the corner store – pacing thoughts ruptured in my head – and bought a couple of Mickey’s Big Mouths. Sat on the stairs to the apartment drinking them – obsessing over the details that I had in my mind. The red rug I would lay him on after I killed him. How I would let him decompose in the dog park for three days. If he would return to earth after that like any Son of God should.
I tied him to the bed frame. He was a heavy sleeper and didn’t notice. His snored punctuated my anger as I tightened the knots. I had a stainless steel nail gun. I slammed one nail into his right hand – he woke and said nothing. The pain of betrayal in his eyes born into mine and I knew I was doing the right thing.
I popped another nail home into his left hand and all I had left were the feet and he still hadn’t made a sound. Tears slid silently down his cheeks and then I thought of the moments of reading books in the supermarket with him. I thought of the days of wine and roses and for a moment I was almost sad about what I was doing.
I tied his feet together with hemp and slammed the final nail through. He was still alive and I stood above him. The blood on my hands was his and he looked beautiful. My lover, my deity – bound and broken before me – I kissed him one last time and left.
The street sounded torture. The noise of screams echoed throughout the block and the wailing of sirens commenced in flickering lights. I walked in candor towards the greyhound bus depot. Cleaning my hands and face in the rusted sink and giving a smoke to the bums I was humbled by my actions. I bought a ticket to Chicago and thought of the new life I was going to have. I almost cried when we pulled onto the interstate. Leaving behind my religious persecutions I was hoping for freedom in the windy city.
I was approaching forgiveness by the time we pulled into 95th and Dan Ryan in Chicago – God couldn’t have created a more desolate place. The cash machine was blue and green and I took out dollars from a name I hadn’t used in over five years. I bought a pack of cigarettes and a diet coke. Making my way to Wicker Park -- I found a small apartment and a new name.
At the Earwax café I saw the unfrequented religious holdings of paper cups and small change. Looking up from my coffee I saw the familiar smile of persecution. The eyes starving for someone to listen – he was a broken down saint if there ever was one -- an eloquent screamer, a soft-spoken rageoholic, a madman with a great manuscript. Standing before me I saw the tattoos on his hands and the love in his pants. He was my chance for redemption – my wrong-eyed Jesus.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
something i have been working on
Degrees of Gray in a Hotel Room between a Church and A Prison
there is a past of all decent regrets
and lives of pacified rejection
it's late at night and i'm drinking alone
the road supplies it's own affection
between a 7-11 and a church of the latter day saints
contemplating gods crooked smile
I'm rejecting the salvation
of half assed revivals
eyes the color of church basement walls
and hair a bible black grey
caught up in love and redemption
the place were saints pray
wandering from town to town
gospel search for gold
merchandise of half hearted hymns
and songs that are only sold
--
In other news I have been spending too much time alone. I am wishing I were a more intriguing person. Something to work towards I guess. If you hear of anything worth while attending -- let me know.
there is a past of all decent regrets
and lives of pacified rejection
it's late at night and i'm drinking alone
the road supplies it's own affection
between a 7-11 and a church of the latter day saints
contemplating gods crooked smile
I'm rejecting the salvation
of half assed revivals
eyes the color of church basement walls
and hair a bible black grey
caught up in love and redemption
the place were saints pray
wandering from town to town
gospel search for gold
merchandise of half hearted hymns
and songs that are only sold
--
In other news I have been spending too much time alone. I am wishing I were a more intriguing person. Something to work towards I guess. If you hear of anything worth while attending -- let me know.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
New Series
Rough Draft Of "The Truth About Angels" (working title....not sure I like it)
(1)
i've seen angels
pawning halos
desperate for money
to spend at reservation casinos
withering from withdrawal
strung out and crucified
relapsing after only 3 days
i've seen angels
reading poetry about god
trying to remember
what he looked like
satan, an angel once told me
is not all fire and brimstone
but the place
in the pit of your stomach
that tells you
you're alone
some angels hear
the rapture trumpet call
on a daily basis
to them
it's as common
as airplanes
(2)
on Sunday
I saw at angel
in a wheelchair
trying
to enter a church
that wasn't wheelchair
accessible
hitting it's wheels
against the stairs
watching faithful Christians
throw pitiful
and hateful glances
Hewbrew 13:2
Do not forget
to entertain strangers,
for by so doing
some people
have entertained angels
without knowing it.
watching
for a few minutes
many people walked by
someone spat
"pathetic"
(3)
when looking through
the pawn shop looking glass
we saw halos
next to wedding rings
thought it'd be funny
to buy one
use it as a frisbee
the next day
must have been the fall of man
because we used that halo
to tie off
in a bathroom
smelling of secretion
and sacrament
that kinda bothered me
but didn't stop me
love, you told me afterwards
is God questioning
the morals of angels
before sentencing them to
earth
(4)
Ways to piss off God
i stopped believing
in god
(which is the only way
to piss off
an omnipotent being
who feeds on faith)
--
i used to talk to god
then he stopped listening.
so i started swearing at him
and he got offended.
stupid god.
--
i bought a church
and let it deteriorate.
refused anyone
who wished to worship.
--
(1)
i've seen angels
pawning halos
desperate for money
to spend at reservation casinos
withering from withdrawal
strung out and crucified
relapsing after only 3 days
i've seen angels
reading poetry about god
trying to remember
what he looked like
satan, an angel once told me
is not all fire and brimstone
but the place
in the pit of your stomach
that tells you
you're alone
some angels hear
the rapture trumpet call
on a daily basis
to them
it's as common
as airplanes
(2)
on Sunday
I saw at angel
in a wheelchair
trying
to enter a church
that wasn't wheelchair
accessible
hitting it's wheels
against the stairs
watching faithful Christians
throw pitiful
and hateful glances
Hewbrew 13:2
Do not forget
to entertain strangers,
for by so doing
some people
have entertained angels
without knowing it.
watching
for a few minutes
many people walked by
someone spat
"pathetic"
(3)
when looking through
the pawn shop looking glass
we saw halos
next to wedding rings
thought it'd be funny
to buy one
use it as a frisbee
the next day
must have been the fall of man
because we used that halo
to tie off
in a bathroom
smelling of secretion
and sacrament
that kinda bothered me
but didn't stop me
love, you told me afterwards
is God questioning
the morals of angels
before sentencing them to
earth
(4)
Ways to piss off God
i stopped believing
in god
(which is the only way
to piss off
an omnipotent being
who feeds on faith)
--
i used to talk to god
then he stopped listening.
so i started swearing at him
and he got offended.
stupid god.
--
i bought a church
and let it deteriorate.
refused anyone
who wished to worship.
--
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
working on....
when looking through
the pawn shop looking glass
we saw halos
next to wedding rings
thought it'd be funny
to buy one
use it as a frisbee
the next day
must have been the fall of man
because we used that halo
to tie off
in a bathroom
smelling of secretion
and sacrament
that kinda bothered me
but didn't stop me
love, you told me afterwards
is God questioning
the morals of angels
before sentencing them to
earth
the pawn shop looking glass
we saw halos
next to wedding rings
thought it'd be funny
to buy one
use it as a frisbee
the next day
must have been the fall of man
because we used that halo
to tie off
in a bathroom
smelling of secretion
and sacrament
that kinda bothered me
but didn't stop me
love, you told me afterwards
is God questioning
the morals of angels
before sentencing them to
earth
(revision)
I'm coming home
often in alcohol
sworn at
in church hymns
which lust after us in bedrooms
the postcards i sent
and the poetry I wrote
litter your bathroom
where the razors
and the soap
echo evident emptiness
the person i once knew
writes only songs now
visits my arms like a stranger
never has the intent of coming back
our assimilation
and comprehension
of these augmented
adjacent sounds
is only the apparent behavior
of perversion;
love
and redemption
often in alcohol
sworn at
in church hymns
which lust after us in bedrooms
the postcards i sent
and the poetry I wrote
litter your bathroom
where the razors
and the soap
echo evident emptiness
the person i once knew
writes only songs now
visits my arms like a stranger
never has the intent of coming back
our assimilation
and comprehension
of these augmented
adjacent sounds
is only the apparent behavior
of perversion;
love
and redemption
Friday, March 27, 2009
(poem)
place prejudice
in lust and resentment
only to come home
to alcohol
church songs
combined in bedrooms
postcards and poetry
litter the bathroom
where the razors
and the soap
echo evident emptiness
the person i once knew
writes only songs now
visit my arms like a stranger
never has the intent of coming back
the assimilation
comprehension
of augmented adjacent
sounds
is only the apparent behavior
of perversion;
love
and redemption
in lust and resentment
only to come home
to alcohol
church songs
combined in bedrooms
postcards and poetry
litter the bathroom
where the razors
and the soap
echo evident emptiness
the person i once knew
writes only songs now
visit my arms like a stranger
never has the intent of coming back
the assimilation
comprehension
of augmented adjacent
sounds
is only the apparent behavior
of perversion;
love
and redemption
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Submarines!
Have you heard this band? The Submarines are a soft pop duo emphasizing in a reflective, bittersweet but yet plaintive collection of songs. Honeysuckle Weeks, released in May of 2008, is a happy and sweet album which has a consistency of well put together pop songs. I recommend whole-heartily.
Also, Cheap Wine and Poetry: Thursday March 26th 7pm. Be there.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
(check this guy out) (totally stolen from Juniper) ( I am so in love)
Post Fraud
A poem by Charles A. Rogers
I made a list of
My enemies
And it is you
Sleeping
I may have your blood vessels
In my hands and between my teeth
(and that most likely will not change
whether or not I return to exist
in this moment on into infinity)
I have no expectations of rewriting that list
In fact,
You can have my pencils
I've made my point
---
Wait a Minute
A poem by Charles A. Rogers
So, Spider-man lost
His job as a super hero
And Peter Parker lost
His job as a photographer
So Peter took his outfit
And got work as a male stripper
So now he drinks a lot
And MJ moved in w/ her mom
Because he hit her
When he was drunk
A poem by Charles A. Rogers
I made a list of
My enemies
And it is you
Sleeping
I may have your blood vessels
In my hands and between my teeth
(and that most likely will not change
whether or not I return to exist
in this moment on into infinity)
I have no expectations of rewriting that list
In fact,
You can have my pencils
I've made my point
---
Wait a Minute
A poem by Charles A. Rogers
So, Spider-man lost
His job as a super hero
And Peter Parker lost
His job as a photographer
So Peter took his outfit
And got work as a male stripper
So now he drinks a lot
And MJ moved in w/ her mom
Because he hit her
When he was drunk
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Happenings and Happenstance
I'm needing models (of sorts) to take portraits of. I have a bunch of black and white film and need to take photographs of faces for my own enjoyment. Let me know if your interested.
On Saturday, March 7th, at 7:30 PM, Artocratic Presents
Greg Dember,
Evan Gross,
and Willem van Spronsen/ the Super8
at the Neptune Coffee house 8415 Greenwood Ave. N. Seattle
I am good friends with Willem/The Super 8 and they can be found here: www.myspace.com/thesuper8band
Well worth the check out at least.
Speaking of bands, Saint Brickhouse is changing to Mahoot and has some wicked songs up at:
www.myspace.com/mahootmusic
Other than that, I wrote my shitty poetry I then proceeded to throw out. I lost my work when I lost my harddrive so I'm struggling trying to re-create and innnovate new stuff.
Been working hard on this so called "memoir" which is primairly about two very different points in my life I merged into one. Its "creative non fiction" for sure.
Here is something small I was wrote one night with my head in my clouds but my feet hung tight to the ground
Passive moments in wintertime as it paved into spring. I left you when the morning arose and I found myself a new person hiding beneath this skin. Finding love in overlapping circles of social grace and personified glory. A car driving north to friendships on tin foil and lace. A clean house and a romantic gesture leaves traces of forgotten romance that died in early 2004 with a man, a guitar and a hope for the future.
There is a silence in the early morning when the rest of the world is sleeping and I’m taking pills and drinking drinks to keep the hurt from turning to hate. There is nothing else to say. I swear, I know it’s true. I keep remember the day you first left, the cocaine on the floor, the trip to the dump. “I *heart* huckabees” on the television. The kisses and the promises that we would never keep. There is a tired romance that comes with greyhound terminals and the lovers I have left for dead at them. Leaving always, for farms that hold no home. Its as if holding you in my arms were as if holding strangers to lose change they ask.
There was a connection so deep between us it scared the life out of anybody who came close. Or, at least, that is what you told me. It explained a lot. I tried, for months I tried, to figure out how to say hello without sounding so cruel. Then I tried to say goodbye without sounding cruel. It's hard.
That is all.
On Saturday, March 7th, at 7:30 PM, Artocratic Presents
Greg Dember,
Evan Gross,
and Willem van Spronsen/ the Super8
at the Neptune Coffee house 8415 Greenwood Ave. N. Seattle
I am good friends with Willem/The Super 8 and they can be found here: www.myspace.com/thesuper8band
Well worth the check out at least.
Speaking of bands, Saint Brickhouse is changing to Mahoot and has some wicked songs up at:
www.myspace.com/mahootmusic
Other than that, I wrote my shitty poetry I then proceeded to throw out. I lost my work when I lost my harddrive so I'm struggling trying to re-create and innnovate new stuff.
Been working hard on this so called "memoir" which is primairly about two very different points in my life I merged into one. Its "creative non fiction" for sure.
Here is something small I was wrote one night with my head in my clouds but my feet hung tight to the ground
Passive moments in wintertime as it paved into spring. I left you when the morning arose and I found myself a new person hiding beneath this skin. Finding love in overlapping circles of social grace and personified glory. A car driving north to friendships on tin foil and lace. A clean house and a romantic gesture leaves traces of forgotten romance that died in early 2004 with a man, a guitar and a hope for the future.
There is a silence in the early morning when the rest of the world is sleeping and I’m taking pills and drinking drinks to keep the hurt from turning to hate. There is nothing else to say. I swear, I know it’s true. I keep remember the day you first left, the cocaine on the floor, the trip to the dump. “I *heart* huckabees” on the television. The kisses and the promises that we would never keep. There is a tired romance that comes with greyhound terminals and the lovers I have left for dead at them. Leaving always, for farms that hold no home. Its as if holding you in my arms were as if holding strangers to lose change they ask.
There was a connection so deep between us it scared the life out of anybody who came close. Or, at least, that is what you told me. It explained a lot. I tried, for months I tried, to figure out how to say hello without sounding so cruel. Then I tried to say goodbye without sounding cruel. It's hard.
That is all.
Friday, February 27, 2009
She's The Dutchess and He's The Duke
Have you heard this band? You should. Go listen. Now. http://www.myspace.com/thedutchessandtheduke
They have this folk-rock edge of the 1960's with a modern twist. Very Neat.
They are on this label named "Hardly Art" which has a number of other neat bands featuring: "The Pica Beats" and "Arther & Yu"
Check it out: hardlyart.com
Here is a poem I've been working on. Something along the lines of "October Poem"
I can get used
to not having you here.
I do not think I knew you well.
I knew your nuances well.
I knew your passion for social logic.
I knew the answers to very few of your questions.
I knew we only depended upon
that morning I woke up
forgot my shirt,
pinned my heart to my wrist instead.
It bled all day.
I knew those lies you told me were true.
I knew you kept anger at your side
as if it were a loaded gun
that you were just waiting to draw
Revenge, you once told me,
is a theory so advanced
it might be admired by saints.
I always took note of your cheap advice
I always believed that we could save
one another
Through obligatory romantic gestures
and silent prayer
I divulge into delusions of grandeur
I know it's just a part of me
waiting for a patient sign
that I can love you
as much as you
hate yourself.
You're looking up at the moon
a lot these days
too drunk to blink
but looking anyways.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
excerpt from new fiction piece
Just the beginning of the piece. Its pretty ok, the end (not posted) rushes too fast, according to most people. I'm working on it, alright? I'll post more later.
--
What Artists Do When Not Suffering
By Tamarah Phillips
I think it might have been Oakland, or maybe it was my own devices, but I would like to blame Oakland. Smears of white powder gleaming my eyes, looking out at a crowd that’s waiting patiently for me. “This one is called,” I say, “Picking away at Sobriety with a Bourbon Ice-pick.” And they laugh. They always laugh. I used to too, but that was before Oakland.
Other renditions of that night can have me standing, smoking and looking for anyway to get to a place where I can stand my own voice. Getting on a red-eye groundhound bound for Oakland, I thought leaving Seattle would leave behind a life of degernetive trust associated only with the feelings of self destruction. In other words, I thought I was tough enough to survive left to my own devices. Sitting outside my drunk motel room with a girl I found spare changing, we shared a joint and I realized this was it; this is what I had been waiting for.
I found Natalie the night I moved to Oakland. She was sitting outside Nation’s Burgers asking for cheap red wine. I bought her a blueberry pie and a cheeseburger. We went back to my motel room and got drunk past the point of collision. I had a bottle of whiskey and a 12 pack and thought I was going to change the world. She had a gram of cocaine and knew she could do nothing but resign herself to life of depravity.
One night walking down near Jack London Square, the place where Oakland meets the bay, seeing San Francisco glittering in street light constellations, hearing the sounds of trains in the not so distant future we held hands and made plans to kill off the pain and live in a quiet desperation. Behind Barnes and Noble, in an alley smelling of urine and cardboard boxes, she pulled out a mirror and cut us lines. "This is real pain," she told me, "You can't fathom the sort of depth I have been."
--
other than that, I'm back in Olympia taking a Writers Workshop class. I have written a feature article on Stephen Jesse, which is neat. Got OK reviews. My friend Mel 0pened a bookstore on Vashon Island. It can be found at www.strangerthanfictionbooks.com
It is a very good bookstore, great poetry section. The owner is well versed in everything he sells and it's a great little place to get a tattoo too! (more about this later)
--
What Artists Do When Not Suffering
By Tamarah Phillips
I think it might have been Oakland, or maybe it was my own devices, but I would like to blame Oakland. Smears of white powder gleaming my eyes, looking out at a crowd that’s waiting patiently for me. “This one is called,” I say, “Picking away at Sobriety with a Bourbon Ice-pick.” And they laugh. They always laugh. I used to too, but that was before Oakland.
Other renditions of that night can have me standing, smoking and looking for anyway to get to a place where I can stand my own voice. Getting on a red-eye groundhound bound for Oakland, I thought leaving Seattle would leave behind a life of degernetive trust associated only with the feelings of self destruction. In other words, I thought I was tough enough to survive left to my own devices. Sitting outside my drunk motel room with a girl I found spare changing, we shared a joint and I realized this was it; this is what I had been waiting for.
I found Natalie the night I moved to Oakland. She was sitting outside Nation’s Burgers asking for cheap red wine. I bought her a blueberry pie and a cheeseburger. We went back to my motel room and got drunk past the point of collision. I had a bottle of whiskey and a 12 pack and thought I was going to change the world. She had a gram of cocaine and knew she could do nothing but resign herself to life of depravity.
One night walking down near Jack London Square, the place where Oakland meets the bay, seeing San Francisco glittering in street light constellations, hearing the sounds of trains in the not so distant future we held hands and made plans to kill off the pain and live in a quiet desperation. Behind Barnes and Noble, in an alley smelling of urine and cardboard boxes, she pulled out a mirror and cut us lines. "This is real pain," she told me, "You can't fathom the sort of depth I have been."
--
other than that, I'm back in Olympia taking a Writers Workshop class. I have written a feature article on Stephen Jesse, which is neat. Got OK reviews. My friend Mel 0pened a bookstore on Vashon Island. It can be found at www.strangerthanfictionbooks.com
It is a very good bookstore, great poetry section. The owner is well versed in everything he sells and it's a great little place to get a tattoo too! (more about this later)
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