Monthly Archives: September 2014

Pieces of rage

Tear me to pieces–
for what? To be more holy?
More open and closer to God?

As a child
sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor
playing one of those old NES Nintendo games
where the game itself was this large brick-like
cassette that you jammed into the machine
Super Mario Brothers.
And when you lost, you got
GAME OVER
in that scientific strange rigid junky font
across the screen.

Reality.
Rage in reality
coming from within,
rage boils like stew
it erupts like a volcano —
fists pounding on the wall between us,
yelling,
RAGE.

It’s nothing pretty.

Maybe I should be ashamed–
but no.
Well deserved rage.
“…and don’t be sorry,” Kerouac wrote
in Desolation Angels.

I won’t be.

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The buzz and the rumble

The fragments of peace and blunder that make up our lives—
it’s all just to pass the time. All of it.
Look up and you’ll see the heavens seem so far away.
Peace in strangeness, peace in strangers.
The heavens seem so far away.

We’re all just waiting,
waiting for what—
for our lives to end?
for the heavens to move closer,
the sky to come crashing down?

We’re waiting to see our futures
become something—
more than they are.
Moonrise after moonrise—
just trying to fill our four walls
with grand heirlooms,
to show we’ve come from SOMEWHERE,
we are made up of SOMETHING,
we have meant something to SOMEONE.

This dark wooden rocking chair,
that turquoise fragile lamp
of your grandmothers—
you remember her bony hands,
her fierce blue eyes that could still look warm…
Sadness, not even Sunday night
oldtime Bluegrass from the radio can fix.

But tonight it was just background noise.
The buzz. The rumble. The never ending beat.

Do you know that Banksy piece, the graffiti
stencil of a young girl
placed next to a gas station in L.A.—if you don’t
know it look it up—
she’s got this big old watering can
and she’s watering an old TV antenna that’s
growing out of the earth, leaves and all.
She’s watering—causing to grow—distraction.
Background noise.
The buzz, rumble and never ending.

Beat.

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Beat streets of ghostly lives

Kerouac’s ghost:
an homage to the beat life adventure
that lickity split moment
thumb out run
dust rising down the road
no soles on your shoes
but God, is there a soul in your heart,
open car door
throw bag down, just
ssssllllide right in.

The “King of Desolation” and
an angel among thieving society,
loved the trip love the road
loved the people the desolation souls
the mad men the beautiful ladies
loved it all so hard.

Wrote more honestly
than many other people care to think when they die
thoughts clothed in truth
and actions led on by what would make him happy,
as it should be.
Seek happiness always first.
Love life, he sure did.

The ghost of Kerouac is no doubt
huddled down in some dark
smells like whiskey and cheap beer
basement bar on Skid Row
the old Times Square, ‘Frisco, between the peaks of
some Colorado Mountain town,
jazz on stage so hard so loud
it shakes your glass on the table
hands clap, dresses shake, cigars and cigarettes
burn away the night.
And next to him is Cassady’s ghost,
Bourroughs, Ginsberg, all the beat life
on the beat streets of ghostly lives.

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Fearlessness

Be fearless.

That’s a good mantra. It’s inspiring. It makes you want to be a better person. And when it comes down to it, I feel like it’s fairly easy to be fearless about many things: exploring new cities, jumping off cliffs, running through the woods with wild abandon. For some people it’s abusing drugs and getting lost on a trip. Moving across the country by yourself and starting over. Fearlessness comes in different forms for different people. 

I’d like to think I’m fearless in the adventures I take, the way I educate myself through diving into and getting lost in literature that others don’t even know about, and even the way I so innocently and greatly dream. 

Why can’t I be fearless with love? Why is it so hard for me to love fearlessly?

That’s a question I can’t answer, or at least I’m not prepared to answer admitting it to myself, Kerouac, and everyone else. Maybe that’s a post for another day. It’s easy to love your family, love your friends, love God, love the beauty of Nature, cities, food, books, film, music, poetry. But it’s terrifying to fearlessly love someone and to give them your heart.

What made me thing of FEARLESSNESS was Chris McCandless. I’m watching Into the Wild and flipping back through the book by Jon Krakauer in remembrance of Chris McCandless, who’s body was found in the Alaskan wilderness twenty-two years ago today.

For some reason, many people don’t seem to understand why he did what he did- leaving society like that. Many people call him selfless, stupid, reckless, crazy… But I think he was brave, smarter than most people, and lived his life with fearlessness, and that’s admirable.

He wrote in his journal:

I have always been unsatisfied with life as most people live it. Always I want to live more intensely and richly.

I very much admire Chris’s fearlessness towards life. But he was young when he fled society to live off the land. He had just graduate from college. I don’t think he really ever experienced fearless love, at least his actions and his journals don’t reflect any love of another person. But Chris did fearlessly love life, his existence, nature, and exploration. 

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One Shadow

I just wrote this. I think it would be the middle or the end of what I hope would be a great, true love story. I was inspired by a scene from the film Begin Again, a gentle and happy soulful video about making music… 

They embraced to say goodbye. Things were done. Work was done. As time would have it, they were to go their separate, completely different ways. She wrapped her bare arms around his neck and pulled him close. He draped his arms around her lower back, resting them gently. After a few seconds she pulled away, smiling, and said goodbye.

But his arms lingered on her hips, grasping, gently, her sides.

She looked up at him. Looked at him real hard. He almost looked afraid.

“I have to ask you something,” he says, almost a low, scruffy whisper.

“What’s that?” she so innocently asks.

He paused a few long quiet seconds, with just the noise of the city behind them.

“Could you ever love me?” He barely managed to get it out. Having to clear his throat at the end. “I mean, do you think… if we didn’t leave now… do you think you would ever love me?”

She backed away a step, his arms finally falling from her body to his side. She breathed heavy, almost one of those laughing breaths that you let out loudly through your nose. Then she smiled so big.

“I do. I do already do,” she said as she shook her head, almost not wanting to admit it. But it was the truth. She loved him. She took two steps toward him and their lips met. Gentle at first, then passionate as they grasped each other’s bodies firmly and fiercely. The sun glistened above in the heavens, casting just one shadow from between them on the ground.

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Cliffs

(Image from tumblr)

 
This distant memory replays in my mind
of cliff jumping into a golden blue cold lake
on a sweaty hot sunshine day.
The air glitters.
My fellow cliff jumping compatriots are laughing.
Happy noises
and splashing noises from bodies tumbling falling gracefully
into the water echoes back from the cliffs.
A lush green and abundant forest adorns the viewpoint.
There’s so much beauty, everywhere

You’d stand back from the edge – almost naked in your bathing suit –
run across the rock in bare innocent feet
let out a scream of joyexcitementfearforgiveness
and plunge your body out from the rock
fall fast long and down into the water
SPLASH.

We jumped for hours. Never got tired of that thrill that splash
that cool refreshing wetness.

This memory makes me smile and breaks my heart. I can’t
remember if it was real. Or it it’s just some dreamful resemblance
of an experience of my lustful youth that I’m holding onto
created in a dreamy afternoon of boredom or sleep.
I want it to be real so bad.

I want my life to feel like that jump. Every day: joyexcitementfearforgiveness.
Over and over again
in the late afternoon perfection
heavenly neverstop glow of the end of an innocent summer.

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