gaijin

Now Herbie Hancock, that is a poet.
The fucker makes notes on the piano rhyme.
Like a stupid-eyed tourist I
wandered through his music for a while,
but the damn notes kept bouncing off my heavy head.

But then, something happened.

I hear Jesus knocked Saul off his horse
with the word of God, and like that
the words started pouring over me
as he ran up the scale and
down in fourths.

The form, the voice, all became apparent;
I wandered blindly, mouth open
like a gaijin who could hear
but not speak.

A perfect night

We met on top of a Cosmic Ridge
where fog poured slowly over the bridge
until the lake was full.
My face turned up to meet the sky and
you had nearly passed me by
when I came back to say goodbye
that night was wonderful.

The silky form of the Milky Way
was a path worn out of the simple way
our ridge had touched the sky;
as you pulled up with your bottle of wine
what touched your lips will soon touch mine
as we succumb to a night divine
on top of a Cosmic ridge.

I've never seen your face in light,
just carved by fire or starry night,
which makes me think that I just might
see you again someday.
For you cannot just be a dream--
for all the crazy ways we seem to meet
I know I'll always now you
cosmically.

The kidnapping of a flock of birds

I’m going to relate to you a true story of a small but ridiculous nature. It involves the inadvertent kidnapping of a small flock of birds. Or rather, a flock of small birds. It happened at a Seven-Eleven, of all places, the significance of the name of which still eludes scholars. But I digress. One peaceful morning that was almost too quiet, I walked out under the open sky through the streets of D.C. looking for sustenance. There are lots of folks who partake in a similar venture each day, on a more serious level. My search for food had the purpose of sopping up the Jack Daniels that had settled in my stomach, rather than the daily hunger that haunted my bones, but once again I digress. I went in to a local convenience store, got a muffin and a coffee, and stood there underneath the blue sky and its white cloudy freckles. I devoured my muffin in such a way that the crumbs littered the ground, wastefully. I felt bad, but the fight against a hangover is a fight against time, so I persisted. However, the crumbs did not go to waste. Each bite I took, with the rain of manna that it cast upon the ground, was succeeded by the descent of a flock of small birds who hid in a bush nearby. They would descend, and eat, and leave all before the turn of a head or the sip of a hot coffee. These birds were small and meek, cartoon-like in stature. I’m not unconvinced that they weren’t the birds that spontaneously appear to fly around your head after strong contusions. Perhaps they were on a lunch break. Regardless, they took to me like water does a towel. I started to walk away, and they followed. They kept their distance, for sure, but with each bite they would approach and eat the crumbs then recede to a place safely out of reach. I was perplexed, so I even tested this out a few times—I stepped and ate, stepped and ate. They followed and followed. Now came a dilemma. I have to leave. So, do I leave the muffin so the birds can eat in the comfort of their own neighborhood, or do I go on my way and let them go hungry? I decide to leave with the muffin, because Jack Daniels is very persuasive. I thought I had hurt the birds in doing so. However, they just followed me right down the street, eating and retreating, eating and retreating. My own little lamprey eel, in the form of a flock of birds. A symbiotic relationship on the streets of D.C. Bluebirds on my shoulder. I walked all the way to Jeremy’s house, and they followed me nearly all the way. They dispersed with one block to go, flying off in every direction. “My God,” I thought. “I’m doing the same thing to my friends.”

A brilliant Tom Robbins quote...

The world is a wonderfully weird place, consensual reality is significantly flawed, no institution can be trusted, certainty is a mirage, security a delusion, and the tyranny of the dull mind forever threatens -- but our lives are not as limited as we think they are, all things are possible, laughter is holier than piety, freedom is sweeter than fame, and in the end it's love and love alone that really matters. --Tom Robbins

this is from a fascinating article on writing a children's book about beer. check it out!

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/books/317083_writer25.html

The World Below My Feet

There was a time when I could
sense the immensity of the Earth. I could
feel it in my bones.

I remember on one particular occasion I
stared, dumfounded, through the empty night, at the moon.
I, whirling on the edge of the Earth at abstract speeds,
and the moon, standing at attention to the unseen Sun,
an unlikely pair, tonight
we are both so alone.

The Sun was scolding the Moon, while
I hid behind the Earth. My turn
would come in the morning, as
sure as the turning of the Earth.
Damned rotational inertia.
Why do the shadows recede?

Like all aspiring physicists,
for the moment I was able to ignore the air.
The Earth, with no atmosphere and my head
scraping the lower edge of space. I
wondered if it would make a mark there.

On this one particular occasion, I became
conscious of the world below my feet, and the
black empty ocean it swims in.

This world had never felt so
real, so mindless, so
random.

--

if the Sun is a grapefruit in Boston,
Alpha Centauri is an eggplant in Reno—
so much empty space

Something
has to be real,
something has to act.

Something has to produce the
note a jazz musician plays, some strange, spinning
concoction of emotion & chance, spilling energy & control

The molecules that make a man emote
slam the air that
carries the sounds to the
listener’s ear, shakes the listener’s heart
rattling its cup of change.

The solemn listeners nod, fill the room, which is
just a room, in a building, in a city,
on a continent, on a planet, churning lava within,
falling in tandem around a star,
born of a star, born of a star among stars,
born of an explosion that produced,
more than anything,
nothing at all—
nothing
at all.

Writing Drill: Random Poem Generator

Write a poem about (a/an) __________ (first thing that comes to mind)

1. weasel

Of Murder

You have stolen my chickens for the
last time, you bastard weasel. You
have no soul to hang your cap on,
you have no breath remaining.
Your sneaky habits while it’s raining
and chicken coop with blood a-staining,
it’s all over now, my friend.

Your face is frozen in one last sneaky smile,
a mocking grimace crowned with bear trap teeth, not even
death can beat your will, or make you frown.

I hate to taunt you, I hate to kill you
but, my friend, you’ve have had your fill
of dealing death about at will,
slipping down a window sill
just for that old-fashioned thrill
of murder.

There’s the difference—you and I
have no common motives.
I shrink when meeting death,
and you , my friend, you smile.


2. Bathymetry

Your sweet bathymetry

You have a nice bathymetry, my love,
I don’t need a satellite to know it.
Few realize that the seas will rise or fall
depending on what’s below it.
And although at times the waves will slap
the winds that suck and blow it,
I can see your wherewithall,
even though you never show it.

3. foccacia bread

Here we are, in the same old cafe
that we used to sit for hours,
sipping italian coffee and looking around
to see who was watching.

We used to chat about such incredible things,
the politics, the philosophy, the music, the answer
was in the air between our dancing words, though
we never cared to express it.

On our last night there, I consented
to a piece of foccacia bread that I munched
instead of finally telling you
that I loved you.

4. Dreams

How strange and telling
that the word we use
for our innermost wishes
and most important desires
is the same word that we use to name
the random nocturnal firing of neurons
studied in the laboratory for years,
analyzed by philosophers for centuries,
ignored or forgotten by millions each day...
what if I had written it down
instead of rolling back over
and hitting the alarm
one more time.

Poetry Writing Drills--Suite #1: Get Things Flowing

This is something I put together I while back and just found...sort of advice I wrote for myself about writing. I thought it would be cool if anyone wants to give the drills a shot. Feel free to try them and post any interesting results as a comment...

Get Things Flowing--Writing is about feelings. It is about capturing how you feel about certain persons, places, things, or ideas. These subjects could be out there in the world, in the world you create, or they could be so deep inside you that you almost forget they’re there. The feelings you describe could be the essence of your personality, or they could surprise you when they come out. Or they could be made up because they sound nice, but I think the best writing comes from real feelings. But feelings come from the heart, not the head, in a sense. If you have to think about something, it becomes a thought, not a feeling.

For that reason, you should at least start off by writing quickly, before you have to time to think about the words coming out. You want to start by getting the pure feelings out there as the canvas, and then use your mind to revise and organize in a way that best presents them. As Forrester says in that cheesy movie, “Write with your heart, revise with your head.”

These drills are designed to practice getting the feelings flowing. Later you will practice controlling the rhythm and the form, but for now don’t worry about these things. The idea is to do these drills quickly, stream of consciousness. Whatever pops up, write it down without hesitation. They may come out as word associations, but whatever. The point is to get the channels open for traffic.

1. Quickly write down your 10 greatest and deepest fears

2. Quickly write down your 10 greatest fantasies

3. Quickly write down 3 things you hope nobody knows about you

4. Quickly write down 4 things you wish people knew about you

5. Quickly write down the names of 5 people you find to be the most interesting.

6. Write a poem about at least one thing mentioned above.