2003-08-08 08:39:48 ET

yeah, so I've been in Connecticut for the last week, and oddly enough did a good deal of writing. Lots of hiakus, lots of crap. so here's a bunch of them:

I watch the guy across from me
nibbling his rabbit food,
sipping his mineral water,
and I chomp down on my pizza
and write this poem.

bundled up woman
waiting on a train platform
a risky thing - faith.

the pigeon, perched
on an electrical wire
ready to strike.

grass growing through
the concrete - let's hear it
for persistance.

summer breeze
causing ripples on the lake
- the winds of change.

summer rainfall -
refreshing and renewing.
god, I hate my life.

the water pouring
from these spouts
in cascades of used rain,
creating puddles
overflowing gutters
hours after the storm
has passed
the aftermath always
last longer than the

look out my window
morning rain is still falling -
why even bother?

When things don't work
out the way we planned,
and nothing seems to be
going right,
we reach out with our
hearts, sometimes our hands,
and hope against hope
that something will change.
for good, for bad,
our fault or beyond our hands,
to bring about a resolution;
a firm, decisive end solution
to our questions and our worries
to lay our aching hearts
at ease
and set our lives
on the ever changing breeze.

Writing is catharsis
for those who choose it
writing is power
if you know how to use it
writing is art
to teach the world a song
writing is power
to get others to go along
writing is deceptive
winning the heart of a girl
writing is power
opening up whole new worlds
writing is expression
and a focus of emotion
writing is power
to stir-up a commotion
writing is whatever
you want it to be
writing is power
but don't take it from me.

though on summer winds
thunder is distant,
change is inevitable.

a cool summer night
luminescence of new stars
content with myself.

laughing as I watched
the cover girl model trip -
beauty imperfect

tripping on a pavement
modeling training takes over -
never misses a beat.

Los Hombres Solos
together in solitude.
*sigh* so lonely...

2003-08-07 19:54:43 ET

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, planets, palpitating planations, shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke free on the open sky.

Pablo Neruda

2003-07-31 07:28:31 ET

*bangs head against wall*

Harry's Story
2003-07-29 19:30:50 ET

I listened to all your songs
yes, I put the records back on
and remembered what you had to say
a song for yourself
and a song for your girl
story songs of all the people
you ever met in this world
Searching your soul
on my stereo
and in that blasted Taxi
clinging to the music
that came from wodden boxes
it was what made you whole
as Paul Simon gave me verse
and the Beatles gave me sound
you gave me a love for music
as it could reach another's soul
and touch their heart.
1 comment

And the Baby Never Cries
2003-07-29 19:12:20 ET

Well, I've sung out one more evening,
and I'm wrung out, feeling beat.
I walk on out the door once more
to an empty city street.
A Good guitar will serve you well
when you're living in the lights
but it's never going to warm you
in the middle of the night.
And so I come and go with her in whispers.
Each and every time she says she dies.
When she is reborn again
I kiss her.
And the baby never cries.
She works in the daytime,
she leave her baby with a friend.
I sing every evening,
I only see her now and then.
I come to her at midnight,
when 'bout half the world's asleep,
and she puts me back together,
in the hours before I leave.
Her apartment is down on Perry Street,
there's a tree in her backyard.
Her old man had left her,
he just took off for the coast,
and I caught her on the rebound
when I needed her the most.

- Harry Chapin

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