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 catastrophe 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 a-flyin' 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...

POETRY

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* 7 comments

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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