the Destruction of word(s)

There Goes The Neighborhood

There are moments and days that lead to weeks
From months and back to years
When I feel cheated
I am told the feeling that you are cheated is unfair
To projects one’s own feeling onto an emotion
The voice says can be senseless.

And that’s the way I feel
When a man as weak as me
I find myself always in the middle of the road
No future known just a steady path
One that may lead to nothing
At times this scares me.

Typical responses I share
A reaction thinking I am someone to be
Realized as un-ordinary
To plead to be thought of anything but average
I plead to be my own self
And the whole meaning of something other than the present
Moderation can be a mean of freedom

No time left for idle hero worship
The acceptance of every writer I ever read was anything but a median
For life is meant to be shook up
To be anything but a steady medium
All my favorite musicians never copied from someone else but initiated their own
Into the influences to take a chance with change.

I scare myself even when I say that
I cannot deal with “it”
And the acceptance is nothing something I can yearn to satisfy
There is often pleasure found in uncomfortable feelings
And yet I continue to meander on the page
Dribble the words out like a waste dump
The flies swarm around my head as I press gently on each key stroke
Writing used to mean something and wasn’t a place for people like me to go

The Day the Color Went Out of the TV

Words cannot always fill in the blanks
And there are times when silence
Is the only appropriate form of space
As light changes into other forms of matter
And the daze eventually fades in the setting
Hours upon hours sat to do something is better
The magazine spread on the coffee table
The mood is disrupted by a stranger.

And even in the full room emptiness creeps
And the voice missing is the what the waiting is for
But no wait will be long enough and there are tensions
That swell the walls a mist erupts into stories
Lessons and heart felt expressions and well there is nothing else
That the group can do and the process is among us all
And Is repeated when necessary.

Grey is one of those colors that frighten me
It cannot be identified on its own just a pieces of others
And well the whole science of the color spectrum is rather dangerous
And I would not make a metaphor for the tube being black and white
Or would I?

There are times when words only hint
When they lead the reader to a decision
To agree or disagree no black and white
No grey just pure emotion pure sentiment
And the problem today nothing is so indiscriminate
These times (the news may say) are dangerous
And the unrest is awakening and my shows are offset
Water of the masses is a shallow stimulant
And the people never meet eyes on












Just the Facts

The fact is this
I have never loved poetry
I grew up with fiction
And lived in fantasy
Yearned for amassing comic upon comic
Every month I waited by the news stand
And the clerk smiled as I gave him my money
In exchange for pulp for my daydreams
Superpowers super duper details
Morality haunted me as I read the glorious recounting
Of writers glorification of the anti-hero
Teenage years full of stereotype upon stereotype
Safety pins and punk rock yearnings
Left me needing structure but I took it my way
Searching music that was the antithesis of what everyone else understand
I often read the books that I was told to read
But I searched out the other ones I was told not to read
Cookbooks about warfare and drug abuse
Bohemians writing about sex, drugs, train hopping
Books with “fuck” and explicit experiences
And the more I read the more I lived
Life does that to you
And I never loved poetry
But every lyric to every song gave me meaning
The tortured heroin addict that made music for himself
Self absorbed rationalist, the socialist with a smile, the punk rockers with Mohawks
Skinheads that were not racist
But landed many punches before asking the right questions
And all my friends were the most dangerous
Pop culture was our life and we floated in and out of own generation
Reliving the glorious moments of the past but still fighting the modern argument
Meaning was never found but that’s the hidden secret
Poetry was there
In the background Ginsberg in middle Whitman in the summer
Hiding in the grass Kerouac deep ceded in daydreams
But it was never in the front and never will be
And I have to admit there are things that come before
And all the greats were often just great with this
Mediocrity never did much harm
Acceptance is often deluded from denial
And in college I decided I was a poet
In a group of poets we all had voices
And writing styles and concepts
Often vague but the bars would be where we thrived
Smoking hookahs and other devices
And the words touched for seconds and than split
Shattered across and in cities that seemed like universes away
I spoke with my own words
And I did it on my terms
We did it ourselves
Poetry was ours for a brief second
And than the year left and reality settled in
Life gets in the way
And no one ever warned me
That poetry still follows me around
Even though I secretly resent it
And what is stands for but I must admit
It is the most honest form of expression in these times
And the media denies it
Some never make much sense
And I never loved poetry
I still don’t but I still write
My words are concise and lack the excitement
That was once there and now gone
There is no time to hold onto the past only to relive it
No shame in regret and I missed the times when it meant something to write
And it was not just a hobby but a certain lifestyle
Culture has blended and melded there seem to be less danger nowadays
But fears guides the ants while others often fall short of expectations
And even at 25 I still do not love poetry
But I express it I can’t deny it
And sometimes I even forget it

I always feel rather disappointed when I read the section
because there are times I read and I realize
there is nothing here I want.

But there are times even when I do not know
what I want and everyone wants something
to be a part of.

Wants are different than needs
needs are substantial to life
and wants are often unconsequential.

To some what they want is needed to sustain
a healthy head above the stream of life
that can wash anyone away.

I mean to not cause distress but this is what I want
a world (yes not to be coy) to my own
for my own sheer being to be.

To be the best and the worst
the ordinary the least important
yet the most important the sexiest but also the ugliest.

In a more simpler level I want a job where I can do
as little or as much work as I feel like I should
any given day of the week.

But what I want and what everyone else wants
often never quite lines up with that thought
and many people think too much, and I am guilty.

Overthinking and at one time even overachieving
but those times are gone I am much more happier
doing exactly what I have to do -- no more or no less.

I keep thinking one day maybe I'll look back
and know what I want and not have to ponder
the complications of pleasure driven madness.

I mean everyone wants a girl and our bodies need
some sort of sexual release but your actions dictate
the behavior and social interactions.

The important traits of the game is rather acute
pinpointed by milla-second reactions
ones that are often biological and subsconcious.

Anyways what the reader wants is often a waste
as they are not the creators they must conform
or pretend to fall into the role the writer wants.

What the writer wants is often an ideal unattainable
but anything can be coaxed if done the right away
my writing the wants are rather unnerving and unbalanced.