Day eighty-two

My own Eulogy

Save your tears., there will be

none at my grave sight. No talks

of how good of a person I was,

no lies about my character

and how I was the most honest

person you would ever meet.

Just read a poem or two then

break out into laughter as you

retell all the embarrassing

moments I had when I was

alive, like the time that I ran

straight into a parked school

bus. How I had a toilet paper

tail in the porn shop on my

eighteenth birthday. Laugh

and laugh out loud about

the silly stupid things I've

done. Hug each other finally

meet one another. Each of

you has a quality I admire

and respect. Find that feature

in those who sit solemnly

beside you. Death's never

a fun occasion. At my funeral

play one giant game of Catch

Phrase and finally most

important of all, invite a

stranger and in the quietest

moment of the funeral

burst into a flash mob

for ten minutes and resume

the funeral as if nothing

had ever happened.

15:55

Day eighty-one

Letter to God

Show me that you exist and you aren't

fairytale make believe. I've knocked on

your front door. Asked to be invited in

but I still wait outside unattended like a

traveling shoe salesmen. Maybe its

too much to ask for the Holy Spirit

to show itself like a descending dove.

I want a sign, some proof that you are

there and I am not crazy.

The world's full of divisions and every

priest, pastor, and minster has something

different to say about you. You are like

someone describing a taste.

But maybe I ask too much

maybe I'm too young spiritually speaking,

like a child who asks his mother

how electricity works, to which

she replies, it just does.

15:30

Day eighty

Synesthesia

Forget first sight, let's believe

for just a singular moment that

Love has nothing to do with sight.

Eyes closed. Your voice travels

in waves, osculating against the

hard air. Life's just vibrations.

Smell's important too. The odors

lifting from hair and skin are all

too pleasant. Touch and taste

follow only after sight and smell.

There is no outer beauty, only

beauty or no beauty at all. Plastic

Hollywood surgeries mean nothing

The rhythm and melody of your

language, your voice means everything.

Your hair smells blue and your voice

sounds purple. Is this how blind

people love?

15:08

Day seventy-eight

All our knowledge begins with the senses, proceeds then to the understanding, and ends with reason. There is nothing higher than reason. -Immanuel Kant

Higher than reason.

(Architecture of a poem unwritten)

Line one: Something about Kant and how he didn't believe in miracles

Line two: Reiterate line 1 with a substantial metaphor.

Line three: Something about reasoning and the rational mind

Line four: A simile about the mind and the rational mind.

Line five: Nature imagery. juxtaposition of nature and religion. Perhaps a church in a meadow.

Line six: Metaphor about the image above. More nature.

Line seven: Tie in higher than reason with "God" and how He could be higher than reason

Line eight: Question tie in with God and add metaphor, perhaps alliteration

Line nine: More imagery and religious symbolism

Line ten: Final flourish, a question, employ assonance, rhyme, and a strong finishing image. perhaps something disturbing.

This was definitely a cop-out

15:55

Day seventy-seven

Waning Gibbus

There's always a sense of uncertainty

after the full moon's passed, something

about cycles. Lit by the bright moon

the sky and clouds continue to roam

in one direction, oblivious to the dark.

I sit in the driveway and look up wishing

for a star to bloom supernova. A sign

from God perhaps on this lonely night.

I am tense, but your voice calms me.

A possum silently cackles by, grimaced

by my presence. I should not be out

this late. The animals own the dim

and quiet places. The land around

me breathes and I exhale. There's

always a sense of uncertainty after

the full moon's passed, something

about cycles. There's always a sense...

15:18

Day seventy-four

Rebirth

They used cheap wood to seal me.

It smells like pine. I scratch at it

claustrophobic hysteria. They never

tell you how dark and how alone

it is underground. And the silence,

unbearable. I am in a vacuum, somewhere

in space. Pleas for help, useless, I gather

the rest of my strength and push hard

against the planks. three feet of soft

dirt weigh against me. They were too

poor to bury me deeper into the earth.

I am not dead. I am not dead.

I scratch until my fingers nail start

to peel off, like the rind of a citrus fruit.

They cannot hear my angry pounding

I don't waste my breath shouting.

I devour the rest of the air slowly

and write goodbye with my nail-less

index finger. The blood trickles

against my face from the ceiling.

It's too dark to see if my word

is perfect. Then I wait and wait

until my mind and body finally rest.

14:36

Day seventy-two

Bedraggled

Her picture lay on my desk, coffee

stained, browned by the sun. I can't

throw away the image embedded

in the back of my mind-- water

clouded, her head just above

the line, body fully clothed. She

cleaned her room that night, vacuumed

and laid her pink prom dress on

the bed. Everything had to be perfect.

Email sent, a champaign

bottle sat on her desk with a white

ribbon, bon voyage written neatly

on an index card. Ready to set sail

with a proper christening, she melted

into the tub of lukewarm water.

What were her last thoughts? No

tears fell from her eyes. The knife

lay wrapped, flat under her left leg

a final gift for the man who

lifts her body away.

16:05

Day seventy-one

Forget about today, tomorrow's another day.

I tell you it's not a choice, what

does the bible have to say about that?

You choose not to focus on it like

an animal who refuses to believe

that its territory shrinks day by day.

Do you really believe that God

wanted six suicides? The Bible says

love thy neighbor. There is no love

in suicide.

9:39

Day seventy

Haunt

She walks with anger in her hands
nails dig into palms, she wants to

bleed. I see her slouch towards
the door and I follow her as she
reaches for another bottle. I want
to grab her wrist and say enough
is enough, but my hands pass through
air when I'm close enough to touch
her. She smirks and her dry smile
shows me that she's right. I won't
interfere again. The glass bounces
against the hardwood floor as she
drops the precious liquid. Nothing
shatters nor shakes, nor quiver nor
quakes. Every night she comes and goes
A perpetual moving image in my mind.
Love sometimes survives death,
but survival comes at a price.

11:19

Day sixty-nine

Muse

You deserve better more fertile

minds. But, you are stuck with me.

I don't appreciate you anymore, my

belly swollen, my energy fades and fades.

I want you back, the way an alcoholic longs

for the bottle under his bed. I treat you

like shit, slap you when I don't mean to

kick you when you're on the ground. Each

apology a broken promise. Should I be surprised

you left? You always threatened with bags packed

I'm leaving now, Cris, I'm leaving. I didn't believe

you. Ignored everything you said. Told you I can

do this on my own, I don't need you. But it was

all a lie. I need you more now. And though you've

heard I'll change, I'll change, a thousand times

over. This time I really will, and I will take

the eight steps.

15:21

Day sixty-seven

Serendipity

I know that you are out there, watching

the same night sky. Perhaps we are in different

hemispheres, but the moon's the same bright

white. Perhaps I've passed by you several

times in my car on my way to work. Heading

in opposite directions, two strangers concentrating

on the road ahead. I want to know your name

so I can find you. Look for you in the Dark

places of the world. Perhaps hidden from view.

One day I will stop looking and by mere happenstance

I will find you or you will find me, slumped

in a chair like a been bag at a used bookstore, reading

a novel by Paulo Coehlo.

15:19

Day sixty-six

"Be still, and know that I am God" - Psalm 46:10

Why I want to be a writer

Because I can't paint or sing.

My hands tremble, my voice trembles.

But at the keyboard there is stillness.

The click click click of keys, rhythmic

like drum beats, flows from my finger tips.

At his date fifty years ago, some poor

fool was typing rhythmic madness on

another machine. One made of metal

that clang at each line break. I am

connected to him and the fools before

him with quill and ink, scratching madly

at parchment paper. We all are chained

to our own minds, watching the Muse

come and go as she pleases, and like

a ghost, we can't catch her.

15:55

I don't know why I'm compelled to write down bible verses.

Inspired by O'hara's "Why I am not a Painter"

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171361

Day sixty-five

Exercise

I found a tire on the road

and tomorrow I will hit with

a sledge hammer. I will infuse

the tire with all the hate and grief

of the world. And smash until

my hands blister and my arms

burn until I can lift no more.

15:58

Day sixty-three

To my future love

I am an awkward person, the same
as the feeling you get when you
forget an old friend's name. I
don't snore, but I'm told I talk
in the middle of the night when
things grow quiet, when the crickets
stop singing. I like crude humor
the kind that make little school boys
giggle on the playground-- typical
dick and fart jokes. I have delusions
of grandeur and sometimes think my poems
can move mountains, that poetry will
save the world one day. When I experience
something new, I know if I like it or not
almost immediately. I will like the sound
of your voice, so keep talking. Your parents
will think I'm a nice young man, but you
know the truth. I like astrology and I
want to believe in ghosts. I am perfect
for you, but not perfect at all. I'm clumsy
and will break something of yours, or trip
and fall in front of you. I might make
you cry one day, and I apologize for that
right now, it will probably be an insensitive
remark. I like watching films at the run
down dollar theater, the floor sticky
and the chairs falling apart. I don't
watch sports and I have no interest,
save for some Olympic ones. I love to read
and I love talking to you.

15:17

Day sixty-two

"God sometimes removes a person from your life for your protection. Don't run after them." Rick Warren

And if they listened I
would not be alive. "Dead in
a ditch" as they say. The twelve
small holes still ache on
my wrists. "You did it
wrong", the girl next to me
says in the ward. She smiles
and holds up her arms. On each
wrist a white line starts
from her palm and rivers
downward. "Third time" she
whispers like a child who
shows her mother a finger
painting. Would I be on
the other side if you hadn't
rushed in, dialed those three
digits, raving hysterical manic.
If you did not Speak to me
or cut the threads that tie
us together, would I still
stare at the poor girl next
to me, screaming silently
for help? No, because if you
chose to stay home after
seeing the flare of my Facebook
message, God would have taken
me and you would be protected.

15:37

Day sixty-one

The Other Side

We are perfect for each other
like the way the Moon and Earth
revolve around an endless waltz,
but I don't love you the way
you deserved to be loved. The spark
isn't there. I imagine that love
is just a word of colors. We
aren't on the same spectrum
and the feeling that grows from
the pit of my stomach isn't
there anymore like an empty
cave after a bear has awaken
from its hibernation. I am astronaut
in the coldness of space, waving
his hand trying to touch the rim
of the bright blue atmosphere.
Goodbye, there's nothing more to say.

15:11

Day sixty

Infatuation

There's always the little
things that enter the mind,
like worms burrowing into soft
earth. The nuances that repeat
and repeat-- The way she ties her
hair in a pony tail, the color of
the ribbon. Even the way she walks
as though she always has an important
place to go, fill the mind's projection
screen. I can't stop. I know it is wrong
to want. She's a Capulet, and my family
has neither title nor rank. I wish the mind
could wipe memories like the ocean sometimes
erases land. But I have these thoughts
spread against me like a woolen lover*.
Perhaps this is love? No love
is much stronger I suppose. Never
have I been truly in love. Perhaps
I've found the wrong fragments of
my Soul. The ones that never quite
seem to fit like mysterious jig saw
pieces. I'm waiting for a larger
chunk of my past life to wander
haphazardly into my life like a drunken
stag or turtle. Or maybe, I'm the small
fragment finding another small
piece of a greater whole.

15:00



*Stolen from John Berryman's Dream Song 1 http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15206

Day fifty-seven

Day 2 of the Plague

The Fifteenth Day of October in the Year of Our Lord 2010

I have finally contracted the plague. The apothecary tells me that I may yet live another day. He gave me herbal medicines and salves and tells me that if I have not healed within ten days I am lost. I prayed to the Lord that I will be healed, but so many others have been taken by His grace. In a valiant attempt for the quest of science I will record my symptoms below:

-Soreness in eyes
-Severe cough
-Stuffed nose
-Body aches
-Breathing difficulty

I fear that if these symptoms continue, all will be lost. In the future I hope that one day a scientist or apothecary may devise a cure all for these symptoms, one that does not involve death or blood letting. If I shall pass in the coming days, I wish blessing to all those who have known me.

6:06

I have a cold :/

Day fifty-two

Bowling

Only a drunkard would have thought
knocking down ten wooden pins
with a resin ball would entertain
so many people through so many
generations. The pins, metaphors
of life, and the ball, swirling
images, smash into each other
to create poetry. How easily things
glide on wax oiled floors! The slow
hum of the ball against wood grain
then the sudden smash of pins
startles the senses. Perhaps
the anticipation, the ball
released from hand, forms
a spiritual bond of letting go.
That life courses the route
unpredictably as we attempt
to guide ourselves to perfect
strikes. Forget gutter balls
as the next frame enters
the lengthy hallway to the reset
pins.

15:01

Day fifty

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
2 Corinthians 4:18 (NIV Bible)

Things Unseen

Always the dichotomy, religion
and science. Let's imagine for a minute
like those famous Lennon lines
that science and religion were the same.
That the Big Bang was the same phrase
as Let there be light.
That the six days in the Bible
mere metaphors for an age and time
when people had no concept of the world
outside of Earth. That the six days represented
the sum of around 13 billion years. Lets
Imagine for a minute that Science
was the language of God and the Bible
the poetry. That things left unseen
were mysteries created to be solved
not by mere prayers, but by method
and experimentation. After all,
aren't we God's grand experiment,
to cure his holy loneliness?

20:20

I have no idea where I was going with this...