Those Camelot Days

2007-02-12T20:16:00.000-08:00

Don't go searching for meaning in this one. Sometimes words are just words. And sometimes they are only together because they sound pretty together, or look nice next to eachother, nothing more. Try saying it outloud, it helps keep the rhythm and pace up.

there’s nothing there
all color gone no substance at all
nothing felt nothing seen
nothing heard
but a scream
my eyes are open
and now there is
a blinding light
shining wearily in
it takes no energy
for the light
to flow down from the darkness
of the night
the trees are called
the people stare
the ones that thought
you really cared
now they know your secret too
what the hell do you
plan to do?
ask me for help
call me your own
when was the last time
you even picked up the phone?
you don’t care, you don’t know
you’re not the one
who created this flow
i wrote your song
i gave you my brain
you took from me
and then you ran with my name
now they know
you’re faking it
now they know it’s all made up

and you know what?
they care they want you dead
they want you to disappear,
something like I did
you could have told them
you could have told me,
but no-
you were too busy watching the BBC
and mixin’ up good old B.B. King
yeah, that’s right
they care and so do i
they care and so do i
they care and so did i
so don’t you even go and try
to fix the things you’ve already broke
don’t look at me like this is a joke
i used to care
back when you were there
when you were real
when you could make me feel
you could tap your heels
and carry me home
you could play your music
and i’d be in a zone
you could look in my eyes
and we’d be alone

but now they know
and they told me
now i know

but i don’t want to believe
all you have to do
is tell me it’s not true

i don’t expect you
to fall in love
but I won’t deny
that’s what i want

i couldn’t beg you
to look at me
that’s why i made up
this lie, you see
the damn rhyme scheme
is like a light-saber beam
it doesn’t match up all the time
but i guess, i hoped
maybe for you
i wouldn’t always have to rhyme

Dreams (Found Poem)

2007-02-07T13:55:00.000-08:00

This is a found poem, for those not familiar with the term, that means I searched through random magazines pulling out beautiful words (empirically, auditorially, or idealistically beautiful) and put those words together to make a bit more sense than they had in the pile. The original is glued on black poster board, creating a hostage letter look. It is an interesting form that everyone should challenge themselves with a few times in a writing career.

Discover magic
Of medieval dragons
Sparkling castles
Blue rose adventure
Leading you deeper in my
Heart
Return world where
Swords protect our sculpted breath

Strong harmony never
Grows quiet
Singing together can move
Your invader
Understanding walking everywhere
Priceless living
Illuminating the golden sun rise
Disappearing
From your mind.
Dark
Fascinating
Perfect home

For Passion

2006-08-19T12:59:00.000-07:00

To the memory of mothers
Who told us bedtime stories
Of pirates, injuns, and mermaids
And of their fleeting glories.

To journalists turned novelists
And novelists turned playwrights
Who've filled our hearts with wonder
And built our dreams with might.

And finally,
To the man whose genius taught us
To believe in what we can
And that education released our boundaries
And there is a boy in every man.

for James Matthew Barrie (1860-1937) and all other teachers, mentors, directors, friends, parents, and the like who share those stories and make sure that childhood never ends.

This poem was originally entitled "For Fantasy" and included another stanza directly relating to JMBarrie's contributions. Because the poem is no longer a part of the original multi-genre research project on Barrie, I thought it could be more applicable to all inspirators without this stanza, and with a more inclusive title.

Our Cavern

2006-08-14T12:17:00.000-07:00

a comment, or two, on the past year for all involved. i wrote this a while back, but revised and revisited some issues. i think that everyone's side is well addressed in a positive light. there was not one person, authority or student, who was not hurt in some way. we all went through the same things, just dealt differently, so we thought that we were all on different pages and alone.

there we are
sitting in a beautifully decorated cave.
we all love it. of course we have our moments.
we have our fights, our dances; losses, successes.
when suddenly, the lights flicker and die.
we can find nothing. Some people run away, for fear of darkness
others stay: this cave is all they’ve ever known
everyone speaks, sometimes too much
and slowly our eyes adjust.
we see what damage has been done in the
sudden blackout
and we begin to rebuild,
with help from an untrusted match
nothing’s the same in the darkness.
sure, some things are prettier, but a lot of things lose their color.
and slowly, our eyes adjust
we have or fights, our dances; losses and successes
(but on a smaller scale)
more of us decide not to like the darkness, and leave the cave.
as each person leaves, the opening widens.
never shedding more light on us, just tearing us down.
the match flickers, but does not go out.
we are smaller now.
less people to rebuild, still not enough light to see by.
and just when those of us who stayed
begin to see the colors again,
a second darkness strikes,
and more people are lost, not this time because they leave,
but because they are rejected.
what happened to our shining cave?
no walls remain.
and yet, no light…
our eyes may adjust,
but that glitter, isn’t reappearing.
there’s no one left for it to find light in.
i have a roof, but no shelter,
i have no walls, but cannot see the stars
i am not alone. but everyone is isolated.

lullaby

2006-07-26T20:19:00.000-07:00

hush, my machine
don't let my voice wake you
sleep, lovely thing
for here you are safe
no great beasts loom outside of the window
no furry monsters lurk under the bed
hush, my machine
and let the night take you
sleep, lovely thing
for here you are safe
i promise to follow you into the dreamland
i promise to wake you when the nightmares set in
hush, my machine
just wait until sunrise
sleep, lovely thing
for here you are safe

The Gintub Princess

2006-07-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

some more slam... (aloud is the best way to catch what little essence there may be)

There is a strange,
Unrealistic truth in every fairytale
I’ve ever heard.
Something that is so perfectly natural
So perfectly beautiful that no matter how
Impossible it seems,
I still believe it- if not always
Then, in my dreams,
Maybe it’s just that I want it
So bad, but I don’t think that’s right.
The problems each character encounters
The perfect resolve they fall into at the end
A strange, familiar longing
A certain peace within.
No matter how many dishes Cinderella sees
No matter how many beasts attack Beauty,
No matter whose house Hansel and Gretel end up in,
The end is always the same—
Everyone happy… the bad guy gone.
I know this thought is fictional
But so are many dreams
I want to feel that I am that Diamond in the Rough
I want to see my beast change into my Prince Charming.
I want to eat a candy house knowing that I’ll
Still get home in time for dinner.
I want to eat a poisoned apple and be
Brought back to life by my true love’s kiss
I want my prince to fight that evil purple
Dragon in the Disney movie so that the
Spell will be broken and we can rule
Our kingdom together after years of dreaming.
I want to be captured by something evil
Because I know I’ll get back with
Some reward I’ll never forget
And a long story I’ll always tell.
I want to be that fairytale that children hear every night.
They listen- they memorize- they care about the
Fairytales they hear…
I want to be dreamt about the way I
Dream about the tales I hear
I want to be remembered for the longest time,
Like I still remember Aunt Fanny and Wee Willy
Winkie and Sleeping Beauty.
I’ll be in books and on TV shows and
Have my own Disney movie named just for me:
The Gintub Princess.

Sermonical Roots

2006-07-12T15:50:00.000-07:00

this is some slam. try asking someone to read it aloud to you, it flows better that way.

There’s something about the irony
In every decision we make as a race
That makes me have pity and laugh at myself.
We yell and fight about the things we love
And don’t even speak of
What we may hate. We’ve become so
Personal with our televisions and computers
That we give then nicknames like TVs, tubes,
And PCs. We’ve become so intimate with our pornography that we have a nickname for it too.
We’ve begun saving food so long
That we
Give it freezer burn and just give up on it.
We’ve begun sending letters to kids in boxes in
Africa because our government
Is too busy stealing oil from the Middle East to see.
Our favorite games are Alien Blaster and
Simple “WAR” on our X-boxes which it seems
No one is without.
The libraries we build have to have coffee
Houses and computers in them before we’ll
Go in the electronic doors that open before we
Even come to them. The leaders
You elected are sending my brothers,
My cousins, her husband far away to kill
People who are so close to death already
Through hunger that it is pointless.
Your religion has become the basis of my
Life- your beliefs have given me my
Foundation—
But now it is time to let us
Explore, give our world: this not so perfect sphere:
A chance to live; away from the nicknames we give to
Our electrical appliances- away from our x-boxes,
Fermented grapes, power of cheese, automatic
Doors, and Kool-Aid
-- Please--
Help me- help yourselves… we all need help

I want to go read a book in a library without
Needing caffeine to keep me awake, without the
Internet to find out the book no longer
Exists, without the cool, flashing lights to keep
Me interested.
I want my brothers back from war
I want my friendships that I lost because of religious disagreements to have never gone.
I want people to realize that the atmosphere
Surrounding our tiny, insignificant rock, is
Not really a perfect sphere, but mountainous
And cavernous like our individual personalities
Should be…
I want my old world back- the one that was
Equal, abundant, and the one that was flat—
I want to hear a sermon that makes me think.
I want that.
I need my senator to hear my problems
Maybe discuss some solutions
For the unexplainable ways our schools
Have just misplaced the money for funding.
I need to have a heart-to-heart with
J. Edgar Hoover, maybe he could solve this
Mystery of who did run over the Taco Bell dog?
I mean, we never see him anymore and I’d like
To talk to the guy
Thank him, maybe…
Above all- what I need is to
Find my flame… what inspires me to
Say what I say
And ask my flame a few questions from
“Why is cheese so powerful?”
to
“Why are people so ignorant?”
I want a better solution
I need a better world.
Visualize world peace- for me and
Say something loud…
Then just let it be.

The Hired (Part 1)

2006-07-12T14:00:00.000-07:00

He looked down from the roof only to see the cloak of night. Maybe a signal would come; a light would pierce through this cold blanket of darkness. Night jobs were always like this. He couldn’t see his target and his employer was usually not experienced in the field. Not as experienced as he was, anyway. This was his third gig for the week, and it was only Tuesday. A continuous hum from the lute and harpsichord inside lulled his mind into a dream world. This was why night jobs were dangerous, especially night jobs where the victim was attending a party. The musicians were his enemy, their ally was the darkness; and his only ally in this battle was a glimmer of light that had yet to come. That all too familiar feeling blew over him—the feeling that said something was about to happen. He recited a short prayer, wishing his victim an easy travel into the next world, pulled his dagger from his boot (just in case) and readied his musket. A small bead of sweat dripped from his nose; he imagined himself as that bead, rolling down the roof into the ebony oblivion beyond. His mind would wander like this until a soft light was exposed and the music was louder for long enough to pull him back to this world. A window in a tower just in front of him opened slightly as a lantern was thrust through it with a shaking hand; here was the signal. The curtains were drawn back just wide enough for him to see a large gentleman drinking and conversing merrily with his guests; here was the target. One simple pull on the musket trigger, a loud bang echoed by screams, and it was done. The hired fled into the night to meet his employer.
As Drell traveled swiftly to the nearby forest to await his pay, his imagination carried him back to the party he had just ended. Everything inside seemed warm and peaceful. The women were dancing with their full skirts floating like clouds around them, the men had been laughing and drinking with a light-heartedness that Drell envied. It was a sick thought that he would have rather been in that room shouting with horror at the sudden death of a friend than where he was now; but these thoughts came and went after every job. It was only human to want friends, but to be wealthy and skilled in your trade like Drell, was godly; and didn’t everyone prefer godliness to the mundane status of human? "I believe I owe you eighty-three?" the sharp voice cut through the darkness and pulled Drell back to the present once again that night. "Yes," he answered the voice as his eyes adjusted to the low flicker of the familiar lantern and hand of a young servant. It was a policy of Drell’s never to ask questions of employers or victims. The money exchanged hands and the light bobbed away as the shaky young boy with a murderous voice disappeared back to the night.

crystal pool

2006-07-12T11:41:00.000-07:00

there is a place
that not many find
for it is so close and near
to being perpetually far away
that it is a paradoxical
place
in the center of this place
rests a tiny pool
of crystal and water
when I look into this
rippling gem, I see
only myself
sparkling in the cloudless sky
(when I look into this pool)
of crystal and water
resting in a tiny pool
in the center of this place,
place
that is almost paradoxical
for it is so perpetually far away
yet near to being close
that not many find
the place is there

An Almost Modest Proposal: My Underdeveloped Stab at Irony

2006-07-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

At the first sign of a grotesque horror performed on another human being, most individuals’ hearts will break, souls will ache, or they will at least feel some sort of remorse for the person(s) in pain. These images evoke emotions, which can, often times, not be touched by simple words and verbal description.
This small aspect of human nature, which verifies the cliché, “a picture speaks louder than words,” is that very aspect which causes revolt and protesting against war. Before the advent of photography, there were very few people who so strongly and verbally protested war. All people had then were hyperbolic descriptions and glorified paintings to tell them of war, and everyone seemed tranquil then.
In order to better keep the peace in our country during times of war, my proposal is to be rid of all forms of film, destroy all types of cameras and computer programs which may contain images, and outlaw all other forms of visual art. The newspaper shall consist only of words, no graphics allowed unless approved by the president, congress, and a random sampling of at least 2,000 civilians and 1,000 military personnel. Television will consist only of presidential sound bits and slides with colored backgrounds and white text spelling out the script of whatever entertainment had been before, but completely censoring all images. All cell phones with cameras must be sent back to the factories to be devoid of pictures and to disable the camera feature. All persons with photographic memory shall not be allowed into the military or to be any sort of reporter near the action of the fighting. This is to ensure that no accurate retelling of the horrors of war can be administered.
If we were to follow my plan, it would guarantee far less protests against war. In fact, I could go as far as to say that most people’s minds would completely drift away from the war altogether, almost as though forgotten. And never mind all the jobs lost because of the entirety of the visual arts going out of business in the United States, it’s simple enough to sign them up and ship them all off to war also.

i will be working on this, but I thought it would be nice to hear some feedback, if anyone is willing...
the prose that inspired me: http://art-bin.com/art/omodest.html

A Pirate in Chicano's Clothing

2006-07-10T11:57:00.000-07:00

Mama has always told me not to talk to strangers, not to walk around down town, and especially, not to sit by the street corner alone. She constantly reminds me that a girl of sixteen (as it was my birthday) is at the best age for rapists and plunderers to attack- weak, beautiful, defiant, alone. Her words never made much of an impact on me. I have, my whole life, dreamed of being attacked by pirates and taken to some dewy island with roses and at least one thunderstorm a day. I have never had any interest in anything else; writing, dreaming, and wishing about pirates was what consumed my life, besides playing a pirate or two, on stage. Living in the middle of the desert in California has always made my dreams seem impossible and nothing more than wishes that will always invade my sleep and writing. Still, I go against my mother’s words to be alone in hopes of some pirates losing their way completely and capturing me on their way back to the sea, ocean, or even a gulf, as long as a ship is there for us. Today, I thought I should try again- this would be the best birthday gift I could receive.

I sat on a street corner looking at my new leather covered family photo album, alone. (I had just received this album in the mail from my grandmother as a birthday gift.) I chose my street corner carefully, it wasn’t just any corner, it was the corner in the middle of town with people walking, riding bikes, and driving all around me- isolating me. Like the island I would soon be on. Alone. But not for long, I saw in the distance (after looking up from a picture of my great grandparents) a young Mexican man swaying and walking strangely in the middle of the eerily quiet and empty street

I went back to the album, hoping that he wouldn’t notice me there, or at least wouldn’t notice my staring at him. A car drove by, probably speeding, I looked up again and he was closer… swaggering nearer to the sidewalk now, though, instead of dead center of the usually busy road. I quickly began staring at the same picture I had been for the past two minutes; again hoping he wouldn’t see me… would walk right past.

“Hello,” he whispered, then said something in Spanish.
“Hi.” I looked up then looked back down as quickly as possible to stare at the picture in front of me- I was unable to focus on anything in the photograph. My heart was pounding so loudly that I could only wish that he couldn’t hear it. He sat down next to me and began looking at my album too… I have a four inch blade in the bag- how long do I wait until I should pull it out? I’ve never been in this situation before. Should I try to ru-
“You don’t speak a word of Spanish, do you?” He said in that choppy way people often do when they are not comfortable with the language they are speaking.

His breath hit me in a funny way… too close… it smelled like gin.
“No.” I shook my head without looking up and turned the page… the knife, the knife… we sat on the corner staring at the same picture for what seemed like hours- I was tense, but he was too drunk to know what he felt.

A loud noise thundered from behind me, I turned quickly to him.(Almost reaching for my bag.) He pointed to a flock of birds that had just fluttered from a tree to our left. I breathed again.
He laughed, “Whose family?” I was so preoccupied with the question of my knife, calculating how far away it was, that it took me some time to comprehend what he had just asked, although it was a simple question.
“Mine.”
“Oh.” We stared at the picture for a beat. He must have forgotten our earlier conversation… he said something in Spanish with a lot of “s” s in it. I stared at him, then turned the page.

“What… is it you are here?” At first the confused words threw me off course, so I made up what I thought he meant. I thought about telling him that I had run away from home and have no where to go; or making up some wild story about pirates and how they had captured me off the shores of Spain and that I was really a Spanish princess: “Bow down to me now!” but I did just tell him I didn’t know a word of Spanish…
“I’m just sitting here, enjoying the atmosphere.” This is all I could manage to get out of my mouth.
I couldn’t help but notice his clean appearance aside from the breath… he had a green Applebee’s t-shirt… must work there… tucked into his khaki pants and a red and green Applebee’s baseball cap: worn with the bill in the front, strange, no one wears them the right way anymore. I had not seen his glistening brown eyes before. Maybe I wouldn’t need my knife.
“Is this your place?”
No… I stole it… “No, I just sat here.” I smiled at him before hiding behind my hair and looking back down to a picture.
“Your padre? Father?”
“No, that’s my uncle… Mike.” I smiled again… imagining my uncle holding me there on the street corner; maybe protecting me from drunks and rapists, and drunk rapists. The knife.
He stood up, shaking. I ducked my head closer to my knees and placed my hand closer to the bag I had decorated- the bag with the knife. He took two steps backward, away from me- I loosened up a little, enough to lift my head to look at him. He was short, even when he was standing and I was not. I waited, staring into his autumn-brown eyes… they were seasonal. Someone rode by on a bike, sending my hair into the wind. If only she had stopped, she could have saved me from this drunk Chicano, but took no notice of me, or my companion.

This would be the opportune time for him to capture me, I noticed. (Having thought a lot about my capture before- but this wasn’t how the story was supposed to go…) No one was anywhere around.
“I am going this way,” he pointed to the square- in the direction of the ice cream parlor, “You?” A few Spanish words were muttered… what was he saying?
“I think I’ll just stay here.”
“You stay here, alone?”
“Yes… here, looking at my pictures.”
“Okay…” He grabbed my arm in a startlingly gentle way. He pulled me to my feet… my bag, the knife, I couldn’t reach it now. It was happening, I couldn’t let it happen this way. Where was his sword, his ship to take me to some uncharted island? Just my luck, captured by a drunk Mexican in the middle of town, instead of a pirate on the dock of an English sea.

He pulled me closer to him and I smelled the gin on his breath, “What is your name?”
“Chloe.” I told him… why didn't I tell him my real name?
“Goodbye, Chloe,” he said.

We stood for a moment and he stared into my eyes… please let me go.

He embraced me tightly, uncomfortably at first, but then easily. When he had let go, he kissed my cheek, pushed my hair away from my face with his hand and looked into my eyes again. I felt like I was in one of those old white and black flicks: the part before the lovers are parted forever. He dropped his gaze and turned back down the street.

He walked, more soberly now, into the ice cream parlor. I gazed, in a daze, at his disappearance.

The streets began crowding again slowly, drunkenly, with bikers, pedestrians, and cars zooming by, probably speeding. I looked back down at my photo album again. There was a purple leaf in the shape of a star, moving dreamily, carefully, drunkenly, in the wind. The leaf covered the picture of my uncle holding me as a baby. I took it all in- breathed, waited for my heart to stop beating the way it was.

I put the leaf in an empty picture sleeve at the end of the album… a picture of a new family member to add to my memories.
I may never be captured by my pirate horde that I await, but I have been captured by a different horde now. No swords, musketeer boots, or ships, but some spark in the eye did the same thing to me that my dreams always have done.

A Balance

2006-07-10T09:08:00.000-07:00

Far too many people think about the bad things in life. Often times just making people aware of the horrors in this world is enough to create some sort of change. But, one cannot dwell on it all the time. Thinking about how many things go wrong each day in the lives humans in general often leads to the disillusionment of the good things that happen each day to ourselves, as well as the other people. Even those who struggle for freedom, for food, for acceptance, experience good in their lives.

In such horribly dark and trying times for so many people, flames of hope still flicker everywhere. And while we should not adjust or eyes too much and forget the darkness, we cannot let it consume us, either.

Proposal:

Let us, instead of writing about only the dark or the light, write and speak of both together. We, who are lucky enough to have computers and web sites, homes and food, families and friends, need to hear the news. Not solely the bad news, that the world is falling apart around us, but the good news, also should be shared. The good news, that there are people who make it their duty, and joy in life to spread those little matches to the darkest parts of the world.

Now that I officially sound like an evangelist... I would like to make it very clear that I am in no way affiliated with any particular religion, and while I find the thought of religion a comfort, I also do not accept all the beliefs of any one organization that I have yet to hear of. So, I am not specifically talking about the philanthropists of a certain religion, but rather, of an individual’s school of thought. The thought and belief that all people are created equal, and deserve the opportunity to feel the amazing waves of emotion and luck that pass through our wealthy, American, middle class hearts and minds each day.

Spread the light with the dark. Too many of us only spread one or the other and would have all people believe that the other does not exist.