thirty summer

carving words out of willows

Month: July, 2013

Triolet #2

The whole world on stage as electric currents become bullets
aimed at a mother bored of the innocent, digital skin
and distraught by a family torn apart by modern circuits
The whole world on stage as electric currents become bullets
The narrow conduit ablaze with buzzing numbers of sin
the port left wide open, an open invitation –the mother forgets
The whole world on stage as electric currents become bullets
aimed at a mother bored of the innocent, digital skin.

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Death of a high school poet

What really makes it interesting,
makes the whole thing look like a circus
is that we,
as a starving, skin-and-bones
group of writers
will pound it out young,
full of ambition and words.
We will pound it out with
so many accusatory questions
about what it is to live
or
what it means to be an American
or
what it means to be watched
to be free
to be on the cusp.
And we will write like we have the answers
and we are asking the audience

smugly

and we wait

for them to figure it out
whatever IT is that we are trying to ask.

When

we, the young writers

really have no idea

what we asked
or what the answers are.

It isn’t until
later on in life
when we remember that we used to write
and we try it again
but this time
we have experienced heart ache
and love
and hangovers
and anger
and questions and answers.

We have lived that life
that we oh-so-poetically tried to paint
when we were in high school.

It isn’t until you try it again
that you realize that all you were doing
was painting replicated
images with
pubescent brush strokes.

And then embarrassment sets in.

Triolet #1

Borne of steam, oil, levers, pullies and gears
We are the generation of technology
Armies tread where every elder fears
Borne of steam, oil, levers, pullies and gears
The elders left helpless; their cheeks with tears
Viruses consume all, like a stormy sea
Borne of steam, oil, levers, pullies and gears
we are the generation of technology.

Just a blurb

I keep saying to myself,
“I need to write something soon”
but I can’t think of anything
to write about.

You can’t beat a dead horse
and call it art.

I’ve been busy with photography
lately,
and coffee
has now become my nectar
of life.

She spins fiber into yarn
and I stare into
the abyssal void
of my
computer screen
as the clock tires.

I found out a way to reboot or shut down
my cell phone
from a text message.

I’ve been listening
to a lot of Metal and Gabber lately,
barely in the mood for Jazz.

Just consuming the lazy hump
of summer
as the people
read over my last couple of months.

Maybe I should start a photo blog
so people can see what I see
as well.

You can’t beat a dead horse
and call it art.