thirty summer

carving words out of willows

Month: September, 2013

Morning Song, Part 1 (Broken Teeth)

The sun breaks the horizon
casting new shadows over the land that is my home,
casting new shadows of trees and summer and Colorado
and dreams. The dreams come…

I speak with broken teeth
and the sea is now my silence.
The sea swells and churns and burns
away the weathered memories like driftwood, like driftwood.

I speak through broken teeth
as I tell of what I’ve been through, and yet, I am just a person.
My ink may run dry but my heart still beats
I came with broken teeth but my hands are my weapon.

To whom it may concern, I’m here, I’m now and the world still turns.
The gravity of it all has to do with what we perceive as reality
and what we allow ourselves to perceive as illusionary
representation of the ordinary or a guise of the extraordinary.

Troops in an army march on, and I, just the jester, juggling emotions
like knife blades and bowling pins in court for the father and the son.
I, just the jester, here to tell you the joke that looks an awful lot like my childhood.

The troops march on, fulfilling things that they think they want to fulfill
and I stand here in my bells.

I came with broken teeth, to tell you a joke, but ended up showing you my childhood.

We went back to the places that once were my stomping grounds,
where I showed you how to live like a native, how to eat like a local
and how to best represent the foreign lands of Texas, while staying as a ambassador in Indiana.

We went back…

We went down back roads like some old country song and we’d even sing along even though no words came out.
We sing the songs of piling into a pickup and driving to Steak and Shake, even though it was, oh so late,
like middle of the night munchies and pulls from whiskey; like it was when I was young and when I was holder of the keys.
And I showed you the garage, that I wrote about, that still stands that still creates stories that I, now, hear about.

Baby, I’m not a love story but maybe I am a tale, of war, or of hate, or of love and of loathing.
I found God once and it wasn’t ’til the very end that I realized that my God looks an awful lot like you.

He looks an awful lot like you
and I sing with broken teeth, and the sea is silence
and the sea swells and you become my muse.


Prelude To a Possible Paradigm.

I can’t let go
that feeling of being so alone
when I know I’m surrounded by friends and family.
I know that these people who are in my life know.
They know that I know that this isn’t forever
and yet I can’t allow myself to let it go.

The infinite. The forever. That sense of swallowing
the universe.

In a blink. A passive-aggression choke.

I walk these halls, beyond corpses, students, professors
and coffee disguised as addiction.

I was lost as I stumbled down corridors
past the Hip-Hop and Dubstep drops
and I still try to find myself
in this mess you call life.

I cower from it. Like bed stains and pill bottles
and empty, whiskey voices that haunt my past.

I cower from it like all those dreams of suicide and white-washed walls
and I know.
I know and you know and the world knows and some god,
out there in the cosmos, sipping on the essence of life,
planning the next big paradigm, like the Greeks and the Christians,
yeah he knows

this isn’t forever.

This is just a far off dream.

You, standing there with your sneer,
your smeared makeup and hollow pens jotting down Dawkins,
you call yourself a free thinker,

You stamp out faith like an insect, under your heel
and you have found out the truths of all the worlds.
Everything is your motherfucking oyster, isn’t it?

You fight the nightmare that is you, hidden behind songs and ideas
and philosophies that everyone else, just like you, hides behind.

You challenge reality with your claims of:
Religion causes War.
Free Thought is a Prototype.
The World Order is Corrupt.
The Government lies.
Capital letters hold Meaning.

Child is your mind and I’m trying to accept that
the idea of free thinking, yeah, it comes with it’s own rule book.

A list of things to and to not think.

And there are plenty of your kind to last us mere mortals a lifetime.

But in the end, there is nothing new under the sun.

As we proceed through the depth of our self-loathing
all that is left is to masturbate the mind and act like its
a normal concept of consequence.

And that’s a fact!

Of the youth of my time

The philosophies of the youth of my time
are corrupted by pop culture and misnomers
of life, of love, of lust, of losing it all.
A wastrel isn’t that different from the tycoon.
I know these things when I hear of celebrities
in conjunction with words generally found in cultural minorities.
I envy those without televisions.

It isn’t for me to say what is, what should be or even what was
but in my lifetime, I have seen each generation after me destroy
what mine has broken, which that before mine has mangled
and it isn’t too much to say that it is just a perpetual concept
that we will always have our static, cultural ideas
in our minds when the next big thing happens on the screen
that runs our lives
no matter how old we are
in life or in mind.

The philosophies of the youth of my time
aren’t too far off from those of yesterday.