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Son of a Cannon BallI’m just the son of a cannon ball, hard and heavy,
blacker than any snow white dove. Cold to the touch,
my blunt metallic skin siphons heat away through your fingertips,
leaving your hands cold and clammy, but that’s not important
because you probably only touch me with gloves on anyway.
And I know I’m dull to look at, but if you take me out under the sun
and look hard enough, you’ll see a glimmer of sunshine in my eyes.
I was born in a furnace, in the middle of heat and flame, hammers
and all the hard and heavy things in life, pounding my brothers
on the anvils and pouring out my sisters into molds,
each of them their own tool, implements of sturdy metalwork.
I went out the front door with warlike aspirations
but I never thought about the cost of that, the price
that so many men must pay just for a few brief seconds
of a cannon ball in flight.
I’m just the son of a cannon ball, and my father
and I never talked much. He was just as hard and dull as I am,
Summer WindA weary tire swings from a tree in the warm, evening breeze.
The wind blows through it with ease.
The gust meanders around the log pile,
in these summer months,
and turns to wrap around a tree
that perhaps you and me
And following the August air,
through the yard and all the youngsters there,
we find enough soul
in all these summer days
to buff away the mundane glaze
and climb out of the City's hole
to bathe in the fresh sunshine.
A weary man stands by a tree in the warm, evening breeze.
The wind blows through him with ease.
The cool croon of a slow sax
the radio speaker on my desk,
the platinum blonde said as she entered in
"Please allow me to apologize
couldn't make it to the funeral."
begins to tear up, shimmers like broken glass.
"It's alright, did you see the file?"
"I want to solve this even if
Her voluptuous locks bounced with a casual determination.
After a pause, I looked her square
shards of an iris, carefully speaking
my words like a wild gambler.
"Mrs. Simmons, I have to tell you
that killed your husband, shot him in the head,
The saxophone harmonizes with her eyes.
Communion of Two TonguesTwo tongues speak and slither words,
magnificent in quickened speech.
The journey of their thoughts is heard,
the meeting of the minds of each.
The tongues that dream of stars and skies
beyond our gloomy human view.
But tongues cannot see like the eyes,
that give form and shape to me and you.
The tongues give form and shape to thoughts
which eyes alone can never see.
Their loud, blind sight sees farther out
than men are ever allowed to be.
Thus, two tongues shall here begin,
unraveling their ambling thoughts,
and as they kiss, expose their dreams
beholden in their juicy mouths.
(Loving a) ToothbrushAlas, the gaping maw is opened wide,
to let my dearest love, Toothbrush, inside.
She cleans me up and makes me pearly white,
restoring all my beauty in her sight.
The bristles scrub and scrape with all their rigor,
and thus rejuvenate my ivory vigor.
Now I may shine with alabaster glint,
and sing to her with breath of cloying mint.
Oh, how much I do love my dear Toothbrush;
when you are brushing, sir, please do not rush.
Dream HorseDreams in open fields aren't really dreams,
they are in fact the horses of our mind.
And we are thus the lonely desperadoes,
chasing these mavericks, falling behind.
We ride across our mental desolation,
and desert winds propel our silver steeds,
the iambs in the clip-clop of the hooves;
this poetry sounds better than it reads.
As we, the dreamers, lost in stallion smoke
at last give in, and bid fancies farewell,
we must awake, we must record the journey.
Our heads are full of dreams ready to tell.
Rainy Day TrafficIt's a wet, oily, cold, pastel-gray-blue day. The sky looks like the ceiling of a pub, with low-hanging cigar smoke choking out the sunlight. The puddles on the ground appear like old, dirty, murky, muddy whiskey, and are about as appetizing. With a tired labor, cars and trucks trudge down the slippery city streets, racing through water to slide and splash the imaginary passers-by on the side of the road.
As I sit in class, the lecture obscured by the noise of the earth revolving, I am present for that from which I am removed. The soft bustle of vehicles, the gentle choke and cough of gasoline engines thundering down the road. I am moving with them.
But as the weary drivers watch the green light yellow, and the yellow light redden, their sluggish feet depress the brake pedal, and their mammoth motion halts at the stoplight. And it is now, while these cars are stopped and the others go, that the drivers observe motion without experiencing motion. They witness the bittersweet sensation o
Life is a VaporIt has been said by some, "Life is a vapor,"
and true enough, their lives have blown away,
been carried off by wind, gust, gale and weather.
Their work was not heavy enough to stay.
Some men are small, and thus live their small lives
secluded in some small forsaken town,
and all in all, live in this world deprived
of any chance to garner some renown.
They work their 9-to-5, then they come home
and have their evening meal with family,
and, sipping through the amber beer-mug foam,
resign to kick up feet and watch TV.
They live, they die, their children do as well,
trudging on toward that same grey fate.
The Preacher won't admit they've gone to Hell,
but no one says they passed the Pearly Gate.
These men are not the men that we adore,
the glorious of whom our History boasts.
They leave us hungry, wanting something more
than the ordinary meal befitting most.
The Human Soul demands, by God's Design,
the satisfaction of a life lived well,
a legacy that's worth leaving behind,
a story that is
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
My School Says I'm Worthless (sort of a rant)I'm a criminal because my values aren't their values
And I'm scum to say the least
Because I'm not on their list
Ones who have their lives set out
And drink from molten glory raining down from
School top balconies...
And I have myself left to blame for all the non-attempts
And truancies; the bleak distractions
That help me escape the inviolable test-score stares
Of disapproval that I attract from their
And they're forced to ask me 'Why?
Why are you still here?'
And I can barely say
That I'm afraid to leave.
That I know that no-one knows
Or what they want to be
But unlike those
I gave up
A while ago
And they can't tell me to my face that I'm a failure so they heavily imply
That my lacking presence
And even less impressive
Tendency for slacking off is evidence
That I am stupid and a fool and nothing more than such a waste of resources
And it's a disappointment
That I don't hold their ideals
VesselYour heart is a compass.
Broken, perhaps, but I know
It’s always searching for the North Star.
Which way will your beard point tonight?
DanielYou are vertebrae
reinforced with titanium
that does not make you the lesser -
You’ve got the weight of the world
on one shoulder
sometimes you trip because of it -
you’re still walking
and if things fused wrong
post or anterior
and if things fused out in the interior
your circuits live on
and if your thoughts get circular
or so do your moods
and your mind blanks and you forget -
you’re nervous but strong -
then I’ll remind you.
Because you give me
the backbone required
you’re my Atlas, so I lift my head,
you’re my axis, so I can face the future
because you are vertebrae
reinforced with titanium.
You’re my inner strength.
FallingFailure after failure
A life not worth living
Lost in my misery
Long gone are the good moments
I keep falling
Nothing can save me now
Gone my hopes are
Because He'sHe’s listening
Millions of them.
A flash of red
And a navy hat
No warning – now motionless
With skin turned to shadows.
BloodBlood is the essence of the heart,
and Music is the wound.
Blood is the essence of our life,
stored in our heart,
pierced by the song.
And it is pain that frees our blood
to bleed and drip and run,
to live outside the confinement of our hearts,
and to stain the garments of our world.
Music is the pain that frees our lives to bleed.
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