Green Sky Blue Grass [poem]

• Written where:  Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan
• Where exactly:  in my apartment
• Written with:  white board marker on white board
• When:  3:10am on Tuesday July 29th 2008

GREEN SKY BLUE GRASS

If the sky were green
And the grass was blue.
What color would be the dew?
Would it still be see through?

If I were you, 
And we were me,
And there was cancer for all three.
Did I die before the sky
Came back from green to blue?

No concept of time [essay]

I have no concept of time.  By that I mean that my mind does not easily accept the accepted ways of perceiving time.  To start, let me list my difficulties with time:

• I always think people are the same age as when I first met them.
• Weeks feel like a constant stream of the exact same moment.
• I have very few memories of my childhood.
• Time can be quantified easier as one gets older.
• I want (or need) to be able to pause time, or step out of it to try and catch up.

In the following I will elaborate on the above points in order to try and express my distresses with time and not being able to stop it, how it is to feel it slip through mental fingers in my mind, and how it all feels like just one long moment, as Vonnegut described in Slaughterhouse-Five.

[Read more]

What Nirvana and NEVERMIND mean to me

 

 
I was riding home with my mom when I first heard Nirvana.  I have no idea how I was allowed to listen to the radio station of my choice that time.  As I recall, it was usually her music.  Yet this time I had it tuned to a rock radio station.  

I heard this song come on.  It transfixed me.  I was more than mesmerized.  We pulled into the driveway while it was still playing.  I ran into my room, turned on the radio and called my best friend at the time, Rick (Ricardo).  I told him to immediately turn on the radio and listen to this.  He got his radio on in time for the last chorus.  I had no idea at all what the singer was saying in the chorus, but I was totally gripped by it.  I remember saying to Rick, “listen to what he’s saying in the chorus!”  
[Read more]

Searching for a Spontaneous Apocalypse

I wrote “Searching for a Spontaneous Apocalypse” for a summer school class in 1999 when I was a graduate student at the University of South Florida.  The assignment was to take one book of the Bible and depict it artistically (painting, poem, short-story, collage, etc).  I chose to write a short-story in spontaneous prose style about the events of the Book of Revelations set in present time.  I wrote it all in one sitting, taking about 6 hours, maybe less, between the hours of 9pm and 3am.

I consider it to be my very best writing, and not just because it received extremely high praise from the professor of the class.  This work came at the height of my long creative period at the end of the 90’s when my mind was focused and spilling out words almost constantly.  I believe it to very closely reveal how I actually think and perceive the world in my own mind. (some exerts from the story are real)

This story is best read all in one sitting, which will take about 15 minutes.

 

SEARCHING FOR A SPONTANEOUS APOCALYPSE

 

            Long hours spent alone at night

allow for ample time to explore all thoughts in mind and

uninterrupted thinking is only slowed by sadness that is being constantly fought against.  To all

poets on Sunday nights, the world seems particularly sad.  Others enjoy “family night” or feel a

sickness well up in them as their work week—which kills them—comes onto their horizon

again.  Sad poets contemplate the nature of reality and at once realize the tragic nature of it all,

and then think its all love too.

  [Read more]

Juno inspired poem

• written where: Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan
• where exactly: in my apartment
• written with: computer
• when: February 24, 2008

I was inspired to write this poem by the lyrics in the songs in the JUNO soundtrack.

I hear broken hearts make you strong,
If so I should be able to lift the world.
But what pain would that end?
Where is she now?
She’s still my friend,
At least that’s what dreams portend.
In the end.

My review of the movie JUNO

Untitled — Allusion to Her series

• written where: Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan
• where exactly: in my apartment
• written with: whiteboard
• when: April 02, 2008   

How many men have said you are beautiful?

None, one, or a ton?

How you answer equals our fun.

But no time for your answer now.

See, I have to run.

For nothing is as beautiful as the setting sun.

Untitled rhyming poem

• written where: Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan
• where exactly: in my apartment
• written with: whiteboard?
• when: approximately January 2008

Cross that line, it is made of brine.

That was another time, a previous pine.

Crossed and out of place in no space,

Bred by beavers from bubble gum & lace.

Crssing a timely ruin still doing,

Another Wednesday spent fooling.

Poem from a Dream series

• written where: Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan
• where exactly: my desk in my apartment
• written with: pen & notebook
• when: January 17, 2008

Dreams from the Night,

Fly into my Day.

It was bullets first,

Then alligators,

Forests last, over the fly.

Gauge was there, lightly.

And then . . . .

Zeroes and Ones

• written where: Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan
  
• where exactly: my desk in my apartment
  
• written with: pen & notebook
  
• when: November 16, 2006 — 2:09am

I saw my dreams die,

in pixels.

Zeroes and ones commanded my fate.

That’s how it was delivered,

this time.

Nothing grandiose.

Just naughts and ones.

Zeroes and ones PUT me on this path.

Gone to one.

Gone to zero, not quite yet.

"Clasped Couples"

• written where: Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan
• where exactly: the bridge over the train tracks between the Southern Terrace and Tokyu Hands
• written with: pen & notebook
• when: Tuesday October 31, 2006 — 10pm

CLASPED COUPLES

Couples clasped together,

They are my enemies . . . .

Train goes under . . . .

Chimney walks by . . . .

They are my enemies.

A long forest is crowded,

But it is that clasped couple,

That is my enemy . . . .

Guardians of a secret, but seen pleasure world,

That I cannot enter.

Those bastards . . . .

Their smooth edges make mine rougher . . . .

My round edges chafe when I look upon them . . . .

Their walls show my Freedom.

A freedom to let flow my anger unabated,

Till it courses in unison with my blood metastasizing through me.

Truth comes only when you don’t hold back . . . .

How can it come while holding the hand of the fairer?

There’s only room for one out the out door . . . .

Next Page »