Quiet King

Winter in July

2011-07-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

Pull back the curtains
Early sun meets eyes
Open window
Breeze escapes lungs
Whisper touch flirts with my skin
Ripples like leaves

But this is July.

Strobes and street signs
Electric tongues
Open eyes stare out the window
Smile escapes control
Keeps me silent and grateful

Unseasonably chilly
A jacket for your shivers
Spider on the flowers
Teardrop on the fire
Whisper in a vacuum

Full night under
a smile like the moon
under the low clouds
under the spirits' power

One night
Won heart
Warm tomorrow
Winter's touch.

then again, the road sounds like a good idea...

2010-04-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

when i was younger, all the dreams of doing all these things seemed so real, that iwould find time for all of them. even as we speak, a good friend of mine is in india finding time for his dream, albeit through work, but doing it all the same. im glad youre having an amazing time rusty. and im glad tha you got a tattoo in india. that rules. i dont know anyone who can say that.
after finishing a two week period of working over a hundred hours at a bar, i realized im killing myself for nothing but stupid fucking money. the positives, cause i alwaus seem to find them and latch to them in every situation, are that i have a creative outlet (making new drinks is satisfying in the same way starting a good poem but never findng the finish is-- you know you have something, but you know you can make it better), and the ability to see so many interesting, sweet, frustrating, dumb, funny, friendly, creepy, sympathetic, apathetic, enigmatic, brilliant, full, solid, tragic, moronic, romantic, questionable, questioning people full of hopes, dreams, fears, phrases, quotes, stories, tears, laughs, long nights, liquor, fire, wind, sand, grit, restaurant melodies, songs, sad times, cheap tricks, angels, reservations, etc....all the life livers and little lovers. so there's that.
the root of everything is i've been so sheltered because of my own fear to release from the controls and sift through the layers of all this life. a road trip keeps being discussed with friends jess, matt, julie, and others, and im hopng that i, as well as everyone, stay on board for this one.

her kiss was an empty rain falling on colorful skull,
a smile of fragments and run-ons under lukewarm trees
whispering "I'll never see you again." she reads
in the morning the fiction of the night before,
swears to the heavens, and frantically
gathers her flowers as the burden of clouds begin gathering
like children around a dead bird.

she's sewn water down and trembling smiles
bathed the full air open, but now
she holds her knees under a wailing tree
repeating, "this is the life for me."

freckles upturned openly, flowing,
pierced wings and imagination,

she is an open letter un(ad)dressed.

i feel as though i have let go, slid out of view, and began living someone elses dreams. this has to change. something has to give.

2009-07-09T19:35:00.000-07:00

the cavern of her clavice,
distant and echoing a rhythym of what's
come before her,
moves like the ocean at nighttime.

Dark and determined,
unabashed and unapologetic,
turning a blind eye to whoever is watching.

Lover, I'd like to bathe in your waves,
knee deep at midnight, moonlight
the only brave soul daring to cast
the shadows on your flesh,

a vacation with the windows open.

Angels wish to captivate the way the scope
of your landscape forces me to cope with my own love,

because now I'm dealing with the religion of your skin,

and tender is no way to approach this topic.

If fire and brimstone was how the sermons went,
then that's the way I will touch your bones,
swirl to white,
digit to marrow,

"White Trash Heroes" by Archers of Loaf

2009-05-09T02:52:00.001-07:00

Frozen out of focus, the sunday crowd
Started dreaming of television turned up too loud.
And coded conversations, half baked and tired,
Left us sleepy on blacktops burning the motor mile.

And underneath the arcade, details collide
There's good shopping, but all those patrons have too much style.
And moving in slow motion the boulevard started seething
With hip half-ravers in techno bars.

It ends life along the neon sign (It is like a long, imperfect time)
all speeding past, collide and crashing, I'm in paradise (on the motor mile).

Sealed in concentration (Soaked in complication), the lantern lights
Started shrinking (seething) on dead men drinking white liquor wine.
And iced with complication (condensation), the methane gas
Started leaking on bastards burning half red and black.

We can ride along in perfect time
Or speeding past, collide and crashing, I'm in paradise.

And standing at the gates of NC State fair,
I saw you smoking with all those new friends you've got to spare.
And melting back in focus the sunday crowd
Started sleeping with (dreaming of) white trash heroes, TV's turned down.

In their eyes, along the neon sky (It ends like a long, imperfect time)
All speeding past, collide and crashing, I'm in paradise (on the motor mile).
We can ride along in perfect time
Or dreaming of the white trash heroes on the motor mile (I'm in paradise).

It ends life along the neon sky (It ends life along in perfect time)
All speeding past, collide and crashing on the motor mile.
We can't lie along in perfect time
All dreaming of the white trash heroes, I'm in paradise.

Later In the Night

2009-04-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

Maybe I should write a poem.
Maybe it's time to pay the hospital bills,
eat an apple, and volunteer in a soup kitchen.

Maybe we should all recycle more and swear less.

As if this place wanted to get better,
like fixing a cheap bicycle,
you have to ask yourself if it's worth it.

I don't have children.
I'm sure parents would say that's it.
But, I do have insides unfulfilled,
a bullet hole slowly being sutured-
no, doctor this ground is not safe-
and questions to ask Time.

And the ones after me,
what questions will they be left to explore?

What will be answered and gift wrapped?
What will be waiting for their eyes to undilate,
their bodies to focus completely?
What will be waiting when their blackness says,

"I have a light."

I believe I'll begin lifting my feet.

Balancing the Throat Chakra

2009-04-28T08:34:00.000-07:00

Link to the YouTube video

i haven't figured out how to post videos straight to my website yet, but for the time being, click the link. It's a simple meditation focusing on balancing the fifth chakra, the throat. Most commonly linked to communication and creativity (being between the brain and tongue), this chakra, like all others, needs focusing. Two minute meditation is awesome.

so many

2009-04-23T21:36:00.000-07:00

It's been so many years since your mouth closed around my tiny words
and the sunken white echo of your eyes ricocheted off the wall of my skin.

Your legs bobbed, shaking your frail limbs
over a chasm of never-going-anywhere-fast
and i swear
i'll stare at you happily through the cracked and mossy windows of memory
if only the lonely hearts tonight would light their torches
and sleep soundly and safe,
comforted by the losing of minds, the sounds dying
to steal all the hope from the departed souls that hold for a return someday.

remember?

hum that tune you used to hum,
and i'll find you while i strum the guitar of my shortcomings,
i'll have a smoke while you have your drothers,
and together we can still raise the dead with whispers.

those whispers run along all the abondoned train tracks left in georgia,
a spectred network, high grass telegraph routed by ghosts
that work overtime all the time to get a dead man saved.

and i swear i'll shut my mouth while you chase fairies,
laced with ether and carried by the wind is this promise,
a promise to skim the manual of you again if you agree
to bring back the lost planets and vanish the scars
with one smile and a look that says,

i've been where it begins and lived passed the end,

and then there's me with spring, understanding the word

"friend."

Braves Opening Day Roster

2009-04-04T13:20:00.000-07:00

Congrats, Jordan Schafer.

PITCHERS (12): Jeff Bennett (RH), Blaine Boyer (RH), Jorge Campillo (RH), Buddy Carlyle (RH), Mike Gonzalez (LH), Jair Jurrjens (RH), Kenshin Kawakami (RH), Derek Lowe (RH), Peter Moylan (RH), Eric O'Flaherty (LH), Rafael Soriano (RH) and Javier Vazquez (RH)
CATCHERS (2): Brian McCann and Clint Sammons
INFIELDERS (7): Yunel Escobar, Omar Infante, Kelly Johnson, Chipper Jones, Casey Kotchman, Greg Norton and Martin Prado
OUTFIELDERS: (4): Garret Anderson, Matt Diaz, Jeff Francoeur and Jordan Schafer

Prize Winner

2009-04-02T22:50:00.001-07:00

Exhale the breath you've been holding for years.
Let go of the trowel and remove your hands from the soil.
Stand up and tell me a thing or two about
the years stuck in your eyes,
a thorn in your I-told-you-so sorta
love we got for one another because

the roses are never perfect, you told me once
no matter how well you attend to them and
that's news I painted on my back,
flower tattoo in your honor,

my mother my most tender manipulator,
dirt quietly surging to the quick of the nail,

so walk away and let the damn plants die
as we toast ourselves as pirates,
wind through the moon, lights out, ready for tomorrow.

Take Off This Mask

2009-04-02T21:23:00.000-07:00

Take off this mask, then
we will talk like kids under a white cloud sky--

you see an elephant, I see
a dying soldier on a fiery battlefield
slowly rolling over to steal one more breath.

Take off this mask, then
the conversation without words or
fear of free verse can begin with
your hand in my hand,

your hand in the hand of my heart,

a bone cradle made for your digits,
a shade tree after a bare back lay out by the pool,

I sipping the curve and contour of your skin with my eyes,
soaking in the motion of the air's dance around
us,
twitch and pose,
coo and relax,

summer forcing the brightest shine.

The wind's in bloom, on our side
in this battle of brilliance, Junior Kimbrough
on the radio, and what we must do
is ultraviolet, dividing lines
like the spine splitting the world to two
forces.

Take of this mask, then
we can take off our clothes
and revel in inhibitions,
no closed doors between the poems of my chest
and your breasts, my journey and your quest.

New Drink

2009-04-02T21:20:00.000-07:00

Snowflake

4oz. Stoli Vanil
1/2oz. Blue Curacao
1/2oz. Vanilla Liquer
Top with Pineapple Juice

Shake Vigourously

Garnish with 2 Maraschino Cherries and Pineapple Half

2 New Creations

2009-03-29T12:52:00.000-07:00

Chickapea
1) 4oz. Sweet Tea Vodka
2) 1oz. Peach Schnapps
3) 1oz. Sour Mix
4) 1oz. Club Soda

Garnish with a Lemon wedge

Bitch Better Have My Money
1) 4oz. Malibu Coconut Rum
2) 1oz. Midori
3) 10z. Apple Pucker
4) Float Pineapple Juice

Garnish with two Maraschino cherries

good variation on a Mint Julep (experiment)

2009-03-29T12:47:00.000-07:00

1) Freshly squeezed Lemon Juice
2) Splash Simple Syrup
3) 3-4 mint leaves
4) orange slice
MUDDLE
5) Bulleit Bourbon
6) Splash Fresh Peach Juice/ Peach Schnapps
ICE
7)Top with soda water
ROTATE

Decorate with orange slice & a mint leaf

The Loop

2009-03-25T16:01:00.000-07:00

Ecclesiastes 1:4 "One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth forever."

As autumn gives way to the wind of the winter
and the moon tides' ebb and flow
so shall winter die in the rebirth of spring
and the sun will rise from under the snow.

The Prophets scream of change
in their glory years of control
while the Heroes coming of age
prepare for the worlds' end to unfold.

And as the Nomad settles down
in an echo of a permanent home
the Artist will abide
and create a silence of his own.

The shadow and the stand
mirrored in spiraled divide born on the earth floor,
a subtle landslide
is pulling gravity through the Turning's door.

And this, too, shall pass...

The Hallways

2009-03-25T12:47:00.000-07:00

Faster grows the grass
than the hearts and minds of men
in these hallways of dead aesthetic
with their open mouths set to automation
sent from the proud chested ignorance on High.

halogen rooms beams through spots of white and dark,
the light faulted on the desktop and sparks of jealousy given

to a belief in the Self that seldom sees the
content of sunshine.

Growing soul, sing to the trees!
Sing to the open forest whose ears await
with all of eternities patience
for a new chorus of life in the sunlight.

The lost and thrown away lovers
hiding in those scath-ed halls
seek to bottle the music
to keep for their collection.

Rooms full of shadows with shadows
climbing up their verses' leg
The loneliness of their fading lives
beckons for accompaniment.

and the waning moon is etching a prayer
for the grieving who have lost their tune
the hillsides are renting spaces
the headstones are digging with spoons.

the rebellion is poor and tattered
waving pages in their glowing fists
their ladies protecting the fire
that burns inside their chests.

mister Lorca is perched and laughing
twirling and then blowing a kiss
and the edge on which he's dancing
is on the line of synthesis.

and all the bodies under heaven
writhing in a high school dance
remember what it means to be nervous
before the dead get into their pants.

and the lines of celestial stanzas
with the sound of angel wings
shall move deep beneath you
inside the poor, and quiet kings.

as the doorway to the Bosom opens
and the door to the Blinking closed
the frame you must pass through is
everything eternity knows.

and the bottles of the losing lovers
are breaking open as we speak
the collection is collecting its belongings
and now its time to leave.

they are heading away from the hallways
they're heading away from the streets
as night falls they'll arrive with their belongings
to the hollow edge of the sea.

and the horizon, then, will lift them
into the air and over the trees
and floating back to heaven
they'll scream the secrets of eternity.

Jaywalking Across Ashley Street

2009-03-25T12:00:00.000-07:00

Winged traveler, hopping through the
toasted grass of spring, sing me a song from
the womb of eternity. The pitch of your whistle
preaches of woe and heartache
like a pirate's dirge after the loss of a best mate.

But take heart your whistle says again
because a soul with a song has many more tales to spin.

Continuum

2009-03-23T23:29:00.000-07:00

Stretched life, growing long
faces of the past no longer belong to us.
A silent nod then we disappear around the corner
towards the lights in the distance, another other adventure that
gazers will envy.

Time is only considerate of the ones who go around him
like an opaque fog, like the long way home, but I am in love
with the ones who go through him, swollen
full with a blind quiet that
the woods know well.

hello

2009-03-22T13:16:00.000-07:00

These first few pieces represent the death of writing on myspace, and of the body of writings (if they can all be called that) on myspace, these poems represent the ones I decided to were worthy of being seen again.

Poetry will be the main focus of the blog, however, many other subjects will be tendered, as well as travels, announcements, etc....

april 2nd at Ramsey Hall UGA Performing Arts Center, Yusef Komenyakaa. 7:30pm.

april 10th at Somewhere on the UGA Campus, Andrea Petersen. reading her poetry.

Hope

2009-03-22T12:38:00.000-07:00

cigarette smoke rolls sullenly from the tongue
touching the tips of lips
slipping the sadness of saxophones to anxiously waiting waltzes
blown out from blue hearts hardened by cooler than cold hands
in the middle of love & then...

it becomes all about patience.

timing is everything when worlds
build up, expand, and smooth to the time line life provides.

Pals

2009-03-22T12:34:00.001-07:00

a man's confession
is an injured bird,
a belief on stilts
makes nothing unheard.

words are only words
our chorus will say,
and past prayers' a victim
of our walking days.

screams in protest
a bullethole's filling,
a candle vigil
a protesting ceiling.

repentance is action
consequence the belt
an angel's spit
a pirate's help

we reflect the sun
with every correspondance call

we split chatter from matters apart

anxious arms arising together
as the moody cadence falls

this is the call across the ocean's heart.

Train Whistle Blues

2009-03-22T12:17:00.001-07:00

Kenny's in a boxcar heading for the high line
He's going to the west just searching for the high line
he always made me smile but he never was a friend of mine

he left some tracks down georgia way
he stomped all over towns down georgia way
God was with ol' Kenny but he never did learn to pray

He left a tired woman at home
Kenny from Missouri left his tired woman at home
Her broken heart always reminded him that he'd never be alone

Them screeching rails will never let him go
them heavy ol' rails just won't ever let him go
his broken soul starts shakin' everytime the whistle blow

all the tears that everyone cried
will be the train that'll take 'em to the Western sun rise.

Williams Street and Oak

2009-03-22T12:08:00.001-07:00

Clay hands and amazement,
architect, tonics quake a slim foundation to the buildings, halogen
flashes of Buddha in the moonlight, a proud marquee
with the horizon's attention from handshake
to shaking lips.

Cigarette crumbling a testimony, a prouder mercy
of dashes on the road
that point us together.

Train Rider Blues

2009-03-22T12:07:00.001-07:00

There's a whistle in the distance that'll turn into a song
once this run is over & the friend of moonlight is gone.
There's a whistle in the distance & the cold is long,
& the birds will carry the tune when the sighing graveyard comes.

There's a whistle in the distance in the hands of the wind
that'll sing & roll & ramble 'till the endless tracks can go no more.
There's a whistle in the distance that's speeding around the bend,
back to the end of the line where this ghost mad trip began.

There's a whistle in the distance as the sun is heading down,
and a happy man whose smoking pipes & telling lies whose soul's forev'r train-bound.

Love Song

2009-03-22T12:05:00.001-07:00

The sky & the rolling hills are in love. I am one in the army
of the horizon's wind, a long kiss & warm whisper
between polite lovers' ears that
Travel my day-glow & bundled nighttime touch.

Under the sun, the fingertips of the trees tickle touch the waving clouds, always
fingernail praying in hopeless reverence to show human eyes
that they meet somewhere other than the Far Away for an eternal embrace.

Under the moon, the dark night hides behind the Unseen and steals
kisses from his shy courted sweetheart with anxious lips
in the arms of my wistful eyesight.

I am the reminder that the marriage is distant not.
My breath is the caretaker of their ever-reaching hands.

First Day

2009-03-22T11:55:00.000-07:00

We are awake as the first morning of the world peeking over the bed,
the mist still thick through the leaves as
the dew my hand caresses trickles down
like fog from the haunted hills into the early eyes of a calm city
that's not yet conscious enough to be mad. We have made a mockery of the night.

Cold outside,
we are wrapped in heat within each other, wanting
to open our eyes, wanting
to smell sunrise in the distance, wanting
to smile at the rose petals opening to the warm embrace of spring, wanting
to fit with the cities' first crazy inklings. We made a mockery of sleep.

Tangles of hair across the crook of my arm,
tangle of arms across the thief of the bed,
heavy breaths and bullets of bodies,

this revolution will never be televised

and the media of walls never speak words of the throes of love,
only of tears and transgressions,
but in this grey matter of change when the nighttime sails the Pacific
and the daylight breaks the horizon of the Atlantic,

we are in the margins, in parenthesis, and held timeless between the sheets,
stealing kisses from the strong hold of slumber.

Our breath, heavy and singular, is seen from miles away like prayers to the angels.
Our chests, writhing and entranced, are the moon's spell over the waves.