a blog

Journal of Psychoactive Drugs

2010-04-14T14:23:00.001-07:00

If your reading this fuck you
go outside!

Having said that, dig it,

Hope Is A Ship (Drew Brees For President)

Hope, at times for me
Is a once-great passenger ship
Breeched and sinking fast

This vessel is one that sees the Mississippi,
Floats on it for a brief period
But has no idea that it's being dominated
By the mighty, muddy beast

In these instances responsibility
Becomes government reports that are long,
Arduous and too thick to be stapled

Many people will die they say,
"200,000 people will be displaced."
This incites the mantra,
Home is where the water is not

The ship that was a home is made of steel
Neither black nor white
Its grey, so grey that it is without true color
It finds itself trapped in the womb of the dense, delta mud

The people;
The brave, the bold, the idiots, waiting for their ship to come
Sit on top of their roofs,
Now islands where they can soak up Indian Summer Sun
For the abandoned, perseverance is a suntan

THE WATER IS RISING PLEAS…

Words spray-painted white on black shingles
The rescuers, government, American people
Are suddenly illiterate

Federal law states:
Energy (money) cannot be created
Nor destroyed
But the ship is gone,
The people are in watery graves
The City is a large crescent with greedy bites taken out of it

6 years later the laws of the universe are disbanded
Ferrel dogs rule the day
And love is never having to say you care

Who Among the Argentinians

For now I am under a New Jersey Sky
Who among the Argentinians can say this isn't
a beautiful thing?

All things being equal, I am flat on my
back, legs straight, hands folded on my chest
which makes me little more than a
body at morgue

Yet this immortal sky
and the roof that I lay on
Is alive with other skies
and roofs and me and you
and roofs,
time and women
and music
That is… if everything is just so;

The stars are no longer fixed points
but glowing sperm against a backdrop of
soupy liquid
an unexplained transient black

When things go beyond description they become hallowed
One can see this in
Sleep, or the works of
Geoffrey Chaucer,
A Jersey Sky, or
You

FRAGILE: THIS END UP

2010-02-11T21:28:00.000-08:00

Once again it has been longer than I would care to admit since I have posted. I have a few more of those phone number poems and a short story to share. First time I am posting fiction on here. I wrote it during class. I was bored to tears. Like it or fight me.

908-625-1885

I will tear down your walls as a temple
Might fall to its corner stone
But from that rock a new
For there
Are seeds to grow walls
of
trees, shade from the sun in the month
of May. And the corner stone, a
symbol of what was

532-5184

You are my friend now
You were mine
Before
I have a habit
Of
Acting like You don’t miss the taste
Of that first kiss

Are YOU Writing From the Heart?

2010-01-02T22:14:00.000-08:00

It's been a long while but here's a bunch of stuff. Check it out the next time you feel bored at the office or just want to enjoy the cutting edge of literature as we know it. :0

^^^A sketch I did for my sis!

Thrush in a Storm

In the midst of a heavy snow
I saw a thrush amongst the dunes
With little cover and no where to go
The bird perched brave against his doom

Having said all that,
I am indomitable
Any road- block or set back
Proves to be nominal

In truth at times I have cowered
My face has fallen victim to ill grimace
And yet in this my final hour
I see it is not how you start but how you finish

For it is in the stars for me to battle
Though my soul may be worn
I will break free from mediocrity’s shackles
I am intrepid as a thrush in a storm

The Quandary of Einsteinium Physics

I do not know of WWI

Because I know not of drowning on land
But what hypocrisy it is to say I
Cannot speak on mustard gas
But I will design you a bomb
That kills for days if not
For always

Call that genius if you feel the need
To me it is the call to arms
Every man feels
It is the essential want to take to the sea
It is the secret urge to make
Another man bleed or change the way
He gets up in the morning

Untitled Two (Up and Down)

You interest me in the way
That death does,
In the way that strangers can,
In the way that complicated surgeries might

You perplex me deeply enough
That I write about you often,
That you break and build
Walls in my subconscious,
That you feel like a warm ghost in my arms

You demand my gaze that same way
A fine building will
Or an early-spring snow,
Or a doe in heat

You make me crave you
Like a steak,
Like spending money,
The way I crave attention

You bend me as
Light bends in an eclipse, subtle and yet undeniable,
I bend like the rules do
For the rich and bold

You call me to arms
Like revolution in the streets,
A revolution on the page,
A revolution through the speakers

You inspire me no less than a favorable sky to write
A new pair of shoes to walk
A great athletic feat to play

You fill a space like a home-made poster,
A sold out concert
A partner in crime riding shotgun

You have me searching for you
The way I search for
My mother,
My father,
My sister,
My brother,
Julian.

You have me
You have all
You have me in the way
That up always has down

What's the real scoop on BK?

2009-12-01T21:33:00.000-08:00

My sporting pastime :D

Some phone number poems that a creative writing teacher had us do. The first i did about a week ago. the second i did a year ago. The third poem is one i did last spring. dig it. or don't.

204-6879

Won’t talk
For Two weeks or
More, so says etiquette
And what if I don’t see you in
Three weeks or four? That promise
You made, will you still
Remember it?

Write me a Pretty One M.R.

In the not too far off distance
I here the faint splashing of an indie song,
That reminds me of you ?

Maybe not of you,
But your gait
And if I want to reminisce about
Your demeanor I will twist
And gnarl and damage the song
To be who you were,

To me , it is as if
Whenever I think of the grand entrance
Of the natural history museum you are there
On the steps, in a deceitful black dress

And I weep like a wound infected
Half because you are heaven
An eighth because you are a day at the DMV
Or worse

I’m not alone
I have a partner for checkers
The computer
But I find that you can’t have a laugh
About how bad you are
With someone that much better than you

I’m now on loan
But what a strange feeling it is to own
Half of someone
Like when you take a lean
On a car,
Sure, the bank could take it back

But would they understand the eight-week-old,
Chulupa in the back seat?
Would anyone understand

Your tongue?
Or might they suck
The life out of it
Only to cut it out later

I recognize the song
And draw it closer to me
I have bent the sound to fit me,
To suit you,
Fake- deaf, I tune it out
Only to have my conk- shell –for- an- ear
Throw it back up in a fishy -mess

Then it laughs at me and says,
“Don’t be silly now, I’m your song forever.”

I can’t handle that
So I run away leaving my brain
Behind
My brain is on the ground bleeding
Saying, “Oh! How embarrassing to wear red after my birthday!”

261-7818

I can’t
Be like mountain of rock
I
Live like sand in wind. Like hands
On a clock. Ever dynamic
Pick
Me, cast me aside
Skipping stone

I need a shot of ambition

2009-11-05T09:42:00.000-08:00

Poem one
A Poem For Nicholas Dogas

At night the leaves are a yellow phosphorescent
The sick, pale moon a waning crescent
This is the Hour of Witching
I glide on my 10 speed wishing...

Poem 2. I dare you to translate the title

يا اخي اين انت
السلام الذي يتجاوز ال
(Ha Bhai Kaha Hona Apa,
Shantih, Shantih, Shantih)

When it spilled on Jerusalem’s streets: Blood
As we march for our flag to the drummer’s beats: Blood

From a mother’s schism streams
From the hands of the laboring craftsmen it weeps: Blood

When the weak are cut down,
It is the healer into whose bandage it seeps: Blood

As it pours from Ali’s nose
When his face and punch meet: Blood

It is what we share
A sacred promise that I keep: Blood

I put it into all that I sow
And so it is in all that I reap: Blood

Love is blood
And so it will be Julian until we meet: Blood

What else can be said about Eric Cantona that has not Already Been Said?

2009-10-14T09:40:00.000-07:00

Lesley's Tattoo
Proves True

Everyone’s so damn far
away
Everything is on steroids

And as all we know
Swells to sizes more
Than even god planed
They inevitably come in between us

The way a 70 inch TV splits a family apart
To opposite hemispheres of their “living”- room -world
“Can you hear me over there Brother? Sister?”
“Not listening.”
“Can’t see you.”

Electronic wedges that push us farther
And farther from our fathers

“Dad I just called because you never
answered my textual message
And email is too slow as you well know.”

“Come home son.” He concedes

“I lost my way home pop.”

“You’re right, I guess the 50’s are done and The Wonder Years
is long out of syndication.”

So I’m an alien on this phallic- like stretch of land.

Ponce de Leon would claim it for his peninsula as
A peninsula of eternal life
A greater man than I would label it “The happiest place on earth.”

But all I know is this:
This earthen penis might as well be an island off the coast of nowhere
Gainesville might as well be in Russia, rather
The Steppes of Asia Minor
And you most certainly are
An aberration from a softer night far ago

I guess I’ll see it all half full and live
In my State of Confusion
Located somewhere between the North and South Pole

Call it self pity, but no one but people like me understand
The concept of one million miles
Meet me halfway, someplace if you agree

Live in States of Unknown
So then you will
Always have a home

The Chimes Blew Just so You could Hear a Language They Hadn't Spoken For Years of Night

2009-10-10T12:58:00.000-07:00

<<

^^^ the work of Pat Buck

like my good friend pat explores the limits and parameters of photo shop and his bothers leaping abilities, I want to explore poetry on here so I firgure I will post some different types of poetry I have created. Please feel free to comment in anyway. The first is a poem i just put together today I was a bit inspired by the word ethereal. hmmm. it went through alot of transformation and eventually i just decided to ryhm.

The Ethereal Life of Esther Steel
The ethereal life of Esther SteelBegan in the morning, with a morning meal
The day was turned upside-down upon slipping on a banana peal
Dr. Robert said, “Esther Steel, are you ok? How do you feel?”
She broke her brain, but for Dr. Robbie she was head-over- heels
“I’m sorry, I’m far too old for you Ms. Steel.”
But it was too late she had already given him her heart’s full zeal
And under cover of night with the devil she struck a deal
By hook or by crook their love would be real
So she sent him love letter signed and sealed
Then went to Dr, Robert’s for an evening meal
She drank a blush wine and ate Dr. Robert with side of veal.

The second is a poem i wrote for a girl who is an engeneering major. it was over the summer it was the first poem of it's kind and the first thing in genral i had written in quite a long time. it made me happy. i hope you like it. she claimed to.... though i haven't seen her since...

Civilly Mechanical
I feel you in the nuts and bolts of me
And if you want to be mechanical about it
You leave the very hinges of my soul undone
Come in
No one ever said a sweet word to me
Without a knife to my spine soon to follow
No one has woke the ghost of my motherI asked her, “Mother, can you see that light across Peck’s Beach, to the North?”
No one owns light
And it cannot be contained by any set of four walls or three
You see, if I wanted another piece of property
In the form of a pretty faceI’d have traded my mind again
For the spoils of another less-than-honorable war
And her name would be…What use be a name for that type of woman?
At this point in my life, what name could evoke anything?
Other than yours, the one that I want to sing
What’s a future without you?Not one I’d care to begin
I scaled a bridge the other dayWhat a lofty bridge it was,
Like something you might have dreamed up
Atop I saw a sun so bright,So piercing
I could not look away
To say it reminded me of you would be no truer
Than all those pretty faces,
You my dear are less harsh than that blistering orb
But to be sure,I wanted you next to me
all the while that I burned in the sun.

Coming to you live from florida (go figure)

2009-10-02T11:01:00.000-07:00

^^^went on google to find my classic etching and saw this on the front page. killer !^^^

I'm back you fucks! and in truth, I never left. I'm speaking frankly and as if anyone ever read this thing in the first place! haha. oh well occording to this thing i have one "follower" (i'm like jesus) it's alie singer. I highly doubt she ever read my shit. Alie I still owe you that DVD. haha fuck it. I'm realizing i'm not where near as articulate as i was ner' a year ago. with that said i present a bit of original verse. enjoy ya'll ;)

All the Chickens Will be Laughing (Trees of Brooklyn Revisited)

Never mind the best of us
I, I have seen the rest of us wander out into the desert parking lots, exodus from bars and rest stops with no sleep drunk behind wheels that take them no where in particular.
Bodies and minds prostituted in our highest universities. “Before I throw you out of my class may I ask you why you have such a sense of entitlement?”
We are all entitled to learn and to do it at no greater cost then our time and our blood and fears and ambition.

We have gone on too long to see men without women and men with out men. Men without sex because there is no revolution. The women are too busy texting while driving and they are now dead. Free love is as dead as communism and the act of necking at the drive in.

Men are turned boys again who live on couches in one room basements in basements in basements in cages. Just where they ought to be, youthful beasts, who wish to make more of their lives, wish to make anything at all.

I have worked shoulder to shoulder with those that do not want to work because it can’t even pay the bills. Why dig your own grave only to die trying to dig your way out?
And yet even to the lucky ones death never comes. There is no cold only the burn of want, ever and always.

Perhaps money is a sickness far greater than those who suffer and sweat through swine flu and strep throat, have broken legs, loose bowls and AIDS. HA! For money won’t afford them the 300 hundred dollar lift in the ambulance. So even the dead are not dead, they are being fucked instead.

Then there are the zombies those that walk both day and night, rather endless night loyally addicted to a tin of tobacco or a real wicked pack. Forget what they tell you about health risk, at 7 bucks a pop tabbacy can’t feed your baby and winter is coming fast.

People have forgotten the elderly that walk the sides of the roads waiting for handicapped access to their graves. Perhaps it’s because the old has forgotten the young just as much. But lest we forget, I speak to you as a fountain of youth.

“Let them eat cake!” OR feast on handfuls of Slim Jims and pour me a tall, warm Pap’s Blue Ribbon because bread and eggs and water are for the Prince of Monte Carlo and food stamps are too passé, besides they aren’t even stamps anymore!

I want to cry for the many with broken hearts sewn together through strings of text messages and with the precession of a Nike sweat shop worker. The heart of the world is coming undone. Touch the next person you see before it’s too late.

Finally a word to the wise, more specifically the literate: My generation knows God is dead (we found his body in one of those soggy bar parking lots after a night of Quizzo) yet so is science (Discovery Channel is way boring nowadays). We are alone as a tree in Brooklyn.

I drew you a picture of my life so that you can see

2008-12-22T20:31:00.000-08:00

It's not an etching, rather an ink blot test

And so my friends this is the end of the journey if you will. We have been on quite a ride indeed. Love at dodge, a seemingly insurmountable illness, introductions into the world of book reviews and publishing and 3 brilliant writers coming to our humble campus. I'm lucky i'm alive and so are you. I hope you enjoyed the new writers i have acquainted you with and i hope you equally appreciated my senseless musing and pictures. With that i bid you ado before i wear out my readers welcome. Cheers!

The Lion Sleeps

2008-11-27T20:10:00.000-08:00

For the third round of voting i went into it with what i would consider one winner and one loser. Aaron Belz being the winner. This is essentially what i found of him:

Born in 1971 Aaron Belz a native of Iowa now lives in St. Louis, Missouri where he is the host of the Observable Reading Serious. His poems have appeared in journals such as, The Boston Review, Fine Madness, Court Green and Jacket. He’s sick wit’ it.
Quote by Belz
“I am against the sing-songy way a lot of poets read their poems. You know, with a lilting inflection at the end of each line. Blah! But if I had the power to change one thing it would be the fact that a lot of poets don't use complete sentences in their poems. They seem to be thinking, 'Ah, this is art, my readers will get it.' We don't! The emperor has no clothes!”

Excerpt from The Bird Hoverer

Scarecrow

Scarecrow, scarecrow, what have you heard?

I”ve heard about the blackbird and nothing more.

What of the moon, shinning bright on this night?

I haven’t heard of that. Like I said, just the blackbird.

Blackbird

Blackbird, good friend, what do you know?

I know of the scarecrow and nothing else.

What of the corn in its thousands of rows?

Dude, just the scarecrow. Are you deaf?

Conclusio

The scarecrow was marginally nicer than the blackbird.

Both were somewhat flippant, but the blackbird

Was really kind of a jerkoff. He needs treatment.

They both need treatment, but the blackbird needs it more.

He's sweet. I like him cuz he has this dark sort of humor behind most of his poems.

The loser Brett Lott i picked merely because i was running out of options and i read a few of his short stories. they weren't that good but they weren't that bad either. Turns out both were losers in the end though because Belz already read at tcnj last year and Lott, well Lott just didn't make the cut.

I heard a story from the sailors of the santa maria

2008-11-22T19:33:00.000-08:00

A Note: Kind of going back to the whole Joshua Beckman thing, No one in life, wants to be edited. People want to do what they want to do simply. It is harder to stand corrected than to lay on the ground as a blind fool to our errors. As a writer and a person i would like to make an concerted effort to remember this and by being mindful of it be more open the opinions and suggestions of others. I think more people should be open to suggestion because none of us are perfect. It is difficult to change, but instead of running from change we should embrace it because it gets us closer to being complete.

A New Friend

2008-11-13T18:22:00.000-08:00

Not Dwight Garner

We had to go to NYC last weds. for this class to see things that had to do with this class somehow. My AM group went to the seldom-ever seen by human eyes New York Times Book Review where we got to meet what some say is one of their most distinguished book reviewer. The place unto itself was interesting. They had these real-time news tickers that I really can't drescribe but they were random and sweet. The security guard wouldn't allow me to rest my bones on their "very clean" floor. Perhaps they thought i would dirty it. When we met the previously mentioned legend himself, dwight garner he was a realitivly unimpressive man to look at physically but you could tell her was no doubt a master at his craft. His desk and work space was literally littered with books like Ted Nugents autobiography "Ted, White and Blue" and various other cook book types. He talked. We asked Questions. He had a meeting. We left after roughly 45 minutes. I learned that i wouldn't want to be a book reviewer. the job is just too awesome for me. Afterwards we ate at a bad irsh pub. On the train ride home i lost my ticket and saw two guys fight. I still owe duncan 12 dollars.

This will be the day that i die

2008-11-03T17:04:00.000-08:00

One of these is me

I wonder sometimes about this whole voting process. We are supposed to judge an artist based on a small presentation that is centered around an 8x10 sheet of paper that features a mere blurb of the authors work. It's hard to truly encapsulate and author in such a limited sample and so short a time. Half the time it seems like people (myself included) are voting for whoever has the best picture. Do I like Ava Limon? No, but i'd like to watch her read some poetry in front of me in a skirt. The process is certainly flawed and great writers are surely slipping through the cracks based on looking like a dad or having a less than impressive sales pitch by one of my class mates. but i suppose this is the only feasible way short of assigning people to read an entire collection their work.

In a fog but still able to blog

2008-10-30T17:24:00.000-07:00

Joshua Beckman came and read last week and it is true what they say about him, he is the rockstar of the poetic world lol. He read with a varied staccato baritone delivery, that reminded me of the vocal stylings of poets of old like Frost or even T.S. Eliot. His poems had an emotional weight to them, while at the same time had the sparse ambiguity of poetry of todays era. Speaking of sparse, he read from his one collection of one line poems. I wonder about the nature of such collections; is that in fact poetry or rather small thoughts expressed in a flowery nature? I suppose anything that you put onto paper can carry the title of "poem" if the writer intends it to be. I would almost wanna see all of the hundreds of one liners somehow positioned together as one long, almost epic poem, if for nothing else than sheer experimentation.

The other thing i found interesting is how Beckman edits himself. What's the story on that? That then means he has no realistic means of checks and balances on his creativity and thusly is writing things that are on some level totally artistically biased. From a readers perspective one has to feel like they are in a way being tricked and even short changed. From a fellow bard's perspective the idea of uninhibited, unsensored creative liscense is simply mouthwatering.

Fuck it.

2008-10-24T21:14:00.000-07:00

Ya ya ya picture. Fuck it

Still Suffering. Butttttt I Found a Poet named Chris Abani. I think I saw him at the Dodge Poetry fest. Who knows though I was too busy trying to hook up with the strumpet of a girl I took to the thing. Anyway he’s brilliant. He has an organic feel to him ,but at the same time the polished skills of a poet who could no- doubt one day be a laurite of our nation. Perhaps I am going over board, but in any right this guy is rad. He’s raw, humorous, tender and uncommonly eloquent especially given the things that he talks about in his poetry (political turmoil, genocide in his home land ext.) He rocks. Mono is butt.

mono

2008-10-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

Picture that expresses my mood? Mood being Hell.

Sooooo remember when I thought I had the bubonic plague? Yeah turns out that was mono. So right now I am coming to you from under the lonely depths of my bed covers. Life truly blows. I figure I will maybe blog more while I am dying with this strange infliction. Maybe write some poetry about mono, who knows right? And frankly… who cares? I’m truly in the doldrums. Relating back to class, this syndrome may yet afford me ample time to find some kick-ass new writers to present to the class. Or allow me time to try new sleeping positions. What do you all say to legs behind my head? May eliminate snoring.

Carlos Tevez is Raw, However, Torres Rules House

2008-10-09T20:09:00.000-07:00

It is true that today I feel like hell, having said that I’m still not above the finer things in life. Thusly I give this picture:

Last night I went to bed with the sweet chirping of the meadowlark. Of course for any poetry enthusiast we know this means I went to bed at about 5:30 am. The details of why shall remain unmentioned. Get your mind out of the gutter perverts. Despite the lack of rest I had a robust day that would have made an outdoors man the likes of Hemmingway or perhaps Bill Dance proud. Upon returning from my swim practice I felt as though I contracted the Bubonic Plague and Typhoid Fever at the same time. Indeed I was suffering from a high grade of heat stroke, a strange head ache and back that felt like it had the very Gordian Knott lodged within it. Where O’ where is my Alexander?!? As with most of my ramblings you may asking yourself is he sane? Why am I reading this rubbish? And further what relevance does this have to do with Writing Communities? In this case not much other than the fact that I may die and I might not be in class next week, or ever again for that matter. I am feeling a third wind coming on. Perhaps this typhoid fever is really just a much-ado about nothing. J

I am R Kelly

2008-10-02T23:59:00.000-07:00

As always I'll start of with a pic that showcases not only my mood, but my current artistic motifs:

So today I went to a concert in philly. The band name was fleet foxes. They were sensational beyond belief. A sound that hearkens us back to the days of yore when men were men and CSN had Young. There are four major singers in this ensemble, but when their mellifluous melodies combine it is as if near every one of the angles of heaven sang. Seriously... check them out. They are boss to the Nth degree. Specifically commenting on the lead singers voice no real parallel comes to mind, rather the sublime combination of many of the most legendary of troubadours with the weathered, journeyed appeal of a So- Ho street performer. What does all this have to do with our class? Well, you know how we are supposed be picking out poets to come for next year? I vote fleet foxes. Their harmonies speak to me with the same rhythm of a Shakespearian masterpiece

I fell in love at dodge

2008-09-28T18:46:00.000-07:00

i'm gonna begin with a picture that is a summation of my moods ^^^

So i decided to move my journal thing to blog form. I feel like i've conformed to the masses of people who use these things to dish out their two cents as if people ever actually read them. In any event this is my blog. Yesterday i went to the dodge poetry festival with one of my room mates nick and my new friend alyssa, we saw many of the poets read. My favorite part was seeing Billy Collins talk on craft. I have never really read him but the things he had to say about craft were both insightful and starkly simple. He said things like make the first two lines of your poem very simple, let the reader in. He also gave valuable information about trying to get published. He said you have to stack manuscripts you send editors with the best stuff towards the front. Common sense stuff.

the festival was great. alyssa and i got lost terribly on the way home. maybe next year they should make it closer to TCNJ since most of their patrons were from there.