Everything is an affair of the Spirit.– George MacDonald
A man reaches the height of egotism during moments of spiritual ecstasy. He...– Leo Tolstoy, “The Cossacks”
A Lesser Form
“Writing begins in the body, it is the music of the body, and even if the words have meaning, can sometimes have meaning, the music of the words is where the meanings begin… and what you hear is the rhythm of your heart, the beating of your heart… Writing as a lesser form of dance.” -Paul Auster, “Winter Journal” I think of me, when I was smaller, and I...
A Poem For 4-1-2013
Roses are red Violets are blue This is a poem … Fart.
This Water Is Not Living
Some days I drink too deep My stomach Fit to burst Still guzzling Still gulping Still slavering For sweet taste And my whole World shudders With the slake And the weight And the mark And the blood The levee swells And the flood Is a gnash And a hunger My flesh is gorged With the wellspring Bulging, and gasping “Enough!” Yet still I thirst.
Should A Poem-Place Become Us
I wrote a poem once About Cheyenne, Wyoming She was a pretty thing, I dressed her In metaphor And fine-spun Western imagery But she whispered of places To which I had not been And of lives I had not lived She crawled in the corners Of my eyes Hiding with memories Of my grandmother She tugged at my earlobes And laughed At my thoughtless passions In a way, she became me And...
Our Eyes Are The Rust Belt Poets
We seethe With the thunderous eyes Of young, carnivorous poets Who linger in Coffeeshop corners Waiting for girls To read their minds And our hearts Sink like iron in oceans In lieu of beating We make love Like the state of Ohio Bitter and rusty With memories of Golden days Our wills eroded And well past their prime Nothing left But hunger And anger And dark hollow eyes
Moose… Indian…– The Last Words Of Henry David Thoreau
Tim Allen is actually kind of funny.– Best bathroom graffiti in the history of ever.
To put it bluntly, the current state of academic publishing is the result of a...– Aaron Swartz Was Right - The Chronicle Review - The Chronicle of Higher Education (via infoneer-pulse)
It is not the business of government to make men virtuous or religious, or to...– Henry George (via hipsterlibertarian)
Some People Believe
That the greatest opening line in literature comes from Melville’s “Moby Dick,” or from Garcia Marquez’s “One Hundred Years Of Solitude,” or from Dickens’ “A Tale Of Two Cities.” But I firmly believe that the honor goes to Richard Kadrey and his novel “Kill The Dead.” ‘Imagine shoving a cattle-prod up a Rhino’s ass,...
Cry up from the dirge And the drone of the earth The bones, the coal, the strife Make us a lantern Give us a Way Towards life, and life, and Life
When I Grow Up
I wanna be just like Jeff Goldblum.
Ecclesiastes Sticks Sometimes, I Guess
Give up our nameless empties- And shy not from the tomb. Our pale and formless bodies Are but ghosts of vacant rooms. So as our moments taper From the hallowed ‘I’ to ‘Thou’ Remind us, we are vapors In Your grand, eternal Now.
You know when they have a fishing show on TV? They catch the fish and then let...– Mitch Hedberg
Nazis. I hate these guys.– Indiana Jones
An Open Letter
To whoever donated your VHS copy of Raiders of the Lost Ark to the Salvation Army, You are kind. But you aren’t THAT kind, because it wasn’t rewound. Regards, -Me.
At Which Point A Final Attempt At Reconciliation...
I pledge my heart And play love’s part As the fickle pathway narrows And lo, your words Are a wrath incurred And thick with thoughtless arrows I brave the squall Though bound to fall Neither loved nor needed Your love is the dream Of a fool, it seems For this battle is oft repeated
You lay dormant And dreaming, to me You are laid bare and splayed A barren tree In winter Life lies hidden And softened and green Pulsing beneath Your bark-faced sheen You splinter Into morning pieces Your eyes are sunshine lit With the love of Jesus And the droning of forests Yet it seems that your dream Is a patient thing- Shining, and sighing, And waiting for spring.
I had a hope, I had a dream I had a thought Placed in my skull And it rang From the depths Like a fleshless Miracle Eternity crept In my heart And it cut Like a knife Because the dream That I hoped for was love And the Word That I thought of was life We wear veils Of burning paper And in our own strength We are vapors
Grim, I meet the arrows of the south: Iron-wrought, and God-cursed Fathers, hear me now before I die And grant to me your bloodthirst
There is a hole in the Maker From whence we all are born And the whole of all creation Is but His shadow taking form When He breathes His life inside us We are vapors in the wind We are a whirring flash of atom Raging on in Adam’s children This is an eternal moment In which all things are shown And through all joy and sorrow The Maker makes his purpose known
The streetlamps glow Like old discarded halos And in the alley A windswept paper blows A piece of trash Or a wayward ghost? Well I’ve been Both of those.
I can hear them groan I can hear them groan The molderings that thunder Underneath our skin and bones Where a righteous spirit Makes itself a home Believing dreams of sunlit sheen Where tender green things grow In the rich dark soil Of all our decomposing shadows
All Those Thoughts
I had of you And photographs Have staccatoed Into Braille Splayed out on So much Loose-leaf notebook Paper. You yourself Are a collection Of summits The Andes In a treacherous Half-smirk- And yet Your memories Are flat And perforated, The whine of an Antique kettle. Rusted orphan words, Drowning In kitchens.
We are the engines Of our own descent, And we’ve forgotten how to love So it just drops by accident But love is a road We choose to walk And not a hole That we fall in So for good Or for ill, A pleasant stroll Or a long, hard march uphill True love, in the end Is only something we can kill
My Reputation Precedes Me
(As I patiently wait behind a guy in the parking lot who is leaning out the window, chatting to one of my fellow salesmen.)
Coworker: Oh, hey, man, you're blocking Duke in.
Guy Who Works Upstairs: Duke?
Coworker: The guy behind you? Salesman, has a beard?
Guy Who Works Upstairs: Oh! The rabbi!
There’s no such thing as Pierce Brosnan. He was made up to frighten...– Chris Fieldhouse
I’ve never killed a midget before. But there can always be a first time.– James Bond
If your heart is a caged bird Thrashing up Against your ribs Its your body hungering For something that Your spirit hasn’t felt yet. It’s every grain of sand And the tragedy of man- This gift of impermanence In any given situation While the dust And our heads Are lush With dreams of celestial station.
Some Words Are Withheld From Me, And For Good...
Some days, when I wake, the words are cruel to me. They writhe a murmurdance just outside my field of vision, and they alwaysbeckon, and they never. Give themselves over. To the tip of my tongue. Or my eyelids. In a way they are like women. Perhaps there is a beauty in strangerness, in the outside-linger of creatures too lovely to approach. In a longing too easily made into resentment. Perhaps...
Beware The Average Man The Average Woman BEWARE Their Love Their Love Is...– Charles Bukowski (from The Genius Of The Crowd)
I Resonate With,
and at the same time am repulsed by, Charles Bukowski. What a horrifically honest and terribly brutal writer. Reading his books is like rubbernecking a tragic train wreck that one just happens to be on.
"Anything with Willie Nelson in it is better."...
Coworker: I'm sure Willie Nelson tastes like chicken.
Me: Would that be herb-encrusted chicken?
Sometimes we have to “step over” our anger, our jealousy, or our...– Henri Nouwen