To Keep Some Awful Idea at Bay

And just as They approach,

As the devilish idea circles my camp,

I get away by going up,

All the way to you,

So close the water beads from your breath,

On my cheek and chin,

And I know if I'm strong enough,

Not to pass with any colours,

But to come bruised and bleeding,

Across whatever distance leads to you,

Then I'll stop sounding like such a nut,

Mostly to myself,

I keep mostly to myself,

And maybe I'll be able to stave off dying,

Long enough to enjoy being with you,

Which is the thing I want most out of this,

And I'm afraid my words are getting so repetitive I'll jeopardize the whole thing.

Please thing favorably of me,

All I need is for one person to approve,

Please see me for the monster I brought forth and feed,

And if you love me anyway,

All that is dark becomes light.

Oh Just Slap My Hand and Move On

It would be nice,

To get a smooth new jacket,

Stuff your hands in the pockets,

Feeling the fabric stretch and mold,

And walk away from a lot of it,

And you'd be a coward,

And a visionary,

Unfit and remembered as you went,

What exactly would you think about?

That's what really sticks me proper,

And does it still hurt at night,

Even sometimes?

But I don't know who I'm asking,

I don't even know if this is what I'm doing or not.

Logic, My Inhospitable Baroness

If God judges the heart,

But from our heart come our actions,

And we're such different people outside,

Then why shouldn't we get the same verdict,

Either way?

Baffled (Sometimes)

Do you think the whole world keeps spinning on what people don't say,

But really think about each other?

Sometimes when I wish I were less subtle,

I'm not,

Or maybe I could be a bit more accepting,

I'm really not,

Or Heaven help me I should be nicer,

I'm horribly not,

And eventually you come to wondering,

Just what in the world is it?

With all this realism, pessimism, flatulism,

Can it keep going?

Have I ever smiled,

Unsarcastically,

When thinking all that?

Sorry that wasn't much of a poem.

Um. What? Ok!

Slow,

Like the rise of fluster in the head,

As the night seems never to yield the sun,

Dominion over us again,

And we aren't sure of which we want,

The blurred hum of fluorescents,

Or air so clean and cold it burns our noses,

Moving from one yellow room to the next,

The paint and the people swallowing,

Every last neuron I need to decide right now,

I breathe faster,

Blink slower, more emphatically....

Out on the brick stoop,

I'm waiting to get my bearings,

And you with the same fragile agility,

Sit up on the railing,

And this is the closest I will ever be....

Now standing up,

The breeze carrying down the street,

I am in the middle,

You are watching but not that it matters,

My hands spread wide,

Eyes up, waiting.

'Hello' is all I think in this communion,

As a high drum beat cracks in time and it all moves again.

Scarlett Johansson

Waking up,

Your slender legs possessed,

Of a certain white colour,

Curl up to your chest,

The vigorous light from outside,

Investigates the room,

Your hidden face,

My unclear love,

The pages of a novel,

Long to be finished,

Lie in the corner by the stand alone lamp,

On the perfect carpet,

I am feeling the veins across and between,

My unsettling hands.

Waking up,

I feel so much more a monster,

With no one to tell me why I should.

Sleep Now, Rest Now

Over the mountain climbed,

That Pilgrim,

Devout and humbled,

His ankles flexed against the,

Shifting rock and moss,

As the pack on his back,

Felt ever tighter,

Seizing the top,

Feeling the breeze crash against his brow,

The Pilgrim could not help,

But close his eyes a brief moment,

In the temporal bliss of an earthly triumph,

Like a vapor continuing to rise.

Looking down,

The green valley peaceful,

He imagined the people there,

The weave of the baskets,

They carry from house to house,

The color of the church house,

It's worn attendance strong,

And he began down the slope,

Towards home.

His tears served to speak,

What he could not say as he passed,

Through the long rusted archway,

And saw the children,

Chasing around the fountain.

The few days left passed,

Quickly by tired Pilgrim,

Till he found the strength to forgive,

And lay relaxed on,

The old spring mattress,

Socks worn with holes.

And he imagined he had returned,

As he would that day return,

To the bosom of the Lord above,

A vapor in himself rising,

At peace,

In Joy.

I've Never Been Able to Forget

Your eyes,

So they could be first,

Your confidence,

Made things fall into place,

Where they never could,

An ebb and flow,

Your laughter bowled me over,

And how you always seemed to be going,

Don't ever dwell where we've made a habit of staying,

Messing up and complaining about it,

Keep forward of it,

In a biting new spring wind,

And when you occasionally look back,

I can be just as speechless,

Murmur out some sarcasm,

Hope you like it,

Because I'm an idealist,

A romantic to criticize,

Bring back to earth and out right hate,

For making things that aren't there,

And then trying to live in them,

So I guess that makes me a bastard too,

But in my head,

You who I've never met,

Will do wrongs to me,

I can only see now as wondrous.

Baby Thoughts

It feels like the dew of new birth,

Blinking,

Looking around at all this,

The wonderment of childhood,

I'm looking forward to it again,

When we start over at the end,

I'd be happy just to sit,

In the grass a ways from the tree,

Where all my friends are playing,

And lay back and realize,

That deadlines are extinct,

Expectations abolished,

And even though my eyes are closed,

Something shines.

Time Spent on a Futon

When it gets like this,

And yea,

Eventually it'll turn bad,

If it looks like I'm not listening,

I can only say it's hard,

And in my head I'm swaying,

Sitting cross-legged,

To a lazy beat,

That is nothing like me at the moment,

Because I'm just trying to survive.

"It's hard to remember,

We're alive for the first time."

There may be,

Only a finite amount of happiness in the world,

And that one's joy means another's grief,

And if that's so then I have a very hard time,

Believing in anything,

Except your golden hair that evening,

With fattened clouds above our heads,

And the grass stains like wounds on my jeans.

And it's morning,

And I'm feeling the pain of the sun.

(quotes by Modest Mouse, of course.)