Part 3 (a short chapter)
“Stomp”
I wake up in a dark room.
All I can remember is the blotted out sun,
Terror,
And wondering if the crowd would even react,
I know I’m awake usually due to
The pain.
I am even more acutely aware of my waking state,
Because I feel nothing.
It’s not hot.
It’s not cold,
There’s no pain at all.
Nothing.
No feeling of a bed,
Steel table under my back.
Too dark to know if I’m moving my.
Proprioception is shit.
I hear a click.
Nothing.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 4, 2011
Chase Scene (part 2)
Chase Scene Part 2 (Started in last post)
Part 2
I should have stayed still.
Damn fight or flight reflex.
The second I break into the open
The bird of paradise swoops over the crowd.
It catches me quickly, as flying creatures usually can do.
It’s beautiful tail feathers flowing behind.
It makes it to my ear and whispers
In the voice of my father,
“you know you can’t run,
you know you can’t hide,
She’ll find you.
We can guess where you go,
And watch you from the sky,
From the roots,
From the eyes of marching elephants.”
With an odd cackle it returns skyward.
I never stop running,
And slam directly into the parade route
Through a break in the crowd.
Directly in front of me towers a cyborg
Elephant, marching in loose ranks with the parade,
“Stomp,” I hear him whisper.
The giant head swung towards me,
As I attempted to change directions,
But lose my footing.
Staring skyward,
A foot the size of my chest
Seems to hover above me.
Gravity.
“stomp”
Part 2
I should have stayed still.
Damn fight or flight reflex.
The second I break into the open
The bird of paradise swoops over the crowd.
It catches me quickly, as flying creatures usually can do.
It’s beautiful tail feathers flowing behind.
It makes it to my ear and whispers
In the voice of my father,
“you know you can’t run,
you know you can’t hide,
She’ll find you.
We can guess where you go,
And watch you from the sky,
From the roots,
From the eyes of marching elephants.”
With an odd cackle it returns skyward.
I never stop running,
And slam directly into the parade route
Through a break in the crowd.
Directly in front of me towers a cyborg
Elephant, marching in loose ranks with the parade,
“Stomp,” I hear him whisper.
The giant head swung towards me,
As I attempted to change directions,
But lose my footing.
Staring skyward,
A foot the size of my chest
Seems to hover above me.
Gravity.
“stomp”
Sep 28, 2011
Chase Scene (part 1)
Currently Titled Chase Scene (part 1)
There’s a chase going on,
down the busy streets of an old world city.
I’m sweating bullets in a secondhand,
but well-fitted suit.
My hair is flowing behind me,
in a windblown/disheveled state.
I turn down alleyways that house their
own centuries-old microcultures,
running underneath multicolored clothes lines,
dodging cats and vagrants sharing space on the
narrow slit of pavement.
In my dash, I almost miss the alluring smell of a
slum cooked meal.
There’s pain shooting up through both my legs,
if I stop I’ll double over, heaving and gasping for air…
but they’re after me.
They’re coming.
At the end of the alley, I run through the back of a smoke-filled
business, selling sin like bread in a bakery.
Perfume, sex, and anticipated violence linger in the air,
but I plow through the patrons’ heckles and protests and
break out onto a busy street.
It’s a parade day.
I’m blinded by the colors of the costumes on the street
after the shadows of the alley and the absolute darkness
of the brothel.
I stop to catch my breath because no matter how hard I push,
the crowd doesn’t part.
Maybe there is safety in numbers.
The look on my face, rapid breath, and clenched fists
are the only things that separate me from the crowd.
I am, or at least could’ve been one of them.
Should I blame curiosity?
Should I blame stupidity?
Or jealousy?
Or, as most end up doing, my mother?
I slowly take in my surroundings.
No sign of my pursuers, but they have
a habit of disappearing for moment,
only to reappear around the next bend.
The parade passes.
For the first time I notice the sound
of thousands of drums and horns
being played in a rhythmless orgy
by those marching and those watching.
Unicorns prance by,
followed by robots,
and a chained but menacing dragon,
all surrounded by tumbling musicians,
and music playing tumblers.
This madness, this new rainbow
of weapons of war, festival,
triumph, the modern, and the magical,
has mesmerized the populace.
Over the crowd I notice a bird of paradise
with purpose in its eyes.
I push back out of the masses,
knocking over a woman and child,
I’ll never be one of them again.
They’re still after me,
as I run in no particular direction
but away.
I will add to this in future posts. Maybe I'll escape. Please check my other semi-professional blog on Health and my studies to become a Naturopathic Doctor.
www.learningtoappreciatethesilence.blogspot.com
Thanks,
and cheers!
Bob Fantastic
There’s a chase going on,
down the busy streets of an old world city.
I’m sweating bullets in a secondhand,
but well-fitted suit.
My hair is flowing behind me,
in a windblown/disheveled state.
I turn down alleyways that house their
own centuries-old microcultures,
running underneath multicolored clothes lines,
dodging cats and vagrants sharing space on the
narrow slit of pavement.
In my dash, I almost miss the alluring smell of a
slum cooked meal.
There’s pain shooting up through both my legs,
if I stop I’ll double over, heaving and gasping for air…
but they’re after me.
They’re coming.
At the end of the alley, I run through the back of a smoke-filled
business, selling sin like bread in a bakery.
Perfume, sex, and anticipated violence linger in the air,
but I plow through the patrons’ heckles and protests and
break out onto a busy street.
It’s a parade day.
I’m blinded by the colors of the costumes on the street
after the shadows of the alley and the absolute darkness
of the brothel.
I stop to catch my breath because no matter how hard I push,
the crowd doesn’t part.
Maybe there is safety in numbers.
The look on my face, rapid breath, and clenched fists
are the only things that separate me from the crowd.
I am, or at least could’ve been one of them.
Should I blame curiosity?
Should I blame stupidity?
Or jealousy?
Or, as most end up doing, my mother?
I slowly take in my surroundings.
No sign of my pursuers, but they have
a habit of disappearing for moment,
only to reappear around the next bend.
The parade passes.
For the first time I notice the sound
of thousands of drums and horns
being played in a rhythmless orgy
by those marching and those watching.
Unicorns prance by,
followed by robots,
and a chained but menacing dragon,
all surrounded by tumbling musicians,
and music playing tumblers.
This madness, this new rainbow
of weapons of war, festival,
triumph, the modern, and the magical,
has mesmerized the populace.
Over the crowd I notice a bird of paradise
with purpose in its eyes.
I push back out of the masses,
knocking over a woman and child,
I’ll never be one of them again.
They’re still after me,
as I run in no particular direction
but away.
I will add to this in future posts. Maybe I'll escape. Please check my other semi-professional blog on Health and my studies to become a Naturopathic Doctor.
www.learningtoappreciatethesilence.blogspot.com
Thanks,
and cheers!
Bob Fantastic
Aug 27, 2011
Summer Sun ins't as inspiring as Winter Rain
Remember, these are all unedited...
Outrospective:
Haven't put my thoughts down
since the sun came out,
Summer's nine month gestation
in light Oregon rain inspire
far more introspection.
Today I embrace outrospection
in the 85 degree perfection and sunshine.
The four unique draw bridges,
I can see with a simple turn of the head
from my park bench,
impressed at how good hot coffee is
even in this heat.
at Tugboats
at everyone's headphones (and what they're listening to)
at dedicated lunchtime joggers,
at the sleeping vagrant's beard and happy mutt
at the train blowing it's whistle.
All impressive, all magic,
All without moving anything but my head.
not even straining my neck.
I wonder what I'll find deeper into the city,
I strap on my helmet, travel three blocks and...
A Eulogy to a Weezer T-shirt:
Oh Weezer Shirt, My Weezer Shirt (thanks to Walt Whitman and Robin Williams)
Oh Weezer Shirt, My Weezer shirt
We are gathered here today, to give thanks to the shelter,
the branding, the false sense of being cool and part of something,
imparted by this black graphic tee, that was somehow more,
somehow a representation of everything good in the 1990s.
It didn’t make me look like Buddy Holly,
or more attractive to half Japanese girls, but it traveled
from state to state, early high school, to college, through marriage,
to post-bac work, and almost made it to medical school.
It made its final stand floating down a river
in a cheap inner tube with good friends and a bag of pork rinds
before it was actually warm enough for said activity.
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer Shirt
You weren’t given to goodwill to decorate a new
high school freshman or an ironic hipster,
you faded and deteriorated as I was towed upstream after having failed
to make a successful landing at the boat put out.
One last protection, for one last failure.
Oh Weezer shirt, my Weezer shirt,
How many bad religious and philosophical discussions did you witness?
You were there for me at church camp…and after that went down in
a blazing campfire of revelation.
And one too many viewings of Dead Poet’s Society.
You were there through cases of diet coke,
an attempt at straight edge, cases of beer,
bottles of wine, pizza, suicide attempts, and awful hair choices.
And now you’ve gone away to retro tee-shirt museum in the sky,
And we salute you.
You had little to do with the band that sold you,
and more with a representation of geek chic before it was
the in thing.
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer shirt,
You were cool and then uncool, until becoming cool again.
You made it ok for me to read comic books, and worship the
X-Men more than the Bible,
Secure that I’d never lose my insecurities.
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer shirt,
Fallen apart at the seams,
Left at peace on the riverbank.
Here’s to one last unironic Kiss song,
and taking my bike to work,
You made it all ok,
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer Shirt.
Outrospective:
Haven't put my thoughts down
since the sun came out,
Summer's nine month gestation
in light Oregon rain inspire
far more introspection.
Today I embrace outrospection
in the 85 degree perfection and sunshine.
The four unique draw bridges,
I can see with a simple turn of the head
from my park bench,
impressed at how good hot coffee is
even in this heat.
at Tugboats
at everyone's headphones (and what they're listening to)
at dedicated lunchtime joggers,
at the sleeping vagrant's beard and happy mutt
at the train blowing it's whistle.
All impressive, all magic,
All without moving anything but my head.
not even straining my neck.
I wonder what I'll find deeper into the city,
I strap on my helmet, travel three blocks and...
A Eulogy to a Weezer T-shirt:
Oh Weezer Shirt, My Weezer Shirt (thanks to Walt Whitman and Robin Williams)
Oh Weezer Shirt, My Weezer shirt
We are gathered here today, to give thanks to the shelter,
the branding, the false sense of being cool and part of something,
imparted by this black graphic tee, that was somehow more,
somehow a representation of everything good in the 1990s.
It didn’t make me look like Buddy Holly,
or more attractive to half Japanese girls, but it traveled
from state to state, early high school, to college, through marriage,
to post-bac work, and almost made it to medical school.
It made its final stand floating down a river
in a cheap inner tube with good friends and a bag of pork rinds
before it was actually warm enough for said activity.
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer Shirt
You weren’t given to goodwill to decorate a new
high school freshman or an ironic hipster,
you faded and deteriorated as I was towed upstream after having failed
to make a successful landing at the boat put out.
One last protection, for one last failure.
Oh Weezer shirt, my Weezer shirt,
How many bad religious and philosophical discussions did you witness?
You were there for me at church camp…and after that went down in
a blazing campfire of revelation.
And one too many viewings of Dead Poet’s Society.
You were there through cases of diet coke,
an attempt at straight edge, cases of beer,
bottles of wine, pizza, suicide attempts, and awful hair choices.
And now you’ve gone away to retro tee-shirt museum in the sky,
And we salute you.
You had little to do with the band that sold you,
and more with a representation of geek chic before it was
the in thing.
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer shirt,
You were cool and then uncool, until becoming cool again.
You made it ok for me to read comic books, and worship the
X-Men more than the Bible,
Secure that I’d never lose my insecurities.
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer shirt,
Fallen apart at the seams,
Left at peace on the riverbank.
Here’s to one last unironic Kiss song,
and taking my bike to work,
You made it all ok,
Oh Weezer shirt, My Weezer Shirt.
Jun 19, 2011
Legacy
This is my father's day post...
Legacy
There’s a record playing.
My dad’s from 1972…
He was only 16 when he bought it,
If you asked him, he mowed a hundred lawns,
And took a loan out from his dad to buy it.
Now it’s mine,
Spinning.
Singing,
Same voice,
Same words, from almost 40 years ago,
The sound crackles in the same place,
And I like to think,
That despite out differences over the year,
When I turn this on,
I feel the same as he did,
That day,
So long ago,
When he walked into a record store,
Braving the hippies and disco dancers
He bemoans, to buy a plastic disc,
That he could never imagine,
His son spinning in his own living room
With his own wife,
And his own beat up speakers,
Feeling a little too old himself
A million years later,
And thousands of miles away.
Right at home.
Legacy
There’s a record playing.
My dad’s from 1972…
He was only 16 when he bought it,
If you asked him, he mowed a hundred lawns,
And took a loan out from his dad to buy it.
Now it’s mine,
Spinning.
Singing,
Same voice,
Same words, from almost 40 years ago,
The sound crackles in the same place,
And I like to think,
That despite out differences over the year,
When I turn this on,
I feel the same as he did,
That day,
So long ago,
When he walked into a record store,
Braving the hippies and disco dancers
He bemoans, to buy a plastic disc,
That he could never imagine,
His son spinning in his own living room
With his own wife,
And his own beat up speakers,
Feeling a little too old himself
A million years later,
And thousands of miles away.
Right at home.
Petina
I just had the best day I've had in years for my birthday. It involved my toilet breaking, a man's hand dyed blue, and seventeen people eating sausages in our parking spot...I have not written many words for a while, but sometimes I think that's ok.
Petina
My fingers have grown rusty.
True, there have been words hammered out,
But not in a celebratory way,
Not excited,
Just pouring bullshit on a page.
My creativity has oxidized.
But with patience,
It’s a patina one can grow to love.
Because time,
And friends,
And drinks,
And sunsets,
And pets,
And lovers,
And adventures,
And taboos,
And work,
And school,
And bicycles,
And coffee,
And laundry,
And groceries,
And recipes,
All take up time,
That may or may not have been better spent,
Exploring the caverns of my keyboard,
Exchanging pleasantries with my pen.
I could’ve avoided the wear and tear,
And present my first library,
But souvenirs have no soul,
I always prefer an antique.
Petina
My fingers have grown rusty.
True, there have been words hammered out,
But not in a celebratory way,
Not excited,
Just pouring bullshit on a page.
My creativity has oxidized.
But with patience,
It’s a patina one can grow to love.
Because time,
And friends,
And drinks,
And sunsets,
And pets,
And lovers,
And adventures,
And taboos,
And work,
And school,
And bicycles,
And coffee,
And laundry,
And groceries,
And recipes,
All take up time,
That may or may not have been better spent,
Exploring the caverns of my keyboard,
Exchanging pleasantries with my pen.
I could’ve avoided the wear and tear,
And present my first library,
But souvenirs have no soul,
I always prefer an antique.
May 26, 2011
King Arthur's DNA (or a history of things I've written)
So instead of being productive this morning, I felt like I needed to unburden my brain a little. I needed to throw up my past. Instead of deeply analyzing my life, I looked through my old poetry. All the way back to middle school. Sadly I'm not much better now and in many ways I'm worse. I can't seem to tap into the beauty , faith (even if it was misplaced then), or hope the same way. But as I've said here before, I don't think that's what my poetry is for anymore. It's more to get through the day. It's better than any antidepressant I've been given. I woke up in funk and cured myself with coffee and an hour of writing. So cheers, and if you read this, remember being 12 or 13 and do it fondly with life's ever present rose colored filter.
(note this poem is unedited in total because I have to return paint to JoAnn Fabrics: oh the exciting life)
King Arthur's DNA (or a history of things I've written)
My first attempts at poetry were heroic
Rebellion.
Against my inability to meet girls,
my few friends,
my somewhat isolating view on the world,
My optimism that one day,
I could be a superhero,
Like Spiderman,
or Luke Skywalker.
The refrains of those poems
often still ring in my head,
like Hootie and the Blowfish songs
or English class darling Robert Frost.
Poetry that justified my inability
to crack the starting line up in football,
and used my love of Jesus as shield
for my fear to try new things,
G-rated poetry as
middle school
high school rebellion.
Then it changed,
I grew up,
Read Chaucer,
Le Morte De Arthur,
Shakespeare.
Clearly my mature tastes
led to better words,
a wider vocabulary,
less AABB rhyme schemes,
and more grand ideas
and chivalrous descriptions,
that gave me slightly more luck
with women,
and sounded slightly less
like I ripped off a Matchbox 20 song.
Then the knights in shining armor,
magic, and castles fell to ruin.
A renaissance of rebellion.
as I embraced punk rock,
threw of romanticism and religion in one go.
Rhyme schemes and beauty were gone.
Questions came in.
Why government?
Why God?
Why sex?
Why no sex?
Why love?
What’s love?
What the hell am I doing here?
So many questions that I failed to answer
with the darker imagery
minimal rhyming and anger.
This questions were finally answered:
cynicism.
I embraced politics and profanity
sprang from my pen and keyboard.
If I couldn’t tell what was going,
and I couldn’t make it pretty,
it would be pointed.
Sarcastic.
Current,
and (in my mind) funny,
poetry written for the slam,
to bring down the man.
Throughout all this was one constant.
I believed in love (like a bad movie)
and I found it, and got married.
My love became the new target of bad poetry,
as I wrote toasts to mundane things,
a habit I thought I’d broken in middle school,
after I spent days writing about Diet Dr. Pepper.
Here I am not, probably fifteen years or more,
since I first tried to write.
My words soaked in nostalgia for the heroic knighthood,
or the innocence on asking questions and expecting to find answers.
I tend to put more science in now,
with the historic images.
King Arthur’s DNA runs through the bloodstream
of my poetic lineage.
Now peppered with an image of myself that is much
older and beaten than I really am,
an old soul who’s listened to too much Tom Waits,
and read some Bukowski.
and I’ll keep going,
with my current view,
that bicycles and coffee are cool,
that these words only purpose is to keep me going.
and to get the girl (which I did)
and to change the world (which I still say I will)
and to somehow make it past thirty.
(Depends on the Mayans but I’m going to count on it)
(note this poem is unedited in total because I have to return paint to JoAnn Fabrics: oh the exciting life)
King Arthur's DNA (or a history of things I've written)
My first attempts at poetry were heroic
Rebellion.
Against my inability to meet girls,
my few friends,
my somewhat isolating view on the world,
My optimism that one day,
I could be a superhero,
Like Spiderman,
or Luke Skywalker.
The refrains of those poems
often still ring in my head,
like Hootie and the Blowfish songs
or English class darling Robert Frost.
Poetry that justified my inability
to crack the starting line up in football,
and used my love of Jesus as shield
for my fear to try new things,
G-rated poetry as
middle school
high school rebellion.
Then it changed,
I grew up,
Read Chaucer,
Le Morte De Arthur,
Shakespeare.
Clearly my mature tastes
led to better words,
a wider vocabulary,
less AABB rhyme schemes,
and more grand ideas
and chivalrous descriptions,
that gave me slightly more luck
with women,
and sounded slightly less
like I ripped off a Matchbox 20 song.
Then the knights in shining armor,
magic, and castles fell to ruin.
A renaissance of rebellion.
as I embraced punk rock,
threw of romanticism and religion in one go.
Rhyme schemes and beauty were gone.
Questions came in.
Why government?
Why God?
Why sex?
Why no sex?
Why love?
What’s love?
What the hell am I doing here?
So many questions that I failed to answer
with the darker imagery
minimal rhyming and anger.
This questions were finally answered:
cynicism.
I embraced politics and profanity
sprang from my pen and keyboard.
If I couldn’t tell what was going,
and I couldn’t make it pretty,
it would be pointed.
Sarcastic.
Current,
and (in my mind) funny,
poetry written for the slam,
to bring down the man.
Throughout all this was one constant.
I believed in love (like a bad movie)
and I found it, and got married.
My love became the new target of bad poetry,
as I wrote toasts to mundane things,
a habit I thought I’d broken in middle school,
after I spent days writing about Diet Dr. Pepper.
Here I am not, probably fifteen years or more,
since I first tried to write.
My words soaked in nostalgia for the heroic knighthood,
or the innocence on asking questions and expecting to find answers.
I tend to put more science in now,
with the historic images.
King Arthur’s DNA runs through the bloodstream
of my poetic lineage.
Now peppered with an image of myself that is much
older and beaten than I really am,
an old soul who’s listened to too much Tom Waits,
and read some Bukowski.
and I’ll keep going,
with my current view,
that bicycles and coffee are cool,
that these words only purpose is to keep me going.
and to get the girl (which I did)
and to change the world (which I still say I will)
and to somehow make it past thirty.
(Depends on the Mayans but I’m going to count on it)
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