September 14th, 2007
|10:26 am - On Hitting the "Send" Button|
My eyes are glazed over, conscripted by love,
My hands steady, sending words with light
To the body lost from my murky sight.
To you I give all, every piece of.
With naught but verses, I am pressed to prove
That I am consumed, if only you might
Believe the equally pressed luck of fate.
To you I give all, every piece of.
But flowered and floundered, crushed below and above
I can only cut staccato claims, hope right
At that release you catch what I write.
To you I give all, every piece of.
May 17th, 2007
I'm headed back to the recording studio on Friday, last time went pretty well, so we'll see how this goes.
March 10th, 2007
|04:53 pm - Love Song|
Dreamt last night that I forced you to kiss me.
You pulled away, and I wondered what this could mean.
I wondered what we could have talked about
Once you removed me from your mouth.
You might say there’s little else I want out of you.
Dreamt last night that I carried you in my arms.
You were slack, and I wanted to stop what had harmed you.
Brought you to the hospital,
Men in white said they thought you were doing well.
What could I do when my fantasy swelled around you?
You’re never gone from my thoughts too long, are you?
A glimpse or word and you’re pulled right back into view.
Highlighting my misery,
Since you never talk to me.
But I’m to blame, I ran away from you.
But better yet I can promise you this my dear,
When life fades you’ll never have a thing to fear.
When you’re dead and in the ground,
Sockets bare, and your voice doesn’t make a sound,
You’ll feel my broken arms around, holding you.
These are lyrics to a new song, aptly titled I believe.
February 27th, 2007
|03:27 pm - The World Exists Below|
Wild beasts only reign in wilderness -
Outside my door and down the steps
To brick-made neighborhood. And
With the prowling apes this land -
Up two from four the bagman
Grabs the end of scraps from cans,
Wresting with the greying sky
And words he whispers going by
We ignore to get us home -
Myself back to my room.
But the preyed upon - catcalls -
Wonderful strategies where old dance halls
Held stubby angel's legs -
That part of us is dead.
The brick, the self-claimed cannibal
Has crushed the old-time bacchanal -
We're wiry and read.
And put forth no new circumstance
Then that of thought and continuance -
The world exists below,
It calls under my window.
Current Music: Amanda's Sweet Voice
February 19th, 2007
In the ribcage of Harper
I am building another world,
for this one seems unwound.
When the great maker
put together his prodigy
did he know the day
that its gears would stop?
In the grey library,
surrounded by faded bookbacks
I ponder the end of my own.
January 25th, 2007
|11:49 am - Sonnet out a Window|
The snow was broken before it hit my window –
It cracked off of the crust of a cloud.
And huddled in my little body,
Long after nightfall, and watching the snow
I hear a knock at my door.
And whether or not I turn is
Less than the great consequence of the flakes,
Now crumbs of what they were before.
Come with help, and maybe a cup of tea
And at least a pensive half-hour to scour
The work of one far better than I.
Maybe a remark or two to make me
Wonder what it is I do in moments such as this –
Love the world in the way I think fit.
Current Location: Dorm Room
Current Music: Stadiums and Shrines 2 - Sunset Rubdown
December 31st, 2006
|03:25 pm - Frances McKearn Buys a Book|
Frances McKearn had no idea what she was doing in the middle of the children’s section of Barnes and Noble on her day off. Even the reminder that she needed to find a present did little to repel her astonishment. “GOOD GOD!” a booming and overtly theatrical version of her inner monologue cried. Nonetheless she did in fact have a purpose at the larger warehouse of literature, though it had nothing to do with those aged 2-14. She had walked absently to the smaller shelves filled with neon and other sparkly-colored paperbacks, maybe so used to the trek because it was her place of work. A small boy with curly blond hair brushed by her, breaking the astonishment so she could turn around and look for a book.
The collection of bound paper in question was a slim volume with a single word title followed by an exclamation point, written by someone who reveled in ambiguity, leaving only their two initials, R. and D. A rather obnoxiously tall and dark-haired friend had let it slip he was hoping to get it from someone or other this Christmas, and Fran felt that there was no reason why she should not be that someone or other.
But, after striding over to the section where one could find such a book, Fran was confronted with fifteen minutes of useless search. Even her friendly coworkers were of no help - checking the back of the store in futility. The gift could not be found.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU GET IT ON AMAZON!” the overly dramatic voice in her mind exclaimed, deepening and elongating the sound of Fran’s normal speech for a somewhat regal foray into self-condescension. The voice’s point was all too correct, but she brushed it aside, annoyed at its pompous air, attempting now to devise a plan to find the book.
“Invade!” by R.D. was supposedly an acclaimed piece of work, garnering many awards and the deep interest of Fran’s rather snobby friend. But Fran liked him enough, and at the point of entering Barnes and Noble could not think of a better present. And so, failing in her first attempt, Fran decided to venture to the black of space where every book had been housed at some point in its existence.
At home in Wicker Park, Fran’s majestic inside voice asked her why she had traveled the many leagues to the Webster Place Barnes and Noble – for which she had no answer. Now, with her newly purchased red purse and pink tweed jacket, she set forth from her house again.
Fran’s home was a strange occurrence one only finds in novels about talking mice or intrepid little girls – a little brick building dwarfed on either side by modern structures. This of course was fitting – not because Fran’s house was inhabited by mice of any kind, but because she had grown from an intrepid little girl to an intrepid woman. She unlocked the metal gate and strode down the sidewalk with a found air of purpose, reaching Damen avenue quickly and turning left after crossing the street. Once heading south the Triangle of the neighborhood sprang up in front of her, its cars shivering as they waited for the change of the light.
Myopic; its windows were decorated for Christmas with books about the pagan origins of the festivities and oddly hanged pieces of mistletoe. Putting out a cigarette she had begun to enjoy on the way, Fran pulled the door open wide and walked in. A sense of vacuum came over her, as if she had been paced in a ziplock bag.
“RETREAT!” called out her inner voice, obnoxiously put on edge. She gave it a definitive hush before handing her purse over to the woman at the cash register for a laminated piece of paper. The fiction section was in front of Fran, walls of books waiting to be eaten by the eyes of future owners.
But even this plethora of covers and pages revealed nothing - and she searched for even longer than she had before, hands pulling back books to see those behind, crawling on all fours to discover the tomes whose bottoms met the floor. Nothing. R.D. proved to be a cunning writer, crafting a story which no one could ever find. Dismayed, she went back to the front counter as her last resort.
The woman there did not in fact look at Frances as if she was insane; but instead asked her if she had checked the basement. Fran shook her head, remembering that the lower level housed sci-fi, mystery, and possibly cookbooks.
“Check the back, the far back,” the woman said, her dark brown eyes magnified by her Buddy Holly spectacles. Fran nodded, turned around, and descended to the concrete rooms of the basement.
It took her a few moments to apprehend what the far back was, until the theatrical voice in her head boomed “THERE, DEAR GIRL!” And there it indeed was. Along a dimly lit hallway books suffered from lack of sunlight, their pages pale and rigid, and at its end was a door about half Fran’s height with the words “the far back” written above on an old wooden plank. Stooping, she opened the door and walked into the far back.
There were books.
More books than any one person could imagine, or Fran imagined anyone could imagine. It was an endless hallway, with shelves on either side stuffed to the brim and climbing stories so she could not see their tops. Far in the distance she could see shadowy figures, none facing her – all engrossed with the mighty wealth that was before them. The voice inside of her was silent, too taken aback to even gasp.
Fran herself, on the other hand, did gasp, as a portly man appeared beside her, asking “May I help you?”
After taking a moment to collect herself, Fran responded in a sweet voice she usually reserved for phone calls. “Yes, I’m looking for a book.”
The man smiled and looked down the vast corridor. “My dear girl, we have every book written, discussed, implied, or conceived by the human race. Say the name and we will have what you are looking for.”
“Invade! By R.D.?” she asked in the same voice, a little confused by the man’s blunt statement.
“Ah yes, a book for a friend.”
“HOW DID HE KNOW?!!” the theatrical voice asked in horror, projecting the question out through Fran’s mouth.
“Oh,” the man said, “he comes in a lot.”
And with that he pulled a slim hardcover from the third shelf on the left side and handed it to Frances McKearn.
Invade! By R.D. was sprawled across the front in gold lettering. But when she opened the light blue cover she found only a single page with two sentences. And at last understanding why she had come, she nodded to the little man and said she’d take it.
Current Music: That Was the Worst Christmas Ever! - Sufjan Stevens
December 21st, 2006
|01:49 am - A New Poem|
Now the tall Jew waits for love.
It comes as heavy as the stockades
or the little pieces of
girls' clothes from army raids.
It wreaks havoc across the
landscape of production
and swings back again
in harmonic motion.
And with the city infront of him
the tall Jew begins to wait,
for while men and buildings are corrupt
he cannot fight with fate.
Current Music: Bruce Cockburn
November 27th, 2006
A Sonnet on Being Locked Out of My House
I was caught outside my door today.
Funny how I cannot reason past a bolt
Or talk a door out of my way.
The window’s not yet old to melt
And so will an obstruction stay.
I waited lax upon the ground.
Leant my head against the wood
And listened to the many sounds
Of when one who is not inside should –
Watching walkers walk around.
And finally inside my home –
Where all the damage had been done
By things who wished me there and then –
I left back to the world again.
In other news, I think I'm falling in love with someone, and like the last time this happened I can't help but act like a complete fool (for proof as Miss A. Sobo).
Current Music: Iron and Wine
October 6th, 2006
Maybe if we swallow skies
Or swallow sons – it’s all the same –
We’ll hold dominion in our bellies
And collapse upon the seat of blame.
Maybe when we storm the walls
We’ll take the lighted prince’s crown,
Drag his head around the gates
And line his blood along the ground.
Maybe in our perfect state
When bonds of kinship are corrupt,
We’ll ask questions of our guardians –
Get no answer, be locked up.
Maybe by the rising sun –
The charioteer of this new world –
We’ll touch the face of old marble
And try to translate the old words.
Current Music: Wolf Parade