Systematic Weasel

Stretch a Dime Over a Bucket

2012-02-04T10:07:00.000-06:00

Stretch a Dime Over a Bucket

It's awkward really; sitting

in the passenger seat and

riding on back-roads

that connect to back-roads.

Pest control hasn't changed. It

still hangs there against the murky

wooden poll, stapled flimsily

against the moist and rotting

bark. One wonders if anyone

ever notices, but bare trees have

always left a few in awe amongst

fields kept greener than spring.

My hands can only hold a

handful, and there's only a

handful of problems that

can be shelved

into a bucketful of quarters.

The shimmer always dims

before the dreams start to

overflow. They fill boxes—

so much dust in such a small

space, and the rent is due tomorrow.

Give a dime to hold it off.

Though a dime is never

enough, it is still something

when never enough is all there

is to give. It'll grow into

a quarter one day—how the

dreams brush the grass before

the morning. The tips of

their fingers only feel like

fire as they nurture the earth. It

only keeps the nightmares away.

Updates and Announcements

2012-01-21T09:38:00.000-06:00

THE BOOK! Well it’s official, the collection has been released and is available on Lulu press. For a physical copy of the book it’ll cost $13+shipping. Doing some research I’ve realized that online markets price their stuff cheaper than physical markets, and so I am following with them. The E-book version will be slightly cheaper, $9 to be exact. In which you will receive a PDF file of the book.

To order a physical copy of the book, it can be found at this link:http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/byzantium-last-rights-to-nowhere/18835191

If you want the E-book, you’ll have to send me a note, message on Tumblr, Twitter, etc. Once I get a note of your order, I’ll give you my paypal which is where you’ll send the payment too. I will send the order to the email address you use as your paypal. If you would like the file emailed to a different email that is not the one you use for your paypal, please specify that in your message, along with a username so I know who it is.

I cannot thank Narf and Phosphorous_Tick enough for being a part of this little project. Their contributions are an amazing help =]

-----

I’m writing a new book, well not alone. I’m writing it with :icondarkninjabunny: We’ve decided to call this book 101 Ways to Fuck Up your Children. We hope to finish it by December.

-----

I’ve been looking into actual indie publishing such as Write bloody. I’ve decided on submitting some work that I’ve been working on for some time. My goal is to at least see how far I get the first time around since it takes 2 rounds of submissions, one round being 3 poems only, the second round being 40 poems. It’s going to interesting to showcase some work I’ve been revising for a while.

Too Many Cigarettes to Burn

2012-01-20T10:31:00.000-06:00

Too Many Cigarettes to Burn

Some days, I dream too much. And

though sleep is good for the soul,

the heart collects dust as it

pulsates on the ground against

the earth of your skin. Let your

fingers touch it lightly as if God were

creating Adam all over again—make it

feel holy! Content is not enough, it

wants to be alive, but the heart has

burned one too many cigarettes to

dream about the regret.

There are days where it

moans and bitches about the cold

but our feet only feel the sizzling

of the asphalt, knowing that it was no

hotter than it was yesterday. There

is so much dirt around it, growing

fierce with the grass and staring at

the sky’s belly, how it stretches for miles.

I wrote about the scars one day—they

were always like snow, disappearing

after the warm winters had set in. Those

cigarettes keep coming back, and it just takes

one more hit for the holiness to leave again. Sorrow

was never its anthem, but neither was Amazing Grace,

though when grace did come to comfort she left more

than a burning dove at the door step. The heart

has never earned the right to regret anything in its

life, nor even the right to sorrow. And Grace, the

heart only has a few visitation rights.

Grace came to visit, soothed it the

best she could before she left again. She

mixed words with songs, brought life back

again. Andas she vanished back into the soil, she left

on the doorstep another cigarette to burn out.

Byzantium: The Last Rights of Nowhere

2012-01-19T00:02:00.000-06:00

Sometime soon, most likely on or before January 30^th, 2012, I will be releasing a collection of my work. It will be available in Hard Copy (paperback really) format, and hopefully E-book fomat. However, this collection will not just feature my work, well written work yes. It will also be featuring the artwork of two other artists:

Narf1070

and

Phosphorous_Tick aka S.Smiley

these two artists were kind enough to provide some artwork for the collection. I can not thank them enough. Their work is always amazing, both of them, and it is an honor to present their work. I'm really excited too, the artwork is looking fantastic!

This collection will feature a majority of my work: Poetry, Short Stories, Prose Poetry, Flash fiction, and as a bonus, a WIP of my NaNoWriMo product which is still being worked on here and there. Which all nears to roughly 100 pages, it's not exact, but somethings are still being worked on and it's getting close to that amount.

PRICING! This is tough and I know people are on budgets. Unfortunately manuafacturing costs are not always cheap, however I can guarantee that the price will not be going over $15. I'm thinking roughly $12 to cover manufacturing costs and to make sure everyone is getting their share from this ^^ This will most likely be the same for the e-book edition if I can manage that edition. Manufacturing costs don't really apply here but Barnes N Noble and Kindle stores do take their fees.

I will be posting a journal, updating twitter, tumblr, facebook, blogspot, wordpress, practically everything I can update when the book is released.

An Earth Too Distant.

2011-12-29T19:10:00.000-06:00

An Earth Too Distant.

I wondered how I looked today.

Standing at the mirror wondering

if it'll ease over the cracked

asphalt, but grace never enjoyed

my company. Maybe I hitched a

mile too many. She could never

stand a person without a single

tear to hold.

There are days where I just

stare out at the window, waiting

for her to tap me on my shoulder

this fire that's been sitting there. But

the heat is still there, and it's got a

lot of skin to burn before it leaves.

Water can only go so far, and

there's no help for what's

been charred. There's only

a moment of relief because it

takes grace to soothe it over

with her touch, if she cared to give it.

I've written enough manifestos

to know that the soul is not so

easily cooled away with sleep. The

words I'm Sorry only go so far

against the fire before it starts

to trudge again.

Drowning has never become me,

nor will it ever no matter how

close I get to it. The song I look

for, always look for, just landed

at an earth far too distant for my reach.

Maybe one day my fingers

will stretch over its dirt, and

allow its wind to calm

the anthem I brought with me,

so I can say that I love you.

Sunday Never Forgave Me

2011-12-29T15:01:00.000-06:00

Sunday Never Forgave me

The holiness of myself never was…

How I’d love to drown
in the whiskey of my
sorrows like the rest
of the damn world, but
the truth is, I never was
entitled to sorrow.

There are only so many
Psalms which my feet can
walk on. My soles can only
feel so much amazing
grace before it disappears
and as I look to God. Really
look to God, I realize such
a person never existed.

The sun rose again today, an
anthem in the sky. My dreams
sing their own songs — the
clash never was beautiful.

I came back down to earth
for a bit, the whisper inside
its own fury soothed the
aches of my muscles. December’s
ice had never felt so warm to me before…

I don’t talk to God anymore. I laid
that book to rest an eternity ago. I
watch the echoes vanish at the shore. Their
moans could wake a soul from the cemetery
if they so pleased. Their cries never
leave the crisp edge of the tongue, how
they only want to be remembered and
we do remember them! Silently.

It took me years to realize
that I was a devil. But a devil
needs love too, and I am loved.

The holiness of myself never was, and
though we all carry our troubles…I, this
devil, was never entitled to them.

The Sleep God Dreams of on His Smoke Break

2011-10-26T16:34:00.000-05:00

The Sleep God Dreams of On His Smoke Break

Hello, I love you
Won’t you tell me your name

I’m good for nothing
Would you love me just the same?

--The Dresden Dolls, The Perfect Fit

We all need a little sleep,
a little time to listen to
the songs in our own Woodstock.

Just let the guitar burn for a moment,
it’ll be alive in the morning, much
like we will be alive when we wake.

There have been days where
I never wanted to wake—where
I never wanted to lift my eyelids
and breathe for a moment. How
long could I make that guitar burn?

You can only shuffle on the cliff
for so long until the edge grasps
your hips and pulls you away
from the music, and I have seen
too many prayers to a god lost
in the gold-lined pages below.

How they moved with the rhythm
of a gasmask revival, fumes for
flames amongst a spasmodic
body of people. Their voices
were so hypnotic before their
guitar vanished—added to
the palms of verses below.

How long til I am able to
set the strings on fire
again? My ears beg
to hear its dissonance again.

Just Two Hitchhikers

2011-07-12T16:55:00.001-05:00

Just Two Hitchhikers Against the Smoke

We’re blind pilots, you and I,

living while others eat

a shrimp cocktail and smoke

their next cigarette—their ears

could never hear past the snow.

We’ve been walkin’ a long—

long time, and I can feel that

it’s just gonna get longer, but

filling these cracks over time,

to see that smile dance across

teeth, cools the aches of myself.

Our feet navigate through smeared

leaves left out to dry under

nature’s kerosene lamp. We

could never hear their rustling

voice their protest, but loose

change is never vigilant. It

is only at the edge, and returns

every year to someone’s house,

someone’s pocket. We never

go without a crumbling

penny from the tree.

Let’s travel a bit more, find

our own hole away from

the whiskey mornings of

these faces in this crowd. I’ll

stick out my thumb, and

hitch a ride so that we can

get lost, and be alive.

Alive and on Fire

2011-06-20T21:52:00.000-05:00

Alive and on Fire

we lay on leaves smeared across an earth-soaked canvas

ochre clinging to a riotous threshold as you take my hand

light the kerosene, for the morning has never felt so alive

a front porch in a distant avalanche

2011-06-03T11:41:00.000-05:00

a front porch in a distant avalanche

let us walk beyond the sun

get a little water on the grass

as our feet splash through the sky

we never once looked back at our shadows

leaning on mountains

creating avalanches in this new world

but it was never really new

only an alternate world

a dream that was once a truth

how it missed the glass breaking against the clouds

and as loud as its voice could be heard

we still stood inside a quiet dream

Because the Night

2011-05-25T21:29:00.000-05:00

Dreaming in Black and White

My world is a

bucketful of

guitar strings. Pluck

one, and let the

vibrations nibble

at the heart while

it drums the

beat of a hot Van

Morrison single, for

a moon-dance in the garden.

We can only feel

its wavelength as

it caresses the earth

against our feet. How

it grows, as the sun

awakes on the sly. There

never were so many

burning anthems on these

crossroads before, and they

sounded miraculous the day I saw you.

(untitled)

2011-05-19T21:40:00.000-05:00

(untitled)

i held you in my arms last night

whispered into your ear that

my world was a bucket of guitar strings

never empty when i was with you

but that was only a dream

much like the millions before it

but I’ll be a sinner if that dream

don’t come true when i see you

brush my hand on your face

and say, “I have never been happier than I am right now”

Louder Than Ever

2011-05-16T22:11:00.001-05:00

Written for my completely awesome mate! <3 Grammar Fox <3

Louder Than Ever

This is not just another love poem

This is my Goddamn revolution

---Andrea Gibson, Pole Dancer

you stuck a bullet in my chest

made it burst into flowers

while my heart beat revolutions per second

at a crossroad in Somewhere, City

underneath miles of earth

it was nostalgia that day you picked up this vagabond

letting me hitch a ride like a photograph in your back pocket

our footsteps create manifestos

inside a locket now complete

let those words remain written

in the tunnels of our throats as we kiss

underneath that moon which is so heavy

how it wants to drop

but the stars

have yet to see us paint ourselves

inside museums…

let us hold each other tonight

toss Molotov Cocktails at the sun

keeping that locket strong, never melting

holding our novel: Love.

folding ghosts into coins

2011-05-01T20:28:00.001-05:00

folding ghosts into coins

we were just dreams for the trees

our hands rushed through their leaves

carrying their breath

to the river banks where the dead dance

they were only flowers

drowned in boxes

at the end of the river

we were only dreams for the trees

Our Eyes Are Bright

2011-04-30T00:00:00.001-05:00

our eyes are bright

their voices grasped my spine

spun my heart so far

that I lost sight of the world

i could never breathe the dust

shaken off my eyes

i held on tighter than the ghost’s longing

it had such a vibrant voice

as it whispered in a neglected dream

our eyes were never bright

Untitled ---- Newspaper Poem #2

2011-04-29T15:12:00.000-05:00

Act Now! (Newspaper Poetry)

2011-04-29T08:47:00.000-05:00

A Pale Bullet

2011-04-28T00:00:00.001-05:00

a pale bullet

those clouds were like cigarette smoke

they lingered

and drifted

holding tight their age

they never spoke words

only bullets from a distant earth

and sand from a distant moon

only waters where the dead walk

how death never was

a silent sky

2011-04-26T06:42:00.000-05:00

a silent sky

look at that sky

its belly bulging to the earth

the clouds clench

and release

and clench onto their own roads

the sky is a book of blood

i sit and read its open pages

hearing the voices just beyond it

their pasts vanished

but i dream them, as i dream my next crush

and as a cloud releases

i hear from its breath

i dream too much

dirt walking on coals of a highway

2011-04-25T17:21:00.000-05:00

dirt walking on coals of a highway

there is so much earth

in this heart

it aches, and releases

clenching its fists

between the grass and worms and dirt

the bruises are there

along with the scars

and burns and scratches

just look at its belly

it mimics the sound of rain

a light ripple on a sheet-metal building

as it lies in the grass letting the winds touch its highways

one day, the garden it dreamt of

will produce a flower

Notes from a Distant Garden

2011-04-24T09:39:00.000-05:00

Notes from a Distant Garden

“…drawing its notes out, to sing freshly and piercingly in Greek words how there is no crime and joined by another sparrow, they sang in voices prolonged and piercing in Greek words, from the trees in the meadows of life beyond a river when the dead walk, how there is no death.” - Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway

There was his hand, gracefully

sitting among the ghosts, telling

stories of memories they

carried. But ghosts don't

keep with them their memoirs

of a forgotten street, only

notes stripped from gardens so

far away, we can only taste

their existence. There is

his hand, and there, are the

pages of his skeletons.

Cotton Balls in the Empty Spots

2011-04-23T09:53:00.000-05:00

Cotton Balls in the Empty Spots

“This late age of the world’s experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright and stoical bearing.” – Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway.

Erase the evening, let the

chalk dissolve off the slate

and let it kiss the hands

of the cross; the nails

so gracefully hammered

into the hearts of the

thousands never heard.

I wanted to tell you,

wanted to pollute walls

with manifestos of these

words, but they never

came. “I love you,”

never graced the presence

of my tongue, nor clawed

the silo of my throat as I

saw you across the street,

waiting. It was too late for

me, and time for my heart

to hitch a ride on an illusive

persuasion, it’ll never see again.

Maybe We Were Children

2011-04-22T06:32:00.000-05:00

Maybe We Were Children…

When the leaves stole our

imagination in the Autumn,

and the river turned into

a street corner full of

cities in its cracks. The

jazzman’s solemn trumpet

graces the footsteps of

our past as we swam

into rising waters. Someone

called out for us, we heard

them. But our ears never

picked up on their

voice. Maybe we were

children, sitting in the

cool Autumn river, our

past just floating around

us. But we are ghosts,

and ghosts never carry a past.

I Want You To Think I Could Be...

2011-04-21T06:58:00.000-05:00

I want you to think I could be…

If you’re reading this, then
you’ve found me. Washed the
bottle dry from the ocean’s
salt, and plucked me from
the glass I’ve lived in for
a dissolved amount of time.

Take a moment, just a
small breath of an
experiential second, and
read this message that
you somehow managed
to pick up.

The devil never walked
on these shores. And
god never draped his
words on those steps
that were next to me. They
evaporated when I
saw you. How
extraordinary that we’ve met.

-----

I want you to think I could be… [ALTERNATE TAKE]

If you’re reading this, then
you’ve found me. Washed the
bottle dry from the ocean’s
salt, and plucked me from
the glass I’ve lived in for
a dissolved amount of time.

Take a moment, just a
small breath of an
experiential second, and
read this message that
you somehow managed
to pick up.

The devil never walked
on these shores. And
god never draped his
words on those steps
that were next to me. They
evaporated when I
saw you. And I wanted
to tell you…I have your lucky charms.

written observations

2011-04-20T07:25:00.001-05:00

Written Observations

he loved the way that you moved
the way your feet caressed the sands
never leaving an ounce of yourself
how it screamed: “did you miss me?”
and he was still able to follow

I remember the nights
you would lay out and stare back at the stars
you only wanted to escape for a little while
to leave his voice behind

how many tears has the sun caught from your face?
How many cities have been flooded
by the empty droplets released from your eyes?

they're not so hidden anymore

the days that i heard your voice...

2011-04-19T19:53:00.001-05:00

the days that i heard your voice...

pulled back my ears
treading softly like a breeze
through the holes in my jacket

it was a polished echo
drowning in an ocean of lizards
the bitter taste never left your words

such persuasion

Haunted

2011-04-18T21:17:00.000-05:00

Haunted

It never saw you.

Never saw the mountains

you left in the cement of

its floors, or the smudged

handprints on hollow

windows, or even when you

towered over me, asleep on

the couch. The room never

saw you, but why do I tell

you this, you were never here.

Hitch ---- NaPoWrMo #17

2011-04-17T13:04:00.000-05:00

Hitch

I’ve been on this road

for the time it takes

to make a life. I only

wanted an answer; only

wanted to grace the tips

of a place called home. But

home, is like a million

battering voices that never

existed. So I’ll travel some

more, and maybe one day

you’ll have an answer. Until

then, I’ll stick out my

thumb, and hitch another ride.

A Wealth of Nothin'

2011-04-16T16:42:00.000-05:00

A Wealth of Nothin'

how extraordinary that we've met

always an artist while making fire

those flames

always dripped patiently down

from eyes that held a wealth of nothin'

but it was somethin' to someone

they thought you were god

underneath that arch

leaving you prayers for a miracle

but I never heard you speak

not a devil or an angel

flung from your mouth

only chipped tears

that have stained your cheeks over so many years

Love Me Please Me Never Leave Me

2011-04-14T20:32:00.000-05:00

Love Me, Please Me, Never Leave Me

When that dark Colombian

dances its way around the

rocks of my tongue, hugs

warmly at the silos of

my throat, the early

non-existent hours of

the day have jolted into

existence. I'll take it

any time of the day, love,

sometimes for a triple

shot to get me through

the sleepless nights. I

could never live without

you...coffee.

Untitled ---- NaPoWrMo #13

2011-04-13T23:14:00.000-05:00

Untitled

I haven’t heard a voice

on this road for a

long time. The gravel

does not move, for

there was never anything

to make it move. Listen,

you can hear the voracious

hunger of the blues trapped

inside, each step—a note.

Clasped Hands of Solace

2011-04-12T10:37:00.000-05:00

Clasped Hands of Solace

There are a lot of

maybes that end in

the key of a back

road gas station at

three in the

morning. If you listen,

you won’t hear

anything but the noise

which silence grasps

with two clasped hands

of solace, breaking

a window of lonely

gardens who sing for

someone to grace their

earth with languages of

half-man and half-god; the

prayers haven’t been

answered yet, no matter

how loud their voices

stretch the sky, their

prayers haven’t been

answered yet. Maybe, one

day, they will be able to give

their sight away, to dream less.

Palm Sunday on a Flesh Street

2011-04-11T17:39:00.001-05:00

Palm Sunday on a Flesh Street

This is the street,

take a Molotov and

toss it in the

middle. Watch the

smoke waltz through

the end to the voices

of Hymnal verses joining

hands. They wait for

Jesus, King of the Zombies.

Long Night ---- NaPoWrMo #10

2011-04-10T22:05:00.000-05:00

Long Nights

Soak me in kerosene,

light me on fire, and

watch me drown before

I burn. See the twist

and shout of the collar

up shooting down from

the distant moon. We

must have danced all

night long, but we never

said a word that night.

Persuasion ---- NaPoWrMo #9

2011-04-09T22:24:00.001-05:00

Persuasion

I love you always ends

With I think we should just be friends

--Danko Jones, Love is Unkind

I never made a dime,

performing a swinging

devil on a street-

corner in some second-

hand novel. But that was

the kind of

persuasion I chose to live.

Nature of my Dig

2011-04-09T00:21:00.001-05:00

Exploration: The Nature of my Dig

I don’t have an alarm clock. I could say something poetic, something like My Will is my alarm clock, but what point does it set itself out to make? What effect would it give? That line is like most; overused and fashioning a sense of dignity among a thrown public, only to be voraciously forgotten when language is hacked away, though believed to be expanded.

We all have our own digs in life, but there is no time to think about a dig. No time to think, like the past was never though about inside a small beat of whispered exhaustion. A struggle…A fight, but not a war of tradition inside weak marrow singing for its providential meal. That’s the nature of my dig.

No one ever remembers to forget, and yet they teach themselves to forget that they forgot. To ride up on the right street and play jazz styled mind tricks when the mind specifically asked for blues. It sits up top, close to the heavens, looking and breathing down on you while you paint your own canvas, filling it with desires a killer would not touch. This rounded material hosts its own saga—and sometimes that saga produces shorter episodes of no relation save for sheer bursts of mighty inspirational thoughts along a speedy process. A diary of dead, of life, of any possible think it could ever dream or hold great longing for in its written, beating heart! But never love.

On this sunny afternoon, because it’s always sunny and never dark, they present with broken glass and cramped hands their story—an empire fitting on their fingertips. It is a daily occurrence; an aftermath never dreamed. But who remembers dreams of infrared so vividly to enlighten us on the matter? It all ends the same, on a market in some run down mom and pop shop, waiting with forgotten literature, a quarter tossed at it for lack of pity.

Exploration: Psychoanalytical Process of Life.

They chose the life of a one hit wonder detailing the ravished life of a rock-star’s forgotten suicide, telling the world it is an easy thought to bring into superb consciousness. It drones on and on, becoming a part of new generations as they morph and awaken a new enigmatic beating stream. A choice which begs for unsatisfied temporary fixes later to realize that lost will remain the lost among the oceanic, trudging waves of war-beaten earth. A bitter staircase doll fought the purple kiss of glassy luck when it fell into the muddy concrete grasp of a new psychological dream, a new burst of life! While the winds of historical context will sing for Aphrodite’s loving arms instead receiving the words of Jesus Christ, but put into the right context they are nearly the same ideal.

A drooping gourd sent out to extract the blissful serenity of rain only to fair a dragon’s angered hook. Journeying a trembling fine line of left and right, up and down, when in the basic necessity of the end, the line completely disappears leaving the gray area as it was, never clearing up the questions always asked. And we feel so close to those answers, a light touch and they fly away instantly to other realms leaving us to question and search the best way we can, to explore through vast new experiences which others push and pull and kill in offense to those who see not what they see in the glossy natural phosphorescent light. A quaking bum on the bumbling street corner next to the speeches prostitute waiting for the next $25 john to service. Got to work. Got to work. Got to work.

A whistling mortgage of damping ideas that will never see the eyes of its hidden hatred catered to itself. A lack of logic filled with logic itself, that’s the creation of itself being the gloomy doom-ish nature of the repressed self never being appeased and voraciously attacking for more. An ego beyond the ego, something the subconscious can never fully understand and the conscious mind can only run and never escape the firm overworked hands of the creator itself. And as the star is asked by schizophrenic voices, “but did the world not love you?” it can only respond with the best sense of dignity, shocking the television audiences, “Did you love this world?”

Exploration: Where’s the T in Spring

It is a streaming mantra, a prayer written on crusting paper; swishing around the fragments of the mind, and expanding to a slow regression. The mumbling rhythm of the average Joe trickling over radiant paths under parasitic sky to Nowhere City. At ten years time the purple thorns lay naked—a world of regret! But who’s to trust the cynic’s call beyond the shattering iron clasp of the problematic, the providential? Falling…such an easy thought!

It is a bugging metamorphosis which pulls consciousness into a peaceful coma, never to be bothered by the coming storm. I stand in cataclysmic doorways watching them as they are forced from their homes. They are but slivers to a welcoming asphalt. And when the birds sing their tragedies we are as right as they.

The enigma lasts beyond the infinite, for it knows no tense. It carries no knowledge of past, present or future as it weighs the philosophical splendor. Take a step back and take it all in. What stands out most? We sit along the stretch of crowded highways, broke down from a flat tire or a run down battery, no help on its way and no means of ever getting the deserved help. Who was it that asked, “Where’s the T in Spring?” and why was it never addressed as it should have been when the people were churching some name somewhere on the paved street, crackling underneath the pressure. Where’s the T in spring? Nature is all love, sharing as it sees fit. It grasps with mimicking hands the origin of love, and claims it as its roadhouse bride. Where’s the T in spring, holy mother? I still don’t see it.

—Weasel

Another Ride, Another Train

2011-04-07T12:53:00.000-05:00

Another Train, Another Ride

i was gonna knife you in the face

but the grenade blew the car

into the next trashy dimension

lit the cigarette of the nearest train station

collected our tickets

and was warned about the cult next to us

i turned to the guy next to me

asked him to tell me what i’d say at the moment

he said, “i’m just your average kid buddy

i don’t give a fuck”

i told him that was very profound

she had a devil on her back

maybe an angel, or an altar queen

no matter the symbol, others called her the antichrist

i have always wanted to meet jesus

though i never imagined he’d be a pole dancer

his name was lara

a one-eyed doll in a midnight circus

he sang songs of rampant rock-star suicides

and how many childhood’s end today, eh lara?

and always with a witty reply:

“as many as there are songs in the key of blow me”

bless me father for i have sinned

says the man in the bathroom

a daunting moan echoing through gospel hymns

he prayed all night long

we only wanted to see god

wanted to stare into his face

and drape his eyes with our stories

but the train hit a different vanishing point

leaving us at a station in the outskirts of nowhere

waiting on another ride, for another year

For the Love of god, Don't (blank blank) ---- NaPoWrMo #6

2011-04-06T10:32:00.001-05:00

For the Love of god, Don’t (Blank Blank)!

Don’t stick it in the toaster

It does not want your love

The microwave is already jealous

And the stove is already pissed

The Television has filed for divorce

Requesting child support for the remote

The radio is depressed

And took his unfortunate leave in the bathtub today

The computer caught a virus

The fridge now has an eating disorder

The freezer is just a cold bitch

So please, for the love of god

Quit fucking the toaster!

Home --- NaPoWrMo #5

2011-04-05T19:20:00.000-05:00

Home

I tossed a rock into a soggy field.

Waited for it to return,

but it only skipped to

the next town. So I

dug trenches into

the ground, forcing

the blades from the

dirt’s soft clench. I

called it home,

knowing that I would never see it again.

Supposed to be --- NaPoWrMo #4

2011-04-04T22:23:00.000-05:00

Supposed to be

I’m supposed to be
writing a poem
today. Supposed to
recklessly drape words
on paper, so that this
story can be plucked
from the piles of dirt
thrown from miles of
armless trees. But the
truth is, my hands won’t
let go of the words.

imagine a world without the words ---- PAD Challenge #3

2011-04-03T16:53:00.000-05:00

imagine a world without the words

i hitched a ride on an airplane

rode it wherever it wanted to go

sat through the pushes and the pulls

and closed my eyes to see this story without words

but i never had to imagine

the words never existed

i rode this plane all night long

made a stop in a town i had never heard of

and draped my fingers on its surface

just like god would if he were alive

it was the only one to gently place a bullet in my heart

and send me off on my way wanting badly to return

i just never caught my plane

Waiting --- PAD Challenge #2

2011-04-03T16:52:00.000-05:00

Waiting

These tears are too soon for you.
Go back to your box,
and when your heart
begins to listen to your
visions at night—not
your dreams, but those
images that you can reach
out and shake the dust
off their hollow limbs—
You will know what it is to breathe.

Subtle ---- PAD Challenge #1

2011-04-03T16:50:00.001-05:00

Subtle

Another day without a heartbeat
How can your heart beat
If they’re taking it away?

-Dio---Pain (Strange Highways)

I must have starved
for a lifetime when I
caught that flood
toppling down from
the moon. It was only
a speck of dirt, dragging
craters into miles of
asphalt. I could never
grasp onto it, could
never hold it in my hands,
for he was a subtle violence
I had always wanted.

Somewhere On Vine

2011-03-11T21:44:00.001-06:00

Somewhere on Vine

My body quaked underneath

the warmth of strangling

exhaust fumes—A chilled

sense of spring. Cracks from

the ground merged with the

cracks on my feet, creating

rivers of miles never

traveled. They were placed

in boxes, and left alone

in closets. I never saw them—

the wrinkles from their pasty

skin, how they smile at their home.

Someone walked across my

grave. I was no longer the

collar-up switchblade on

the dance-floor twisting with

the ghosts of tattered angels. I

thought that maybe, if I piled

enough dirt I could find the

world, I just turned deaf.

There are as many burning

guitars as there are burning

doves. Their feathers raged

inside the bars of my rib

cage. I lie on the ground,

waiting for the Earth to welcome

me back home as their voices

burst through their prison. Their

words simmered into dusty

summer-back roads of the next

small town dive, but their

gardens are never warm enough.

III.

I knew Mercy once. He

was a stick of Novocain

into a morphine-filled heart,

lacking the grace to smile, and

it was amazing those nights

he was happy to see me. So I

dropped wishes into

wells and hoped for a miracle,

but the manager said there

were no refunds.

I stuck out my thumb,

hitch-hiked all across the

world, for I had been living

in the future for too long;

the present has never seen my face.

My shoes are stitched

with songs about somewhere I’ve

never heard of, but I’m sure

I’ve been there before. If I

lift up my hand I can gently

touch its surface. Someday bury

me there, underneath its stale

utopian waters, and when my

heart returns, point it to Somewhere.

Fragile (Pale)

2011-02-28T19:33:00.001-06:00

Fragile (Pale)

I fell off the seawall,

holding two clasped

hands of prayer. The

waters took away the

the feathers as they

turned into doves and

flew off.

these words tower into the

ground where I left my

heart. Pull back my ribcage,

and unearth it. It’s not so fragile, anymore.

The Sound Inside Oneself

2011-01-30T18:33:00.000-06:00

The Sound Inside Oneself

No headphones. Sometimes one wants to be busy listening to the sound inside oneself.” ---Anis Mojgani

Crawl through bricks, and paint

over the crackling canvas

a manifesto you found inside

yourself. Pull your ribcage

back and connect those pages

with the ashes all around

you. Each flake, a name;

each name, a poem that was

never written. Take their

spines, connect dots with

stars and travel to where skulls

merge into gardens, searching,

for a heart to listen. But dreams

are too small for them. Their

voices can barely hold,

as they try to spit out vanishing

sentences only to leave a lingering

quiet. But silence is the sound inside oneself.

Midnights Starving

2011-01-27T17:34:00.000-06:00

Midnights Starving

I met him on the street

corner, where the world

crashed, and the stars

spun in the lamps; a

Mecca of forgotten bus

tickets and too many

starving midnights that

never seem to leave. He

had worked hard for his

sorrow as it spilled onto

the ground, seeping deep

into the roots. The earth

swallowed his words like

holy water, never becoming

fully blessed, only taking in

a shot of morphine right into

its heart. He traced spines of

pasts, and never found a

future; followed people covered

in deserts, and talked to

ghosts, believing that if he

killed himself enough times they

would answer back. He told me

this, and when he finished it was

as if we had prayed on the same

cliff, but I had lost the ability to believe.

The Branches are Heavy [Prose Poetry]

2011-01-26T10:48:00.000-06:00

The Branches are Heavy

Your footsteps washed over the white splotched concrete; no sound leaving each caressing step. You entered the room, but you were never really there. No one is ever really here anymore. I heard the ocean tonight; the walls echoed it from their surface peeling back strips of beige flesh. They bled, or maybe they cried. If only I could tell, but they made no other noise save for the forceful oceanic waves bouncing off of each calloused and crackling blockade. Your arms gracefully pulled away from your body, fingers dangling with each swirling gesture. It was a dance, always a dance with you. Each move more elaborate than the last, twirling round and becoming more ferocious in your movement. Turn and you became feared by your audience!

I sit underneath brittle nicotine-stained ceilings, each floor above ready to plummet. Your body danced around me as I felt droplets of plastered water lash at my face, their nails leaving invisible scratches on my cheeks. I could hear the pale concerto of notes wrinkle out from scathed skin. It bled forcefully from your eyes, and blended with the pulsating aqua-filled air. Each splash was longer than the last, and always an octave higher. You never had to retrace yourself or that scale because you were always understood. Grace never knew you. You were grace.

The branches are full tonight. They have always been full as they lift us up, shattering the decrepit ceilings. But it never stayed solid, everything melting into the water. With the room, you danced into its blood, still maintaining your form. And I just sat still as the floods toppled over me, stealing the chair from the floor and grasping my body. It was my noose, tugging me into that pebble sitting above us, and you were the final push into that firmly rooted temple without mirrors. How can you see God, without them?

Our shoes are created from stories of vagabonds, thumbing through the worst of highways and the best of cities while staying sane in the most mediocre portions of small towns. You can read them anytime you want. Just have to pull the cotton balls from the whole of your heart and let the air seep through. No, it is not louder then the bombshell of a gun, or the prayers of armless mothers wishing for their arms back. But they are stories necessary for our ears to grow into a deeper synopsis tuned to the key of an overstocked shelf.

Still you lift out your hands. The rivers in your palms stretched out, as your knees grab the floor. You clasp those rivers together forcing them into one single stream of water. Cement beneath you begins to wash away as you sink into it. It was your escape, but you still needed to leave a piece of yourself behind. Not for remembrance, but to escape from it. Now, as the concrete hardens again, your hands they grow still clashed together. Your body is gone, but the hands remain locked into the ground. They point upward towards an orange-tinted sky. Prayers, they speak with sound. And like me, you never wanted to hear them.

December 24th, 2007

2011-01-09T09:59:00.000-06:00

December 24^th, 2007

The rain was thick outside,

like the droplets were never

there and a single stream of

water never ceased. It was a

dull roar which lingered

amongst the smell of weak coffee—

the kind of air overdrawn with

pie and cigarettes, and the

only noise was of the clatter

of people, plates and forks.

I was walking out to my car,

street lamps busted, and I was in

the last spot available. I could

hear it around me, beneath this

avalanche of water, silence. They

say silence is deafening, but

it’s really only a quaking murmur

waiting around. And in this

circling concerto of earth he stopped

me, gun drawn to my head, the

cold barrel imprinting itself. He

didn’t have to say a letter, you

could see it in him. A wallet,

some cash, anything to make this

deal worth it. He had an addiction

to feed and it was scratching at the

the caverns of this throat, to scream

to his one god, “save me from…” But

he never knew that he needed saving. He

showed fragile pebble teeth, the only

thing you could see on him in this mess. Not

a bad guy at heart, his hands trembled like

an earthquake, and it wasn’t from the

cold air whipping the nakedness of

his face. He needed to do this. It was his only

prayer left to him, but never came through.

The rain was still an overburden,

gun was still shivering underneath,

and his hands have torn acres of land,

by the simple shakes and twitches. He

never said a word, only stared at me

with a look of “It’s just how things

go, man. No hard feelings.” Between

the both of us, he carried the greater

amount of terror in his body. And

though I was afraid, a part of me

wondered, if I were to die, would

I have seen God. Every day, people

are cutting Him out to hear his voice

as it grows fuzzier with each minute. Would

I have seen God? Like the world’s

heartbeat my hands began to tremble,

the hummingbird in my chest flapped

it’s wings so fast I could barely stand on

my feet. I grabbed my wallet, slowly,

and knowingly, gave him my last three

dollars of the year. It was an empty

shell he ran off with. This was the universe.

The Prayers Speak with Sound

2010-12-31T08:59:00.000-06:00

The Prayers Speak with Sound

You told me that I

was your temple; that

you sat at my steps

waiting for my doors

to open, so that you may

pray. They never opened.

Your footsteps run through

hollow walls,

echo dreams turned to

ash. You are no longer

there at the steps, but your

prayers linger with the smoke.

Knife Fight in a Shotgun War

2010-12-28T17:18:00.000-06:00

Knife Fight in a Shotgun War

Are you afraid of falling in love?

I wonder sometimes, like

a dance of shotgun shells

in the middle of a knife

fight, if I could spray

paint the caverns of this

body bag of words. That

is the temple of which I

pray; make love, not war.

But love has its own bombs,

and it’s own ammunition, not

just a bed of roses and thorns

that will never be pried from

the pulsating heart which

only feels the nerves of Jesus’

palms as the nails went through at

the gates of hell if I know if

heaven ever existed! The temple

is a mouthful of cavities, of which

we pull from our jaws to fuel our

loving flame of a true Byzantium, if

only the shrouds of tear gas understood.

Are you afraid of falling in love?

I stand in the midst of nowhere,

not a plain of earth in sight,

and a shimmer of light spread

through the grounds open canvas,

the cracks smoothed over by a

thread of blood and bone creating

ghosts of people still living. The

dull air simmered growing calmer

as the noise of Earth grew quieter. I

wonder sometimes, how long it

takes to run through empty streets,

into rivers of dust, come dance with

me. Take the stars and listen to their

song, and when the sirens scream,

laugh with me as we run away, to beneath

the kitchen table; sweeping the death of the

peace sign underneath the Bible ‘cause the

dollar was too easy to afford. I’m not sure

if I know what love is, just like I’ll never

know the idea behind a twinky, or the

need for fried cheese on a bacon cheeseburger,

but I guess there’s an answer for everything. And

that’s what we’re all waiting for, an answer—The

Answer! Or is that inviting a wall into a plethora

of open land? I have never seen his eyes so damaged,

and I was in love once, just the eyes never made it.

—Weasel

How the Stars Say Fall

2010-12-24T19:12:00.000-06:00

How the Stars Only Say Fall

Look at that moon,

I am a pebble in her hand.

-Andrea Gibson

I am not looking for

roses, but the stems of

which they sit. It is the

only thing louder than

destruction, louder than

the sound of lead, and

sometimes, it is the lover

who sells his love to

hate. But I can think of

a million things louder

than the crusty shell.

The heart is a bullet,

afraid of blood,

pumping oceans a

day. Pebbles skip

across them, as the moon

curves their path around

the Earth’s fragile

body. How they wish

they could love, but

the names of the dead

have not yet been written

into poetry, and their

graves grow dusty.

The moon has not played

their songs on her

rocks. They have never

known the true meaning

of rest, as life crawls up

their spinal cord staircase

to hear them speak nightly,

“love me, love me, love me.”

Ash

2010-12-22T10:40:00.000-06:00

Ash

My fists, they open up

like flood gates of fresh

water, an overburden of

words. Let them escape

beyond the end of the

driveway and they will

fuck them like they fuck

a prayer from the wings

of God’s voice.

Run away with me, let

our shadows waltz on the

moon, circling the edges

of weakened tree limbs,

picking up way too much

way too fast. And when we

sink, we fall into just another

day, just to make the splash a

bit longer.

They say fear is only a verb

if you let it be, don’t ever

let go of my hand, because

they’ll come for us, and tear

us out of their Bibles, and burn

the words on the pages, our

ashes of A’s and B’s and My’s

and His’will flicker around their

hatred. And as they curse our

life, just know that the last spec

of ash still floats around, a roaming

vagabond, of words.

Yesterday, Didn't Make A Dime

2010-12-21T08:38:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I didn’t Make A Dime

I’m heeeerrrre, whispering,

in your ear. I’m heeeerrrre,

whispering, in your ear.

I wish I weren’t so blind

to see, that my eyes were

in a bucket of blindfolds

while my ears in walls of

cotton balls, as my hands

barely etched the grainy

waters stretching over

cracked concrete. They say

fear is only a verb if you

let it be, but feeling is an

act and that’s what I do, I

feel.

Come closer, Come closer

and know that the smile,

which dances with your teeth,

is the imprint of your life, let

it walk open, and welcome

with outstretched cheeks for

hands. If

it scares the gentiles, say that

you are only trying to find

God, trying to figure out this

thing called living; that you

want to breathe deeper than

this, and that you lost your

breath. It’s buried somewhere,

you just, can’t seem to find

it.

I lost my breath years ago,

and wonder if I’m still

searching for it, but my

fingers are like flower stems

trembling with the earth-

quake. My heart is too big

for my body, so I had to let

it go. Sometimes, just some-

times, the soul misses it, and

waits for it to sing, “I’m heeeerrrre,

whispering, in your ear. I’m

heeeerrrre, whispering, in your

ear.”

Byzantium

2010-12-16T21:29:00.000-06:00

Byzantium

Her hair gently lashed her faintly tanned cheeks as her eyes drooped to the scratching cement of the side walk. It looked as if she had been waiting at the end of her lifetime for awhile. She never walked in beauty, only with beauty when she could afford the grace to do so, but grace has always been a cold bitch when it came to being needed. No one ever told her she never needed a man, so she picked up whomever she could, but most could barely show her simply, Love. It was all she really needed, not just some anonymous donor to carry her off while she sucks the wedding ring off of his dick only to be smacked in the face for the millionth time. The ground is always the one to hear her soft, violent weeping as the baby sleeps, unaware of the future before it as the mother is unaware the extension of her life. She was always a metropolis when she forgave, since everything about her is forgiving, including her steps as she walked away to a place only we can dream of—Nowhere.

Kissing God is Mostly Harmless

2010-12-15T11:10:00.000-06:00

Kissing God is Mostly Harmless

They say angels exist, but

angels are like diamonds to

the poor; a higher class

investment into a sense of

hope that never pays out. And

since when did the poor ever

see a diamond without blood

on it outside of a window? Still,

there are about a million prayers

trickling about the atmosphere,

and one has to wonder where they

disappear to when they leave. I

had my prayers, or prayer to

be precise, but now it is among

the vanished; a pale-colored

fire that I would love to hold

onto, but I can’t move my fingers to grasp at it.

A Pale Anthem

2010-12-11T18:10:00.000-06:00

A Pale Anthem

I have more problems than

I can deal with and no room

to box them in. I dream too

much without a hint of realism

and I’m still called a Nihilist. My

hands bleed yellow from the

broken highlighter flooding the

paper, stretching out to say, “You,

all, are welcome here.” The ink

lifts words like erecting bridges,

focuses the smudge that is over-

looked because it found god,

six billion gods inhabiting, as

common as the spoon on the floor.

A Morning Walk...On an Endless Afternoon [REVISION}

2010-12-06T07:58:00.001-06:00

A Morning Walk…On an Endless Afternoon

Where shall I wander beneath

this lazy waking sky, tinting

a purplish glow? The leaves

all scattered, wearing proudly

their morning coffee, affectionately

forcing me to stir this plastered

green tea—the thing they now

envy out of naturally glowing loss.

My footsteps mark a badly paved

road, leaving their invisible,

shattered cells on the hot asphalt. The

papers, wrapped in yellow, await

their masters presence to deliver

yesterdays news. My neighbor,

the early riser, waves to me, the insomniac.

Always a kind brutality on his face.

We all have secrets, and sometimes

it is best never to know. I trail

along to the next street over,

more leaves pile in ditches,

leaving the trees a defenseless beggar

drowning in the winter. But winter is not yet here.

—Weasel

Shimmer [REVISION]

2010-11-30T10:30:00.001-06:00

Shimmer

If only I sat in a room of a dream.

Empty a year ago, the

sofa now provides new

comfort, and the table

a new place to eat.

It echoes with a shimmer, a shattering hush!

A dull roar hums at the start of a button.

A light glow flickers on

unfinished walls, and voices

linger amidst popcorn air

soon after the glow ends.

When the roar is silenced, voices faint but never leave.

Awakening

2010-11-30T10:27:00.000-06:00

Awakening

Do you remember, in the

ages of innocence—if

ever were such a time—

asking, “why does the

world spin like a weakened whirlwind?”

Years past and I never

answered. But how can

one with a weakened mind

answer such a vast thought?

Systematic nature called us to

different paths, different

Earths. Why does the world spin?

When the trees have lost their last

leaf, and the winds have taken them,

crying out the beggar’s lament while

people shiver for spring and sweat for

fall, scrounging their last meals surviving

as they can, they are told the Messiah has

saved them from hard times—blinded praise!

Freedom without freedom. Love without love.

Why does the world spin? An answer

growing as the weakened mind does.

Maybe, one day, when love is love again,

its rugged metamorphosis will be complete.

Revision Poetry: Tips and Tricks

2010-11-18T19:57:00.000-06:00

November 16th, 2010, I attended a seminar detailing tips and helpful suggestions on revising poetry.This was the main gist of what was talked about, and I thought it would be nice to share with you guys. =)

On the Beat of Whispered Exhaustion

2010-11-16T17:50:00.000-06:00

On the Beat of Whispered Exhaustion

Let it breathe like poetry,

grow from hands and pen

and paper bundled for

pure admiration, crafted in time.

Receives our praise, our

critique…let it kiss the words

like poetry romances

them on a daily enigmatic basis.

Let it run rampantly in the

open, begging for the truth

in love songs—if truth was

ever there, amidst a glowing inspiration.

Let it laugh on morning

walks by the gallery opening

with us or at us, meaning lost or

regained, becoming notes from the air.

Give it a chance and its

own personal history. Let

it shake the dirt from the shoulders

of concrete and make its presence known.

Let it live like poetry, foundation

being the hardest marrow—a

wondrous echo in a charismatic earth

Let it be valued…without the dollar sign.

—Weasel

A Morning Walk...On an Endless Afternoon

2010-11-15T12:08:00.000-06:00

A Morning Walk…On an Endless Afternoon

Where shall I wander beneath

this lazy waking sky, tinting

a purplish glow? The leaves

all scattered, wearing proudly

their morning coffee, affectionately

forcing me to stir this plastered

green tea—the thing they now

envy out of naturally glowing loss.

A badly paved road my footsteps

mark, leaving their invisible

shattered cells on hot

pavement. The papers, wrapped in

yellow, await their master’s presence

to deliver yesterdays news. My neighbor,

the early riser, waves to me, the insomniac.

Always a kind brutality painted on his face.

We all have secrets, and sometimes

it is best never to know. I trail

along to the next street over,

more leaves pile in ditches,

leaving the trees a defenseless beggar

drowning in the winter. But winter

is not yet here. A remembrance of

what is to come…in time we never have.

—Weasel

Shimmer

2010-11-14T16:49:00.000-06:00

Shimmer

If only I sat in a room of a dream.

Empty a year ago, the

sofa now provides new

comfort, and the table

a new place to eat.

It echoes with a shimmer, a shattering hush!

Walls unfinished, which are now complete.

I used to host film nights here,

the last one was a bust, though

filled with much conversation

of the roaming caveman vagabond. But why do I

tell you these things? You’re not here…

—Weasel

Probably...

2010-11-08T21:40:00.000-06:00

Probably…

Probably based on a

dream, like it was in

real life…and who’s

to say that life is

less than a whispering dream?

Probably based on a

dream, the cannon days

and re-shaped nights

along the black and

green waters of the

local beach. A speck of

blue was/is never seen.

Probably based on a

dream, trembling through

flooded roads and angered

winds—another storm,

another summer. Rebuild

the next day, shuffle on and dream away.

Probably based on a

dream…their fickle

nature running round

on an endless trail, grabbing

the real by the hands. They journey

along the lines of the vanishing, a silent beat of breath.

Probably based on real life,

like it was in a dream…and

who’s to say that a dream is

anything less than a screeching life?

-------------------------------------------------------

Still pretty swamped as of late and have not been feeling well, I do apologize in advance for not getting back to any and all comments. Thanks to all who read and comment, I really do appreciate it! =)

-Weasel

Systematic: Too Many Words

2010-10-29T12:18:00.001-05:00

Systematic: Too Many Words

I can’t remember…member…member…

The aching pains of the side,

against the meshing swirl of whispered

consciousness. I do not sleep, but

walk the local store, where does it

all go? To the winds catering the

faithful—a boundless box! From the

condom to the free coffee on the table and

even to the four tablets of aspirin, the

beggar asks for sleep, for he is stripped

of his last supper rights and forced

to wear the crown once more—a hungry

leader of the tribe! Toppling down the

white line, tomorrow is always more time

added to the slot of no time at all. Where does

he go in such a small store? Bleeding…

bleeding holy wine amidst the poorly

drawn doors, or were they walls? It’s gotten so

much cooler outside, feels much nicer, not a shiver

on my body as I lie out in the open field, pear tree

dying and hovering above me. The grass and dirt welcome

me always. What is it I can’t remember? I…can’t…remember…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I've really swamped as of late, and I apologize for not responding to comments, I will be responding to all comments this weekend before my livestream event (information on that will be posted below). I've had a small bit of insomnia, still waiting for it to pass really.

October 30th, 2010, Saturday @ 5PM Central time, I will be interviewing underground web comic artist Owlor, who is also a writer and a poet. We've a wide variety of topics and should be keeping the discussion online for awhile. For those who aren't on Central time I've converted the majority time zones that have been given to me:

Eastern: 6PM

Mountain: 4PM

Pacific: 3PM

GMT+2: 1AM

If you need a time zone transcribed send me a note or an email, or even comment here and I will get back to to you shortly. =)

Experimentation: Voice

2010-10-22T22:50:00.001-05:00

Experimentation: Voice

A miracle, withered amidst

distant earths, the focus

on a tumbling universal

memory. They whisper screams

of exhaustion, a candle for

their odyssey. The wax pours over

muddied waters, growing the

length of a river—a restoration of time

Silence copies the beggar's

call, strengthening La Vóz de

la gente—an overwhelming

protest against the vanishing;

a struggle of peace in a world of

six billion lives, a surreal and intense

spiritual realm! A beckoning age

calls for much needed attention—Break from the quarantine.

-------------------------------------------------------

La Vóz de la gente Translates (from Spanish to English) into The Voice of the People. I felt the poem had a better flow with the sudden switch between languages.

Green [Thursday Think Tank]

2010-10-14T11:28:00.000-05:00

Green

This legal pad, it hurts my eyes

Blue ink fills is, still vision dies

Under lights so bright these lines fly

A thinning sky, a thinning sky

Inside this building, fierce and mean

Simple paper, problems it brings

An aspirin here, the head-aches sing

I wish for green, I wish for green

------------------------------------------------

Written on a yellow legal pad, sometimes these fluorescent lights cause such bad head-aches, I can't really focus, definitely had one a moment ago, lol. If it was not made aware of, my favorite color is Green, always has been and always will be. =)

For Poets United Thursday Think Tank: Colors

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2010/10/thursday-think-tank-19-color.html

Paradise Alone [Handwritten post]

2010-10-09T19:34:00.001-05:00

For One Single Impression http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/ If my handwriting isn't readable, let me know and I can post a typed version. =)

Featuring the Written Work of a Systematic Weasel

2010-10-06T22:58:00.003-05:00

Alas, this weasel has been caught performing the sacred task of writing. Scribbling short bursts of spasmodic unrelated thoughts and formulating them into heaves and bundles turning the confusion into the understood. Held before you at this moment of time is the sacred book not of holy origin (lest he means to create its providential beginning). The words will soon pour out like escaping oceans filling countless trenches among this world, and will be viewed right here.

Exploration

It was a champion’s call,

enamored forceful winds

which beckons a silent

shutter—an enigmatic

pulse. It turns the

vengeful subconscious loose

amongst a glass awakening

of the senses…the world is anew!

A true realm re-explored in full text.

There you have it. A small glimpse at a book full of work and ramblings of a Systematic Weasel. But before this is to end here, there is a question I bet most are wondering as they read this whilst taking in the image at hand. Who was quick enough to capture the weasel engulfed in his work? Well, only a bunny is quick enough to capture this fleeing look, giving you guys a rarity. xD

---------------------------------------

Artwork by the artist Bocian. To view more work such as this his website link will be post below.

http://www.furaffinity.net/user/bocian

For this week, I decided to be inspired by something other than poetry, and after receiving this image as a gift, I couldn't think of a better way to be inspired. Love the image, bunny! =)

Valediction: Haiku for OSI: Try

2010-10-01T22:20:00.001-05:00

Upon distant walls
An impossibility
Still, today I live.

Vanishing Point [Tanka for Magpie Tales]

2010-10-01T21:14:00.000-05:00

Vanishing Point

The fire burns late

Furious and embarrassed

Gazing at pure sky

Walking out, into the night

Vanishes, left all behind

Love on Hold

2010-09-30T18:47:00.000-05:00

Love on Hold

They rally against, fighting for

the sanctity of HIS name, purple nails

sing out, fueling their definition

of unnatural, whilst the other side

waits an eternity to hear from

public opinion polls, only to decipher

the meanings behind the

numbers. The world is now

awake, attuned to the matters which

take the news, and equality for love is placed on hold.

From Sleep to Someone Else's Mirror Stage

2010-09-27T22:09:00.000-05:00

From Sleep to Someone Else’s Mirror Stage

Scaling a monument of

six billion histories—

unwritten formless

worlds lost on a vanishing

point in Oblivion City. Incidents

of Omniscience by man,

in mailrooms to vengeful crossroads

amongst broken eye, paints

blindly the hero never

in words typed. In visions lost

we scale back the damage, the

few we are, and we free ourselves

from hack portioned knowledge; quenching

our thirst of Love and we scream

out with noiseless roars, “We live!”

--------------------------------------

Knee is still recovering but better. Thanks for all your comments, I do appreciate them! =)

Extrinsic

2010-09-26T08:29:00.001-05:00

Extrinsic

Monumental amongst the trees

Shattering limbs, a violent breeze

A chilling word on faded knees

A life it frees, a life it frees

Enigmatic within the light

A partial choice in bruised blind sight

In perfect form, a formless fight

No strength of might, no strength of might

Illusive matter in the eye

Saintly justice, and when Earth dies

The blood lays still, and when they cry

No answer why, no answer why

----------------------------------------------------------------
Hey guys, might be a little slow in responding and reading. I injured my knee yesterday, so I'm taking the day (or what is left of it, lol) to rest and let it heal up. Thanks to those who've already commented! =)

Cyclical Edge of Form

2010-09-23T12:37:00.000-05:00

Cyclical Edge of Form

A transitional period. Leaves

Lingering on their branches

not wanting to give up their

homes, but the voracious autumn

breeze carries them a short

distance. They start again,

new identity, alongside an infinite

space, a false edge of Earth—cyclical

energy! If one ever were to see its

calming grasping nature, what

wonders to be seen…it should see—Knowledge (formless).

A Trip Home, A Trip Away [Haibun]

2010-09-20T20:39:00.001-05:00

The Trip Home, The trip away.

I bear a few hours on the airplane, whining children, and over-abusive people crowd the seats around me. I hold a photograph containing me and the one I long to be with after a lengthy period away. A Dalmatian in my arms, thinning build, barely reaching my height, while his hazel eyes penetrate the camera’s view. A journey coming to an end, and soon I’ll be in the comforts of his presence.

Wrinkled memory

Euphoric experience

Wrinkled photograph

I trudge through the airport, weary of my time away. As I walk through the automatic doors to hail a taxi home, the winds pick up a bit, and the sky turns into an angered body. I took a spasmodic journey onto the freeway, as the driver ranted and yelled at his radio station—an uninteresting theorist of modern politics and news, only spewing mumbled jargon to gain a few listeners.

Animosity

Misdirected on airwaves

We listen blindly

A house sits near open earth, grass violently swaying amidst the windy land. I pay the driver including his tip for an extended drive. My spirit couldn’t wait any longer to grasp my lover’s body—a fit of passion stirring from time away! From the driveway I stagger up to the half lit home, only to stop midway. A locket lay carelessly in the grass; the locket I gave him. I pick it up, but before I could take a step towards my home again, I see him in the window with another man, an open affair it seems.

Taxi in idol

They see me, I take my leave

Hotel room, new life

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Haibun style format: Simple definition is a combination of prose and haiku poetry. A more detailed explanation can be found at the site below.

http://raysweb.net/haiku/pages/haibun-definition.html

The image above is by artist Venigsun, and posted with his permission. More of his work can be found at this link: http://www.furaffinity.net/user/venigsun

Cataclysm

2010-09-18T19:59:00.000-05:00

Cataclysm

Often the mind is its own

entity, as it lives its

singular, restless life

in premonition; tumbling

through the cataclysmic

doorsteps of silent martyrdom.

Voices pull, push, and

thrust their fists in

vulgar echoes as it trips

over used condoms

and empty bags, and as

it looks up it see: Recycle!

Nearly ending its journey

it comes across sanctuary,

brighter than the world around

it. The mind begged for

an ending empire, no answer

to be had, And in the end, Sanctuary

damaged the pulse with its

wealth of illusionary providential nature.

------------------------------------------

We all need to vent a bit. Just a small piece of vent-work for this weasel.

Memorial Fading Past the Memorable

2010-09-16T12:36:00.000-05:00

Memorial Fading past the Memorable

This weasel has a

terrible memory, so

many forgotten lifetimes,

lost in a limited archive

and deleted when its time is up.

But the mind is never felt

so blessed when it kept

your image amongst seas

of luck-filled memories. It

is a fading image, growing

darker as time passes, but

I can still leave my arm

outstretched and grasp its

physical nature while it

lasts, and how the soul

wishes it to be an endless moment!

A wrinkled euphoric memory,

much like a wrinkled photograph,

is held with a tighter clasp,

slowly trying to keep its strength

on the wrenching item. But it

finally fights for freedom, reminding

me it was never to be had, while I

sit, and let it fade into a sleeping distance.

—Weasel

A Huge Thanks to Poets United

2010-09-15T13:40:00.000-05:00

Just checked my blog stats for the past few months, and received some pretty awesome news.

Views total for the year, since the blogs creation:

2,739

Roughly 332 of those views are from Poets United. I want to send a big thanks out to Poets United! Very exciting stuff to hear!

Catalyst

2010-09-13T14:17:00.000-05:00

Catalyst

As the sky broods over

mystic television-filled Earth,

providing life with life, it

is a forgotten necessity. We

turn our arms into wings and

take flight adding our ideal

embellishment as desire sees

fit. But the evidence is a temporary

formation for a lack of love—desired

perfection! Wandering neglected plains,

grass stiff beneath our tired, broken

feet, we search for it, we grasp it for we

never know if we truly hold its glorified

presence in our hands! And when the answer

erupts, with its euphoric debris falling from

the heaves, we realize that our Paradise never changed!

Weasel Trading Card

2010-09-12T22:20:00.000-05:00

So here it is, The Weasel Trading Card making its debut on Systematic Weasel. The poem on the card is called Notes From A Cardboard Sky. The Weasel on the card is of my own thought, not a famous or well known cartoon character, and made his debut just the other day. Since I possess little artistic skills I had someone draw my character. The artists name is Inuakiko, and can be found at this link: http://www.furaffinity.net/user/inuakiko

There you have it, some Weasel Memorabilia! =)

-Weasel

Thursday Think Tank

2010-09-09T16:55:00.000-05:00

My Thursday Think Tank response can be found this week on my wordpress website under the tab Weasel Prompt Ideas/Responses. The link to that page can be found here:

http://systematicweasel.wordpress.com/weasel-prompt-ideasresponses/

I've been doing a little experimentation with the wordpress website and just found out how to make separate pages on it. I've probably said this a million times, but Thanks Poets United! =D. I will be reading everyone's responses shortly. =)

-Weasel

The Passing

2010-09-08T11:08:00.000-05:00

The Passing

I looked for you among softest earth

Belief, ideals, instilled at birth

Visions unreal, invested worth

A tangled mirth, a tangled mirth

Letters written in cryptic speech

Years of searching a distant leach

On inland shores, a murky beach

Never to reach, never to reach

Along the street a beggar’s lease

Stripped of mind, an outstretched crease

A final moment, then at peace

As life did cease, as life did cease

And now you lay on murky shores

Where spirits dance, as spirits roar

Leaving behind, a person sore

Never loved more, never loved more

____________________________________________________________________________

Again, another Monotetra style work. I've been trying to get used to this style before I decide to experiment with another style of formed poetry, and I do have a few styles that I'm keeping in mind for future works.

Requiem: Spiral Meaning

2010-09-07T19:26:00.000-05:00

Requiem: Spiral Meaning

To think of words—filled

with years of meaning—left

unspoken, and wished they

had escaped into the world

is a plague inside itself. The

endless pools of their meanings

trudge wearily through nearly

vacant portals of forgotten

consciousness and are lead to the

same outlet of a thinning iron dream

cycle, which claws voraciously at

the cavern walls, so close but never

grasping that desired vanishing point. Immortal,

they envy their comrades, freed, and lost in the outside world.

A Thinning Dream

2010-09-05T20:54:00.003-05:00

A Thinning Dream

Spreading our life, they heard our say

In the end, and all of today

A soothing wind, the fields you lay

A noise away, a noise away

A Judas kiss, a deathly ill

Earth’s Midas touch, an easy kill

A thinning hand, a portrait still

Their words of skill, their words of skill

They lift their hands, like limbs of trees

And pray to him, well known as HE

The mind is trapped, believed as free

Their eyes won’t see, their eyes won’t see

Among the fields, I wait the call

Silence broken, the grasp of fall

“A choice in love?” and down the hall

“Wrong choice is all, wrong choice is all”

Then what is love, if forced by HIM

No answer now, no answer then

A life is lost, they deemed in sin

No voice risen, no voice risen

Natural warmth, so full of light

A burning candle, burning bright

A lurking end, and still we fight

Some hope in sight, some hope in sight
_______________________________________________________________________________
OSI: http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/
Poets United Poetry Pantry: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/
Monday Poetry Train: http://mondaypoetrytrainrevisited.wordpress.com/

The style of this poem is called Monotetra

Monotetra style description:
Comprised of quatrains (four-line stanzas) in tetrameter (four metrical feet) for a total of 8 syllables per line

Each quatrain consists of mono-rhymed lines (so each line in the first stanza has the same type of rhyme, as does each line in the second stanza, etc.)

The final line of each stanza repeats the same four syllables

This poem can be as short as one quatrain and as long as a poet wishes

Kiss [Not the band]

2010-09-02T11:57:00.001-05:00

Kiss (not the band)

A mere kiss is filled

with so much ambivalent

meaning. The greatest gift

of passion for the hopeless

romantic, such as Don Juan,

and in the same instant, the

kiss can rip apart the life

it is intended for. Kiss of

life, kiss of death, trickling

down the lines of love

and poison, restricted by

a world of clashing ideals.

In a life of word play and

twisted language, the louder

voices scream out kiss is kill,

to easy to associate it, while the

weaker voices respond, kiss is love—

the greatest, and most powerful gift love can give.

Poets United Thursday Think Tank: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2010/09/thursday-think-tank-prompt-13.html

Observance With Tea/Coffee/Beverage of your Choice [BTP]

2010-09-01T08:27:00.000-05:00

Observance with Tea/Coffee/Beverage of your Choice

I’ll have one tall coffee.

Did you see that?

Waste of $5…

Don’t forget the fifteen for popcorn.

A story lives in anything,

Life breathes without life.

That will be $20.61.

funding—wallet—empty.

Mommy, I want…

Son, I need…

The world is not different.

Paper is outdated.

Hot! Spills…refund.

Would be nice…

Doctor said…

One chai tea.

It’s hot out there.

Maybe some rain.

It rains everyday.

Not everyday.

You need the hand of…

To touch your soul and…

The television is turned off,

And the coffee shop closes for the night.

For Big Tent Poetry Prompt: http://bigtentpoetry.org/2010/08/monday-prompt-august-30/

Prophetic

2010-08-31T20:23:00.000-05:00

Prophetic

Where are all the

angels—saints with

inspirational, and

provocative wings—to

release us from our imaginative

boundaries? The world

falls quiet, expecting,

if not demanding, their

euphoric presence. We

wait and work and live

for hours to weeks that never

end, and still the Saturday is

wasted. Earth still spins, lamenting

the creative and historic diaries, for

it was a mistake to show us prophetic thoughts.

A Wall Is Not A Door

2010-08-27T18:15:00.001-05:00

Spawned from this statement, given to me by a Professor and good friend, "A Wall is Not A Door."

A Wall is Not A Door

It is a simple wall, plastered with

posters, signs, paint and graffiti, spewing

its voice at the public. A wall is not a door,

but the wall still manages to open itself

for the people to see, that inside it has

cracked and chipped, that it is damaged,

no longer withstanding the world’s

fury. A wall is not a door, but a wall

speaks louder than an opening door ever will.

Poets United Poetry Pantry: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2010/08/poetry-pantry-is-now-open-week-6.html

Crackling Wall

2010-08-27T18:09:00.001-05:00

Spawned from this statement, given to me by a professor and a good friend. "A Wall is Not A Door"

Crackling Foundation

A wall is not a door. Left

alone to its own device,

its own variation of choice, it

guards the inside, blocking

out screeching faults of the

world. A wall has cracks

in its foundation, waiting

to shatter under its own weight,

the outside is free to enter, bringing

with them lamenting days, drought-filled

ideals nearly comical to the eyes. And above

all this sits the soul experiencing a world it never knew.

It experienced life—enjoyable, yet radical to the wall.

Poets United Poetry Pantry: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2010/08/poetry-pantry-is-now-open-week-6.html

Back to School MEME

2010-08-27T10:50:00.000-05:00

Back To School Tag Game (Tagged by Riikainfinityy)
Rule: Answer FIVE questions and tag those who may be willing to play

1. What was your favorite back to school item to buy?

Notebook and pen! My personal weapon of choice to fight off boredom, LOL!

2. What was your favorite subject in school?

Besides band? US History though Film

3. Did you ride the bus or get a ride from Mom/Carpool?

My parents drove me, but towards my last two years I drove myself, since it was only a 15minute drive.

4. Do you have a sack lunch or cafeteria food?

Neither, I always waited 'til after school and got something off campus

5. What is your favorite memory from your school days?

Creating a Creative Writing Club at school, and talking with the counselor about graduating early.

Now I'm supposed to tag 5 people in this thing, but I'm going to break the rules a bit and say, anyone who would like to do this then I tag you, lol.

Ages

2010-08-26T18:01:00.001-05:00

Ages

Ages ago…why does it seem

that I can reach out, as if to

be one of nature’s trees, and grasp

onto the thought like it just occurred

yesterday? My thoughts are fluid

like water, carrying information

back and forth repeatedly, and

still your memory, your image,

dominates the stream over all

the rest. A meaningless thought,

has so much more to it, then the

world ever realized, so much detail,

and for most it is lost somewhere in the

majority of space in the mind, only to appear

sporadically. It is as if you are asking me to remember,

and maybe, this time, I do not want to, and your photo is

lost again, waiting for ages to return to the surface of consciousness.

Thursday Think Tank: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2010/08/thursday-think-tank-prompt-12.html

Monumental Fades

2010-08-24T17:43:00.001-05:00

Monumental Fades

It once shined, the new

deal on the street, catching

heated attention with its

different structure—the

new generation of ideal

living. It came alive when the

world lived inside, decorated its

walls with shelves, small figurines,

and fine plates. It survived the

fiercest of natures wrath, a force

never to be moved by earth’s

goddess. Today, it stands monumental,

and as the sun shines through its dirtied

windows, it cries in its own emptiness.

Sunday Scribblings: Dangerous: http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

One Single Impression: Empty: http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

We Write Poems: http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/ <--Photo Origination

Hands

2010-08-23T07:45:00.000-05:00

Hands

I take this pen to paper, hands

furiously in jolty motions, begging

to be fluid, but that is not their

specialty. Firmly holding this item,

as if it were their only companion, crossing

lines after each other, and in some cases,

imaginary lines. These hands have worked

beyond a workers day, fleshing this poem

for the world to see, and when the last

word is written, they finally rest in quiet peace.

Big Tent Poetry: http://bigtentpoetry.org/2010/08/monday-prompt-august-23/

Life of a Systematic Weasel [6 Word Memoirs]

2010-08-22T11:31:00.001-05:00

Life of a Systematic Weasel [6 Word Memoirs]

The Best Advice I’ve ever given or Gotten

Make life worthwhile. Keep on living.

Milestone Birthdays

17. Left Highschool behind searching for air.

20. Focused on future, began writing seriously

21. Learning. Growing. Always challenging universal wonders.

Holiday Traditions

Never matter. Only the company you’re with.

Memorable Meal

Breakfast after Hurricane with good friend.

Siblings

Never get along, but we try.

Cheating Death

Until one day, death cheats me.

What A Child Taught Me

Imagination, key to a wonderful life.

Revenge is sweet.

Possibly. Makes for a good movie.

The Worst Mistake I’ve Ever Made

Never asking for help when needed.

Life Overall

Enjoyable. Lonely at times, but enjoyable.

Oblivion [Monotetra0

2010-08-17T21:00:00.001-05:00

This is my first attempt at a Monotetra style poem.

Monotetra style description:
Comprised of quatrains (four-line stanzas) in tetrameter (four metrical feet) for a total of 8 syllables per line

Each quatrain consists of mono-rhymed lines (so each line in the first stanza has the same type of rhyme, as does each line in the second stanza, etc.)

The final line of each stanza repeats the same four syllables

This poem can be as short as one quatrain and as long as a poet wishes

Oblivion

To see the earth standing so still

A view of life at beggar’s will

Wealth of knowledge no book can fill

The siren’s kill, the siren’s kill

He begs for a life lived alone

No flesh to touch save flesh of stone

Beyond religions arctic tone

His mind his own, his mind his own

Choosing freedom, his own release

A silent joy, a quiet peace

A weeping soul, Earth’s beauty leased

As life did cease, as life did cease

For Poetic Asides: Monotetra: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/

For Thursday Think Tank: Pain http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2010/08/thursday-think-tank-prompt-11.html

Today Beneath Poetry [Blitz]

2010-08-17T17:03:00.002-05:00

This is my first attempt at something called Blitz Poetry. A lot of rules to this, but they appear rather simply as you get into it. Here are the rules:

Here are the rules:

Line 1 should be one short phrase or image
Line 2 should be another short phrase or image using the same first word as the first word in Line 1
Lines 3 and 4 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 2 as their first words
Lines 5 and 6 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 4 as their first words, and so on until you've made it through 48 lines
Line 49 should be the last word of Line 48
Line 50 should be the last word of Line 47
The title of the poem should be three words long and follow this format: (first word of Line 3) (preposition or conjunction) (first word of line 47)
There should be no punctuation

Today Beneath Poetry

Buy it now

Buy it today

Today they died

Today they lived

Live to own

Live to rent

Rent a life

Rent some cash

Cash that loan

Cash the check

Check the news

Check the system

System has failed

System has flaws

Flaws are visible

Flaws are illusionists

Illusionists are actors

Illusionists are memories

Memories of love

Memories hurt

Hurt the past

Hurt 11,000

11,000 vast minds

11,000 screaming ideas

Ideas are furious

Ideas fill attics

Attics of war

Attics of treasure

Treasure mist

Treasure experience

Experience nature

Experience the traumatic

Traumatic synopsis

Traumatic sunshine

Sunshine pirates

Sunshine reports

Reports of suspects

Reports of sentences

Sentences mix words

Sentences breathe air

Air sees weasel

Air is fading

Fading plot

Fading changes

Changes waking

Changes poetry

Poetry of nonsense

Poetry of love

Love…

Nonsense…

Monday Poetry Train Revisited: http://mondaypoetrytrainrevisited.wordpress.com/

Pensive Stream

2010-08-16T12:20:00.002-05:00

Pensive Stream

It is almost the end

of summer. Soon the

leaves will stream

their goodbyes for the

world to see—to notice

them as the breath of

autumn comes to dry the

rains of beach weather. An

envied season, much like silk

is an envied fabric. It is our

euphoria, our planted utopia,

short lived as winter bursts into

our lives, keeping the cold cooler

and freezing the hearts of the

pensive mind, waiting for spring

to bring its worshipped warmth—

to moisten the dried out universe. A

freshening view of life, sharpened

and ready for the breath of summer.

Big Tent Poetry: Wordle: http://bigtentpoetry.org/

Sunday Scribblings: View: http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

One Single Impression: Pensive: http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

Radical Whispers

2010-08-13T16:36:00.003-05:00

Radical Whispers

the power of love

sounds like a new war

trickling

down

the minds

of an

older

braver

world

subliminal whispers carried

into the ears of the blind, of the ignorant

summer is all love

relived in its heat, its monstrous breath, each year

and so it breaks the boundaries of a generation

as the sun rises love makes its presence known

shocking the entire world

as if some new radical idea has forced itself upon them

the people of the world looked back at the radical

embraced it, and a generation was reborn in it—a gamble!

One Single Impression: Beginnings http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/
Monday Poetry Train Revisited http://mondaypoetrytrainrevisited.wordpress.com/
Poets United: The Poetry Pantry: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/