my lovers lips liberate my loose-leafed philosophy on life
Her skin is as
white as milk is as
supple as virgin soil
in a raped country.
These verbal pyrotechnics, these
paranoid rumblings of rhetoric exacerbate
the view through my
Once I loved like a man gone mad.
Gone crazed with passion
fueled by the incessant tom-tom
of my internal jungle,
beating it’s beats to a fiery tempo,
consuming all within it’s wake.
Once I loved like the lion and the leopard.
Once I was loved like a black widow.
Once I was transformed into a man.
And more than twice I have had my heart broken
broken into one-thousand tiny ants –
slaves to the queen
and providers for the nest.
Once I loved what I held and loathed what I saw.
This jungle beast was the detriment of my existence.
This jungle beast bore the seed of my loin
and cast it upon the rocks
to show that I had no power
over her will.
This jungle beast was chaotic.
This jungle beast lives and breathes.
But this jungle beast feasts of my lust no longer.
Back into the eye
of the mind
of my heart.
I repress the memory of my adventure
and explore the mystery of your terrain.
I think of all you are
that the beast was not –
aside from that wild fire.
Yes, we lust all the same,
but lust driven by love is a stronger passion
a brighter flame
a more incessant tom-tom than that which drove my beating heart to pieces.
Un-kosher scavenger of Carrion,
Devourer of lambs and crops;
Scourge of the agrarian,
Of corn and coral drops.
He who gave thee right to fly
Must surely bear regret.
Disgusting fowl Athena cursed,
Might you explain thee yet?
“Know thee, I bear no brunt with you.
I curse your species not.
But grant my kind it’s given due
‘fore casting out our lot.”
“In India, we Bali Kakkaa
take offerings for the dead.
We harbor fateful omens
To those marked on hand or head.”
You harbingers of death and doom
Once ravaged land with suns,
‘till heroic Houyi shot nine down,
and spared by mercy, one.
“This one crow spared still flies for thee,
to rise and set his sphere.
His plumage sweeps sky gracefully,
‘till by night he disappears.”
Into the night your “eh-aws” call
To taunt the tender soul.
Marking men as brutes, or avarice,
Our honor you extol.
“When Tenzin Gyatso, the Lama’s son
was robbed inside his home,
We guarded ever vigilant,
And saved him all alone.”
“Men abandon men alike
and pride in lust and greed.
A murder is a tender herd,
Hon’ring filial piety.”
“We wise beastss pity all you souls
who cry that we are cursed.
Though one day our time may take it’s toll,
Arrogance will take you first.
School is starting in a week, and I will be a Senior as soon as I set foot on that campus, and wander around the familiar halls and corridors, looking for my classes. The last thing left to do is to leave every person their with the knowledge that I achieved what nobody thought was achievable. To anybody whom I gave a bad first impression, be ready for a memorable final good-bye. I am going to leave that school with a marching band at my foot-fall and a Jazz ensemble in my hands. That is to say, I’m walkin’ out the door, trumpets blazin’, bugle callin’ trombone squealin’ drums a’bangin’. AP’s and SAT’s and college rec’s and anything else that sets in front of me is going to be surprised by what I make of it. I am one smart sunnuvabitch and Foothill Technology High School is going to know it. This is not to toot my own horn – well yes it is – but what will a young man succeed without any semblance of self-affirmation? Am I supposed to walk in through my first class and say “I sure hope I don’t fuck up”? No, I’m going to walk in with a smile on, and walk out with a diploma in one hand, and a damned impressive acceptance letter in the other. People are going to remember Stewart Lawrence Sinclair III as more than just some juggler. I am the name in the year-book you show to your friends when you say “I went to school with this guy”, and they’ll say “Damn.”
High School. College. University. Business. Pleasure. It’s all comin’ up on me and I’ve hardly put any of it behind me yet. And I’ll bet some of you aren’t even gonna read all the way through this. You’re gonna walk away screaming “what an ignorant asshole!” and all I have to say is, “Why aren’t you writing the same damn thing?” And than I will feed you the answe: because modesty forbids that you believe in yourself. Well modesty will not get you into college, because higher education is the business of selling yourself. Yeah, you’ve got good grades. Yeah, you’ve got extra currics, but who’s gonna know what they mean to you if you never say anything about them! Don’t be humble. Proclaim your talents and write out your accomplishments, because in time, no one will care except for the ones who know, and those who don’t know you, can’t help you.
I’ve screwed up a lot of schooling, but I’ve learned a lot more than so many valedictorians. We call them “hoop-jumpers”; keepers of the status-quo. Well hear comes a real out-of-the-box punk-ass to do with his education what the truly enlightened intended when they built their schools. I am learning the lessons of life through the guise of a dumb young kid trying to make it in the world, who knows nothing more than that gas prices are going up, and food stamps are harder to come by. This is the fodder for his desire of monetary success. STAY OFF THE STREETS AND KEEP MY BELLY FULL. This year’ll be my last in high school. After this, I fill my own belly. Who’s covering your ass? And what are you gonna do when they die?
Rantings at 11:30 from a worn out dumbass kid
You are scarred
Flawed and debauched.
But beyond that you are mine.
You are tainted
entangled and wound
but beyond that everything is straight
We will dance happy dances
sing sad songs
drink cold wine
and make burning love.
And in the morning…
In the morning…
Where is she?
I am lost
limp and lacerated.
But beyond that I feel nothing.
I am scruffy,
romantic and horny.
But beyond that I am just a boy with a pen.
My pen will draw you in
bind you with poetics
pour out my sold
and hold tight your fantasies.
And at the end of the page…
At the end of the page…
She’s stopped reading.
My words: mute.
My actions; dumb.
Poor sappy me.
And if I fall apart?
If I fall apart…
She’ll have left without putting me back together.
It is hard to write from a desk.
Hard to write when you have lost the ones
who were once on your mind
Hard to write when you feel as though
you have written all you could.
It is so hard to write,
when everything feels so wrong.
It is hard to write happily through tears.
Hard to be honest about what you are crying over.
It is hard to say “I Love You.”
It is hard to write letters
with no one to address them to.
It is hard to write from a desk,
when you wish to write so much more.
Hard to write an emotion
you feel does not exist.
when all emotions feel that way.
It is hard to write of a life worth living
When you don’t know what one is.
It is hard to write of anxiety
when your fingers are cramped with…
It is hard to write at all
when you have nothing to write
I need to stop being so cynical. That is all I will say about my last post.
I have had no new sentiments to convey for quite some time, so I will try my best to be myself and jot down a couple of paragraphs elaborating on life’s events. In other words, I’ve been stressed, and shit has happened, though no more than at any other point.
I am the drummer for Vincent Falcone. We play grunge. That’s it. I have a headache from too much red bull right now because that is what fuels our practices. It may as well have been cocaine. As you may have read, I believe in the beauty of the loud garrulous tones of music, but I enjoy the soft and supple as well, though it is hard to find a group of male teenagers who will say the same. In any case, they have delusions of starting a grunge revolution and taking the world by storm. Here is the facts: we are a garage band. We beat the hell out of our instruments and talk about making it big. And we may get big, but only in a dietary sense because I think the world lost its taste for grunge with the cocking of a new shotgun, and the explosion of an old skull.
I am torn between a woman who doesn’t care for me, and a woman I shouldn’t care for. As a result, I am eating more, writing less, and taking up useless hobbies. Don’t worry, I still brush my teeth. One side of me has no idea what I have to offer, the other side doesn’t get what women don’t see. And in the middle of me, slightly south of the belt, I really don’t care just so long as I get a few cheap thrills. Being a Jehovah’s Witness, I must wait until the right time for those thrills, and after matrimony and honeymoon, they will no longer be so cheap.
I am not doing so well in school, and I think that the novel I am working on is shit. I’m thinking of taking a trip around the world so that I might have a story to write. Perhaps I will find a woman juggling on a cruise ship. Perhaps I will be shot in the head and left to bob in a swimming pool over night. At least I won’t be at home. I will party and spend and splurge and scrimp and save and dive and dig and fight (maybe fuck) but there is no guarantee it will clear my head. This is the definition of wander-lust.
Should I give her a call and go down a road oh so traveled? That is my current thought. I could really use some Advil.
“It is not enough to play music loud, you must rock out to it.” This, a dear friend said to me on a day when any other words would have bounced around in my skull like a live round of ammunition. So I turned up my music, felt the rhythm, and let my blues go. The words are beautiful, and they matter to me, but not as much as the rhythm. The soul of Bob Dylan’s latest album has become my therapy. The trap of scales and Arpeggio’s has crafted my cage, and I would stay barred my entire life should it mean feeling the healing I am experiencing right now. Hungry, thirsty, tired, sad, suicidal, it doesn’t matter. Play it loud and rock out. Play it loud…and rock out. Truer words were never spoken, nor indeed from truer lips. I am a thousand times happier than I could ever say, at least, some place within me. and that certain place is incumbent with multiple, very welcome occupants. I say it one more time:
PLAY IT LOUD!!! AND ROCK OUT.
She wants to know what my look means,
and I lovingly tell her, “nothing”.
But in fact,
I am kissing her with my eyes.
These eyes know that our lips,
so supple, and subtly quivering,
are not yet allowed to touch,
but still they tease me
with the imagery;
expound upon the fantasy
Make me look somewhat stupid.
But I still tell her it means nothing.
And she still knows I am lying.
Sometimes I wonder what her look means.
Sometimes I think she is kissing me back.
It is funny to have kissed so much
without kissing at all.
Our lips are strangers who know each other all too well.
They are estranged pen pals,
on opposing sides of a military blockade.
But when they meet
it will be like the exploration of an unknown land.
For though we have mapped the terrain,
beyond the edges, there be monsters.
Vicious beasts whom I have come to consider
that which constitutes the very excitement
which has me capitulated.
They are the tingles that run down my spine
when I give her that look
that she can’t understand.
So, softly I sang her a song.
I sang to ease what it was that troubled her.
And then it dawned on me,
that something troubled my own fallible soul.
That you could look out her window,
on a hillside overlooking the ocean,
and still not see a star.
Like sitting at a desk,
composing roll-top fantasies.
It was an ironic travesty
for the only way to write is to live.
And one cannot live
without lying on a hillside,
overlooking the ocean,
and breathing in the spectacular diamonds of the night.