Dang - 02/08/16

I've been listening to
Alex Dang's
poetry all night
hoping his words
will inspire me
to write
the monster biting
bits of my soul away
into the light
and give my
quaking body
a fair fight
but this was all
the courage
I could find
in someone else's rhymes.
It's time that I
regained mine.

How I'm Gonna Be An Optimist About This - 07/07/14

They're playing
"That Song That Reminds Me Of You"
I say as if there's only
one.

So I keep closing my eyes and pretending
    nothing changed at all
will the walls
start rebuilding themselves?

If I stockpile mistakes
for you to mock
or break social protocol
just to piss you off,
will that provoke you to
open my snaps
or text me back
or say anything at all?

Believe me, I know:
writing poems for people
who make you feel like shit
won't make them love you

but that's
how I'm gonna be an optimist about this.

Doll and Doll-Maker - 01/09/14

Take me away from the black sea,
the ancient theater,
the shattered porcelain in the
torched doll shop,
and your yellow gown.
Taffeta and satin,
gossamer gloves
over far fairer skin
forever lost from the moonlight,
swept away by the dawn.
Let me lament the night
until the chrysanthemums that fill
your rotting mouth
burst forth from
your ashy grave.

Tea Shop - 01/03/14

Don't look up from the coffee pot
where your sweet tea tears
flavor bitter caffeination
to feign regeneration
of your heavy, longing eyes
and quicken the pace of your heart
with chemical uncertainty.
 So in the dust between
first edition Dickinson anthologies,
pine for pages
to spark beneath your fingers
and the scent of rose petal tea
to fill your heaving lungs.

I No Longer Know What I'm Feeling Without The Music Playing - 09/01/13

There's no better remedy
For anything
Than a melody
That breaks you even more
Than you've already been
There's not better cure
For all that ails you
Than what ails you
In perfect harmony
On repeat again

This is it, I'm giving up
So leave me with the music up
Don't worry, I'm fantastic
Just as long as I can blast it
Louder than my brain can think
And louder than my soul can dream
And louder than my heart can scream
For anyone or anything
To scream these lyrics with

At least I got some new bands
With this heart ache
To juxtapose all the smiles
That I fake
At least I got an anthem
To shout out
As the sky crumbles
And the stars all
Fall down

This beat's the catalyst
For my happiness
This song's how
I'm going to be an optimist
About it
I've got a playlist
For everything that I'm not feeling
When the drum line's why
There's not point in breathing
The bass is why
I'm through grieving
And the chorus
Is a therapeutic chain of events

At least I got some new bands
With this heart ache
To juxtapose all the smiles
That I fake
At least I got an anthem
To shout out
As the sky crumbles
And the stars all
Fall down

Maybe Death will stop for me

Maybe Death will stop for me and the two of us will marry.
I'm sure he has a poet's soul from all the grief he carries.
With the wisdom from his age, he must be fair at math.
Together, we could spend our days with Neruda and calculus.
Death will chase me, court me, follow where I roam,
until I concede at last and follow Death home.
With razor blades and sleeping pills will he kiss me goodnight
and so shall we fall asleep and never again see light.

This Fucking Ballpoint Pen - 05/21/13

Lamor precession
of whatever spin down
state I've collapsed into
with the same songs
same equations
same lines of code echoing
27, 28 times
over and over
asking

"Why must you do this
to yourself?"

RMS - 05/21/13

I have trust issues
with boys
who recommend
songs that slip into the bloodstream
and clot in my wrists.

0.707 - 10/30/12

I feel like
one over the
square root of two
is following me
everywhere I go,
in each math problem,
physics equation,
chemistry example;
one number
is creeping
over my calculator's screen,
repeating eerily,

0.707.

I feel like
Pascal is following me
everywhere I go,
at each decision I make,
each hesitance,
each crossroad,
one flawed argument,
encroaching on all
my on-goings,
whispering,

"The reward outweighs
the cost."

I feel like
Robert Oppenheimer
has an apartment
in my brain,
a little one room studio
covered in books
and white boards
and equations
and bags of tea,
with Curie next door
on the right
and Bohr next door
on the left.
Joe Strummer,
Pablo Neruda, and
Langston Hughes
live a floor below.
Captain Picard,
Hamlet, and
Carl Sagan
live a floor above.
They all wander in and out
of the lobby
of my cerebellum,
chit chatting,
gossiping,
deriving equations,
mincing verse
and memorized lines,
yet all end up saying,

"Physics or Poetry?"

I feel like
OR
is following me
everywhere I go,
defining what I can
and can never
have, hold, be,
taunting aspirations,
burning lists of goals,
tearing down
carefully crafted towers
of fanciful futures
in harmonies of

"Position or momentum?
Emotion or structure?
Science or art?"

I feel like
the things I think of
too often
have warped my mind
around them
and the only path
to freedom is

AND.

I've Never Met Anyone as Creative as a Physicist - 09-04-12

I’ve never met anyone as creative as

a physicist,

and I’ve met a lot of people

who called themselves artists.

I've met sculptors

who could recreate the figure of a man

in marble

and ones who could stimulate

the feel of the wind

in the folds of stone clothes

and ones who sparked chaos

in the hearts of viewers

with the combination of colored glass

spheres and spikes

on black marble,

but I’ve never met anyone as creative as

a physicist.

I've met poets

who could change childhood memories

into political allegories

and ones who made screams

sound like the lullabies

your mother never sang

and ones who made you taste

their potent lyrics,

some shoved down your throat

like medicine

and others slipped in your drink

when you weren't looking,

but I’ve never met anyone as creative as

a physicist.

I've met painters

who turned three pigments

into all the colors of the world

and ones who lathered brush strokes

so thick

you could see them come out of

the canvas

and feel the peaks and valleys

of the landscapes

and ones who gave a physical form

to the deepest feelings

I've never known how to put to words

in poetry or conversation,

the kind of feelings that when people ask,

“Are you alright?”

you just cannot answer,

but I’ve never met anyone as creative as

a physicist.

I've met musicians

who found the resonance frequency

of the human heart

and ones who could turn a melody

into a memory

without ever uttering a word

and ones who wove so many

different sounds together

to produce one simple harmony

that makes me shiver

every time

it flirts through my ears,

but I’ve never met anyone as creative as

a physicist.

The artists use that which we

see or touch or hear or smell or taste

to speak of all the things

that we can't

see or touch or hear or smell or taste.

They create new ways to

understand love

and life

and pain.

They create

that which we feel

in that which doesn't feel.

But a physicist

takes that which we can

see or touch or hear or smell or taste

and all that which we can't

and organizes it

in ways no one else has imagined,

no one else has fathomed,

no one else bothered to look for.

But a physicist

sees that which it is physically impossible to see,

touches that which has no mass,

hears frequencies over your ears' capabilities.

But a physicist

puts it all together.

But a physicist

creates everything

from the smallest particles

to the biggest galaxies

in equations,

turns patterns into predictions,

makes meaning from madness,

creates coherence in chaos.

But a physicist

fathoms all that is -

not limited to

that which their mind

or their heart

already knows -

and forms it such that

we all can comprehend it.

But a physicist

finds ways

to simplify the cosmos

while the artists

try to fill it up with

meaning.

I have never met anyone as creative as

a physicist.

Little Lightning Bug - 03/15/12

She sits on a thumbtack stool,
Perched on a pinprick
Waiting to hear the rules
She keeps her lips tight
Opens her ears and eyes
To every sounds and sight 

The moment passes
Past long eye lashes
When she can’t even breath
Just one right word
To one right chord
Quick, before he leaves 

Little Lightning Bug
Where will you run?
Where will you run to now?
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
You’re the wrong word, anyhow
Lightning flashes and lightning dazzles
But you look timid and nervous and frazzled
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
Where will you run to now? 

She sits by the light of the moon
Watching and waiting
The lightning’s coming soon
She’s hoping to learn
By watching the lightning
How to sparkle and burn 

The moment passes
Past long eye lashes
When she can’t even breath
Just one right word
To one right chord
Quick, before he leaves 

Little Lightning Bug
Where will you run?
Where will you run to now?
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
You’re the wrong word, anyhow
Lightning flashes and lightning dazzles
But you look timid and nervous and frazzled
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
Where will you run to now? 

Little Lightning Bug
Where do you get your name?
How could you ever
Hope to compare
To the lightning’s fame?
So small and fragile
So sweet and docile
So boringly tame

Darling, you’re nothing
Darling, you’re nothing
Nothing but a bug on the wall
No one would notice
No one would notice
No one would notice your fall 

The moment passes
Past long eye lashes
When she can’t even breath
Just one right word
To one right chord
Quick, before he leaves 

Little Lightning Bug
Where will you run?
Where will you run to now?
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
You’re the wrong word, anyhow
Lightning flashes and lightning dazzles
But you look timid and nervous and frazzled
Keep your mouth shut
Just listen up
Where will you run to now?

Restriction Signs Are For Losers - 01/21/12

Restriction signs are for losers.
Not the
“You're not cool enough for us”
losers, not the
“you're a wimpy kid”
losers, not the
“Get a pair, baby”
losers.
But the nerds and the punks,
but the timid and the meek.
No, restriction signs are for the losers.
Quiet, awkward stairwells
where no one can hear you sigh,
high off the ecstasy of Pablo Neruda poetry
or depressed off the stress of tournaments.
Restriction signs are for losers
to have a chance to be
the most popular boy in the room,
to talk to the prettiest girl around.
Restriction signs are for losers
who fantasize about being found there
by that perfect young man,
and smiled at and held and
then some other loser will come by
and everything will be awkward.
But it's an unrealistic situation anyways,
because he's not a loser,
so why would he need to violate
the restriction sign?
That is why
restriction signs are for losers,
little victories,
small accomplishments,
miniscule rebellions,
leaping into history's footsteps
and leading your army,
a moment of freedom, perfection, control
before slipping back into your shyness.
One second of voice,
of power,
of corruption.
For a lifetime of confinement?
Restriction signs are for losers.

Freezing To Death - 01/13/12

I always thought on fire,
disregarding the alternative.
I always thought on explosives
and my body torn to bits.
I always thought on dynamite
with a sudden end to life.
I always thought of burning,
of burning 'til I died.
 
But other things will do the trick,
like running down the street,
or masking dead intentions
with an accidental binge.
15 beers will kill me,
shall I take them in?
 
And now I turn to Mr. Frost
and the alternative
of an icy, slow, and painful death
of jumping right in.
 
I always thought on fire,
'til learning ice's desire.

Letters From A Very Bad Week - 12/10/11

I.
Open fire and flames.
Open fire and flames and fumes.
Open fire and flames
And forgotten fame
And fever.


II.
Dear Mr. Devil,
We regrettably inform you that we will be unable to make this evenings ball due to the inconvenience of being alive.  We have heard many great things about your parties and were looking so forward to this one.  Please know that we mean no offence and hope to join you next time.
Sincerely,
The Young and Tragic


III.
If I could be anything
I’d like to be a candle.
A simple, quickly-over life,
Nothing much to handle.
Set alight one day,
Left to brightly burn.
A beautiful travesty,
A rose’s bloodied thorn.
The candle killed by kindness,
Just trying to spread light.
The happiness is seen
But the bringer out of sight.
And as the day passes,
The wax evaporates,
Until there is nothing left,
Gone without a trace.
So bring me structured poetry
And overly-lyrical verse,
For I have images of blood
And stars and a polished hearse,
Because I am not a candle
Who will slowly die,
But a bit of dynamite,
Waiting to ignite.


IV.
Dear God,
I noticed the rain.  It rains often here and it’s hard to not notice, but what I noticed was that it wasn’t raining.  And it hasn’t rained in some time.  I know your subjects think the rain is you crying, so I can only imagine that a lack of rain is depression.  I’ve been having trouble crying lately too.  Trouble washing away all the darkness.  It gets bottled up, becomes acidic, and starts to chew away at my soul.  Which is okay for me, because I’m mortal.  But I don’t want to live in a world with a God whose soul has disintegrated.  So come down to visit, and we’ll drink orange juice and cry until the oceans flood.
It’ll be fun.
My best,
The Atheist


V.
You pretty little whore.
You filthy little doll.
Your dress is much too short,
Your ego much too tall.
I think it’s time to take a hit,
I think it’s time to fall.

You know you’re not immortal,
You know you’re gonna die,
So where’d you find the insanity
To look fate in the eye?
So where’d you find the courage
To laugh instead of cry?


VI.
Dear Ms. Dickinson,
You are bad luck.
Sorry,
The Heartbroken


VII.
The lighter met a candle.
Tall and thin and pale,
A girl of only seventeen
Who’d skipped too many meals.
The lighter didn’t know her secrets,
He didn’t know her pain,
He thought that they could be friends,
No reason to refrain.
I don’t know what he saw in her,
The ugly stick of wax,
With a wick wound so tight
She never could relax,
With poorly crafted body
That had cracked too many times,
With  a soul of blood and lust
That thought in verse and rhyme.
And when he found those verses,
Soaked in carnage and tears,
The silly little lighter
Found something to fear.
The girl was a cheater,
Dynamite in disguise,
Who smiled far too brightly
For one who hides such lies.

VIII.
Dear Scissors,
I’m sorry about last night.  It was wrong.  But I was lonely, and sad, and afraid to cry and God wasn’t around to make a joke.  And the Devil wasn’t around to play the right music.  And Blood would not shut up.  It was wrong.  But Poetry had failed me.  But cats make me cry.  But it wasn’t raining and I ran to you for comfort and found it.  It was wrong.  And it really mustn’t happen again.
But I can’t stop thinking about your embrace.  You can be the arms I’m longing for, the kisses I’m missing, the best friend who understands.  You accept me.  Treat my the same when I’m making art or breaking skin.  You don’t look at me like I’ve sinned when all I’ve done is freed the needs I have.
It was wrong and it really mustn’t happen again.  But don’t worry, because I’ve always been one for breaking the rules.
I love you,
Misery and Madness


IX.
It’s a little scary, at first.
That first moment in the water.
Time freezes and you think
You’re drowning.
And you really are drowning.
Forever and all eternity.

But eternity ends
A second later
And the words come
And it’s all over.
Forever and all eternity
It is over.

But eternity ends
A second later.

X.
Heart: Are we alright?
Mind: Are we alive?
Body: Where are we?
Soul: Doesn’t matter.
Heart: Everything matters!
Mind: Everything has energy.
Body: I think we should move . . .
Soul: What.  Ever.
Heart: The entire universe is filled with love and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Mind: The entire universe is filled with physics and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Body: I’m hungry.
Soul: I’m leaving now.

To A Cat Purring On The Rocks - 12/06/11

I screamed,
completely unintentionally,
but louder than anything
I’ve ever meant.
We were standing around,
 my best friend and I,
talking about Emily Dickinson
and the many physical forms death can take.
We were waiting for the bus in the cold
with a fuzzy, warm cat across the street,
the same colors as the fallen leaves,
except for that white belly,
like the snow we were wishing for.

He forced me to look away
as I stood frozen in fear
eyes locked on more than a single space,
but a single time as well.
And then we waited
for the bicyclist to clear the body
and for the body to stop twitching.
And even then,
the image still seared in my head,
I had to be forced to look away.
So we waited for the bus,
just across the street
from the first death
I had ever witnessed.

I’d seen close before;
walked in on dead hamsters,
rushed a dying cat to the vet,
sat in a hospital.
But today I watch death come and go.
I watched something die.
I screamed
and covered my mouth
and watched a fuzzy, warm cat
depart the Earth.

All I can think is that
it is my fault.
If I hadn’t needed to pet that
cute, tiny kitten,
maybe it wouldn’t have run
out into the street.
But maybe if I had waited for the light
and gone to another bus stop,
I never would have seen the cat.
But maybe if I had planned
a little more carefully,
I never would have hesitated at the light.

It has not been a good day.
I keep trying to find the good day,
but it has not been one.
I forced all the conversation I could,
but each moment of silence
was comprised of death and guilt.
Each fraction of a second
between sentences
was over-analysis of my faults.

And now it is late.
It is dark.
It is cold and quiet.
And we’re fearing nightmares
and cancer
and our own cats escaping into the street.
And I’m fearing ever crossing a street,
or letting a friend cross a street.
And I’m fearing deciding.
And, more than death,
I am fearing life.

Who Was T.S. Berczynski And Other Questions I’d Like Answered - 10/22/11

Poets don’t seem to live very long lives.
The author inscribed on the marble set in earth
lived to be 34
or maybe 35
depending on what month his birthday was in
and what month it was when he died.

Scientists, however,
seem to drag on forever,
earning their Nobels when
they’re old and withered.

I think they both do the same job -
Scientists and Poets -
musing about the meaning of the universe,
but answering in different ways.
While Scientists build colliders
to recreate the beginning,
Poets take their lives to understand its meaning,
but neither passes on any discoveries to the living.

Would a Scientist
with the soul of a Poet die
young, old, or middle aged?
 Or would they cancel the mathematics
with an impossible rage
and find immortality
on both anthology and lab report page?

End Of An Era - 07/24/11

Sitting there in King’s Cross station
Punk rock music always playing
All your heroes are dead and gone
But the radio still plays their songs
Is this the fate that I will find
When I reach the other side?
Are you somewhere looking in
Wondering when the revolution will begin?
To fight our own Dark Lord?
Perhaps we’ll win
Perhaps we’ll all just fade away
Like we never mattered anyway
Perhaps there’ll be nothing to say
No memorable quote on our grave
But those who were really listening
Know the grave is only the beginning

The Edge of the Universe - 06-07-11

Let me just try to explain
The changes in my brain
The shift in the synapses
The rearranging of the road

Sit alone,
On the edge of the universe,
Looking out.
What do you see?
Probably nothing,
You can’t see anything
Beyond what exists.
But I can.
I have found the right lens
The right glasses
The right perspective
That allows the images
That are just beyond the edge of the universe
To filter into my brain.

This used to be what drove me insane,
Trying to see what wasn’t there
Trying to image what I couldn’t fathom
Trying to hear smells,
Taste light,
See sound.

Mr. Meursault
Thought to kill a man
For the sun.
He shrugged at the guillotine,
His long face still unemotional,
The crowd cheering hate.
I held my tongue and waited.
Listened.
Sat still as Siddhartha on the river,
Listening to the trickle of rememory,
All the different generation blended
Into a single reflection,
Reflecting himself.
Patient in the countryside,
Clara sat at her desk and wrote,
And waited for the right time to speak,
To use her voice.
Patient in the plains,
Ida sat before the screen,
And kept her powerful story
For the end, the climax.
Patiently in the ice,
Shukov lived one more day.
I listened,
Patiently,
Quietly,
Hidden behind musty pages
And fictional titles.
Observing what was beyond
The edge of the universe.

Roaring 20s - 03-01-11

Should’ve been born in the 1920s.
Shouldn’t been a rebel girl
with my rain boots unlaced,
flapping around like jazz notes
blowing away all the German spiders
and sticking to billboards like price tags.
Should’ve bobbed my hair short as my skirt.
Should’ve given Queen Victoria the finger
and caresses Langston’s black neck
the way his words wooed my soul.
Should’ve sang with Margret Sanger
about ending the pain in my ovaries
and spreading my legs without worry.
Should’ve run around with DuBois
and lynched the freaks in the sheets,
not the knights in Harlem.
Should’ve run to the lights,
to the glamour and clamor,
to the growing cities like healthy children,
rocketing to the sky with hopes.
Should’ve laughed in the flowers
and gazed at the clouds with Georgia O’Keefe.
Should’ve head butted the traditionalist for firing Scopes.
Should’ve stayed out late with the Jewish.
Should’ve danced with the Polish.
Should’ve drank bootlegged beers with an Irish fellow,
out in the woods with painted lips
that sneered at mothers and puckered at men.
Should’ve seen the world for the first time
in a black and white news reel
with maritime music.
Should’ve cheered for Babe and laughed at Chaplin.
Should’ve lived and loved.
Should’ve drowned in culture and possibilities.



Historical context:
In my history class, we are currently learning about the Roaring Twenties.  This was a time of cultural revolution.  The traditional Protestant ways of the United States were being challenged by Pluralism - being of more than one belief.  This was the time of Woman’s Suffrage and the sexual revolution, where flappers wore short skirts, drank beer, and defied their mothers.  The flapper was named after the fashion of wearing rain boots without lacing them up so they made a flapping sound.  This was also the first instance of birth control, promoted by Margret Sanger.
This was the time of the Harlem Renaissance, an explosion of African American culture in New York, of jazz, poetry, and art.  Langston Hughes was one of the foremost poets of that time, and if you’ve never heard of him, please look up “Mother to Son” because it is amazing.  African America rights movement took off, With W.E.D. DuBois advocating for blacks to not just accept what they could from white, oppressive government, but to fight for their rights.
This was the time of mass immigration and the true beginnings of America’s “melting pot” idea, that, until then, had honestly not been followed.  People of all races moved into cities and learned about each other.  Old ideas were replaced with a conglomerate of the new.  Catholics in the USA formed a tradition of football watching.  A person could be of two worlds, that of their decent, be it Polish, Jewish, or Irish, and also be an American.
This was the time of learning about the world.  Mass use of radio and the first movies with sound brought news from all over the world to American citizens, letting them expand their view.  It was the time of the skyscraper, of the big city, of innovation.
I have been greatly inspired by this era.  Yes, I know it wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty freaking awesome, you have to admit.

If I Was a Poet - 02/20/11

If I was a poet the likes of
Pablo Neruda
who fills my teammates' memories,
quoting him like a deity
like Buddha
like all the words of all the languages,
were his
to mold and cradle with the tender kiss
of a mother,
then maybe I could find a way
to explain
the stars’ attraction,
pain’s satisfaction,
and why I feel the need to be needed,
want to be wanted,
and love being loved.

If I was a poet the likes of
Charles Bukowski
with his sarcasm,
his energy,
his honesty and lack of apology,
maybe I could then just tell you all
that it sucks
everything does
but you do it anyways.
just do it.
That you live and you live and then you die
and that is okay,
as long as you lived.

And if I was a poet the likes of
Mikel Jollett
then maybe I could serenade
the broken hearts with music
with rhythm
with chilling images
with pure emotion
with love and hate
mixed and mingled and torn
torn right down the middle and taped together

If I was a poet the likes of
Tori Amos
if I had a voice to yell my words
my words and my soul
to tell the world my soul
then maybe I could be free of paper and pencils
and trying to convey inflection
though line breaks.
Maybe I could make life make sense.