Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Picasso and the Hand of God

these days of despair
when quailing, my heart ventures out
I half expect some tragedy
to come in to my home and destroy.
Each day a chorus of news paints pictures
of gristly scenes, twisted in anguish~
Guernica is everywhere, everywhere,
and so many saviors carrying standards
their great flapping flags concealing spears, swords,
so quick to light the crucible and heat the branding iron
where is my Gaugamela?
who will be my Alexander?
I would to God that it was Christ in a blood red robe,
parting the sky, cleaving the mount
in my mind He looks as a Bloch painting does
yet the scriptures tease that we would not know him
Is this the God who will still my quavering soul?
The one who would calm the tremors, still the shrillness?
May it be!
Man carries on into darkness, clouded
hopes pinned on a revolution, a socialization;
bleak despair and dark hopelessness are opposing millstones
and grind without measure~
my only hope vouched in a faith unscientific--
that paper and ink carry the weight of God!
Perhaps Freud would say it's merely projection;
that I, and others, have repressed desires
but I'd rather my implications than the war to the teeth.
I'd rather my delusions than the darkness.
these days of despair
when quailing, my heart ventures out
half expecting a tragedy
a flower springs up beside these broken swords.


Tuesday, September 22, 2009

the hypothetical harvest

I was contemplating fruit as I watered tonight
the fall air, the fall grass
biting cool on my naked feet
I have been tending two still-new vines
coaching them along the links of the fence
teasing the tendrils to curl into iron grip
both are in their third season
and still fruitless
will I eat my fruit?
will I trim my vines?
the canadice will bear first, I hope
but the thompson is far too spindly
far too stunted
There will be no fruit from that'n
I should yank it and plant another in it's stead
and while we're back on fruit
I wonder who will be picking from my two vines
come fifty years, when I am old and close to the grave myself
will you eat my fruit?
will you trim my vines?
Time has a way of wearing things out, grinding them down
will these rundown apartments still be here
still neglected, and all the more dilapidated?
without a doubt, the methheads will burn the high rises down again
perhaps the next time will be for good
jealous fire taking them entire to the foundations~
or will my dystopian thoughts never bear seed?
True to God, I hope they never sprout, my thoughts.
If it were up to me, the lamb and the lion would lay down tonight
not the empty bedfellows of man and his constructs
who will eat my fruit?
who will trim my vines?
will this place even matter in fifty years?
will the dirt be as worn out as the walls, the roofs, the windows
will the children still play in the streets?
I wish they all learned gardening in school
to link them to the soil.
when I die, don't bury me in a velveteen crate
hiding my preserved remains, an apology in a box,
lie me down in the heart of the fat black soil
where William Sycamore can find me.
please trim my vines
please eat my fruit
and think of the one you'll never know
this antecedent gardner

Crazy, by Gnarls Barkley

Songwriters: Burton, Brian Joseph; Callaway, Thomas Decarlo; Reverberi, Gian Piero; Reverberi, Gianfranco;

I remember when, I remember
I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space

And when you're out there without care
Yeah, I was out of touch
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much

Does that make me crazy?
Does that make me crazy?
Does that make me crazy?

And I hope that you are
Having the time of your life
But think twice
That's my only advice

Come on now, who do you
Who do you, who do you, who do you think you are?
Ha ha ha, bless your soul
You really think you're in control?

Well, I think you're crazy
I think you're crazy
I think you're crazy
Just like me

My heroes had the heart
To lose their lives out on a limb
And all I remember
Is thinking, I want to be like them

Ever since I was little
Ever since I was little
It looked like fun
And it's no coincidence I've come
And I can die when I'm done

But maybe I'm crazy
Maybe you're crazy
Maybe we're crazy

And so you can hear it:


Saturday, September 19, 2009

deus nobis haec otia fecit

We shall only hitch our ride but once
and review it again if the rumors are true;
this seat we straddle, with it's time worn cantle
and the reverberating calliope sound
is a carousel circling round and around
and we each have a seat on this thing.
Call it merry-go-round or carousel
traveling up and down, circling to the left
it is color and noise and light
with each creature affixed to it's brazen poles,
as we settle in each place for the ride.
And running on, our time cleanly marked,
the length of each ride so diff'rent for each
We stay till we're bidden to exit,
these motions all set to the pipe organ song.
It seems so to me, this life that we lead
in these circles set down by our God
that the moments we have and the minutes we share
are for purpose, graver than carnival barking.
That their inference, not always so clear~
and if off and away, beyond these obscuring mirrors
we lift from these circling rotes
and stepping down from the platform, meet the maker
He might just wear overalls and an old button shirt,
a greasy rag hanging from His hip pocket
We'll talk of the constructs that were our life
of that merry go round where we lived;
as we sit on the midway with sweating lemonades in hand.
He'll both laugh and be grave in turn,
the way a man does, full of years
looking back on the time He has wrought,
and perhaps He'll explain why he built it at all
as we sip our lemonade and talk
under the shade of a great sycamore
our seat a bench just to the side of that ride
watching us all from the corner of His eye.

O Rise, all loyal Cougars and hurl your challenge to the foe.
You will fight, day or night, rain or snow.
Loyal, Strong, and True
Wear the White and Blue.
While we sing, get set to spring.
Come on Cougars, it's up to you!

O Rise and Shout, the Cougars are out
Along the trail to fame and glory.
Rise and shout, our cheers will ring out,
As you unfold your vict'ry story.
On you go to vanquish the foe
For Alma Mater's sons and daughters.
As we join in song, in praise of you, our faith is strong.
We'll raise our colors high in the blue,
And cheer the Cougars of BYU.

GO BLUE tomorrow!


Thursday, September 17, 2009

Ode to an Orb

Sirius is bright in the sky this morn
and I am wide awake
I should be breathing, peaceful, deep,
supine, by my wife and our four-month-old.
Instead I sit, keeping lonely vigil with a sphere
I can see it through the kitchen window
bobbing my head to make it appear
otherwise hiding in it's shyness behind the eaves.
Ho bright orb, you double struck suns
the same who's influenced the earth for aeons;
closest star, so pulling in proximity
ancient man said you were the dog
and could weaken and arouse, strike and malign--
but you and I share the waxing dawn together,
every dawn these many weeks
I waiting, facing the east for God
or God knows what,
your patient bightness a flash of white in the dark
that black into gray and blue
the quickening lines of the sky behind
the deeper muting of the peaks, what a trio we three make.
My orb, the stones, and the sky;
I watch until you are swallowed up in the Sun
your crystal eye blind to my fleshy one, lost until another night.
Come sweet sleep, come wrap me in your velvet arms,
come dreams and syanpses firing at random~
those whimsies feighning, this writer's dreams.
Still each morning I have this star, this summer friend,
fixed as Keats would wish him to be;
'Lo Canis Major, my dogged gyre in the sky!


Wednesday, September 16, 2009

I have had this song in my head tonight. The lyrics are still applicable today these 29 years later:

Canary in a Coalmine (by the Police)

First to fall over when the atmosphere is less than perfect
Your sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect
You live you life like a canary in a coalmine
You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line

You say you want to spend the winter in firenza
Youre so afraid to catch a dose of influenza
You live your life like a canary in a coalmine
You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line

Canary in a coalmine

Now if I tell you that you suffer from delusions
You pay your analyst to reach the same conclusions
You live your life like a canary in a coalmine
You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line

Canary in a coalmine

First to fall over when the atmosphere is less than perfect
Your sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect
You live your life like a canary in a coalmine
You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line

Canary in a coalmine

And the video/music:

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Excellent article I read today from syndicated columnist Star Parker:

Let me know what you think


Monday, September 14, 2009

this life is a dream
and we the dreamers swimming
both bearded babe and youthful old man
where is the truth?

that veil, this lfe
and these cynics shrilling
hollow in their anger at a disproved God
how is their truth?

What dreams this life!
so hopeful these stories, boyish hope
twinned as this man who walks
where is my truth?

And thick this fancy,
music so painted with soaring ambition!
I dreamt today of Cerin Amroth
this mound is the truth

where ends, this life?
where my Haven awaiting such as I
no ringbearer, just a simple shieldman
Is all this the truth?

We live on, this dream
the nodding simbelmynë marking white
solid actuality, laid to rest
old bones the truth

This life is the dream
and we the salmon swimming it
this urge to move upriver, leaving others
there is the truth

what memories this dream!
the ungarded left flank
the bleeding and broken souls and souls
how old is the truth

no waking this dream
the pinch does not shake
nor the violent death by the mallorn
so universal is truth

and slip to the dream
my heart equally buried
at both wounded knee and lothlorien
the strange way of truth

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Comfortable With Respect to the Weather

The hounds of fall have been baying
at the door, the roof, all day.
I feel summer sneaking away into coolness
her skirts rustling the green grasses
'till she's another memory of times past.
and yet
I find myself awake from my nap of hours
my hibernation of spirit, that near-drowning feel
the eternal pause for a crack in the chrysalis
Awaken tropical breezes!
the sound of ukulele, of Olelo Hawai'i
I care not for the buffeting of the eaves
nor note the rattling of the windows
my roof is thatched tonight,
stilted in the tanzanite blue of Moorea
the moon clean and honest in the sky
her freshly washed face
not hid by scudding clouds.
I smell the breath of my love
hibiscus and honey~
my pockets filled by these sands
black and white, black and white.


Friday, September 11, 2009

September 11th Eight Year Anniversary

What a strange anniversary to remember. I was sleeping this time eight years ago, and woke at 9-ish to my roommate, yelling at me to come watch the TV. The first plane had struck the first tower, and we had no idea it was a conspiracy of terrorists, nor that three other planes were involved. We sat down and watched TV for days straight, trying to piece together the breadth of the thing. It was immense.

We mourned with everyone in this country for those lives lost. Those days were bleak and stand out in my recollection for their solemnity. People came together and mourned openly, photographs of the terror, the service; the hardened 'fuck you' nature of the New Yorkers broken, crying, bleeding. This transmogrification touched our hearts. I felt like I cried every one of those days, wondered at the horror all felt, bewildered with the blatant disregard for life.

Surely those moments were akin to the end of the world. Surely the thoughts we had were filled with fire and smoke, with plunging from high up on a building, our bodies too breaking in great booming strikes, the sound of the bodies falling from the towers our own.

I find today that I have in me a strange hope. These terrors, so well documented on TV, this death replayed a thousand times, a mini war of hell fought by civilians. despite all these murders, I hope. I hope that terror will not find root in a child form Afghanistan or Iraq. That they will turn away from the bleak nothingness of extremism. I hope for us as a nation, that we will not let the bright light dim, that we will shine as example to the world that we will rise up, we will hope, we will stride forward. We are scarred from that day, and it has become a holy day for the loss of life, for the courage shown, for the unity we felt.

Here's to a country still trying to find itself, in may ways, this eight years later. May God direct us, may we honor Him, may we honor those who serve this country virtuously, and may a tragedy like this never happen again.

On a brighter note, GO COUGARS tomorrow! What better way to see hope than in the Collegiate hopeful. Dream big boys, this world is yours.

And with that I am going to bed. Goodnight you humans, this night walker is sleepy. :)


Saturday, September 05, 2009

Way to play tonight Cougars! Defense, I am proud of you. Pendleton and Clawson you played a great game. Kariya you were a monster, Pitta you and Hall were clutch.

Most of all I am proud of the D. You guys delivered tonight. Thank you for the memories of this game!