i flicked the hue out from my tea glass
only because i missed the water.
i flicked the hue out from my tea glass
i flicked the hue out from my tea glass
only because i missed the water.
it’s been some time since i wrote in this form,
for i’ve drifted along the passive grove
into the tainted industrial norm
of the passionless eye’s exhausted cove.
the meter is parched here, as well its rinds,
and i’ve shoveled for years in search of wit,
finding nothing but grains of barren minds
that were once coral reefs, now deemed unfit.
the cove was once here, and now it is gone;
like detroit, like booze, like a one night stand.
i ceased to live when i crossed my blue lawn
into this shriveled cove where minds grow bland.
(were it ever to feel a drop of rain
my mind would see beauty in these quatrains.)
i knew the grass was made of steel
when the earth rang like the holy bell,
singing songs to the peasants’ broken wheel
that worked the land’s grey morning dwell,
it touched the moon with its echoed cry
and painted the trees a lullaby,
drying the primrose wishing sea’s blue eye.
i lie myself into what i feel
and feel the grass between my dreams,
smelling the rusty heart’s red peels
that bustle down the crimson stream,
i swim with wolves in a misty light,
searching for that evening eremite,
trying to fall into his cryptic sky.
i cannot move when i am here–
the darkness held between the sands
of a brown-eyed ghost who seldom fears
the mind’s euphoric grey wasteland–
my mind it’s down that cellar door,
sitting right beside my eleanor,
be careful, though, it’s scared of those
i know what’s here when nothing’s real,
and i know why i hear the eden call,
because nothing sings when i sit still,
and nothing coughs up on the wall
the stars and suns and moons and we
and the earth’s rolling despondency,
it knows not what to think,
but only what to say.
i met positively 4th street
on the listening roads
of the guthrie ghosts and
the cosmos we inherit
in each finger painted stone,
selling dreams to all that is ebony
and all that is old, no, hey,
yawn and let the stars fall into
the subconscious of your stomach,
kidney ulcers, and
cute kidney stones.
whisk whats and whys
and the whereabouts that
hug dylan’s lungs.
and never tell me about it
when i wake up from
the piper’s sleep and puppet coil
on positively 4th street
where we peasants boil.
america is lonelier than extrospection
bone and patriotism
out of grit, i guess
and i see mestizo
LA , NY.
yes it’s to the outlaws,
from grecian middle western
grey stover shadows
‘cause his razors on
middle eastern play-
with the sandy saddles
LA , NY’s
last packa cigarettes
ten burn in
Forgive me, dear, I’ve gone astray,
I’ve tapped down roads like
tobacco ash against the grim ashtray,
gone for a day of dreary play
with a strain in my boots
that won’t go away.
Listen, hear, my dear,
I must reveal to you
the friction felt
when I don’t move my shoes,
It pains me, yes, so I
sprung from the nest
and tapped down that road
until my ankles seemed new.
I found the world a hundred times over
in each tumbleweed woman
that rolled about the desolation of my eyes,
and I saw you in the fields of
the broken-hearted stovers,
where the scarecrows are empty
and the doves cannot fly.
That road knew of me, and I of it,
I loved it for what it was, yes,
but it knew me too well
which beared conflict:
It strangled my dismal feet,
which caused me to kick.
I kicked the dust about the crossroad’s edge,
pleading to her that she forget the
pride of my legs,
I left her for the road,
for I had broken her pledge,
and she found me on the road
with your warmth on my head.
…and the dust I’ve kicked along those roads
have made rubble out of the
fears that inhabit my toes,
so, dearest, don’t fear, for
you’re only a crow,
and I an old soul that must wander this road.
Ill and bored locals, billboard bifocals,
sip smog from the mirage of a city that glows;
glows like absinthe, burns like absence
in the mass of a glass that God can’t drink slow.
A contradictory piece that I wrote awhile back for Valentine’s Day 2012. I’ve performed this one on several occasions, and it’s been recieved fairly well. Hope you enjoy, folks.
They say that a dream is a wish your heart makes.
I’d beg to differ; I believe that a dream means to gouge out your eyes and let the windows of your heart breathe in the subliminal exuberance that walks hand-in-hand with whatever noun that you see fitting.
It is a Shakespeare wink, peppy snap of vanity, swagger threaded resilience snaking around one’s body like the arm of a titan.
That, my friends, is a dream.
And as a dreamer I think it is safe to say that Valentine’s Day is one of the most depressing times of the year,
It makes me reflect on those February sunsets where I hypothetically wept on the candles of the birthday cake for regrets.
I loathe the lovers, yet applaud their schemes,
their vigilant virtues that sleep endlessly with my vices.
Their ability to put into work what I desire either makes me want to try harder or just continue with my dreaming.
It’s not as easy as it sounds.
Because dreamers are asleep in love, hardly realists like the sweethearts.
I mean, I find myself waiting disorderly for some girl’s Ferrari heart to collide with my Smart Car heart and cause the most euphoric debacle that will leave my nerves rattling each time I hear her pulse.
Almost as if we are two drunk drivers that coincidentally made eye contact after we were pulled out of our cars onto stretchers made of held hands.
But our drunkenness doesn’t stop there.
We begin meeting each other to sip poetry at a tavern of curiosity where we chase each other with our eyes.
And I grow inebriated by her spirit,
and she grows inebriated by mine,
and we become love alcoholics
Love dipsomaniacs with no intention of bringing a halt to our daily romantic binge.
Because this is what I sound like when I’m intoxicated;
“If only I could turn you inside out …
And see the world that lives inside you,
I bet there’s children that play tag near a rainbow that falls from your heart,
And a fountain that sprays stars from its spout,
I bet there’s graffiti that says LOVE all over the walls,
No profanity or words that will put me back on a trail to nowhere,
But, LOVE, we don’t have to find out,
Let’s imagine it as a city that keeps peace on a pedestal,
Where the government is ruled by a heart,
Where the clouds always drift slowly to cover up a hot day,
Where the rain is never frowned upon, but skipped through joyfully,
I can’t put this into anything more than a childish dream,
So I’ll say this:
You’re beautiful on the outside,
No doubt about that,
But when it comes to where the heart work its magic,
That beauty will always come before the other,
So when I gaze into your eyes,
Just know I look inside,
To that world that keeps me smiling endlessly,
For you are a dreamer.”
But occasionally I’ll sober up in an attempt to sneak in one night stands with my bad memories, because they seem to know me so well.
They massage my ego, they kiss my pride, they hop on my ignorance and they give it a ride, oh how I love those whores.
We create naughty schemes on a mattress for kings because the past is the most comfortable place to do things that I would assume involve sleep.
But when those memories lay themselves beside me after a long night of playing Jenga or Scrabble, I get choked by an insomniac condom, choked up by the emotions that I had cheated on, choked up by the future memories that I have wasted, simply because I wanted a piece of past!
And I laugh like all deniers do, trying to tell myself that my brash is nothing more than a temporary pimple on the forehead of my aura.
I am a cheater.
I cheat on my true emotions.
Hide them under my skin,
Anti-happiness medicine that clouds my mind in a fog smoke of expected depression.
A man on a piece of paper,
God has drawn me as a martyr for nothing,
A stick figure in a draft folder that has not been touched since August 6, 1993,
He has one pencil and no knife to carve it into a flawless blade of imagination, so he leaves me to fend for myself in a world of unfinished business.
The twisted disasters of your worn down pencil heads leave us ironically sharp through our dull minds, our bleeding hearts, our lack of trust towards a world that has left us disemboweled to the point that our dreams are nothing more than a blank slate that sits patiently next to the word “why?”
It consumes us like tidal waves, consumes our dreams and washes them on shore as concocted nightmares, deathly beach whales, leaving us battered and chained and tattered and maimed to a lifeless career as title slaves –
Because when I grow up . . .
“I want to be a Power Ranger!”
“I want to be an astronaut!”
“I want to be rich.”
“I want to be a poet.”
“I want to be a husband.”
“I want to be a father.”
“I want to be loved.”
“I want to have friends . . .”
“I want to be respected.”
“I want to have a voice.”
“I want to just be able to tell my mother that I love her and forgive my father for all the pain he inflicted on my brothers. To forgive his blunder.”
To smile without stapled cheeks.
I want to live.
“I want to die.”
Because I sometimes fall short of my own expectations. This burning desire to gaze upon a photo of someone I love while knowing that they love me back. It haunts me. It soothes me. And I could take this photo and place Waldo in the face of my anger, and even though that it’s evident I’ll miss the open precedent with a hesitant settlement and then tell myself that it’s irrelevant, because I am masked by the same false face that made heaven and hell an opposite.
For I am a dreamer.
A perpetual schemer seeking to reap the benefits of the celestial elements that made the depressed man an emotional astronomer.
A star gazer.
A cosmic vagabond that tags along with no mind for time and a black backpack.
A first place insomniac.
Because the bags that bear hug the waist of my eye-lids are gold medals awarded for each night that I passed on sleep to pitifully map out the stars into my own interpretations of what heaven might be.
And for each lifeless dream I weaved from the palette of my mind, a cosmic tear fell from God’s eye to scar my wrists with converted nightmares that the majority said were only lies.
Such scars have dried,
But they proceed to bleed every time I isolate myself with a pen and a wish
I’ve got strong wrists from writer’s bliss, so now when I spell out truth you’ll know that it’s obvious that the first amendment is carved within each cut and slit in my flawless wrists
You can’t tell me what a lie is
For a lie cannot live within dreams
Because dreams spray anti-lie biocides into the confides of our anatomies
coating the heart with an utter fragrance of Cupid’s grandest clichés
and eclipsing the mind with a billowing silhouette of a page-by-page reprint of Pride and Prejudice
where a poem for us tangles our breath in strings of iambic respiration.
A poem about a man’s mending heart–shy and brittle–waltzing with a woman’s heart of gold to the tune of their tapping pulses.
Yes, a dream.
Cave artists brushing up against the walls of angst filled minds, coating thick, sorrowful skulls with burgundy paint, profusely stroking and engraving the cranium with vibrant jungle gyms of words, words, words so that the silence that hums in our heads could seem beautiful, could seem admirable in its darkened normality.
Dare I dream…
Dear Valentine’s Day,
I’m no foreigner to longing, nor am I distant to dreaming,
All I have is a writer’s sense of arrogance and the clothes on my back,
and I’d be willing to give it all up just to write one poem for that girl I’ve never met
She is doused with little sprinkles of near insanity and indescribable brilliance
Her Shakespeare winks, peppy snap of vanity, swagger threaded resilience snaking around her body like the arm of a titan.
But a man can only dream.
This is an ode to the lonely.
The people who hold onto life by cornerstone threads that unknowingly dangle from God’s Earthly quilt.
the ones that are inspired by the crimson of a gentile giant’s misunderstood aorta.
The aorta is ripped like a poet’s best draft and then thrown down to the innocent world beneath us where the norms of society let it melt in their mouths like frozen aspartame.
They indulge in the brilliance while we sit alone in the corner noting those lost tomorrows that engulf the sky,
for we are dreamers.
and nothing more . . .
This is a slam poetry piece that I’ve performed on several occasions in different variations. Just thought I’d share the first draft with my readers who are unable to watch me perform. Enjoy.
can paper folding tell stories?
can it mold poetry from our oldest trees and still speak to the youth with the hopeless dreams?
i’d like to think so.
here’s an invisible lanky pale tree.
i’m gonna take it and make it into a possibility.
a precious blank rendered scheme by way of many an endless dream.
something like a skeleton key that is lost in the sea on a flipped pirate ship smuggling vitamin b
while the centipede jumps from jame’s giant peach and gets tied up and pried by a decaying ghoul team.
and i say vitamin b because it is good for the heart.
and i say pirates because jack sparrow is fucking awesome.
the peach reference just sounded clever.
have I sparked a thought?
hell no, it’s too soon to tell.
now let’s get cute.
let us unfold our minds from those origami cup folds to spill all of our hidden inner worth into man’s cut-glass bowl . . .
maybe we can make a paper plane bullet that is always aimed at the heart
with your favorite color you can draw memory decals
you know, adventures in disney land at the age of thirteen
trying to fight your raging urges to hit on cinderella and punch mickey mouse in his spleen
and sing marilyn manson at the karaoke hot spot while gurging then purging some hot dog looking thing on a roller coasters running fuse.
but you fight that urge . . . because you don’t want to upset that younger sibling who waited his whole 3 or 4 years of life just to gaze upon the mysticism of imaginative witticism
his unknown vision to uphold criticism towards cynicism is absolutely remarkable.
have I sparked a thought yet?
no? let me continue.
the bullet-plane’s innards can be beauty
those personality giggles that only one person may find cute
or those stupid jokes you make when you really like someone and its deliverance finishes with awkward silence on mute
because love is a living overdose that we treasure
we are approachable cuddle fiends
emotional bumblebees seeking our honey from crowds of 7 billion unworthy nominees
but when we free the plane from our thumb and index our middle fingers arch to confront our hypocritical signs as it pierces our pores to birth a lead sore that will eventually lead you to a soreness of the mind . . .
have i sparked a thought?
i might have. but it’s not good enough yet.
now let’s get serious.
let’s take this plane and unfold it loosely,
we’ll remove the decal memories and blur the letters L-O-V-E
and work it profusely until we have found the answer to what makes man hate
we can fold it into various shapes
like equator length brushes drenched in sin shriveled paint
they erase the clouds to paint the skies towns
to mirror the world and show us all the red we have spilled on the green of the ground
the red of the ebonys, the ivorys, yellow and brown lives who depart with no final words
we are fighting a life piracy
and as if to take lennon’s lsd language for granted
we need to ignore the artist acid trips, those aesthetic mental quips and show stopping actress tips,
to counter attack our woes and resurrect poe as a giddy prep kid whose popularity was found in the strand of his wordsmith genes
because we have destroyed geniuses with beating hearts to only recognize their worth at the halt of their start.
we need to realize that that weird kid you see walking alone down the street
that innocent life that falls feet first to the bombs of our fleets
that girl who weeps herself gently to sleep
might just have the power to enhance the world with a single heart beat.
have i finally sparked a thought?
love is normal but it must take drive of satan’s plot
we need to take our origami pride
and crumble it into an origami heart.
What has poetry become?
Some would say it’s gone backwards.
The boldness in this statement is expanded
by the point made that it’s gone back to the epic.
You see this in coffee shops, they say,
when poets tell stories of heroes:
heroes of the mind,
heroes of the culture,
heroes of the radicals,
heroes of the blind.
It’s there, they say,
and it continues down that path
to the extinction
that all abandoned poems have gravely anticipated.
Art Towards a Happy Day [painting - illustration - design]
Abrasive art that refines the soul.
The Poetry & Writings of T J Therien
Observations from the Peanut Gallery
One twenty-something's thoughts on the world...