Hello,
So i think I am going to shut this down, I dont update enough for my 9 dollars a month..hey, thats 2 packs of cigarettes. Its sad that I measure money in how many cigarettes I can get with it. So i have been looking for gradschools. Its friggin hard. I am looking at: Staying here at SIU...we have a damn good MFA in creative writing, cleavland, cincinnati (I know i spelled that wrong), virginia state, sarah lawrence, NYU, columbia, in chicago, and a few more out east.....shoudl be interesting to see how fast i get regected when I go to apply. So, in the spirit of school, here is a poem I wrote recently, that I am rather proud of. I think it challenges the convention of poetry.
The irregular life of a lie
I.
So your face is on the floor with the
lies you told, and looking down at your flesh
youll see shadows dancing on your eyelids
as you try to shut out the pain inside.
The story you keep down below your pillow
cannot remain silent. Tossed to and fro
your head begins to swell and the story
will overflow from your soul, and blood stained,
your eyes are burnt in middays sunlight, stolen
away youre hidden in dark recesses.
And then will begin your confessions.
The graves of your memories will open
widely as darkness escapes into the
midnight moons light. So, well begin.
II.
1. What made you spin so horribly
out of control into such a life;
hiding truth, promoting lies?
2. Why did you ever let those stories take hold
and keep hostage the truth that would set you free?
III.
1. The lies I could no longer control
were tearing out my insides from the outside.
Its a terrible thing when your truths hide
as lies hold them at gun point with a dull
knife buried in their back. Had the truth only
died when I started telling you I tried.
2. Because life was too mundane, too dull.
I wanted excitement, someone to be.
And so I created a story (you), lied
my face off to make it seem so real.
This story has become too pitiful.
IV.
The most abstract yellow accompanies
black lungs just south, covering his liver
from left to right, now all within white satin.
V.
And so, through the very whites of his lies,
here comes to rest the story of a man
not known to his contemporaries; an
apothecary to the way we try
to understand how the small lies we tell
eventually take presence as the pink
elephant sitting by the sink,
drinking all the wine you need to sell.
He will be remembered: the poet, well,
writer, that hid too much within confines
of pen and paper, structure and form.
So i think I am going to shut this down, I dont update enough for my 9 dollars a month..hey, thats 2 packs of cigarettes. Its sad that I measure money in how many cigarettes I can get with it. So i have been looking for gradschools. Its friggin hard. I am looking at: Staying here at SIU...we have a damn good MFA in creative writing, cleavland, cincinnati (I know i spelled that wrong), virginia state, sarah lawrence, NYU, columbia, in chicago, and a few more out east.....shoudl be interesting to see how fast i get regected when I go to apply. So, in the spirit of school, here is a poem I wrote recently, that I am rather proud of. I think it challenges the convention of poetry.
The irregular life of a lie
I.
So your face is on the floor with the
lies you told, and looking down at your flesh
youll see shadows dancing on your eyelids
as you try to shut out the pain inside.
The story you keep down below your pillow
cannot remain silent. Tossed to and fro
your head begins to swell and the story
will overflow from your soul, and blood stained,
your eyes are burnt in middays sunlight, stolen
away youre hidden in dark recesses.
And then will begin your confessions.
The graves of your memories will open
widely as darkness escapes into the
midnight moons light. So, well begin.
II.
1. What made you spin so horribly
out of control into such a life;
hiding truth, promoting lies?
2. Why did you ever let those stories take hold
and keep hostage the truth that would set you free?
III.
1. The lies I could no longer control
were tearing out my insides from the outside.
Its a terrible thing when your truths hide
as lies hold them at gun point with a dull
knife buried in their back. Had the truth only
died when I started telling you I tried.
2. Because life was too mundane, too dull.
I wanted excitement, someone to be.
And so I created a story (you), lied
my face off to make it seem so real.
This story has become too pitiful.
IV.
The most abstract yellow accompanies
black lungs just south, covering his liver
from left to right, now all within white satin.
V.
And so, through the very whites of his lies,
here comes to rest the story of a man
not known to his contemporaries; an
apothecary to the way we try
to understand how the small lies we tell
eventually take presence as the pink
elephant sitting by the sink,
drinking all the wine you need to sell.
He will be remembered: the poet, well,
writer, that hid too much within confines
of pen and paper, structure and form.