My Mother’s Hands

Those heavy brown doors open the same
way every time, the push of a metal rod
to enter the cafeteria and walk alone
amongst the crowd. The empty table
has my name all over it – literally!
Some etched cruel taunt about
my name rhyming with fat joke
words where I would
set my bag lunch.

I pull out the squished sandwich
and stare at the jelly oozing
out of incongruent foil seams.
I open the package of wheat and peanut butter
and instantly notice the rush job construction
of this sandwich. I thought about my mother’s
over-worked hands collecting ingredients
while watching the clock the whole time,
from wrapping it to throwing it carelessly
in the bottom of the bag with heavier
items crushing it flat.

It never used to be like this.
She was always conscious
and thoughtful in her pursuits
and would love to please and
want to be sure of it by asking,
“how was your lunch today?”
I think about all this
and look up at the hundreds
of thoughtless kids around me
and lose my appetite. I think
about how guilty I feel
for throwing away
a perfectly good lunch.
I think about my mother’s
hands and how they would
strangle me if she knew
I was doing this.

 

(first appeared in Asphodel Madness 2.0)

Bibio – Mind Bokeh (Warp Records)

I would hope by now that the truly discerning listener isn’t buying albums out of impulse or after hearing/reading the harkened banter famously deployed by a critic’s feed of crap. I understand and respect the place of most music critics and find their (positive) descriptions of sound an enhanced extension of my own personal thoughts, but I cannot stand their harsh and relentlessly negative view of the obscure. When I imagine music being rated at the top of its mark it would have to implore some kind of feeling that when I return to this music, picking it out of a playlist or holding the cover art, I receive the same emotional rush of beauty and intrigue from when it was last heard.

Artists are often criticized for staying inside their comfort zone or breaking too far out of it. Are you kidding me? Why should it be judged so irrefutably that an artist does or does not know how to make their own music? What’s wrong with maintaining a strong, unique voice? What’s wrong with stretching the imagination and the limits surrounding them?

I’m glad Bibio is evolving into a full-fledged producer, one with gusto and the strength to always find new fans. There’s never anything phony or tried in his music, never a question of why is that there. Bibio has gained recognition solely based on his creativity. I have always enjoyed the presence of music that I would sit around and say, ‘I could’ve written that’ but with Bibio, I don’t get that feeling. His music is so unique that I can barely conceive how it was made, let alone make it up on my own. It has a very fresh and freestyle feel to it – not quite improvisational, but not quite scripted, which makes this music even more attractive, constantly beckoning fans old and new right to its front door. One cannot help but keep on coming back for more.

(originally posted here: http://www.discogs.com/Bibio-Mind-Bokeh/release/2797490)

Kind of Man

They say you’ve got it, but
you cannot see it. Too bad
you’re never really looking
at yourself. A former image
has plagued the channels
of your thought, leaving
you spellbound
to the execution
of all your failures.
Look away for awhile, maybe
you’re looking too closely.
Upon a distant search you
may render others’ opinions
useless or mundane.
You are sovereign.
You are the kind
of man you have
always wanted
to be.
Just be.

Red Light Contemplation at the Intersection of Simple St. and Anamnesis Ln.

I remember cherry blossoms
and mango margaritas. Time
spent in the Windsor tower
was a dream. My ardent
senses awakened
from winter’s
coma.

(first appeared in Short, Fast and Deadly)

Ode to a Satellite

Mystified moonbeams glide inside
these azurite skies. Our behavior?
We’re preoccupied. The moon is
watching us misbehave. Our shallow
fingers weaving webs. Plans on the tips,
on the keys, on-the-go. Our mobile world
shifts another tide forward. Pulling out
its unique arsenal. Equipped for
destruction? The minds in high orbit
grow more manipulating. More prone
to pulling strings.
Strings attached
to our souls.

 

(first appeared in Short, Fast and Deadly)

The Fragility of Living Cells

We took a chance
riding in the back
of the truck. Hills
hopped, tossing
our limp bodies
with ease. Home
later to feel
the bruises.

We took a chance
pulling crops
at the last minute.
A storm too close
for any means
of survival, but
still we tread on.
Hundred mile
hour winds
brush our
mortal
shoulders.

We took our chances
on the east side. Night
shift store clerk’s worst
nightmare seen through
the eye of a pistol. Bang!

Certain Uncertainty

I know you can see
through the bullshit.
There’s never any doubt
you could destroy yourself.
But what about the future? Is it
still valuable to you?

The future is vast
and open for everyone
to experience. The hardest
part is knowing when to move
forward, if ever. We hold ourselves
captive within our limits of knowledge.
It’s a sad story to know we could’ve been more.

You always say what you want,
regardless, even if it’s held
in silence. You communicate
without speaking, without action.
A stillness that says
so much. How can
you account for
all lost time?

There’s no secret
to being reluctant
or lazy. Timing
is everything and
to say some opportunity
has slipped away is ridiculous.
I believe there is more. I want to know it.

There couldn’t be
a better time to act
upon impulse. The world
is changing every day.
The eventual truth is:
Tomorrow may look
alien to us.
Is there hope
of survival? Do you plan
to perish or prosper?

Nothing is definite.
Nothing is forever.
I can accept the end,
as long as the in between
was satisfying. The amount
of hope needed to survive
does not exist. A gift
as great as our present,
our expectation of here
and now, will become
our only sure thing.

Why is this Called Love?

The secrets you held
so close to your lips
never made
it through
the sliver between
half and whole, another
excuse to reign superior.

Your furtive truths
squashed footprints
in my garden. Overnight,
under moonlight,
nocturnal
to the warmth
awaiting your
broken soul.

Dreams aside, as all things die..
Peering into shattered windows,
how much value lies inside
is immaterial to your cause.

I grant you entry into every
known facet of my life – why
is this called Love?

Fertile Fields

Sure, I can move quickly, but
how fast can your heart beat
to keep up with my slithering
rhythm? An inquisitorial mouth
bears its teeth to be deeply
entrenched into a sinuous collar,
but there is great pause, as you’ve
always had this way about you
that could fetal curl me with fear.
The wet wipes on the dresser
beg me to use them, and you have
less than three seconds left before
your sexiness expires. I can rush,
I can fuck it up, there’s nothing
to stop my charm from overflowing …

We are bonded together now–
offspring, mini-van,
labradoodle and all.

Only the Strong Survive

I know I have come a long way, an extensively tired path drawn by mere survival.
I may not be as much a boy as I may appear in this primitive format of posturing letters to be arranged into words.
I am full of life, but it is reserved – anticipating the return to a world more easily embraced.
For in all this sorrow I can still find a few reasons to smile. But really, the world is an ugly place. Society, the mainstream majority, capitalism, celebrities, (over-paid) athletes; they’re all to blame for this twisted view of ourselves.
Why must there be pressure upon us and points of entry made into deep wounds that never heal?
Why must we tear each other apart by demanding rigid images and false hopes to live up to?
We are ALL human beings! Unfortunately, we are ALL in this together.
It shouldn’t matter what size you are, where you were born, or even what language you speak.
It’s (all) about being a good person; a good human being. One who will contribute positive energy to their own lives and hopefully into their communities.
It DOES matter how one was raised and what ethics are held within our lawful culture. But now, more than ever, it seems harder to achieve these standards because even our own lawmakers, individuals voted into office, (once) trusted by the people, have given us reason to doubt their credibility. These tyrants of power have turned the tables at the worst possible time and are now designing laws that benefit themselves, and only themselves.
It’s a terrible feeling to know your own rights are at stake. No time for remodeling and restructuring, it’s an all out war.
This age of darkness will prove who will remain in the end. And really, what end will there be left to live for?
A frightening course of action no one wants to see through.. but in the end, old adages are still true — only the strong will survive.