Restrepo

Red flares in the sky,

Red rims ‘round my eye,

I hear chords for me,

Chords for me.

Red bikini summer nights

Red graffiti in the lights,

What’s in store for me,

Store for me?

I can’t imagine what it’s like

To find God amidst the fight,

Smoke and gore for me,

Gore for me.

Red hot noises bang,

Red’s my choice, my shame:

This is war for me,

War for me.

Youth Abroad

Runways and humid Sundays

Were the fun days of the past:

Tropical forests with boa constrictors

89 degrees in the tree tops with nothing but a rope to straddle.

Street dances and flash mobs,

Blunts and disco lights blazing like a Stockholm rave,

Tiesto would’ve been proud.

Ah, but we were young then, young and bold

Like lovers in the spring.

But with summer love

Comes the fall pain and school started again

With nothing but chaos for us to claim.

And now it’s cold, miles from the Kuala Lumpur

Paradise of years past and Studenskii Grad parties

Go on without us because we’re too old to care,

Not in body, but in mind

And it’s mind over matter in this world

Of empty glitz and glam:

But I still dream about the runways.

Broken Beauty

Beauty slips between the cracks sometimes,

The split foreheads and the broken teeth,

Smashed bottles of Heineken in gaps on the sidewalk—

Ants won’t even touch it for fear of slicing their appendages,

But I know that even invisible beauty can be dangerous.

She walks in the night, painted like a Picasso,

And she sheds things for nothings, nobodys;

And she’s scarred like secret ink that spies use,

For her pain is inside, but she’s beautiful.

He writes in secret of course, for fear of discovery,

For fear of vulnerability but he loves her of course,

And she’ll never know but that he dies

And his last breath was “she’s beautiful.”

And that life could be less complicated,

That trees would keep their shade and leaves

Would color without dying, and that the fall

Would occur without the fall, and that Heinekens

Wouldn’t smash families as they crashed to the floor;

For beer is good and life is good

In moderation.

Oh but she’s beautiful, even though she’s broken…

Carpe Party

If life is cake, then by all means eat it

And take my peace while you’re at it,

For I think you might be dreaming if you

Think this orb is a party,

Oh but there go the confetti bombs

And the sparkler fires,

And sing your dirge to make yourself feel better:

“Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday,

People dying everywhere…”

Sounds like fun until the bow on your box

Is a tripwire and all your candles

Are snuffed with one brief puff.

Your epitaph: He lived a delusion

And almost had fun while doing it.

Sorry old sport, no tears were shed when you left

For you caused too many while you were here.

Sleep

Calm the musings of my heart

And let no raptured thought curtail

The waking beauty of the night

That swathes my dreams in sweet betrayal

Of all I am, a rushing tide

Of boundless depth and endless ebb:

Allay this furor whate’er betide

That sleep may softly drown my head.

Love

“Love keeps no record of wrongs”

How do I beg forgiveness for what you don’t know?

Those car rides all alone,

With nothing but my thoughts to guide me home.

How do I explain what I don’t understand?

My sordid scam,          

Of pretending to be not what I am.

How will you forget what I can’t do?

I follow through

By saying at least I thought of you.

And somehow that’s enough,

The diamond in the rough,

The soft spot in the tough, tough

Realm of my heart, but you say it’s a start

And that’s why I love you. 

Vertigo

Walking blind down a city street

Sure does beat the eternal chaos of the galaxies meeting

One another around us;

Or maybe it’s just a mirror, and it’s just our fear of significance

Which causes us to dumb ourselves with meteor showers

Of electronic beats and scratching turntables ad infinitum.

I wonder what it’s like to be real, to be what you were made to be

Just for one day…probably like waking up from a nightmare and realizing

It was just a dream, or being diagnosed with cancer on April 1^st:

Both terrifying and exhilarating in one fell moment.

But to be real is to know pain, and I can’t handle that

So I’ll put my Oakley’s on and get lost in the whirr of engines and the honking of horns:

Maybe I’ll get lucky and get hit.

* I posted two songs today, because my heart felt like singing. Not because my heart was glad--it rarely is--but because it is the very nature of man to sing, for everything he does is a song. From the whimpered melody of his first crying sob to the choked dirge of his last gasp for air, man sings. And whether glad or sad, my heart sings, for I am a man and it is my duty to sing my song for my Maker. Sing with me, or drown me out with your own tune, for whether you know it or not, your life sings too.

Promised Land (a Hymn to God the Father)

Bring me to the Promised Land,

Let me hear Your story!

All my life I’ve broken been,

So heal me now in Glory!

Glory, glory!

Beyond the River rolling,

My Master calls me swiftly home

To rest with Him in Glory!

In the field I’ve labored strong,

Pushed through weather stormy;

But Life has been so hard, so long:

Now lift me up to Glory!

Glory, glory!

Beyond the River rolling,

My Master calls me swiftly home

To rest with Him in Glory!

And now my eyes are finally closed,

I see the breaking morning:

No more fear, forever hope,

I’m coming now to Glory!

Glory, glory!

Beyond the River rolling,

My Master calls me swiftly home

To rest with Him in Glory!

Golden Gates are opened wide,

Your arms are spread to hold me,

And all my pain is cast aside,

Forever I’m in Glory!

Glory, glory!

Where all the saints adore Thee!

On thrones of gold we’re seated high,

To reign with You in Glory!

And all my pain is cast aside:

Together we’re in Glory!

Man's Song

Where rivers run and oceans flow

I’ll guide you as you grow.

I’m sorry Father up above,

I love it here below.

And when the storm clouds rise against

I’ll be your last defense.

Forget it Father strong and brave,

I could use a rinse.

Deathly valleys, icy cliffs

My shoulder’ll be your lift.

Excuse me Father, snowshoe man,

I like exploring rifts.

I know you fear the dark of night

But I will be your light.

Damn it Father, shadows vile

My fickle soul excite.

Well you will fall, but you’ve not won,

I will send my Son.

Well I will nail him to a tree;

I think your work is done.

And as you watch, He’ll rise on high,

My love you can’t deny.

That may be true, but sure as hell

I’ll try until I die.

Lover's Swansong

Separate the brick walls from the pitfalls

And cut me clean.

I’m too far gone to come back home

Or be a king.

They asked me if I’d try so I lied

And said I would

But now I’m broke and I have no hope

And I’m understood

For the first time: I’m on cloud nine

When I’m with you

But then you leave me and you can’t see me

While I miss you.

And all the people say I’m evil

Because you’re broken

But I swear that I care so much

My arms are open

And I’m bleeding from the beating

That I’ve taken

But it’s worth it for the purpose

Of persuasion

Because I hope that you know

I’m in earnest

I could have fled or wound up dead

Or otherwise deserted.

But I’m here and you’re not,

Alone and distraught,

But I decided this,

So I’ll take what I’ve got.

I've run out of questions...

I’ve run out of questions

With so many answers

Dancing before my weary eyes,

There’s no more pretending,

I’m running on empty

And reading between the blurry lines

That aren’t even there

I’ve only imagined

A beat to help me remember my rhymes

I’m over, I’m out,

You can call me a pilot

I’ve flown so far behind enemy lines

There’s no more escaping,

My heart is through breaking,

And never will laugh when the wedding bell chimes.

For these are the words of a forsaken lover,

Who whispers sad nothings as vivacity pines. 

Clear my heart

Clear my heart

As a shooting star

Clears the sky on a cold winter’s night:

It’s not so menial as you might think,

Not so trite or redundant as perception might indicate:

I can’t escape it, it’s here

It’s part of me,

It’s who I am, who I’ll be, both what I want and what I hate,

So please clear my heart:

For the clouds of a worried soul

Block out the masterpiece of a broken life. 

Trust

I can’t do it again.

Not that thing.

Not that beautiful whirly-whirl of unknown pain and sadness

Till it’s known and you can’t escape it and the only thing you can do

Is tell yourself not to cry

But you don’t listen

Because your fingers are in your ears

In a desperate attempt to seal off your insides from your outsides

When the real problem is on the inside already and you know it

But you won’t admit it.

No.

I can’t do it again.

In fact, I refuse.

I refuse to chase the wind into a sandstorm that turns into a tornado

And sends me hurtling to a tropical sunset where we make love beneath

The hail and then I’m drunk off the water I drank while trying

To escape the hangover and I prayed but she took my crucifix

And now I’m bleeding but the bandages don’t stop it.

I can’t do it.

No I can’t. No I won’t.

I can’t do it again.

Not that thing.

The Magi's Apprentice

And I should be glad of another death,

Another journey

Beyond the veil of fear and the scope of Time,

An abandonment of the absurd in the pursuit of the truly Absurd:

It is amazing that wars should be started over shopping carts

And steamrollers;

But to think that Eli Whitney could’ve forgone the cotton gin

And lusty fields might still be littered with guilt:

There is some redemption on Earth,

But certainly not enough,

Not enough for the electric blues and the purple hazes

That are all the rave today;

And yet the last breaths of the caveman are those of the Tyco VP,

And Puritan prayers echo far too often from not so pure lairs

Of Gottis and Gambinos,

Which is why I should be glad of another death,

And I feel it coming…

The Road

There was a road I travelled, long and hard,

The misplaced musings of a mind distraught by sin and man and God,

And I toiled with the toilings of one demented,

Sweat of the brow and agony of the brain,

And I pushed with the pushings of a mother in labor,

Striving in vain to give birth to my swollen dreams.

Then I reached the end of this road and found not a respite,

Not even a cliff from which to plummet in hopeless triumph,

But yet another path marked with suffering and pain,

Another road untraveled, unmapped, unknown;

And so I took it:

God alone knows why.

"Cry,----"*

The tribe is broken and so are we,

Masked by our own fruitfulness and the boldness of the ground

To give into our hands that which we so lusted after.

The Milk of the earth has shot itself into our mouths

As like dogs around a bitch in heat

We all sniffed and waited with hardening parts for our turn

To harden our hearts.

The tribe is broken because of us,

Because of our lust and our false comradery,

Because of our queen and our dream for suns that never set,

And we were invincible for a while…

The Jewel in the crown made us fat and swollen

And yet we lusted for more

So we made the Transvaal bleed.

The tribe…what is a tribe?

All we hear are voices crying in the night

And gunshots echoing out the angst of forgotten souls;

We feel the terror in our hearts, terror that is not quite our own,

But that is there because of us, because of our lust.

Oh God forgive us for we know not what we’ve done,

Tixo, we know not what we do.

They are broken.

We are broken.

And yet the chains of bitterness and bondage still hold fast

The hearts of this broken but rigid land.

*a white man’s meditation on Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country

Dulce et Decoram Est Part II

I’ve worried my soul into oblivion,

Starved and irresolute

I cannot fathom peace

For peace is but a dream

In a world of war

And dreams are but

Wishful apparitions

Of a time that was

But that no more will be

Yes, it is a hard, hard world—

No place for the young

And excited

Things that cannot be understood

Are taught and acted upon

As if they were the words our parents

Teach us to speak as children

But we will pay

For the wages of sin is death

Said one dreamer to many

And that has been what this

Manifest Destiny built itself upon

A rock of the nebulous

The laughter of the brokenhearted

The embraces of the abused

Oh but that death would be beautiful

And all this

For which we will pay

Would be meaningful

Maybe. 

Take Me as I Am

“Take me as I am I pray, for there sure as hell ain’t no other way”

This is my offering:

A broken heart, two misplaced rings,

A bleeding child, a tattooed back,

Four self-rolled blunts, a twenty stack;

A dented bumper, maybe two,

Forgotten friends except a few,

My passport has a million stamps,

Each one a couple hussy tramps,

My stomach aches with endless guilt

For all the virgin blood I’ve spilt;

And now I’m empty, naught to bring

This is my offering.

This is my offering:

A broken heart, one purity ring,

A busy schedule, no more time;

I’ve lost my passion for the rhyme,

Unread books, unspoken words,

Scared to satisfy an urge,

Bottles keep on stacking up,

Don’t bother bringing me a cup;

I can’t go on, I’ve met my match,

The quota calls, while I detach

And now I’m empty, naught to bring

This is my offering.

This is my offering:

A broken heart, a cellphone ring

Away from cops right at my door,

A toaster falling from my floor,

Grannie’s garden smashed below,

All I hear is one echo,

Rat-tat-tat machine guns roll

Johnny’s life, that Viet stole

Bleeding out, I’m all alone

Jerking off to Rolling Stones

And now I’m empty, naught to bring

This is my offering.

The Romantic

I want glitter and glamor

Without the slimy residue,

Castles and dragons

Without war and destruction;

Wishes without witches,

Blessings without curses,

Battles without bleeding,

Birthdays without hearses.

I want needles in haystacks

To be quickly recovered,

Golden endings to rainbows

Easily discovered;

Mysteries without misery,

Life inside cupboards,

Jokes without truth,

Asses that aren’t stubborn.

But most of all,

I want my Guinevere without Lancelot,

Love without pain,

Chivalry without dishonor,

Kisses without shame.

And may fondness

Always accompany my name

In this fairy tale we create

To lucid remain.  

The Death of Kim Jong Il

There’s poison in the streets,

Wafting through the air,

Belching out its wishes for the world to stop and stare.

Cameras lend their flashes

To the tears that fall like ice

From the thronging crowds who mourn the loss of tyranny and vice.

Reporters bark their stories

While the guns ring out like bells

And the portrait of an autocrat a chilling story tells.

And all the while we clamor

Thanking God that’s not our life

As we bend the knee to MTV and democratic strife. 

Sanctify the soulless

Sanctify the soulless, the sultry and the sot;

Renegades are renegades, in hell their hearts will rot

And I’ll be one among them, Baba among his thieves

But wither not, I’ll dither not like Adam with his eaves.

I can’t escape the fracas so fricassee will be

The menu of my heart with my blood the gravy sea,

But falter not for Walter, nor for Raleigh on the way

To the falter of the halter on the steamy Orlean’s quay.

Squash the squash, and wash the wash, it’s pain for pain in pay

If you’re working on the railroad every blasted livelong day,

Or Astor’s appellation is the Hancock from your pen:

This life is just a playground round and round as we all spin.

Nostalgia

The golden days are memories of never-realized times,

The charges are realities of over-paid-for crimes,

But though despair may find me alone and obsolete,

I’ll never dare forget her hair that brushed against my cheek.

Youth and provocation walk always hand-in-hand,

But never did my wayward feet attempt to kick the can

Until of late in sorrow I’ve drowned my waking hours,

Remorseful of the chance I spurned to have my soul devoured.

I’d rather be a wraith and called you once my own,

Then thrive in all but spirit in this house that’s not my home,

But choice and second chances are few and far between,

And so I’ll die here dreaming how you could have been my queen. 

lalalla

lalalalallaa