(via wewereemergencies)
(Source: existentialistaesthetics, via fuckyeahbeatpoets)
it's just me
I am such an unpopular human
being.
I should have been born a frog,
or perhaps something a bit higher
up the trunk of a birch tree:
a red-headed woodpecker?
a bushy-tailed squirrel?
I don’t seem to fit in anywhere.
in cafes, restaurants,
I say strange things to the
waiters and waitresses,
nothing ugly,
just rather airy
and not quite
befitting.
I find it funny
but nobody else does
especially
the lady with me:
“you embarrass me in
public!”
on freeways I also seem
out of place.
I slow down to allow people
who are changing lanes
to move into the space in front
of me.
I did this once
while driving with a
young lady.
she exploded in
scornful laughter:
“you don’t HAVE to do
that!”
I am often at a loss
when confronted by a crisis.
once an old man
next to me
on the sidewalk
tripped and fell.
I only stared down at
him.
others rushed up
to help
(I never seem to be in
sync with the rest of
humanity)
but my first reaction had been
to think that
if I was that old man
I wouldn’t want anybody touching
me
or trying to help
me.
I should have been born a rogue elephant
or a giant lizard scorched by the sun.
for example,
a friend will point a woman out
to me
and say,
“God, isn’t she beautiful!”
and I will look at that face
and see a determination
a threat
so great
that I wonder why the gods
do not place a warning sign on her
that says
“LOOK OUT FOR THIS ONE
UNLESS YOU WISH TO DIE A LINGERING
DEATH.”
I guess I am just out of step
with most others.
for instance, I don’t sleep
like most
at regular hours.
this has given me much trouble in my
relationships.
suddenly, say at 3 p.m.,
on any afternoon
I might disrobe
climb into bed and
announce,
“I’m going to sleep now.”
I do this because I feel
like sleeping then
and like to believe that
I have a right to this animal
freedom.
yet some of the ladies I have known
have found this
inconvenient
selfish
and have finally left
me
because of that
(but they would have left me
for some other reason
anyhow,
or if not,
I would have left
them).
it’s a sad fact but
I disagree with almost everyone I know.
I think most movies are terrible
and television is even worse.
there is nothing I hate more than idle
conversation.
the exploration of Space
bores me
and I can find more of interest
in the daily newspaper than in
all the literature of
all the centuries.
happy to be alone
I sit here at 3 a.m. and
clip my toenails as
I think about
my favorite philosopher
who said:
“I am Popeye the Sailor Man
I live in a garbage can
I like to go swimmin’
with bow-legged wimmin
and I yam what I yam
what I yam!”
put that in your smoke and
pipe it.
One Thousand Year Old Vegan Poem
I No Longer Steal From Nature
by Al Ma’arri (973-1057), Baghdad (modern Iraq)
You are diseased in understanding and religion.
Come to me, that you may hear something of sound truth.
Do not unjustly eat fish the water has given up,
And do not desire as food the flesh of slaughtered animals,
Or the white milk of mothers who intended its pure draught
for their young, not noble ladies.
And do not grieve the unsuspecting birds by taking eggs;
for injustice is the worst of crimes.
And spare the honey which the bees get industriously
from the flowers of fragrant plants;
For they did not store it that it might belong to others,
Nor did they gather it for bounty and gifts.
I washed my hands of all this; and wish that I
Perceived my way before my hair went gray!
The True Story of What Was
By Ani DiFranco
the light blue flickering rhythm
of the neighbor’s big console t.v.
is basking on the ceiling
of another insomniac spree
and outside sleep’s open window
between the drops of rain
history is writing a recipe book
for every earthly pain
oh to clean up the clutter of echoes
coming in and out of focus
words spoken
like locusts
sing and sing
in my head
and thing is
they often seem
in my memory’s long dream
to be superfluous to
the true story of what was
cuz
real is real regardless
of what you try to say
or say away
real is real relentless
while words distract and dismay
words that change their tune
though the story remains the same
words that fill me quickly
and then are slow to drain
dialogues that dither down reminiscent
of the way it likes to rain
every screen
a smoke screen
oh to dream
just for a moment
the picture
outside the frame
then in a flash
the light blue horizon
spanning a sudden black
is sucked into the vanishing point
and quiet rushes back
to search for the downbeat
in a tabla symphony
to search in the darkness
for someone who looks like me
(though i’m not really who i said i was
or who i thought i’d be)
just a collection of recollections
conversations consisting
of the kind of marks we make
when we’re trying to get a pen to work again
a lifetime of them!
cough…cough…ahem…
i say to me
now here listening
i say to the locusts
that sing and sing to me sitting
now here on the front porch swing of my eyes:
i hereby amend
whatever i’ve ever said
with this sigh
Dedicated to Henry Charles Bukowski: The History Of One Tough Motherfucker
he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,”not much
chance…give him these pills…his backbone
is…
(Source: allpoetry.com)
Choose Love. Choose Love. Without this Beautiful Love,
Life is nothing but a burden.
— Rumi
It is Love that holds everything together,
and it is the everything also.
— Rumi
Love is from the Infinite and
will remain until eternity
— Rumi
When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.
Praise God for these two insomnias!
And the difference between them.
-Rumi
Grey
(c) 2007 by Ani DiFranco
the sky is grey
the sand is grey
and the ocean is grey
and i feel right at home
in this stunning monochrome
alone in my way
i smoke and i drink
and every time i blink
i have a tiny dream
but as bad as i am
i’m proud of the fact
that i’m worse than i seem
what kind of paradise am i looking for?
i’ve got everything i want and still i want more
maybe some tiny shiny key will wash up on the shore
you walk through my walls
like a ghost on tv
you penetrate me
and my little pink heart
is on its little brown raft
floating out to sea
and what can i say
but i’m wired this way
and you’re wired to me
and what can i do
but wallow in you
unintentionally
what kind of paradise am i looking for?
i’ve got everything i want and still i want more
maybe some tiny shiny key will wash up on the shore
regretfully
i guess i’ve only got three
simple things to say:
why me?
why this now?
why this way?
with overtones ringing
and undertows pulling away
under a sky that is grey
on sand that is grey
by an ocean that’s grey
what kind of paradise am i looking for?
i’ve got everything i want and still i want more
maybe some tiny shiny key will wash up on the shore
The Rainy Day
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
(Source: poemhunter.com)
