Poetry...and stuff

A poorly lit, but killer vid of Red Mouth back in November, 2011 @ Pegasus Records in Florence, AL.

Push

By the book, I am 
damned. 
Commands meant 
to be followed 
by the faith-filled 
were swallowed 
without thought, 
then hollowed 
those followers 
out. 
Now, to me, 
they look 
for a nod, 
maybe even 
an amen 
and then 
they profess the word 
quoted, but misread 
and send me off 
damned 
as a do-gooder 
with no pull.

disrhythmic:

The quote that started this whole thing: “It was that kind of crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.” —JD Salinger.

I still don’t know how to feel about Catcher in the Rye.

And the poem itself, if you’d care to read along…

it’s on those cold mornings
when you are nothing but indrawn breath
swirling and knitted up inside too-big
skin and weightless bones—
when the horizon arches up against
the half-thawed tendrils of sunrise
and smiles
with golden teeth,
and smiling, begs—
it’s on those cold mornings
when leaving is easiest.

the car will be cold, and you will
shiver, and the engine,
much too loud,
will smack of blasphemy
but you will find peace in the steady roll
of tarmac and the yellowing light
spilling across it,
with dust motes kicked up and carried
like fish in the undertow.

when you come to that first
crossroads, it will shock you:
the way the decision hangs there
trembling and desperate—
but there are no right answers and you will not
hesitate. and each successive choice
will be made of its own accord,
and you will roll the windows down,
and draw down the scent of earth and 
photosynthesis.

the trees will hush and
hush in your wake and forget you
instantly,
returning to their own silence
and whispered secrets.

and you will drive until you find an ocean
because your heart will always
sing
for saltwater, and pull you to the great expanse of
your own personal magnetic north—
the ley lines that ache in your ribs.
you will open the car door, and maybe
you will need to take a moment
to stand and inhale and
be.
and you will have left so much of yourself
behind
that you will feel like you have nothing to your name but
a pair of lungs
a beating heart
and blood thudding hard through your veins
and that’s okay.

because the sea will always
slink up to you along the shoreline—
as if it knows how infinitesimal you are
and is trying to be gentle.
it will reach out to you and hush
and retreat,
and entice—
and it will hush and draw you in 
and hush and purify,
and you will realize what a
thrumming, boundless
beast you’ve
hush
surrendered to.

and maybe for while, you 
hush
won’t remember
where you came from. and maybe
hush
that’s okay.

- Home -
(for my grandmother)

Rachel Woodard
1/31/41-9/28/11 

resonating - (for Liz)

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Loui Jover. This Soul. Pen and ink.

square-peg-in-a-round-hole:

I’m dying of other people’s errors!