1 million (Dadaist poem)

this Hollywood that numbers volumes staff redevelopment

taking books Amazon.com and booksellers

he West Hollywood loves 

month about said Caulfield

Dutton’s Leonard future billion December

offering titles booksellers considered this bottom online

74-year-old in preliminary one last recession

Barnes despite billions that purchased

appeared uncertain bookstores online

another 60,000 favorite booksellers

independent would disappear

Blah.

I'm angry, and depressed, and frustrated. Urgh.
I don't even want to try anymore to express it.

:(

To G.S.

She is writing and her hand conducts. Because she is conducting she must be writing. Even slowly writing she is then conducting slowly and there is music. Music is there because she is writing and it conducts. Her writing hand conducts and there is music. Guitar music. Supple guitar. Vibrant guitar music. Guitar making supple and vibrant and vulnerable music, because she is writing and her hand conducts. She is writing her story and the hand is conducting vibrant, vulnerable, supple, guitar music.

"There is no such thing as repetition. There is only insistence." - Gertrude Stein

To L.Y.

Thoughts fly freely like butterflies.
They surpass the others.

Dark tones enrich the experience
that has come before.

Calm as those butterflies
that flew over my head.

Now you can do it.

Sleep.
Get NOWhere.
Work work work work work!
Still getting nowhere?

Yah.

Not enough. Keep going.
YOUr body aches but you cannot let go.
Don't give up!
No reason to. Just be angry.
Get over the shit they throw and then you CAN go along on your way.
The way you want. Forget about it. DO IT.
Fight fight fight. Never surrender.
NOW YOU CAN DO IT.

The Bird.

I saw a bird fly past my windowsill,
'Twas green and grey and tinted by the sun.
Now where I saw it fly this bird lies still
And in its pain I see its fight is done.
So as I sit and watch the sun set here
And shadows come to drench the bird in death
The people stare in sadness for its drear
Then they think on why here was its last breath.
Yet must we look upon this bird with gloom?
It sees the sun around us move each day.
Its life was dark and meek we could assume,
But with its death, life's thoughts were blown away.
This mangled body, sprawled for all to watch
Is upon our hearts a dark, concealed blotch.

Life.

Life is like a game
It's always hit or miss,
but you always get another chance.

Don't assume you're always right, but know that you're not always wrong.

The only person that gets all your time is you. Use it wisely.

The world.

Everything is intertwined,
everything is seen,
and yet he said you couldn't find
man in this perfect scene.

A world with many wonders in
that seems to work so well,
but is he sure that we could win
if maybe, say, it fell?

A wondrous plight that this may be,
it just might be too nice,
a clockwork universe you see
is just a roll of dice.

Did it happen just by chance,
and are we sure it's true?
This might just be circumstance;
we don't know what to do.

"It's way too perfect!" you might say,
"I can't believe it's real."
And yet with every dawning day
you know you have to feel.

Girl.

And the breeze flows through her auburn hair, the sunshine glowing radiance onto her blushed cheeks, and he stares, soaking her natural beauty into his soul. She glances at him with a shy smile full of confidence. Her blue eyes pierce the fragile walls of his broken heart and he feels a comfortable warmth engulf his body. She glides over to another boy and rewards his lips with a soft kiss, as the heart of the loving onlooker is once again shattered.

Ocean.

The raging surf turns water round
To horses racing in the waves
And though you think they might have gone
They live on in our nights and days.

And you may think our love is faint
Oh you may think it sailed away
But I know our love lies here true
As sun moves through the night and day.

The beach is not where sea meets land
It's where they dive and become one
I know that we can be this grand
And hold each other up 'til done.

They'll never know our feelings here
They'll never know our lust or cheer
For as the water dances there
I dance for you, as much I dare.

For life is short, and you will see
That ocean lasts through history
And like our love, the water roars
It will live through all peace and wars.

I stand here in the surf today
I'm thinking ne'er to walk away
You make me feel the way this feels
It holds me up and never keels.

Tears.

She danced in the night as the rain fell down
How could you dare forget me?
They smiled, hushed, as the rain fell down, and then she started singing.
She sang of love, of joy, of death, and how those three connected, and hard they tried, although they knew they'd never understand it.
How could they know of what she spoke?
Never had they seen it, and while she sang, those smiling eyes turned dark with tears of anguish.
"Live on," she hummed, "live on, my love," though well she'd say she knew it, her love had died a few years back; forever they'd be parted.
And as she cried, the group looked on, their eyes a-filled with wonder, for hard they tried, but knew quite well, they'll never know what plagues her.

Glee.

As we walk down the lane,
Oh my soul, I shall gain,
Well, you smile, and I swoon,
By the light of the moon.

As we skip hand in hand,
Boy, this feeling is grand,
With laughter I scream,
Wow, I think it's a dream.

Take a break in the park,
Then we kiss in the dark,
Are you sure this is real?
Is this love that I feel?

Oh, and now it gets cold,
But my body you hold,
Oh, this warmth that you give,
Love, it's making me live.

As we walk down the lane,
What a happy refrain,
Wow, I think I'm in love,
With a boy from above.

As we walk toward my door,
Boy, you make my heart soar,
As you're holding my hand,
You're my lord of the land.

As you kiss me good night,
I can't wait for the light,
Just to see you again,
Makes life worth living, then.

The girl.

I look
and she stares
sad eyes streaming
from that
old
tattered
and broken
page.

Love and Death.

She walks sadly, in the night,
oh no, she'll ne'er forget the light.
The happiness, the joy, and the love,
all those now reign up above.

She's all alone now in her grief;
of her joy, death is the thief.
All that she does now is mourn,
for now her life fore'er is torn.

In love they were, why did it end?
On sickness their love did depend.
For now he's gone and she's alone,
and death's true victory is shown.

Ah, the dark days of high school.

She sleeps as darkness steals the light
Oh who will come on her this night?
I watched as he left her this day
Now she's alone, and he will pay.

He did not know I'd come for her
He thought that she'd be safe for sure.
And as I watch her laying there,
I have to take her, yes, but where?

He knows not what he did to me,
To make me come and steal and flee.
This act he did he can't redeem,
This is why I'll make her scream.

This night I'll come, and at eleven,
She'll wish that she was up in heaven.
And then, sometime later, the clock will strike one,
It's then that my valiant deed will be done.

Right now, I know he's far away,
But I must wait 'til then to play.
It's only ten now, I have time to wait,
And I moan and anticipate showing my hate.

What did he do to deserve this? The fool!
He stole her from me! So now I'll be cruel.
I'll sneak and I'll snatch her from under that sheet,
And I'll take her somewhere then her soul I shall meet.

I don't want to kill her; I won't let her die,
But I want her to feel what I felt of the lie.
She'd told me she loved me, she'd told me she cared,
Then she ran off with him, so leaving me bared.

I loved her, in short, and I must let her know,
And this love tonight, I've intended to show.
If it must be by force, so be it then,
But I must let her know not to play games with men.

As I start, it will hurt her, and might make her mad,
But as I grab her and kiss her it won't be so bad.
She was mine once, and she'll be mine again!
But for now I must wait, for it is only ten.

You.

You, sitting there in your comfortable chair,

What do you know of me?

All you know of me is this poem...

You know nothing at all.

You, reading my poem with such an eye

To see the mishaps over which my words stumble,

Why must you judge me?

I just wanted to get my ideas out.

You, with your hand upon your cheek, staring

As I drone on upon this page,

You want to know the reasons why I write.

But you don't care at all...

So, let me be.

Ezra Pound.

Ezra Pound was very... opinionated. He felt he could persuade others who had more power than he to adopt his ideas. He supported Mussolini, which helps us tap into his political standpoints. His poetry was influenced not only by his political opinions but also by his career in the medical field. But that's just content, which he didn't seem to care about much. When it comes to language and such in poetry, his opinions were:

"Use either no ornament or good ornament."

Therefore, make it sound good and work well with the poem or don't use it at all.

"It is not necessary that a poem should rely on its music, but if it does rely on its music that music must be such as will delight the expert."

Again, make it sound good and work well with the poem or don't use it.

"Behave as a musician, a good musician, when dealing with that phase of your art which has exact parallels in music."

Oh, I like him. He constantly compares poetry to music. He insists that no form be forced upon the poetry. Still, it is important to acquire something from writing this poem. Hmm.

Poetry.

What is poetry?

Poetry is the edited spontaneity that the poet digs inside themselves (without realizing it) to discover. The words go through stages of doubt and questioning in the subconscious mind before bubbling suddenly to the surface. You need not interpret these words in any particular form . . . poetry is not universal . . . but let those words take on their own rhythm and form as their predetermined backbone. Perhaps certain words were meant to go together, but you may do with them anything you like in order to portray your ideas. Poetry has a musical aspect to it . . . take that in a strong chokehold and let it command your poetry in ways only your subconscious can tell you. Tap into that subconscious . . . let it write for you. There are so many "movements" that have been conducted with poetry throughout its existence. Know them in order that your mind has a base of knowledge to ignore and/or play with to its satisfaction.

Maui.

The sky is breaking. The sun streams through the clouds like a bitter knife, spreading its rays across the Maui landscape. Prince sings in the background as the piping hot coffee burns my mouth, burning as hot as the sun above. The taste of a bagel lingers on my tongue as the taste of the coffee rushes to replace it. Sweat creeps its way through my shirt to show the world the effects of the heat. Coffee beans in display cases next to me taunt my senses like M&M's in Vegas. The breeze flutters through the palm trees, who shield the lucky pavement beneath them from the beating sun. People laugh in the background of my thoughts as my pen glides over the paper as I write this. Water spots on the glass block my view of the swaying trees outside dancing as if they want me to join them. So, I do.

Silence.

It's so quiet

Without your breathing

And your movement

Filling up my room and my heart...

It's so quiet.