“solemn vision”

somebody heard his tired old vision

giving way as he aged,

and she grinned

like a solemn old cat,

in the yard, and all that
and the land giving fruit trees,

with little young fruit bees,

so the dog’s been depressed, lately

lately, nothing for playing with
he keeps trying to catch those,

quick little bees he sees

but it keeps getting harder, like that

the world’s getting flat,

or so that’s what Freidman says

and the guitars stop sooner,

not later, these days

and still, somebody heard his tired old vision

one third the money, and still

life is so lovely

not trendy, ostentatious, not pompous

but so soft like a melody,

humming the hummingbirds

asleep with the bees

and the trees,

and the leaves,

with the dreams he sees

as somebody sees his tired old vision.

CHRISHEBDON 09-10-06

sneaking upon the moon

sneaking upon the moon, whisteling a tune drops
sweeping with the broom, the sun
until the wind of night stops
come here sweet moon, for a dip, a shower
what shall you do with the moon
once you feel the sundrops in your hand?
isn’t it the epitome of goodness holding power?
i’ll take it and lie it here while i think
sink my toes into the sand, and waiting
holding out one foot to keep the moon from rolling
and showing all the while, my smile to the sun
who, i am sure, has teased the moon for million while
i think i will do what is best to do, for everyone
i will stand and set the sun’s friend back in place
and waiting for another race of words and song
i’ll sneak up on the moon, whisteling a tune drops

outdoor dreams

in a tent in a valley, above me there a blue jay springs
and the sun lays upon me like it never does
but always seems to when i wake from my outdoor dreams
the alarm clock that i purchased for this place was compliment
i never expected such a beatiful way to wake, by the sundrops
and while honestly the timer is set by the last night’s singing
at least i wake when nature gives me such a shove
into daylight, fish streams, hiking trails and outdoor dreams
a comment to me as early as nature sees fitting
and my compliment to them while the coffee’s percolating, I say;

you remind me of where they used to live
among you, rising, sleeping, screaming
catching what they need to catch
the wage of labor in what they fetch
and once a part, there’s nomore they here
the bluejays don’t remember them, long gone
the fish are all new, and the probably fear us
us children of them have no clue of bluejays
sunshine rays, summer days, winter days
we know the seven-day week, slowly
selling our time away from nature, to work
reading, hammering, negotiating and selling
each of us hoping to fetch enough… something
at least enough to hang us over, and then
we hope and pray to be like them, and wake
with the sunrise, the creek sound, and real ground
to compensate for all the years ungrounded
people dumbfounded by the loss of lives
now buying lifestyles from magazines, trees
and convinced that nature never developed a clock
for waking all of her animals for free

“sneak upon the moon”

for now, i had just imagined my best friend’s eulogy
it was this crowd shrouded in disbelief
it’s quite a soul to take my god, mind you
he means what the light and night mean to you, oh god
and now you have us standing here beneath a tent
a hole in the ground with an iron wound casket without grace
his soul was beatiful, and like a voice shined springtimes
my god, what have you of it
i shall confess he wanted it to go to you
he desired, so strongly outright, that his soul, the soul
was to be buried near the roots of a tree, in which he would be
one day the last remaining piece of ember
that rests eternally in the back a cello
for yes, all the world, to hear him sing forever
yes and this is the soul you have taken
but oh god, have you paid any attention
he loved you, questioned you, and dreamed
and prayed to you while he was alone, mind you
sweet god he begged you, to exist at least
but you take him for a not worthy reason
imagine what you’ve done, you cowardly moron!
he is to harmony what your son is to man
and you scorn him! and kill him by your man’s hand!
by god, shame on you, twice of be whatsoever
so hear this song, and tell me if he wished not for you!
while he stood in a beatiful garden in mind
and chose to hide behind the sun, while you, mind you
stood baking and drenching in clouds and rain
he waited for you, dear lord, he waited
whistling a tune, sneaking on the moon drops
which only you, without the forethought, appeared
god bless you lord, but that’s all i give you
if you believe you have done what’s right, then be it so
but you will hear him singing
in the heart of a cello, so many ages
as a martyr to your troubles, your insecurities
dear god, if you cannot make this person into the bravest
if you damned him, some long ago, if you damned him
then damned be you, you son of a bitch
you’re a fine imposter, but a devil in mine eyes
come on, make the world happy
let this man play music, and we all live
god damn you, be a benevolent giver, if your give
give a song to each child that came from him
but for your own sake, my good lord
please, i pray to you, please let him live

“fuck clocks”

i was thinking of maybe smashing my clock
smashing it into the ground, i would never miss it!
i live by the damned clock, it winds me
and in the morning it chimes me, until i smack it!
i don’t particularly like the clock, it’s ugly
i live my life in 15 minute increments, tick tick!
jesus fucking christ, who needs clocks!
and now it’s so early in the morning that i can think of nothing
nothing except the exact amount of minutes until it will chime me
right now i’m down to 5 hours and 3 minutes
and then i wonder how much a person should sleep
but that doesn’t really matter because i can’t!
oh terrible terrible terrible terrible clocks!
if there is one place man has gone wrong it’s with efficiency
there is no reason i should be awake
i should be sleeping
when the sun goes down i should be sleeping
when the sun awakes i have my silent buzzer
birds chirping, wind rustling, come on now
that is how it should be
but i can think of nothing except when i shall awaken
and what exam, and book, and tests waits there for me
5 hours and 1 minutes from now
fuck clocks

so i sighed a sigh of regrief
my home isn’t my home anymore
i would sit watching the seasons change
i would travel away and find the floor
where my home was and still is
only without my feet upon the old foundation
no more chaos in the building’s bones
just an old building with a weak back
twenty years trampled through time
just to feel excitement and keep it well
she had a song played to her before i left
it wasn’t a hard night, long night neither
her grown two sons sat singing to her
and she cried when they sang about her
and so she gave us each a piece to keep
deciding it’s best to stay home
and let the midnight catching dreamers
drive away beneath the sun
so that she could live inside them
and the oak trees could dream forever

“new cake”

you’re beautiful, i find you to be beautiful
why won’t you talk to me like you talk to others?
am i asking you to speak to me? and you only talk?
that’s alright if that’s the deal,
but shouldn’t we have a discussion about it?
it’s weird that it doesn’t bother you like it does me
i mean, i know what it’s like, you’re just living
it has nothing to do with me, probably
it’s just a hierarchy, a pyramid, your priorities
that’s alright if that’s the deal
but you know, i’m telling you, it’d be fun
seriously a lot of fun, but maybe it’s different
maybe you’re different,
like a second layer?
like frosting that looks great
but then tastes sticky and sour
makes your stomach hurt
and you end with a half-eaten piece of cake
and a stomach that hurts
and you don’t know why it was all a wasteful experience
but in theory, equally bad for both
so whatever, in theory you could be good frosting
and i’m still an optimist, you know?
i was hoping maybe for an experience like when
the slice just jumps out at you, and your mind is made
drop a buck, got your cake, everyone’s happy
cake is good, better than it looked
i mean, not to say you’ve had any bad layers so far
i can develop tastes for things, you know?
but seriously, i really like some of the layers
so anyway i’ve been considering it all
sort of soaking it up, sorting it out
you know?
and i’ve decided that you should take my advice
you know?
or maybe your interests are somewhere else.
yeah, maybe
well fuck,
“hey!
hey!
new cake!”

“the garden dilemma of a flower”

it’s a pinch, a fucking pinch i tell you
it’s like asking every tulip to be the finest tulip
with awesome spottings, white and geometric
it’s like begging each rose to look about
to smell the roses, or take a glance at them
at themselves, the beautiful red flowers
or like telling them to aspire, or see in spirals
the twirls and shades of the finest rose
and to say “go there,” “to be is to be there”
ah you’re all wrong, we flowers are here
yes held by mere sticks and near-ground branches
a little good, a little bad, but holding us here
and i don’t mind it, i think it’s rather fucking nice
my shades, my shape, my branches
yeah that rose is fancy too, but what?
does that flower not look down to me?
thinking “oh, look at their stems so green
so near the ground, the ground i’ve only seen
that rose there knows the tulips,
that rose probably laughs with the tulips
tells jokes with the tulips, about being red or white
and probably of me above their heads
with so little water above their lines
those flowers know fine, when i only can shine
it’s a pinch, a fucking pinch i tell you!”
even to be free in a garden is to be bound!
if i must worry about who is to get watered!
i want to bloom in a world where mediocrity
is what to be, the sound of friendships, rose-hips
one rose, a a stream nearbye, no wilting
to teaching, nothing to uncover, only safe-cover
stories with old family, a drink, a few drinks
to bloom awakeness and do it all again
not a flower ontop, but a flower with friends