“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

“will to love”

i can’t sleep, it really bothers me when i can’t sleep
as the time neared closer and closer to three a.m
i couldn’t help but listen to “will to love”
some music really takes you someplace doesn’t it?
you know where this takes me?
to early mornings driving through the hills of old castle
coming back to my home, after falling in love all night
to mid afternoons taking the 91-E onramp to long beach
turning north towards pasadena, pulling into arcadia
then late late nights, terribly late nights, like this one
smoking a cigarette, rolled maybe, maybe a medium
i felt then like i was in an exotic land, dozing off
knowing that summer was close, skylar closer
sort of wondering when i was going to wake up and call
ring back to home, say that i just happened to take a drive
a ride to los angeles, just to travel to a terrible place
los angeles morning sun always feels like hangover sun
light up another cigarette, figure i’ll wash up at home
then drive away, tottally confused but feeling better
maybe better that i neglected the better people
and ran off into the city of the smog, a crack in the earth
lost in snow and drowning in rain,
never feeling the same again
just one of millions all the same,
but somewhere someone calls my name,
i guess i’ll never lose the will to love.
i won’t.

“waking up with california”

california, i love it so dearly
so many times i’ve driven it, up and down
man, we’ve really trailed this place
but i can’t get enough
i just can’t leave too early
sometimes i dream of living off it
in a forest day hut, a family play hut
of waking from a night of drinking
scattered bits of books and papers
poems, scratches, half-burned roaches
stand up bareless and open my windows
another morning like a free new avenue
ah, and in california i would have a piano
and it would sit outside, and shine
so i’de sit bareless upon an oak bench
or maybe maple, or rosewood, yes rosewood
just staring down at those ivory keys
watch as the light hits a few of each
and light a dream, a half burned dream
then hold a pedal and major-seven D
ah, california! california, this is it!
if romance exists, then this is romance
if freedom is, then it rides above me
on the cloud that took a day to dance
what better? it just grows sweeter as
it fades away, diminished i’d say
but it’s just like wine, which i’ll finish off
ah california, let’s keep it this way
listen friend i’m here to stay man
i’ll ride the bullshit, i’ll fight if you need it
but otherwise, let’s just keep on rolling
let’s do this again california, i’ll arrange it
pass that over man, you grew it, i made it

“ode to the campanile”

oh campanille, carillon, play me a song
i’ll sit by your doorstep and listen not moan
like love made as sun sets
your bells do strike three
in the morning chime the moonlight sonata for me

do you remember that night?
i know that you do
i was walking past barrows with evans in sight
the bay had just bid the sunset adieu
then notes fell from heaven
and heaven was you
intervals, beautiful, dissonance two
a major, a minor, a seventh you threw
you knew it was my favorite
i thank you again
your hundred years point, so strong in the wind
a symbol of beauty, not political spin
to think you’ve seen movements, and intellect within
and yet stood with a point since 1907
oh campanille, carillon, play me a song
whatever you choose, you shall not choose wrong

“we are sickened and tired of crying”

what has the god and god child done to make us happy?
my lord, my lord, your all so mad!
you scream to children, and angels flutter
they can’t even burrow their wings in heaven
these men are wicked, mad, obscene

free will, my gods? what have you of it?
do you all just laugh while people cry?
do you feel sorrow, or make a bandage?
this book we have is lonely and confused
i want a book to be written, oh lord
please write it right! what was your adage?
there must be some, no sins and apples
surely you can rewrite it, make it sigh
or make it laugh, or heal the poorest
but instead we cry and someone’s dying

oh lord, what is your taste in woodwind music?
do you love strings, or voice in threes?
do you listen closely? and see that IT was good
i love it much, good job, but this your doing?
i am not so sure, the strings relax the people
your book is sad, dripping from steeples
say we all are bad from the first of moments
do you not care? free will so biting?
why must a child’s first words be cries?
each, and each, and every time
come in this world and start to cry
and I grow older and always cry
and grow to death, you’ve said but time
but god, oh god, oh gods, oh why?
you must all write a book that smiles
we’re sick of crying, gods,
we are sickened and tired of crying

The Little Self

So I have thought a lot about friends lately. A friend of mine stopped in to hand me some music today. He said he’s had some trouble. I guess the trouble is with his instrument, he says is that it’s too pop-y. I suppose his worry is that the music will be the same. He says the trouble goes further though; it touches upon women, civil liberties, all those things which are so meaningless until you don’t have them. Not having them isn’t always terrible. It’s only when you taste freedom, like a well lit cigarette; or really love someone, and then look into their eyes and wonder which one of you is captive. When the well lit dream is pulled away, or her eyes try to spin herself and hisself into some sort of it’s never been that way; I suppose this is when things really hurt the soul. It’s not the body that is hurt, it’s the soul. It’s that sleeping self inside of your thoughts, who you whisper to in nervous moments. That little self that says you can or can’t; or makes you worry; or chants a sad song with you until he dances, and then you’re free. Then and then that devil dances, and he’s beautiful when he dances and chants. he tapps his toes in such a peculiar way that it almost makes you believe it’s you. Just you, sitting alone on a chair, looking outward upon all the stares. These passing strangers, friends and family. They’ve never met that little whisperer, that’s how you know when you’re looking outward. I suppose the only thing to do then is laugh. What a bunch of bullshit you and that little fucker go through. Just you and him and everyone else.

“if i had fallen from isolation into a storm”

if i had fallen from isolation into a storm
one that was cold and wearied so my form
i would curl together and hum to myself
and find the tune that mended best my health
i would be like a dewdrop, become a snowflake
and pressed inside myself, a wintry snowflake
and as i pressed i would find them all
the actress, lover, friends that call
who i’ve walked with, and so i’ve laughed with
so i could remember walking gently in the snowdrift
and recall what love had done to warm me
so i could feel the sun, in an arctic ice sea
and just remember them all, for a wind-split moment
let the torrent of time grow slow, despondent
and if i pressed harder i would find the hearth
that glows with love, when bridal-veil hits earth
and tell the princes, paupers and heavy pockets
that i can hold not a dollar, in this wintry snowdrift
but i can hold out a tune, that has no limits
which is not bound by sounds or mathematics
but of which the passing snow deer hear
and stop that moment and come more near
to huddle around the frozen snowflake
who recalls the dewdrop, before the snow came
the illuminating lady, before the self-fame
and now a snowflake in a wintry snow-plain
humming mother nature’s son
and as i hum the more they come
to bid adieu the freeze of daydreams
to split to pieces the tormenting breezes
that come as i wish, dew-wish, of solemn seasons
of promised summers that caught the dewdrop
from isolation fallen into a storm
at least i can sing to keep my heart warm
if i had fallen from isolation into a storm