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The · Chrono · Trigger
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The Anchorite
I
There he is erected again,
The urban anchorite.
Festooned on his rotted crate
With billboards of archaic language,
He cries biblical quotes that don’t exist
And wears clothing all the color
Of his unshowered skin.
But what he does not know,
As he gives the penultimate harangue,
Is that he is right. Our end is near;
Tomorrow the world closes
Its pages on the land,
And unfold the waves like a table cloth
Of the most beautiful blue.
II.
That night, our hermit dreams heavy
He sees the fish floating on a tilt,
Schooling by the windows of the tallest spires
That man could rise. He sleeps light,
And jumps from his bed with the strike
Of droplets falling from his faucet
That hasn’t worked in months.
Out of breath and wide-eyed,
He scrambles to know what has caused
His pipes to finally be liberated of grimy,
Crumpled clots of black muck. As the crystal
Water flows, he shouts a reply to God,
Curious if his faith has loosened
The dirt’s hold on his ghetto.
III.
The hermit cannot sleep strongly still,
And knows that this does not remove
The cross he carries, but rather shifts
Its weight to a new muscle, easing the journey.
He uses what little water he could save,
Only a few drops on his fingertips,
To motion the signs of faith.
Today is the last day of his life.
The last anyone will see of him
Will be a few survivors on rafts
And the will watch his preserved body
Careen through the water as if in air,
Or heaven, and they will remark
How the dead look so peaceful. |
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School ends in one week, then finals until the 8th. I can't say this isn't the best news, because it really is. I'll get pretty decent grades, have easy finals, feel like I've learned in the year. I mean, yeah, both in and out of class, bullshit/bullshit, people are the worst, friends are awesome, normal. But that isn't enough; Mike came for the weekend (well, basically just Saturday) and luckily there was a Piebald and (much later) Phantom Planet show, along with what apparently was a really good party at which I really didn't feel like staying. Wow, that last sentence feels awkward by not putting the preposition at the end.. Regardless, I left early because of loud music. I mean, there was one band playing while some kids upstairs were playing super loud double bass drum metal (ha, like there's more kinds of metal than that). That, and the only attractive girls were ones I knew and/or were bitchy and being hit on by some creep-ass dude. Plus, I was the only sober person, with previously hurt ears from Piebald being turned up really damn loud by the sound technicians, for God knows what reason. So, I left. Anyway, my real point is that I'm bored with college. The clubs I'm in are too small and don't do enough readily accessible things in my opinion, and at least half of my classes are flat and easy, and the classes that aren't are too infrequent and hit-or-miss. It feels like "the next step" will always fix it or be better than the last, but I'm not so sure. I mean, high school solved the problems of middle school, but add that much more, and the college fixed a little of that, then just piled up a bunch more complaints, really. I'm listening to Blink 182 and they're telling me "it's ok to just want more." I once probably would have applied that girls or something, but now I believe it applies more to just not changing. I would say that I'm pretty self-aware, I know what I like/want, and am held back by my surroundings. I miss being the summer too much, and I'm right here at the end, but maybe that's too late. Maybe I've missed my boat, maybe I don't even know what I'm supposed to do with what I've got. I can't see a future in which my childhood would have disagreed with: I certainly don't want to be just another brick in the wall. No one does, but it's not just some desire for money or fame. I can't sit still for God's sake, and I shouldn't have to. I'm tired of waiting, and I'm tried of having certain things hang pretty fucking heavy on my head and heart. But what can you do? Wait. Oh, James is in the army? What the hell?
...fuck. |
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The Paled
The lack of birth right or destiny
the rootless poetic, the common words
without uncommon reason
I the poet am without leverage.
I’m not reclaiming canon, or
proclaiming success
or here to be made jealous
I am not here to be a jealousy.
everyday the pie-puzzle of tongue
is divided by more new language
and this school’s so big we’re
all so easily lost. And it’s true
us white people look the same
and most of us are boring.
there’s only so many voices that
don’t get the satisfaction
of mediocrity, and those voices?
who knows if they’ll fall
into luck or the lap
of some light powdered drug-call
from South America. Where can
you buy a gun? Speed? I’ve never
seen either; can you buy
a conscience there too? Some
LSD with pride on the side
chase it with vodka chased
with beer chased with an idea
to jump off a mountain cliff
into the jaws of an extinct lion
wrapped in blue and white liquids
I was told it was the color
of my blood, no matter who
or where or what I go and see
and I’m dead center of a Frost
world, but no one is listening
to scythes or apples or ladders.
It is a crowd, staring at the sky
hoping it’s clear and one-or-two
clouded just beside the sun
for company like two or three
girls on a bus going home.
East, to west, across a campus
like myself, the paled. |
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I feel like I should. Let's! A poem based in myth, a sonnet, and one inspired by Pablo. Argo Agrarian
In an effort to show our neighbors
that I am not a tame and house-broken
boyfriend, I sometimes like to lamely
hobble to our door, piss-drunk,
and demand what I left on your floor.
One sandal and my shark-tooth necklace
that I carry like it's a rosary.
I see you peek out of the window,
and with a quick toss to the dirt you sow the teeth,
have my sins grow from the face of dark
soil like warriors who're here to bring back
sobriety. They remind me that I've already
won the Golden Fleece, and that's it's OK
that my grain-punch night ends,
and hopefully that we can still sleep in peace. Burning a Confederate Flag
You’re moving to the Deep South
which to me is basically
a foreign country, a land
of beer and peaches I know they’re paying you
and now you can joke
about your parent’s fortunes
and opulence, as if it didn’t matter and to make it easy on you,
I’ll only demand one call
every two weeks or so,
forfeit you to Jesus and libraries We’ll never come home,
and I’ll never get my summers back Third Row Back, at your Brother’s Wedding so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dream
-Pablo Neruda (so close, that I speak yes before
you even ask me to dance) (so close that you know what the dinner plate
whispered in my ear, as you so graciously missed my head) (so close that you pass out drunk
after I take too many glasses of wine) (so close that when you try on that dress,
I find myself looking in mirrors) (so close that your hands, and your eyes
are my hands, and my eyes) (so close that I age just a little
when your brother dies) So close that we both turn
and enter each other’s sights. |
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Thanks, Maddizzle. "R"
1. Robots - Robots have always held special place in my heart, if it be personal assistants, or giant mech-suits that I could ride around in and shit, I've always wanted to have one at my disposal. Robots: wave of the future, today!
2.Rise Against - I've seen them a few times, three maybe, and each time they put on a hell of a show, even if it's only a thirty minute set. They have something a lot of bands don't, and that's perspective of something larger than they are. While I don't necessarily agree with everything they have to say (veganism, for instance) they do happen to reserve judgement, and don't care that you aren't the same as they are, which is nifty, and of course, they put out solidly awesome music. Double plus.
3.Rosal, Patrick - Being one of my favorite poets, I thought I'd throw him on here, since poetry itself doesn't begin with an "R." He's got a wonderfully fresh voice, and I'd love to get his book back from some... unnamed persons who do owe me it. Just thought I'd throw it out there.
4.Rachel Bilson - and the other cast members of "The O.C." What can I say, it's interesting and funny, well written, and hell, my entire family (save for my dad) watches it, some of us religiously. We just can't get enough.
5.Reading - That's been my life for the last semester, and if I could just find a class schedule that lets me just do that, all the time, I'd love school that much more. I've read 3 books in the past week (Cat's Eye; I, Robot; Interpreter of Maladies) and they've all been wonderful. It's a real shame I don't write as much as I used to, because at the beginning of this year, up until November, I had so much to say. Now... not as much, I suppose. I even carry around pen and paper, but I guess I don't need it, ha. We'll see how things go, because there hasn't been much...uh... well, let's face it. There aren't any ladies in this kid's life. Which does provide for a lot of insipiration, honestly.
6.Renoir - There's this unbearably awesome story involving a Renoir sketch and my dad. Like, seriously, I'm turning this shit into a screen play, or a fucking awesome something. This is the story of being a badass.
7.Righteous Brothers - With the most played song in radio history, and having one member die of a coke overdose at the age of 63, these guys are the shit. Look them up.
8.Rufio - Possibly the most heroic person of my childhood, Rufio was a badass in the movie "Hook," and then the name was taken by a band, which, admittedly, got me into music as a whole, circa 9th grade. I admit it, and I'm proud. They had a great CD to get me into rock as a genre, because let's face it, you don't give death metal to a kid who's never really listened to music. Ha, unless you're a bastard.
9.Repliforce - Going in concert with the robotics theme, Repliforce was the main enemy faction in the Megaman X series, a video game which I mastered at several levels and love to this day. It took me years, but I finally got a hand on a copy of it, which I covet.
10.Run It Back - College football. What would Saturday's be, without the rich competition of this age old sport of men? Well, less tragic, as Penn State did...less than perfect this season. But, there will always be another year, and shit, I still have Florida! |
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Take 20 people you know and write something about them without using their names.
1. Thank God that I know I am not alone in this place. You have saved college, if just for now.
2. Open up, just a little more. You've got a mind like no other, but it IS weird knowing next to nothing about one of my best friends.
3. You are the ultimate savior. You've kept me from getting stiches to dying in the ocean, to giving me the time of day, for not forgetting. Thank you, my health thanks you, my sanity thanks you.
4. You were always more than enough, as a person, and there's a million fine looking women in this world. Not all of them bring you lasagna at work, either. Most just cheat on you. But, hell, I couldn't even cheat on you with you. Its as if all the logic in the world couldn't change that. I suppose that I thought I was reason enough. I guess that hurts, to know that I'm not good enough.
5. I'm sorry I don't call more; you're a great time, a good friend. We'll get more Chinese, soon. I hope.
6. I don't know what you want with me. You and I...you and I. I hate feeling like I'm 15 again, and you do that to me. But dammit, there's so much to you, and let's face it, you are super hot. Shallow? So what. I know you, I can bask in that.
7. It doesn't matter that you aren't an intellectual. I'm glad I can appreciate people for being people, and not the mind inside. You're a good person, and you make the ocean of humanity cleaner.
8. God, you ARE living proof that money is the root of all evil. Christ, I thought we were close? Fuck this. If you can't see past the dollar, I'm done giving a damn.
9. Where did you go? Pittsburgh? Why? I...miss you. You gave me more than I deserved, and I should have returned that to you. I'm sorry, if I didn't come through.
10. One day, you. Me. Anywhere. It is fate.
11. Oh, another "one day." You. Me. Lightsabres. A Volcano. Alexis Bledel.
12. You baffle me. I think you hate me. I could stand to know why. Until that day, you'll always be ...where I left you. I think I loved you. Wow. Ouch. Jesus, what happened? Maybe I put you on too high a pedastal.
13. There's a lot of respect here. Honestly is a policy you take up, and I think that's hilarious. High fucking five. But...oh. Don't call that girl anymore. Fucking isn't worth the damn time.
14. I don't care what the world does, but we're too epic to not fucking be badasses. Let's take this world back.
15. I always thought you weren't as smart, or wise as some people made you out to be. But, now I know you are. Thank you, for the time, the advice, and for listening.
16. This is for two people: I'm glad you've arrived. You finally feel real, and couldn't be better people, better blood. I was tired of those I see too often.
17. You're not honest about how you feel, and I don't make you feel good about yourself. But there is that electricity, and you're only young once. Don't let things get you down, when others would do the same.
18. You were one of few people that made last year bearable, even if you didn't know it. I miss you, man. You should come visit, and I'll go to you.
19. I hope I never have to speak about you using the only Russian word I know. Sometimes, I wish that I didn't think as well as I did. You would mean a lot less.
20. You're so damn hard to talk to. Literally, I can never get ahold of you. This infuriates me. But I can't say no. Probably because you smell, like angels oughtta smell. Worth dying for. Worth killing for. Worth going to hell for. |
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An Ode, to Hope
Yeah, I said it.
Put the shirt back on.
I know!
Disbelief is on this side
of the room, too.
But, lets
go see someone
rock so hard,
a bass string snaps
and cuts open his hand;
he'll play still.
OR! We can see
Opus 64. Number 2.
You love that song, don't you?
Personally, I like 10/12 better, those
etudes always got me going
you know that...
Its great in this room, just
the two of us
and after two hours
we're like
towers, two towers,
so stiff and dead,
from all heat. Heart, with out the "r"
the our.
But sometimes you want out
of the room.
Like, if you take too much time
eating ...Chinese or something,
the last few bites
just aren't as good.
I want to go out,
get NEW food. By that
I mean I want you to go out with me,
let's get NEW, together.
Come back, have another dinner.
Another bottle of wine.
You say your thighs don't like that
Orange chicken.
That's OK, I'll eat it, you can have
the rice, the broccoli.
You say you have too much thigh.
You have, a lot, yes
a nose, curves, skin as flat and
aerodynamic
as some land speed record breakers.
You don't have
much of an ass. Sorry, that was too much.
But let's go! Lets go lets go lets go!
And save the "fuck you Cassidy"
for a less metaphoric day
unless it was for the ass comment
a stanza up. I deserve that.
I deserve you, right?
I mean, Wikipedia tells me there's
about 9 and one half million left
that speak Swedish
and assuming half are women,
there's only a .0008% chance
I'd have ever met you.
You'll meet lots of white boys, but do they know
how to speak spanish?
Yes. I guess they do.
How about knowing Yeats wasn't
an infection, but a poet?
Yeah, that's my line.
Let's go anywhere.
Spanish dancing,
where you don't have to speak
el idioma
to know
that Julio Iglesias
means sexy,
sexy as fuck,
or know how my mind
es sin vergüenza,
and its all because we're out
saving our blood for later.
Shit/fuck
don't tell me I made a mistake
with you.
I want you to know
that I see in you
an ode.
Old school.
Old school love and hope.
Just tell me,
si siquiera me mientes
that you are above
necromancy, that
your will is too strong to die on me,
and be somebody else's
dead body.
I just hope that my
hands are as electric
as your body,
and that when my hand is
right between your lower back
and your hip (we can't even tell)
that I'd feel it, too.
Like you. |
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Dock
I approach the dock and
shake hands with Otis,
and watch him pack his belongings
and quietly walk away. We're
like changing shifts, I thought
and I went over, and the dock
becomes the side of my bed.
I will stay here all day.
The microwave clock,
the TV on the dresser,
the black, fake marble floor.
This replaces time, until Otis comes back
from what I believe is
a very, very long lunch break. A Sunday long.
I have a book with me, "Maps from Sweden to Arabia: a Look at ..."
that part of the world I guess.
I can't believe I forgot that Stockholm was the capital,
or that there's a couple of important seas
just lying around.
I will read here all day.
My phone doesn't ring, and this causes me to stare at it.
Cell phones are the new Old Phones, which were the new "watched pot."
If you watch it, it'll never boil. or ring.
I forget the last argument I had with the phone
if it decided to stop working, or trick me
making me believe I can send calls, when really,
I'm just holding a piece of plastic.
This phone is such an easy scapegoat for my soundlessness,
for why I've hidden behind geography,
why this gift of a bag of candy with be
eaten with my hands,
not the intended receiver.
I'm now upset Otis is gone
his voice could be a nice bottle of gin
to cure the shiver this dock air brings. |
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We All Know Its True
Rock is probably the death of good poetry
the spinning of a bullet like the tuning of string
every crank of the peg
is one more opportunity on the rack.
Poets everywhere
screaming out famous Shakespeare
or converting to cults like prog-rock.
This is a modern inquisition, a genocide
of pen-users (and pencil-users, too).
They came to my house, simplified all my books
and put a piano instead of a shelf,
a mantle of chords and sheet music
a library of mp3's, where old documents used to be forgotten about
on the wirings of my hard-drive.
If only I could sing, I'd sing every word I've written,
lie my way out, like poetry
consisted of surreptitious and classified government documents.
Every time I'll look over at my bass guitar, I'll thumb
the cyanide pill in my pocket,
half expecting someone from Fender to garrote me with an D string in the
ironic silence of night. |
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I just applied to be on the Real World. No, really, I just finished my group interview. The have call-backs tonight after the interviewing, and hell, I think it went well. I'll edit this when I have something real to say. Edit: No call back. WHATEVER!
Oh well, fun while it lasted. |
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Gaunt
The water has stopped, you think
your eyes are almost eyes again
your cheeks are scales of dryness
and your tongue is juiced flat.
This should be the end of your face
but more water will flow, breaking the Enamel Dam of your
teeth as if they were
old cardboard. Soaked. Bent.
See for yourself, in the mirror. A skull
without bones, that feels the wind
like it were ice and sand.
You feel yourself get carried away, an ending.
But you'll always peer back, and see the desert
dulling glowing on your clavicle. |
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"The Host, and What's Behind Him"
It's the change we're listening for
not the sound of but one last silver trumpet
to call us home.
We'd rather make home anew
on the broken spine
of a rust-coated blade,
and on the cracked barrel of an unloaded pistol.
The age of war ends
the age of man will come
the day
when we can dance on any continent
it will be the last day on Earth,
and the first day on this home,
not known by division or survival
but by what we've always pretended
to want, and never got.
The promised prize at the end of hole should
not be a bullet
but the love of something less than God. |
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This is waking up at nine pee emm and thinking to myself that I should be seeing one hundred million sparks
seeing one hundred million hot air ballons
flying into a crowd of one hundred million
We're seeing a bigger picture
and feeling a bigger force
behind six strings and five violins (I think I hear violins)
and nothing is left but a pull towards the stage;
this isn't the end of life
but this is the end of the best
and you'll think you're doing what you can
to be happy
but you're not really happy until you've
seen the best epic lives
the best epic sounds
and felt the best
epic
scene.
God will come on to you and put his hand right through your back
and then, then! you'll know how fast light really moves
and how slow humanity changes. |
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Dear New Jersey, I've missed you, but I don't know if you've missed me. So, I think I'll stop by, see how you're doing, visit the old haunts. Jersey, all I ask is that you don't suck. I know we had a rough falling out, save for Earl, but you know what? I've forgiven. Really, just...show us what you can do. You've got so much potential, I think our relationship needs this. I may be letting my sister move to you. There can't be any more ambiguity. See you in a couple of days. I hope you can take it. -Cassidy. P.S.
I'm going to look a little different. You know, taller, thinner, more sassy (yes, I can't LOOK sassy...whatever). But, I think you'll like the new me. My mom thinks I'm a catch. |
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Lux Aeternum (Eternal Light)
Through a glass window, I see the rocks
where I scarred my ankle.
Sand mixed with blood, but I was ok
because there was nothing painful about being
with that girl with the cold hands
and a firework hug.
I reach into my wallet, as the car keeps driving
and I look through old trinkets that don't remind me
of the future.
I see the girl with the brass wall,
and whirlwind legs,
and she's the one that makes me question
why I took her picture.
I can't talk to photos.
I don't really know this driver;
this car could be stolen.
I wonder if he's a good car thief, if he'll keep at it
even though the police tell him its wrong.
Do I stop
remembering my past, even though its dead waves
only make my future bend and ripple?
And ever since I got my name,
I've been too fucking tame, too loyal
for some broad idea of logic and
righteousness. I wonder
if I was that good of a theif, would I stop? |
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Defacing the Temple of Apollo
There's a spot on the Atlantic
where my uncle resides
in an urn, on a shelf
and the next time I see him, I'm going
to throw him to sea.
I'm not sure if my Aunt will let that happen,
so we'll compromise, talk it out
and she'll give me my Grandmother instead.
The only problem is
my Grandmother wants to go to France,
and my uncle
never really gave a shit
about sentimental things like that;
he just cared about the life before the after life.
He cared about his hands, how to use them to construct and clean
so I'll dust of his memories
with real dust.
His dust. |
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This whole job thing isn't working out. And by that, I mean that they aren't paying me until June 2nd. Also, my damn order from...that thing...hasn't arrived, and its been far too long. I think I'm going to complain. And I'm thinking about backing out of my Canada trip. Just...because its going to cost money I don't feel like spending, and I don't know how much fun it will be, and I don't think its the right time to do that. Maybe later in the summer, I suppose. Whatever. On a good note, I attended another prom and it was superb. Wasn't like I thought it would turn out, which is for the best. Also, my major finally changed for PSU, meaning they have to let me transfer to University Park. But, then...Texas might let me in, too. But then, they might have forgotten about me, entirely. Ah, fuck.
New Jersey has been half finalized. Mike, Todd, and I ARE going, and my aunt with most assuredly let us stay. But, I'd like to get more details, like who's driving, costs, and other passengers, in case Shawn or Tracy Major decide not to go.
I'm kind of tired. Kind of. I think I just wrote nothing new to update, because its been a while. |
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Hollow Julia
A Hollow Julia, they said
We are but stone crafters
and our faith lies in Earth
and our faith lies in Earth
This is what I've come to see
that every sanctified object
is but someone else's
sanctified object.
The root of the tree in my backyard
is the same root of your tree in you summer home
connected through the faith of masons
and dirt eaters
and round worm lovers;
rock throwers, and leaf seers;
We're all so...classified? |
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Chicago, we'll meet again! So, yes, I'm likely going to a giant music festival in Chicago. You might have heard of it: Lollapalooza? Yeah, if you can find a way to Chicago, and get a ticket, I'd love to see you there. This is too much metal for one hand! \mmmm/
Big metal. |
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Oldtown
I climbed on to the first roof
of an former dwelling
and telescoped the old neighborhood
looking for what used to make me, me.
There was still the bark of a dead dog
arrowed by a kid given the wrong Christmas gift
and the driveway too dark not to be called an alley
even though it didn't go anywhere.
I almost had let myself forget about the damned white house
that held a mad woman, who called my brother a "cow,"
and talked to briar patches and Herman's bar.
Behind me was still covered in verdigris
too thick to be removed by a single mother's resources.
I turned the knob on my eye-piece
and focused in on the next-door neighbors garage,
always half-locked, half-ajar.
This town used to be fun,
but I caught myself repeating my father's cliché,
and began to hate every pot-hole, every traffic ticket,
every person who tried to tell me I was blind.
I can still remember the smell of my basement,
and how I never went there alone. It was the last thing
this city had to offer: a cement-cold room
where the homeless took refuge. |
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