the rose man

What could you take from a man who gives nothing?

In hate and in selfish pride you withhold ransom denying those without the fat which they deserve. When Truth she asks, "Ain't I A Woman?" and you pass her by knowing that it's not her just deserve -- you speak without thinking, but what's worse, you think without speaking.
Your selfish, bleeding heart turns you into not just a swine -- an entire hoard. Constantly you slide by them, each time sending a chill up your spine. That's the fingers of sympathy, of compassion and kindness running and grasping for your attention. But instead you treat it as a stray dog with which you cannot find it within yourself to emote not one, NO, not even one ounce of pity despite your knowledge, your experience, your own personal self-worth.
Even if on the rare occasion you actually do notice the man in the wheelchair sitting outside the cafe selling long-stem roses of various colors, does it really cause you to become imbued? Or rather is it simply just scratching for a moment at a scab that can never quite seem to heal?


*Inspired by the documentary "Great Speeches From A Dying World"

broken tongues

Yesterday I met ten dozen people
their tongues were all broken.
Yes, I'll be the first to admit
I'm a little soft spoken
But what they don't say is worse I tell you
a broken tongue is better than not having one.

In a land of oceans turning black rather than blue
people looking for miracles, they've got something to sell to you
and they'll tie to God what meaning suits them best
it's not what comes from bottles, it's what you have left.

Oh ye great lands spread the truth afar
arm your men with weapons, sound the alarm
take what's not yours, you claim your Book tells you so
I don't know which book you're reading, but your truth isn't gold.

Now them people and all their broken tongues
began choking and talking and spitting like they should've done
about a million years before the troubles begun
don't let them fool you; stick with your mouth, stray from the gun.

google ten for grandpa

pretty pumped right now. like i said, after reading THE CATCHER IN THE RYE i've been wanting to write more. well i started yesterday (see post), and today, to my surprise, the writing has actually continued.

i usually get pretty discouraged when i write stories because generally i imagine one scene, get it on paper, and then that's it. the process stops. but this time i'm approaching it from a new angle. one similar to salinger in fact, including a bit of the autobiographical nature of some of his writings. i'm going to steer my focus away from plot and, instead, focus on the main character's mental state (man vs self). that's not to say things still won't happen -- because they will. but the main point of the story won't be the actual events; rather, how the character interprets them, how he interprets everyday life. and, yes, this has been partly shown in my previous writing, but getting it out there, saying it, or whatever helps me get in the correct mindset sometimes.

so here goes nothing.
let's hope it becomes a something.

if a body catch a body

The rain was really coming down now. Big drops too, just ready to drown something, anything. The already gray sky was fading further and further away into nothing. I watched as the water-colored people around me did the same. The dull taupe trench coats, the brightly colored scarves would transform slowly into rainbows of monochromatic color, like when the tube goes out on the TV, only without those annoying lines that sometimes show up. My feet, soggy inside my canvas shoes, squished as I walked. The rain was loud, but my feet were louder. It’s always like that when your feet are squishing or something. The room could be filled with all kinds of racket, but as soon as you start walking away it’s like everything stops or everyone dies and all eyes, even the dead ones, are on you, and all you can think is Where the hell can a guy find a rug in this place? And no matter how hard you look you can’t find one anywhere. Like they were all taken up to be cleaned or something. Anyway, that’s the way it was.
By this point, I was pretty cold and knew that I would start shivering soon. I do that a lot. Shivering, that is. It’s not that I’m dying of cold or anything. Really I’m not. I just start in looking epileptic and everything. I don’t much care for it. It’s embarrassing. So I slipped into this used book store for a minute to warm up and call an old friend, Jacob Leer. I went to the back of the store so that the gray mustached man at the counter wouldn’t listen in. Not that what I had to say was Top Secret or anything. It’s just that the people in places like that are always listening in on what you have to say. I was standing next to a dusty stack of old records when I pulled out my phone. Dead. I should have guessed. I’m the world’s worst procrastinator when it comes to things like this. That battery had been giving me trouble for weeks. It would be dead in just a matter of hours after a full charge. I needed to use the man’s phone, but I’d feel too crummy to go up and ask him without buying anything. It’s hard enough keeping a small place like this open, especially in a town like this, without everyone and their mom jacking up the phone bill at the same time.
So what I did was, I started in looking at all those records that were stacked up so nice. I remembered my Pop had an old record player in the garage that he never used. I asked him about it last year and he said that it just needed a needle. I guess that’s where I get all that procrastination from. But I was thinking, if I bought a needle for it, he would let me have it, or at least loan it to me. None of the names on the records sounded too familiar, except for one by an old colored lady called Odetta Sings Dylan. Or maybe it didn’t. I don’t know. But still, I had to buy something.
“That’s a fine recerd you picked there son. You best take good care o’it. Odetta had more soul, more talent than any other broad I ever seen. It’s a shame -- we lost ‘er just a few weeks here back” the mustached man said as he rang me up. “Comes out to, eh . . .” He hesitated while he waited for the total to show up on the beat up blue cash machine. “’Leven dollas and a quoter.”
Being this close to him, I couldn’t help but notice that his glasses sat crooked on his face, but it wasn’t because one ear was lower than the other or anything. It was because he had this mole on his cheek that stood out, right where the glasses sat on his face, that made the lens higher on the right side. Stuff like that gets me -- when people have big moles right on their face.

a heart, a skid, a key

Three weeks ago
Said to myself,
“Think I’ll dig myself a hole.”

Some people stopped by
Asked where my tunnel led
“anywhere you want,” I said.

Personally, what it’s done for me --
I put all my sin into a bin
Locked it tight, was a heavy fight
Watched it fall till the morning light.
There it went
My shipment’s been sent
Definitely a part of me
That girl’s still here
Lucky for me
And to her heart I hold the key

And that hole’s a crater
Recently began to hate her
For no apparent reason
It must be the change of seasons

Five days ago I found out
My key don’t work, no
It got broke
The locksmith, he’s gone outta town
Went down to the river to drown

His wife left him with all eight kids
A pile of bills, a mess of skids
His head ain’t right
Just a slight
Thing sends him over the edge

Now you see?
Where does that leave me?
Pretending that I’m sailing the sea?
Oh, down by the water
Who’d I see falter?
None other than that broken father.

Heard him cry out, “God save me!”
He touched his heart, he took a knee.
This was my chance, “sir would you help me?
My love is broken, could you fix this key?”

Personally, what he done for me --
He took me in with all his kin
Told me not to push or shove
Showed me that the world needs love

simply put: the devil

I’ve been eating with the Devil
Every single day
She rolls her own cancers
She deals me the same
Down to deep chrome canyons
With bridges over lakes of fire
She asked me to jump in
Float around in the boggy mire.

What she said next
She will deny
She said she wants some
Peace and quiet
She’s tired of this war
Between God and her
She’d call it quits
But all this work
What would it be for?

I held hands with the Devil
It felt just like your’s
Chills ran up my spine
Made me nervous to the core
We came up to the streets
There was not a soul around
The ground was not stable
A plague struck the people
Who we were walking on.

Time would tell what it
Always says
Your days are growing short
And your nights may seem long
But soon you’ll be praying
For them to the Lord.

She’s the Prince of the Power of the Air
She’s in your mouth
What you spit out
She’s in your long flowing red hair.

She sat me down
To talk about Power
And the balance that exists
Between God and her.
“Like with the people
Dead in the streets,
God has to be checked.
There’s not a quota I have to meet.”

caroline

Her name was Caroline
She was mine, my only one
By day she taught school children
By night she became alone

Her head was filled with thoughts
About mother earth, her god.
She longed to protect her
From all of mankind.
Her mother found it distasteful,
Her father, he didn’t approve.
They thought it was a phase,
That age would remove this noose.

But now it’s eight years later.
Her hair looks fine, it’s long.
She gives long-winded speeches
On how pollution is wrong,
How man has many laws
But for some, they seem to fall,
How everyone loves Jesus.
They cling to him, one and all.
But when they listen to the variable
Righteous thoughts escape them.
How else could a King
Be removed from his throne?
“Do lies travel faster
With the aid of telephones?”
She said, “If bullets had freewill
Would they choose where they land?
Would triggers become stiff,
Forever to take a stand?”
People they beg for truth
But only without consequence.
“Responsibility’s for others
We prefer song and dance.”

Her name was Caroline
She was mine, my only one.
That day she taught school children,
That night her time had come.

She was standing in the square
Fervent in her speech;
A bold delivery
But trembling underneath,
For the night before,
While rehearsing her part,
A mysterious note appeared
That tore at her heart.
A threat was made --
“We’re gonna have your head.
What you say means nothing.
You’d be better off dead.
But this can change if you want.
Just don’t speak up.
Better yet, if you like your life
Just don’t come around.
You should work on finding Jesus
Like everyone else in this town.
I sincerely hope
You take what I say.
You could keep teaching children
At least another day.”

Caroline wasn’t one
To ever back down.
She quoted famous philosophers
Who weren’t welcomed or allowed.

On that cold November day
Snow fell to the ground,
A shot was fired from a pistol --
It was the only sound.

Her name was Caroline . . .

an iron butterfly

You get out of bed
You wring your hands
Low you hang your head

The room still spins
The vodka, the gin
Cigarettes mean the end.

Morning comes
Like light bulbs burst
One more will do you in.

The fuse is lit
Another “one more hit”
She’s doing it again

She does it right
Eyes cocaine white
She found heaven this time then

Her soul leaves
Floating like a butterfly
But she’s made of iron
Too heavy to fly
So her soul falls back down
And into her mouth
And now she feels
What it feels like to die.

And now the devil
He’s inside her
Penance for what she done before

She can see out her eyes
Fills up her mind with lies
But the devil he’s got control

And once again
She’s back again
But it’s not really her this time

There’s a strap in her mouth
And needles all about
But this isn’t her this time

To the home
Comes Father Combes
For there’s a demon to exorcise

The sinner girl
She’s held down with chains
As the priest demands his name

The demon replies
With a voice that cries
“Legion is my name”

The priest is taken aback
In this room with crosses stacked
Because the demon isn’t one, but many

Her eyes fill with fire
As the prayers surround
While the demons refuse to let go.

With the Bible on her head
And a cross on her heart
Father Combes cries, “Get out of her!”

Her body starts to shake
And her nose it does bleed
As those demons finally do recede

The spectators
Don’t realize it’s all over
But Satan’s got this girl’s soul for good.

cuff links

(wrote this at work today)

She never gets
How things go
Like why blood flows
And stains the carpet
Even when she screams
“Please stop it”
Blood still flows

It’s not love
Unless there’s pain
To ease all this pain
It’s all over she thinks
When he puts back on the diamond cuff links
And he wears a smile so well
One that he keeps from her
But gives to the other girl

She thinks it’s funny how
All these diamond, golden, silvery things
How they really don’t mean a thing
How love is a word it’s not a verb.
It’s just a word.

She comes into the courtroom
Where “His Honor” is gone
Her left eye swollen, cheeks turned blue
Only her face speaks, it’s true

The jury stands
But gets caught by the window
--eyes they wander
Only want to go home

Mr. Cuff Links
He finally shows
Trails in late
Followed by perfume

And the case
It is absolved
And the gavel
It is thrown

And the world turns to stare
As she is denied her share
And a tear falls on her pillow
As she welcomes the next fellow
To her bed and
To her love and
To her pain
To ease her pain

She said,
“I’m so tired.
I’m through.
I’m so tired
Of you.”

halluncinations of pyramids in concave glass

It’s all a matter of flickering promises
With no words ever being spoken
It’s a matter of a hope of a life
Worth living again
It’s love and it’s war and
I’m caught somewhere in
The middle of it all
It’s nowhere I desire to be
It’s just where I lie

I’m laying brick and stone
Building a fortress to protect myself
I would invite you in
But you’re beginning to feel like the enemy

And still, all those feelings set aside,
All I want is to be Alone with you.

esse quam videri

Descartes wondered and, at the same time, stripped everything, even the simple act of writing this response, bare on a philosophical level. I think he raised this question (reality vs. dream world) mostly to explore how powerful the subconscious really is and/or can be. Personally I think it is nearly impossible to differentiate between dreams and reality. Even in our so-called “reality” people suffer from delusions, hallucinations, etc., and even those who suffer from those types of disorders can’t differentiate between what is real. Maybe the human race itself is sick and our minds have bent our thinking into calling a person who sees the truth sick instead. Frankly, the possibilities here are endless.

Recently I watched a film titled VANILLA SKY (excellent by the way) that touched on these exact issues. It was quite interesting in a Matrix kind of way, in that it explores being able to control one’s surroundings in the dream state. There is a Latin phrase that states, “Esse quam videri" meaning, “To be, rather than to seem". I think those words tie in nicely to this topic, but I don’t think it applies only to a physical level. Instead, I think we need to strive to be who we are in our dreams as well -- after all, that is where we birth our futures. Why not set a goal that could actually be achieved? I’m not saying to stop reaching beyond one’s abilities. In fact continue to do that. How else could one grow? What I am trying to say is that I think you can control your dreams as well as your life (obviously, not to the utmost extent, but the majority at least) so that one can shape whatever type of existence they wish to have.

It’s extremely remarkable when every single culture has correlated the dream world with enlightenment. Native Americans would get “visions from the Gods” in order to guide them along the path of life, the ancient Greeks would visit Oracles for advice, the list goes on and on. Maybe getting back to a simpler dimension of reality, one that pushes off all barriers, is what we need to strive for.

breathless sons of god

All you breathless sons of God
Can’t you control your thoughts?
All those lessons that you taught
Were more like bombs you dropped.

If it’s a crime you need
Look no further than your mind, you see
Your dark thoughts are wrapped in Holiness,
But their dull glow is pensive yet.

And now I’m praying for shelter from you
And all the double-speaking that you do.
It all comes down to righteousness
But what you have adds up to even less.

Your whole life has been a falsehood
You stood your ground because you were told you should
You don’t pour money in the offering plate
You keep your share behind a bolted gate.

I heard about your fantasy
Where you live not one life but three
A constant pull of give and take
And what’s sad is it’s reality

You speak of putting yourself on that cross
To ease the world’s suffering and loss
But you have no idea what that act contains
Besides you’re not strong enough to hold the reins.

the burning of homes

I can only tell it’s summer
By the burning of homes
Their smoke billows in the distance
That I have to go
And it’s the only way I’ll find the place
Where I grew and will continue to grow

How I love the smell of paint peeling
Traveling on the wind
Right along the water tower
I would climb once again
It would be after I found the house
As a child I played in
Abandoned I had left it
Soon to be abandoned once again

I would find a pile of old newspapers
Stacked in the kitchen
Yellowed and wrinkled like an old snakeskin
I would stuff them in the couch cushions
Drizzled with gasoline
And make a tail to the yard
Where the grass stood so green
And through the window panes
That’s where I would see
The place where I was born and raised
Erased from history
That’s when I would climb up
That tall water tower
To look down on the town
And see my house unfold like a flower

The firemen came to the scene
Put up the good fight
But they weren’t really needed because
The good Lord made it rain all night
Still the house lied in ruin
It wasn’t worth anything
But the price of its destruction
To me meant everything

the drip

Creaking was the bed,
like Claudia's grandmother's knees,
as she crept out of its comfort
and onto the cold, bare floor.
The warmth of Israel's body
trailed further and further away,
while the sweet smell of his sweat
still masked in merlot
clung to his nostrils
and begged to be released.

Stagnant their love had grown --
The insides of his thighs
muddled with the sweat of another --
Claudia knew all along.

And earlier, he drank the wine
from his cup;
tainted, convoluted
the thoughts in his mind
like bullets blaring past
only to explode before leaving his mouth
while his body lies,
collapsed,
merely sleeping
to the naked eye.

ottmar liebert 8/4/08

I'm on a train goin' home
under skies so troubled, so clear
through cities so far, so near
and I'm stuck here, just me and my mind
thinking thoughts on love and life and god
and it's like every thing's real slow.
it's terrible and real slow.
beautiful and slow.

betty love -- i wish you were closer to me, that we had another means of communication, that your warmth was once again found in a sea of cold and dead. i miss you without really knowing you, but then again, i do. it's funny how our brains are / were connected -- how we both left notes in each others' carry-on, wishing for a relationship that could never be. you changed me -- or at least helped show me who i already was. thank you.

living rooms

She smiles as she stands in the kitchen
her face draped in white
flush with the rise of morning

He stares at the ceiling
textured with yellow sides
like old books who starve to be read
and thinks about nothing
about only breathing
This is something she never understands.

She holds fruit in her hands:
strawberries and peaches
blackberries and melons
in the sink with the water running
she turns each over
cleaning off the film and dirt
slicing off bruises
and throwing the bad away

He drags the smoke through his filter
and exhales slowly, almost meticulously
he does this time and time again
letting the cigarette bounce between his lips
but now his mind wanders
to pyramids, the Nile
cobbled streets, and oceans run wild
and just for a minute,
if anyone asks,
he's not there.

happy 4th

Winged and terrible
The vulture swoops
And devours
Leaving only a few remnants behind

The bones pull and break
The flesh stretches and tears
And the eyes become milky
And encapsulate the universe

The victim, his only question:
“Where is my mind?”

Because this is where it’s different.
This is the point in which the prey stops running
And the hunter stops hunting.
This is the segment in which hope is lost,
Never to be found.
Where the target hoists himself onto the board
Praying the first shot is it.

Today, right now
in the early hours of the morning
It is.

money in your mouth

You swallow this whole
This disbelief
You could turn
Your greatest misfortune
Into something at which
A king would weep

You lie across your sheets
With money in your mouth
Sweet perfume is in the air
And the moon outside is full

Because they have no idea who you are
You’re not hesitant to go again
Help them open their eyes
Show them that the world is cruel

You present
another devilish scheme
A foolish dream
You’ll never be satisfied
With anything or anyone
Nothing is ever too great
You could always have more
I suppose . . .

If you ever returned
You’d only come back
To a room staring at your face.

I don’t care
Wherever you go
Forget about me
I’ll get a start on my own two feet.

man / beast / etc.

With no great skill
Or even a few dollar bills
You wander into towns who can’t find a name
So long apart
A chance for a fresh start
But you can’t quite seem to fit
The places are exactly the same
So perfectly right
So perfectly tame
Misconstrued, feeling light
Things are adding up, just not right

Drink up: Cups of evil; Cups of bliss;
Drink up: Cups of callas; Cups of wish.

To find exactly what you’ve become
man / beast / machine / plant / bird / thing
Swallow it whole
Everything

You said, “an old woman once told me,
‘what is not will surely rot.’”
It took you for a turn, her words
You determined to fix everything
Like she’d said.
Become in tune

Stay calm, relaxed.
Enjoy breathing again.
You’re breathing again.
At long last.

Falling in step
Never miss, never trip
With strong strides
You morph to shadows
To clouds
You night crawlers
You sleuths

With burial rites in their mouths
Your mothers and fathers
You sisters’ unborn children
They (stare, pierce) straight through you
They move you

sing your praise to the god of machines

Fallen asleep
You dreamt to weep
For, upon a prior waking,
You find that you cannot.
Eyes like bottomless inkwells
Suddenly run dry.
So instead you write this letter
In a shade slightly darker
Than the purple it was before.