Friday, April 30, 2010

on a night like this, why, she's pro-stars, pro sky

bejar, bejar bejar.dan bejar.
destroyer is faaaaantastic.

bonus photo:

"desperate times
call for desperate measures, i
wanted you,
i wanted these

(fast) like the
red sea, the atoms
spill inwards
on my words
through the

& what the fork? a poem
about long island predating
the nineteen fifties?
"long island sound" by emma lazarus

"god is love, & love is real
but the dead are dancing with the dead,
& whatever is charming only disappears,
while all things lovely only hurt my head"

Friday, April 23, 2010

why bother

this is
this line, a
call me
what you want to
but these words
like an apple
at the market:
those above it lose their
& all else comes
forward with
with the world
torn, we (aloof from this)
watch in

"behave!" by frightened rabbit.
"behave, behave,
i don't know quite how to behave, behave
i don't have a clue how to behave when i'm around you
behave around you, behave around you."

"their sex life" by a.r. ammons


Tuesday, April 20, 2010

nothing gets so bad

a whisper from your father couldn't fix it.

short walks
& small rain are
all i need on a
day like today. see,
today was
swollen. like a
stubbed toe or a bit
tongue. it was red then
blue then gray.

i haven't got all that much
to say. i suppose
no one does
on days like today,
when heat boils
rain &
all that falls is
a product of
i wish today would
drop above
some other place &
leave me the
hell alone. the air is
lazy & ripe
but i sure won't
be the one
who picks

appropriate song: "raincoat song" by the decemberists
appropriate poem: "weathering" by a.r. ammons

Monday, April 19, 2010

& my body

it leaks like a sieve.

days pass
through the film:
one by one
they rub against the grate
& through which
they are
taken in shreds
on the tongue:
these negatives are
i've seen some
hint of sepia
& watched the alley
crawl past the gutters:
watch me as i
disappear through
chalk dust &
asbestos: i want nothing
more than this
color seeping through
the cracks:
the calicos
prancing on sand-
paper paws:
i love this:
the sun tugging at
my dry (bristle) hair:
i am in
your light: watching
through a periscope
looking up &
catching glances
of rays
prancing overhead:
which is to
say that
we're looking up:
which is to think that
people change:
hold me
(closer): wing through
heart & the valves
will flap open:
can you
stream? can you
rush in: you
ochre water
from a rusted
tap: you are as close
to blood
as will ever

"the best slow dancer" by david wagoner
"the best slow dancer
Who stood on tiptoe who almost wasn’t there
In your arms like music she knew lust how to answer
The question mark of your spine your hand in hers
The other touching that place between her shoulders
Trembling your countless feet lightfooted sure
To move as they wished"

"cold summer" by seabear
"i can see your eyes turn blue.
i can see the weather changing you.
cold summers, one after the other.
got old fast, grew tired of each other."

Sunday, April 18, 2010


you are making
you, a small child
in my pond,
resonant wake
& wait until
I shiver.

there are things
we don't
want to be
(to some)
& i
could be
i could be
a lonely
in the
sea of wheat
that is
between the
curves &
planes i
tremble within
your skull

couldn't find this one so i had to write it out:

"As though touching her
might make him known to himself,

as though his hand moving
over her body might find who
he is, as though he lay inside her, a country

his hand's traveling uncovered,
as though such a country arose
continually up out of her
to meet his hand's setting forth and setting forth.

And the places on her body have no names.
And she is what's immense about the night.
And their clothes on the floor are arranged
for forgetfulness."

[Li-Young Lee] from "Book of My Nights"

"and she is what's immense about the night"


don't think

that just because we spoke
(for the first time
in months)
that this is okay. that
i'll just let you
back. let you slide
through the grid
& transmute
what you
had to say. it doesn't
work that way. you don't
just talk for
ten minutes & then
everything is back.
i don't believe
what you say so
running your
finger along my
tattered &
chiseled ear.
you're not making
anything better because
you are not here
with me. give it
let this silk unfold.

you are thin
lipped &
i miss you
in my life
but you
have been gone so
long. you forgot to
tell me
to let
loose &
die. you never
called. you never

"we don't care do
we dearie we should
worry about the rain"

[raise the shade] by e.e. cummings

"kiss, kill, nothing in between
i can't sit still & get cancelled"
"sweet talk" by dear and the headlights

[photo courtesy of triptych photographix]

Friday, April 16, 2010

some days

are rain on the

i think i am writing now
(again) because
it didn't quite register
before. but
everything is
quite diffuse. this seems
to be an hourglass
cut in half.
watch the sand pour
out into the wind
& be dissolved by
all its tiny
vacuums. i don't think i
can handle this.
the interference is
immense. you are
unaffected (in-
different) & i am
split into
infinity. my body plays
sadness on the piano
& my eyes
cut chords
on the guitar. i know nothing
& yet i know everything
that will happen.
i am not the watershed
but simply the exception
in the rewrite of
the plot. who am i.
what am i good for. was
i put in this vastness
(between the clouds &
the subatomic
for any other reason than
to vicariously
experience what others
are plagued by. i don't know
if this is
someone guide me.
please: please:
i need some signal.

you are the unlit
motel sign
in the pouring
rain on
a lonely
for a likewise

[picture courtesy of jennifer lawson]

Thursday, April 15, 2010


it's time to
whether or not this
is a successful way
to cope. not sure if
channeling my
life through text
is necessarily the best way
to deal with the
that come with real life. how
many times do i want to
say something &
instead withhold
it & run the words through
a nonsensical
sieve. i can't keep forcing
this; sometimes
venting is better vented
than deconstructed.
some things deserve to be
said frankly. others can
be wrung through
the dryer. where's the line?
do i throw my hands up
(& with them
the towel)?
do i partition speech &
keep some in the
boiler room
from which they become
malleable & ineffective,
dull & careful.
i am nothing & plan on being
nothing for a long time.
but i want to spend
my days with
some (body)
who sifts for me
(as i sift for them).
i want trembling &
i want uncertainty & blue
watch me as i walk
away &
the words i
chose to reserve
are tucked between my thigh
& the thin layer of denim
that rests against it.
i want nothing more than
to be frank with you ma'am.
i pray that you open
your valve &
accept this
language. it is pure &
it is
intoxicating. i know you
& i know
that i've been turning
your doorknob. call this
what you want,
but understand that
i know you
are on the horizontal top
(or bottom) of
this door. you are
peeking again &
i will advise you
to go
numb &
let the handle

"the boy who blocked his own shot" by brand new. or live with kevin devine

classic poem. one of my favorites. "the love song of j. alfred prufrock" by t.s. eliot.


your words or
(lack thereof)
your eyes
& sweep
through my
vocal cords
for my
sudden loss

sorry but i

forgot to introduce myself. i sort of half-assed it on the first post but here's the real deal:
my name is andrew. i am a sophomore at wake forest university. i study psychology & english.
i don't know why exactly i made this blog. i suppose it was more of a personal thing than for
anyone to read. as someone who studies a social science & english together, i find that
the combination of the two is simply divine. in fact, look no further than dr. kay jamison's
"an unquiet mind" when looking for a truly unbelievable intersection of the arts & sciences. but yes,
back to my point. this blog is my own way to grasp reality, vent, and integrate the problems i so
ungracefully fumble with every day. sometimes it's too much to handle the uncensored &
naked streaming of our worldly perceptions, our frenzied thoughts. thus i write to you all (whoever you may be) in
hopes that someone can empathize, sympathize, or just plain enjoy the content.
i retain a great love for both music & poetry, thus explaining the random quotes of song lyrics
& poems in my posts. i hope you click on the links sometimes. for serious. you just might like them.
don't get used to this "long line" stuff. it's gone after this post. but i think it's been too long
without a formal introduction. so
hello. watch these thoughts
tail into spiraling frenzy.
watch the literary fire
take this into his
heart & let the
page margins
squeeze be-
tween the
aorta &
the dull

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

aint' that the truth

two poems courtesy of a.r. ammons

"mission" [a.r. ammons]

The wind went over
why are you so distressed:

oh I said I
can't seem to make
round enough to last:

but why
the wind
should you be so distressed

as if anything here belonged to you
as if anything here were your concern.

"spinejacking" [a.r. ammons]

One of these days I'm gonna leave you, baby:
I know it: I can tell:
my bellyfat shakes & knows:
one of these days I'm gonna just
up & outsy: like that:
my dog knows: he
turns around a lot lately:
I don't know if the parrot knows:
it isn't just lately she started scratching:
you always were a kind of bushy bitch:
one of these days I'm gonna just pack off:
you get to make some new
arrangements, then: you like to change
things around, change this one:
one of these days I'm gonna leave you, baby:
I know it: I can tell:
my bellyfat shakes & knows.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

this week

(has been)
a split fingernail
(or horizontal cross-section in layers).
this week is plucking hairs from
brow, peak,
& burn.
this week is
slithering down into the empty space
between the chair's legs.
i can't quite touch down.
the thrusters are going
& going but i just can't land. throw me
an anchor or something.
i just want to see in something
other than sewer vision (like
tunnel vision but far worse).

the storm
is stumbling in along
the (montauk) point.

i can't complain
because i think
(not too) long ago
i would have just been dead. i think that some lines should jut out
& puncture the space on the page
(let it bleed out, the ink that is).
you remain
when the trade
is voodoo & the medium
is language. i think i'm just out
of words. is that possible?
i talk a lot.
either way my creative license seems to
have expired (get it, a joke!).
i'm just

two or three (or something)
more weeks until my
campaign at wake forest is
over. that's not scary.

i just want to
i just want to
be forgotten.

jesus, this hurts.
if i recall correctly. that halo
you slapped on my
head (over my hair, folding
& reserved)
was makeshift
& from those
fluorescent bulbs
leftover from
the house we built. that must be why
i'm covered in
glass (dust).
surely, that's why.

times (like these)
remind me that
sometimes joints
& bones & (small)
muscles aren't enough to
move you. sometimes
it's birds & syntax &
profundity. but not
even those can help
when your pancaked against
the ground
& the entity (that urges
your flattening) is unknown. like
an angel peeling feathers
off &
inching them down your
throat. it
is paralyzing.
& you don't know what to do
when your voice & limbs
go numb. i
don't. i sure
as hell

"i'll give you something
that no ones gonna' give you;
my sleeping skin
& my heart deep down in you.
i'll never tell you
but you're my little scar.
goodbyes are hard &
they're hard
& they're hard. "
[land of talk] "it's okay"

poem: "vespers [in your extended absence you granted me...]" by louise gluck
"I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots
like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart
broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly
multiplying in the rows."

Sunday, April 11, 2010

"bear those teeth to me, please...

no breath left.
cold breath thief."

barley above grass level

tell me there's no
way to find what you're looking for.
that's most likely the
case when you're
one cm
tall &
you live in the grass. isn't it
difficult to keep your head up
when the
grass grows tall &
you grow
weary. the sun
suffuses the space
the tree branches.
past the garbage &
the once art, now trash can.
it's true, the sun seems to polish &
rub in (small)
circles everything it
it changes colors of things & possibly makes
them a bit closer to the way that
they are meant to be seen; that is if
things are even "meant" to be seen
in a particular
way. it's a strange feeling
being smaller
than blades of grass.
the grass is cut down & keeps at it.
keeps growing. keeps
gasping for air. for light. then
there's us. there's me.
i'd rather lay down
& die. let the sun's
rays caress my body. feel every
angle &
imperfection that follows my face.
i'd rather let my umbrella down
& have the
wind gently (forcefully)
breathe life into my nostrils. even if that means
getting no oxygen.
letting work slip past as
i am concealed by the ochre droppings
of the trees. i have no concern
for sustaining
my breath.
but all that is found
in a (not)
deserted field sees otherwise.
lie down
on the grass at night.
tell me you don't feel the same. it's like
life support minus
the machinery
& plus
the birds, breeze,
tongue of the grass.
the grass holds a great deal of things;
an earring, straw wrapper,
a poem folded
up, &
other such items.
but those are difficult to find when
you are so
small. so
that's why it's easier to simply lounge
& the
wind works meticulously
with it's partners
to keep
us alive.

perhaps the song "turncloaking" by the annuals off their new ep aptly titled "sweet sister" is appropriate.
perhaps ammons' "gravelly run" is.

who knows. maybe the (my) muse rides the wind on a
paper airplane while i write nonsense.
maybe nature is worth while.

*&the picture is courtesy of my computer's camera this afternoon (evening).

Saturday, April 10, 2010

conquering mt. pilot

for all of you who know what mt. pilot is, good.
for those of you who don't
it's a state park in north cackalacky
& that's where i spent the day today.
a moderate/strenuous trail aptly named
"grindstone" led us past some amazing
places; some of which i've included
pictures of. mostly though, it was some
great exercise &
also there was some wildlife. that is, a
couple of mice, a salamander, several hawks
(those of which we saw gliding at the near peak of the mountain-
unbelievable), &
a couple of nature freaks (one used the word "phat"
in reference to being able to see downtown winston
from the peak).
it was, in the least, refreshing. easy to forget the world,
to chat about this & that.
who knows, this may have been something i needed.
i'd like to think (while peering down a rock climbing trail)
that more people would appreciate something like this.
i'm not sure they would, which
made me want to fall down the
long drop beneath.
i marvel at the mts.
who knows,
maybe one day i'll go back. why not?
& that pink thing is the only flower that mt. pilot
had to offer above
fifteen hundred ft.
thought it was nice so i snatched it.
that's it for today.
i guess.

appropriate song for today?
"mother remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry?
blood on the floor & fleas on their paws & you cried till the morning."

Friday, April 9, 2010

these days most (reinterpreted)

these days most(ly)
feel like
it's pleasant to
wander about the fields
of poppies.

that is, until the
flowers grow over head
& you're breath is stolen
as they quickly
above you.

Thursday, April 8, 2010


it's as if, today,
the rain that winston-salem
avoided for so long
(a whopping week & a half)
was unleashed today
spilling about the city.
it was
only good because the rain
washed the thick layer of pollen
off the hood of my car.
my ipod somehow lost all the
music on it.
that's cool.
got me thinking about how
i grow tired
& all of a sudden things turn
the shades close & it doesn't
quite right.
my heart slows, but each beat
more like a stomp
than a
step. each pulse
vibrates my lids & things
start to go blurry. only then i feel
tranquil throughout.
tell me, did you slip something in
my water?
were you scratching my back gently until
my eyes were at half mast.
till my tongue was numb?
& my tongue is
numb still.
that feeling of elation that seems to
have faded on your end of the hall
hasn't quite done the same here.
so i wait for you.
i suppose it's that
less than subtle
stroke of naivete
that colors
my character. i suppose i shouldn't
wait but you're so captivating
so what if you catch my eye. so what if
you chill
my bones & my ligaments
tense up.
so what if i stare at the ceiling wishing
you would walk in
& whisper
to me. don't really
care what
about. just
whisper, dear. you never seem to do
so. i must be overbearing,
the way i think
& feel
about you. i suppose it's
a bit
i'm sorry but you
beautiful: just beautiful:
thank you:
i think i take you more seriously everyday
& you (understandably)
just about all i say now. i suppose i wouldn't care much if i
were in your position either.
i'm quite the nuisance.
i'm sorry but i
mis yr fce.

"I've a layer of film & a coat of dust
Made solid in the kiln with a smile bent in rust."
"sous la plage" by benoit pioulard.

oh. & here's a poem i love by w.s. dipiero: "skirts & slacks"

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

what to do in case of an emergency

reciprocation, you see, is a funny
thing. just when you feel
what you think it is-
just like
you don't have it anymore.
it's just a hesitation
in the voice;
the brief
the slight
paralysis of the vocal
that's the same moment in which
you can feel the
interest fleeting in the other.
not visible per se, but watch
her. like
jackrabbits she's here until
someone tells you she was
real in the first place.
i heard that the only
good reason to hold your chin high
is to make sure
when you pull the trigger
that your prefrontal cortex ends up on the
ceiling. i suppose that's the
fastest way to lift your spirit.
hard to say
but if i had to guess
whether or not to let your guard down
i'd say go
for it. sometimes the thrill of the pretty
girl is worth the
pain that she'll undoubtedly
leave you with. that's the truth.
don't worry
you'll be nursing the wounds
like open cuts in
like the suns glow on the
shameful asphalt.
i don't feel her tugging at
my fingers the way
you might expect one to.
i remain the tide that rolls in a bit too often
& she is the unaffected shore;
the dry sand
with the razor clams scattered
this is going nowhere.
like all things good, there's a catch.
two types of catch:
to capture.
to snag, to be unexpectedly caught on.
the second meaning is a nuisance.
she caught (captured)
my attention but she caught me (that
is, i was snagged) on her
upper lip.
it's odd to feel desired but
not really at all.
like i said;
reciprocation is a perception
severed by a
weak &
i hear the feeling causes the nerves
to tense up &
peel away
& there's
a brief
(a slight)
hesitation in the voice;
in the fingers, like similar poles of
a magnet, repulsed-
like a wave retreating towards the atlantic
& the
palms like cool streams of air
quite unnatural.
it is standard as far as i'm concerned.

telekinesis: "coast of carolina" (great song) much better than my ramblings.

"I’ll close my eyes
and recall this room and everything in it:
My body is estrangement.
This desire, perfection.
Your closed eyes my extinction.
Now I’ve forgotten my
idea. The book
on the windowsill, riffled by wind . . .
the even-numbered pages are
the past, the odd-
numbered pages, the future.
The sun is
God, your body is milk . . ."

Monday, April 5, 2010

On Forgetting

It's really unbelievable how the mind works.
remember certain things, forget others.
like research paper or
a birthday. like watching the dry skin
curl above my index
knuckle. long walks in reynolda village
& back to wake forest,
watching as the flowers grow. it's odd.
as you breach the outskirts of
the school you notice that beds of
not sure: have one flower-
so you pluck it.
but as you walk deeper into the brush,
away from concrete
asphalt & footsteps,
there are identical beds of flowers but
almost all of them (the flowers that is) have bloomed.
not just one.
& all of a sudden, near the mud diluted
pond water,
you stop thinking so much as the
plucked flower that resides in your pocket
has scampered away.
whether it be the winds,
the words, the
smoke that comes with eighty-five
percent humidity. who knows.
try walking & not wondering about the flowers.
try listening to the song of the cicada
& the wolf spider. the confused
morning birds whistle their
tune. the light's
florescence isn't lonely anymore. the mosquitoes,
like the remora hold
steady beneath its wing & kiss it with
the subtle buzz (hum) of the group.
it's odd.
i dislike so many of the creatures that live
in this area. but so many produce such
captivating noise. it reminds me of "brother"
by the annuals. great song.
that's all i got for today. need to sleep. get ready for that research
(fist on forehead).

here's a link to a fantastic frank o'hara poem called

Sunday, April 4, 2010


is man's expression of curiosity about everything and his attempt to make sense of the world through his intellect."

I really, in all honesty, do not care much for philosophy. That being said, we'll avoid the topic completely.

i'd much rather muse about
where the sun went this afternoon. it was
eighty degrees out yesterday. what the hell
happened today?
the annuals new ep, "sweet sister" came out a little
less than a week ago.
that's good news. i spent hours catching up
on a blog that i get a grade on-
where's the justice?
it's as if it drained all the creativity out of me.
i'm exhausted.
there's a single
dollar sitting in front of me. who knows where it came from.
all i know is that i should have more.
people are so stingy about money,
it would be
if people just paid their dues
instead of delaying their payments
so i didn't have to feel like a goddamn loan shark.
i sometimes feel as if they like
the tension. the feeling
indebtedness. what an awful prospect.
but it's their lives. not mine. i just want to
skip across the uncomfortable
plastic mattress &
catch "z"s until my
eyes roll
back into my head & i fall
fast asleep. i kinda thought it would be pretty lame to not
be faithful to this blog. if
you were curious as to what i
was interested in today
it was the idea of filling in the blanks.
too often i
am left with all but many missing pieces. but i suppose
that's all perception really is. we are given five
senses to fill in the extraordinary amount of ambiguities that are
thrown our way.
that's how the impressionists did it. that's how we do it every day. look
at paul cezanne. he's a bright guy.
perhaps i'm just lazy. maybe i'm just not as brilliant as
soft-strokes was. who knows. for funsies, here
are some impressionist works that are simply amazing. take them for what they are:
a great psychological and perceptive insight.
sometimes th wrds jst dnt quite ft & yu hve to pt
th pces tgthr fr yurslf.

Friday, April 2, 2010

your rational mind's insane

Anthony Green is pretty much a genius. a great mind of this generation for sure.
sometimes it's necessary to weigh your soul against the cross.
against a pistol.
against a wad of cash held by a crusty rubber-band.
it's easy for me, mostly because i'm a libra. the scale comes
with the horoscope. right now my
soul barely registers.
as mr. green asks, "would you sell your soul for gold?"
good question.
not yet, not ever.
different question. if my faith is weak, is it okay to strengthen it through alternative means?
can i use an anchor as a cross?
can i modify what's been set in stone for so long. is it
okay if
pull the blinds
down. is it
okay if i take off for
a little while?
i wonder what will become of me. an afterlife i hope.
one in which i can run my fingers through the clouds &
trace the outline
of t.s. eliot's
"love long of j.alfred prufrock"
while chanting about
what love is.
is it seeing the scale tip ever so slightly in favor of my heart?
i don't suppose we'll ever find out.
being rhetorical gets
old real
but i'm having fun.
stick around till tomorrow?
i will:
the mud is loose but
i will take
aim &
stand firm & i suppose that is a-okay, at least according to anthony green it's like:
"trembling idle hands, holding me there."

Thursday, April 1, 2010

am i touching enough on elation?

hi. not sure who you are, or why you are here.
this blog is for nobody in particular.
let's not call it a blog.
& sometimes
I find that
watching you
is the most
spectacular thing.
just watching
the pretty
pass by
is so
i feel tired. i have been left behind once again. still i wonder where contention lies; in the destruction, the creation, the suffering, or (&)
the tidal & cyclical re-entering of those who puncture what little muscle i have left. is it
worth nursing the sores left by the protagonists of my day dreams. is it worth letting
those same sores etch their presence across my skin.
i don't know.
i like poetry. music. resting. pajamas. hockey. picnics. art. psychology. thought. beauty. loss. longing. masochism. searching for the trinity. the idea of "love." you. & a great deal else.
by the way.
what in god's name is a list poem.
there's no such thing.
not that i could write one if there was.
i'm fairly helpless.
but seriously,
if you couldn't tell,
i'm truly elated
to be back.
to be writing
thanks for having me.