i've written...

i've written some of my worst poetry by moonlight.

i am building

i am building
my future
one
word
at
a
time

Happy Candlemas....

...or is that tomorrow? and i used to be so up on my pagan-turned-christian holidays.

catching up on e-mail today, hopefully. and making sauce.

if i can see your name in my list of frequent contacts, expect a letter soon. if i can't see your name, you should e-mail me more.

and if i can see your last name to the right of my front door, you will be getting the best sauce of your lives.

thanks, Tunte, for the blender.

love,

Wayward Nephew

Since, Eve, We Will Return

…And God, he made the earth from ash and dust
He lit the stars returning to their place
In dreams of Eve, He fostered Adam’s lust
And stretch’d it o’er with skin and gave it grace
Her body’s sails did fill out with a gust
Of holy breath; a smile licked Adam’s face

The holy heads that tongues of flame do lick
They turn to ash the deeds of murd’rous men
Speak healing to the sails, the seas, the sick
To fathers, sons return from the pig pen
Mud from their skin mortars a house of brick;
The dreamhouse of “thy will be done, amen.”

Sometimes we are commanded in our dreams
To lick and seal, roll a scroll, and eat it.
The parchment skin unfurl’d from candy reams
Is ash when our stomach turns to meet it
The mouth cannot return the words it seems,
Galilean sailors can’t repeat it

One day that scroll, like a sail, will unroll
A future dream illumined to reveal
returning revelations to our soul
that faulty licking lips cannot repeal
this flesh of living ash may take its toll
but your skin at such price would be a steal

How will our skin fare in tribulation?
They will stretch it on a righteous sailboat
To escape the ash of conflagration
Dividing their dreams between sheep and goat
Lick the crux of transubstantiation
Returning to God on a scripture quote

And earth returning to its former state
Sloughs off the shell of life like dying skin
With hands of fire God licks clean the slate
His Spirit over the deep, sailing in
With new dreams of life, the flower of fate
Blooms in the ash where other life had been

Since, Eve, we will return to dust and ash
Wake my dream to your skin; its smiling flash,
Wind-licked like a sail with an open lash

(poem; straddling midnight)

i am standing in the snowmuffled,
nightmuffled world.

i can see the wind blowing
in the slant of the small snowflakes
through the streetlight;
it rings me like a bell.

in the day, the felled snow
has rubbed out the world to its
edges; winter is a blankened,
bleached-out life.

but at night, the snowy patches
in the blue shadows of my porch, of
the nightfallen park, are
like windows into moonlight
like danced-on landings
for angels' feet.

it is a beautiful oblivion
a silent nightful of overcast snow
silver stars bound and burn out of it
the small, heatless fires of
my trampled thoughts
momentarily glorious
snuffed out by bloodfrightening
bodypeeling cold,
carrying away any good thing i've thought,
away into the muffled world.

...

i want to write with lightning; i want to speak in thunder.

any similarity to real persons or events is...

EXT. -- front porch of an urban apartment.

(open on me, a shot from the height of your living room window)

the Voice Over begins: one night,
for sanity's sake, i sat alone on your porch.

(...cut to my profile, pan up to your ruffling curtains)

and the Voice Over continues: you must have watched me
once you'd walked the flight of stairs.

(and the camera cuts to an over-the-shoulder shot
of you,
watching me stand, watching me walk)

and the Voice Over says: finally, i left, and before i got much past the streetlight, you came, flying, into my arms...

(and you did)

...you had no jacket so i held you for a moment.

(its true)

and You said: i love you too much

and: i'm trying to kiss you, boy...

and: ...we are like a movie. this is like a movie. i love you like they do
in the movies.

(and i still held you, close,)

and I said: no

(i turned my head, to the right, so you couldn't kiss me)

and you were a little drunk, and you couldn't hear the Voice Over say: yeah, but...we use real blood in this movie. real hands, real arms around each other. we do our own stunts, take our own bruises; we risk death, and cheat life together...we risk and cheat each other...because this deserves more than a two hour running time, and i can feel you in my real arms and smell your real smell, and i have been directed to dodge your real kisses...

(instead, you were full of soundtracks, and cinematic moments, and i watched you go back home before i left for mine)

THE END


(music swells,)

(fade to black,)

(roll credits)...

Penelope, I wonder...

By day, with words, you string us all through your loom;
A tapestry of suitors, rapt, around you.
When night stretches out, you retreat and resume
Teasing threads out of the world we’ve woken to.
I am Nobody, no name yet to assume
Till I stretch it on a bow and string it through.
I, your lover/hater, plucking out our doom,
Last alive, home at last, 20 years to you.
I’ll remember what we’ve made a secret of
And ask if you’ve ever moved it from its place.
I have come back for you, through Hell and High Seas;
Will you still mean it if you call me your love?
If I read suitors, strings, that loom in your face
I’ll not forget my Calypsos and Circes

January 15th, there is...

there is a symphony of rain
in the street

a russian ballet of it
dancing over the
broken phelanges of the trees

there is a bare patch
in my yard
where squirrels
meet
for war counsels;
weather has negotiated
for them a cease-fire

there is a thorny bush,
a bristling cat-o'nine-tails
the bush of a lesser god
bent with ice
to the ground
where no one dare
walk unshod

there is the pretty waste of winter
fallen across the earth
lifeless rain
choking the seeds in the
birdfeeder;
leafless fingerstrokes scratching at the sky;
spirit of the tree barely spared
as an angel with a silver trumpet
passes over, dancing a dirge
for the firstborn days of
this new year

as if i needed to be more emotionally stressed...

had a parley with a best friend of mine. i'm not sure what to say about it, or what to call him necessarily; i don't know if best friend is really a good term because i have relegated him undeservedly to an outer ring of former frienship. i won't get into it too much, except to say that it was difficult for me to talk to him tonight, and just as emotional as some of the most personal and yet-undisclosed things in my life have ever been.

i guess i remark on it to say that it happened, that it was today, and that it was important to me.

i'm not generally a crier, but i will have to make an excuse and say that things over the past few months (former best friends, letters from my dad, a gravesite here and there) have been (honestly?) yanking the tears out of my eyes. i'm not sure if i'm just "becoming human" or about to get my period. i think i've just been in a bit of a tender situation lately.

i don't know exactly what it is, except to say that i'm sensative, i'm ok with it right now, and goddamn, sometimes this fucking hurts, you know?

-p

also: its almost five in the morning. i'm not sure if the guy downstairs is fucking retarded, or getting laid like crazy. its either one or the other; fucking retarded, or he's fucking retards.

yeah. call me out on that retard comment. i promise i won't feel bad.

good night to all
and to all? a good night.

<3
-p

100th post, and a few things i've noticed about this blog...

happy 100th post to me.

hello quiet readers. let us all celebrate the overwhelming cultural contribution of this website together, shall we?

yeah. you can thank me later.

just a few things i've noticed about Written Off, in general.

-- the greatest service i think this blog has provided has been to the anonymous commenters, who come here and post because they think its a good way right some wrong i've done them. i'd just like to say i admire your courage. it is an impressive display of testicular fortitude. you've really put things on the line here, made yourself vulnerable, opened up some issues for debate; i really respect and appreciate that. you dumb fucks. grow a fucking life, and quit trying to be anonymously antagonistic; you fail at both. if you want to dialogue, i'm all for it, even if you think i suck and i think you're a shithead. i'm not here to be the vessel for your catharsis. if you really want to tell me what you think of me, my e-mail address is SweeneyAstray(at)gmail.com. i check it every day. sometimes more than once.

-- most of you assholes who know me and leave anonymous comments are going to willfully misinterpret the sarcasm of the opening lines of this post as arrogance. you=stupid.

-- God, is there even anything else worth writing after that? after all the heaviness, its seems a little schizophrenic to point out that the old post i did in the spring about the Tori Amos cover of Famous Blue Raincoat has drawn the most responses from random web-surfers -- among whom the common consensus seems to be that Cohen is God, and no cover, however well done, can touch the original. ok, we're all entitled to our opinions; some of us are more entitled than others. on Written Off, i am the most entitled. Cohen is often grating to listen to. i'm sorry, its true. with the time signature his songs are set in, fruitflies could live entire lifespans between one beat and the next. and (heading this one off at the pass) maybe i have the attention span of a fruitfly, but even so Cohen's voice is like something you expect to hear out of the Lincoln head on Mt. Rushmore: that is, its like stone. and Tori's cover makes my heart hurt. if you can hear Tori's voice and not wince with pleasure, then you, Anonymous Sirs and Madams, have no heart. and you probably eat soylent green. and soylent green is people. its madeoutofPEpAHL. if all of those arguments fail, the cover will always be more interesting, in a lit theory kind of way. so there.

--anyone notice i haven't written about christmas yet? compared to last year, i am really off my game.

--also, it would be nice to know someone was out there...and not just laughing at my food poisoning (?) episode (FRED).

i have...

...so far to go to become a good writer

...so much to learn



...been comparing myself to other people too much






...not been writing

a poem from the vault

i think this might be my favorite thing i've ever written. which is saying a lot. i wrote it three years or so ago. usually the appreciation i have for my own writing would lose a contest with the shelf life of unrefridgerated milk.


this is a sestina,
unto the moon
--------------------------------


lady moon you are an apple in the vault of the sky
waiving white lily fingers as you pass me by
drawing shrouds of heaven about you as you go
slowly wheeling through the sky, your light like fallen snow
trust me when you ask me and i tell you of my love
there is madness in the roads i roam which most know little of

wake me not from my sleeping madness yet
though i pass the scent of apples by with much regret
i am trusted by the sun to pick a route between the stars
my fingers clenched around my sword and guiding chariot cars
my burning feet are wheels cutting through the nether-sky
my hand before my face shrouds the burning of my eyes

soothe my restless dreaming with your shroud as thin as light
sing and soothe my madness in the midst of desp'rate night
there are none that go before me but a golden fiery wheel
and none so well has led me but my apple through this field
your fingers spread through nighttime, your fingers through my hair
ever on must i trod and trust that you are there.

trust me though you know not why they call me the Half Red
the shroud of night will come and spark a fire in my head
my fingers itch to work upon their each appointed task
what madnesses I’ll meet, I neither know nor want to ask
but do not even offer me an apple 'pon my road
and risk the falling heavens ever if my wheels be slowed

on the rim of heaven, on the Wheel around the Tree
while i trust my Eastern course, and from the West if you can see
beneath the silver apple-light i'm sending kisses out to you
in the beaks of little birds who'll pierce the shroud and sing them through
their song is mad and keening for the veil that stands between us
their winged fingers harping winds for sleepers dreamless

my fingers are ablaze both with fire and with blood
my burning wheels are spinning in the darkness and the mud
my madness is a tunnel that I must lead and be led through
trust that though I may be late I’ll not break tryst with you
fate is wrapped up in a shroud and bound up in the night
and woven on a loom beneath the bloom of apple-light



your silver fingers trace through the stanzas of this ode, chasing tunes of apple trees across my chest, in woad
the tearful night is tearing and has torn in shrouds behind you; let the always wheeling, turning night and burning stars remind you
that my love is like an Axis, like the Tree, your trusted guide, a constant through the madness you can rest your head beside.

de________

i was doing so ok for awhile, you know? what happened...?







funny...
"despondent" has just as many letters as "depression"

...another song for emily

We’ve tried to wash it out with shots lined down the table
Tried to feed it prescriptions until it was dead
To chain smoke it out with Salem green labels
To exorcise it with holy water and daily bread
To medicate the household strife of Cain and Abel

We have been to the end of the rope and found it tied in a noose
In our house you can feel which rooms blood has been shed in
Some days I admit I wonder what’s the use?
And its all I can do not to stick my head in
Or look for something stupid to give me an excuse

(chorus-like part)
And I wonder if I can handle staying...
What does it say when we’ve turned
Chain smoking into praying?
And love is patient, love is kind
But remember the day you came home and
Ah, forget it, nothing, nevermind
Cuz, love, it don’t keep no record of wrongs
And I’m living to learn, learning to love
turning the hangovers into songs

You know I don’t mean to be mean
I don’t mean this to be a dirty laundry airing session
I just wanna have a place to come clean
I just wanna make a love-confession
Even if it requires me to make a scene

(chorus, again)
And I wonder if I can handle staying
What does it say when we’ve turned
Chain smoking into praying?
And love is patient, love is kind
But remember the day you came home and
Ah, forget it, nothing, nevermind
Cuz, love, it don’t keep no record of wrongs
And I’m living to learn, learning to love
turning the hangovers into songs

Sometimes the best parts are what don’t belong
My grandmother once told me that no one is pure
I am not going to live my life trying to prove her wrong
Cuz living with life gets damn close to a cure
and scratches on the vinyl lend their beauty to a song

And God knows we’ve got enough scratches showing
Even He thinks we’re a hell of a bunch
But I’ll be damned if we don’t have what it takes to keep going
Every day is a grind, all our faith rests on a hunch
And sometimes a belief is just as good as knowing...

"boom ba-ba boom ba-ba boom..."

God himself has struck me ill.

more to come on that later, after i rehab a little.

remember that scene in Stand By Me with Lardass at the blueberry pie eating contest? remember how many people there were, just heaving all over the place?

i think i out-puked them all today.

so, so tired.....

how not to be miserable

DO NOT leave home to break any patterns of self destructive behaviour. self-destruction is actually quite pleasurable, if you don't count the hangovers.

DO NOT NOT get into the new school in your new city, like you said you were going to.

DO NOT flake out on your previous two semesters so that new school in question does not think you are some kind of joke of a student.

DO NOT move to a new city and get a job at the Olive Garden. (don't move back to an old city and get a job at the Olive Garden, for that matter. actually, just forget the Olive Garden all together...)

DO NOT get what you think will turn out to be a better job at a really cool restaurant only to put up with incapable douchebags who have no idea what kind of gem has fallen into their undeserving laps. (the gem i am referring to is the Van Dyck...but if you thought i was talking about me, the judges will accept that answer as well. contestants, please remember; your answer must be in the form of a question. circle gets the square. would you like to buy a vowel...?)

DO NOT, under any circumstances, move too far away from your girls friday. or true loves, for that matter.

DO NOT tangle with married girls, unless you have a doctor's note that says you knew her from before...(unless?...or especially if?).

DO NOT live outside of a walking radius of the Pink...EVER. neverever. you will always need somewhere to pick up, somewhere to land, somewhere to dance, somewhere to puke...

DO NOT leave your hairstylist.

DO NOT leave your drinking buddies. or buddettes. they are your best friends. remember the long talks and drunken stumbles home? no...? ah, but you didn't wake up with missing teeth, missing money, or a sore ass. no, you woke up on their couches, lip-chapped, bleary eyed and dry. now that is love, friends.

DO NOT somehow manage to still be a terrible brother/cousin/nephew/son/grandson even when your family lives within five miles of you in any direction.

DO NOT stop writing.

DO NOT walk off your last job two weeks before christmas.

DO NOT think about moving back so soon.

DO NOT crumble under pressure.

DO NOT forget to buy gloves at Target the next time you're there.

DO NOT let anyone fuck you over, unless you are fucking yourself. try not to let you fuck yourself anyway, though.

DO NOT let this list go on for much longer.

the end.

small victory

i'm giving this to emily, if she wants it.
a song.


there is grace in making beauty out of danger
and you're a bad bet, but i've gotta take the wager
i am sitting in the window; i am dangling my feet
and thinking if i did it i could fly above the street

you’re a bet that I’d take a chance on
and the street is a place that we could dance on
even if I lose
if I scuff my wing-tip dancing shoes
it would still be a beautiful thing to glance on

if I fell for you only to crash and burn
i’d keep our ashes on the mantle in an urn
i’d build a private altar to our public scandal
and run my fingers through the votive candles

you are a glow that I want to stand in
a fire I want to stick my hand in
if it blisters
if the fire gives me up in whispers
it would still be a beautiful thing to land in

like it says in the bible, love conquers dying
and I’ll tell you it makes for beautiful flying
regardless of what dangers and how certain
(landin' the leap of faith don’t mean there’s no hurtin).

It’s a thing that I still have plenty o’ doubt of
(and I’m not someone you’d open a window and shout of)
but all doubts lingering
like new and shaky guitar fingering
there’s a danger we could make some beauty out of

love/hate

i look at other people's lives and i hate myself.

i hate that i knew people that i don't know anymore, that they float around with pieces of me in them that they've forgotten.

i know its my fault. i've been a terrible person. perhaps i deserve to be forgotten. perhaps the reason i can't get it together is because i've let all those people go with all of those pieces of me.

i'm such a fucker. i wish that the people i've pushed out of my life, the people i've burned, the people i've crushed......i don't know. i hope they forgive me and never forget me. i'll never forget you. if i've ever loved you, you have a piece of me in you and i have an aching fondess for you.

i am ashamed of myself.

if it helps at all, know that i'm a pretty lonely bastard these days.

"they say that taupe is soothing..."

minor overhauls going on here at written off...none of them writing related, of course.

perhaps the new, green punctuated earthtone look of this site will be inviting enough for me to return to regularly and with wit. unlikely, i know. i'm lacking in the wit department these days, but let's please not mention it; its a sore subject for me.

updates:
quitting the Olive Garden.
starting at local resturaunt/jazz club/brewery the Van Dyck.
this, i anticipate, will be a mixed blessing. i should really try to look at it as a blessing plain and simple, but i'm past the age of expecting only good things. this is an incredibly sad admission for me to make.

beginning to not merely enjoy but relish the new Sorkin fare; Studio 60 is really beginning to take off, and is a show that has the potential to last at least as long as the West Wing did (of which i only count the first four Sorkin-written seasons), and be just as good. i wasn't all that sure about the series after the first few episodes...it was almost too much an ensemble cast show. but Studio 60 is really digging in now, all its parts -- dialogue and story arc and character development -- equally well fashioned. i was worried that it wouldn't be able to live up to the West Wing's legacy, but i am only just realizing that i have that legacy to reference while i only have about five or six episodes of Studio 60 to compare it to, and that's not exactly fair of me. i don't mean to give the impression that i've been disappointed with the new show -- quite the contrary; indeed, every episode gets better than the last, and it started out with a pretty good bang.

haven't made or been taking any of the time i'm needing to write lately....full time at the Olive Garden is crushing my soul, and i'm feeling pretty well stampeded over, and not very much like myself. i am afraid that without luxurious and impractical amounts of free time i will dry up like a potsherd and my creativity will blow away like your Aunt Tilly's cremated remains over a choppy, unforgiving, 42 degree Lake Ontario, under mostly cloudy skies and a chilly northeasterly wind.

the point, though, is to try anyway, and maybe something at least interesting, if not good, will turn up. if the garbage and the gold even out, that is more than a good day. and i'm not even sure how to separate one from the other yet, so just getting anything is a victory for me.

so i've got to start trying again. i'd stopped there, for awhile. i've got to talk myself back into it. so here i am, talking myself back into it.

the vacation in oblivion is over.