Wednesday, February 25, 2009

What is the point of all this, really?

Should should should....

That's all we learn are shoulds.

They teach us writing by teaching us what came before, what might come next, and what we should do now. They teach us writing like it is a forgotten thing. Like it has no future. Writing is dead.

What do they know? Do they know tomorrow? Next year? Next century? Of course not; tomorrow is for us to decide, not those boxed-in thinkers that cling to old structures because at least, in that realm, they have some modicum of authority. Authority in any given subject is an illusion, because that subject is constantly progressing and changing. The contradiction, then, is that to remain an authority, one must never become one in the first place... one must continue to change, revise, and progress. Move with the times, shape what comes next. One must never think they have reached their summit: all is perception, and most importantly, how you perceive yourself. To reach your summit is to stop and stagnate. That should not be the goal of any artist. Mastery is a lie.

Never fulfill your dreams, and if you do, promise me you will dream again.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

The Memories of Autumn

I speak, like the trees,
of the memories of autumn --
of that time between times,
of that road between roads.
Where life settles like dust
and is ofttimes forgotten;
those soft, silver nights,
those days, calm and slow.

It is here we belong
in the memories of autumn,
between our winters and summers,
between our silvers and golds;
and as always, we find
that those paths we've forgotten
keep the secrets we've buried,
and build the lives that we hold.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Sold out

I am a not-so-stylish person
in this very stylish place.
always make me feel
left out,
sold out.
Like a perfect crystal eyeglass
I watch the people come and go;
and somehow they effortlessly
keep me left out
and sold out.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Be slow and cold....

Be slow and cold;
be broken.

Be forsaken;
be forgotten.

It's in silence,
It's in rain
and dying things.

It's in whispers
and rose petals,
the blooming dawn,
the fading eaves.

This is where it rests,
and this is where it keeps.
The deepest forests of your soul
is the world in which it sleeps.
It's the voice that says tomorrow,
the wind that says today,
and the heart that breathes forever,
I am Here,
and Here I'll stay.