Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
But, there is a discrepancy. I have also seen a few definitions that describe Americana as simply American Culture. So, while I may be wrong in using Americana, I may also be right. I'm banking on the latter.
Basically, what I'm trying to do with some of my blogs, specifically Important Lessons From The Country Cafe, is examine some of the enjoyable,sometimes questionable, but always acceptable things I see while living in the northern U.S. I personally believe that the things that I've mentioned and will mention are pieces of what might make living here unique and different.
I hope this clears some things up, if it really bothers you that I may (or may not) be using Americana wrong, I apologize. I just really like how it sounds.
Winter is strange. It comes every year. But it still tends to shock a majority of us, but we never admit it. But that’s just a trait of Northern people. Instead of letting ourselves get wrapped up in the wonder of things, we seem to get angry at those who do. I’ll admit that I’m one of those people who drive well under the speed limit during the first snowfall but then yell at those who do the same thing after I’ve gotten used to it.
There’s another trait that northerners have that really shines during the winter and that’s the belief that we’re all psychics when it comes to the weather. Everyone has their own little theory. If it was a particularly dry summer, then the winter will come with a bountiful amount of snow and vice versa. If it’s blue skies and sunshine on Monday and Tuesday, then you can guarantee that Friday will bring a blizzard. Perhaps it’s just luck, or a game of odds, but all these predictions tend to come true at least once. That’s all it takes for these predictions to become fact.
There are a few other things related to winter that I intend to touch on later. But for now I’ll leave you with just once lesson that I’ve just recently learned.
Lesson #1: A good server will insult you. In fact, they will say things that would warrant a fight back on the playgrounds or in the bars. But if they are quick with a refill of coffee, then all is forgiven and encouraged.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
I can hear it coming for me,
A thundering chaos.
The heat of clashing shields and swords
Is growing closer.
I can remember the last time I watched it approach.
The sound of young lustful eyes
And veterans of love
Both forgetting their nature
In order to ensure
The sensation of a gentle touch
For just one more day.
I will never forget the guilt
That swelled as I watched the mayhem pass,
I mourned for every broken piece of glass
And wept at the burnt remains of habits discarded.
I can hear it coming for me,
An army is rising
And this time I will join the ranks
And fight against sobriety and inhibition.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
The sun was an oppressive sort of friend. It offered up its light, only if a person was willing to sweat for it. It offered up its heat but only if a man was willing to burn a little for it. Most of the people in the city of New Constantinople were smart enough to keep their time in the morning sun short, but some were forced into it by their callings in life. Or at the very least, by the thing that paid that month’s bills. It was well known that the city had grown dangerous. The night was filled with deadly threats but it was the daytime that revealed the gruesome remains of those treacherous nights.
Two uniformed policemen, Gurrero and Jimenez, stood in the city’s central plaza. A large fountain depicting a trio of angels holding up a replica of the earth offered a little relief for the men. A cool mist floated through the air as water poured from the angel’s eyes into the pool below. The earth upon their hands blocked the sun for the cops. At the feet of the cops laid the rotund body of a well known police captain. No immediate signs of foul play, in fact, if it hadn’t been for a letter delivered to the police station before anyone arrived claiming responsibility for the death, there was nothing about the body that suggested murder. But as it stood, the once well respected captain of police would join the nineteen other bodies, each with their own letter, in the morgue.
The body faced the sky. The sun poured into its blank and lifeless stare. The mist from the fountain had fallen on the body for hours it looked. The grey uniform that was standard for high ranking police officers was nearing a shade of black. Water streamed slowly down the well earned wrinkles on the captain’s face. His lips were slightly parted as if they were frozen in an attempt to say something important.
“My God, it’s the captain all right.” Gurrero said, wiping sweat from his brow.
“I guess we better call it in to headquarters. I’m sure they’ll want a detective on this.” Jimenez said.
“Don’t bother. Just call the coroner, those second floor pencil pushers aren’t even bothering with this anymore.”
“What? Why not?”
“Orders straight from the top I heard.”
“The top? You mean Patricio?”
“That’s Father Patricio, but yeah, the word is he has some guy, an American, coming in sometime soon and he’s supposed to get all this squared away with.”
“You don’t say.”
“That’s right, I don’t say, keep your trap shut. Trust me on this one friend. Just do your paperwork, walk your beat and hopefully soon we won’t be having to deal with this shit anymore.”
The policemen nodded in agreement and began the formalities involved with dealing with a murder victim that would never see an investigation.
The night is a dangerous time in New Constantinople, full of hidden threats, sensationalized villains, and paranoia. But it’s the day that reveals the deeds of devils and angels.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
I don't think you've ever forgiven me for that.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Fresh waters of the Michigan capped
in brilliant sprays, with rainbow webbing.
The cotton storms picked up on the lake winds
and in the twilight sun
Refused to burn, even when engulfed in fire.
I took a breath then and smiled
dizzy off of spiced apple wine.
On the island of the matriarch
the wildflowers shook anxiously,
preparing for their slumber
under the autumn sun.
I ran my fingers for a final time
along the sharp edges of the prairie grasses
and left behind what was created there.
The shimmering Mississippi
glowed like a vein of phosphorous.
It was violent with flood waters
and ignited under the noon sun.
Among the artists and cultured
I watched the river burn
while they painted the scene perfectly.
I’ve found peace a handful of times,
underneath a generous Wisconsin sun.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
He lied to her that night
when she asked him if he remembered
the night when they crossed the line.
He said that he had lost the memory
of whether or not
there were any songs left
that could redeem them,
or narrate the consequences.
and like a goldfish
she forgot if that's what she wanted.
She satisfied him later
when he wanted her to remind him
of the events that led them away.
She tried her best to recreate
the dances she used to master
but no matter how hard she prayed
her hands refused
to press against each other.
and like a false prophet
he gave her blessings he had no right to give.
Then later down the hall.
She pressed her face to his
when he started dreaming of the southlands
just like his brothers had before him.
She told him that she needed the winter
but, perhaps if she pressed hard enough
her face would always be on his chest.
Even though she knew
eventually the tan would overtake it.
and like a proud captain,
he went down as far as he could.
He dialed the phone
when she started making proposals
that couldn’t survive the sunlight.
He knew a person
who’d appreciate the indecency of it all
and who wouldn’t mind the drive at night.
He’d be gone by the morning
but he couldn’t stand to leave his bed empty.
and like a dedicated writer
I scribbled through the phone’s racket.
Believe me when I say that I know that sometimes my poems can be a tad bit ambiguous and sometimes really hard to understand if you don't happen to have my mind, and the last I checked none of you did. So I thought maybe I'd share some of my meanings with you guys and in doing so maybe even inspire some of you to write something yourself once you see how someone else does it.
First off, let me discuss the set-up of this poem. This poem tells two separate stories with two different couples. The idea being that they both live in the same apartment building and these events are unfolding just down the hall from each other.
As for the technical side of things, I wanted to use a repeating format for this whole poem. The repeating format being one 8 line stanza starting with 2 lines, one line as one person's reactionary action, and the second being what they're reacting to. The next 6 lines are an expansion on the first two lines that are designed to build up to the next section.
The next repeating format I added to this was the 2 line bits that separate the major stanzas. These are basically 2 line similes. The first line explains just what the person is acting like, and the second line explains how.
The two times that I break this format is in the middle when I state that the next portion of the poem is taking place down the hall. The other time I break the format is at the very end. Instead of creating a simile about the person in the previous stanza, I break the 4th wall. I reveal that the narrator of the poem isn't a faceless voice, but someone who is actually a part of the world that this poem takes place in.
As for the imagery itself. Everything within the 8 line stanzas are for the most part, literal. These are things that the people in the poem are actually doing or thinking. Now that doesn't mean everything is straight forward and should be taken at face value. I played around with the language so that the things that have caused these people to do what they're doing is left for interpretation.
So there's that. I have to admit I'm not very good at explaining the things I write, it always makes sense in my head, but I think everyone can agree that the things in your head don't always make sense in other contexts. But I do enjoy pulling the curtain back a little. So I'm thinking that I'll do this with a few select poems or other things I post in the future. But definitely not all of them, because this was kind of exhausting.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Remember those days when smoky fingers
broke themselves trying to part your dancing skirts,
Like cats in heat running through the tall grasses
On a windy afternoon.
I’d laugh, you’d laugh,
then you would lay flamenco lies on their foggy eyes.
But when the callers finally left,
and it was just you and me.
We’d share that couch
like two neo-post-grunge-modernists
making love in new, rebellious and special ways.
You told them all that you were a Latin ballerina
and I told them I liked Nirvana.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
ever granted to a wildflower
will soon drain away.
The gentle blossom
splintered and cracked, reaches for the slow winds,
like the granite holds
for temples long gone.
In an all or nothing salvation run
with hopes, chartreuse dreams,
and a wish that the life in its petals,
will fall to the mercy of gravity
and quench the faint roots,
that are loosely hugged
by the prairie silt.
unseen passes by my field blaze pupils
as I snap the stem,
caress your face and place that pale pink bloom
in your deep hued strands.