a cynical optimist

a poetry sideblog

[jm-howl]

See me--!

See me as I am Not as who I was Not as who I will be

You miss someone long dead Every word I speak comes From her mouth while you watch

To you she is so close One decision, one revision away As if a choice I make could bring her back

I don't know how to tell you She's been gone For years

See me--!

She's been covered Buried beneath Countless others that came after

You can't dig her up I stand by you as you try Asking you again

See me--!

I remember saying goodbye I was not who I am Just as I am not her

For a moment she existed As an April doppel And the second we met she had passed

I became someone else And those selves for three years Span between her and I

See me--!

You've missed so much of me! Three years you've been looking For her face in mine

Please, I'll ask once more But soon I will stop See me!

See me--!

I'm right here Right in front of you A phone call away

I'm so tired of being Your estranged Son, nephew, cousin, grandson-- Forsaken for ghosts

See me Not as I was Not as I will be

See me Please see me I am right here in front of you

[jm-howl]

They talk of ghosts living  Whispers call back A sweet girl with   Blue dyes staining Chopped hair Brown eyes 

They refused to churn the earth They refused to bury  What remained of her And now the ground is Too frozen to lay Her body To rest 

O child I grieve for thee Not for that you have gone Silenus's wisdom is yours I grieve for hours Our time together And memories That were yours Stolen from me 

There's no distinction to be made Between the parlor and the living room Between her bedroom and mine My presence wounds Those who've hearts In funeral dress So long after her death 

O child I grieve for thee Your best dress hangs forlorn In my closet Never to be worn And for it I have No want or use 

Of her name Whispers still slip From mournful mouths And bitten lips 

O child I grieve for thee Winter has never Seemed so long Nor the ground Ever so cold 

[jm-howl]

his mind like a lake

found in a rainy season

oh how it trembles

[jm-howl]

Rabbit Style Kung Fu

I have a love/hate relationship with boobs. Boobs are nice. They’re soft, warm. I’ve heard them compared to pillows but I have to say they are not comfortable to lay on.  I get to see a high school guy’s day dream every day I look down in the shower. I have never wanted to rip my chest off. 

I have wanted to press it so tight against my ribs that maybe for once it wouldn’t be visible.  But I have really killer boobs.  They’re what some would call perky, their proportions are perfect and I think my body could belong in the gallery painted by Manet.  I almost think it’s a tragedy to deprive this world of such a pair of breasts.  Of this body.  The only body I have ever loved more is the one I see years down the road.  The one with toned arms, and a flat chest. A guy who goes by Mads. Or Jesse. Yeah I’m a little short to be a guy. I’d like to be a tiger but I think I’m more of a rabbit.  And while tigers are beautiful I’ve learned to love this rabbit. He’s quick on his feet. He’s not the biggest, sure, but he’s got a kick that counts.  He’s got dark eyes and nice hair. He’s lean-- hopefully.  He’s got life in his smile.  The only person as short as him in his Kung Fu club proves that he’s got a fighting chance at 5′5″.  He’s not timid in the ring anymore. I’m thinking I’ll invent rabbit style Kung Fu. I’m thinking one day I’ll wear my Ching Mo and it’ll be flat. I’m thinking one day I won’t have to borrow my friend’s Amazon Prime to panic buy a chest protector because I’ve got killer boobs that the judges think need to be protected. I’m thinking one day I’ll still be beautiful enough to be in Manet’s paintings.

See, I’ve had to fall in love with who I’m going to be, because if I don’t, I’m not going to be around. 

[jm-howl]

I’m not David. I’ve never claimed to be.  But I can’t help but think I would like to. 

I’d like to be a slayer of Giant things. Of strongarms and immovable forces. I’d like to dismantle every power struggle with a rock in a sling.  A simple weapon. An encouragement for others.  Find your rocks. Sling them through the windows and words of your oppressors.  Yet I find myself averse to blood. To harm as a necessity seems wrong. So rather, let me be a rock. Let me be a stronghold, a cornerstone, a rock in a sling to be used for causes greater than myself.  Let me be something people can stand on and with in times of hardship.  I’m no biblical son. Nor have I claimed to be.  But I can be this. 

[jm-howl]

Where are the beat poets? Where is my Dead Poets Society?

I long for the devout and the divine and the degenerate. I long for the people just as frightened as me.

Where are you hidden? Come on,

Let's rally.

Let's change the world.

Let's talk about America.

Let's put our shoulders to the wheel.

I can’t stand the empty minds scared into silence. I can’t stand the denial of humanity.

Nihilism talks to me every day.  Nihilism says our world is pointless.  Nihilism tells me to put down the Ginsberg. But I love Ginsberg. I love my beat poets. I love my Dead Poets Society. I love the loud and the lust of life. If life is what we make of it then let’s make something. Let’s make it astounding and confusing and holy.  Humanity is nothing less.