No Recompense or Resolution

Trying out something a bit different, here's my first foray into the big wide world of multi-media!
Forgive the poem's numerous faults (this is mostly a trial run) but I would still love comments!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dB_1JK232Pk

The Oracle's Answer (To His Lover's Question)

Cars are dangerous. Bones are relatively fragile. An inherent fear of vehicles is understandable. I was a cautious child.

My mother adjusted to my strangeness early on, but I frightened her. Her attitude was indicative. The world prefers its oracles blind, dumb is even better.

Sometimes probabilities are defied too often.

My first memory was of my own death 20 years later.

You lived in a painting when we met, a whirlwind of color. You laughed when my eyes bulged at your behavior, you are not of this planet. You are your own planet. Your gravity pulled me into the frame.

Your apartment is never bereft of roses. In the way Sally Seton decorated for Clarissa Dalloway, you float the heads of roses in sensual arrangements. I was always jealous of those vases

until we kissed and I learned how to yield like a bowl,

to yield and yield and yield.

When I wake up in your bed, I float to the door in a river of magazine covers. Even the air breathes sparkling with a fashionable character. I know you live for the attention. No cameras, just the flash from my irises in. You’re my favorite celebrity. You glamour me.

Smile now, for me

and for the paparazzi.

Inspire me again with your presence your voice your culture.

I will spin gold from napkins while you prepare dinner.

Escapism has dangerous implications but the world will understand. I’ve never told you how it ends.

Each time you start the car I just squeeze your hand. Because cars are dangerous.

Or rather, people are reckless.

I promise you my touch will keep firing from the nerve endings of your fingers long after the brain has stopped working.

When we die it will be snowing just like Joyce wrote, falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the…

The mourning roses will freeze in their reds. Black contained at the center. They will keep forever,

red forever.

And the water will carry their color through hidden cracks in the frozen ground like blood from a sacrificial altar into hearts still beating.

I can see it.

Snow Day

That morning you came down the stairs dressed all in white to meet the day, softly, regal. All the neighborhood boys stood stoic in lines across the battlefield—sentinels in snowpants, they wage a war in your honor. Snowballs are exchanged with the severity of bullets. In that moment you understood two crucial things:

1) men love the illusion of reward and

2) the day is yours, it snowed for you alone.

10 years on and you come down the stairs the same way, still soft, still regal—now naked. While I sifted through the closet for the shovel, you wrapped yourself in the expensive white coat I bought you downtown. I understood when I looked back at the stairs, you watching me, sideways, with cheeks pressed against the fake fur lining, nodding your approval.

The days are yours, it snows for you alone.

An Open Letter To Mssrs. Beck, O'Reilly, Limbaugh, and Hannity

Whether an Oklahoma farmer or a New York gentrifier y’all know what I’m talking about. Sign this shit with me…

Culture War?

You cannot call something a war if only one side is fighting. Mores the pity; you’re still losing.

We’re the counter-counter-counter culture. The youth aren’t rebelling anymore. We’re over it.

Don’t worry; white people are en vogue again. It’s a simple formula of W.P. + expensive ethnic restaurants x designer clothes that look trashy, which = no social responsibility. You can only hate us, really, when we write atrocious books about culture wars.

Here’s some honest advice from the common, industrious folks of Real America:

Shut The Fuck Up.

Leave wars to the poets, we’re already in the trenches.

Yes, on occasion, we may not flight clean,

but we ALWAYS clean up after ourselves.

Sincerely,