From My Cardboard Box Archive II: 1994, Age 19

I have a love/hate relationship with poetry. I love poetry when it hits you in the gut with too many thoughts and emotions held at once forever preventing a true subjective description. On the other hand, a lot of poetry--even good poetry--often sounds wildly pretentious to the point of seeming vulgar. Then, there is bad poetry. Most anyone who happens upon my little blog here might consider all of my poetry terrible. I like some of it--obviously to continue writing and putting it out into "cyberspace."

My Cardboard Box Archive has, however, reminded me of just how bad of a poet I can be. It has also shown me that bad poetry can be both entertaining and endearing. Therefore, I decided to post three of my most cringe-inducing early short poems. So, without further delay...

"Clouds"

Take comfort in the shadows
But clouds are another kind
That I might find a home
Somewhere close to daylight.

"The Old Garden"

The skeleton of a flower
Is the folklore of angels
The total experience of vision
Not limited to sensation.
A mosaic of inhumanity
Clothed in the ruins of creation
Our illusion of enlightenment
Through rust-colored eyes.

"Simple Window"

Our grotesque passion
For the Garden returned
A golden wisdom--
An unrestrained truth.
Wanting a transparent mirror:
The solitude of sanctuary
A medium of purity
Clothed in obscurity. 
We retire...
To the crutch of myth,
Exploitation of faith
Simple folly, simple illusions.
Wings not used for flying.
Eyes not used to see.

The last poem had a quote attached with no source. I searched far and wide on the Web for the original reference and at last I think I found it:

"The tomb is where murders become memories and memories become beautiful obligations." --from

Gil Bailie's Violence Unveiled: Humanity at the Crossroads (New York: Crossroads, 1995), pp. 228-233.

Perhaps just another word or two about why I find these writings so embarrassing. Whether good or bad, when I write a poem or song these days, it generally is a cathartic experience, providing me with some good home-grown therapy about a real-life experience or struggle to understand something. When I wrote poems like those above, it was more about playing with words. It was me trying very hard to say something but having very little to say

Die Anew

IV stings
Bedpan smells
The lonely nausea
I know so well.
The dehydrated
Muscle cramps
Contorted hands
Under harsh lamps.
And the routine
Moments bygone
But come again
Before long.

A daily warfare
Waged within
Weakness to some
To others sin.
But they're blind
To the stench idiotic
Bags of saline
Piggyback antibiotic.
I long to end
But fix my heart
On single purpose
A violent art.

So, I hate them
With paranoid fear
I long for death
But not here.
Not here...
On sterile sheets
Rather among cold earth
Accept me.
In its kind embrace
Again to be dirt
Where flowers grow
Picked gently.

For some other's
Cold hospital room
To quickly wilt,
And die, anew.

Réflexions à partir d'un lit d'hôpital

The title translates roughly to: "Reflections while in a hospital bed." I was recently hospitalized unexpectedly for about 4 days and all I had with me was pen, paper, the bedside Gideon's Bible and massive doses of opiates. None are particularly good, but each reflects some perspective that felt unique during my stay.

"On Every Human Shame" #1

I can see through windows
Of long-damaged hearts
Bright, ornate souls, such
Deception is quite an art.

I can feel a fever
Rising in this room
That asks 100 questions
From 100 points of view.

I cut my heart to pieces
I saw you do the same
Then we looked with naked eyes
On every human shame.

The general giving orders
The pilots dropping bombs
Senators pose their questions
Shiny black box gifts sent home.

Once your eyes are burned
In the fire-sight of truth
There's no reason for regret
And even less to see things through.

Board by board
And brick by brick
Nothing will be left
When we're done with it.

"Lessons in Propaganda" #2

I stopped listening
About half an hour ago
To the noises of the greedy
Fed with wine, oil, and ego.

I stopped listening
Stop listening?

I stopped seeing the ads
Sell a life I can't wear
And started seeing them
For what they are.

I started seeing things
For what they are? 

Lessons in propaganda
For lying to myself
To think and act, though
Just as fake as anyone else.

Just close your eyes
And see things for what they are?
And that Bible in your hand
Can't hide the murder in your heart.


For what they are
Is broken.

"Doesn't Make Sense" #3

What is it about human intelligence
Like an old stray dog that bites too much
Like a glass-jaw fighter that loves to punch
It don't make sense to anyone
No it don't make sense to anyone.

What's all the talk about men with guns
They say the world's safe when we all got one
Like riding shotgun with Mr. Zimmerman
That don't make sense to anyone
No it don't make sense to anyone.

Life is full of ups and down
Holes we dig, kings we crown
The gods left Athens for Hollywood
That don't make sense to anyone
No that don't make sense to anyone.

What's this talk about condemnation
Churches carry signs that spew nauseous hatred
Love thy neighbor must apply to someone else
That don't make sense to anyone
No it don't make sense to anyone.

What's with all the mainstream news
By the time you've heard it, you feel abused
Is it all that bad? Are we so near the end?
Well I've gotta admit that kind of makes sense
Then again, fear sells like nobody understands.

So fear sells weapons, armor, and gated homes.
It sells drugs and therapy you'll need before long.
It sells laws and people and history to...
The highest bidder sits on the throne.

"A City Below" #4

There's a city underneath the bridge
Where the cold weather wind
Pushes me out to the edge
Daring me time and time again

There's a city underneath the bridge
Where dreams go to die in pain
It's a fearless city on the fringe
Full of liars, drunks, and other saints.

There's a city underneath the bridge
Its ugliness strikingly beatific
As you grow older, you see the puzzle
Somehow the pieces are too warped to fit

In the city beneath the bridge
A flap tears open to reveal someone
A chess expert, a violin progidy
Smoking crack with abscessed arms.

The city beneath the bridge
It finds you or you'll find it
And if you manage to live through one night
You are the perfect kind of resident.

So welcome here, welcome home
How long will you be staying?

"Flares, A Rant" #5

Let's not play games just for now
You are happy to deny me
You would gladly crucify me
So let that rage out
When you tell me NO
Sell it with a smile and
A word from the Holy Ghost
In the end, nothing matters
We go on our separate ways
Me to suffer
You to feel the dark satisfaction
And this page is a graveyard
For the feelings of anger
That want to claw up
The edges of my back
With VIOLENT INTENT
Yet in the end, nothing matters
I'm another patient
Another bracelet
Another barcode to scan
Something dumb enough
To believe the myth that he's a man
Trying with desperate civility
To remain in civilized skin
Another volley fired
In an endless battle
Between disease, madness, and death
These diagnoses convenient labels
Enteritis, PTSD, Adjustment disorder, anxiety
Labels, and many more than these
Psychosis. Coma. All for me,
The disease and the damage done
For you, a reason to despise
A reason to deny.
And you're right to deny
To give me a face to hate and forgive.
For just a moment... until the next round.

"Re-Light" #6

I'm burning. Oh, oh I'm burning
And I'm hurting. Oh, oh I'm hurting.
Flashback into my state of mind
Where I'm gone and not afraid to find
Bullets sting whizzing by my brain
Hole in my belly, never will be the same
Hole in my belly, never gonna be the same

I'm yearning. Oh, oh I'm yearning
And I'm squirming. Oh, oh just squirming.
Re-light the fire of rock & roll 
Re-ignite the spark of your withered soul
Blistered fingers bleeding on steel strings
Forget the hole in my heart, and let's go insane
Forget the hole in my heart, and let's go insane

I'm nothing. Oh, oh I'm nothing
Am I lying? Oh, oh am I lying?
Fall back into a desperate retreat
Bullets sting flying by my face
Bullets scream and burn my face
Hole in my head, bled out my brain.
Hole in my head, bled out my brain.
And I'm gone...


Re-light the fire of rock & roll 
Re-ignite the spark of your withered soul
Blistered fingers bleeding on steel strings
Forget the hole in my heart, and let's go insane
Forget the hole in my heart, and let's go insane

From My Cardboard Box Archive: "American Eulogy" written in 1994, age 18

Note: This is the first installment, or perhaps the only (time will tell), of my revisiting old works. Then, as now, I write what I feel. The emotion is more important than precise language or structure (who needs iambic pentameter?) and sometimes it flows seamlessly from mind to page. Anyway, I'm not trying to pretend to be a good writer, but hopefully there are a few ideas here and there that are interesting.This also might show that morbid thought is not a particularly new form of expression for me!

"American Eulogy"

I've seen the death of youth
As I grew from childhood
Green countryside of innocence
A place time had never touched.

I've seen the death of youth
The death of my own soul
As our roads became streets
As television raped education.

I've seen the death of youth
As the thirst of demons grew
The love of experience
Left purity ashamed.

I've seen the death of youth
As the heroes thrust before me
Were troubled and lost
And only served to confuse.

I've seen the death of youth
As machines replaced my hands
As standards censored my ideas
And I knew I was naked.

I've seen the death of youth
Tabloids became news
Big-budget movie America
Talk-show living room.

I've seen the death of youth
As subculture became culture
As left wing became right until
Only argument was left.

I've seen the death of youth
As identity became ashamed
As rebellion masked conformity
And faith became a joke.

I've seen the death of youth
As bureaucracy became my father
And compliance became my mother
And I another number.

I've seen the death of youth
The death of Santa Claus and Jesus
The death of rebellion because
We have no clear enemies.

I've seen the death of youth
Baby-boomers refuse to let it go
And sociologists label me
To keep my mind pacified.

I've seen the death of life
All America held sacred
For the love of technology
Innocence is sacrificed   

I've seen the death of me and you
I've seen the death of youth.