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

But Maybe Now

A death song loud and clear
Where the winter wind crushes bone
The echo of silent suffering
A bloodless moment spent so alone.

Howling wind cuts a morning scream
Preaching hard through a prophet's feast
His eyes are all fear & trembling
But he's still got a taste for greed.

They say somethings are a mystery
Wonder, fear, and cold surprise
Digital pain and analog love
Every question built on a lie.

So, keep your eyes on the skyline
Keep your head to the ground
This is the kind of place where
A heart's not easily found...

But maybe now.

Sadducees

Imaginary fits
Of extra-ordinariness
By now you should know this
That, this is all there is.
And I would be remiss
Thus fail to reminisce
Of a life I didn't live
Because this is all there is.
It's nice to be nothing
That comes with no warning
With digestive contorting
I speak & write & sing
It's all how I carry myself
Hollowed out like a shell
That from a shotgun fell
With a sound deadly to tell...

I know just what to expect
Fingers locked around my neck
Repaid a cancelled check
A victim of my own neglect--
And all there is inside
Of rage & formaldehyde
I won't, I will, I tried
Found wanting every time.

In all ways, found wanting.

"Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer..." Matthew 23:14