The Bystander

What can I do? When my hands are tied?
What can I say? When I'm only standing by?
To those faithful, Standing in line at the train...
Would you rather be hiding, be fighting, or reminded to be sane?
How do you survive this? How do we rewind this?
Resist or submit, I'm still complicit,
So, how can we ever survive this?

What could I do? A steady diet of lies?
Should I deport you? Or find a place you can hide?
To those travelers, Headed for the iron gates...
Would you rather be hiding, be fighting, or stare down the barrel of fate?
And I'll never forgive myself. I'll never count again.
When I could've stood up, I stood by, And paid the price they demand.
So with every breath I cry, Hoping the tears make me blind.
And with every space in time...All I could do was stand by...

Fear like a cancer, left me a bystander...
To a war of heartless crimes.
Fear like a cancer, questions with no answer.
They slowly metastasize...

The trains, the showers, the ransom, the power, the bodies, the labor, my brother, my neighbor, the blood, the lies, the deathbed eyes, the shame, the pain, the weight of my name, the disease, the cancer, the solution, the answer, my fear of my fear, the cries I can't hear, the end that is near, with me standing here, resist, revive, try to stay alive...

Just long enough to stand by.

Strange is the Night

Strange is the night, through skies stranger still. 
Where the song of my soul, seeks the right words to fill.
Pictures of conversation, burning and curious.
Where the silence is deafening, and the love most furious.

Where I find myself before falling down,
On my knees beneath the shape of sound,
Where I find myself before falling  down,
With dirty hands clutching cold, cold ground.

And strange is this life, and my love stranger still.
What are the words I believed ? What is the math I can feel?
Blisters on my tongue, and the faint taste of blood.
To sink or to swim? Or be swallowed by the flood?

Strange are the clouds, holding fast the tears of God.
Where the labors of men , never count for a lot.
And you found me where I'd fallen, on my knees still crying out.
And you found me where I'd fallen, and the words kept spilling out.


So is my own head my own to bow ?
Are my own thoughts my own to say aloud?
So is my own head my own to bow?
And are my own thoughts my own to say aloud?

To Have and Hold and Feel Insecure

Sometimes you're hot
Other times you're cold
Sometimes I have what
I'll never ever hold

Sometimes I see you
Other times I'm just blind
Sometimes together
Others I'm three steps behind

But to have and to hold
Oh to feel, unafraid to show
It gets tough to feel so alone
Somewhere inside I'd rather not go

Sometimes you're lost
Other times you're home
Sometimes close by
Other times unknown

Sometimes you pay hard
Others you're just flat broke
Trying to run wide open
Pulling back on the choke

But to have and to hold
Oh to feel, unafraid to show
It gets tough to feel so alone
Somewhere inside I'd rather not go

Somewhere inside
In the places I hide
Somewhere inside
I'd rather not go...

From My Cardboard Box Archive III: 1995, age 20

"Death is a Salesman"

Disease is not a pretty thing
But a close and easy friend
All my passion and feeling
Are burned to a crisp.

And death is a salesman
A quick and easy fix
Disease there to guide me
Through life's little tricks.

Yes, death is a salesman
All must deal with him
Life is like a gameshow
Pain all you can win.

The Economic Consequences of Low Expectations

Poverty
in the dirty faces of unfed children on Appalachian roads
Poverty
in mindless consumerism practiced like a faithless religion in suburban strip malls
Poverty
in the thoughtless jumble of misinformation splayed pornographically across the TV news
Poverty
in the generations of haphazardly educated children who find themselves grown without a compass
Poverty
in the metastasized pandering of the nightly spewed TV political advertisement vomit
Poverty
in the hollow slogans of politicians and corporations as they slither quietly together to criminal banks
Poverty
in the loss of hope in those who were to be the Guardians of Liberty and the defenders of the American Dream
Poverty
and for those who worked, fought, and died to make this land great--we should have done better
instead, all we have to show for, and all our children will inherit
is poverty.

Let This Darkness Remember Me

The height and the breadth
Of what my heart has confessed
And my passion for flight
Keeps the ground out of sight

Then while frantic in my need...
Suffered wounds that would not bleed...
And my eyes fell bitterly
Toward a truth I would not see...

And I'm weary of fighting
Such compulsive confiding
Draw the curtains and turn the key
Let the darkness remember me...

Let this darkness remember me.

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