Once Upon a Time

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on March 3, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Once upon a time I’m told

You were more fair and far less old

And I was brave

And I fear’d not

To hold your hand

And it was not such a frightful process

 

Now time, I’m told

Bends heads and makes people do

What they might resent

And it breaks the greatest of men

 

Time, I’ve heard,

Can make you do things you thought you might not

And this time, I’m gonna give this time thing a try

I’m gonna hold you closer to me less fearfully

And wait

And wait until out hearts beat synchronously

And defy

This world

 

Because time has shaped you, but I refuse

To be shaped again

And time has broken me

But I am still composed of the same sameness that always spread itself still throughout me

 

And a timeless scream

And a plethora of words

Will only serve to make us kneel

further

and

further

Until the sand between our knees

Needs not an introduction

And I may be broken but you

Will find a way to piece me together

And this, my love, this is our life

And so the story ends

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Oh How Post-Modern

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on January 19, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

I don’t want this blog to look professional. I want people to think, “Oh how grotesque.” I want you to hate it. Like really hate it and be drawn to it. I want this to be like a sweet poisonous pastime. A place of imperfection. Because imperfection is the only completely capturable essence of our humanity. All the choices we make have impact, and the medium is part of the message. And the message here is in the spelling and grammar and political incorrectness whether I like it or not. The message here is that imperfection can be pretty. Just like humanity.

To Extend the Metaphor

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on January 19, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Water always finds a way to seep through the tiny holes 

There is always a chance your socks will get wet on rainy days

And tough exteriors hide what others may call weakness

But we both can tell which lies to tell and which lies to keep away

 

So picking at your interior felt somewhat intrusive at first

Like taking layers off of onions, little by little revealing,

At the cost perhaps of my own sanity, your inner beauty

Unmasking what’s as sweet as the innards of a banana

And what at times is as grotesque as what animal hides hide

 

Knowing you, and knowing me, there’s a chance I might be dreaming

There’s a chance that our imperfections add up to just too much 

There’s a chance that we love each other way too much and that

Our self-deception on it’s own is what keeps our souls intact

  

But think of all the hidden pleasures beyond the plateau of our collective insecurities 

Think about this like the most expensive and most rewarding lottery ticket 

Think about the beauty that our puzzle pieces would create,  

Even if they do not fit so perfectly

 

The winter, I have learned, or tried to learn

Is very cold and my brown coat is far too large, and it is impossible 

To stay warm in such a large coat but once I wrapped it around the both of us

It felt for a tiny second so warm and cozy

 

   

We are, I’ve found, both too afraid of truths

Even when truths are all what’s keeping us from hurdling down a mountain which is too difficult to scale

But contemplation and wishful thinking has lead me to believe

That I’d rather have you than the summit to myself

 

 

And some part of me is sure that I am lying to myself

And some part of you is sure that you are lying to yourself

But it is perhaps this fact that makes the task at hand so intuitive

It is in fact my unease that makes me think that this is right

Death and Other Stuff

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 7, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Faded socks, charcoal, sulfurous talks

Of old men dying far too young, and chalk

Sentences on withered spines and old tree barks,

Bark out a tale of loss and tears on city blocks.

The mockingbird, so called because it mocks

My ecstasy in broken English, homeward flocks;

And me, the lonely virgin dancing dances, walking walks

Cannot perceive in loneliness my own shadow on ocean rocks.

 

.

And ships and planes that carried me alone on Sunday mornings,

Carried rust and strangled necks and spangled flags and stained gold flags.

And talks of sorrow bring tomorrow faster now, today.

Mourning in the morning the innocent, and in the night the light of day.

And when all is said, and in your head, there’s nothing more to say

Greet in spangled flags and stained gold boxes, the decay.

 

.

How quickly I have seen your tears travel down your cheeks,

And your tongue in ornate dances, grow secluded, and grow meek

Your eyes have lost their sparkle, lost their fluster, so to speak,

So to speak of old dumb boys, and old dumb girls, and to grow weak,

Grovel on the gravel like a dog who on this day became a father

Or a bitch who birthed last week

And the lord on who’s lap you’ll cry shall give you what you seek.

Random Ramblings of An Insomniac in Love

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 17, 2013 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Had I known more

Or not known more

I would have thought to say

 

That if you calleth beauty then

It shall be on its way

 

For on the rainy streets we walked

And the bottoms of your jeans

Were wettened by the asphalt

 

And the bottoms of your jeans

Were wettened by the puddles

 

They were

Wettened by your tears

And the asphalt of your heart was stepped upon

 

By high heeled shoes and make up and perfume

And debauchery on a night were drunkards buzzed by

 

And the silence in one’s eyes

And the smiles of brown girls as they wave goodbye

 

That sly

That heathen that dismayed

Lonely king of heaven, that puritan that perfectionist

 

The violinist of my chords brings

And takes away

 

I have seen and never seen

Such gracefulness in your sway

 

 

High-pitched voices and a bouquet

Of vanilla orchids wrapped and served on crème brulee

Your voice is all I seek

Your soothing voice come talk come to me come talk

 

I have seen and never seen such beauty such decay

The imperfections glistening in the sunshine

The scars the bloody tissues

The granite statues of goddesses and angels they portray

 

Your eyes were never shiny

They were black like coal and your hair

Was never clean

It was always fuzzy

Your socks were dirtied by the dusty floor

 

You drank more water than I’ve ever seen

 

 

 

And you were perfect

 

Like a love song out of key

 

Like a beautiful princess who was missing two teeth

 

Like a sweaty frog on a summer’s eve

And a summer’s pond on a summer’s eve

And the swimmers ponder on a summer’s eve

 

Our love was like an unfinished tale written in chalk on tarmac

 

And the rain would cry as it tore our love apart

 

And your father owned a rifle and he would smile

 

And I would be scared but you would hold my hand

 

And if I ever wondered how many stars there are

 

 

You would say to me that I am your only star

 

 

And I would whisper

 

Songs about a love that never was

And stories of a maiden who never should be

And you would look at me with eyes of wisdom and smile and pat my hand  and tell me that you love me and that you will always love me

And I would wonder why

 

 

And afternoons would stretch so long and you would come to play in our yard

And our mothers would converse

And I would dig a hole in my back yard

And we would look for bugs

And I would hold the bug in my hand

And you would try to look so brave

Perhaps you’d be as brave as me

But secretly I would be trying to be brave as you

 

And we would walk to cliffs and make love in the moonlight

And I would drive away at midnight and you would stay alone

 

And we would fight

And you would cry

And when you’d go I would cry

 

And I would kick myself for loving you

And you would love me too

 

In my life

I hope I see you smile

Warm Sweaters

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 11, 2013 by themanwiththecowboyboots

happy holidays everyone

.

.

I regret

I have not done much but I regret

For I was born at a golden seat:

Cities, golden cities, at my feet

To be beholden; I was born in

Silver spoons and tapestries

And christmas trees and city streets,

Golden city streets, to be beholden

At my feet

.

All I’ve seen of heaven 

Is that heaven, and not hell’s outside my door

All I’ve known of life, is department stores
and parquet floors

I have never met a starving whore

I have never seen a boy, not yet eleven

Shooting cocaine inside his veins

And a rifle at the rival gang who lives next door

.

I regret that I’ve not seen

A starving child

And I’ve not heard

A crying widow

And I’ve only rubbed

Alcohol on my wounds

Not cloth on the floor of lords

.

All I’ve seen of war 

Are pictures of swords

And Roman legions in their gracious might

Not battle wounds and orphaned sons

Not airplanes that kill you before
you hear them

And shattered homes and misery

And crying helpless mothers

I have not truly seen hunger or thirst 

All the world’s rivers lead to my sink

And my puppy dog has seen

more showers than some human beings

.

I have cried for girls who did not want to go to junior prom

And baseball teams who settled for second place

That cursed second place!

I have cried for broken toys
and bullied boys on TV shows

Not darkness and despair
as I was being dragged by my hair
and sold, to feed my siblings’ burning hunger

Oh that burning hunger

I regret that I am free

It is my guilt that I am free

I am enslaved by this freedom

Curse that freedom; I don’t want to listen
I don’t want to see

Contemplation

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on December 2, 2013 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Excuse me if I make too many unintelligible references. I’m only publishing this because I like it, not because it’s supposed to make any sense to anyone except one person.

 

If thunderstorms and angel bones are all that you desire

Then pack your suitcase missy and allow me to reveal

The reason I am smiling when I tell you I am here

For if the ocean’s blue and green

And if the twilight’s gray

And if the gray-haired poet runs out of nice things to say

And if the taxi driver gets lost when on his way

Then you have found a home inside my heart this very day

And on this dusty doorstep where we sat and waited for 50 minutes 

For your brother and your sister to be done with school

And for those wet stone steps that carried us downtown

When you told me you’d remember me even if I’m dead

And for those sweet desires and those dreams inside our heads

For those two young children who held hands when all was said

For that and for your white skin I say and I repeat

That I have not, on this old Earth, found prettier than your hands

And if one day we fail to see

And if we meet in Dutch cities

And if we don’t 

And if I walk you into Times Square and see the joy on your face

And if you show me where they make the cheese in your village

Or if we don’t 

Or if I marry a TV star called Mary

Who has a late night show 

And brown eyes that lack a sparkle 

And has sweet palms that feel too loose

Or perhaps too tight in mine

And has no blemishes on her face

And 20/20 vision

Or if you marry Thomas, that boy who’s voice is loud

And who never fears ghosts

Or if I die today and never see if your daughter has that same embarrassing laugh as you

Then maybe the ship was far too thin for Archimedes upthrust

And maybe the stars are fire

But you and me

We cannot see

And we would sink the ship

And we would burn our fingertips

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