the eye of thundera
so ive been kicking it like crazy these days. i busted my balls for a couple weeks with lots of hours at work and lots of hours in the books and they've all paid off. i saved a butt load of money for my trip to toronto and had a blast spending it all on shit i didnt need like pipes and shoes and lots of records. i came back to the chi to get a 3 page paper, an in class essay, a concert report, and 2 midterms returned to me and they were all A's! i fucking rule! anyways toronto was killer, met some awesome people, drank some tasty beers, smoked some fine herb, and had a great time just wandering with tracy. i wrote some stuff a lil while ago so im finally gonna post it along with a brand new poem.
Sitting on One's Hands
Legs likened to a gnarled shrub
Each bent/knot a testament to rude stoicism
Such depravity
Such sloth
A odd lean on a rudder
Defecting from destination (present and future tense)
To moons sheath in past tense,
To dawns whose company of coins well lost in worth,
Is concern just in its absence?
As open doors become needles to be thread
Fumbling fingers weave not what opportunity presents.
Seams to be sewn know patience
And parched gourds seek to be filled.
Should river beds become savannahs,
Then sought are the rains of discretion
Artistic in execution.
Its reign hindered only by
The drunkeness of that which blooms the lotus of seasons lost.
El Mar de Personas Sordas
And I, blue as if without breath
Was starved of speech.
My pride swollen chest
Deflated in marvel of defeat.
A stranger I there stood,
A foreign skeleton with unfamiliar jaw agape.
This uncomfortable tongue writhed worm-like,
Fetching no prey in this river of mud.
I once though my skin a shell
But history ceased repeating
And what was once, was no longer.
Armed only with hands outstretched,
My struggle was complimented by bedmates, futility and irony.
Twas here in this tomb where I found home,
And this house of glass was left unstirred,
With one freed man amongst shields and stones.
in other news, ive been irregular and i dont like that very much.
Sitting on One's Hands
Legs likened to a gnarled shrub
Each bent/knot a testament to rude stoicism
Such depravity
Such sloth
A odd lean on a rudder
Defecting from destination (present and future tense)
To moons sheath in past tense,
To dawns whose company of coins well lost in worth,
Is concern just in its absence?
As open doors become needles to be thread
Fumbling fingers weave not what opportunity presents.
Seams to be sewn know patience
And parched gourds seek to be filled.
Should river beds become savannahs,
Then sought are the rains of discretion
Artistic in execution.
Its reign hindered only by
The drunkeness of that which blooms the lotus of seasons lost.
El Mar de Personas Sordas
And I, blue as if without breath
Was starved of speech.
My pride swollen chest
Deflated in marvel of defeat.
A stranger I there stood,
A foreign skeleton with unfamiliar jaw agape.
This uncomfortable tongue writhed worm-like,
Fetching no prey in this river of mud.
I once though my skin a shell
But history ceased repeating
And what was once, was no longer.
Armed only with hands outstretched,
My struggle was complimented by bedmates, futility and irony.
Twas here in this tomb where I found home,
And this house of glass was left unstirred,
With one freed man amongst shields and stones.
in other news, ive been irregular and i dont like that very much.