They live upon shifting sands,
sullen people who mark their days
with soft marches through each moment.
Such work seems to get them nowhere.
Sullen people who mark their days
reflect but never give in to rest.
Such work seems to get them nowhere,
and still without fail they pause to consider.
Reflect, but never give in to rest,
lest there exist time to rejuvenate.
And still, without fail they pause to consider
what it must be to give one’s self to stillness.
Lest there exist time to rejuvenate
they move to the same tired beat.
What it must be, to give one’s self to stillness
and walk with a steady pace just because.
They move to the same tired beat,
with soft marches through each moment,
and walk with a steady pace. Just because
they live upon shifting sands.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
The Four Great Vows
To touch decay,
and feel the sharp grass
beneath your feet speaks
of promise that gets washed
away when a 3 year old
sips a beer and wonders
why he isn't loved.
The only things left were
its eyes. Green glass like
the marbles imply...and
it seemed to stare back
with mild regret because
it looked how you felt
only its soul was still
in Samsara.
"You're a little bitch,
you know that?"
Those thoughts still
in your head, the moment
you went to bed and
dreamt of freedom.
But what? Those
words could have
just as easily come from you.
Remember that sweet taste?
Cheap juice and stolen Tequila?
Call it a sunrise, and pour
another glass before you
lose the nerve. And all
you can recall is your
brothers face right before
the door slams. Just like the
cat's, barely touched with
disappointment.
Move on, as moments
are fleeting. The you
that's left can't help
the you that's left behind.
Just carry his picture and
hope you'll see each other
in the future.
Yet your conscience lends a hand
back and brings the past into tomorrow.
It wipes the suds
from the little one's lips, justifies
the middle one's moods, and
still you struggle to make sense
of the present.
Ah...Samsara...
and feel the sharp grass
beneath your feet speaks
of promise that gets washed
away when a 3 year old
sips a beer and wonders
why he isn't loved.
The only things left were
its eyes. Green glass like
the marbles imply...and
it seemed to stare back
with mild regret because
it looked how you felt
only its soul was still
in Samsara.
"You're a little bitch,
you know that?"
Those thoughts still
in your head, the moment
you went to bed and
dreamt of freedom.
But what? Those
words could have
just as easily come from you.
Remember that sweet taste?
Cheap juice and stolen Tequila?
Call it a sunrise, and pour
another glass before you
lose the nerve. And all
you can recall is your
brothers face right before
the door slams. Just like the
cat's, barely touched with
disappointment.
Move on, as moments
are fleeting. The you
that's left can't help
the you that's left behind.
Just carry his picture and
hope you'll see each other
in the future.
Yet your conscience lends a hand
back and brings the past into tomorrow.
It wipes the suds
from the little one's lips, justifies
the middle one's moods, and
still you struggle to make sense
of the present.
Ah...Samsara...
A Son of the South
Sing true,
and mourn of Southern Sorrow.
Speak sure this shade of blue,
a Kind of which you find in
Flamenco Sketches.
But what I see, feels more for
mother's soil than father's sun,
Who's rays beat upon my back
as it did the heat baked earth.
So I left...
and found myself miles from home
sleeping in purple lights and waking alone.
To this light I sang of Southern Sorrow
and showed it a shade of Blue.
So I found new warmth, well outside
of the Southern Sun, and hoped
such light would heal my wounds.
So my tune changed, and my
songs of sorrow became ballads.
Like an Island, I said, that I dwell
on most times of day. Such other
things that one thinks when they
sing. But before long I slipped
into darkness.
And it returned,
this shade of blue. That sits
every so slightly over my
shoulder, and makes my
world monochromatic.
But I remain, a son of Southern
Sorrow in a strange land. I'll
see if the Son rises different here,
and gives me new songs to sing.
and mourn of Southern Sorrow.
Speak sure this shade of blue,
a Kind of which you find in
Flamenco Sketches.
But what I see, feels more for
mother's soil than father's sun,
Who's rays beat upon my back
as it did the heat baked earth.
So I left...
and found myself miles from home
sleeping in purple lights and waking alone.
To this light I sang of Southern Sorrow
and showed it a shade of Blue.
So I found new warmth, well outside
of the Southern Sun, and hoped
such light would heal my wounds.
So my tune changed, and my
songs of sorrow became ballads.
Like an Island, I said, that I dwell
on most times of day. Such other
things that one thinks when they
sing. But before long I slipped
into darkness.
And it returned,
this shade of blue. That sits
every so slightly over my
shoulder, and makes my
world monochromatic.
But I remain, a son of Southern
Sorrow in a strange land. I'll
see if the Son rises different here,
and gives me new songs to sing.
Aaron Rodriguez 2010
It rained upon the poet's head
this pain of doubt and mounting dread
that shook his mind and fed his fear
grew greater as the time drew near
To steady hands and calm his nerves
he met his task with nouns and verbs
to rid himself of fear that lurks
he grabbed a pen and set to work
Yet lacking thoughts or muse without
his blood held neither rum nor stout
both dry of mouth and bare of drug
he sought his poems inside a pub
With one swift gulp he drank his pint
and laughed with friends until the night
he stumbled home with fear flung far
and found his things upon the yard.
this pain of doubt and mounting dread
that shook his mind and fed his fear
grew greater as the time drew near
To steady hands and calm his nerves
he met his task with nouns and verbs
to rid himself of fear that lurks
he grabbed a pen and set to work
Yet lacking thoughts or muse without
his blood held neither rum nor stout
both dry of mouth and bare of drug
he sought his poems inside a pub
With one swift gulp he drank his pint
and laughed with friends until the night
he stumbled home with fear flung far
and found his things upon the yard.
Nexus
It's far too difficult. Hovering around 55th and Ellis on purple nights. But there's a singularity on that corner. Black and gray against the night, and I watch it letting rain soak into a once pristine white t-shirt. Can't feel it though. The rain runs through me, and I orbit the corner.
And to think that I could so easily walk away from 51st and North...but the lemon lime leaves would draw me two blocks to sanctuary. I always returned to the point at which I was struck with stark reality. A life lived in a way smaller than today, but grand all the same.
The center of the Universe lies at Oakland and North. Oddly enough you'll find liquor and pretension there. In four directions I could emerse myself in escapism. East towards blue waters and reflective rocks. South towards art and conformity. North towards the past and future. And West towards rejuvination.
I missed such things. And I based disappointment on the fact that I could not mark my life off in neat little sections. Who gave a shit where Flintlock lead? It all looped back in on the same 2 streets. Both so trecherous in their design. An artery and a vein carrying blood to and from a tumor.
Why would there exist long stretches of desolate asphalt not meant for walking? Tree lined streets are meant for long journeys and a desire to breathe. Such a horrible thing to make it a trap. In this state they compound
problems, when they should put them in perspective.
So I circle the singularity on 55th and Ellis. Around it all time has stopped, and the past meges with the present, and the future looks uncertain. It's enticing, but there exists a fear of being trapped in a moment where tomorrow never comes. And it's tempting to reach out and touch it, to throw myself in to its onyx depths, and dissipate this built up passion. And even now, when there is as much between us as time and space, I feel it pulling me, out of sleep, out of bed, down many blocks, and through many streets just to be in its orbit.
And to think that I could so easily walk away from 51st and North...but the lemon lime leaves would draw me two blocks to sanctuary. I always returned to the point at which I was struck with stark reality. A life lived in a way smaller than today, but grand all the same.
The center of the Universe lies at Oakland and North. Oddly enough you'll find liquor and pretension there. In four directions I could emerse myself in escapism. East towards blue waters and reflective rocks. South towards art and conformity. North towards the past and future. And West towards rejuvination.
I missed such things. And I based disappointment on the fact that I could not mark my life off in neat little sections. Who gave a shit where Flintlock lead? It all looped back in on the same 2 streets. Both so trecherous in their design. An artery and a vein carrying blood to and from a tumor.
Why would there exist long stretches of desolate asphalt not meant for walking? Tree lined streets are meant for long journeys and a desire to breathe. Such a horrible thing to make it a trap. In this state they compound
problems, when they should put them in perspective.
So I circle the singularity on 55th and Ellis. Around it all time has stopped, and the past meges with the present, and the future looks uncertain. It's enticing, but there exists a fear of being trapped in a moment where tomorrow never comes. And it's tempting to reach out and touch it, to throw myself in to its onyx depths, and dissipate this built up passion. And even now, when there is as much between us as time and space, I feel it pulling me, out of sleep, out of bed, down many blocks, and through many streets just to be in its orbit.
A Visit From an Old Friend
Tracked down,
months and miles ahead, dozing hat in hand on a park bench,
and it found me.
Naive perhaps, but as are all thoughts when
that fresh burst of freedom first hits your skin,
and your away...harsh thoughts are left
somewhere fending for themselves, bumming
a ride in I-95.
My mind was left in a haze of purple and
a maze beautiful clarity on clear mornings
when I was awake before the world. So
wrapped up in happiness I didn't see it
sneak up behind me and leave its
familiar hand on my shoulder.
And that sense of dread, that dull anger
that creeps along fast and reminds of
regrets and resentment...it's tainted flesh
smelling of burnt and bitter history.
But it smiles at you old friend, and wonders
why you thought you'd left it in the dust.
It latches its shackles back on and takes its
favorite spot on my left, matching my movements
through muscle memory as if it had never left.
We're well aquainted.
You remember now, what it's like to feel that weight,
and it grows harder to remember those brief months
without it. Your true companion, who you leave
but can't lose...why search for a better soulmate?
My eyes avoid its gaze. How dare I, it seems to say
through tugs at my chains. How dare I choose to live
a life without it? And its manner slowly changes from jealousy to rage,
as it screams in my face, "I'm here forever".
months and miles ahead, dozing hat in hand on a park bench,
and it found me.
Naive perhaps, but as are all thoughts when
that fresh burst of freedom first hits your skin,
and your away...harsh thoughts are left
somewhere fending for themselves, bumming
a ride in I-95.
My mind was left in a haze of purple and
a maze beautiful clarity on clear mornings
when I was awake before the world. So
wrapped up in happiness I didn't see it
sneak up behind me and leave its
familiar hand on my shoulder.
And that sense of dread, that dull anger
that creeps along fast and reminds of
regrets and resentment...it's tainted flesh
smelling of burnt and bitter history.
But it smiles at you old friend, and wonders
why you thought you'd left it in the dust.
It latches its shackles back on and takes its
favorite spot on my left, matching my movements
through muscle memory as if it had never left.
We're well aquainted.
You remember now, what it's like to feel that weight,
and it grows harder to remember those brief months
without it. Your true companion, who you leave
but can't lose...why search for a better soulmate?
My eyes avoid its gaze. How dare I, it seems to say
through tugs at my chains. How dare I choose to live
a life without it? And its manner slowly changes from jealousy to rage,
as it screams in my face, "I'm here forever".
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